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shunsuiken · 1 year

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A LITTLE SECRET | SAGAU

synopsis. you, the divine creator of teyvat, discover one day that your blood can heal.

tags. gn!reader + hurt/comfort + fluff + you bring childe and kazuha into a domain (xiangling and bennett are honorary mentions) + reader wants ragbros to reconcile + zhongli and ayato are sparring partners + itto gets hurt but don’t worry we heal him + gorou is still traumatised after the war between the shogunate army & the sangonomiya resistance so pls understand his reaction here + reader thinks everyones gonna be mad at them but thats not true + they tease you in the end and its all adorable <3 hehe

warnings. mentions of blood (obviously), self-harm (??? because reader cuts their wrist to obtain the blood), if i missed anything pls lmk !!

wc. 2.6k

an. incredible how brainrot makes you write things so quickly. i only just indulged myself into sagau’s literally a week ago and now this is here 😀

“now wasn’t that quite the fight!” childe wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, letting his bow dematerialise in the air as he strides into the estate in your abode.

“you were rather ruthless out there, i must say.” kazuha removes his bandages and replaces them with a clean roll in a cupboard. “their grace looked concerned when that cryo abyss mage shot a cryo thorn at you.”

“true but these scars will heal like they were never even there!” sometimes kazuha wonders if the fatui harbinger feels any pain, he must, he thinks, but is most likely good at hiding it.

“would you like to bandage that at least?”

“hm, i could but-”

“kazuha! ajax!” you call with your sweet voice from the kitchen and all the men’s heads in the living room whip around in the direction of your voice. speaking of you… they haven’t seen you since you and your party left the domain.

“yes, your grace?” childe replies, a light blush appearing on his face upon the use of his real name.

kazuha smiles lightly behind him, greeting you as you enter the living room. “your grace.”

“here are your vitamins, you two!” you bring two cups of a mysteriously transparent liquid to them. “i’ve already given these to xiangling and bennett and now it's your turns!”

“oh, it’s this drink again.” childe raises his brows. “you gave it to us last time as well, your grace.”

you hum in agreement, “i did.”

kazuha inspects the liquid after taking it from your precious hands. “the ingredients for this healing mixture must be incredibly difficult to find since it heals wounds so quickly.” he then drinks it up with childe, both men handing the cups back to you in a respectable fashion.

kazuha is right about that. the ingredients for this drink are definitely difficult to find.

but that is because the drink was your blood. your golden blood to be precise. when you descended as the creator of teyvat, you were naturally bestowed with this condition to discern your immortal body from others.

funnily enough, it was all due to you scraping your palm against a rough rock that you discovered the hidden properties of your blood (and its rich golden colour). it was weird in the beginning, and you made sure to guarantee how highly your blood’s healing properties were before offering it to the men who joined you in domains and open-world fights. so you only declared its potential after flinging yourself through multiple enemies.

so far you’ve managed to hide this fact from the men since you found out. after learning some illusory spells that can’t be detected by the naked eye, you were able to successfully heal your men after feeding them your blood—referring to it as “vitamins”.

“your grace, what’s the secret recipe behind this amazing drink? maybe i could learn it to help you if any more of us get hurt.” you feel bad, thoma looks like he has stars in his eyes but you obviously can’t tell him how the drink is made. you can already imagine it. he’d panic and go all red in the face. although a cute sight, you don’t want him to worry about you since he and the rest have done so much to smoothen your descent into teyvat.

you also notice the expectant eyes of the other men who are behind him, either idly standing by or are on the couch relaxing.

“oh thoma, there is a reason why it’s a secret.” you wink at him, extending your index finger to your lips. you end up laughing at the housekeeper when the red on his face makes it up to his ears, a sheepish look on his face for asking such a question with an obvious answer.

“my apologies, your grace. i didn’t mean to pry.” the pyro user scratches the back of his head while ayato, who sips on his boba milk tea, pats his back sympathetically.

“don’t apologise, dearest, it is natural you all are curious.” you meet eyes with everyone in the room, hoping your words can convince them. “but don’t fret, this is just a way of me giving my thanks to all your preparations when i arrived here.”

“your grace is too kind.” kazuha smiles. “therefore we shall accept your offerings wholeheartedly.”

you’re praying (to who knows what, you’re literally the most powerful being on teyvat) that the boys can forgive you if they ever found out. but you have a sinking feeling that they’ll all feel betrayed instead because they wouldn’t ever want you to hurt yourself to heal them. just thinking about it makes your heart break. so you quickly shove those worries away, as long as the boys stay safe then it is worth the minuscule second of pain.

you’re reading a book next to kaeya while he completes paperwork. he decided to do his work outside the confines of the wooden walls so he could get some fresh air instead (news flash: he actually just wants to be in your presence). after a while, diluc comes along with a glass of grape juice in his hands. he greets you and stares at his brother. “kaeya,” he greets before sitting down opposite of him.

kaeya raises his head, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. “diluc.”

you twitch your eye at the dry interaction in front of you. perhaps you should add this to your list of things to accomplish, to help these two estranged brothers and connect them once again. no doubt would the two be happier. obviously they will need as much time as possible to settle things. and you are willing to give them exactly that. time. you sigh underneath your breath, listening to the distant cling and clangs of a polearm and a sword.

hm, perhaps they’re sparring? you remove your gaze from your book to the two figures in the distance. ah, it seems to be zhongli and ayato. now that is an interesting pairing. however, your moment of peace is interrupted by panicked shouts for help at the front door. you exchange alarmed looks with the two brothers in front of you, getting up quickly from your seats to attend to the shouts that are coming from… you believe, gorou.

your face pales at the sight in front of you, there is a large gash right across itto’s stomach, blood pooling out of him like a flowing river. immediately you kneel down to his figure supported by gorou, who is startled by the entire situation as he relays what happened.

“we were looking for onikabuto but itto’s wind glider broke and he fell through the trees in chinju forest!” gorou’s tail is raised high up in alarm, ears stiff and skin running cold at the sight of his comrade in this state. it brings him too many memories. too many unfortunate ones that make his hands shake.

you hold onto his hand tightly, returning him to the present so he doesn’t focus on what he saw behind the look in his eyes anymore. he raises his head to meet your gaze. your gaze that does not falter, your gaze that urges him: trust me.

gorou does, giving you some space to heal itto with your abilities. it then dawns on gorou that he’s never seen you heal anybody with your abilities. and when you did heal people, it was with that liquid you would bring to them.

the men who are on site look at you with anticipation because they’ll finally get to see how you prepare that healing concoction. but they’re also exchanging gazes at each other in concern for itto. the oni groans in pain, clutching onto the gushing wound. you have no time to waste. materialising his claymore, you quickly slash your skin against the sharp edge as your blood spills onto itto’s wound.

you hear various reactions. cries of shock, quiet gasps, and protests that plead you to stop your actions.

“y- your grace?!” gorou gasps, brows creasing in bewilderment while his hands hover awkwardly in front of him, unsure of what to do next.

“so that’s why they never told us how the ‘vitamins’ were made,” the wanderer mutters but everybody hears him clearly.

the men are smart enough to put two and two together. seeing your divine blood trickle down your arm onto itto’s wound that healed the second it made contact with your blood threw them all into a speechless stupor. they weren’t even expecting the liquid to be such a dazzling colour that would reflect the light of the afternoon sun.

when the wound heals completely, you wipe the remaining streaks of itto’s blood off using your sleeves. and magically, your slashed skin is healed too. you reach for itto’s cheek, caressing him. “you are alright, my dear. you can open your eyes now.”

itto responds with a tired whine.

zhongli takes a step forward, kneeling down to meet your height to gently hold your forearm, his thumb running over the skin that was ripped open just a second ago. “so i’m assuming this is the secret recipe to the vitamins?”

you can’t lie to the boys anymore now that they’ve seen it all so you nod your head, admitting the truth. “yes, it is.” you don’t dare meet zhongli’s amber gaze, which is why you don’t notice the glint of worry he looks at you with. instead, you jump to conclusions and think that he’s disappointed in you. they probably all are, you convince yourself.

“gorou, let’s carry him inside.”

the men collectively jolt in alarm, they can’t possibly let you carry the oni into the estate. even if they saw your arm heal itself, you’re still their creator! they can’t just let you perform physical tasks like that when they’re available. so heizou and tighnari take it upon themselves to help the general carry him inside and onto the couches.

while the others are distracted you quietly retreat to the kitchen to make an escape through the back door but the second you turn on your heel, your face is met by somebody’s chest.

“you didn’t think what we saw would go unspoken, did you?” just your luck, it’s alhaitham. you’re definitely not getting out of this one.

you avert your gaze to the very interesting stove behind him, grimacing. “i was just about to grab some food for itto,” you lie through your teeth.

cyno suddenly appears beside alhaitham, crossing his arms. “we know you’re concerned for itto but the oni has a strong spirit. he’ll be fine.” he tilts his head. “however, i believe we deserve an explanation.”

the grip you have on your cloak tightens, staring at cyno as your heart thumps like its right beside your ears. “uh,” you begin, turning around to see that all their attention has fallen onto you, including itto who peeks over the spine of the couch.

“o- okay, well, initially i wanted to say something about it however, i’m also aware of how protective you all can be towards me and i realised if i did tell you all, then i wouldn’t be able to heal all of you quick enough after battling domains and open-world fights,” you trail off, continuing in softer voice, “i’m not doubting any of your abilities—i’m just concerned and mean well because majority of you are mortals. and mortals get hurt more easily than those of the adepti and other immortal beings—even when you wield a vision.” you sigh, shamefaced. “it appears my plan has turned on me, very well, if any of you believe i’m deserving of a punishment then i shall gladly-”

“woah woah woah, who said anything about a punishment, your grace?” although heizou would have preferred you to finish your sentence, he can barely get through the first few words. you clearly made your statement and proved your points. there is no need for punishment when you have already proven yourself.

“your grace, you are too kind for your own good!” venti shakes his head fondly. “you were only looking out for us in the first place, what position are we in to complain? you’ve also revealed your condition so i think we’re all even.”

you nod your head hesitantly, a tense atmosphere radiating off of you. “i just don’t like seeing any of you injured so terribly. it’s too much for me to bear.”

it’s silent for a while. everyone’s thinking of words to say. their creator doesn’t normally express their emotions so when they do, it renders even the best of linguists in the room silent.

itto groans, turning his head animatedly towards everyone. “jeez! you guys are acting like somebody just died!” the oni cannot stand the intense silence, it makes his body jittery and he has to say something to break it. he taps his finger on his temple, shaking his head dramatically. “your grace is the only one who can get these serious people quiet like this!”

aether raises a brow at the oni, folding his arms. “looks like you’re all better, aren’t you?”

itto’s eyes return to your figure. you feel like a spotlight is shining on you from the bright expression on his face as he rambles, “and that’s because their grace is super amazing, super cool, super smart and super-”

“i think their grace understands.” the wanderer interrupts him before looking at you. “you should tell us how you discovered your condition, we’ll be all ears.”

you’re caught off guard, lowering your gaze to the floor again as your face heats up. “u- uh.”

“you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.” xiao reminds you.

however, the men in the room have keen eyes and notice the change in your expression. how is it that the memory of discovering your condition made you react like this? now that makes them all wonder…

“ooh your expression changed your grace, was it perhaps an embarrassing memory?” kaeya teases, squinting his eye.

you fold your arms, feigning ignorance but your shaky gaze does nothing to defend you. “it was nothing of the sort.”

“oh really?” tighnari presses on. you’re sweating now.

“their grace must have been experimenting.” ayato defends you suavely but a glint of mischief shines in his lavender stare. “a little slip and slide of a few sharp objects is inevitable, no?”

“correct.” albedo nods his head, holding his chin with his thumb and a curled index finger. “however, since their grace can heal themself now, the discovery must have been… an accident?” he tilts his head, eyelids falling lower as he gives you the look you’ve seen on his face countless of times when he teases you.

your face boils like a kettle, you swear there’s steam coming out of your ears too. you snap your head away from their cheeky expressions. “you all are too much.” you huff, turning on your heel, because you somehow believe you can successfully leave the room when they all are eager to tease you like this.

“uh-uh, your grace!” venti blocks you from leaving through the back door. “after such a long day, don’t you think we’re worthy of your affection?”

you blink owlishly at the bard. “you all always are.”

venti coos at your words and the others can’t help but react similarly.

you sigh like an exhausted parent before pulling on a smile always reserved for them. “then how about you all join me on the couch while i tell you about my life in the other world?”

the men are quick to guide you to your seat in the middle of the couch. aether shushes itto because he started yelling in excitement, the wanderer and xiao have a glaring contest in order to sit beside you (somehow alhaitham and cyno are doing the exact same thing on the other side), kaeya and thoma prepare drinks and snacks for everyone and the rest make peace with the seats they’re sat at. as long as you are in their view, not a single complaint leaves their lips.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #sagau x reader

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pherelesytsia · 2 years

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Who did this to you? - 5

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, Angst, swearing, wounds,

Word Count: 2.3k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6

Faint, scarcely perceptible footsteps resounded throughout the mansion. The world was remote, and the storm had ceased, had travelled across the land, but ruled with an iron fist in her mind. Y/N couldn't find peace, needed a map, a guide to find the trail through the endless labyrinth of greyed memories.

Yellowish shades dimmed the vibrant light of the two lamps in the far corners of the richly decorated room. The walls of wood were silent, did not speak nor chant a forgotten tale of wrath and destruction. Her eyes did not search for the enemy, was safe in the unknown. The heavy curtains touched, forbid curious gazes to fall upon the woman dressed in the tattered and torn garment. The heavy coat caring the smell of alcohol and cigarettes protected her skin painted in wicked colours, deep shades of purple and blue with a hint of greenness, a deep tone of algae swaying in the depths of a raging torrent running wild across the emotionless face of the mountain.

Closing her eyes, Y/N rested her head on the pillow, leaned back, busied herself with her fingers, and played with the hem of the holey fabric covering her frame sparsely. The urge to cover herself, hide to aching wounds, the marks of a fight with the too large coat, at least a dozen of sizes, did not exist. Gazing at the door, she wondered if it was a wicked dream, but steps echoed and Y/N remembered Alfie left to fetch a first aid kit from another room.

Realisation hit her like a wave, a ripple swallowing ships, lonely islands, knew she was safe, and calmness flooded her body and mind. Not a word, not a single prayer, nor a complaint crossed her lips. Memories had fled, failed to overcome the high walls of defence protecting the building, failed to push open the door and shatter the windows.

Floral vines adorned the teapot on the round, dark wooden table. The calmness of his eyes healed the wounds. A friendly, almost encouraging smile graced his lips, partly shielded by the thick, dark beard. The scent of lavender rose and banished the stench of copper lingering in the air into oblivion. Steam was rising from the bowl in his possession. Swiftly, Alfie entered the room and attempted to prevent the warm liquid from spilling over the edge. The dimmed light caressed his features, but fear was beyond the layer of confidence, but Y/N couldn't see it, the fear, agony, and pain.

The hat was missing, revealing tousled hair in the same shade as the freshly trimmed beard. The top buttons of the button-down were undone, like the buttons of the waistcoat. He placed the white ceramic bowl with a golden frame on the table next to the teacup, followed by a bottle of transparent liquid. Alfie didn't push her, didn't ask questions, assumed what had happened, had read the answer her misty eyes carried. He laid the blanket slung around his shoulder on the floor within reach, followed by the first aid kit he had dropped a few times, and dragged the table back. Striding towards the sofa, he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up until the material was above his elbows, accentuating his masculine upper arms. Critically, Y/N eyed him, had heard too much about the ruthless man, but she doubted the accuracy of the unforgettable tales laced in terror, questioned the words, and thought the man was not the feared Alfie Solomons.

