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localcuttlefish · 9 days

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A Theoretical Lore Bible of Caesar’s Legion as a Nation

Hello good citizens of Tumblr! I’ve been on a Fallout: New Vegas kick lately, and I recently graduated college with a bachelors degree (major illustration, minor history of art and western civilization). So now that I’m certified to draw dick AND talk about Ancient Rome, I have things to yap about.

Have you ever looked at Caesar’s Legion and wondered how the more intricate aspects of their society model after the Roman Empire? Because I have! And because of those very musings, I have come up with a little dumb idiot theoretical lore Bible on how The Legion might function as a more developed nation, using my back knowledge of western civ and Roman art and culture. Nomenclature, societal structure, industries, imports and exports, the whole nine yards!

DISCLAIMERS: I have not looked through the writers’/directors’ social media accounts thoroughly enough yet to confirm if any of the information I’m bringing to the table is already solidly canonical or solidly non-canonical in the lore of Fallout: New Vegas. There is a nonzero chance I may say something that someone in charge has already said, or something that’s already been disproven or denied. If you catch something I don’t, let me know! I like worldbuilding for fun like this, and I want to keep everything as lore-cohesive as possible to challenge myself. I’ll come back to edit this every now and then if I come up with more cohesive lore pieces, or if you guys have any suggestions that would tie in the lore better. In addition, Caesar’s Legion is an inherently totalitarian nation that supports itself on some pretty sexist and bigoted social structures. There is no universe in which I support, condone, or otherwise encourage any of the ideologies of Caesar’s Legion in real life. Don’t become a tyrant dictator of a military slave nation, kids!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Discussion of slavery, sexism, physical and verbal violence, unsafe medical practices, brainwashing/psychological abuse, and death.

Without further ado, the absolute wall of text that is the theoretical lore Bible of Caesar’s Legion. Enjoyyyyy!!

CHAPTERS:

I: Citizenship

- How To Become a Citizen

- Social Castes

- Names

II: Everyday Life

- Common Social Customs

- Household Structure

- Settlement/Town Structure

- Clothing, Hair, and Accessories

- Languages

III: Industry

- Jobs

- Imports and Exports

IV: Politics, Education, and Religion

- What Senate?

- In The Unlikely Event of a Transfer of Power

- Common Political Beliefs

- Male vs Female Education Standards

Walk and talk with me about the ways The Legion mirrors, juxtaposes, and takes inspiration from Ancient Roman society in a post-apocalyptic setting.

The first time I encountered Caesar’s Legion in game, my initial thought was “What about the American West makes these people think this is the perfect spot to reinvent Italy?” it’s a barren, land-locked desert with only one or two significant water access points. Italy is a peninsula in a temperate climate with high mountain ranges and verdant forests. Most of this was a jokey thought, but then it struck me that a phalanx would actually be an insanely powerful force in a flat landscape. It all started coming together from there in a most dreadful shape

I: Citizenship

- How to Become a Citizen

Caesar’s Legion is a colonialist nation. They gain land through conquest, typically, and have a tendency to try and homogenize the culture to their liking. Generally speaking, after a town has been conquered, people who willingly surrender or submit to The Legion are given an opportunity for citizenship. Any survivors of conquest that aren’t willing to surrender are either executed or sold into slavery. Slaves are not considered citizens, because the rights and freedoms of a slave do not reflect the rights and freedoms that The Legion offers to those who can be put to better use or are complacent with the mission of The Legion.

Once one is offered a chance for citizenship, the highest ranking general in whatever battalion just took over that person’s land will evaluate if the person can be put to work, put on the battlefield, or is generally useless. Remember, an offer isn’t a guarantee. There is a chance someone who is offered citizenship may be evaluated as useless and sold into slavery regardless of their complacency. Protesting the verdict typically increases the chance of spontaneously being executed, or, if one doesn’t like their proposed role of worker or soldier, being demoted from potential citizen to slave.

If the general regards one as fit to work or fit for the battlefield, these “half-citizens” (media populi for plural, and media persona for singular) will be assigned a new legal name after a record of all new media populi is sent from the general to the regional Vilicus (overseer ;) we’ll elaborate more on this in chapter II), and given the task of minimum 400 hours of what we would understand as “community service” before the Vilicus confirms their citizenship. This “community service” is called pentimento, or repentance. It’s a form of brainwashing in which The Legion is in a position to repeatedly reaffirm that the media persona has more value here helping The Legion than they ever did as a free settler in New Vegas before, and instills dynamics that empower and encourage violence against people of “lower status” (slaves and women, usually). Kinda like a Stanford Prison Experiment that’s purposely designed to cause power dynamics instead of accidentally stumbling to the conclusion. Pentimento may include anything from helping re-pave and clear trade routes in Legion territory, to catching runaway slaves. Each media persona is given a number of tasks to complete per month, and each failed task results in more hours being added onto the total pentimento before citizenship is granted. The number of initial hours of pentimento a media persona needs to do may vary depending on the whims of the Vilicus, how much they resisted Legion control in the past, how many tasks of pentimento they leave incomplete per month, and whether they are masculine or feminine presenting, but is never less than 400 to start. Most media populi end up with starting numbers in the 600s or 700s.

Once the pentimento hours are complete and approved by the Vilicus, the media persona becomes a citizen and is expected to continue the service to the growing empire through either the trade they work in, or through service in the army. However, there is a several-month-long window of time in which spies occasionally visit the new citizens’ homes to monitor them for suspicious activity. In this window of time, spies may be looking for signs that indicate the new citizen is an agent from a rival faction sent to infiltrate The Legion. Only high-ranking officials know about this window. One can lose their citizenship and be returned back to status of media persona if they show suspicious behavior during this time, or worse, be demoted from citizen to slave. In cases where there is undeniable evidence that a new citizen is an agent for a rival faction, the citizen is immediately put to death, and their citizenship is revoked (though revoking the citizenship of someone being put to death is a little redundant).

A baby born into a family of two Legion citizens is automatically also a citizen, and must be given a name in line with Legion naming conventions (which will be discussed next segment). A baby born into a family in which the mother is not a citizen and the father is a citizen will also be considered a citizen. A baby born into a family in which the mother is a citizen and the father is not a citizen will not be considered a citizen at birth. A baby born to a family of two media populi or two slaves will not be considered a citizen at birth.

A person who willingly enters Legion territory and requests citizenship will follow the same steps as how a person from a conquered land would be evaluated for citizenship.

- Social Castes

Social Castes in Caesar’s Legion are determined by how useful one is to the empire, and whether one is male or female. The more sexist aspects of the caste system stem from the fact that women in The Legion can’t serve in the military, and the military is a notably higher status than most other castes since Caesar’s Legion is a military state.

Of course, Caesar is the highest on the social pyramid, followed by his chosen officials (take Lanius for example), then chosen guards (praetorian guard). The military comes next, with the social hierarchy of the military following that which was established in the Roman Empire in the early establishment of Caligula’s reign. After that, religious officials (which act as pseudo-indoctrinators into The Legion, and therefore are pretty essential to brainwashing the next generation of Legionnaires). Then, the Vilici, the overseers of each region/settlement. Next, the average male citizen and then, the average female citizen. Media populi come next, and following that social caste is performers (which serve very little purpose in the eyes of Caesar and the goal of conquest), with male performers having marginally more respect among the populous than female performers. Second to last is slaves, once again with males being just a little more respected than females, but what does that matter when both are going to be abused by the upper castes anyways. At the very bottom of the social ladder is outsiders and criminals, which need to be broken before earning even a sliver of humanity in the eyes of The Legion.

Caesar > Chosen Officials > Chosen Guard > Military (with sub-hierarchy of Ancient Roman military) > Religious Officials > Vilici > Average Citizen > Media Populi > Performers > Slaves > Outsiders and Criminals

- Names

The average citizen in Legion territory wouldn’t need to immediately use their new assigned name (since there’s not enough force immediately available to actually push that, the nation is still growing), but The Legion will give them a “legal” name that they’ll be addressed by formally, and in the best case scenario, the original name will be effectively waned out because it simply doesn’t matter in comparison to the new one.

A praenomen acts effectively as a first name one uses around close friends and family, while a nomen (while acting as a last name) becomes what one is more commonly known by in public. The average citizen will usually have a nomen at least, and a male citizen will have a praenomen and nomen.

- MASCULINE: A classical Latin praenomen will be assigned equivalent to the meaning or phonetics of the new citizen’s first name. The nomen will be determined based on either phonetic/meaning equivalent of the last name, or based on the new citizen’s occupation.

- FEMININE: No praenomen will be assigned. The citizen’s title will be a feminized variation of their father’s nomen, differentiated in generation by number nomenclature (Major, Minor, Tertia, etc). If they have no father, they will assume the feminized nomen of a living male partner that is already a Legion citizen. If they have no living Legion family, they will be assigned the name “Romana” and likely be either sold into slavery or auctioned to a bachelor to gain a proper nomen.

For example: Marcus Gaius has two daughters. The eldest daughter is Gaia Major. The youngest daughter is Gaia Minor. Gaia Minor meets Decimus Junius, and they get married. Now Gaia Minor is named Junia. Gaia Major remains unchanged.

Legion soldiers have more dignity in society, and therefore have all the previous conventions, plus a cognomen. Since all Legion soldiers are masculine, differentiation between masc and fem naming conventions is irrelevant from this point forward. The nomen of a soldier may be akin to the structure of how an average citizen’s would be given, or if the soldier shows exceptional prestige and has no remaining male family, a nomen referencing warfare or combat will be assigned to them (Marcus, Augustus, Drusus, etc.).

A Legion cognomen acts effectively as a Roman military callsign. Cognomens follow classical Roman conventions. The cognomen will be used most frequently in a military setting.

II: Everyday Life

- Common Social Customs

Many Roman social customs are adopted into Legion life. For example, the entertainment at the colosseum is mimicked in the tourneys in the various arenas scattered throughout Legion territory. However, because of the key difference in that The Legion isn’t even pretending not to be a totalitarian dictatorship, there are a number of drastic differences between Roman social customs and Legion social customs.

Because of how respected the military is in Legion society, it is commonplace to show soldiers with utmost reverence. It’s customary to allow soldiers to stay in a citizen’s place of residence if the soldier requests it, and it’s customary to refer to the soldier by their military rank, not their nomen or cognomen (especially if the soldier in question is on duty). It’s considered rude or inappropriate to question the motives of a soldier, or prevent a soldier from accessing areas of a citizen’s property. Such transgressions can potentially be met with violence.

One may frequently see slaves struggling to keep up with workloads. It’s taboo, but not punishable to help them, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the productivity of one’s own work. After all, The Legion gains nothing from incomplete work. If helping a slave means increasing efficiency, then it’s appropriate, but a citizen may get strange looks from others for doing so.

Utilitarianism is the ideal philosophy under which everyone should function in an ideal Legion society, but this is clearly not the case nor the environment to foster it. Social norms are based strongly on class, and in most cases, selfishness prevails because selflessness can be seen as weak (or worse, suspicious) by trigger-happy soldiers and spies.

But hey, at least sex isn’t considered a super taboo topic or activity in Legion society. Got that much going for them. Granted, it’s seen more like a conquest, but at least it’s not seen as a sin. Woohoo? Lets go? Kinda? One step forward two steps back.

- Household Structure

A household in Legion territory for a citizen of average means will likely be similar to any other household in New Vegas (with the addition of slaves in wealthier households). Where things start to get confusing is the aforementioned situation of soldiers being allowed to invade households at will. Psychologically, these soldiers are deprived of a lot of comforts the average citizen may have. There is a decidedly nonzero chance that soldiers can show up like stray cats and keep coming back in the event that a citizen is interesting enough to them. Soldiers sometimes “claim” houses or small patches of territory they frequent as a substitute for the emotional interaction they lack. Humans are social creatures. The soldiers might not know why they want to keep coming back, but they do keep coming back. Parasocial.

