imeeji; registry

[forgottenmercy]

memories POSITIVE NEUTRAL NEGATIVE POSITIVE 3/## MEMORIES REGAINED The tiniest shrine maiden WRITE-UP Baby's First Calibration WRITE-UP The best wedding gift WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] NEUTRAL 3/## MEMORIES REGAINED two Appearance 5 deathknights walk into a bar WRITE-UP What does a 12-year old shrine maiden do when not working? WRITE-UP sick shrine maidens and out of season fruit WRITE-UP meeting, interrupted WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] NEGATIVE 8/## MEMORIES REGAINED A bad ending to a bad sugar daddy WRITE-UP How (not) to meet your husband WRITE-UP Wedding night WRITE-UP First Age: She Who Lives burns the world WRITE-UP First murder/first mercy-kill WRITE-UP Jealousy and averted murder WRITE-UP The most coincidental rescue that he really didn't want WRITE-UP Can witnessing a sufficiently transcendent performance kill the viewer? News at 11. WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] 13/## TOTAL MEMORIES REGAINED

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Memory #4 (NSFW, cws:agegap, uneven power dynamics, consent issues in narration)

[forgottenmercy]

You’re sitting gracefully on the floor at the feet of your new husband, reading him poetry while he drinks sake and strokes your hair, possessively, looking at you with undisguised hunger, the familiar weight of his lust. Occasionally you will refill his cup, gracefully, though you don’t yet have either the practiced, seemingly effortless grace or the eye for the exact right moment to refill it to make it perfect.

(Both of you are, properly, wearing blue, though he is wearing midnight blue, proper for his station, and you are wearing the clear sapphire blue of a concubine, with the entire nape of your neck revealed.)

You try not to show that you are nervous, your eyes demurely downcast, but you are nervous. You knew before you married him that Miura Hiroto is not a patient man: you know what is expected of you, what your duty as a concubine is, to be available to him whenever he wants. He wanted you for your beauty and married you for his comfort and his pleasure, not yours. And eventually, he’ll want more than just poetry and alcohol.

(You went from being a sheltered, sworn virgin, to married and a concubine. You don’t know how to please him. What to do.)

And eventually, he turns his cup over, so you can’t refill it, and stands up. Commands you to come with him, and when you don’t move quite fast enough to suit him, not used to how to move in a concubine’s kimono rather than the ritual garments you wore as a shrine maiden, he easily pulls you to your feet, like you’re a doll. Doesn’t care how you dropped the book you were reading to him, doesn’t give you a chance to pick it up, just brings you to his bedroom, slides the screen closed behind you both.

You don’t expect him to be gentle, and he isn’t. Not when he pulls the ribbon out of your very long hair, to let it fall loose around you: not when he undresses you and binds your wrists with your own sash, not when he kisses you breathless. You don’t know what you’re doing when he has you kneel and try to pleasure him with your mouth and he’s forceful, even though you don’t know what you’re doing, even when you choke on him. But you don’t mind: something in you likes this, though you’ve never had opportunity or reason to consider what you would like in sex before.

He is not gentle, either, when he finally has you, rough and relentless and primarily concerned with his own pleasure, which you had expected. But you like this, too, which you didn’t expect, and he knows how to get your body to respond, to have your pleasure, too, after he’s had his, after he’s satisfied, and you are so very, very silent, just a gasp barely more than a breath.

Afterwards, he unties your wrists and lies next to you, arm thrown possessively over your waist. Tomorrow, you’ll have to start learning how to please him, and there’s a lot you’ll have to learn, especially because before tonight you had utterly no experience, but he’s pleased anyway. Especially because there’s one lesson you don’t have to learn, that he’s had to teach past lovers - that you aren’t the one who decides how or when your body finds its pleasure.



notes:
Persephone's hair is black in this memory, not white.
His husband is the same really tall, pale-haired man who was in Persephone's second memory, the local area administrator.