mikasa crying, throwing up and fighting to save armin is not talked about enough. like what do you mean she only cares about eren. she does not!!!! armin is her bestie!!!! forever!!!!
He conquered the world. Now, he wants to conquer you.
Emperor Eren Jaeger rules the globe as an undisputed tyrant, his power absolute, his boredom a force as destructive as his armies. During a routine conquest of another insignificant village, his bored gaze lands on you in the smoke and terror.
He sees your defiant spirit, a spark of unbroken fire in a world that has learned to grovel.
Intrigued, he makes you a devastating offer: your life in his palace in exchange for sparing your home and your family. You are forced to accept, becoming the seventh addition to his harem, a "guest" in his golden cage.
But you soon learn that the other concubines are a nest of vipers, and the palace's gilded halls hide a new kind of warfare. Eren doesn't just want your body; he wants to dismantle your will. He's not interested in a simple capture—he wants to play a game. And in this terrifying, psychological battle, the line between your burning hatred and a new, horrifying fascination begins to blur. (Eren x Reader)
Chapter Four
The kiss was a violation.
It was not the bruising, claiming press from the village square. This was a new, insidious, and far more potent form of degradation. His mouth was hot, insistent, and his tongue swept into her, a conquering, insistent force.
He tasted of her.
He tasted of Isolde. He tasted of the act you had just witnessed. It was musky, metallic, and salty, the unmistakable flavor of his climax, a flavor he had taken from her mouth and was now forcing into yours. You were being contaminated. You were being made complicit. He was taking her submission and branding you with it, forging a disgusting, intimate link between the three of you.
You gagged, a small, choked sound. You twisted, but his hand in your hair was a fist, holding your head in a vise. His other hand still clamped your wrists, pulling you hard against his body, so you were crushed against the unyielding wall of his uniform. You were trapped, your body arched backward, your face held captive for his plunder.
Tears, hot and silent, streamed from the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from a humiliation so profound it felt like it was dissolving your bones. He was a sick, sick man. He was a monster, not just of fire and conquest, but of a quiet, personal, and meticulous cruelty.
And your body, your stupid, traitorous, and ignorant body, was betraying you.
The scene with Isolde had been a shock, a horror. But it had also been... a spark. It had been a display of power so raw, so absolute, it had bypassed your conscious mind and spoken to some old, dark, animal part of your brain.
Now, this kiss... this... contamination... it was the accelerant.
The heat that had been coiling in your stomach was no longer a flicker. It was a blaze. The air was gone from your lungs, replaced by this thick, hot, unwanted arousal. It was a sickness. A fever. Your blood was humming. Your legs, pressed against his, were shaking so hard you couldn't have stood without his support.
He was still kissing you, hard, a brutal, punishing exploration. And you were... you were reeling. Your mind was a white-hot scream of "no," but your body was screaming something else.
You were shaking. It was a full-body tremor. It was the terror, the disgust, the shame, and this new, monstrous, undeniable heat, all crashing together, a storm inside you that had no name.
Your mind was breaking.
And then, a sound.
It tore from your throat, a sound you had never made. It was not a scream or a cry. It was a whimper.
It was a small, high, broken thing. A sound of an animal caught in a trap. It was the sound of your last defense crumbling. It was the sound of your hatred, your fear, and your body's sick betrayal, all escaping at once. It was the most honest, and the most humiliating, sound of your life.
No.
In the vast, hot, and suddenly silent room, the whimper was as loud as a gunshot.
Eren heard it.
He went still.
The brutal motion of his mouth stopped. His hand in your hair, which had been a vise, relaxed, his fingers just tangled. His grip on your wrists, which had been crushing, eased.
He pulled back.
Just enough to see you.
The air rushed into your lungs in a ragged, shuddering gasp. You were panting. Your lips were wet, swollen, and stinging, coated in his taste. Your eyes were wide, flooded with tears that now streamed freely down your face, tracing paths through the faint, forgotten makeup.
He held you there, in the air between you, and he just... looked.
His eyes. They were not sated. They were not bored. They were victorious.
He had seen the arousal in your body. Now he had heard the proof of it. He had heard the sound of your breaking.
A slow, terrible, and knowing smile spread across his face. It was not the cold, analytical smile of the square. It was not the polite, distant smile of last night. This was the smile of a predator that had just watched its prey, after a long, exhausting, and fascinating chase, finally step into the snare.
