— .⋆♱ ON A LEASH
Sypnosis: In which, the prodigy emperor ironically found himself unable to conquer the heart of the person that he loves.
Content: ( Qin Shi Huang x Reader ) Angst, Complex Relationships, Profanities, Matured/Sexual Themes, Eventual Smut, Gore, Death, Obsessive Behavior, Canon Divergence, Violence.
There’s a billion people on this planet that Yin Zheng could bother, but for some reason, he chose you.
The idea of Yin Zheng conquering every kingdom beneath heaven while still finding time to send you letters heavy with longing will forever remain a foreign concept to you.
Conquest makes sense in the language of history after all, but devotion does not.
So, it really is strange. Alien, even.
You can’t help but sigh at the thought: he is a man who has bent the warring states to his will, who has leveled walls and reformed laws.
Yet he somehow can’t manage to restrain the urgent need to know what you ate that day, what kind of clothes you wore, whether the moonlight reached your balcony, or whether the wind chilled your shoulders.
It’s maddening, really.
One could almost laugh at the juxtaposition, except that you also feel the sting of being simultaneously worshipped and suffocated.
Because god, his affection is so suffocating: he writes letters so frequently that your own hand aches just thinking of answering them—specifically, letters that will fold into themselves with frustration when you fail to respond immediately.
Yes, it’s that bad to the point that you almost wished that the next letter would never come.
You knew that it’s a terrible wish—yet, the thought persists with the stubbornness of a bruise you keep pressing to see if it still hurts.
Because god forbid you dare to want even a single moment of time for yourself.
You let out another breath of exhaustion as the sun drapes the hall in molten gold, painting the polished surfaces with a radiant sheen as your hands hovered over the lacquered trays before you.
Pearlescent grains of rice glistened like morning dew, each tiny pearl steaming warmly.
Beside it, emerald ribbons of bok choy shimmered, shining with a coat of sesame oil, while slender slices of blanched and lightly pickled lotus root, crunch like autumn leaves between your teeth while braised meats glistened under a sheen of ginger-scallion sauce.
A goblet of jade-colored tea exhales a gentle bitterness into the room, curling around the incense smoke that drifts from the open veranda.
All of those delicious foods were one of the perks of… having Yin Zheng enamoured with you.
It’s the little things that makes him bearable, at least.
You lifted a chopstick, hesitating as the savory aroma teases your appetite. The first bite is indulgent—a delicate explosion of sweet and umami.
Just as you pierce a tender slice of pork, a rush of footsteps cracks the serenity.
“Greetings m-my liege, forgive me for disrupting your uhm.. feast.” A shaky voice from behind the doors uttered loudly, followed by a knock.
'Oh no, god—don’t tell me it’s another letter again. It’s either that or some stupid court members are fighting again for no reason.' You thought in despair, already feeling a headache settle within your skull.
“...Come in.”
Your eye gave a faint twitch of irritation as your fingers tightened around the chopsticks ever so slightly as the door slid open, revealing a servant whose thin amber eyes were filled with panic, obsidian curly hair wet from the humid air and sweat—while he clutched a letter in his chest.
…And you felt your mood instantly sour the moment you saw the seal.
Fuck. It’s definitely Yin Zheng and his yapping again, isn’t it?
“My l-liege! You have received another letter… from king Yin Zheng himself!” the servant exclaims, bowing so low that the hem of his robes grazes the polished floor.
Of course, it’s from him. Who else, but him? You almost rolled your eyes at the dramatic declaration.
You huffed as you set down your chopsticks with deliberate slowness, speaking slowly to hide the annoyance hiding in your mellifluous voice. “…Another?”
The servant nods, flushed from the sudden dash. “…Yes, my liege. The seal is fresh.”
“Give it to me then,”
You waved him away with two tired fingers, already rubbing at your temple as the servant placed the silk-wrapped scroll in your hands.
The wax is still warm beneath your fingers. So… this could only mean that he probably wrote it just hours ago.
Ugh.
You broke the seal, and god, did the first sentence sparked a sense of indignation within your chest.
You are cruel.
The letter accused without preamble, prompting your eyebrows to twitch down into a furrow.
I write to you beneath the frosting air and bloodshed, and still you do not answer. Are my victories so small to you? Is my devotion so easily ignored?
What the hell is he babbling about now? Your lips twitched into a dry, incredulous laugh.
I conquered Han last week, and I thought of you. The nights are unbearable without your lovely words. Do you know how cruel your silence is? I feel like my soul is ripping apart when I don’t receive any messages from you. I’ve sent you three letters, yet you did not reply—am I really that unimportant to you? You ignored me— me, your king, [Name]. How could you be so cruel to do that?
“What the fuck…” you whispered, tone steeped in disbelief. “He conquers a kingdom and expects a love letter in return?”
What a joke. Your grip cinched around the parchment, then slackened as you released it to not tear it apart by mistake.
If this was the first time you’ve received such letters from him—you would feel a faint stir of guilt in your heart and a twinge of culpability.
Yet you have grown accustomed to his theatrics by now to even feel a sliver of effects from his antics.