Desperately Y/N searched for a way out. Her eyes widened in horror, stared at the man standing right in front of her on the red carpet with the fine black embroidery. His hands were clean, clear of dirt, the marks of a struggle. He dropped to his knees. Flinching she leaned back, pressed herself against the soft material, but she couldn’t escape him. Tears were clouding her vision. He was too close far too close and he placed his hand on her knee, touched her skin in a reassuring gesture, telling her to calm down, not to fear, that everything was alright.

"May I?" Alfie asked.

An answer was needless, superfluous, wouldn't allow Y/N to close her eyes to find a moment of peace with untreated wounds.

"You are safe, Y/N/N. I won't call anyone; you can stay as long as you need to heal but it's a matter of time before your husband will search for you and find you.” he breathed.

Bitterly Y/N laughed, was applying pressure to her aching side, didn’t trust her ears, couldn't believe what the man was saying.

"You foolishly think Thomas is going to set out to find me? Why would he do that?", "He's your husband," Alfie said.

The words sounded plausible, the most obvious thing in the world but not to Y/N. Ashamed, she lowered her gaze and listened to her thoughts, but she couldn’t pronounce the words laying heavy on her heart, unable to say how unhappy she was in the marriage, was longing for love, yearning for someone to let her know she was loved and missed. Alfie wrapped himself in silence, said nothing, watched over the breaking woman, accepted the silence, and moved closer to the edge of the sofa. Wordless the man turned, faced the table, set the ceramic bowl on the floor beside him and dipped a cloth into the warm water.

"I'm going to undress you." the words shattered the silence.

A cold shiver travelled down her spine and shadows formed into faceless creatures, but they all were grinning, laughing, and dancing around the fire feasting on the wood.

"Do you think you can undress? If not, I can help you.” Alfie continued.

She did not answer, couldn't, and pressed her lips into a fine line.

"I wouldn't dare touch you." he clarified.

Faint rivers of crimson escaped the freshly torn open wounds of her lower lip. Self-hatred pulled her into the depths of the sea, hating herself for not being able to speak, for not telling him to finally rip the soaked dress from her skin, free her from her suffering, needed to be naked, didn’t need to be reminded of how weak she was, was a mere woman incapable of defending herself like a boxer facing the opponent in the ring.

"And not because you are the Shelby's wife, but you are a woman and should be treated as one. I will treat your wounds. Afterwards, I will cook you some food and tea. In the meantime, when you eat, I will set up a bedroom. And as I said, you can stay as long as you need." Alfie explained in a calm voice.

Water dripped and darkened the carpet.

“I'll wash the dirt and grime off your body and I have got you a shirt and a pair of trousers,” he added.

Patiently the man waited, remained calm, and clasped his hands in a praying gesture on his lap. Y/N consented, had never exposed herself, and he sensed it. She stiffened under his gentle touch. His fingers were rough, seemed as if he had worked his entire life in the depths of the woodland. Like a doll on a thread, a marionette Y/N rose as Alfie demanded it. Heat rose into her cheeks. The clock was ticking. With a thud, the heavy cloak fell from her shoulders and shaped into a pile next to the dark-coloured sofa. The fabric tore. Coldness feasted on her flesh. He undid the brown buttons of the dress, loosened the belt around her waist, and stepped back. Slowly, as if he feared the answer, his eyes slid over her battered body and almost shyly, as if he had never touched a woman, he freed her arms from the dress. Her breasts and intimate area were covered.

The light was not dim enough to make them unseen, to erase them. Like an eagle circling the fields in search of food, he followed the strange trail across her torso, witnessed wounds worse than discolouration's and huffed angered as his gaze fell on the marks around her calves. Marks coiled around her arms, telling a story, letting him know she was being held against her will, forced to stay. Her hands were maltreated, lightly stained with blood, had tried to defend herself from the voracious hands of men. His warm breath brushed her skin. Narrowing her eyes, she remembered who stood before her, but she did not trust the words resounding in her head like a melody. From his trouser pocket, he took out a hair tie, pushed her hair, framing her face like a heavy iron curtain away, and tied it into a loose ponytail at the back of her head. Wordlessly, Alfie pushed her down onto the sofa and lowered himself in front of Y/N, knelt, and inspected the wounds her body bore. He turned to the table and filled two glasses with the very strong liquid. The stench of alcohol filled her nostrils. Y/N wrinkled her face in contempt and turned away.

"Here drink,” Alfie said.

Brows touched.

"Seriously, it will help you, believe me," he explained.

Hesitantly, Y/N accepted the glass and guided it to her mouth, but before she could put her lips on the glass, she gagged. Disgusted Y/N turned away, had to collect herself, and she gathered strength, and emptied it. Wrinkles deepened. The taste befuddled her senses, filling her mouth and numbing her tongue. Goosebumps spread over her body like an unstoppable wave. Alfie dipped his fingers into the warm water in the white bowl with the golden frame, took out the cloth, wrung it out and carefully washed her right leg, removing the mud glued to her feet.

"Do you want to talk about it?", "You don't have to talk about it, but it will do you good," Alfie interjected, sliding his hand carefully over her leg.

Washing the traces of the fight away, he apologised, raised the cloth as he accidentally brushed across open flesh. Gingerly the cloth glided over her body, swept over her calf, but no lust lingered in his eyes, filled with anger and worry, and the very first thing he planned to do during the early hours of the next day was to figure out who had caused the harm.

"What about your husband?" Alfie asked.

"If he were my loving husband, then I wouldn't lie on your sofa, covered in blood and grime. He would take care of me instead of you." Y/N whispered, not trusting her voice.

The wood worked, creaked, and sang out.

"What are you going to do when he calls you?", "What should I do?" he asked.

Pain welled in her eyes, smiled faintly, remembered the unforgettable, the days when he didn't even dignify her with a glance and the touches cold as the unforgiving north, icy and emotionless.

"Nothing, don't answer the call or say you don't know where I am. I'm sure you'll find a good lie. I can't and don't want to see him." Y/N replied gruffly, couldn't imagine meeting her husband's eyes even in her wildest dreams, knew she would collapse like a house of cards under his stern gaze.

"Why?" Alfie questioned. "If I had a wife, I would search every house, every forest, and not stop until I find her," Alfie replied.

She was speechless, swallowed, but couldn't swallow the ever-growing lump in her throat.

"He doesn't love me. He forgot. I waited. He promised to pick me up, but he wasn't there. Thomas was not there to protect me.", "Do you love him?" he questioned.

Do I love him, Y/N wondered.

"Yes, but he makes it impossible for me to love him. I fell for him when we met. He looked at me differently than the other men who asked my father for my hand in marriage. They all wanted one thing, money, power, wealth, a name many people know, but with him, I had the feeling that he loves me. Me and not the money and all that goes with it, because a Shelby doesn't need even more money. He has everything, money, wealth, all these things a heart desires, and I thought he loved me, but I'm sure he didn't even notice that I am not home, that I disappeared." Y/N breathed.

She was not ashamed of the tears, let them fall.

"And it's only a matter of time before he finds someone else, someone who can give him what I can't, someone who can satisfy his cravings. Bless him with an heir. A good-looking woman worthy to rule at his side over his empire." Y/N couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't force herself to end it.

"Why would I do such a thing?" a dark voice asked.

Water dripped down, slid down the darkened coat. The shirt was soaked. The strands of dark hair, dark as nightfall, stuck to his face. His eyes were bloodshot. How long Thomas had been standing in the doorway, Y/N did not know, but she sensed he had heard everything, all the words, the fears and concerns loud and clear, but she was not ashamed of the words escaping her heart.

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reilliane · 2 years

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Stranger ⊱⊰ Kazuha

A/N: How can I not make a special for a certain universe when GAA just presents some lovely, lovely plot material?

✤ Golden Apple Archipelago (2.8) Event Special

➸ Related Works: Vigil

His last domain seems to be more disordered than before, he observes after appearing in a space surrounded by floating debris and sparsely dried maple trees.

Nevertheless, he recognizes it as his mirage—for only a phantasm as distorted as can immaculately mimic the chaos he has gone through during the time of the Vision Hunt Decree.

As per the norm of the past two mirages, he is alone without the company of his friends. Or at least, he thinks he's alone.

“Mister?”

Spooked—having not detected any sort of presence when he first arrived—he turns around, only to see a child no older than four, maybe five, peering at him.

“Are you lost?” she proceeds to ask, [c] eyes blinking.

The samurai didn't think it was possible for his own breath to fail him until now.

“I...” he trails off for a number of reasons.

Why is there a child here? How can she be here?

His quietude is taken in stride, with the little girl circling him about in what he can deduce is both excitement and scrutiny. He hasn't felt so uncharacteristically small in someone's discerning gaze.

The girl smiles at him, “Ah! Are you a wanderer? You seem to look the part, mister!”

“That I am.” he finally finds his voice to respond, having let go of his prior surprise. He really shouldn't be so floundered, though.

This is a mirage, after all—anything can happen.

“I knew it!” the jubilant exclamation makes him smile, even though his chest squeezes. “Then, maybe you're looking for a way out? There's a huge ship over there, come, come!”

He is already being dragged along by the hand before he can answer—not like he'll turn down the offer.

Just as what was mentioned, the Alcor in the stretch is a couple of minutes away, floating in an empty space. Even from afar, he can tell how the mirage has whittled it to perfection, mimicking the original vessel to a tee.

If he's going to be honest, though, then he's a little lost.

He wonders whether he should be astounded over the phantasmagoria's uncanny ability to create things from his subconscious or be astounded by how the little girl doesn't seem fazed at the oddment of it all.

Kazuha observes the girl's silver tresses and eyes the section of vermillion that fades to crimson. Her pink kimono is tidy and she appears out of place in this disheveled domain.

Like a single dendrobium amid the shipwreck on Nazuchi beach.

“May I ask why you are alone?” he questions, seeing a couple of familiar structures located on other floating islands. “An estate lies in the distance.”

He wonders if the others are there, navigating through the labyrinth for the—hopefully—last time.

“I'm not ready...”

Hm? The samurai blinks, puzzled at the answer. Not ready?

He pauses his steps when the child does, her head tipped down and her smile no longer present on her visage. It is an unusual sight, dismaying to witness.

“Father said I should stay outside for a while, so...”

Kazuha respects privacy, especially that of a stranger's. Most reasons are personal and are preferably hidden, but he can't restrain his own curiosity. After all, the one before him is...

“Can I...” his uncertain murmur doesn't go unheard, and the set of [c]s fixate on him as though weighing the possible ramifications of divulging her problems to a stranger.

The samurai is a little thrilled that the youngster's pretty shrewd for her age.

“Well, mother said I'm going to be a big sister today.” she ends up revealing with a crestfallen sigh. “I don't think I'm prepared to be one, I'm going to be so bad at it!”

Oh. It's... well, he's not expecting that out of the endless possible answers he could've heard. Not like he's against it or anything, of course.

In fact, he's rather astounded.

Dismay paints the round, youthful features of the little girl, implying just how burdened she is with her self-doubt.

To see such a sight pulls his lips down, at least, until he brings them back up in order to display himself as a model of assurance.

“Hm, with the way you're so concerned, I believe you'll be a fantastic sibling.” Kazuha quips, unable to stave off the growing smile when he's met with a marginally misanthropic stare.

“How can you say so? You don't know me, mister.”

To think she's a little cynical—or perhaps just chary.

“I am a stranger to you, as well, yet you are helping me board the ship.” he says in an 'as-a-matter-of-fact' tone, accompanying it with a firm nod. “You've a good heart.”

He can tell that his words are taken into consideration, the silence looming over them indicative of the cogs working in one's mind. It isn't long until the child is looking back at him, voice still tiny, though far from being uncertain as she was earlier.

“... Do you think I'll do good, then? Truly?”

The ends of her pink sleeves are being picked and fumbled away with her fingers.

Hesitantly, Kazuha pats her head, relaxing when it's received with a brightening gleam in the eyes. He nods, chest filling with warmth.

“You'll be excellent.”

Cheeks flushing with the same color as her kimono, the little girl stutters, as though unused to the assurance.

She has a tiny pout on her lips that she battles away with a beaming smile. Far, far brighter than the first one she wore.

“... Yes, yes, you're right!” she claps her hands with a giggle, “I have to be strong so I can be good! I'll keep your words to heart, mister! Now let's get you on the ship!”

Invigorated, she latches onto his bandaged hand—only to yelp an apology following the delayed assumption that he's hurt. He chuckles at it, shaking his head and saying that it's fine.

With the granted permission, he's tugged away again, only much gently this time. Like she does not believe that his hand isn't hurting hence her gentle hold.

It's warm.

For someone who's only known the coldness of grief for the past few months... this feels nice.

Kazuha almost bites his tongue when the child races up the uneven wooden gangway leading towards the Alcor, the latter nearly tripping over the steps.

When she manages to catch herself, however, he relaxes, sighing as he follows her up. He notices that she does not cross the threshold, nor does she question the lack of the crew.

She stays standing atop the last wooden board outside the ship, whilst he's already in the breadth of the vessel. His chest squeezes once more.

“Hehe, father will be happy that I helped someone out.” excitedly mutters the girl before gasping, struck with a realization.

“Ah, that reminds me! I need to go back home now! Take care-.. ?”

Her words fall short when the samurai lowers himself to her level and pulls her close in a bewildering yet warm embrace. How sudden.

“Mister wanderer,” her voice rings, a little muffled. “You're not going to abduct me, are you?”

His soft laughter is already rolling past his lips before he can even register them. He does not let go just yet. “Of course not. Forgive my sudden embrace, I am just reminded of my sibling.”

A gasp.

“Then that must be why you're traveling, right? So you can go back home!” Concludes the child after she's freed from the embrace.

She sounds enthused at the concept of him having a sibling, just like her. In a sudden burst of boldness, she holds onto the hands that held her once and shook them with vigor.

He doesn't understand the need nor the reason, but he goes along, waving and shaking her hands in tandem. The handshake makes the girl giggle until she's pulling away.

“Don't keep them waiting, they'll certainly miss you because you're family. I'll be going now!”

His hands hold the remnants of the warmth of another and he clenches his fingers in an endeavor to preserve them for a little while longer.

Standing back to his full height, he overlooks as his small, fleeting companion rushes back down to proper land with as much elegance as she can exude despite her haste.

Gone is the void in his chest, replaced with a mellow bud of melancholia, soon to bloom into one of acceptance.

To his surprise, the child stops then swivels, raising a hand to wave at him from the distance.

“Ah! Thank you again, mister!” he can still see her smile even from afar, “By the way, I'm [Name]!”

“I know.” his words are heard only by the wind as he smiles, feeling his eyes sting with water. Though they do not fall.

Ribbons of pink eventually cover the running girl until she is gone from sight, much like the phantasm she was in the first place. Still, he is ever so grateful.

Kazuha holds onto his scarf, lifting the fabric close to his eyes as he expels a shaky breath.

“Thank you, too.”

Even if the wound in his heart remains fresh, he is thankful for having seen her. Seen her smile, seen her be alright, seen her be alive.

“Nee-san.”

His wonderful older sibling.

a/n: so an angst/comfort piece for vigil :')) i think this cured my heart a lil' from writing mercy lmao.