He had won.
He had taken your simple, pure hatred for him, and in the span of an-hour, he had twisted it. He had corrupted it. He had forced you to watch a scene of abject power and submission, and then, with a single, contaminated kiss, he had made you part of it.
He had made you a participant in your own degradation.
And he had made your body sing for it.
He saw the war in your eyes: the undiluted hatred fighting a losing battle against the waves of horrified, involuntary arousal. He saw the shame that was drowning you. He saw you, in your entirety, laid bare.
You were shaking, a leaf in a storm.
He let go of your hair. His hand moved. You flinched, expecting a blow.
His fingers, warm and calloused, landed on your cheek. They were gentle. The gesture was so at odds with the man, with the moment, that it was a new kind of shock. His thumb, rough from holding a sword or a rifle, brushed the tear track under your eye.
It was not a comfort. It was an inspection. He was examining his work.
"There it is," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly, satisfied rumble.
He wasn't speaking to you. He was speaking to himself. He was a scientist, confirming a hypothesis. Hypothesis: If I apply absolute power, fear, and contamination, I can break her will and awaken her body. Result: Confirmed.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. Your entire body went rigid. "You taste," he breathed, his voice a hot secret, "so much better than she does."
A fresh wave of nausea and, to your everlasting shame, a new, sharper jolt of heat, shot through you.
This was his game. This was the true, insidious torture. He had just debased Isolde, and now he was debasing you both by praising you at her expense. He was already setting his vipers against each other.
You had thought last night was the game. You were wrong. This was the game. He wasn't just going to make you want him. He was going to make you compete for him, even as you hated his guts.
He pulled back, his hand still cupping your face. He looked at you, at your ruined, tear-stained, flushed, and aroused face. He looked at your lips, which he had just defiled.
And you, your body still thrumming, your knees weak, your mind screaming, you were waiting.
You were waiting for the next step. For him to kiss you again. For him to lift you, carry you to the fur rug, and finish it. For the tension to break. You were braced for the final, physical, inevitable act. A part of you, the part you now hated more than you hated him, almost needed it. The anticipation was an agony.
He saw that, too.
He saw the expectation in your eyes. He saw the way your body was coiled, a spring wound too tight, waiting for a release you didn't even know how to ask for.
He smiled again.
And he let you go.
He released your wrists. He released your face. He stepped back.
The sudden loss of contact was a physical shock. You staggered, your legs, which he had been supporting, finally giving way. You fell to your knees, landing hard on the thick, dark fur of the rug, right on the spot where Isolde had just knelt.
The humiliation was absolute. You were on your hands and knees, in front of him, a trembling, undone, pathetic mess.
You looked up at him through your tangled, tear-soaked hair.
He was standing over you. But he wasn't looking at you with that burning, dark hunger anymore.
He was... fixing his uniform.
He was the Emperor again. He was straightening his jacket, a quick, dismissive tug. He was adjusting the black leather strap that crossed his chest. He was looking down, not at you, but at his own immaculate, soldierly appearance. The sated, cruel predator was gone. The cold, controlled, polite tyrant was back.
He had retrieved the report from where it had fallen, and he held it in his hand.
He looked down at you, on the floor. His gaze was cool. Distant. Almost bored. As if you were a mess he hadn't yet decided to have cleaned up.
"That will be all," he said.
His voice was clear. Calm. Level. It was the voice of a man dismissing a subordinate. It was the voice of a master dismissing a servant.
It was... polite.
You just stared, your mind, already fractured, now completely shattered.
What?
He had... he had... and now... nothing?
"Did you not hear me?" he asked. His voice was laced with a faint, cold impatience. "I am finished with you. You may return to your room."
He had riled you up. He had pushed you to the absolute brink. He had seen your terror, your submission, and your sick, unwanted arousal. He had heard your body's surrender.
And now he was sending you away.
He was not going to touch you. He was not going to give you the release your body was screaming for. He was not going to give you the fight your mind had been prepared for.
He was going to make you leave. He was going to make you walk out of this room, with his and Isolde's taste in your mouth, with this hot, unspent, and filthy fever raging in your blood, and he was going to make you stew in it.
He was going to make you squirm.
He was going to make you go back to your beautiful, cold, silent room, and you were going to be alone with what he had done to you. You were going to be alone with what you had become.
"Get up," he commanded.
Shame was a new kind of fuel. You scrambled to your feet, your limbs shaking, your body uncoordinated. You grabbed the wall for support.