Generally, a woman’s domain is the household in Legion territory. While the society is by no means matriarchal, it’s customary for a woman to maintain control over most happenings within a household. This often means a woman will need to interact with stray soldiers more frequently. Among female citizens in Legion territory, these soldiers are called catuli (singular catulus) for their presence and tendencies, though this is always in secret due to the harsh punishment of misrepresenting a soldier’s status to his face. A household can sometimes have up to three catuli claim it before fights start to break out among them about perceived territory.

It is expected for a couple in a household to have children. Cultivating multiple generations of soldiers is part of how The Legion grows most efficiently, because children are impressionable enough to instill Legion values without struggle. If a household does not have a child after several years of partnership, it is considered suspicious and the male of the partnership is encouraged to be unfaithful or open the relationship. While there are no consequences for not having children, there is intense pressure to do so.

- Settlement/Town Structure

As mentioned before, the equivalent of a mayor in each region is called a Vilicus, or an overseer. The Vilicus is responsible for tallying the census, assigning names to media populi, approving the pentimento of media populi, keeping track of production rates of resources from citizens, keeping a lookout for disease outbreak so a region can be quarantined if needed, and monitoring the citizens in each region for minor suspicious activity to report to those higher in status. Each town is also occupied by a heavy military presence, to intimidate citizens into productivity and complacency.

Most of the time, Legion towns are made of the previously conquered settlements now added to Legion territories. Building more houses is an avoidable expenditure if they just repurpose the structures already there with a few modifications. Despite the multiple depictions in-game of Caesar’s Legion showing little to no care about what damage they cause, it would make sense that the depictions in the gameplay are actually the outliers in the situation, since it’s far more efficient to leave the settlements intact and just gut and reconfigure the purpose.

There are also multitudes of mobile scout settlements, mostly made of fabric, tarp, and hide tents that can be easily condensed and moved in the event that the camp is compromised. In many cases, these camps are set up as a base to return to in order to stage an invasion of new territories. If possible, The Legion sets them up close to large landmasses like plateaus or mountains for additional cover in the event of an ambush. If that’s not available, The Legion makes settlements like this close to preexisting towns in order to make the wordless threat of “push us back, and innocents die”. Generally, very few citizens are taken on these excursions, but if the plan is to stay out longer, citizens who are medics may be involuntarily drafted into going with the scout team.

- Clothing, Hair, and Accessories

The Legion isn’t a necessarily materialistic society that allows a lot of room for personal expression. Since the goal is to create a homogenous society and culture, self expression through visual cues is often muted at best and absent at normal. Makeup, perfumes, and hair styling products are prohibited if they have any synthetic qualities or materials. In many cases, beauty products are exclusively reserved for performers, and even still, only natural pigments and materials would be permitted. Think the same pigments Ancient Egyptians would make for their makeup.

Protective updo hairstyles are common for long hair, both for practical purposes and for purposes of keeping hair out of reach and harder to pull. Efficiency is key, so in the event of a raid or a threat, everyone is expected to be able to hold their own to some extent. Part of that standard is remaining on guard, so keeping hair up while out of the house is customary.

In the military, hair is expected to be cut short, again, for efficiency. Any soldiers with long hair are expected to keep it in tight braids or cornrows to maintain the same level of efficiency. As long as it stays out of the face.

Most clothing is dull, salvaged from the wastelands. The only exception is clothing reserved for high ranking officials and Caesar, which is quite literally dyed in blood of enemies. Because blood fades to a blackish-red hue over time, high ranking officials will often appear to be wearing darker colors, when in actuality they’re wearing clothes that were soaked in blood as a symbol of power and debt paid to the gods (namely Mars).

Widows are permitted to wear part of their fallen husband’s bloodsoaked clothes through the mourning process, if The Legion can recover and identity the body. With this in mind, as soon as the widow finds a new husband, the bloodsoaked garment piece is burned.

Slaves are deprived of all aspects of individuality, given rags or scraps to wear and marked with red paint. A citizen may give finer clothes to a slave voluntarily, but those clothes must also be marked with red paint.

Jewelry, while rare, is often made of scrap metal salvaged and re-forged from battlefields or old weapons without any further use. Which is why jewelry is so rare. There is seldom ever an instance in which metal can’t become a weapon, so making jewelry is a waste of time and energy.

- Languages

Basically any language can be spoken in Legion territory as it stands, because as The Legion is currently, it doesn’t have enough power or force to totally instill a whole new language system. With that in mind, the groundwork is being laid for an eventual push to make Latin the official language of Caesar’s Legion. Between the commonly used Latin terminology to address people and the Roman theming of The Legion, it’s primed to eventually enforce Latin as the primary language. Highly educated citizens may be fluent in Latin, and most soldiers know commands and codes in Latin.

III: Industry

- Jobs

There are two types of jobs in The Legion, excluding military and slavery. One can either be a worker or a performer. Medics and nurses are highly valued, both on the battlefield and off, since chemical substances are prohibited in The Legion. Carpenters, metalworkers and blacksmiths, engineers, and tanners are some of the more important standard worker jobs, since all of them play directly into expanding the empire more efficiently, making more weapons and armor, or repurposing old material to make new. Tailors, glassworkers, weavers, technicians, and chemists are less valuable to The Legion to some extent because they either involve industries less geared towards conquest, or involve industries beyond the scope of what The Legion finds socially acceptable. Despite the amount of emphasis Roman polytheism puts on naturalistic sculpture, The Legion actually doesn’t find the arts very useful in the immediate future of the empire. What’s most important is conquest, not expression.

On the topic of the arts, performers were seen in a very poor light in The Legion, often oversexualized into objectification or framed as clowns. Most performance art is often seen as a waste of time or an avoidable expense, but it does keep soldier morale up since it gives them something to target that isn’t their fellow man. Being a performer in The Legion is marginally better than slavery, because one can at least have a house as a performer, but the physical and verbal abuse is often daily and unrelenting.

- Imports and Exports

The Legion is definitely not known for being friendly to neighboring factions, so any concept of import and export is often very loosely based in barter (namely, The Legion demanding tithe to barter for leaving a region alone, similar to how some mafias demand payment in exchange for protection from themselves). The Legion has a semi-steady stream of imports from their commonwealths which they pressure into helping them in trade for leaving their towns unburned and their people free from enslavement. However, this is decidedly not a permanent arrangement. This is a way to bide time to grow the nation a bit more before making moves on settlements and regions with more useful resources.

They export nothing unless it’s a strategic play. They pressure neighboring regions into paying them, even though they honestly don’t need it as much as they want the general population of other factions to think they do. Middle school bully nation.

IV: Politics, Education, and Religion

- What Senate?

The big difference between Rome and The Legion is that The Legion doesn’t try to pretend it’s not a dictatorship. There is no senate, there is no board of people to vote, no forum. The only voice that matters is Caesar’s, and it shows in every aspect of how the society is structured, from the strict rules on self expression, to the patriarchal hierarchy of Legion society. Ultimately, this makes the nation weaker, because in the event of Caesar’s death, it creates a power vacuum. No, I don’t think there’s a secret senate. No, I don’t think there is a solid backup plan. I think the closest thing there was to a senate was the two-man power-team that was Edward Sallow and Joshua Graham. We all know how well that worked out. And I think Caesar’s been running on fumes ever since that point, taking this as a sign to expand the nation faster before anyone sees him bleed. Hubristic in nature.

The closest thing there is to a senate are higher officials (such as Lanius) that Caesar hand-picked from Legion ranks to be his personal cabinet that all agrees with him. There is a distinct instability of power when recreating Rome without a senate, and there is the distinct air of trying to hide that open wound.

- In the Unlikely Event of a Transfer of Power

Let’s say, hypothetically, Caesar, the praetorian guard, and all his higher officials suddenly died. The role of Caesar would be up for grabs. In the event that there is no clear successor to Caesar, there is no real backup plan aside from an arena battle between the generals that could potentially succeed Caesar. A simple solution that will clearly show who can spill the most blood for Mars without hesitation or question.

With this in mind, there is one thing distinctly Roman about the potential of a transfer of power. There is always a nonzero chance that Caesar’s killer, be they foreigner or Legion, could become the next emperor. All that matters is who can devote themself to Mars in a way that would honor the fallen Caesar.

- Common Political Beliefs

Politics and religion go hand in hand for Caesar’s Legion because of the cultish way Caesar built the nation. The idea of Mars being the patron deity of The Legion instills a level of gratuitous and overzealous love of warfare among the people. Military expenditures are met with great support, and very little infrastructure on public service is supported as adamantly because of the instilled value of “we are all independent cogs working in a well oiled machine, we don’t need help”. Then again, it’s not like any other voice mattered anyways, since Caesar is the be all end all of political power.

There is a generally nationwide extremism when it comes to dealing with criminals, however. Criminal activity in The Legion is more often than not punished by torture and death, and nobody seems to really protest it to the degree that other factions do. As many of the travelers and traders in Fallout: New Vegas have said, the roads in Legion territories are incredibly safe. There is a level of patriotism in The Legion specifically regarding how safe their lands are, but in exchange, those lands also have an active military presence.

Conquest is also a pretty intrinsic pillar of Legion political beliefs, since the motivation to create a homogeneous society and usher in a new era of perceived piece may make some people accept the totalitarian power for what it is and hope it pans out right.

- Male vs Female Education Standards

Due to the intrinsic divide between male and female Legion citizens, the education of male and female Legion children is vastly different with the only exception being the uniform brainwashing. Male and female children are not only educated on different topics, they are also educated in different locations.

Similar to Spartan men, most male children (even including orphans from freshly raided towns) are give combat training just about as soon as they can hold a stick and swing it. The male children that show combat proficiency continue to become soldiers, and the male children who aren’t strong, but are intelligent are instead divided into training as either spies or medics, depending on the specifics of their skill sets. Male children who aren’t good at any of that end up becoming armigeri (singular armiger), the people who sharpen weapons and tend to the needs of more proficient soldiers. It’s a social tragedy to become what is essentially a pathetic sidekick to some far better soldier. Thankfully, since most of these children are trained from an incredibly young age to be strong, cunning, fast, and durable, very few people end up becoming armigeri. Generally speaking, no boy in The Legion goes without military training. The Legion can capture their blacksmiths and carpenters, there’s no need to train them in-house.

Female Legion children are not given formal education. They are expected to grow up to be housekeepers and produce the next generation of warlords. However, a family still has the liberty to educate a daughter at home with a tutor so long as it doesn’t interfere with the family’s productivity. Usually, female children are given medical teachings more oriented towards patching the injuries of their future husbands. However, girls aren’t left entirely defenseless. Girls are taught how to use ranged weapons and how to escape grapples in the event of an emergency. In addition, girls are given more of an education on finances and practical skills that tie into long-term survival, such as how to use every part of a killed animal for resources, how to patch clothes, and how to cultivate plants.

A Thank You And Some Concluding Comments

Hello hello to anyone who’s made it this far through my ludicrous ramblings! Thank you for reading! This is really just me throwing nonsense in the air and seeing what floats, and most of what I’ve written here will probably be subject to edits every now and then to keep building up what I’ve already put down.

Feel free to use this lore for any fan fictions, fan art, original characters, or whatever else! Please keep building on it!

I hope y’all enjoyed my insane chattering!

#fallout new vegas #fallout #fallout: new vegas #fallout: nv #fnv #fnv oc #caesar’s legion #fallout legion #the legion #fnv legion #edward sallow #joshua graham #vulpes inculta #legate lanius #legion #the things I write for fun

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yandere-genji · 1 year

Note

Do you plan on writing for Ramattra cause I have a lot of thoughts

my first full ramattra piece, i hope you enjoy!!

nsfw

TW: dubcon, yandere

contains: kidnapping, blood, injuries, fingering, human pet, mentions of reading being young and pretty, mention of doomfist/reader

reader is gender neutral

Drones whirled above your head, obliterating everything in sight. You kept yourself hidden amongst the rubble and searched for any sort of sanctuary. Most structures in the town square had been dusted by now, mounds of debris and glass in their stead. Running behind whatever cover you could find, you were fortunate enough to find a storefront still standing. The hum of lasers harmonized with the cries of warriors and civilians alike and you sprinted through the street. As noise began to taper off in the opposite direction of the little building, you could feel your heart pounding with you feet as you ran to safety.