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @yasunamilk @alana5021 @uwu-dreams @yvechu @mininji

#m-vigil #genshin x reader #kazuha x reader #kazuha fluff #kazuha angst #genshin platonic #female reader #genshin fluff #genshin angst

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flyingspacewhale93 · 8 months

Text

The Taste of Peach Wine

NSFW ALL RIGHT MINORS ITS TIME FOR ADULT SWIM GET OUT OF THE POOL NSFW

Word count: 1532

I'm back with another fanfic! Sorry to keep you all waiting! AFAB!Reader this time.

“We don’t have to have sex.” Jing Yuan says smiling. “I appreciate the honour, however.”

Your hands shake. “No, but I want to. I want to please you.” You found yourself on the Xianzhou Luofu a few months ago. You had just been living your life when you were swallowed up in a flash of light. Next thing you knew you had disrupted Jing Yuan’s game of starchess (he was winning anyway) and woke up in his arms. The general had been nothing but kind to you when you didn’t have a single credit or Strale to your name. He bought you clothes, food, and offered you a job as a research assistant. He even let you live on his estate. “I-I have to pay you back. For everything.”

“And offering your body is what you’d consider a good gift?” His voice is kind and calm. “Look at me. Your eyes are so fearful. You’re a smart person. Do you think I want to become a thief?”

“I’ve seen how you look at me. Besides, men expect this. They don’t act this kind for free.” You say, your eyes glancing at his white blouse and red pants. “Please, just use my body as you like for one night! I won’t tell a soul!” Your hands fiddle with your robe as you get on your knees.

“Hmm, I am in the mood for some peach wine. It’s quite a delicacy. A common custom here when someone brings you an expensive gift is to show your appreciation towards them.” A warm smile crosses his face as he strides over to you and lifts you bridal style in his arms.

“S-Sir? I don’t have anything like that to drink-” A wink from the general cuts you off as he carries you to your bedroom and lays you on the soft bed.

“Why don’t you get out of that robe? Come now, don’t be shy. I’ll undress too.” Jing Yuan takes off his blouse revealing his sculpted upper body decorated with battle scars. You blush and cover up.

“My-My body doesn’t look as good as yours.” You murmur. “You would hate it.”

“Undress for me.” He repeats. “Let me use your body as you have commanded me to.” With trembling hands you untie your robe revealing your naked form. “Gorgeous.” He whispers, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you want me to undress you? Suck your cock?” Your head swims with his recent compliment.

“Just wait. You will tell me if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, right? Tell me how you’re feeling. If we can communicate well you’d be quite a good little bird indeed.” You nod as Jing Yuan sits on the bed and pulls you onto his chest as he lays back. “First of all, tell me why you think you should give your body to men for their kindness.”

“They expect it, sir. Men always want me to suck their cock or more in exchange for favours. If I don’t, they call me frigid or worse. Although I suppose I am frigid. Sex has never felt good for me.” His chest feels so warm and safe as you talk.

“And do these men ever appreciate you giving them the gift of your body?” Jing Yuan’s big hand strokes your hair.

“Not really. Sometimes they attempt to make me feel good before they enter me. It's usually not enough however.” You close your eyes as you slowly relax.

“It sounds like you’ve dealt more with boys to me. I’ll be different. I may be an old man, but I know how to make your back arch.” His voice takes on a teasing tone that makes your heart pound. “Care to let me show you?”

“How does one do that?” You ask.

“Let me look at you.” He tilts your chin and his golden eyes land on yours as he pulls you into a brief kiss. “These lips deserve to be kissed.” A smirk appears on his face. “I can think of more spots that are also deserving.”

“Show me.” You beg. Jing Yuan’s hands and lips begin to lazily yet carefully explore your body causing you to shiver.

“Was that a moan I just heard?” He says. “Let me confirm.” His lips land on a sensitive spot eliciting a noise from you. “Now that was definitely a moan.”

“Please, just get your reward already!” You say.

He chuckles. “Patience, darling. I’m going to make sure you are in full bloom before I get my prize. Just relax. Let your body be worshiped by me.” His fingers and tongue trace the hardened nubs on your chest before he takes one into his mouth. The sounds you make cause him to hum in pleasure as one hand slowly makes its way to your clit.

“You-You found the clit without my help!?” You say in disbelief.

He pops his head up briefly. “Just what have they taught boys in your world? Surely pleasure is a lost art over there.” He continues working your nipples while also stroking your lower nub. His fingers seem like they’ve done this for centuries and your body responds in shivers.

“Please! I-I’m ready!” Your breaths come out in deep pants.

A playful smirk crosses his face. “I suppose it is time to imbibe this heavenly brew.” He sets you down on the bed and ties his silver locks into a tight bun. “I shan't let any of this go to waste.” His lips trail down your stomach making your way down to your slit. With Jing Yuan’s hands keeping a firm hold on your hips, he plunges his tongue inside. Pleasure wells up inside of you as he begins to trace patterns on your twitching bud.

“What kind of magic spells are you weaving?” You cry out, hands gripping the sheets.

“It’s merely an old poem that Xianzhou children are taught in school. It has to do with the four seasons, not that such things matter when you’re in space. I learned when I became a man to write that poem every time I partook in some peach wine.” He smirks, taking in your trembling body. “And it seems to be having quite the effect on you. But don’t release just yet. I love your bouquet and want to get drunk on this taste.” He dives back in, licking and humming as though as though a man starved.

“I-I’ve never felt this good!” You let out the most tempting mewls as he drinks deeply. His hands squeeze and knead your ass as he lifts your hips up, listening to your voice. The knot in your belly burns, but you want to be good for him. You must admit, the wait is agonizing.

“Cum for me, darling.” His voice is thick with lust. His eyes glazed over in bliss. The release is instant. You scream his name and buck as your fingers find purchase in his silver locks. Jing Yuan seems to let out a content purr tasting you on his tongue.

You gasp for breath as he gets on his knees, a small smirk on his soaked face. You made him this way. Your eyes dart towards the straining bulge in his pants. Clearly he must be aching with need. “Let me take care of you.” You try to get on your knees but your body feels too floaty to move.

“Oh, this? It can wait until there’s time. Why don’t you rest a while?” His big hand pets your hair.

“I thought using my body would mean you shoving cock down my throat.” You stare into his golden eyes.

“I prefer to take my time and get to know my partners first. Leave them feeling loved and appreciated. And I must say, it's been a while since I’ve seen such a beautiful sight.” He kisses you, letting you taste your essence on his lips.

“How long ago was a while?” You know that Xianzhou natives are a long-lived species but Jing Yuan must be centuries old.

“I’ve seen thousands of moons pass but very rarely someone to share them with. People enter and leave your life with great ease when you’re someone of my station.”

“I know what you mean.” You say. “I wanted to find love but people kept taking advantage of me. I-I thought that was normal.”

“Perhaps we can comfort each other and fill a need for both of us.” Jing Yuan says. “I do find you rather fetching. Perhaps that’s too old-fashioned a phrase. Forgive me, it’s been a while since I laid eyes on such a beauty.”

Your heart pounds. “You really mean it?”

“I was just waiting for the right time to say it. I suppose you saw fit to take matters in your own hands.”

“Will you prove it to me?” Your fingers ghost over the tent in his pants.

“Only with all my heart and soul, dearest.”

“This time let me take care of you.” You say.

“You already have a thousand times over.” He gets on top of you and covers your face with kisses. The night’s only just begun and you have so much to show each other.

#jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #afab reader #hsr smut #jing yuan smut

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florencemtrash · 10 months

Text

The Wisp Between Worlds

CHAPTER FOUR: THE FOX AND THE HIGH LORD

Acotar fanfic/rewrite. Inner Circle x OC. Eventual Azriel x OC.

Summary: Have you ever wondered what you would do (and do differently) if you found yourself trapped in the fantasy world of your dreams? For Nora, this fantasy of hers is about to play out when she finds herself portaled away to the Moral Lands south of Prythian. But all is not as it seems. Feyre Archeron is missing and the deadline to break Amarantha’s curse draws near. Who will save Prythian now?

Warnings: None for this chapter

Masterlist

*Let me know if you would like to join the taglist*

________________

Nora had to endure horseback riding for another hour, sweat dripping down her back and clinging to her clothes, before she finally felt them slow down. The mask slipped off her face like water, dropping to the grass and immediately springing up into a rosebush.

Nora gasped at the minor display of magic.

The ground was swollen with the blossoms of spring - marigolds, peonies, hydrangeas, lilies, and roses drifting along in a floral sea. Marble fountains of horned and hoofed creatures carrying instruments were carefully laid out in the garden, carved with such a careful hand that when she dismounted and crawled onto the fountain ledge she could make out their eyelashes.

Nora dared to touch the wrist of a forest nymph who spilled crystal clear water from her jar. She was smoother than freshly waxed glass.

Tamlin’s estate was sprawled out comfortably amidst the vibrant rolling hills, as fat and happy as the bumblebees that drowsily floated from flower to flower. Blood red roses and emerald green vines dripped down the manor’s alabaster walls and turret roofs, pooling beneath the balconies and windows so that anyone who let the wind in would be greeted with their intoxicating scent.

Tamlin made his way towards the manor without a word.

Nora hurried after him with awkward strides as her knees and thighs re-acquainted themselves with standing on solid ground. She was in desperate need of a bath and rest.

The faint click of Tamlin’s claws on the checkered floors echoed throughout the empty hall. Nora could hardly breathe, worried that the mere sound of her existence would disrupt the wonderment flooding her mind. The black and white marble tiles were polished so thoroughly she caught her reflection looking back at her, dirty and disheveled, and foxgloves hung in bundles from the gilded buttresses, swaying in the breeze like church bells.

A manor of this size must have had at least one hundred servants to keep it in order, but when Nora strained her ears she was only rewarded with the lonely, echoing silence.

Left at the portrait with the golden bear, right at the next junction with the 6-foot tall elk horn, past the green stained glass windows, then-

She traced their steps until they reached a set of oakwood doors as tall as the ceiling and thicker than the length of her hand.

The doors swung open of their own accord, exposing a grand dining room with velvet curtains and a solitary table cut from a tree trunk.

A fae male sat at the table, russet brown and golden mechanical eyes staring out from behind a fox mask. His hair was as vibrant and warm as a winter fire, offset by his handsome emerald suit jacket and honey-colored skin. The only imperfection he possessed - if it could even be called that - was the scar that dragged through his ruined eye and landed at the corner of his lip like a lightning strike.

Must be Lucien.

He shot up from the table, golden eye flashing, “Tam, where the hell have you been?”

Tamlin ignored him and made his way around the table. With a flash of light and a groan he collapsed into his rose-engraved chair. Where there had once walked a beast now sat a very beautiful, and very exhausted fae.

Nora tilted her head to look at him, carefully observing the gold mask that remained frozen in place as he dragged a hand down his face.

“Tamlin.” Lucien said. He hadn’t noticed the human girl waiting by the dining room threshold, but he was alerted to her presence when Tamlin raised a single finger towards her.

Lucien’s gold eye whirred, the artificial pupil constricting as he turned around and looked at Nora.

“She’s the one that killed Andras?” Surprise and disdain flooded his voice. She was so… human - a poor credit to her species and thin as a reed. He crossed the floor in three strides and glared down at her. She found only disbelief and mild hatred in his face.

He sniffed the air around her and frowned. “She reeks.”

Color flooded into her cheeks, blood turning hot, “It’s almost like I’ve been traveling the last day and a half. Without a meal, might I add.”

She scowled at Tamlin as he slunk into his seat further and rubbed his temples. Her hunger had flared up with a vengeance on the last leg of their journey and she felt it twist and tug within her. Just because she was used to an empty stomach didn’t mean it felt any more pleasant.

“Go bathe. You can eat after.” Tamiln said with a lazy wave of his hand like she was some dog to be dismissed.

Nora’s scowl deepened. She was hungry now, although she had to admit a bath also sounded heavenly.

Before she could shoot back a reply a fae slipped into the room from a hidden hallway, bowing deeply to Tamlin before deigning to give Nora a curt nod. This fae was even shorter than her and a female from the looks of her wide hips and soft features, although the gnarled mask of woven branches made it difficult to make out her face.

She walked to another set of open double doors and clicked her heels together, waiting expectantly for Nora to follow.

When Nora glanced at Tamlin, it seemed that he’d already forgotten she existed, eyes roaming over the silverware.

You’re a real charmer. Asshole.

Still she followed the female out of the dining room without a fight. She’d save her energy for another day.

“Best to kill her now and be done with it.” She heard Lucien hiss beneath his breath as the doors shut behind them.

The female was ruthless when it came to bathing. Before the bathroom door was even fully shut, she was pulling away at Nora’s clothes with rough, strong hands as callous as tree bark.

“Wait! No!” Nora grabbed at Dinah’s coat when it was pulled from her shoulders.

“It’s stiff with dust and sweat, child.” The female clicked her tongue, catching sight of the makeshift bandage on Nora’s arm, “And a good deal of blood,” Her voice held the same texture as her hands. “Best to get rid of it.”

“No.” Nora said. The fae cast a narrow eye at the girl, ancient and impatient, “Please,” She tried again, softening her tone, “It’s the only thing I have from home.”

The girl in front of her could only be eighteen, nineteen at most - young for a human and absolutely fetal for a fae.

She sighed, “I’ll wash it and return it tonight.” She said from between tight lips.

The girl deflated with relief, holding onto the ruined fabric for one final moment before she let it pass from her hands.

“...Thank you….” She murmured beneath her breath, grasping for a name.

“Alis.”

“...Thank you, Alis.”

The human had more manners that she would have anticipated.

Nora’s face turned bright red when Alis stripped her of her clothes, but the female only clicked her tongue again like one might reprimand a child.

With the promise that Dinah’s coat would be cared for, Nora let herself sink into the bathtub up to her neck, groaning as the hot water soaked into her skin and eased her aching legs.

Alis scrubbed away at her skin with honey-scented soap until it turned red and prickled upon touching the air, as though that would remove her human deficiency. But Nora welcomed the faint pain and the sharp nails that scratched without mercy at her scalp and tore away months of hard living. No matter how long she remained in the bath, no matter how clean she became, the water remained clear.

Alis had no shame in nakedness when she pulled the girl from the bath and began rubbing her down in lavender oils and brushed rosewater through her hair. The girl continued to look down at her feet sheepishly, covering parts of herself as Alis went about her business. She had one duty and one duty only - to make the girl appealing enough for the High Lord to court and seduce. Maybe then they’d all be freed from this mess.

She finished by wrapping up Nora’s arm in fresh linens the same shade as her skin so the wound would be nearly imperceptible beneath the sheer sleeves of her dress.

Nora was delivered back to Tamlin and Lucien like a trussed up turkey - her neat braids complete with green ribbons to match Tamlin’s eyes. She’d been forced into a similarly toned sage-green gown that swished around on the ground behind her.

She twisted her hands together, suppressing the rising disgust in her stomach. These were not clothes she would have picked for herself. These were not clothes that had been made for her - they’d been made for a fae.

The gossamer sleeves hung past her hands, clearly intended for a creature with longer, more slender limbs. The neckline of the dress similarly dropped too low, exposing much of her chest and leaving her vulnerable and cold.

She wanted Dinah’s coat back. She wanted to sink into the material and slink off into memories of home. Home with Dinah and Jaskiel. Home with her parents. Perhaps Alis’s bath had been a curse - her hard won outer layer seemed to have fizzled away with the lavender bubbles.