"And…" he said, as you fumbled for the door.
You stopped, your hand on the cold, iron latch. You couldn't bear to look at him.
"Do... try to clean yourself up before dinner," he said, his voice a masterpiece of polite disinterest. "You're a mess."
You ripped the door open and stumbled out into the hall, slamming it shut behind you.
You ran.
You ran, barefoot, through the vast, silent, sunlit marble halls of Shiganshina. You ran, half-sobbing, your body on fire, your mind a wasteland. You didn't care if the guards saw you. You didn't care if a servant saw you.
You crashed into your room, slamming the door and fumbling for a lock that wasn't there.
You were trapped.
You stumbled into the bathing chamber, the one with the pale green marble and the deep, empty tub. You fell to your knees at the porcelain basin and you scrubbed.
You scrubbed your mouth. You grabbed the small, elegant bar of soap and scrubbed your lips, your tongue, the inside of your cheeks, until the perfume of it was gagging you, but it was better than the taste of him. You scrubbed until your lips were raw.
You splashed the cold, clean water on your face, again and again, trying to wash away his touch, his gaze, the tears of your own shame.
But you couldn't wash away the heat.
It was still there. Your body was still thrumming. You were still shaking. You were still, to your absolute, undiluted, and self-hating horror, aroused.
You looked up. You caught your reflection in the mirror above the basin.
Your face was a disaster. Your eyes were red and wild. Your hair was falling from its pins. Your lips were swollen and raw. And your face... your face was flushed.
You saw what he had seen. A terrified, undone, and wanting thing.
You retched into the basin, a dry, harsh, empty heave. Nothing came up.
You slid down to the cold marble floor, your back against the wall, and you finally, finally, broke.
You wept. You wept for your village, for your family, for the girl you had been. But most of all, you wept for the woman you had just become. The woman who had whimpered. The woman who had been dismissed. The woman who was now, and forever, trapped in his game.
He hadn't just put you in a pit with vipers. He had just shown you that he could make you a viper, too.
…
The massive wooden door slammed shut, the boom of it echoing in the cavernous, fire-hot room. The sound was a final, punctuation mark on her frantic, panicked retreat.
Eren Jaeger did not move.
He stood by his throne-like chair, an emperor in his own den, and simply... listened. He listened to the echo of the door. He listened to the frantic, muffled sounds of her running, barefoot and sobbing, down the marble hall. He listened until her footsteps were swallowed by the vast, oppressive silence of his palace.
Only then did he move.
He turned, not to the door, but to the fire. He was alone. The lingering scent in the room was a complex, layered thing: woodsmoke, Isolde's cold floral perfume, and underneath it, the sharper, terrified, animal scent of her.
A slow, genuine smile, unseen by any, touched his lips.
He was, in a way he had not been for a very, very long time, having fun.
He sat down in the high-backed velvet chair. It was still warm from his body. The fur rug at his feet was still... marked. He picked up the half-empty champagne flute from last night, which he had not allowed the servants to clear. He swirled the flat, stale liquid, his green eyes fixed on the flames.
This was... entertaining.
The world was his. It had been, for years now. He had taken it, broken it, and rebuilt it in his own image. He had unified the continents under a single, black-booted authority. He had all the power. He had all the land. He had all the wealth.
And he was, as a god on an empty earth, indescribably bored.
His life was a predictable, monotonous series of necessary, brutal actions. Reports. Troop movements. Quotas. Executions. The world was a massive, broken machine, and he was the only one who knew how to turn the gears. It was a burden. A crushing, exhausting, and solitary one.
His concubines... they were part of that. They were not for pleasure, not really. They were a function. A necessary, predictable, and managed distraction.
Isolde, for example. He had enjoyed breaking her. She had been a princess, full of a brittle, aristocratic pride. It had taken a month. He had stripped her of her title, her people, and her dignity, piece by piece, until all that was left was this hollow, beautiful, and desperate shell. She was a perfect, obedient tool. She performed her duties, as she had just now, with a frantic, technical precision, all in the desperate hope that her "service" and "peace" would earn her a moment of his favor.
She was predictable. She was easy.
And she was, like all the others, boring.
Kallia was a venomous, jealous creature, which he found useful for keeping the others in line. Sena was quiet and watchful, Amara and Nia were simpering fools, and Rina... Rina was so terrified she barely qualified as a person. They were a collection. Trophies. They groveled. They begged. They threw themselves at him, their bodies and their nonexistent wills, all in a pathetic attempt to survive.