Once inside, your hands shook frantically and you tried to force your nerves to calm. It was no use, nothing could relieve you from the horrors you had just witnessed. Without thought, you wrap your arms around yourself and collapse to your knees. At any moment, omnic forces could come barging through the broken glass windows of the store front and wipe away your very life. But you couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but sink into yourself and try to process the carnage you had just witnessed.

You shuffled yourself behind the cashier’s counter. that. Coins still littered the counter top. What had happened to the people in this shop once the omnic forces fell upon the city? Were they just far enough from the locus of the attack that they were able to escape? Or were they shot down by the drones that you witnessed kill so many others?

You remember how quickly tensions rose in the city once Null Sector declared they would incite their war on cities like yours. Next to Kings Row, yours was among the highest rated in anti-omnic attitudes. You had seen it, too, especially before the attack. People openly mocked the threats from the Null Sector. Omnics, they can only follow orders, how would they be able to win any fight against humans? You heard from a far away discussion amongst your coworkers. Omnics would never be able to gain the upper hand, that was the general opinion. Whatever empty threats Null Sector was spewing was all bark and no bite. Omnics were far too passive to make a move.

You were raised alongside omnics your whole life and had received nothing but kindness from them. Really, you had seen no difference from them to yourself and never quite understood the stigmatization. In fact, most were more sensible than the humans you knew. Sure, your family had tried to explain to you that omnics can’t really be compared to humans, and they were nothing but a liability - rogue computer programs. But you didn’t feel that way. The only thing their rhetoric had done was open your eyes to how desperate humans were to claim superiority over others.

A part of you thought maybe you were getting what was coming to you. For being complacent in a society that profits from the suffering of others. You were always too scared to interfere when insults or fists were thrown to those poor omnics who would cross the line in any way, dare to question societal norms. You were no better as a bystander than the bullies you admonished in your mind but were too cowardly to confront.

“What a pitiful little city,” your thoughts were interrupted by a metallic voice, “It brings me great pleasure to bring them to their knees.”

They were inside. To your right. Blocking the door.

“And with Talon by your side, you will be able to dust much more impressive cities than this,” another metallic male voice responds, “This is just a taste.”

You were surprised the pounding of your heart didn’t give away your position to the omnics just behind the counter. Metal scrapped against the linoleum floor as they walked past you, farther into the shop.

“I have grown so tired of waiting, brother,” the first omnic spoke, voice a bit deeper than the other, “To see these plans come into action…it moves me.”

He seemed to be droning into some monologue that dissipated as they continued into the shop, the opposite direction of the very exit you were scanning for. Carefully, you shuffled onto the floor trying to be as quiet as possible. Thankfully, their footsteps echoed louder than the fabric of your clothes against the floor. The door was right there, right in front of you.

But maybe you were too eager and grew louder the closer you were to freedom. Or perhaps you were just unlucky, and the omnics decided to turn around at the worst time. But you were caught, cold hands clawed into your skin as you were pulled up into the air by your ankles. You yelped, weeped, and writhed under his hand.

“Ha! And what have we here! Another bug to squash. Look at how you wiggle like a worm,” he was enjoying this, you were going to die at the hands of a killer.

Though you wanted to plead your case, your words were choked by your sobs. It seemed to amuse him even more, his laughter was like nails on a chalkboard with the way it pierced your ears. Fresh, warm blood tickled your legs as it streamed down from the hands gripping you. You heard the male omnic beside him scoff in disgust.

“Please, Ramattra, I prefer to keep out of the dirty work,” you look over to him and he seemed like just the type. Dressed to the nines in all black that matched the glossy black metal of his hair.

“Another obstacle in our path to freedom, brother,” he lifted you higher in the air and your eyesight lined up with his wide chest, “what shall we do with a pest like you?”

“Let the damn thing go,” the other omnic spoke, “It’s just a human, and a young one at that. We have more important matters to attend to.”

“No,” Ramattra spoke, his tone dark with intent, “This human would show us no such mercy if they were in our position. No matter how innocent or young they may seem, I know their cruelty. They’re nothing short of beasts with insatiable appetites.”

“Please,” you managed to whimper, “Please…I wouldn’t hurt you, ever. I just want to go home…”

Your pleas hiccuped back into sobs. You must’ve looked a mess, tears running down your forehead onto tiled floor. Your face as red as the blood that trailed down your leg. Whoever Ramattra was, he was not going to be your saving grace. The other omnic, however, might be the one to let you free. Even if only because of the fact he didn’t want to get himself dirty with your blood.

“Ugh, pathetic little thing. A pleasant appearance, though. I can always use an extra pet for Akande. He’s always looking for another toy to play with, it seems,” he was eyeing you, now. You didn’t like the way his eyes roamed your body like he was inspecting you.

“He would treat it too well,” Ramattra began, “A human from this degenerate city should be treated just as harshly as they would treat an omnic.”

“Trust me, it is not pleasant what Akande does to his concubines,” he chuckled to himself and your eyes widen in fear. Whatever fate you were going to get out of this encounter would be nothing short of agonizing. These omnics were treating you worse than a dog, debating whether or not you were worth keeping alive.

“I want it sedated. Then we will decide what to do with it,” Ramattra demanded as he dropped you to the ground, “If you obey, I may spare your life.”

You froze, leg pulsing and burning with pain around your newly freed ankle. The wound was open and blood pooled around you. Your mind went dizzy, everything was fuzzy. You felt drunk, your pulse quickened. This was it, you tried to focus on anything around you, tried to get a vision of the world around you before you bleed out. Nothing could come into view, but you could hear the omnics discuss something among themselves. You heard the hum of their voices, growing fainter and fainter as the world went black.

———

When you regained consciousness, you eyes seemed to be sealed shut. But the stinging in your ankle kept you awake, you wouldn’t be able to go to sleep with the pulsating pain from your calves to the rest of your body. It was dark, wherever you were, and smelled like rust. Computer monitors and holo-images illuminated the room in a dim glow. You could heard the familiar sound of metal against metal behind you.

“Awake, are we?” Ramattra’s voice startled you and you jumped, “You may consider yourself lucky, human. But let me assure you, you’re anything but.”

Before you could react, his face met yours, his cold metal grazing over your warm flesh, fog forming on his forehead where you met. He looked like the visage of death himself, white as a skull with beads of glowing red. You stared into the dark slits of his eyes, mouth agape and mind running with ideas of how to escape the situation you’ve just found yourself in.

“Nothing to say?” you could feel his hatred through his gaze, like he wanted you to burst into flames.

You lips shutter when you spoke, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know what for, but it was all you could think to say. You felt more sorry for yourself in that moment than anything else. Sorry that you had been born and raised in the wrong place at the wrong time, sorry you didn’t die with the city you left behind, sorry you got yourself into this mess.

Ramattra growled in response, “You will be.”

Hands like steel gripped your throat, slammed you down onto the floor. Your cheek hit the ground and you could feel a crack in your nose before it began to bleed. Again, he threw you against the floor as if for good measure and you coughed out a groan.

“Your people have tormented mine for far too long,” he dragged you by the neck and pinned you against the wall, legs dangling in the air, “I’ll make sure you get your comeuppance.”

You coughed, blood spraying from your nose and onto the rags around his neck, “I’m sorry.”

He slammed you against the wall again and you felt the back of your head ring in pain, “You think that will save you? Begging for forgiveness?”

He freed you from his grip and you fell to the floor, hands reaching up the feel the mark across your throat. You could feel the skin already swelling. It was going to leave a nasty bruise. For a moment, you were able to catch your breath, but it didn’t last long before a swift kick to your stomach had you gasping for air.

“Go on then. Beg.”

“Wha-?” the moment you hesitate, you’re met with a fist to the face that knocks you back down, “Please, please, I’m so sorry.”

“Louder,” he almost sings when he speaks, lifting a clawed foot over your torso and threatening to put weight on it.

“I’m sorry!” you’re shouting now, as much as you can muster through the blood, saliva, and tears, “Please, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt any-“

He pulls you up by the collar and onto your knees while looking down at you, staring at the mess you’ve become, “You humans are all the same. You spin the same tale, always the innocent victims of the world around you, right? Oh, you poor thing. How mistreated you are.”

You fall to the floor, unable to lift yourself up when Ramattra lets go of you. You’re tired, what little fight you had at the beginning of this encounter was completely drained. But it seemed like Ramattra still had a lesson to teach you as he dragged your limp body across the room, onto what looked like some sort of examination table.

It’s the softest thing you’ve felt since you woke up, a welcome sensation as you lean against the firm cushion. You lift a hand over your injured side, right where Ramattra had struck you. You couldn’t tell if you had been sweating profusely or bleeding again. All of the pain was beginning to overwhelm you.

“If I could, I would’ve stopped it,” you began, thinking out loud, “I don’t know why they do it, I never understood why but I couldn’t stop it.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Ramattra scoffed, hand firmly holding your calf just above the injured ankle, “Speaking as if you’re the victim in all of this. You’re only in pain because of the pain you’ve caused.”

“You’re right,” you concede, wincing when your ankle stung alive again, “I’m no better than anyone else. I should’ve stopped them. No one deserves that…”

You believed what you were saying, it was a deep insecurity that lived inside of you for a long time. Your cross to bare, the guilt of watching it all happen and doing nothing. But in this moment, that internal struggle was manifesting itself. The justice that those suffered omnics so rightfully deserved was now your burden.

“My brothers that were bound by the ways of your city - your people - have now been freed. They celebrate now in the rubble of what you once called home. All shattered to pieces to be rebuilt in the name of our liberation,” he spoke to you with great pride in his voice, spoke more to himself than anyone else, “The world as you know it will cease to exist, I will see to that myself. As for you…”

He looked down at you. Really looked down at you. Like when you look to wipe gum off the bottom of your shoe. Something to rid oneself of, that’s what you were in his eyes. If you had made it this far, maybe he had some sort of plan for you.

“I hope you’re right,” you say just above a whisper, fearful to misspeak, “Where I’m from…that’s not the way it should be. And I’m just a coward that was too scared to say anything about it.”

“That much is certain,” his voice soften, “You still are a coward. Letting me do to you as I please without an ounce of protest. Most would try to fight or flee, yet you don’t. There must not be a single thought in that pretty head of yours.”

Pretty? You’re confused, heat rose on your cheeks as you registered what he said. Though it was an insult thrown to you by your captor, the word itself wasn’t one you were used to hearing. You couldn’t help but feel flattered, however inappropriate at the time.

“I’m sorry,” feels like you were always going to be sorry as long as you were here, “There must be some way I can reconcile with all the pain that I’ve caused besides…this…”

You gesture to your injured body and you could see the way Ramattra obliged you. His eyes trailing over your injuries, observing the marks he had made. He was slow and silent, deliberating over your words, hopefully thinking of some way to honor your request.

“What a hopeless soul you are. Need me to tell you how to repent, need me to make you realize the wrong that you’ve done, to knock some sense into you. Still, you have the nerve to ask me my command,” his words were harsh but his voice was almost jovial, “I see you’re the type of human to be kept as a pet.”

He seemed to be enjoying this, judging by the tone of his voice. Just as he enjoyed digging his fingers into your ankle when he had first caught you. Something about seeing you hopeless appealed to him. If that’s the case, you might as well try to lean into it.

“A pet? What do you mean?” you play along, furrow your eyebrows and put on a breathy voice.

“Curious, are you?” his voice lowers, silky smooth yet metallic, “Yes, plenty of talon members have their own human pets. Nipping at their heels endlessly, at the beck and call of those who own them. I suppose it’s a fitting punishment for someone like you.”

It seemed to be working, but the direction of this conversation was anything but in your favor. Though it was probably a marginally better punishment than death by Ramattra’s beatings. And Talon…it sounded familiar but you honestly had no clue what he was talking about. Some sort of Null Sector faction or something?