The two males froze in their seats, whatever conversation they’d been indulging in forgotten as they took in the sight of her.

Lucien knocked his elbow into Tamlin’s side, subtly coughing into a closed fist. Tamlin took the hint and stood up, opening his arm towards the empty seat next to him and across from Lucien.

Nora didn’t want to move. She wanted to disappear into her room and dive into the satin bed sheets that had been calling her name ever since Alis showed her her quarters. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to run. But her eyes narrowed in on the feast laid out before them.

The table was laden with enough food for a holiday party: whole roasted quails smothered in butter with garlic and thyme, fresh baked bread that steamed from the decorative slits cut into the crust, candied oranges piled on a platter next to a moist chocolate walnut cake.

Nora’s stomach clenched painfully and her hunger won out.

She awkwardly slid into her seat, dragging layers of tulle behind her.

When Tamlin leaned across the table and began piling sausages, creamed spinach, bread, and more onto her plate, Nora had to suppress the urge to cringe away.

The bewilderment on her face seemed to please him as he settled back into his seat and began serving himself. Lucien was left to his own devices.

The first bite of honey-roasted walnuts and potatoes hit her tongue, exploding with a taste so bright and powerful she wondered if she had died and gone to heaven. She’d never tasted food so pure and delicious.

Tamlin stared curiously, watching as she slowly lost all sense of propriety and began stuffing her face, but if he was judging her table manners he didn’t show it.

Lucien coughed, eyes flashing between the pair and Tamlin caught the message, dropping his wine glass onto the table with enough force to grab her attention.

Her silverware froze above the piece of chicken on her plate, stopping their planned assault.

Tamlin clenched his jaw, “Your hair…”

She could see the place where his brain should be trying to formulate a compliment.

“Is clean. And you smell… nice.” He growled out with difficulty.

It wasn’t a lie. Alis had sprayed her down with enough perfume that a blind man would mistake her for a rosebush.

Nora stifled a laugh and Lucien rolled his eyes, bowing his head so that his forehead rested on graceful fingertips.

If Tamlin actually believed she would fall for his half-brained compliment he was proven wrong. Silence settled over them, thick and uncomfortable.

She didn’t want to speak to them. She didn’t even know how’d she respond. They expected her to be afraid - hell, she was afraid - but she also felt some minor thread of confidence. For the time being she was safe, and she had to make use of that time as best she could to try and prepare for what was coming. Courting a romantic relationship with Tamlin was secondary. For now the best thing she could do was learn everything there was to learn about Prythian and the Human Lands - things that couldn’t be gained by asking too many questions or staying too long at the dinner table.

They must have a library somewhere.

“I would have expected more questions from you.” Lucien commented lazily, pulling Nora abruptly from her thoughts. The wine swished around in his cup, getting dangerously close to spilling over the sides as he narrowed his eyes at the girl, “You’re the first human in decades to step foot in Prythian, and you’re dining with one of the most powerful Hi-”

Tamlin growled in warning, shooting Lucien a glare strong enough to slice through the end of his sentence.

Lucien cleared his throat, unfazed by the rude interruption, “You’re dining with two powerful High Fae. Surely your little human brain is curious.”

Nora tapped her foot impatiently beneath the table, mouth twisting to the side in thought. Every parcel of her being was exploding with questions, curiosity threatening to pour out of her skin, but she didn’t want to interrogate them. She didn’t want to play her hand too early if she slipped up and said something she wasn’t supposed to know.

Her silence was mistaken for a resounding no. Lucien sighed as though disappointed but unsurprised, “How typical of humans to think so small.”

She bristled, her pride wounded and smarting.

“Excuse my friend,” Tamlin jumped at the opportunity to come to her aid. “He’s not in the best mood right now.”

“I suppose you know the reason why.” Lucien’s face soured.

Andras.

The name hung above their heads.

She had killed his friend. She knew this, but it was too early to apologize for it, as much as she wanted to. So she once again settled for the safe option of staying silent, letting the guilt pool in her stomach and steal away her appetite.

“What exactly am I doing here? What do you want from me?” Nora asked carefully. It was a safe question - an obvious question, “Shall I sweep the floors? Wash the laundry? Be a punching bag for your thinly veiled insults?” She aimed the last question at Lucien and he had the kindness to at least look ashamed of his comment.

“You are not a prisoner here.” Tamlin said gruffly. Nora raised her eyebrow. “What I mean is, you are here to fulfill the Treaty’s exchange - a life for a life. Apart from that you have no duties. Walk the grounds, explore the manor, or leave my court entirely. I do not care.”

You most certainly do care. I know you care.

“But the moment you step foot outside Prythian the deal is off. There will be no protection for you or your family.”

“Your court?”

Tamlin froze, teeth clamping down on his tongue until he tasted blood. Lucien simply wanted to crumple to the floor in exasperation. It hadn’t even been a full day and Tamlin had already let slip his identity. He saw her mind stir, eyes fidgeting around the room as she put the pieces together. If he wasn’t mistaken, he even saw laughter behind her eyes.

“That’s what you said, isn’t it? You’re not just some high fae, you’re a High Lord.”

“Yes.” He gritted out. His knuckles had turned white.

She thought for a long while before hesitantly asking, “So I truly may do as I wish here? You won’t kill me?”

“Yes, and no.”

Tamlin sensed the hesitation in her body before her scent slowly shifted to hope and curiosity. She’d have the run of the manor and for the first time since coming to this world she’d have access to books and music and good food.

Images of Dinah and Jaskiel flashed through her mind: Jaskiel limping to his chair after a long day of scribbling out sums in exchange for pennies, Dinah coming home with raw hands after hours of lime washing a local lord’s floors. Older images that she had buried in her heart also rose to the surface: Mom and Dad setting up the table for three before realizing she wouldn’t be coming home, Mom and Dad taking the long drive around town so they wouldn’t have to pass by the boardwalk.

This manor was but a beautiful prison, and Nora had so far been treated like a doll to be dressed up and seduced by an incompetent Tamlin. She was painfully aware of it… and yet… it was a better life than the one she’d left behind. At least here she would not starve. At least here she would no longer have to worry about when the money would run out.

If she asked for books or jewelry or dresses or anything else her heart desired Tamlin would jump at the chance to make her fall in love with him.

It made her feel guilty.

“And my family?” The weight of her words, the sincerity of them, tempered Lucien’s distaste for the girl who’d murdered his friend.

“I promised you before they’d be taken care of.” Tamlin said.

“But what does that mean?” Nora splayed her hands on the table, hating that her previous excitement over material things had outshone her longing for her home, “What does it mean that you’re taking care of them?”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, watching her quietly. She wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d expected her to blaze through the manor like a hateful and seething flame. Instead she was more like a firefly in a jar - constantly buzzing and flickering with thoughts and emotions that she tried to trap within herself. He didn’t know how to make sense of her.

Tamlin sighed, hands gently folding in front of him. Something like sympathy peered out from behind the mask.

“Dinah and Jaskiel think your family - your real family - found you and sent for you to be brought back to the Continent. I crafted a final memory of them seeing you off on a carriage with your very wealthy aunt.”

Nora stilled, tears beginning to gather in her eyes as Tamlin continued.

“I’ll be sending money to them every month on behalf of your “real” family as thanks for protecting and caring for you. It will be more than enough for them to live comfortably without having to work.”

“Did you… did you really?” She whispered softly.

“I swear on my life and my court.” Tamlin assured her.

She laughed without humor, brushing away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks. Perhaps now the villagers would really believe that she was a foreign-born royal.

“That’s a very good lie you came up with.” Nora muttered with disdain. The chair screeched along the floor when she stood up abruptly, and no one stopped her as she disappeared out the door.

“Well I think that went well.” Lucien said with a grimace. He downed the wine to its last bitter dregs.

Tamlin’s low growl followed Nora as she half-stumbled her way back to her room.

When she finished untangling herself from the wretched dress and sank beneath the covers, she finally allowed herself to cry.

Tamlin had crafted such a perfect and necessary lie. Dinah and Jaskiel would be able to rest easy believing she was with her true family, but Nora would have to live with the truth.

She was now utterly alone.

>>>

The chirping birds, obnoxious and hormonal, woke Nora up just in time to see the sun crest over the hills. The moment her heels hit the marble floor Alis snuck in, a pile of dresses stretched out in her hands.

“Good morning.” Alis said, her voice curt as she spread the dresses on the bed, “Which would you like to wear today?”

“I get to choose my dress?” Nora blinked the sleep out of her puffy eyes.

“Yes, child. You get to choose your dress.”

Nora said little as Alis fussed with her hair, tying it back in a simple braid before ushering her to the bathroom to deal with her tear-stained face.

The dress Nora selected was simple - an ankle length riding gown paired with a deep blue vest and short boots. Alis tried not to display her displeasure as Nora dressed herself haphazardly. After a long, dreamless night she was ready to escape her room and find some secret corner of the manor to hide in - preferably in the library.

Thoughts and plans for the day raced through her head as she followed Alis’s quick footsteps to the dining room, memorizing the path once more.

The frown was clear on her face when she saw Tamlin and Lucien crowding the breakfast table. Alis nudged her forward, unsticking her feet from the floor with a sharp jab to the center of her back.

“How did you sleep?” Tamlin asked as she settled down and stabbed at a sausage. The faster she ate, the faster she could leave.

“Terribly.”

“How unfortunate.” Lucien said, decked out in a riding uniform of his own. The deep green jacket was overlaid with gold-plated steel, as functional as it was beautiful. A pearl-handle knife the color of bleached bone was sheathed comfortably across his chest, a matching sword resting against the table as he ate.

Tamlin was similarly armed, but his weapons looked more decorative. After all, how much good were weapons when he could transform into a near unkillable beast at any moment. When the light hit his skin at certain angles, Nora could almost see the skin of the creature beneath, unyielding and impenetrable.

He caught her staring at the glimmering badges pinned to his coat.

“Lucien and I have business to attend to today,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “You may do as you wish. If you require anything you may ask the servants.”

Nora frowned at the word - servant, how archaic - and looked around the empty hall. They lurked about somewhere, moving through the estate unseen to her eyes. Were they watching her now? Were they waiting for a moment to report her odd behavior to Tamlin?

That was the first thing she’d have to fix. There would be no way for her to sneak around undetected if she couldn’t even see who she should be hiding from. Thoughts of the Suriel flashed through her mind, her fingertips rubbing together as she flipped through the pages of a phantom book and imagined what information she might be able to sink her fingers into.

“I assure you, you are safe here. My people won’t harm you in any way.” Nora snapped her head up, grateful that he’d mistaken her scheming for worry.

“You promise?” a hint of surprise and hope slipped into her voice.

“I promise.” Tamlin said, nodding his head fervently. He ignored the dampness of his palms and pushed down the revulsion he felt at being reduced to this. He was one of the most powerful creatures in all of Prythian, perhaps in the entire world, and he needed to resort to courting a human to protect his people. The thought made him feel weak, lesser. He hadn’t wanted to send his men out to their deaths in the woods. With every friend he buried he could feel a bit of himself chipping away and landing beside their graces.

He was desperate, and he would resort to this measure in his desperation.

“And I may go anywhere? Do anything?”

Tamlin’s lips curled back in a feline grin, catching the light that sparked to life in her eyes. “Within reason.”

Lucien snorted, “How much damage do you intend on doing, human?”

As much as possible.

“None.”

He snorted again, half-amused at her blatant lie.

“Where’s the library?” Nora stood up abruptly when she finished eating, not waiting to be dismissed from the breakfast table.

“The library?”

“Do you not have one?” She asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

Tamlin’s anger flared up like a gasoline fire. Lucien shot him a warning glance, standing up lightly and tilting his head towards the left before his High Lord could say or do anything he might regret.

“We have the most beautiful library you will have ever seen. Tamlin can show you the way, can’t you Tamlin?”

“I can find it myself.” Nora snapped. She didn’t want company, only to disappear for the day, “Just give me the directions.”

“It’s a very large manor. We wouldn’t want you getting lost.” Something told her Lucien wanted nothing more than for her to ride off into the woods and never come back.

“I’ll ask whoever is around if that happens.” She said quickly, itching to find her escape.

Mercifully, Tamlin didn’t press her to accept his company.

He’d barely finished giving her the directions before she was flying out the side door, skirts shifting in the spring breeze like a ghostly afterimage.

There was work to be done and plans to be made.

________________

Taglist: @myheartfollower @impossibelle @chybay22 @lahoete

Author's note: I struggled writing this chapter so I apologize if it's slow, but I'm just going to post it anyway so I can continue on to chapters I have more fleshed out plans for. Who knows, maybe I'll actually write down an outline for this fic instead of holding it all in my brain 😅. I hope you all have a lovely weekend.

#acotar #acotar rewrite #acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #inner circle x oc #rhysand #feyre archeron #tamlin the tool #tamlin #lucien vanserra #writeblr #a court of thorns and roses #the spring court

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cryoculus · 1 year

Text

— guard dog 03 ⟢

pairing: thoma x assassin!reader

summary: having lived the life you had, you've always known your sins would catch up to you one day. what you didn't expect, however, is to find unlikely friends in the midst of it.

word count: 4.7k words

notable characters: thoma, kamisato ayaka

tags: found family, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut

warnings: nightmares, alcohol consumption, allusions to past murders

header art cr: bear_nyanM on twt

masterlist

It was safe to say that you hardly got a wink of sleep after that.

On top of the unpleasant dream that woke you up in the first place, Thoma’s words made you restless all night. What did he mean you reminded him of himself? Last you checked, you weren’t as overbearing as he was.

But on your mission to make sense of the conversation you’d unknowingly eavesdropped, the sun had eventually pittered through the windows. One by one, your fellow retainers had started waking up.

The day you’d been cleared of any ‘medical conditions’, you were given a futon and locker of your own in the attendants’ bedchambers. There, you shared the same living space as the rest of them—a fact that you’d had a tough time coming to terms with the first few nights.

You’d been so accustomed to taking shelter in caves and abandoned shrines that the thought of all these people falling asleep in your company gave you whiplash.

It’s not as if they knew, though.

Most of them didn’t have the slightest clue. That they shouldn’t trust someone who came out of nowhere just because their superiors insisted. That they shouldn’t be complacent in the company of someone who could massacre them before they could wake up.

“Oi.”

Eyes still heavy with fatigue, you turned to the woman who occupied the space to your right. You sighed. Ayame had already rolled up her futon and was impatiently tapping her foot against the tatami. From the irate look on her face, you could tell that she’d found a new reason to be mad at you today.

Well. You did drug her the first time you met her. And steal all her clothes before attempting to kill the lady of the house. The hostility was well-founded, you thought.

“You’ve been tossing and turning so much that you kept me awake,” she grumbled. “What, your conscience suddenly catching up to you?”

You laughed, smoothing down your bedhead. “Keep dreaming.”

Despite how she spoke to you when she knew no one else could hear, Ayame kept her mouth shut about the truth. You were damn sure that it took every ounce of willpower for her not to rat you out to Ayaka herself, but the poor attendant acted in confidence. Always.

Just how much did Thoma bribe her to keep quiet?

Later that morning, you made your way to the estate’s entrance in spite of your glaring sleep deprivation. It was Madarame Hyakubei who’d disseminated the retainers’ tasks for the day—meaning both Thoma and Ayaka weren’t in the premises.

Of course, you weren’t just going to let a golden opportunity like that slide.

“Mornin’, Miss Kira!”