And then... her.
He smiled again, the memory replaying in his mind.
That village. A speck of dust on his map. He had been on his way back from an inspection of a new garrison, and he had been in a foul mood. The reports were bad. The local governor was incompetent. He had decided, on a whim, to make an example. To burn it.
And he had seen her.
She had been running, yes. But not just running. She had been fighting. Dragging her brother, her face a mask of soot, terror, and pure, undiluted fury.
And her eyes.
He saw thousands of eyes a day. Eyes that were empty. Eyes that were terrified. Eyes that were filled with a fanatic, mindless worship.
Her eyes... her eyes had been alive.
When Floch had dragged her to him, she had been on her knees, shaking like a leaf. He had seen the terror. But underneath it... underneath, he had seen the hate. It was a bright, hard, unblimished thing. She had looked him in the eye, the Emperor, the Founder, the man who was burning her world, and she had hated him.
She hadn't groveled. She hadn't begged. Not for her own life. Only for her family's, and even then, it had been a bargain, not a plea.
He was, in that moment, utterly hooked.
She was a real, living, unbroken thing. In his entire, vast, dead empire of obedient puppets and broken shells, he had found a single, solitary, real person.
And his first, immediate, all-consuming thought was: I want to be the one to break you.
But not with force.
No. That was crude. That was Floch's method. Force was for armies, for nations. It was for conquest.
This... this was sport.
Force would have been easy. He could have taken her in the square. He could have taken her last night in the green dress. He could have finished it, right here, moments ago, after he had shown her her own body's betrayal.
But that would have been a waste.
To break her body would be simple. It would take minutes. And it would cement her hatred. It would give her a simple, pure, righteous fury to cling to. It would make her a martyr in her own mind.
No. That was not the game.
The game was not to break her body. The game was to capture her will.
The game was to take that bright, hot, defiant fire he had seen in her eyes and redirect it. He didn't want to extinguish it. He wanted to watch it burn for him.
He wanted to see the day she looked at him with that same, world-ending intensity, not with hate, but with need. He wanted her, the girl who had spat at him in the square, to beg for his touch.
That was a challenge. That was fun.
He replayed the last hour. Step one: Disorientation. The civilized, polite torture of last night. The champagne, the quiet room, the dismissal. He had sent her away, untouched, to let her stew in her own fear and anticipation.
Step two: Isolation. He hadn't needed to be there. He knew Isolde. He knew the vipers' nest he had cultivated. He knew that sending the new, untouched, special girl into their breakfast would be a bloodbath. He had let them do his work for him, to show her that there was no one on her side.
Step three: Education. The scene with Isolde. He had ordered her to his chambers an hour before he summoned (Y/N). He had made her wait. He had made her kneel. And he had timed it perfectly. He had wanted (Y/N) to see it. He had wanted her to see the truth of her position. To see the "princess," the proudest of them all, reduced to a function. To show her, in no uncertain terms, this is your future.
Step four: Contamination. The kiss. That had been the masterstroke. He had tasted her shock, her gag reflex, her disgust. And under it all... he had tasted her. And he had felt the whimper.
That sound.
He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it. It was the most satisfying sound he had heard in years. It was not the practiced moan of Isolde, or the terrified sobbing of Rina. It was the sound of a strong, defiant will cracking. It was the sound of her body betraying her mind. It was the sound of his victory.
And her face. The raw, beautiful, tear-stained, flushed, and utterly aroused look of her. The shame warring with the heat. She was a mess.
His mess.
He had sent her away, yes. Riled up, shaking, and desperate. He had dismissed her, as politely as a servant. Because the anticipation, the denial, was a more potent weapon than the act itself. He was going to let her stew. He was going to let her sit in that cold, empty room, her body on fire, her mind shattered, and he was going to make her think. He was going to make her go mad with it.
He was going to make her wait for his touch. And by the time he finally decided to grant it, she would be so desperate for the release, she would be the one grabbing for him.
A sharp, military knock at the door.
Eren's smile vanished. He was the Emperor again.
"Enter."
The door opened. It was Floch. His red hair was a stark, almost violent splash of color in the dark, wood-paneled room. His fanatical eyes, as always, were bright. He held a leather portfolio.