“What sort of work is involved as a…” you pause for a moment, it was difficult to formulate the words the more real the discussion was becoming, “human pet?”

He chuckled lowly in response, takes a moment to think before answering, “One might think to say comfort, but the word sounds far too optimistic. I imagine stress relief would be a more suitable term.”

“I’m not sure I understand…” but you do, just don’t want to admit it.

“Good lord, you really are dull,” he brought a hand to your side, “Do you need me to demonstrate it for you?”

It’s not a question and you’re given no time to respond when he pulled himself onto the examination table. His body loomed over you, his shadow casting everything in darkness. You swallowed, thickly and muscles tensed. He hooked his fingers onto the waistband of your pants, pulling them off. The cold air left goosebumps on your exposed thighs and you began to panic. There was that fight in you he was talking about. But before you could wiggle your way out from under him, another arm - massive, purple - pinned you down by the throat. Then another just like that one pinned your right wrist, then your left.

He makes quick work in removing your underwear and pulling them with your pants down to your ankles. You were completely exposed, body shaking and breathing becoming increasingly more difficult. He hums, warm and curious, like he had never seen something quite like what he was seeing now. You feel a glossy, slick finger rubbing the inside of your thigh. It’s cold and you flinch at the touch and you hear a small oh. It seemed like he was experimenting with you, observing the limits of the human body.

That same glossy finger stretched the entrance of your hole, you can’t help the whimper that escaped your lips. It burned, fire building higher and higher the deeper he pushed inside of you. It was worse when he pulled back, the emptiness making you need something to fill it but wanting anything but to feel that burning sensation. He brought another finger inside, and it felt impossibly tight. If he were human, the pressure might’ve suffocated his skin. But the tightness wasn’t an issue as he kept pumping in and out of you.

The sensation started as painful as the burning soreness on your throat, but the more adjusted your body had become, the less painful it was. Your whimpers began to die down, becoming breathy sighs. It seems that wasn’t enough for Ramattra because he curled his fingers up into you and elicited a scream, both in pleasure and in pain. It felt good, he hit somewhere deep inside of you that you hadn’t reached before.

“Like that, did you?” his tone was different than ever before. It was playful, like speaking to a dog. A pet.

You breath comes out in a stutter, trying to recover from that sudden feeling. It hits you again, making your eyelids flutter. He curled into you deeper, and then began to scissor his fingers into you. You could feel a knot forming in your core and shamefully your hips followed the motion of his fingers. The last place in the world you wanted to be fingered until you were a drooling mess would be in some omnic’s lair, but fuck did it feel good having Ramattra’s cool, slick metal fingers pumping in and out of you.

“Please,” you whine, “I’m so close…”

“Are you?” he spreads his fingers inside of you again, stretching you and you pray for something to fill the emptiness, “Good.”

He stops, pulls out of you and the air feels so much colder. Your hips roll instinctually, searching for some sort of friction to get you off, but you don’t find any. Left high and dry, desperate. Ramattra’s large, purple hands keep you in place but he lifts his body off of the table. But your body craves for him, for the release that only he can give you.

“Please!” you almost scream it, and your cheeks become red with shame. You didn’t even recognize your voice. But Ramattra wasn’t impressed, even his larger hands left your body.

“That’s enough satisfaction for you today,” he pulled you by the wrist off of the table, clothes still pooled around your ankles, “You haven’t earned the right, understand?”

Your mind was so pliable in that instance, you would say anything that might get his fingers back into you, “Yes.”

“Yes, master.”

“Good,” he walks toward you and for a moment you think your plan must’ve worked, “Now, put your clothes back on, pet.”

You do as you’re told, disappointed at the command. Your mind sobers up a bit and you’re starting to realize what’s really happening. This image that Ramattra had for you to be his comfort slave. Then you remember the sensation you had felt just moments ago. A part of you was eager to enter into this arrangement but the other part of you that could still feel the stinging in your ankle, the dried blood on your skin, was not.

“Does that gives you a further understanding of what your purpose is?” his voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Yes, master.”

“That’s right,” his hand cups your face, squeezes your cheeks, “You are a toy and I will use you as I please.”

You didn’t even know where you were. Your home was destroyed, presumably with everyone that you knew. Could you be considered a prisoner or war? As far as anyone knew, you were dead with the rest of them. There was nowhere for you to go. No one was going to save you. The only option you had now was to pray for the mercy of your captor and buy yourself enough time to escape in one piece.

“Yes, master.”

#yandere #male yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere overwatch #dark overwatch #overwatch au #ramattra #yandere ramattra #ramattra x reader #dark ramattra

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helga-grinduil · 2 months

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People are being drama queens over nothing like why is everyone pretending this twist ruined tomura's character when this shit was foreshadowed and it's so obvious?

Also since tomura mentioned before the league not having a healer maybe he'll unlock reconstruction; heal deku and the villains since everyone in fucked up condition.

I talked so much about this on twitter I think I will throw up if I have to explain what you just said to other people. Some are saying that it 'absolves' hero society from it's issues (it doesn't, no one still helped Tenko because they believed that heroes are the ones who should be, well, heroes), some are saying that it ruins the fact that Tenko was 'born wrong' and was rejected by the world for something he couldn't control when it NEVER WAS the point of his backstory. AFO convincing Kotarou to have Tenko doesn't change anything about society's faults nor about the abuse Tenko experienced at home.

And the fact that AFO already knew who Tenko was when he met him was there since day fucking one - he literally addressed by his FULL NAME and knew exactly what happened to him! Even if someone did help Tenko, AFO would've kept stalking him, probably 'causing some shit to try and snatch Tenko anyway. Because that's WHAT HE DOES.

Tenko was neither rejected for having no quirk nor for having Decay. Kotarou would've rejected his desire to be a hero anyway, because that rejection was due to his trauma (which was, ding-ding, caused by Nana trying to save Kotarou from AFO in the first place!!!! AFO was the cause from the start!). He would've hated the idea of Tenko becoming a hero whether Tenko had a quirk or not. The idea that Decay was the reason Tenko was ignored was what AFO made him to believe, it was never true in Tenko's case. The ONLY societal issue that ever truly mattered when it came to Tomura was the fact that hero society made people complacent and distanced from reality.

People just... latched onto the wrong ideas when it came to Tomura and what made him a good character for the sake of seeing him as more 'relatable'.

And I saw some people say that AFO being behind Tomura's backstory makes Tomura into a 'perfect victim' when his appeal was that he's not, that his destructive tendecies are a bad coping mechanism and that made him relatable, but now it turns out that AFO just made him think he wants to destroy, so it's not Tomura's own coping mechanism anymore... which is completely wrong. TOMURA IS A MURDERER. He automatically isn't a 'perfect victim'. None of the villains are. Destruction (and self-destruction) IS Tomura's coping mechanism. It BECAME one, it wasn't one from the start. Sure, AFO was the one who made him think he wants to destroy, but that was always the case. Tenko didn't want to kill people on his own. But AFO also didn't make Tomura want to destroy everything either. Or feel relief when he was destroying stuff. This was Tomura, and Tomura alone.

Destroying brought him the sense of catharsis, because it reaffirmed Tomura's beliefs about himself (the beliefs that were created by AFO, which was, again, always the case, and a lot of people talked about it for years prior to these chapters). That when he destroys, at least he's being himself. «Everyone will keep rejecting me anyway even if I try not to be a bad kid, but if I'll embrace my real self and do what I want to do (I don't) at least I'll be accepted by someone». He followed AFO's words and killed those two hooligans for the unsaid promise of being accepted - something that he craved the most. Destruction is still his unhealthy coping mechanism - he destroys stuff -> feels good because he feels reassured in his purpose and his views -> it passes, he feels sick, angry, empty and depressed -> he is in need of some catharsis -> rinse and repeat.

#ask tag #bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha meta #bnha 419 #shimura tenko #shigaraki tomura

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queen-haq · 4 days

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Fic: Never You, Part 11 (Penelope x Colin)

andom: Bridgerton (TV show)

Spoilers: S3 released scenes.

Summary: They may have been friends once but his callous words decimated their relationship. Determined not to have anything to do with him, Penelope is ready to move on. But Colin isn’t giving up, not at all. Friends or not, they are connected for life - and he intends to remind her of that.

Excerpt:

“You would hate me for not wanting to court you. You would be that selfish?”

“Of course you would think that.”

“What else is this if not punishment?”

Masterlist (contains links to previous parts and my other stories)

A03 link if that’s more your jam

Chapter 11

Penelope exited the hack and started walking home, clutching the small knife in her hand. As always she exercised full caution, refusing to be complacent about safety. In the beginning when she first started to publish Lady Whistledown sheets, late night treks through the city were imperative. Thanks to Miss Delacroix and the network they cultivated in the past year, it was no longer necessary. However she needed to discuss things with Mr. Banfield, her solicitor, and he had suggested meeting at the same tavern they used to convene at during the early Whistledown days; there was no chance of them being discovered in such a place.

Now that marriage was no longer an option, she had to find a way to escape her family. Thankfully Mr. Banfield, who had guided her initially on how to publish, was happy to provide his assistance. Tonight was their second meeting over the past week, and they had continued their discussion on how to carry her plans to fruition. With his help she would leave Mayfair, perhaps even the country, and make a new life elsewhere. Yet her heart was still heavy with sadness.

Only a fortnight ago she had looked forward to a different future, one that involved marriage and children. A loving home, a happy family – all the things she wished for whilst growing up. But that was no longer a possibility, thanks to her own foolishness. And Colin. Anger rushed through her immediately, her gaze landing on the Bridgerton house across the street. Her heart lurched, remembering their last encounter a week ago. Since her confession to him, there had been no contact between them. That didn’t surprise her, of course. Societal expectations dictated ladies be pure and innocent and she was no longer that. It was only natural he no longer desired her, he likely never did.

Colin’s strange obsession with her had been some kind of a temporary madness, his feelings never in earnest, which meant she had ruined her future with Arthur for no reason at all. And the thought of it filled her with so much rage and self-loathing that she wanted to scream. Why? Why did Colin have to play with her emotions in such a manner? Why did she allow herself to be swayed towards him despite knowing better? She had begged him, pleaded with him, to leave her alone but he had insisted – no, demanded – her body and soul, crossing all respectable boundaries of society to get his way. Along the way, he had stormed through all the walls surrounding her heart.

A part of her resented him, wishing that she never knew what it felt like to be ravaged by his kiss, the sensation of his mouth on her body. It was so much easier to live with ignorance because then she wouldn’t be haunted by dreams of him, the piercing intensity in his eyes while he claimed her. If only she could feel hate for him, things would be so much easier –

A large hand closed over her mouth, the other grabbing her from behind. It happened so quickly she was too startled to react. Fear rushed through her body, making it impossible for her to think rationally. Was this how she would die? Without accomplishing any of the things she wanted? No family, no children. Alone. No goodbyes with Eloise. No Colin. And suddenly everything became clear again. No. She wouldn’t die like this. Immediately her survival instincts kicked in and she started fighting back, kicking, using the knife in her hand to strike against her attacker.

“Pen, calm down! It’s me!”

Colin. She dropped the knife, circling around. Her heart was pounding in her chest while she stared up at him frantically. “You scared me half to death!” Her breath was labored, still recovering from the fright he gave her, she pushed him away. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you?” He trudged forward, closing the distance between them. “It’s past midnight and you’re roaming the streets with no concern for your safety. Do you know how daft that is?”

“Is that why you snuck up on me? To teach me a lesson?”

His blue eyes darkened with furious indignation. “Do you have any idea what kind of danger you put yourself in? What if I was a brute with bad intentions-”

“You’re bleeding!” She quickly grabbed his hand, seeing the cut on the side of his arm.

Oblivious to the blood, he continued to chastise her. “At least you had the foresight to carry a weapon. I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t completely lost your mind.”