Freezing in your tracks, you shot the guard who called your attention a wary smile. “S-Sir Hirano, good morning to you, too.”

“Are you…headed out by any chance?” He flashed you a sunny smile with traces of suspicion clearly seen beneath his guise. “Sorry to break it to you, but Master Thoma put us guards on strict orders to keep you safe inside the manor.”

Your eye twitched. The meddlesome bastard…

“Ah? But I won’t take long,” you insisted with a pout. “Just a quick herb-gathering session at Chinju Forest won’t hurt, right?”

As you tried to step around him, Hirano halted you with a large stride of his own—obscuring your path by extending the polearm in his hand.

“No can do, miss. It’ll do us no good if you’re caught out there by the representatives of the Tenryou Commission, you know?” he sighed. “And without Lady Kamisato and Master Thoma to speak on your behalf, it’ll be too easy for them to present a warrant and throw you in jail.”

…Something about the way Hirano spoke made you wonder if Thoma informed the guards of your real identity beforehand.

From what you’d gathered last night, the Commissioner seemed to be in on the whole charade, too. It would make sense for him to alert security should you pull any escape acts while he was away. Just like what you were trying to do right now.

But whether or not Hirano knew about the truth, one thing was for certain.

Everyone in the Yashiro Commission trusted Thoma—so much that you almost found it ridiculous.

Ayame was content with letting things play out, in spite of what happened to her for being in your way. Sure, she harbored a certain degree of resentment for what you tried to do, but you assumed that Thoma must have put in a good word for what he has planned if she was as agreeable to it as she was.

Then there were the guards. They were all under the Yashiro Commission, yes, but at the end of the day, every individual in the Tri-Commission reported to the Raiden Shogun herself. Yet these men decided to turn a blind eye and trusted the judgement of the chief retainer instead.

Last was…the Commissioner. Kamisato Ayato.

His fellow retainers would be easy for Thoma to convince, you were sure. Most commoners didn’t usually question what the higher-ups would order them to do—they just did it. But that wasn’t the case with Ayato.

The Commissioner knew about the attempt you’d made at her sister’s life. And he rightfully questioned Thoma’s decision to keep you captive in the estate, just like any logical head of a clan would do. If he felt like it, Ayato could even overrule the chief retainer’s orders and have you thrown in jail, where you belonged.

But you were still here.

Eventually, you gave up on trying to convince Hirano to let you outside in exchange for doing your share of the daily chores. Today, you were assigned to polish the floorboards in the pavilion, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t spend every minute of it in careful contemplation.

It’s a bit pathetic, how you let your mind get overrun by thoughts of Thoma, of all people.

He was the man who forced you into a corner. The one who forced this sudden change in lifestyle onto your plate. But you couldn’t help it.

You’ve been alone since you’d fled Yashiori Island all those years ago. Never lingering in one place for too long. Never forging bonds that lasted beyond a written contract.

You could never win people over the way Thoma so effortlessly does everyday.

Now that you thought about it, he was the perfect aide for Ayaka. The perfect guard dog. They shared the same principles, had nearly the same amount of charisma, and balanced each other out in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

You wondered what it felt like to find a match as perfect as that.

“Ah, Miss Kira? Are you busy? Can you help me carry these to the kitchen…?”

One of the attendants called out, and you immediately snapped out of your momentary trance. You took the time to spare yourself a soft laugh before turning to her. Right. You shouldn’t think about it too much. Doing that would make you falter.

You never falter.

“Yeah! Be there in a sec.”

The next day, you were invited to accompany Ayaka to Konda Village.

Madarame Hyakubei broke the news over breakfast, and you merely nodded along as you sleepily stuffed yourself with egg-on-rice. You didn't sleep any good last night, either.

Though, when Madarame went back to his post at the reputations board, it finally hit you.

You were going outside the estate.

For the first time in two weeks.

In an instant, any semblance of drowsiness had vanished from your body. The idea made you...excited? Overjoyed? You could finally ditch this place and rearrange your plans. Archon knows that the heart of the enemy’s territory wasn’t the most conducive environment to scheme.

But of course, you couldn’t possibly have it as easy as you wanted.

“Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

Thoma was suspiciously cheerful as the three of you made the trip to Konda Village. But you couldn’t exactly file any complaints, since Ayaka didn’t seem to have any problem with his jovial nonsense.

Well. If you can’t beat them, join them.

“Milady, if I may ask, why are you heading over there yourself?” you wondered aloud. “Don’t you usually just let the other retainers take care of matters involving the public?”

Ayaka sighed, keeping her eyes forward. “Miss Kira, you know how the Yashiro Commission is in charge of the cultural and ceremonial affairs of Inazuma, yes?”

You nodded slowly.

“The people of Konda Village are one of our closest associates when it comes to the festivals held at Amakane Island,” she continued. “They coordinate with the Yashiro Commission to make sure each festival is a memorable one. And given the nature of our relationship, it’s only normal for us to…pay our respects where they are due.”

The dismal tone that accompanied her words made you scrunch your face in confusion, but before you could ask her to elaborate further—

“Lady Ayaka? Is that you?”

A girl, no older than ten years old maybe, gaped at the sight of the princess as the ball in her hands bounced idly on the ground. The next moment, she squealed in delight before running straight to Ayaka.

“You’re here,” the girl nearly sobbed. “You’re really here.”

You expected someone of Ayaka’s status to blanche a bit at the girl’s sudden gesture, but the princess crouched down so that her eyes were leveled with hers—smiling kindly.

“I promised, didn’t I, Futaba?” she sighed, smoothing down the girl's braids. “Do you happen to know where Takeru is?”

Sniffling, the girl—Futaba—pulled away. “He’s at the graveyard with Grandpa and the rest. They’ve already begun the preparations but…I wanted to wait for you.”

You didn’t have the slightest clue as to what was going on, and could only look at Thoma for some clarity. Not that the chief retainer was much help, though. He merely shot you a look that basically said: you’ll see.

Ayaka let Futaba lead the three of you to the cemetery in the outskirts of the village, where most of its citizens seemed to have gathered in numbers for the day. They were lighting incense for two gravestones in particular.

Upon your arrival, an elderly man who you recognized as the village chief greeted Ayaka with a solemn look in his eyes.

“I’m glad you could make it, Lady Kamisato,” he sighed. “Futaba refused to leave until she was sure you’d show up.”

Ayaka shook his hand sincerely. “Your village has been helping the Yashiro Commission for generations now. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Up ahead, a priestess cited a prayer in honor of the two souls who’d passed, and you wondered if they’d just recently died. But when you saw the names etched onto the surface of each headstone, you felt a crackling chill skid up the length of your spine.

You’ve only been to Konda Village once in the past. For a job assigned by an anonymous contact from Inazuma City’s underworld. You were given the names of the two men he wanted dead by morning, and you’d carried out the task not three hours since it was issued.

Konda Takuya and Sango Akihito. Those were the men you’d taken out this time last year.

Those were the names engraved on the headstones before you.

“Lady Ayaka?”

Snapping out of your stone-cold realization, you watched as Futaba emerged from the crowd with a boy in tow. This one was probably Takeru. Both of them held two bowls in each hand—offering them all to the village chief, Ayaka, Thoma, and yourself.

“It’s not much but…we learned the recipe from a doctor that traveled into the village once,” Futaba said shyly. “Lavender melon soup is said to have some soothing properties that— Big sister…?”

The young girl stared at you with both concern and disappointment when the bowl she’d given you fell to the ground, splattering its contents in the process. Your lungs seemed to tighten as you eyed the rich violet broth—that familiar, sickeningly sweet scent wafting to your nose.

Suddenly, you’re underneath the perpetual thunderstorms of Yashiori as the cold, cold rain beat against your skin once more.

You didn’t know you were shaking so badly until Ayaka put a hand on your shoulder.

“Thoma,” she spoke quietly, but you could feel the weight of her concern through her fingers alone. “Can you accompany Miss Kira for a quick walk?”

The last thing you wanted, of course, was to be left alone with the man who was probably—definitely—behind your distress in the first place.

“What are you trying to do?” you growled, yanking Thoma by his pendant once you’d gotten far enough from the cemetery. “Guilt me into giving it up? Well, I have some news for you. I’ve never turned down a job out of guilt. Not once. Not ever.”

He stared at you passively—those hauntingly green eyes devoid of their usual mirth. Thoma pressed his lips into a thin line before carding his fingers into his golden hair.

And then, he spoke your name. Your real name.

“It was a little tricky to dig up some dirt on you, you know?” The chief retainer sighed, disengaging himself from your grasp. “But of course, I have my ways. Your record is quite interesting, too. Born and raised in Higi Village. Adopted by a doctor named Suzuki Naoko. Killed said doctor in cold blood before traveling to Inazuma City to debut as a mercenary. That’s a loaded resumé for sure.”

It was no surprise that someone like him managed to glean all that in just a few weeks, though some details might have been obscured in the process. You made a reputation for yourself for being nearly untraceable; prided yourself for it, even.

And Thoma here singlehandedly trampled on all that confidence.

“What,” you began, eyes closed as you drew in a long breath, “are you trying to do?”

When you opened them again, Thoma managed a placid smile—one that emphasized the dimples on both of his cheeks. It’s the first time you noticed them, but your mind was in too much of a disarray to think about them too much.

“Reminding you.”

You grimaced. “Of what?”

Instead of just answering directly, Thoma gestured for you to sit with him at the village chief’s front porch. You hesitantly complied.

The heat of the afternoon was near sweltering. Konda Village was smack in the middle of Byakko Plain, and offered no shade whatsoever from the harsh glare of the sun. As you lamented the onset of summer, Thoma nursed his bowl of lavender soup in the silence. You wondered what he thought of the taste.

Then, you set your gaze farther into the distance.

Up ahead, the Grand Narukami Shrine stood tall above all else on the island. Wisps of mystical energy coiled itself around the mountain before disappearing straight into the cloudless sky. You could see it clearly even in broad daylight.

Back then, you never gave yourself the time nor the leisure to admire the marvels of the land like this.

“Do you know where the men of this village are, Miss Kira?”

Peeling your eyes away from the shrine, you shot Thoma a pointed look.

“Back to fake-name basis now, are we?” you observed, inching your sandals closer together. “Well, able-bodied men are usually drafted as the Raiden Shogun’s soldiers. I’m assuming it’s the same here?”

He nodded. “Those two were soldiers who were permitted a weekend off in their hometown. Konda Takuya was the village chief’s son. Takeru’s father. He was good friends with Sango Akihito, so it would make sense for their children to get along well.”

…Then that meant Akihito was Futaba’s father.

Thoma set his now empty bowl aside, stretching his long legs until his feet touched the ground. “Last year, we were contacted by the village chief about a double murder case. No one saw the culprit; it happened right under everyone’s noses, he said.” When his green-eyed gaze met yours, you nearly shivered.

“Takeru and Futaba were the ones who found them by the riverbank. Their bodies turning the water red with rot.” The blond breathed out a laugh that held no amusement. “The Tenryou Commission was the one who handled the case, and Milady and I were just there as the village chief’s friends. But still, it made me wonder…”

He braced his palm on the wooden platform, and you caught the scent of aralia trees and musk before you noticed Thoma leaning forward. Your eyes widened at the sudden close proximity—becoming all sorts of vulnerable under his gaze. You could even feel the warmth of his Pyro Vision grazing the side of your clothed leg.

Yet you hardly moved an inch.

“What was going through the killer’s head when he did this to the men who steadily provided income for Konda Village?” Thoma spoke quietly. “Did he think about what their deaths would leave behind? How much sorrow his actions could invoke into a community as small as this?”

With how close he was to you, each word that tumbled out of Thoma’s mouth made gooseflesh prickle the skin of your shoulders. But before you could snap at him to knock it off, the blond pulled away—making you heave a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“Probably not, right?” he sighed, lacing his fingers together on his lap.

“I’ve seen what grief does to a person. Sometimes the people left behind pick themselves up and move on. But at other times, the damage is irreparable.” A pause. “It’s a good thing the children are too young to fully comprehend their grief, and the elderly, too accustomed to be fully consumed by it.”

As if on cue, the wind picked up the next moment. You held the folds of your yukata in place as you watched the carp streamers sway in the breeze. To your side, Thoma got back to his feet, patting the dust off his clothes. The blond strands framing his face mimicked the movement of the windsocks on the chief’s front lawn.

You’re right, you wanted to tell him. I never once wondered what happens after the carnage I leave behind.

Another question hovered in your mind.

One you’ve been dying to ask since you’d overheard his conversation with Ayato.

So how could someone like you see himself in someone like me?

But…you never got the words out. All those questions swiftly burned out on your tongue until all you could taste were the ashes of uncertainty.

In the silence, Thoma turned to look at you once more.

“I hope you remember this, Miss Kira,” he resumed, voice still barely a touch above a whisper. “That actions have consequences, whether or not you’re the one who’ll be picking up the pieces in the end.”

His words sunk in like a sedative coursing through your veins—numbing out anything else aside from the desolate tone that accompanied the spiel.

You couldn't believe it. This man was lecturing you about right and wrong like you were a toddler who didn’t know otherwise. And he had the gall to comment about your roundabout methods to assassinate his charge when he orchestrated all this? Just to…what? Prove a point?

“Did you seriously think you can just convert me into a law-abiding citizen with an unsolicited speech?” you scoffed.

“Of course not,” he laughed. “I’m not as delusional as you take me to be, Miss Kira. I just hoped a little nudge would let you see things in a...different light.”

You were about to tell him you’re not the only one who’ll be seeing different lights as you balled your fists, but your nefarious intentions had been rudely interrupted.

“There you are!”

Down the main road, you could spot Ayaka and the rest of the villagers returning from the cemetery. The princess had two kids in tow, and in spite of yourself, you wondered if you’d offended Futaba by throwing that lavender melon soup into the ground.

“Miss Kira, are you alright? You seemed a bit ill earlier,” Ayaka asked once they’d arrived—fussing over you almost immediately. “Those injuries of yours… Do they still hurt? Archons, I knew I shouldn’t have invited you out so soon.”

…Invited you out? So making you come along had been Ayaka’s plan all along?

As the princess inspected your arms in earnest, you shot Thoma another incredulous look, which the chief retainer only returned with a shrug.

“I’m sorry, big sister…”

To your side, Futaba rubbed her eyes as Takeru sniffled behind her. “I thought my lavender melon soup made you sick. Maybe I should improve the recipe with Grandpa a little…”

You didn’t know what compelled you to refute her assumptions so quickly, but you did.

“Hey,” you managed dryly. “Um, that’s—that’s not it at all, buddy. I’m still recovering from a bunch of nasty injuries. In fact, I used to make the same stuff you gave us as a kid.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Really? You made lavender melon soup, too?”

“Yep. My…dad hammered the recipe into my head.” You chuckled, tapping a finger to your temple.

For the first time today, Takeru spoke out loud, despite the string of snot dribbling down his chin. “B-Big sister, can you teach us?”

Ayaka sighed as she procured a handkerchief from her pockets—dabbing it on the poor boy’s face. “I’m certain she would be willing to do that. Right, Miss Kira?”

With the flow of conversation suddenly having been directed your way, you were hyper aware of the fact that the rest of the adults had gone back to their respective homes. Only the village chief was left lingering on the property. He seemed to be busy sorting out his lavender melon supply on the foyer.

You gulped, turning to Takeru as he gazed up at you with hopeful eyes. It’s been so long since anyone has looked at you not with fear for their lives, but with a childlike expectation. Futaba wore the same expression as well, and all that you could think of at that moment was—

Stop, you thought—an indescribable feeling settling over your chest. Don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who killed your fathers. I’m the one who made your lives miserable.