"Your Majesty." He strode in, his boots thudding on the rug, and stopped, snapping to attention. His eyes flickered, just for a second, to the single, empty chair opposite Eren. He smelled Isolde's perfume, and the faint, new scent of jasmine and roses. He was too smart to miss the signs.
"The Eastern garrison reports," Floch said, his voice clipped. He placed the portfolio on the table.
"They are late," Eren said, his voice flat.
"They had... resistance, Your Majesty. The assimilation is proving difficult. The locals are stubborn." Floch's hand, Eren noted, was resting on the hilt of his blade. "I offered to go myself. To make an example. A show of force is all they understand."
Eren looked at his captain. His most loyal, most brutal, and most predictable tool. Floch's solution to every problem: burn it. Kill it. Force it.
"Your... new acquisition," Floch said, his voice lowered, a conspiratorial, man-to-man tone that Eren despised. "I saw her. In the hall."
Eren's gaze went cold. "You saw her."
Floch, sensing the shift, became rigid. "She was... distraught. Running. If she is proving... troublesome, Your Majesty..." He left the offer hanging. I can break her for you. I can extinguish that fire.
Eren leaned forward. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Floch," he said, his voice a quiet, dangerous rumble. "Do you know the difference between you and me?"
Floch, to his credit, did not flinch, but his eyes were wary. "I am your subject, Your Majesty."
"You," Eren said, "are a hammer. You see a problem, and you smash it. It is your only move. It is useful, which is why you are still here."
He stood up, towering over his captain. "I am an Emperor. And I do not smash things I find... interesting. I dismantle them. Piece by piece. I learn how they work. And then, I put them back together in a shape that pleases me."
He picked up the portfolio, tapping it against his hand. "You extinguish fires, Floch. I redirect them. That is the difference. You know how to make people die. I know how to make them obey. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Floch said, his voice tight.
"This garrison," Eren said, tapping the report. "Their incompetence is a failure of your command structure. You will not go. You will send a message. Tell them that their next report will either be on time, or I will be sending you. And you will not be coming alone. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good. Now get out. Your... concerns... are boring me."
Floch snapped a salute, his face a mask of stone, turned on his heel, and left. The door shut with a final, definitive click.
Eren was alone again.
He tossed the report onto his desk. He would deal with the world... later.
He walked to the window. He looked out over his perfect, manicured, and conquered kingdom. Shiganshina. His fortress. His home.
He was hooked. It was a new, refreshing, and stimulating sensation. In a world of blunt instruments like Floch and broken dolls like Isolde, he had found a new, intricate, and fascinating puzzle.
She was strong, this girl. But she was also... alone. And ignorant of the true game.
He would let her cry. He would let her scrub her mouth raw. He would let her go to dinner tonight, a beautiful, tragic, tear-stained wreck, and he would let the other vipers see her. He would let them see the Emperor's mark on her.
And he would watch.
He would watch her aall, her defiance, her terror, her pride... and this new, sick, secret desire... tear her apart.
And when she was in pieces, he would be the only one who could put her back together.
…
The cold marble of the bathing chamber floor was a brutal, grounding reality. It seeped into your thin dress, into your skin, a stark contrast to the filthy, traitorous heat still thrumming in your veins.
You had stopped scrubbing. Your lips were raw, your throat was sore. The taste of him, of them, was gone, but the memory was seared into your brain. The mirror across the room showed you a reflection: a wild, shipwrecked thing, hair falling in damp tangles, face blotched red, eyes wide with a manic, terrified energy.
You were a mess. His mess.
This was his game. You saw it now. That hot, sick, unwanted arousal... that was the goal. He hadn't just wanted to scare you. He had wanted to corrupt you. He wanted to prove that your body was a separate, weaker thing from your will, and that he could command it, even while your mind still hated him.
That whimper. He had heard it. He had won.
You pushed yourself up, your limbs shaking. You couldn't stay on the floor. You stumbled back into the bedroom, the plush, thick rug a new, suffocating insult.
The room was beautiful. The bed was piled high with silks. The air smelled of roses. It was a gilded, perfect cage. And you were the new, half-broken animal, pacing its perimeter.
What now?
The question was a cold, dark void. What happened now?
You would be summoned again. For dinner, as he'd said. You would be forced back into the solarium, to face Isolde. To face the vipers' nest. They would know. One look at your face, at the way you couldn't meet Isolde's eyes... they would know. They would smell the Emperor's mark on you.