She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket, too worried about his bruise to continue the argument. “We need to clean this before it becomes worse.” Wrapping the cloth around his arm, she led him towards the back of the house where Martha had left a door unlocked for her. “Everyone is asleep, we must be quiet.”

They crept through the house, the kitchen, up the staircase, down the corridor to her bedchamber, all the while his long, lean fingers intertwined with hers, gripping her hand securely. The adrenaline rush from earlier had already started to wear off but her heart continued to flipflop due to his close proximity, her body fully aware of him. When they finally reached her chambers she knocked on the door in a specific rhythm, signaling to Martha she had returned. Her maid opened the door right away, her eyes widening in surprise when she spotted Colin standing behind Pen.

“Miss? Is everything alright?”

Penelope walked past her, leading Colin to the nearest chair and directing him to sit down. “Martha, can you get me a pitcher of water and the ointment Mrs. Varley keeps in the kitchen? Quickly? Mr. Bridgerton has suffered a wound.”

While Martha exited, Penelope busied herself by removing her cape, heading towards the wardrobe. Inside were clean cloths and she quickly retrieved some before returning to Colin’s side. Standing in front of him she gently lifted his hand, removing the stained handkerchief to inspect the cut. The blood had started to coagulate, he was no longer bleeding.

“Miss, here’s everything,” Martha placed the bowl of water and ointment on the table. “May I assist you in some way?”

“Thank you, but no. Penelope and I would like some privacy,” Colin replied in a gentle but firm tone. “Please.”

Casting him an annoyed glance, Pen addressed the other woman. “You’ve done enough, Martha. Thank you for your help tonight. Please get some rest.”

She followed Martha to the door, speaking in a low voice so Colin wouldn’t hear. “Did anyone come to my door while I was away?”

“No, Miss.”

“Have a good night.”

Locking the door, she turned around to confront Colin. “I don’t appreciate you ordering my maid about.”

“And I don’t appreciate her enabling your reckless behavior.”

Annoyed, she wandered closer until coming to a stop in front of him. With him seated, she was only slightly more elevated which made it difficult to avoid his gaze, especially as he was determined to scrutinize her while she tended to his wound. His breath hummed against her, his other hand purposely caressing her trembling fingers as she wiped his skin with a wet cloth. No, she wouldn’t look at him. Absolutely not. It was easier to hold onto her righteous anger than to think about his wild, unkempt curls that begged to be brushed, the haunting depth of his eyes penetrating her to her very core. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, as evident by the scruff on his face, and instead of lessening his looks it only made him more beautiful.

“Where did you go tonight?” he murmured.

Considering his harsh demeanor from only a few minutes earlier, his gentleness was surprising. Putting aside the wet towel, she dried his arm with a fresh one, then started rubbing ointment on him. “I was not feeling well and decided to go for a walk.”

His free hand snaked around her waist, pulling her close. Dark, riveting eyes peered up at her, holding her spellbound in his arms. “We both know that wasn’t a leisurely stroll, Pen. Do not lie to me.”

“What I do is none of your concern, Colin.” Despite her frayed nerves, her voice was calm and resolute, surprising even herself.

His unrelenting gaze refused to waver from her. “Everything about you concerns me. Especially when I catch you sneaking out to a brothel in the middle of the night.”

“Have you gone mad? Of course I didn’t go to such an establishment!”

“Perhaps you were too preoccupied with your guest to notice the brothel above the tavern.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yet you seem to be very familiar with it. Why is that?” She waited for him to deny her accusation but he said nothing, simply watching her. Jealousy flooded over her like a tidal wave, the implication of his silence fully sinking in. It was one thing to accept the inevitability of Colin falling in love and marrying another woman, at least then she could reassure herself he was genuinely happy even if it caused her agonizing pain – but to know he was lying with other women and behaving like a complete scoundrel? It was so infuriating she wanted to scream. “Is that where you were tonight? Patronizing the brothel?” How dare he? How dare he demand anything from her? “Let me go!” She spat out viciously, forcibly removing herself from his arms. “Get out! Get out of my chamber, get out of my life! I never want to see you again!”

Disgusted with him, she started to walk away when he stood up swiftly and pulled her close. Gripping her tightly from behind, he held her caged in his embrace. “It hurts, doesn’t it? To think of me screwing someone else?” he growled in her ear.

“Go to hell!” She yelled back, fighting him. Despite her struggle he overpowered her easily, maneuvering her between his body and the desk behind. She gripped the edges around the table to maintain her balance but it was hard to do with him bending forward to meet her at eye-level. Heaving, she glared at him defiantly, only quivering when he positioned his hands on either side of her to confine her in place.

“That sick, repulsive jealousy in the pit of your stomach? That’s what I’ve been feeling this entire time, thinking about you fucking men after men in my nightmares. Every time I close my eyes you torture me!” His gaze burned with ferocity, lips pursed into a thin line. “And when you’re not fucking them, you’re laughing with them, flirting with them!”

“So you’re using your dreams as an excuse to rake about with harlots? That’s pathetic!"

“Of course I didn’t go to the fucking brothel! I’ve been laid up in bed all week, too sick at the thought of you with other men!”

His words were so preposterous she started laughing. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And completely out of his mind.

“It’s not funny, Penelope.” His voice was a raspy threat, his darkened eyes roaming over her face.

“Isn’t it? You’re making yourself sick over silly dreams.”

He shook his head. “Not dreams, nightmares. Nightmares that eat away at my soul, make me want to rip my eyes out because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.”

His face was achingly close, only a few inches separating them, his intoxicating eyes holding her enthralled. She couldn’t breathe, not when he was studying her so intently, his gaze locked on her lips. “Colin…” she whispered breathlessly.

He kissed her with absolute desperation, like a man starving, and she clung to him, returning his kiss with equal fervor. It wasn’t enough, she needed more, so much more, and her arms tightened around him while he lifted her and settled her on the desk.

The madness that took over was overwhelming, his hands all over her body, claiming her as his own, and she yielded to him fully when he pressed her to lie back on the table. In his haste to situate her on the desk so she was comfortable, he pushed aside the bowl of water, and she heard it drop to the ground, the loud noise it made when it crashed, but it didn’t matter, none of it did, when his mouth was roving over her neck, his hands squeezing her breasts.

The small voice in her head burst through, reminding her how unseemly she must have looked to him right now. In a simple day dress that wasn’t flattering, no adornments on her face or hair, legs propped on the table so he was positioned between them, she felt undignified. She opened her eyes, intending to ask him to stop but the words died in her throat when she spotted the reverence on his face. Eyes glazed, mouth open, he was watching her as if she was the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

Her heart raced, his heated stare melting her inhibitions away. And she reached out to caress his hair, running her fingers through the silky strands before cradling his face.

He kissed her palm, smiling shyly at her. Only a few seconds earlier she was filled with trepidation but now it was passion that surged through her blood, filling her veins, leaving no space in her mind for anything else. Eyes locked with his, she started to untie the laces on the bust of her dress and he followed her every move hungrily.

She peered up at him, her fingers pausing on her partially uncovered breasts. “Do you want to touch me?”

Whatever semblance of control he was under seemed to dissipate in an instant. His mouth was voracious on hers, kissing her frantically while his hand trailed up the inside of her leg, past her thighs, sending shivers along her spine when he finally reached her core. Last time he had touched her so intimately there was a barrier of clothes between his hand and her body, but there was nothing that existed now. Unexpected sensations rippled through her while he penetrated her with his finger, one at first, and then another, curving into her so expertly she almost screamed. She couldn’t understand how his pulsing fingers felt so good, how she was supposed to breathe when all the nerves in her body were so heightened. Writhing, she dug her fingers into his spine, the other hand circling the back of his neck, clinging to him while he whispered the naughtiest things to her.

“You feel so good. So tight… and wet… and hot…. perfect,” he murmured, kissing the underside of her right breast before licking his way up to the center His tongue laved over the nipple, over and over again until it puckered, his hunger for her insatiable while he sucked on the hardened nub, teasing her, taunting her. “Perfect for me… my fingers… my cock…”

The rhythm of his fingers changed unexpectedly, drawing out a sound from her she didn’t even know was possible. “Colin…” she moaned, drowning under the pleasure of his hands, his mouth. His sensual words.

“…God, if you only knew… if you only knew how good you feel…” He was breathless, his body trembling like her own. “Look at me, Pen…”

Amidst the haze, she heard his plea and obliged. The blue pools of his eyes had never been this dark before, the sheer emotion so pure and potent it left her stunned.

“Your sweet, tight cunt…begging to be filled with my cock…”

“Please…”

“Want my cock inside of you, love?”

Love. The word registered somewhere deep in her brain but faded right away, tension building higher and higher inside her.

He pulled back a little, peering at her. “Do you?”

“Yes…”

He nipped her chin, traced the swell of her breasts with his tongue, his teeth. “Taste you so badly… fuck you with my mouth… my tongue inside you…”

Everything was amplified, her body on fire. “Please…” She was close, so close, his thumb brushing against her clit with just the right amount of pressure so her body keened. And then his fingers twisted inside in her such a way that the world exploded.

Ecstasy flowed over her, through her, fireworks exploding into stars. She was floating again, like the last time with Colin, her body boneless and fluid. Her senses slowly returned. Awareness sank in as she drifted back to reality, becoming cognizant of the gentle, warm kisses he was peppering on her neck. His hand on her right breast, cupping it, squeezing it. His hardness jutted against her thigh, strained in his trousers, because he had been too focused on bringing her pleasure.

She cradled his face, nudging him to look at her. “May I touch you?”

Colin’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight, his voice velvety smooth. “Yes.”

She nodded her head, smiling shyly when he helped her sit up on the table. The tender expression on his face left her heart thudding in her chest, how he looked at her with so much affection. For so long she had wanted to love him to her heart’s content, caress him without any reservation, and this would very likely be her last chance. Soon she would be gone, and there would never be another opportunity to enjoy him again. With that thought in mind she traced his eyebrows with her fingers, the contours of his face, the shape of his lips. He was beautiful, a Roman sculpture come to life. She sucked on his bottom lip, nibbling on him gently. Not only did he like doing that to her, he liked having it done to him.

Her hand lingered down the length of his neck, removing the shirt from his body until he was standing half naked in front of her. She caressed the soft, crinkling hair on his chest, excited to touch him. Remembering how he lavished over her nipples, she did the same to him, her mouth on one while her fingers played with the other. He fisted her hair, letting her continue while she teased him mercilessly.

“If you keep doing that, I won’t last long.”

In her limited experience she knew it took men longer to recover once they were spent, and she definitely didn’t want to lose her chance at pleasuring him. “It’s not very fair that you can have all the time you want with me while I have to hurry along.”

A delightful, mischievous smile marked his lips, causing butterflies to flutter in her stomach. “Next time you can have your turn first.”

Her smile stiffened but she didn’t respond, instead refocusing her attention back on him. Her fingers traced the planes of his hard stomach, lingering along every angular ridges of his body. Then she lowered his breeches, with his help, allowing his hardness to spring forth, and the sight of him stole her breath - just like before. Except tonight she was the one stroking him instead of Colin pleasuring himself. He was slick to the touch, the girth of him daunting, but she slowly started to mimic his movements from the other night.

His mouth opened but there were no coherent words that came out, not like when he’d been loving her and being very explicit about his wants. Now there were only gasps and groans of ecstasy, heightening her own excitement, and she watched his head loll back while he lost himself in her touch completely.

***

They were laying in bed together, facing each other. Her eyes were heavy with sleep but she didn’t want to give into it quite yet, not when he looked so beautiful and sated next to her. She wanted to freeze this moment, lock it somewhere deep in her memories so she could look back upon it fondly. But her bliss was short-lived, as always.

Love. He had called her love, more than once, in the throes of passion. He had used the term of endearment so easily, with complete nonchalance. Even though he didn’t feel the same, even though he was fully aware of how much she loved him. Her heart throbbed. The more Colin was in her life the more he would hurt her, perhaps not deliberately but through indifference or carelessness. This is why she had to get away from Mayfair, not just far away from her family but also him because she didn’t want to live in perpetual agony.