If you thought about it hard enough, you could still remember. The thick, humid air that pervaded your senses as you dumped two lifeless bodies in the river uphill. The bottomless pit that dug itself in your heart all these years. You felt nothing as you left those hapless men for dead.

But right now, with their children looking at you like you were anything but a monster—

“Well, if we’re having a cooking session, we best start now, no?”

Thoma’s voice was quick to reel you from that downward spiral. You even jolted at the sound of it. All of a sudden, you didn’t have the blood of countless innocents caking your fingernails down to the beds anymore.

In your hands was a clay pot that the chief retainer had unceremoniously dropped onto your palms.

“Come on.” He snapped his fingers in front of you. “We don’t have all day.”

Ayaka nodded as she straightened herself out. “Miss Kira, I’m a bit interested in how you would cook lavender melon soup. You always seem to avoid kitchen duty whenever it comes around, so…”

“Gee, I wonder why,” you mumbled—giving Thoma the stink eye.

“Big sister, teach us. Teach us!” Takeru whined, tugging at the hem of your yukata.

You sighed, tucking the pot beneath your arm as you marched to the village chief’s well.

This didn’t change anything. You were still the culprit behind a traumatic experience for the very same kids following you around like ducklings. Doing this for them would only atone for a fraction of what you had done.

And Archons knew the blood price for your sins would have to be paid in full someday.

“So first, we need to boil a lot of water,” you instructed. “And I mean, a lot.”

(Later, as everyone sat around the well—sick to their stomachs from eating too much of the miracle soup you hadn’t made in years—you wondered.

When was the last time you ever repented for the crimes you’ve committed?)

The soft breeze grazed your cheeks as you quietly sipped on your saucer. Madarame hadn’t been kidding around when he said the deliveries from Inazuma City had a bite to them.

That, or you were just unused to holding your liquor nowadays.

It was well past midnight, and you were seated all alone in the pavilion. Of course, the ever-vigilant Kamisato guards still kept a close eye on every move you made, but were kind enough to leave you to your own devices. Besides, evening tea with Ayaka had been such a staple in these nights you spent in the estate that failure to have drinks under the moon felt like a crime.

Even if Ayaka was currently accompanying her brother to a series of week-long meetings at the Tenshukaku. Even if what you were drinking was actually savory sweet rice wine.

“That’s some good stuff you got there.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And I’m not sharing,” you announced, holding the ceramic jar to your chest as Thoma sat a few feet away. “Everyone else declined when Madarame put one of the Commissioner’s stocks up for grabs.”

He stared at you, amused. “So that means I’m not allowed to have a say in it? Because I just got back now?”

“Sometimes, I’m glad you’re as bright as you are.” You grinned sheepishly, abandoning the saucer as you took a swig straight from the jar. “How’s the princess?”

“As unintentionally charming as she always is,” he supplied. “So, what’s keeping you up at this hour? Could’ve sworn you’d be plotting your escape in bed by now.”

“Shhh.”

You leaned across the platform, stretching out your hand until your index finger was pressed against the plush give of Thoma’s lips—hiccuping in the process.

“No one’s s’posed to know that,” you half-groaned, half-slurred. “What if somebody overhears, huh? They’ll get the wrong idea and think I’m a fugitive.”

“But you are a fugitive,” Thoma reminded, grabbing your wrist with an unexpected gentleness as he pulled your finger away. “You’re Kira of the resistance. Loyal servant to Her Excellency, Sangonomiya, and temporary retainer to the Kamisato House.”

You didn’t pay attention to his attempt at being a smartass. Instead, your eyes roved to where his gloved fingers enclosed themselves around your wrist.

Thoma’s hands were much larger than yours. Fingertips more calloused, which was saying something because the years hadn’t exactly been kind to your fair maiden palms either. And above all, his skin was warm. The kind of warm you’d only ever felt a long time ago.

Snuggling under the blankets as Mother read you stories to bed. Eating dinner by the fireplace as Doctor Naoko praised your progress in learning human anatomy.

You shook off his grip.

“I’m getting a little sleepy, Master Thoma,” you sighed dramatically as you tried to stand up. “Could you take this back to the kitchen and store it somewhere? I don’t think I can…”

There’s a distant sound of something shattering against a hard surface that reached your ears. But you barely heard it over the sound of your own heartbeat. You looked up in red-faced trepidation when Thoma caught you by the waist before you could fall off the platform—breath hitching in your throat as you drank in the sight of him.

During all those little tea parties with Ayaka come evening, Thoma never once tried to step in. Something about preserving the integrity of a ladies’ chit-chat, or whatever. But from the way he’d comment on the lies you’d fed the princess the night prior, you were almost certain he’d be at least eavesdropping from a safe distance.

It’s a shame he wouldn’t join you two, really.

He looked gorgeous under the moonlight.

“Miss Kira…”

The last thing you remembered before falling into slumber were the endless emerald of his eyes—and how you didn’t quite mind getting lost in their labyrinth.

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#genshin impact #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin smut #genshin fanfiction #genshin x reader #thoma fanfic #thoma smut #thoma x reader #genshin scenarios #genshin headcanons #cryoculus #genshin thoma #guard dog

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butterbabyflapjack · 2 years

Text

ch. 2

༄ Gold Gilded Leash

Derek Goffard x Matt Goffard (The Price of Flesh) x fem!reader

Once upon a time, there lived an unfortunate woman minding her own business, struggling just to get by. Until one lovely, fateful day, when she just so happened to be at the very wrong place at the very wrong time.

Knocked unconscious. Kidnapped. Auctioned off as property. An item for one lucky bidder to do with whatever they pleased. And her life which was stolen, was traded - to one flaxen-haired, gold-blooded monster who paid the top of daddy’s dollars to hunt her down.

It’s funny, looking back.

Right?

It’s funny?

What you’ve been reduced to?

And you thought you had it bad back then.

Tumblr chapter directory

ao3

Derek belongs to @gatobob

Warning tags: explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, Derek owns you, some graphic depictions of violence and bodily harm, obsession, wrath, punishment, yandere, rape/noncon, highly dubious consent, variations of noncon to con, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, kidnapping, escape attempts, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, knifeplay, bloodplay, rough sex, possessive sex, death threats, dead dove: do not eat, sadism, masochism, angst, depression & wry coping, breathplay, choking, warning: Derek (the price of flesh), Derek might lend you to others, others might steal you for some fun

CHAPTER TWO: Clipped Wings...

Author's Note: If you’ve never seen Derek’s brother and are curious, he was posted on Gato’s pillowfort. And if you’re not 18+, you shouldn’t be going there nor should you be reading this story <3 Everyone else, sorry I barely edited this lets do it ~

___________________________________

“You belong to me.”

“You are property.”

“And I’m going to use you for a long, long time…”

___________________________________

Your chain scrapes across the macassar ebony hardwood of Derek’s sitting room, as you weakly awaken upon the floor. Your lashes barely flutter, stirred into being by the morning’s early light pouring in through the giant skylight carved across the ceiling high above you, its craft like a work of art. And although your body is only just barely clinging to consciousness, like your mind is already fighting being woken in this place, you can’t deny the feel of sun on your skin helps soothe the bruises.

The bedroom attached doesn’t have windows. It’s like a cave. An extravagantly manicured cave, complete with cove lighting and an artisanally masoned fireplace; the flames of which somehow fail to provide any form of comfort.

Being chained out here, left out here, is a rarity. You hadn't even realized there was a wall mount out here to chain you to.

Sunlight.

After your time wandering the desert, you never thought you’d want to see the sun again. But now you weakly uncurl your limbs from where you're strewn across the floor, basking in its golden spill. Wondering how you even got out here in the first place. You don’t recall Derek dragging you out here. You don't remember seeing him at all last night, actually - not for days - and you feel like you’d remember the torment of it.

He didn’t have your dog bed brought out for you, apparently. Not that you expect him to see to even your smallest of comforts, but he seems to especially enjoy how much you hate being treated like his pet.

You’re not sure if being forced to sleep directly on the floor is in any way better or worse.

The luxury of silence, of solitude, isn’t long left to you. And suddenly your heart bolts against your ribs as the two-story doors leading from the sitting room’s foyer are shoved open - both of them, despite their heavy weight.

Shit.

You jerk up into something of a slouch, your weight pushed up on your palms, likely looking like some startled, cornered animal readying to flee the length of its leash – and are simultaneously befuddled and relieved to see the estate manager of Derek’s wing of the household – Emilia Lane, a taut woman with cold eyes – striding brusquely into the room, her sensible heels clacking on the hardwood.

She comes directly toward you, her pace not slowing as you slowly shrink away.

“Get up,” she snaps at you, eyeing you in that same way all the household staff tends to. With a wall behind their eyes rejecting whatever pity or sympathy might lie behind it; ‘ better you than me’.

“Why?” you ask her, and see her thinning frown.

My, you’re feeling bold this morning, aren’t you? Then again, Miss Lane has never struck you. She’s tugged you along with her, sure; digging her manicured claws into your forearms when you try to get away. But she’s not allowed to outright hurt you. No one’s allowed the pleasure of your harm other than the man who’s swiftly become the master of it.

“Get up you filthy ingrate,” Miss Lane clips with more authority, folding her slender arms across her perfectly-pressed, flounce-sleeved blouse. “I’m to have you tended and cleaned before delivered for boarding.”

Part of you wants to continue your dared version of being combative, but you find yourself blinking up at her in confusion instead. “Boarding…?”

She rolls her eyes whilst simultaneously slipping out the key to that iron anklet digging into your skin. “Must I repeat myself? Can you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?” Her eyes slightly narrow as you continue, in confusion, to stare. “Get. Up! I was only given an hour to have you delivered to the jet.” She eyes you, up and down, disdain pinching her pretty features. “And you’re disgusting – I’ll need to have you bathed before anything else, and there’s no time to have anything tailored to whatever shape that is I've been forced into dealing with.”

A maid your don't recognize hurries in through the opened doorway behind her, seemingly belated in her arrival, and Miss Lane turns her narrow gaze from you to the way her feet scuff to a sudden stop.

“Fetch something for Mr. Goffard’s pet to wear. A gown, short, something slim.” She steals a contemplative glance down at you, at that way you're dressed in nothing but your underwear. “...Champagne or blush hued. And tell Miranda to run a bath in the Lavender Room, I expect it filled and the water scented by the time I arrive.”

As she carves through the distance which separates you, she stoops to unshackle your leash, pencil skirt rising up her thighs as her legs press together. And some part of you finds satisfaction in the way she grimaces against having to lean down like one of the maids she orders around, with her enduring the task briskly before rising to tower over you once again.

“Up,” she states again, pocketing your key.

You massage your newly freed ankle gingerly, rubbing your chafed skin back to life. Not obeying her immediately, and seeing her eyes flash as a result. “What do you mean, boarding? Boarding what?”

“Whatever does one board,” she drawls instead of answering, sarcasm dripping off her tongue. Already striding out of the room without a second glance, fully expecting you to follow.

You consider bolting instead, because of course you do – somewhere, anywhere other than that path the clacking of her heels leads to. But you’ve tried that before. More than once. You never make it very far before a multitude of personal and premises guards finds you, and you still wear the marks of your repeated punishments. A reminder of how much you've tried and how badly you've failed.

No, it’s best if you just play the good pet and follow her. Plus, it sounds like you’re getting a bath, and a bath without Derek’s hands all over you sounds like it might actually resemble something nice. Even if Miss Lane will likely be lording over you like an authoritarian hawk the entire time.

Your aching muscles throb with longing at just the thought of a nice, steamy soak. Not to mention… you’re undoubtedly curious about why you’re to be primped and prodded and delivered somewhere in the first place…

Boarding… your mind spins as you shakily lift yourself to stand, hurrying after Miss Lane as best you can so as to avoid any more of her wrath at your tardiness. Boarding a jet? As in… leaving this place…?

There’s no way… Derek wouldn’t let you off Goffard grounds…

...Would he?

You'd do unspeakable things to slip free of this place. And something suspiciously like hope twists inside your chest, with you doing your best to ignore it. It's better not to get your hopes up about anything, not anymore, not here. Hope is just another thing Derek can steal and tear to shreds in whatever ways allow him the most time in savoring it.

You don’t really know where the Lavender Room is, but you follow the echoed clip of heels on marble, stumble-dashing your way down one hallway and the next. You’ve yet to see a vast majority of the estate – the illustrious ‘Mr. Goffard’ hasn’t exactly provided you with a guided tour – but you’ve seen enough to know that giving rooms distinct titles is a necessity should one hope to traverse this labyrinth without becoming lost and dying of hunger somewhere.

When at last you reach the room the sound of Miss Lane's heels leads you toward, which is of course extravagant and is indeed filled with crystal vases overflowing with freshly cut lavender blooms, you’re too distracted by the magnitude of your surroundings to realize you’re on course to run right into her - not until it’s too late, anyway.

“Auuhnph!”

You cry out awkwardly as she stumbles, barely catching herself with how you barrel right into her. Before she snatches your startled wrist and tosses you on the path in front of her, toward the marble-carved tub at the foot of a large bay window, warm with the wash-room's sunlight, which two maids are already busying themselves over, scenting the steaming water, lathering shampoo suds between their palms.

You dig your heels in against the way you're flung at them; eying both the maids and the bath with a souring expression.

Lords, they’re not going to bathe you like a dog too, are they…? You’re perfectly capable of washing your own damn hair!

Even when Derek’s not personally available to ensure with every drop of his being that you hate it here, that you're treated as his fucking pet, you absolutely hate it here and are treated as such, regardless.

“In,” Miss Lane orders you – the suddenly-pampered Goffard pet.

Briefly, you consider wrestling with and tossing her in, instead. She could surely use a bath, and you really don't mind sharing…

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump as you eventually force yourself to strip off the scant clothing you wear, uncaring to your own immodesty. If anything, some part of you enjoys forcing those sheepish maids to avert their gazes from the state of your naked form. From those raised notches carved across your stomach, your back, your arms, your legs. The brands, the bruises. Even half-healed, busy as Derek’s been these past few days from continuing your torment – perhaps even for a full week, though you’ve given up in tracking the length of your sentence – you’re still a mess; a tapestry of his cruel amusement with you.

Though you hate to admit it, as you crawl into the oversized tub, the balmy water is at once soothing, and makes enduring how the maids tug and scrub and untangle a much easier burden to bear. In fact, besides how swiftly they work beneath the watchful, critical eye of Miss Lane, your bath-at-gunpoint is almost enjoyable, and certainly an indulgence you’ve long gone without.

More maids arrive, and you shrink deeper into the water at the sight of their procession; a wary crocodile with only her eyes above the steam, until you’re tugged back up again for more scrubbing. There’s one maid draping a number of mid-thigh dresses over one arm, another toting boxes upon boxes of shoes, and yet another with what can only be described as a torture-chamber’s worth of cosmetics and other styling accessories.

Perhaps you'd rather suffer through whatever torture Derek might subject you to, instead - not that you have a choice.

You’re pulled from the tub, dripping water everywhere. Patted hastily dry by Turkish towels before hands are all about you, holding gowns and shoes up for Miss Lane’s inspection.

“That one,” she points at a champagne-colored, sleeveless gown, with an onyx haltered neckband and thin, empire belt to match; its hem brushing your upper thighs, with what lace makes up the opened back scratching uncomfortably against your shoulder blades.