He invariably resorted to this childish behavior when you don’t reply to his messages after all.
You leaned back against the cushions, weariness settling into your bones as your lips drew into a tight line, null irises still fixed on the letter.
You noticed that the brushwork grew sharper and more agitated the further down the silk your eyes traveled, as if his hand had pressed harder with every line.
I eat alone. I sleep surrounded by men who would slit my throat for a title, and yet it is your absence that unsettles me most. Last night, I had a dream about you; you were standing behind my throne, but your exquisite eyes, oh those eyes that I adore, those eyes are blank, so hollow and bitter it can be compared to a mosquito repellent—a herbal fumigation!
And perhaps that dream is telling me that I was nothing but a mere mosquito ringing and annoying you. The way you looked at me in that dream feels as if you are measuring whether I am still worth the trouble of breathing.
If I die on campaign, will you finally write to me? Or will your cold heart remain stagnant?
‘Did he just compare me to a smoke?’ you wondered, clearly unimpressed, your mouth falling into a flat line as you registered all of those words.
Gods above, he was so needy.
No, needy can’t even cover that sheer act of emotional impecuniosity he’s performing.
“…Needy bastard,” you murmured, rubbing your temples as though you could physically press the oppressive weight from your skull.
You glance at the abandoned pork, appetite thoroughly ruined. You allowed the silence to stretch before your voice lifts to break the silence.
“You.” You called out, ”Are you still lurking behind my spine?”
The servant stiffens as if struck by lightning. He had, indeed, been standing far too straight for far too long, eyes fixed somewhere above your head, as if stillness might render him invisible.
“Y-yes— I mean— my liege,” he blurted, dropping into another deep bow.
Your head pivoted slowly towards the servant. “Stay. I’m writing a reply.”
A flicker of relief crossed his features, swiftly eclipsed by his unwavering sense of duty.
He straightened further, his posture becoming ramrod stiff. “At once, my liege.”
A sharp grimace of discomfort contorted your features, clearly visible this time at the words. The gilded cage of titles and honorifics you never felt like you deserved have always felt offending to you for some reasons.
You don’t really appreciate them—but perhaps, that’s just the way you were raised—to reject avarice and be humble.
To accept what you have been given, and not ask for anything more—and more importantly, never covet what isn’t rightfully yours. Because greediness will only serve as the catalyst for your downfall.
A weary sigh escaped you as you rose, the fine silk of your robes rustling softly with your ascent from the plush cushions. The room felt too stiflingly warm now, the ambience thick, but perhaps it was just your irritation crawling under your skin.
“Stop calling me that...” you scolded, voice tinged with dreariness as you strode towards the desk. “I’m not your liege. I’m just a servant, like you are.”
He stiffened, his shoulders tensing as his amber irises dilated in surprise—as if he didn’t expect those words to come out from your mouth.
You cannot blame him for that reaction though; you were always with Yin Zheng—so, it’s only natural to assume that you were as pompous as the aforementioned man.
“B-but my liege—”
“I told you already; I have no royal blood. I polish floors just like you do. I am Yin Zheng’s servant, nothing more, nothing less.” You explained, exasperation lacing your voice.
“We’re in the same status.” You craned your neck towards him, mouth curled into a soft frown.
“Forgive me, I—I cannot.” The man stammered, avoiding eye contact with you.
You paused, nimble fingers poised above the inkstone. “Cannot?”
The servant’s throat worked to swallow a knot of trepidation. “If His Majesty were to hear that I addressed you improperly… he would have my head.”
Oh, so that is what it’s about then.
A humorless laugh slipped from your lips. “Oh, he’d do worse than that.”
You dipped the brush into the ink, watching the obsidian pigment unfurl like a blossoming bruise in water.
“If you don’t lick my boots, right now—he’ll kill you for disrespecting me. If you do, he’ll kill you for breathing too close. So go on.” Your chin tilted, eyes half-lidded with irritation as you lightly elevated your ankle.
“Kneel and lick my boots.”
The servant froze, his eyes crinkling; fear and disgust warring within those amber eyes. His stomach churned, bile creeping up his throat, the thought of pressing his mouth to leather fouled by dust and sweat making his tongue feel swollen, useless, obscene.
‘Nauseating to think of it, isn’t it?’ You mentally taunted him in your head as you watched him unravel. You glanced back at him with narrowed eyes “So?” you prompted mildly.
“Go on. Do it.” Your foot nudged forward again, toe stopping inches from where he stood.
The very color seemed to leach from his face, leaving it a pallid mask as his knees trembled, and for a horrifying second, he actually began to lower himself, his movements jerky and terrified.
‘He actually considers doing that?’ Your brows knit in genuine bewilderment, a faint crease forming between them.
The notion unsettled you—not because of pity, but because of the underlying meaning beneath it.
Does... he have no sense of self preservation?
“Tch.” For the briefest instant, something like guilt pricked at your chest—an unwelcome, fleeting sensation—for having egged him this far, for cornering him until degradation seemed like a viable option.