“You should leave, Colin. It’ll be dawn soon.”

He didn’t budge. “Why were you at the tavern?”

She contemplated her response. If he had been true about not being at the brothel, that meant he had spotted her at the tavern with Mr. Banfield. Thus, it would be foolish to lie to him – but she also couldn’t tell him the truth. No one could know of her plans to leave. Deciding a half lie was better than a complete one, she answered him. “Cousin Jack owed a lot of money from the scheme he concocted.”

“I’m aware.” Colin drew circles on her arm, playing with her. “What does that have to do with you?”

“Fortunately he didn’t escape with the funds, but Mama also hasn’t been overly concerned with returning the money to those he stole from.” She exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “So I’ve been meeting with Mister Banfield in secret every month, giving him whatever amount I can so he may settle the accounts for those Cousin Jack wronged.”

“Where are you getting the money from?”

Of course she couldn’t tell him all of the accounts had already been settled from her Lady Whistledown profit. “I’ve been managing the household accounts for a while now and siphoning the money from there.”

He clutched her face. “This is no longer your concern. I will meet with Mister Banfield this week and return all the funds to him.”

Penelope stilled. The last thing she needed was Colin spending any of his money on her behalf. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve already paid back everything.”

Colin’s eyebrow quirked up in disbelief. “You were able to gather all that simply from the household fund?”

“And my dowry,” she added quickly. “Of course Mama doesn’t know about that.”

“Your dowry isn’t needed anyway. Father was very generous to all of us.”

It took a few seconds for his words to fully register in her brain. “Colin-”

He slid off the bed, picking up his shirt from the floor. With quick and agile movements he dressed himself, tucking the shirt into his trousers. “Tomorrow I will call on Lady Featherington and ask her for your hand in marriage.”

That woke her up instantly. She scooted forward until she was on the edge of the bed, facing him. “We can not be married, Colin. I’ve already told you this.”

He paused, regarding her closely. “But you love me.”

“So what?” she bit out. “It will fade with time.”

There was anger in his voice, in the clench of his jaw when he spoke next. “Maybe, but I don’t plan to give you that time.”

She couldn’t wrap her mind around his selfish words, this was so unlike the Colin she had come to know as a friend. “Don’t you think I deserve to marry someone who loves me back? You used to believe so.”

He approached her, until he stood directly in front and reached out to cradle her face. “I know you Pen, inside and out, and you are not fickle, far from it. Your love is strong, it’s passionate and unrelenting. I experience the sheer depth of it every time I’m near you, when you look at me, when you touch me.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “No one will care for you as strongly as I do. I can make you happy, the happiest you’ve ever been.”

“I don’t need your charity, Colin. I am perfectly capable of being happy without marrying you.” She wrung his hand away. “Especially as I’m betrothed to another.”

She tried to stand up but he blocked her path, causing her to sit back down on the bed. He knelt down in front of her. The hard glint in his eyes was now familiar to her, a look she had grown wary of in these past few weeks. “It would be a shame, would it not, if everyone were to find out about Mister Banfield’s activities with marriageable ladies in the middle of the night? What do you think would scandalize the ton more, the fact he’s meeting them in the first place or conducting business with the fairer sex?” He took her hand in his own, his thumb stroking her skin in a very deliberate manner. “I’m certain Anthony would no longer do any business with him. Others in society would probably quickly follow suit.”

The vindictiveness in his eyes sent shivers down her spine. He may have resembled her Colin with his soft, pleasing voice and manner but she saw right through the ruse; he was diabolical.

He tipped his head to the side, peering at her. “And I worry about Martha’s future if your Mama were to discover how lax your maid has been with her responsibilities. Letting you sneak off unchaperoned, allowing me to come to your chambers so late at night. Do you think your mother would continue to employ her after that?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “You would harm innocent people to get your way?”

A beat passed. “I would do anything to keep you in my life.”

Before she could respond to him, he dropped a kiss on the crown of her head before standing up. “I will call on you later today.”

She sat there in shock, watching after him as he quietly exited her chamber.

To be continued...

A/N - As always, feedback is loved and appreciated. I'm sticking with the names I had chosen originally, a.k.a Martha for Pen's maid (instead of Rae) and Arthur (as opposed to Alfred for Debling).

#polin #bridgerton #colin x penelope #penelope x colin #never you #my fics

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psshaw · 2 months

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what do you think was the catalyst to sending false edge away to boarding school? not to pressure you into thinking about it or anything; i've accepted in life that liking indie projects comes with the high rates of them dying out before finishing for a multitude of reasons and that's ok! tons of artists are suffering from burnout now thanks to....recent societal advances. and i'll cherish false edge (alongside all your art! including the ones you might find old and ratty) forever even if it never comes back. i was just pondering about how the last pages were uploaded in 2020 and, well. there sure was something in the air that year

Dude. Insanely good question. I actually have an answer.

1) You sussed it out! I took a hiatus basically right before the summer of 2020, mid-quarantine and right as things heated up protest-wise. Suddenly my silly self-indulgent comic felt very... well, silly, and got put on the backburner. Which leads into the other issue...

2) I interrupted a great momentum. Pumping out a page every week was thrilling and terrifying-- but my art-polishing process is bizarrely slow and tedious for what I produce. Almost all my drawing time was dedicated to making the comic, which is easiest to be cool with when you have productivity blinders on. But once I pivoted to, say, doing sketches for BLM fundraising... I started to grow complacent with easier forms of production, oops.

3) I left off on the part of the story that I was least confident about-- Kalga and Garron's "courtship". I think romance is pretty obviously not my wheelhouse, even their weird version of it. I was in the process of committing to things that I'd mildly neglected hammering out. This would have been 10x easier to jump back into if we were still on Fiend and Hera. I KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO WRITE FIEND AND HERA.

A few useful things have changed, though-- I've gotten a little more exercise in both fantasy and romance mechanics in the last 4 years, and I've been considering moving from pencil-drawn lines to iPad. I still consider this story an extremely fun playground and it's always insane to me that anyone else likes or misses it. I miss it.

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amuromi · 4 months

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 6.4k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ SFW! manga spoilers! aged up!Maki, arranged marriage, canon typical misogyny, reader has a surname

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ Full transparency, this might not be my best work because this was a brainworm that I banged out in a day or so. It didn’t have as much time in the oven as my other works, but I hope y’all still enjoy it!

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

The head of the Hoga clan seems to have a particular fondness for incense. The usual, modestly sized koro have been replaced with needlessly large urns that stand vigil in each corner of the room. Blue gray smoke fills the air with a sickly sweet scent that is starting to gather between Maki’s brows in the painful beginnings of a headache. She takes shallow breaths through her mouth, keeping the cup of tea a maid prepared for her close to her face. The smell of steeped leaves helps to keep the budding migraine at bay as she waits with dwindling patience for the clan leader to make his appearance.

Maki hadn’t entered the Hoga estate expecting any type of special treatment from anyone of worth in the clan rankings. Behind the three reigning jujutsu clans came clans like this. Their family tree spanned through centuries of history the same as the Zenins, Gojos, or Kamos, but their bloodline was spotty at best when it came to producing truly exceptional sorcerers. One or two of note for every generation, never exceeding first grade ranking. Maki muses over the kinship she might have with the unremarkable members of the clan. Those that are the same as her. Blind to curses, woefully low levels of curses energy. Those were the members that she found herself wondering about as her legs go numb beneath her. She wants to get up, to stretch and maybe ask what’s taking so long, but truthfully she knows. She still pities those beneath her ranking because to everyone in this clan she is no different.

Despite the fact that she’d managed to climb the ranks tooth and nail and become head of her clan, Maki is still a poor substitute for the type of clan leader everyone expects. If she were a vase she’d be seen as empty despite the Zenin blood flowing inside her. She stares at the tea leaves gathered at the bottom of her cup and wonders how much longer Hoga-sama will make her wait. As far as she’s concerned, he’s already proved his point, now it’s just wasting time. She sets down her cup, table rattling with the force of her irritability, just as the shoji slides open.

“Has something upset you, Zenin-sama?” Hoga taunts as he saunters into the room. “I forgot women can’t be left on their own for too long.” His words are as bothersome as rain sliding off the slope of a roof. Men like him exist in every corner of her life. He’s all smarmy smiles and belittling laughs as he shuffles towards his place opposite of her, every bit as chauvinistic as any other unenlightened man she’s ever met. Growing up in the vicinity of Naoya and his ilk have made Maki particularly unperturbed by any hint of misogyny someone deigns to level at her. The rampant distrust and distaste for a female in any place of power has only worsened as her looks faded. Scars seemingly depleting her societal value despite it being proof etched into her very being that she deserves her place at the head of her clan, earned it in a way many of her complacent detractors never could.

Hoga-sama looks particularly unscathed in his expensive kimono, tied loose around the soft jut of his belly. He looks pampered and hearty. Completely untouched by the hands of active combat. He seems more jovial than anything, satisfied with his petty attack that has done little besides sour Maki’s mood and thin her patience. And while she’d like to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the extent of the damage–a show of perceived feminine weakness–she can’t help the sneer spoiling her expression.

“Let’s not waste time,” Maki prompts, “I’m here to make my final selection.” A partner. Someone to head the clan by her side. None of her own clan members were willing. Most of them would just as soon spit on her than accept a marriage proposal despite the prestige that would come with being wed to the clan leader. And of the other two clans she hardly had any viable options. Marrying into the Gojo clan was impossible considering her prior relationship with their clan head and her superior during her time as a student. The Kamo clan would’ve been a fruitful endeavor had they not turned their noses up at the first female clan leader. No one wanted to part with a precious son so here Maki was, groveling to the lower ranks. And Hoga has been just as obtuse about the whole thing as the Kamo clan had been, giving her the runaround throughout the whole process. Showing up late, providing the worst possible candidates as her potential spouse. She insisted that she’d find her partner today or move on to another clan. The words had stung her tongue like drinking venom but she refused to let herself be led around like a blind horse.

If the Hoga don’t want to provide her with a partner to wed she’ll defer to another clan. For the briefest moment the name Inumaki crops up in the back of her head like a weed sprouting up between pavement, steadfast and resilient. Toge wouldn’t be so terrible if he were willing given their foundational friendship, but Maki doesn’t want to tangle him up in a marriage of convenience if she doesn’t have to. She files him away as the very last, scraping the dregs resort. But it’s slowly getting to that point because how long can she realistically go on for. Burning the candle at both ends as she knocks door to door all but begging for someone to extend an olive branch. There’s only so many clans and the strongest ones have already been ruled out. It shouldn’t be this hard to get married, Maki thinks. She’s a Zenin, the head of one of the strongest clans in jujutsu society. It would be an honor to marry her. But it’s been clear since her official inauguration that everyone is simply biding their time, watching and waiting for her to fail. To fall at their feet and admit defeat. Her fists tighten in her lap, tucked out of view of the man seated across from her. She won’t admit to faltering. Not now. Not ever.

“You must be so eager.” Hoga-sama says dotingly. “Women love their romance.” It makes him sound ignorant to the true nature of women but Maki decides that’s just fine with her. Women, to her knowledge, are vicious and cunning when it comes to getting what they want. If he wants to go on living under the impression that society still operates under feudal era sensibilities then so be it. Perhaps she’ll get a half decent husband out of his archaic idea of the world. Hoga-sama, still laughing to himself, fishes around in the sleeve of his kimono before producing a folder. It’s tossed on the table unceremoniously. It would be proper conduct for him to simply hand it to her, or at least set it down with some dignity, but she knows he’s done it simply as another slight against her. Maki resists the urge to roll her eyes as she reaches to open the folder. She feels the tension twitch through her brow, her glower worsening as she flips through the papers.

“Something wrong? I took all your previous critiques to heart before making any final decisions. Someone close to your age and a high level of cursed energy from the main branch of the family. If you’re unhappy I’m sure a new match can be arranged with a lower ranking clan.” Maki clenches her teeth to keep from snapping something uncouth at the man lounging across from her. Hoga-sama looks quite proud of himself as he watches her read over the file he’s provided.