And then... tonight? Would he summon you again? Would he play his hot-and-cold game? Would he dismiss you, or would he... finish?
And what was the alternative? You saw, with a sudden, sickening clarity, the future he was building for you.
You saw Isolde.
You saw her, on her knees, her face a mask of desperate, hollow-eyed service. You saw her swallowing, her pride, her past, him. You saw her stand, a perfect, broken doll, and walk from the room with her head held high, a performance for an audience of one.
That was your future.
That was the "peace" she had spoken of. The "survival."
It was a slow, agonizing, daily death. It was a life of kneeling, of swallowing, of competing with other broken women for the 'honor' of being the monster's preferred tool.
You would rather die.
The thought was not new. You had thought it in the square. But then, it had been a simple, defiant wish. Now, it was a cold, hard, and logical conclusion. You would rather die... than become that.
But he held your family. He held your home. Your death would not be your own. It would be theirs. You were a hostage, and the leash around your neck was tied to their throats.
You sat on the edge of the massive, perfect bed. The silk was cool against your hot skin.
So you were trapped. You had to live. You had to endure. You had to... become Isolde. You had to learn to kneel.
You felt the bile rise again, hot and acidic. No. No.
There had to be another way.
You closed your eyes, and the scene from his chambers replayed. The fire. The chair. The... act. His bored face, reading a report. His hand, gripping her hair.
And then... his orgasm.
You had seen it. The only "honest" thing he had done.
His head had gone back. His eyes had closed. His jaw had clenched. His entire body, for one, two, three seconds... had been focused on a single, inward, physical point. His guard... it had dropped.
In that moment, he was not the Emperor. He was not the Founder. He was not the strategist.
He was just a man.
The thought hit you like a lightning strike.
He was just a man.
A man who could be... surprised. A man who had vulnerabilities. A man... who could be killed.
The plan bloomed in your mind, a black, insane, and utterly beautiful flower.
You were going to kill him.
The words were so loud, so final, they seemed to shake the room. You opened your eyes. The silk bed, the rose-scented air... it all snapped into a new, sharp, and terrible focus.
This was a suicidal plan.
You knew it. You were not a fool. You were a girl from a village. You had no weapon. You had no training. He was the most powerful, dangerous, and well-guarded man on the planet. To even think it was madness.
You would be killed. Instantly. Before you could even take a step. Or, if you did get close, you would fail, and he would... he would...
The "cons" were a mountain.
First: You would be killed. Was this a con? You had already decided you would rather die. Dying this way, in an act of defiance, an act of war... it was a thousand times better than the slow, rotting death of becoming Isolde. Dying as an assassin was a victory. Dying as a concubine was a defeat.
Second: You had no weapon. You looked around the opulent room. Silk, wood, glass. No. You would have to find one. A hatpin, as you'd thought. The servants... they used knives in the kitchens. The soldiers... they had them on their belts. He had one. A dinner knife. A shard of glass from a broken mirror. A heavy, stone bookend. You would have to be patient. You would have to look.
Third: He was the Founder. You had heard the rumors. He was a god. He held the power of the titans. Could a simple blade even kill him? You didn't know. This was the biggest gamble. But... you had seen him vulnerable. You had seen him human. If he could bleed, if he could climax... perhaps he could die. You had to believe he could.
Fourth, and the only con that mattered: Your family. Your village.
The leash.
The moment you attacked, whether you succeeded or failed, the order would stand. Floch. "Undo the generosity."
Your family would be slaughtered. Your mother, your father, Toma, Elsa. Your entire village. They would be annihilated. Your sacrifice, your bargain... it would be for nothing. Their deaths would be on your hands.
Your heart constricted, a physical, agonizing pain. You doubled over on the bed, a dry, harsh sob catching in your throat. Mama. Papa.
You couldn't.
You couldn't do it. You couldn't trade their lives for this... this chance. You had made a promise. You had agreed. Your life for theirs...
You sat up, your face in your hands.
...What life?
What life were you saving for them? A life of "survival" in a burned-out village, knowing their daughter was a tyrant's whore? A life lived on his whim? He was bored. He had told you. What happened when he got bored of sparing them? What happened when you, his new toy, displeased him?
He was already holding their execution order. He was just... not signing it. Yet.
Their lives were already forfeit. You hadn't saved them. You had just... paused them.
You were all living on borrowed time.
And what if...