Somehow, you feel even more naked paraded in it than you did in just your underwear. And as you catch a glimpse of yourself in the wall of bronze-trimmed mirrors, for a moment you don’t even recognize yourself. Somewhat perplexed with how, even with your legs and shoulders and the curve of your spine on full display, you still somehow manage to appear within the realm of good taste.

Apparently Miss Lane truly has an eye for such things. And she chooses a pair of black t-strap heels to match your new garment, the intimidating height of which seems more like a weapon than a spindle to somehow walk upon.

You can’t help from wryly grinning, thinking it might be funny to die whilst tripping in those heels than from anything Derek can, has, or will do to you. The fact that such ideas likely shouldn’t amuse you doesn’t even occur; not anymore. After maybe a month of being imprisoned here, this place is warping you into whatever creature might best survive it. And if that, in and of itself, is not also alarming, that fact does not occur to you, either.

Soon, what scars are visible beyond your newest veil are painted over, the maids busying themselves about you as you try not to wince with their pressing and prodding. Your hair dried and styled. Your lashes curled, your cheekbones tinted, your lips plumped with color.

You imagine, under normal circumstances, the lovely peacock they transfigure you into might fill you with an accompanying pride. But now you just stare dully at your own reflection, trying to find yourself inside it. Yet all you see is an immaculate shell with a dying flame where a heart should reside.

By the time you’re being rushed toward what turns out to be the entrance hall of this wing, it’s clear by Miss Lane’s tension that you’re cutting things close as far as timing is concerned. And as you blink against the waves of fresh air and sunlight that wash over you upon your hurried escort outside, you're forced to give up the desire of begging to walk wherever it is you’re going almost immediately, forced away from your desperate want to spend as much time just walking, just existing outside as humanly possible, even if forced to do so whilst strapped within your death-trap heels. But a polished Rolls-Royce slides up to the curb of the large, circular drive before you’ve even stumbled ten steps outdoors, and you’re swiftly herded inside of it, with Miss Lane ducking in after you. Neither of you speaking as the chauffeur transports you, she, and the gargantuan bodyguard sitting up front to the on-premises hangar.

You merely stare out the window as you're driven there, dragging one fingerpad across the glass. Imagining yourself basking through the flowers, the trees, the grass you see flying by you. Everything outside seems so much brighter, so more inviting when viewed within the confines of a cage, even one as gilded as the one you've been trapped in.

The car pulls up beside one of several private jets upon a massive runway, and as Miss Lane beckons you to follow her out of the car and toward it, you blink up from its rising shadow with a speeding heart.

You’re really leaving.

You’re actually leaving this awful place.

And you’re not sure if that’s excitement or panic in your lungs.

Suspicion, doubt, creeps in where any elation slowly bleeds dry of you.

Why is he letting me leave...?

...Where is he taking me to?!

This can't be good. Derek never gives you anything good.

Then... this must be a game. A ploy. Something that will end up hurting you.

Your heels barely get you up the steep boarding steps without resulting in something disastrous for your ankles, and once inside you’re struck by fear into abruptly stopping – that sprinting of your heart seized to a sudden, panicked halt at who you see already onboard.

The realization's as choked as your throat is at the sight of him.

-Derek–!

But… no.

Slowly, your features twist with confusion.

No. That's not Derek.

Your pulse takes at least some solace in that fact.

You don’t know that man staring idly out the window, already sitting with one heel propped up casually across his opposite knee. A drink in crystal balanced in the mitt of one large, upturned hand, some kind of whiskey, despite the sun telling you it’s not even noon yet.

He has Derek’s eyes, though his are more blue. Has Derek’s mouth, though the shape of his lips lacks amusement. And there, the similarities cease. He’s broader. The ridge of his jawline more dense. His dark brows unruly, along with those few honeyed strands of hair spilled across his forehead, rebellious against the way he’s languidly tied the rest of his shoulder-length mane back across his nape.

He looks like a Goffard, and he’s dressed like a Goffard. And he seems to sense you staring; for he turns, a bare pivot, his gaze half-lidded with the boredom and disdain of the rich.

One eyebrow barely lifts at you, and that is his only reaction to your presence and your gawking at him.

“Has walking become something you’re incapable of? Move you wretched girl!”

Miss Lane is behind where you’ve unwittingly blocked the entrance of the aircraft with your sudden, deer-in-headlights stare, and at her outburst you tear your startled attention away from the dark-haired Goffard now idly watching you. Doing your best to ignore the way his ice-like intensity trails after the awkwardness of you passing by him; his silent interest freckling your skin with goosebumps.

There’s a multitude of plush, empty seats clustered beside each interior window of the jet, and you choose one further back from that man you’d rather hide behind whilst simultaneously keeping your sights on; sitting by a window on the side of the aisle opposite his.

Your posture stiffens a bit as that giant bodyguard from the car takes the seat right next to yours; boxing you in between himself and the wall, and you can’t help but feel your being cornered is not by accident.

You hear the mumbling of the pilots up front, already preparing for take-off, as Miss Lane ensures you’re safely tucked in and seated on board with your hulking, silently imposing escort stationed beside you, before she turns as if to leave.

Apparently she's not coming with you.

“Wait,” you say without thinking, just as she starts to turn. “Is Derek not coming…?” You try not to sound too hopeful.

Miss Lane barely conceals a scoff, as she seems to misinterpret your conflicted expression for some impossible version of you missing him. “He’s already attending business dealings in Dubai – you’ll be reunited with him shortly. Now… go to sleep or something. Or at the very least keep your mouth shut. I won’t be blamed for your unspeakable annoyance.”

You blink, biting at your lower lip. “Dubai...?”

She slaps your wrist, and in surprise your teeth stop nipping. “Don’t bite yourself – you’ll ruin your gloss, you insufferable creature!”

With a terse, parting look of supreme disapproval, she spins about and leaves you there. Departing the jet as its engines purr to life.

As the aircraft rolls toward takeoff, you try to stave the alarm slowly creeping over you, ruining any sense of excitement you'd previously had. Your fingernails digging anxiously at the armrests of your seat as you try not to bite at your lower lip again, just in case the bodyguard beside you is also hellbent on you not ruining your makeup.

Why the fuck is he flying me to Dubai?!

Author's Note:

chapter theme

derek goffard , bastard playlist

inspiration behind your dress

#derek goffard #matt goffard #the price of flesh #tpof #fanfiction #my fanfic #ao3 #derek tpof #dead dove: do not eat #derek goffard x you #derek goffard x reader

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rosecoloredglasses-ts4 · 9 months

Text

Middle Ground

meet the first foal at Golden Stride Estates. Middle Ground is the offspring of our stud Gray Goose and his dam is a TWHBEA (Registry for Tennessee Walking Horses) mare, making him a cross between a Colorado Ranger and a Tennessee Walking Horse

given his bloodlines, Middle Ground is a prospect of jumping and endurance racing

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perlen-gold · 5 months

Text

A m!Hawke x Fenris Story (finished) ~ WARNING ~

This might not be an easy read. This is not a comfortable story. Neither a sweet one.

This is rough. This is vivid. This is raw.

But if you're brave enough to dare the leap and reach into the darkness, it might be worth the plunge...

Fenris stood on the wind-gushed ledge of the roof, balancing his legs, the toes of his right foot dangling over the edge. The roof poured into a steep slant that bent his left knee in a nigh square angel.

The storm that had ravaged the sky all day had wiped its vault clean like a freshly watered riverbed, all mists and grays gone with its furious and ferocious cries but for a few straggling lithe-luminous wisps. Behind them the horizon gleamed with pale plum and fig purple at the cusp, the day’s rim aglow with a last fierce brim of bright gold as of peaches and grapefruits melting to spill out of a gilded urn.

Slowly, his heart dripping in a steady rhythm borne on his breath, Fenris leant forward. When he looked down the estate’s walls, his eyes could trail the alleyway winding up to the front gate.

Fenris had once been a swift climber, sure-footed, his bare feet seeking crooks, and crevices finding his scraping fingers in secreted hollows. In his mind was no remembrance of attaining this skill – nevertheless, part of him remembered it all the same, in the long hours of aquiver waiting, in the fruitless days waning in Hightown’s labyrinth of grays. High, auburn-tasting branches. A barefooted whiff of mahogany. Beneath his skin, a savor of cedar.

There were no trees worth practicing in Hightown. Around Kirkwall and her dorsal zigzag pattern of serrated shores and haphazard cliffs there were no trees to speak of, really. Fenris did not enjoy pervading the forest near the abandoned Dalish camp either. There, too, he found the woods and its trees inadequate – splinter-twiggy and evergreenish, with needle-clinging roots, puny, mere shrubbery only half alive in comparison to the giants he once had climbed.

Vast crowns. Massive boughs the size of a grown man’s body. Long, wide-fingered leaves in all imaginable shades of green, dripping with moisture and water beads pouring golden sunlight into the shades above slinking roots like mossy-soft mountains behind which a Qunari Karasaad could hide his horns as well as approach.

So, here, Fenris crested Hightown. Her walls were smoothly built, each stone set well-nigh perfectly onto the other. It was magic that had once merged them sans the fallible fingers of an enslaved hand which had trembled placing them beforehand. Fenris’ own hands could feel it as soon as he attempted to start climbing them. But they were old now, these walls. In his skin, the aquamarine blue hummed quietly with both the magic and sweat within them. It was hard work, at first. His elbows, knees and shoulders still sighed with these first attempts.

On the fifth day, a voice coiled up to him.

He did not know how she had found out he was back. Perhaps rumors grew rampant about him still, and faster still than he would have favored. Perhaps, she had simply talked with Aveline or met Donnic.

One morning, a small crown of flowers, daisies, snow-dabbed, had been placed outside the estate’s outer gate. He had stepped on it, then, after a startled glance, picked them slowly from his feet’s skin, blossom for blossom. When he came back at midday there was another coronal of daisies the next day, the flowers twinkling slightly misshapen, blooming exactly where the first had been. Fenris ignored this one, too. Upon his return in the evening on the third day he had found no daisies but the end of a woolen, dandelion yellow yarn. Meanderingly, it sidled away into the dark.

Overshadowed brumal houses and umbrageous faces.

Fenris still disliked the Alienage cowering between Kirkwall’s more important vitals, in spite of the endless times he had wrought through it in the years past. He had not been exactly sure, after striding over ash-old bones, dark-stained rubble on splattered cobble stones, the scars of a city nearly crumbling under the echo of its last war, how or why his bare feet had sought out their way to its steep stairs.

And yet, here Fenris had found himself on the upmost stair, looking down.

Sun-spilling lights illuminated the dusky twilight clustering in the corners like whirring fireflies a blackened wheat field at night.

Fenris could move along with shades and shadows if he wished, shed his conspicuous appearance as a snake its skin, almost entirely, and this was how he watched the elves move about down in the alienage.

Towering in the center like a scarlet-painted sentinel was the broad-chested oak tree. As truly fond of trees Fenris was he favored them reigning and breathing out forests instead of rising surrounded by shabby dwellings. Constantly stretching high, sky-high, empyrean-high for freedom.

The mighty oak tree was encircled by the elves of the Alienage in their dilapidated clothes and innumerable candles in a circle around it they were placing. A gold-glimmering modicum of stars come alive below the cloud-strung sky. The elves, humming softly to themselves. A rippling pond of wavering lights. Old and young, elders and children.

Warily, Fenris watched them and quietly wondered to himself, about such wastefulness when wax and light could come short so easily, these days.

When he stepped out of the pooling darkness less gazes flew at him than he usually expected to. Small twigs and rubble girded creakingly under his naked feet as he walked past them. To Fenris, there was less debris here than that which he had climbed over in the rest of the city. The lights, however, brightened the waking night in a great arch around him.

Inside, he found Merrill situating one single beeswax-yellow candle right in the center of her ragged pine table. He could smell the nigh-forgotten scent of it lingering in her small room.

The table was strewn with a carpet of flowers, dried and fresh alike, in a mosaic of creamy lilies, daffodil suns, violet azures and poppy sunsets. Fenris halted, paused over her threshold.

Then, Merrill looked around. Eyes widening.

She almost winced, supplanted by a little squeal of surprise.

He said, “I am intruding. I will leave again.”

Keep reading on AO3

#fenhawke #fenhawke fanfiction #fenris #hawke #m!hawke #Garrett Hawke #merrill #dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age ii #da ii #da2 #da 2 #garrett hawke fenris #dragon age fanfiction #angst #my writing

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deancasswitchbang · 1 year

Text

The Housemate

Author: Trenchcoat_Paradigm (@geeksheek89) Artist: Squirrelofcelestialintent (@squirrelofcelestialintent) No Major Archive Warnings Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clairvoyant, Haunted House, Real Estate Agent Castiel, Ghost Dean, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut, Voyeurism, Possessed Dildo, “I swear if you buy this place I’m so gonna Swayze the shit you!”

Summary: The old Singer farmhouse has been listed with his father’s real estate company for the past 2 years, and Castiel couldn't fathom why the place never sold. That was until he was tasked with selling the place and quickly discovered that it wasn’t just dry rot haunting the halls.

Whenever someone thinks of ghosts, they always draw the same image of a bygone era. Something that would resemble a ‘Lady in grey’ in a long flowing dress, wandering the halls of old forgotten manor houses. Never someone who looked strikingly similar to one’s age, and equally, never someone with such a high level of sass.

Dean was vulgar, annoying, and an insatiable flirt who had no interest in leaving what was once his home. He would drive Castiel up the wall, so much so that he regularly thought about tossing a handful of salt into his face, just for a moment of peace and quiet. But he was also charming, kind-hearted, and had a smile that could light up a room. Paired with his bright emerald green eyes and infectious laugh made his handsome face look more alive than Castiel had ever felt.

Castiel had never intended to buy the old farmhouse, but he’s a firm believer in things happening for a reason. He just never imagined to save a ghost would be the reason.

Preview: “Woah.” The husband froze mid-stride, his arms coming up to rub at his bare biceps. “Do you guys feel that?” he asked his eyes flitting between his wife and Castiel. “Babe, come check this out! I swear there’s a cold spot right here.” The man stepped forward again, his hand reaching out, the tips of his fingers pushing forward straight into the ghost’s chest and protruding out his back. The tips of his fingers wiggled through the flickering vision.

“Get your hand out of Me!” The ghost protested batting at his assaulting arm, but his pale hands just sliced through the solid human form with the husband staring right through him, completely unaware of the ghostly protest.

Castiel pressed his lips together trying hard to suppress a smirk. “It’s an old building—” he offered, his usual go-to when ‘cold spots’ cropped up, all the while trying to keep his professional face firmly intact. “There’s possibly a draft somewhere.”

“Dude! Will you quit fingering my insides!” The ghost answered stepping away and the hand slicing through his ghost’s torso. “Seriously… at least by me dinner first.”

Castiel chuckled, coving up the laps of character with a small clear of his throat. The woman stepped forward, mimicking her husband’s movement of raising her hand and swirling it in the open air. “I don’t feel anything.” She replied with a shake of her head.

“It’s gone now. Man, that was weird.”

“You’re weird.” The ghost snarked back, looking even more sullen than he had moments ago, his arms coming to cross his chest as he pouted at the couple. ‘Ghost can pout?’

“Would you like to see the last room?” Castiel asked arm outstretched towards the open door indicating their departure. The couple smiled at him and headed out back onto the landing with Castiel close behind. One hand on the golden doorknob with all the intention to pull the door closed behind him; “Oh sweet blue-eyes, I hate watching you go. But man, do I love to watch you leave.” The ghost whistled appreciatively. “Damn… You could bounce a quarter off that thing.”