A woman. He’s offering her a woman. It hardly bothers her that she’s a woman, but the implication was clear. Maki isn’t deserving of a husband. Someone to produce an heir with. Her genes weren’t worth wasting any of the Hoga clans viable members on. But the woman staring up at her is beautiful and everything that she asked for according to all the notes typed into neat paragraphs. They distilled her down to the broadest strokes. A year younger than Maki with an innate ability that has her questioning why Hoga-sama would be so willing to sell her down the river. He’s smiling like he’s proud of handing her a rock and calling it a diamond but the longer Maki reads the more she thinks he must be a bit dense to be disregarding such a powerful member of his clan. On paper her Dissection technique sounds formidable but the more she reads, the more Maki realizes they’ve likely never given her prospective bride the chance to showcase the extent of her power. She doesn’t even have a Grade ranking which belies a lack of proper training. Women are meant to be seen and not heard. That’s why the little profile boasts about culinary expertise and enviable embroidery skills. Things that have no bearing on whether or not you’d make a good sorcerer.

The longer Maki reads and stares at the picture of you paperclipped to your file, the less she dislikes the idea of marrying you. Though she can’t imagine a Hoga woman will be too enthused about being arranged to be married off to the supposed Zenin usurper. Maki closes the file, pushing it back towards Hoga-sama.

“Not to your liking?” His smile is wicked. “That’s unfortunate. I’m sure she would’ve loved to be married off to a Zenin.”

“I accept the proposal.” Maki says with a tone of finality, already rising to leave before the man can process what she’s said. “The wedding will be a month from today. I expect her to be there.” Behind her Hoga-sama stutters and rushes to his feet, knocking into the table as he does. The tea set so generously laid out by a maid clatters and falls to the floor, the liquid staining the tatami mats and spilling over the file the man had meant to offend her with. Maki offers him a parting bow, closing the door before he can think up a rebuttal.

As requested, the wedding is arranged with the splendor a clan head deserves. The shrine chosen for the occasion looks immaculate in the setting sun, the old wood facade soaking in the amber light. There’s a haze of cursed energy about it, a cursed relic contained somewhere within because the only shrine willing to marry her was one under Jujutsu Tech’s jurisdiction. Sunlight blooms in blurred spots across Maki’s glasses as she waits on the front steps, refusing to entertain the thought that the Hoga clan would be audacious enough to leave her waiting at the altar for a bride that will never come. Slowly the light starts to dip dangerously low behind the tree line, grinding Maki’s patience to dust with each passing minute. Punctuality doesn’t seem to be something of importance to the Hoga clan. Her composure is all but lost by the time a car comes around the curve of the dirt road leading to the secluded shrine.

A cloud of dust kicks up as the tires squeal to a half, the driver hastily jumping out without bothering to cut the engine. There’s a pain to his gait as he limps to the back passenger door, a bruise solidifying on the curve of his jaw. He takes a deep breath before pulling the door handle, trying to skitter out of the way of whoever’s inside. He’s too slow on his hurt ankle and catches a sandled foot to the stomach. The driver falls to his knees, doubling over and spilling his stomach onto the stone walkway. Over his retching, Maki can hear a voice shouting from inside the car.

“I’m not going to be bartered off like some broodmare!” Maki makes out as she sidesteps the prone driver to peer inside the car, just far enough to avoid being kicked herself. There’s a voice thick with discontent as someone snaps back at the woman shouting about “doing her duty as a Hoga clanswoman.” She recognizes the condescending tone as Hoga-sama.

“What has the clan ever done for me?” The woman seethes. There’s rustling and grunting before a cloud of white comes stumbling out of the car. She recognizes you in an instant. Her bride in her snow white wedding kimono that seems to shimmer silver and gold beneath the twilight sky. You nearly trip over your zori as you scramble away from the car, cursing at Hoga-sama. He shouts back more indignities of his own but you hardly seem concerned as you take off in the opposite direction of the shrine, sprinting in your tiers of white silk towards the trees. Never once do your eyes even glance at Maki or even the driver you kicked for that matter. She almost considers letting you go with how determined you seem to escape, but Hoga-sama comes spilling out of the car behind you.

His gaze shines with rage as he chases after you. He’s slow on his feet but you’re slower in the heavy layers of your kimono. He gets his fist around a handful of fabric and pulls hard like bringing a rogue dog to heel on its leash. You stumble backwards, careening into the older man as he gets an arm around your waist to drag you back towards the shrine. Your shouting carries, echoing across the sky as he steers you towards Maki. But all your kicking and screaming is for naught as you’re shoved back to where you started. You push the clan head aside with both hands, wrists conjoined with a length of rope.

It rumples the delicate silk of your sleeves as your clever fingers try to loosen the knots. And even standing before her, you still refuse to do much as acknowledge Maki. She decides that’s alright. You’ll have time to be properly acquainted after the ceremony is over and done with, but she still reaches to untie you.

“I wouldn’t,” Hoga-sama, still hovering next to them, advises. Maki ignores him.

“I would.” Is all she says, tugging at the knots until they come loose. By the time they’re unfurled you’re looking up at her and Maki finally allows herself to enjoy the beauty set before her. In this moment she doesn’t care that the priest and her guests are waiting, that she was almost shamed by having her bride run off on her, how inauspicious everything about this day has become. She only cares that your eyes look pretty in the low light, and that the scowl that has been fixed on your face since you came bursting out of the car has softened into a mask of indifference.

“Who are you?” The question seems a bit inane seeing as Maki is wearing a shiromuku similar to your own but it doesn’t surprise her that Hoga-sama neglected to give the details of your arranged betrothal. Maki’s ascension to the head of the Zenin clan is an open secret, known but not spoken of because speaking would somehow make it truer than it already is. She imagines all you were told is that you’re being married off to the Zenin and that could only spark thoughts of some older man preying on a young bride. Which Maki decidedly isn’t.

“I’m your bride.” She says carefully. With her cropped hair and loosely fitted clothes, you’d be forgiven for assuming that she might be a man despite the color of her kimono and Maki doesn’t want you entering your marriage under the belief that she isn’t anything but a woman.

“Bride?” Your brows rise under the canopy of your tsunokakushi. “You’re not a man?”

“No, I’m not.” Maki agrees. That seems to settle you, the storm finally waning from your eyes.

Something prideful unfurls in the Zenin head’s chest at the thought. Of knowing she’s somehow mollified the spitfire delivered to her simply by looking at her. Surely it won’t last long, perhaps not even long enough for them to drink their sake and say their vows. But at this moment her bride seems happy enough to be marrying her. When Maki offers her hand you accept it, humming when her thumb brushes over the marks left by the tight ropes. She’ll have to think of a proper punishment for delivering her bride like a hostage but that can come after she makes you a Zenin.

There’s little enthusiasm imparted to the ceremony, but it’s hardly of any consequence. This surely isn’t the first time this shrine has served as the backdrop for a loveless union. Though it’s certainly the first time two women have been wed here.

Maki tries not to dwell on it as the priest and maiko instruct the two of you through the usual rites. It’s a short ceremony with the expected vows of submission and blessing of fertility. Someone coughs, trying to hide a laugh, at the mention of fertility and it sets Maki’s teeth on edge. When it’s over her lips taste of sake, the only thing she’s managed to eat or drink since waking.

She tries not to imagine the dishonor it would bring to the union if she’d gotten sick over the ceremonial alcohol on her empty stomach. Even during the reception as you accept envelopes of money and well wishes from extended family and supposed friends, she can barely do more than nibble at the plates of food places in front of you.

As grateful as she is that your marriage will solidify her place as head of her clan, Maki can’t bring herself to find an honest smile, though you grin and bear it well enough beside her. This is duty, she reminds herself as yet another blessing of longevity is said for your newly minted union. None are wishing her such things. All eyes seem to gravitate towards you, as if Maki isn’t there at all, like you married a ghost. The thought further sours her mood as Maki belatedly remembers the tradition of marrying the deceased if the occasion calls for it. She might’ve married some late, forgotten member of the clan. They’re too close in relation for her to marry someone of note like Naoya, though the knowledge that he would’ve despised his name being linked to hers in any way would’ve brought Maki a great sense of satisfaction.

As she mulls over the what ifs, Maki doesn’t miss the way no one offers you compliments on her looks. Everyone that comes to bring well wishes and pay respects to the newlyweds as is customary seem to avoid steering too near to her. She imagines they’re all people invited by the Hoga clan. Family members and offshoots of the main branch, blood so thinned they can hardly claim any connection to the prestigious clan at all. They all seem so far estranged from the realities of jujutsu, of why this wedding needed to happen in the first place. Each of them shies away from her as they come to speak to you. One girl’s hand shakes as she hands you her goshugi, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially to you.

“She’s quite scary, isn’t she?” The girl doesn’t even dare to cut a glance towards Maki but you do, head turning to regard your wife’s profile. Maki knows what she looks like. Her face is scarred, healed burns cutting ragged shapes across every inch of her skin. She tries not to scowl at your obvious appraisal, a thin strand of worry lacing through her as she wonders what you think of being tied to a more rugged looking woman.

“I don’t think so,” you disagree, effectively dismissing the girl from the table. She blanches, offering a shrilled apology before shooting to her feet. Maki watches her hastily disappear into the crowd. They’re all here to celebrate your marriage, though she knows only a few people look truly content with it. Neither of which are you or her. Across the room Hoga-sama stands arm in arm with a demure looking woman who she assumes to be his wife. Beside them is a couple she guesses are your parents judging by how doting everyone around them seems to be. Probably offering congratulations on sending their only daughter off to join such an exalted clan. Never mind that Hoga-sama meant for this union to be an insult to Maki rather than a reward for your family.

Still, he looks satisfied with himself, having been the first to give the two of you blessings for a long and happy marriage. Maki nearly broke a tooth from how hard she clenched her teeth when he said he expected many children from your happy little arrangement. The bastard.

“You don’t think I’m scary?” Maki asks. It’s the first words she’s said to you since your first meeting outside. Even her vows were said more to the air than to you directly. And now you sit side by side, speaking without facing one another.

The table visits have stopped for the moment and she sees your smile drop a fraction, slipping without anyone to aim it at. No one is watching the two of you as far as she can see. Everyone is far too engrossed in themselves as people tend to be when they’re told from birth that they’re special, a cut above normal people. It’s easy to parse servants from guests, and main branch family from extended family. Everyone in the reception carries themselves with different levels of dignity. Maki would like to pretend she’s exempt from it but she can feel her pride stirring at the knowledge that maybe you aren’t so perturbed by all of this. Considering the less than savory circumstances of it all. The beginnings of a smile sour on her face at your response.

“Of course I do.” Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t you find her scary?

The multitude of scars covering her body. The reputation that precedes her. Tales of the merciless way she’s been known to execute curses. Of course she’s scary in a sense, especially considering that you’re not a sorcerer. Though you’d likely be more powerful than her if given proper training. But fear doesn’t seem to be much of a hindrance for you. You declare it so simply that Maki can’t be sure that you actually meant it at all. And anyway, to fear Maki would be to fear your own shadow. Now that you’re married there’s nowhere you can go that Maki won’t be able to follow. Nothing short of death can part you. Just as your vows said. You seem to ponder something, chewing pensively on a mouthful of red rice before finding your voice again.

“You’re not scary in a physical sense. Actually, I think you’re quite attractive, but two things can be true at once. You’re intimidating and pretty.” You say plainly. Maki looks at you with renewed eyes. Between the ceremony and reception the both of you were whisked away to separate side rooms to be unfurled from the heavy layers of the ridgidly traditional shiromuku for something less formal. Now you’re tucked into a bright red kimono patterned with flowers and soaring cranes. It’s easier to see you as simply a woman now that you’re not weighed down by the trappings of a bride.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me in any sense.”