What if you succeeded?
The thought was so big it scared you more than the thought of dying.
If you killed him... he died. The monster. The devil. The man who held the entire world in his fist... that fist would be gone.
What would happen? Chaos? War? Probably.
But also... freedom.
A chance.
A chance for the entire world. For all the other villages. For all the other mothers and fathers and children living under his black, oppressive boot.
You, a girl from a nameless, insignificant, burnt-out village... you were the only one. You were the one he was inviting into his chambers. You were the one he was playing with. You were closer to him than his guards, than his generals.
Wasn't it... a duty?
To have this chance, this one, insane, impossible chance... and to not take it? To sit here, and let yourself be broken, and let the world burn, all to save your own, single, small family?
The thought was... selfish.
This was the "greater good."
This was the terrible, cold, and monstrous calculation. The lives of your family... versus the lives of everyone.
They would die. But their deaths, and yours, would mean something. Their deaths would be the price of the world's liberation. A terrible, awful price. But a price that mattered.
A cold, hard, and patient resolve settled in your chest. It was a new, unfamiliar sensation. It was not the hot, useless fire of your hatred. It was the cold, dense weight of purpose.
The plan was insane. It was suicidal. And it was the only thing you had left.
You would do it.
So... how?
You had to play his game. You had to play it better than him.
He wanted you to want him. He wanted to see you break. He wanted you to whimper.
Fine.
You would give it to him.
You would not fight him. Not outwardly. You would not be the defiant, spitting girl from the square. That girl was too simple. That girl was... a toy he found "refreshing."
No. You would be the other girl. The one he had just created. The one who was a mess. The one who was confused, and terrified, and, to her own disgust, aroused.
You would let him think he was winning.
You would let him see you tremble. You would let him see you flush. You would "accidentally" let him hear you whimper. You would be a student. You would watch Isolde, and Kallia, and you would learn.
You would learn to fake it. You would learn to pretend that his sick, psychological games were working. You would make him believe that he was, indeed, dismantling your will.
You would let him get close. You would encourage him to get close. You would make him feel safe. You would make him feel victorious.
You would play the part of the broken, wanting, corrupted thing he was so desperate to create.
And all the while, you would be watching. You would be learning. You would be waiting.
Waiting for a weapon. Waiting for the moment.
That moment his eyes closed. That moment his guard was down. That moment he was, for just a few seconds, human.
And you would strike. And you would not miss.
You stood up. You walked back to the bathing chamber, your step no longer a stumble. You looked at the wild, red-eyed girl in the mirror.
She was still a mess. But she was no longer his mess.
She was yours.
"Clean yourself up," you whispered to your reflection, the words a cold, flat echo of his command.
You turned the taps, and the sound of rushing water filled the room. You had to get ready for dinner.
Giyuu has no house decor, no people to spend money on, we know damn well he isn't spending it on himself, he wears the same haori since forever, and he has no servants or people taking care of his mansion. So. Knowing the Hashira are VERY well paid and Giyuu doesn't spend it on anything, i hereby declare - Giyuu Tomioka is filthy rich. Like disgustingly rich. (powerful, majestic, nonchalant, fine asf, aurafarmer, sad blue eyes, rich - damn leave some for the rest of us)
look at this incredible caprice-inspired art by the incredibly talented @sumiensp commissioned by my wonderful best friend @delkasa ILY SO SO MUCH this is the sweetest gift anyone has ever gotten me🥹❤️
it was a cold autumn morning, the seasons were changing and the weather was getting colder by the day. luckily for you, your husband giyu tomioka had his warm arms wrapped around you, your head tucked neatly under his chin as you breathed steadily onto his chest
until the morning birds started singing, and your husband started moving
absolutely not
"mmmmm" you complained, tugging him in close when he started to stir. "don't move"
giyu chuckled, smoothing your hair back. "who's getting you breakfast if i don't get up?" he argued, enjoying your clinginess a little too much despite his dutiful expression
"i don't need breakfast" you mumbled, wrapping your legs around him too, completely immobilising him under your weight. not that he couldn't move you if he wanted to, he was a hashira after all, but giyu enjoyed letting you think you overpowered him
because, really, you did. not with physical strength, but with everything else. all you had to do was look at him with those puppy eyes he loved so much and the man was melting. so much for being the strong, stoic water hashira
"just a little longer" he agreed, tugging you into his heat, hiding a little content smile into your hair
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