But it vanished just as quickly, smothered by your disdain; spineless and overly docile people annoy you after all. They grate on your nerves just as much Yin Zheng’s clinginess does.
“Don’t,” you bit out, your foot withdrew, not in mercy, but in repudiation. “Blind acquiescence leads to damnation. Remember that, if your little brain can remember anything at all.”
He halted mid-motion, caught between standing and kneeling. Bewilderment flickered nakedly across his features, fear momentarily eclipsed by confusion, his brows drawing together as his gaze darted uncertainly toward you.
“Y-Yes… my—” He bit the word back, lips pressing together, not wanting to anger you further.
You turned away from him dismissively. “Just stand there and breathe quietly. That’s all I require of you.”
You sat at the desk, unrolling some fresh scroll of paper. Then, you began writing;
My dearest Yin Zheng,
Your letters arrive faster than I can finish my food. I am not cold—I am tired. Yes, you are conquering states but I have to manage the aftermath of men who think your shadow gives them authority. I received your last three letters but I did not answer because if I did, you would write six more. Control yourself. A king who begs is an ugly thing. You want to unify all the warring kingdoms but can’t even gather your own thoughts? Reflect on yourself, Yin Zheng.
But… I am glad you are alive. Eat properly. Sleep when you can. I will write again when there is something worth saying. I’d rather have you tell me when you are coming back rather than your endless complains.
You signed your name simply, without any flourish. When the ink dried, you rolled the paper, sealed it with wax, and pressed your thumb into it without ceremony.
“Take it,” you huffed, breath roughened with impatience, arm extending behind you without the courtesy of a glance.
The servant stepped forward, hands shaking as he received it like a holy relic. “Y-Yes. I will deliver it at once.”
“See that it reaches him quickly,” you muttered. The servant bowed and turn his back on you, feet tangling as panic overtook protocol.
Only once he reached the doorway did he pivot and flee. The door closed behind him with a dull, final thud, sealing the room in silence once more
“Hahh... damn you, Yin Zheng.”
You muttered as your thoughts drifted—uninvited, relentless—back to the beginning.
You still remembered the first time you met Yin Zheng. He couldn’t have been more than ten; you had been Xiaowen’s servant then, still young, yet tucked neatly into the background, trained to keep your gaze lowered while your mind absorbed everything it wasn’t meant to.
When King Zhaoxiang died, the court cracked open like a wood getting cut down by a sharp axe. When Xiaowen followed his father into the earth soon after, the air grew heavy, stagnant, fouled with the sense that something had gone terribly wrong.
A curse, some murmured. You believed it, in your own way.
And then Yin Zheng was summoned back to Qin, dragged out of Zhao like a long-forgotten debt finally called in.
He was thin and watchful back then, already dangerous in the way neglected children often are. He stood apart from the others in Zhao, a hostage prince dressed well enough to mock him, poorly enough to remind him he was disposable.
And the blindfold he was wearing only spurred rumors to grow until everyone in Qin concluded that he was a cursed prince; because according to the rumors that had bloomed in the people of Zhao, Yin Zheng was cursed.
What kind of prince suffers from such a unique yet harmful disease? they would ask—but instead, all you could wonder was what kind of child survives it?
Violence lives everywhere after all. And with those cursed eyes, he would suffer all of those damages too. So... how?
It never failed to amaze you.
He was a freak—and by that, you mean that the oddity that clings to him is in a good sense.
You were assigned to him like an afterthought; someone had to make sure the prince ate, slept, survived the journey. They needed someone neutral and someone expendable after all. But god, you never expected him to become the Crowned Prince after your previous master had died.
You expected him to die. But he didn’t and was actually set to be the first to get the throne.
Yin Zheng was pretty ambitious too—and you thought, at the time, that being ambitious was just another symptom of his unique disease.
Because at night, on the road back to Qin, while the other attendants slept with their mouths open and their hands curled protectively around their sleeves, he would randomly sit upright and murmur to the dark about how he would be the greatest king and fulfill his promise to... what was her name again?
Chun Yan or something..? you can’t really remember the full details.
Nonetheless, you found it amusing at first cause of how random he was. Though, you did notice that Yin Zheng certainly didn’t dream small; which was a stark contrast from Xiaowen who was quite... a pathetic kid who wallows in self pity and doubt.
He did not speak of surviving court politics or reclaiming a title; he spoke of erasure, of grinding borders into dust, and of ending the noise of rival kings forever so that history itself would be forced to remember a single name.
Yin Zheng.
You thought it was a childish grandiosity because a boy who had been humiliated too long probably cannot help a world that could not hurt him again.
But turns out, you’ve underestimated him.
You watched him become a king the way one watches a storm form: slowly, inevitably, with the sick knowledge that nothing nearby would remain untouched.
But what makes it worse was that you had wanted a quiet ending, of just retiring and living in a small town away from politics or anything.
But you helped raise a man who could not bear silence unless you were there to share it.
And maybe, that was your biggest mistake.
Because now you’re inevitably stuck with him.
A/n: The timeline is set in the 222 BCE and before Yin Zheng defeats Chiyou—and way before Ragnarok.
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