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see how this marriage works out then, won’t we?” Your clipped tone effectively ends the conversation though the reception continues on. Attractive. Maki tries not to dwell on the compliment although she’s received so few after Jogo set her aflame. Someone walks over to break the tension with more congratulations and the moment passes. They still stray towards you, giving Maki a cursory bow if they feel so bold. Only the sorcerers bother to speak to her. Okkotsu, Inumaki, and her nephew Megumi are a of the few familiar faces at the reception, though they look no more enthused about the circumstances than Maki as they finally make their way over to offer well wishes.

“Congratulations, Maki.” Belatedly she realizes that she never properly introduced herself. She can see you mouthing the shape of her name to yourself as her friends and colleagues crowd around the head table to share introductions and gifts. The rest of the reception passes in much the same way. Small bites of food, visits from familiar and unknown faces, and only a few words shared between the two of you.

It isn’t until late into the evening that the last few guests are shooed home by attendants and the both of you are ushered into a car. No expense was spared for the wedding and it shows. Right down to the accommodation Hoga-sama arranged for both of you to enjoy for the next few days. A handful of servants from the Hoga clan accompany the two of you on the short trip from the shrine to a neighboring inn and help you settle in before bowing and taking their leave.

The room is made up handsomely with tapestries lining the walls. Ladies dancing with foxes. Men hunting elegant deer. Samurai fighting on the backs of rearing horses. Even the shoji is covered with paper painted with pale flowers. The light seeping through from the hall made it look as though it was raining blossoms before the attendants went about lighting the lanterns. Now the room is filled with warm light and silence. It would be deafening if not for the thoughts swirling through Maki’s head, crashing against her skull like turbulent waves. There has been little peace in her mind since her hunt for a partner began. It had taken so long for her plans to be put into action and Maki finds herself still reeling as though this is all some strange dream, as if she’ll fall asleep beside you and wake in her room as if this day had never happened. You seem more at ease, busting yourself with the menial distraction of opening the gifts the servants left neatly against the wall. Most of them are the customary envelopes of money neatly gathered into a chest but a few miscellaneous items sit on top of the wooden box.

She watches you open the first satchel to find a fan, but it seems to be more for decoration than functionality. The opalescent material sparkles in the candlelight, throwing tiny rainbows across your skin as you turn it over in your hands. Fully unfolded, it shows a scene of a delicate tree full of blooming flowers with fairies hiding amongst the flower petals drawn in gilded paint. It’s gorgeous and undoubtedly expensive. The rest of the gifts seem more humble in comparison. A dagger with a jade hilt carved in the likeness of a snake simmering with cursed energy. A string of amber beads with one bead bearing the inscription of “first child”. Teething beads. Maki imagines this gift must’ve been from Hoga-sama himself because who else would give such a gift knowing of the particularly sensitive type of issue that two brides present in terms of having children.

The last gift she recognizes as being sent by Jujutsu Tech; a matching set of bira bira kanzashi. She remembers a manager asking if she’d mind a gift from the school’s extensive vaults, though she hadn’t expected such a lavish present. Maki recognizes the jewelry only vaguely having heard that they once belonged to some famous sorcerer’s wife or mistress. Now they’re hers. The silver hair ornaments are topped with elegant dragons, the tassels jingling like wind chimes as you move to the mirror to see how they look in your hair. Maki finds your eyes in the reflection. She watches your expression waver like rippling water, going through the stages of grief before settling on heavy acceptance. With a sigh you set the distractions aside.

“Can we speak frankly with each other?” You ask after a beat of silence.

“I don’t see why not.” Maki has made herself comfortable on the oversized futon, half reclined on as she watches you pretend to ignore her.

“How are you feeling about all this? Truly?”

Maki answers without thinking. Like a full cup finally overflowing, all the tensions of the day spill out with only a few words. “So far, I hate most of it.”

Her bride was late and nearly ran away and her guests acted as though she didn’t exist at her own reception. Not to mention the members of her clan lurking in the shadows just waiting for her to fall to her knees and declare her surrender under all the pressure of their impossible standards. Each day has made her feel like she’s completing an impossible task, like trying to empty the ocean drop by drop. She’s had better days. And today in particular, Maki could’ve foregone all the fanfare of tradition but it’s what’s expected of her as clan head. Some things are simply necessary and her marriage to you is one of them. Hate it or not.

“Oh.” The little sound is small and resigned, as if she’s somehow disappointed you with her candor. She probably has. It wouldn’t be the first time her blunt tone has ruined an otherwise calm moment. She hadn’t meant to pour all her frustration out into the open but opening the two even for a moment seems to have released the floodgates. She can feel all the pent up anger simmering just under her skin, itching to be released. But she doesn’t want to take all her bitterness out on you.

“Well, luckily you’ll only have to do it once. These kinds of ceremonies can be quite tedious.” You say evenly, busying yourself with reorganizing the gifts. There’s a bit more strength than necessary behind your movement as you set each item down and Maki knows she’s gone and ruined whatever mood you were trying to foster with her sharp tongue. She can hear your personality bleeding into the edge of your words, an attitude simmering just below the surface.

“I guess.” She tries to sound amicable. “Although the topic of concubines will be another headache to deal with soon enough.”

“Concubines?” You whirl towards her, face set in a deep scowl. It’s the same look you’d had when Hoga-sama foiled your escape attempt. A sort of exasperated contempt. Not a hint of resignation sparking in your eyes.

“Well, yeah. We can’t exactly make an heir ourselves.” Maki can understand your hesitance but given the circumstances and the hereditary monarchy with which the clans abide by, she’ll have need of a man at some point or another. She might’ve been able to usurp her clan head but she can’t allow all she’s done to be undone by her death. If she slaves the rest of her life to rebuild her clan in her own vision of equality only to have it all slip away the moment another male heir with ideas of erasing her from history comes into power, Maki might just turn into a curse to avenge her own memory. An heir of her own that she can raise and teach in her own image is crucial for the future of the Zenin clan or all this was for nothing.

“So you’re going to take in a concubine? Build a harem just like all these other men? What was the point in marrying me? I’m sure this would be easier had you bothered to find a husband instead of a wife.” Maki agrees but she doesn’t say as much. A man would’ve made things easier, but she much prefers this. The dynamic of being with a woman. The two of you can come to understand each other in a way no other man of your world could. Even a regular civilian disconnected from jujutsu would have a better time understanding her intentions than a sorcerer from the higher ranked clans. But she couldn’t stoop that low to find someone else to marry. It would further tarnish her already soiled reputation to be married to some unregarded sorcerer.

“Considering the circumstances,” on which Maki would rather not expand on, “you were the best candidate to marry.”

“Me?” Your laughter is sardonic. “Yeah, I doubt that. Even in my clan there were better people for you to choose. My cousin Nobuhisa has been looking for a wife.” Maki remembers the name. He’d been one of the men Hoga-sama had dangled over her head, just out of reach. Sighing about how “he would if he could” but, of course, Hoga Nobuhisa wouldn’t be satisfied with marrying someone like Maki, Zenin or not.

“Do you even want to carry a child?” The question brings Maki up short. Truthfully, she’s never really given the thought much consideration outside of knowing that if she did have a child, she’d raise them with all the love she and Mei lacked in their childhood. The actual who or how was a more abstract thought. Adoption wasn’t viable because techniques were passed through blood and by the time a child comes into their technique they’re old enough to be starting kindergarten. Adopting a toddler solely for their power rather than because she truly wanted to raise them would cheapen the idea of welcoming them into her family. She didn’t want her child thinking they were only good for their power because isn’t that what led to her miserable childhood to begin with?

“See,” you say before Maki can finish untangling the knot you’ve set before her with all your questions. “You don’t even want to have a kid. Or, at least, you don’t want to carry it. Let me do it. No concubines, no other men. We can do IVF. Get a donation from someone you’ve approved. I don’t mind being pregnant but I do mind the idea of my wife having that kind of contact with anyone else. Man or otherwise. I don’t care how much of a transaction this marriage is. If you cheat on me I’ll have your head.” You’ve started pacing in your anger and Maki chances angering you further as she reaches out to grab your wrist.

Her grip is steady yet breakable. If you want to pull away from her, she’ll let you go. But instead of snatching your hand away you allow her to sit you down on the futon beside her. After a while of tense silence you begin to laugh. At first it’s so quiet that Maki mistakes it for a noise outside the window until your shoulders begin to shake, knocking into her as you double over with peals of ringing laughter. After a moment you can’t hold your posture straight and you fall to your back, rolling in the silk sheets before finally catching your breath with tears sparkling at the edge of your eyes.

Through gasping breaths you say, “Today has been a disaster, hasn’t it?” It has and Maki finds a muted smile working its way over her face, a few chuckles huffing through her nose as she nods.

“Yeah, I don’t think we could’ve started this off any worse if we tried.” Perhaps she holds part of the blame for making no attempt to speak to you in the month that elapsed between her meeting with Hoga-sama and this morning, but some deep, secluded part of Maki had been afraid to speak to you. To disappoint one more person just be simply existing in their proximity. How many times had she undermined someone’s grand expectations of what a Zenin should be? But hadn’t you seemed happy to see that she was a woman? In the rose gold sunset she’d watched the anger bleed from your face as she declared herself to be your betrothed.

In that moment you hadn’t been worried about her level of cursed energy or the fact that she was useless as a sorcerer without her glass. You were happy it was her. It erases some of her worries for the future. Worries about children and retaining control of her clan. The world melts away to nothing besides these four walls and the sound of your laughter. Maki could live this life that she’s doomed herself to as long as you’re in it. She tries not to dwell on how strange it is for a stranger to be her only comfort but she hopes that she’s giving you some quiet bit of strength as well. When she looks down she notices how close your hands are, fingers nearly touching. Maki shifts her hand until she can feel your skin brushing against hers. You move in kind until your pinkies are twined together. It feels like a promise with no words spoken. She stares at your conjoined fingers for a moment longer before speaking, her voice sounding soft and far off as the words slip out unbidden.

“You have no idea who you married, do you?” Her question seems to startle you for a moment, your eyes going wide before settling into a narrowed skepticism.

“I suppose not. I didn’t know your given name until someone else said it.” When the priest conducting the ceremony had invoked each of you by name he’d simply called Maki “Zenin” and you “Hoga”. Not bothering with the informality of a given name. Consequently, it had been Yuta’s greeting that introduced her to you by name. She’s been a laughably poor wife thus far but Maki is intent on setting right her wrongs by laying out all her cards for you to see. She explains her precarious position of clan head that she usurped from Naoya’s designated heir, her lack of cursed energy and reliance on cursed weapons. She tells you everything and you listen. Never once pulling your hand away from hers. She tells you about Mei and how they were raised as runts of the litter, disgraces to the Zenin bloodline. She even mentions Toji and how everyone seems to think Maki is the sorcerer killer reborn. A weak Zenin intent on going against the world order established by the elite of jujutsu society.

“That’s who you married.” She tells you. You laugh and for a moment Maki fears that she’s tilted her hand too far and made a fool of herself. Except she can still feel the soft warmth of your finger curled over hers.

“That old man has always been a self-serving idiot. The reason he offered me to marry you is because I’ve been staunchly against marrying any man with sorcerer’s blood. He probably thought himself a genius marrying us, but he’s only granted my greatest wish. I don’t care who you are, I’m glad it was you I had to marry. You’re intimidating, and a stranger, but I don’t think I’ll mind being married to you.” She’s glad because Maki knows she’ll never have the right to regret marrying you. She made this choice for both of you, a binding vow tying your life to hers, and she’s almost surprised you don’t show any signs of resentment for what she’s done to you. But then she considers how she grew up and decides you might’ve needed this as much as she did.

An out, a way to get away from your overbearing clan. Away from men like Hoga-sama. Maki knows implicitly that life won’t be simple or easy for the two of you even if she’s crossed one hurdle regarding her stability as clan head. You’re still two women married in a world ruled by men. It’ll take more than a wedding or an heir to reshape this crooked jujutsu world, but Maki is glad she’s found a worthy partner for the rough journey ahead.

#maki ★#maki x reader #jjk x reader #★ mine!

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