Feeling the hairs on the pack of his neck rise once again and a shameful pair of eyes on his behind, Castiel turned quickly to face the perpetrator. Eyebrow raised, one hand still on the door handle. “I can hear you.”

The apparition yelped. He stumbled backwards into the room like he had lost his footing, lower legs clipped through the bed and clutching a hand to his chest like he had legitimately been startled. Mouth agape and bright green eyes wide staring straight back at him looking, dare he say, terrified. With a blink of an eye, the apparition flickered and vanished out of sight.

Castiel didn’t even think it was possible to ‘spook’ a ghost. But he guessed there was a first time for everything.

POSTING BETWEEN APRIL 23rd AND MAY 6th, 2023!

#deancasswitchbang #dcsb #dcsb2023 #The Housemate #Author: Trenchcoat_Paradigm #Artist: squirrelofcelestialintent

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midnightshade · 1 year

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Title: Child of Pyrite

↷Synopsis: Being the Heir and having inherited the Projection Technique, many assumed that made Naoya the golden child of the Zen'in. However, in a family that values power above all else, even those at the top are bound to suffer in a loveless home

Series: Jujutsu Kaisen

Rating: M

Word Count: 1'515

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Depictions of Child Abuse

Author's Note: N/A

Masterlist

reblogs and interactions are incredibly appreciated ♥︎

"Please, Father, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'll be good, I promise! It was an accident, please don't!"

Naoya's desperate cries ring out across the Zen'in Estate as Naobito drags his son by the wrist towards a building near the edge of the Estate, his face set in cold anger. His cries fall on deaf ears, his father refusing to acknowledge a single word of it.

The servants kept their heads down, ignoring the scene unfolding before them to instead focus on their chores, some of them scurrying away to some other part of the Estate to avoid the situation. They parted before the two, and while some threw Naoya a pitiful look, none made any attempt to step in and help him out of fear of being the next victim of Naobito's wrath.

Naoya looked at them with wide, desperate eyes, nearly tripping over himself as his little legs struggled to keep pace with his father's long, stomping strides. His free hand scrabbled pathetically at his father's iron grip, feeling his wrist already beginning to bruise from the force, but the pain didn't even begin to compare to the icy prongs of fear that gripped his heart as the building in the distance drew ever closer.

Tears blur the young Heir's eyes, and he can't even bring himself to feel shame at the show of weakness.

──────

A punch sends Naoya flying across the room and into the wall. Stars explode behind his eyes as he collapses to the floor, unable to will his aching body to move. He shook, his body covered in welts and bruises from another one of his father's brutal training sessions, but even as he heads Naobito grunt in disapproval, he can't get his body to move.

"Is that the best you can do? You'll never master the Projection Technique at this rate," Naobito said, his gruff voice coated in disappointment as he glared down at his son.

Naoya panted, his eyes squeezing shut as he took in his father's words. He told himself today would be the day he'd impress him, but no matter how hard he pushed himself, he just couldn't do it. He couldn't land a single hit on his father.

Tears stung Naoya's eyes, pain giving way to frustration as he sniffled, trying to hold back the dam of emotions. Being the Heir, tears were a sign of weakness that were not tolerated, even at his young age.

Naobito had yet to notice, stepping closer to Naoya as he continued to ridicule him. "Your movements are still too slow and predictable. How do you expect to be the next Head of the Zen'in if you can't even land a single hit? Your brother's could tag me when they were even younger than you."

Naoya's heart sunk into his chest, his lips trembling at his words. His arms moved clumsily to push his battered body up, but that only proved to be a mistake.

Now that Naobito could better see Naoya's face, he could see the tears begging to fall down the young Heir's face. He frowned, lip curling in disappointment. "Are you crying?"

"No!"

Naoya tried to deny it, but his voice cracked pathetically. Being called out only made the tears come faster as a sob wracked his body, causing him to violently wipe at his face, whining in frustration as he couldn't stop the dam from breaking.

"You'll never succeed as a Sorcerer if you're so soft. Crying is a weakness, boy, and weakness isn't good for the Head of the Clan."

Naobito turned to leave without another word, leaving Naoya alone in the training room to fester in his shame. He curled into a ball, tucking himself into the corner of the room to hide as he cried, his face was hot embarrassment as he hoped no one else would find him like this.

──────

Those cruel lessons had been branded onto his mind, his father beating him into shape like stubborn clay, attempting to mold him into his ideal Heir. Naoya couldn't bring himself to care, all logical thought driven from his mind as fear turned him into little more than a feral animal, thrashing and screaming to escape the approaching danger.

Naoya's screams grew in intensity when they finally stood before the Disciplinary Pit, thrashing so wildly in his father's grip that he almost popped his arm out of place. He watched as his father pushed the double doors open and pulled Naoya inside to his doom.

Naoya's ears began to ring loudly, black spots forming at the edges of his vision as his eyes rolled back. His mouth filled with saliva in preparation to empty his stomach, bile liberally coating the back of his throat.

He made one last, pitiful attempt to plead with his father, but it came out a hysterical mess of crying and begging, completely incoherent. Even if Naobito could understand him, it wouldn't make any difference.

Naobito tossed Naoya forward, sending him tumbling down the stairs and into the circular pit. Even while in hysterics, Naoya had enough sense to curl himself into a ball, attempting to minimize the damage before he hit the floor, sprawling across the hard tile.

Despite his efforts, pain exploded behind his eyes, his body screaming in pain as each hard impact with the stone stairs caused bumps and bruises to form, leaving their mark on him and adding to the torment.

"You can stay here until you learn how to act like the Heir," Naobito called, his booming voice echoing around the chamber as he glared down his nose at his son.

The Head of the Zen'in moved to place seals along the edges of the chamber, keeping the Curses from getting too close to Naoya. Punishment or not, he didn't expect a boy Naoya's age to battle against 2nd Grade Curses.

Naoya ignored the pain in his body. The moment he landed, he pushed himself up and scrambled into the center of the circle, curling himself into a tight ball. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, locked on the grotesque creatures that laid just beyond the boundary.

He couldn't bring himself to answer his father or to even register when he left, too petrified to even look away from the jeering Curses. The distorted creatures paced around the edges of the circle like hungry tigers, their movements jerky and unnatural. The sounds they made, ranging from growling to human-like wailing, carved into Naoya's skull, drowning out the sound of his own sobs.

──────

Naoya laid on the hard tile, his tears having long since run dry. He stared ahead, motionless as he spaced out, disassociating from the situation.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, just waiting for his punishment to be over. He didn't even register when the door opened, and a figure approached him. The Curses hissed loudly, all of them fleeing deeper into the shadows.

Only then did Naoya look up, vision blurring as he struggled to focus.

Naobito stood over him, face stern as ever as he asked, "Have you learned your lesson?"

Naoya blinked at him, his brain hardly processing his words. After several seconds, he nodded slowly, but Naobito only frowned.

"Naoya, I want to hear you say it. Have you learned your lesson?"

Naoya opened and closed his mouth, his tongue feeling too big and uncoordinated. The first thing he thought was just how thirsty he was. Had he been here for several days, or had he simply cried so hard he dehydrated himself?

After several long seconds, he finally managed to croak out a quiet, "Yes, father. . . .I've learned my lesson."

"What did you learn?" Naobito asked expectantly.

"I won't. . ." Naoya's voice faltered as he spoke, forcing him to clear his throat before continuing. "I won't run in the halls anymore, and I won't break another Vase while playing. I promise. . .I promise I'll act as an heir should."

He watched as his father gave a stern nod before reaching down, picking him up off the stone floor. Naoya hung limp in his grasp, having no strength left in him.

"Good. Let's not repeat this lesson."

Naoya only nodded, exhausted both physically and mentally as he leaned into his father's chest. His body ached from injuries received from the older man, but he couldn't help but instinctively search for the warmth and comfort a father should provide. He closed his eyes, being lulled to sleep by the sound of his father's steady heartbeat.

In his dreams, he imagined the one person who had ever shown him genuine kindness and love, the person who had once protected him from the worst of his father's rage. He sat curled up in his mother's lap, listening to her hum a gentle lullaby as her fingers carded through his hair.

Being the Heir may have made him the Golden Child to onlookers, but to the Zen'in who prized strength over all else; where feelings of love and vulnerability and family were deemed as weaknesses, they'd realize that all Naoya amounted to was fool's gold.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #Zen'in Naoya #dark incantations #Midnight's Grimoire

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pearlypairings · 1 year

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a tumblr preview :)

In the Shade of Aurelias

Summary:

Lady Christine is the only heir to the wealthy Cunningham estate, it is her duty now at the proper age for betrothal to marry and enhance the family's legacy. With birthright omens in mind, her strict parents permit a choice of which suitor she shall marry after a period of courting. Amidst her chaperoned outings, a chance meeting sends her down a path of self-discovery and unravels a devastating life-long secret that makes her question everything she’s ever learned from her family.

What will Lady Cunningham decide to do with the truth? Who will she turn to when her world is turned upside-down and her path unclear?

Chapter 1 ✨

Morning rises, and peace flees from her.

At the first glimpse of light in the highest chamber, Christine stirs under the blanket of warm down feathers. She knows what is coming next, and buries her chin deep into the plump mattress below. Hoping she disappears into soft oblivion.

Within minutes, a cascade of hands waterfall upon Christine’s skin.

A stocky pair pulls the corner of her covers away to bat and re-fluff the outer garnish of her bed. Another leads her through the bedchamber and undresses her behind an elegant divider decorated in shiny gold accents. A bath is already drawn for her and a small wood stove heats a fresh pail of scalding water. Sore, reddened hands scrub the night’s reveries from the memory of her fair skin.

Firm hands, and she’s dry. Slender, sturdy hands, and she is dressed in the finest undergarments, awaiting the final tightening of her corset boned with ivory. Hands, and her face—the last untouched place—is covered in pressed powders to color her cheeks and the delicate skin above her blue eyes.

She takes her routine in stride, keeping her chin poised and her interactions pleasant with her handmaidens. It is a familiar testing ground for years of preparation as the only daughter of nobility. She is careful not to wipe sleep from her eyes, otherwise ruining the perfected canvas of her face.

Christine’s body is hardly her own anymore.

After her 20th birthday, an official announcement of her marriageability had been made which only increased her mother’s scrutiny. Lady Cunningham, having always been relentless in appearances, instructed Christine’s handmaidens under the threat of poverty to pay close attention to grooming details. With the sheltered daughter of Cunningham’s marriage a popular topic of Hawkinnes gossip, the insatiable expectations for perfection are at their highest they’ve ever been.

Thus, the servants fret, and Christine prays for another day without wrath fired upon the souls who doted on her.

Every morning repeats the same tortuous dance for her: wake, surrender, and offer a fleeting smile before the maiden scurry to their next errands of the day. The sweet aroma of baking bread squeezes its way through the double doors to her bedchamber, signaling the time to break for morning meal is nigh.

Christine takes one last glance in the vast mirror beside her wardrobe, dabbing a small amount of rouge to her pout. It is the latest deal she made with her servants, so she can have one glorious moment alone with her own thoughts and reflection. Between the ornate golden frame, the hollow-cheeked face staring at her is hardly recognizable.

Her golden hair is at least a foot longer since the last harvest season, pinned in twisted plaits layered across her scalp like a crown of opulence circling her head. High cheek bones poke against the thinning frame of her face, having lost the rounded shape of childhood. Most significant to her is the strange buzzing that returns to her fingertips the longer she leers at her own reflection, with eyes as blue as bottomless wells of cloudless skies.

She smudges the rouge with a fine cloth to smoothen the borders of her lips. A knock at the door startles her, causing her to flinch in place and nearly smear the deep red above her lip. With a delicate sigh, she tugs on her lower skirt, heavy with layers of white and pale blue, and kicks her feet to make her way safely to the looming wooden doors.

Creaking the doors, her escort of the day takes a bow in the open gap, clasping a closed fist to his chest. Christine nods and returns a well-taught smile back at her chosen guardian.

“It is time to meet with the lord and lady of the manor, my lady.”

The rest of the chapter will be posted to Ao3 tomorrow, stay tuned :)

#hellcheerauweek #hellcheer fanfic #hellcheer #fantasy au #nobility au #eddie x chrissy #eddie is a part of an exiled class of people aka mages #chrissy is a noblewoman under pressure to marry as soon as possible #there are twists and turns let me tell you #hellcheer fanfiction #hellcheer au

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mystiicals · 1 year

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OPEN TO: f, nb SETTING: regency era (early 1800s). loosely based off of my darling duke by stacy reid. henry’s been a social recluse ever since the accident that took his family’s life. your muse told their parents that they were engaged to henry to get them off their back for a few more months, except her parents were so ecstatic they decided to throw an engagement ball, and of course they invite henry.

HENRY TAKES A deep breath as he lets his horse trot up the long, winding entrance to an estate he’d never been to. a calloused hand reaches into his coat pocket, fingers grazing against the golden embossed invitation to his own engagement party. his housekeeper had warned him, in her letters to him while he was travelling abroad. a young woman was claiming they were engaged.

henry hadn’t made a public appearance since the year of the accident, and he wasn’t planning on making one at any point in the future. yet here he was, dressed in his finest clothes, long blonde hair slicked back for the first time in years. he was ready to make this strange young lady pay for involving him in this lie, for forcing him out of his fortress of solitude. much too fast, henry is suddenly at the front steps, all eyes on him. his heart pounding, he makes his way to the ballroom, ignoring the mutters around him. in the middle of the lavishly decorated room, he watches as one pair of eyes widens in shock, face gone pale. he’s quick to stride to her, everyone watching as he leans down to give her a short curtsy. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” he whispers, unable to hold back the malicious grin that pulls at his lips.

#indie rp #indie period rp #indie open rp #reposting a few old starters cause i need all of the period scenarios and emotions xoxoxo

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askrivetra · 1 year

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Wedding Ceremony

Rosefayre Manor is an idyllic venue for a wedding. The small royal residence sits in the heart of Wall Rose countryside, surrounded by endless green fields and patches of woodland. Under cloudless sky and unveiled sunlight, the river that weaves through the landscape like a blue ribbon sparkles. Birds take off on an easy wind, flying high above the ivory manor and the many trees that gather around the grounds.

From their view, they can watch as a gilded carriage passes through the white painted gates and begins its journey on the long driveway to the front of the estate. They can see the trees that stand like sentinels either side of the road. As the carriage leaves the gate, a bell rings. The sound soars through their air in tinkling, pleasant waves.

A second bell answers in the manor house. The guests, who have gathered on the front lawn, turn towards the double doors where Erwin and Hange are approaching.

“The bride is almost here,” Hange calls to them all, beckoning them forward.

“Please go inside and take your seats;” Erwin adds, gesturing for everyone to go inside.

————-

Everyone is led into a large, well-lit hall at the back of the house, jutting out from the rest of the building. Lights of various colours overflow from the room due to the multiple stained glass windows embedded in three of the four walls. Sweet scented flowers of white, pale blue and purple stand in vases on painted pedestals throughout the room. Down the centre aisle, some of those same flowers hang in strings along the sides of the pews. Miniature holders have been attached to the corner of each pew and hold a small bouquet there too.

Most of the guests are fellow Scouts or family friends of the Rals. Among the Scouts, the members of the 104th are shepherded forward by Eld, Gunther and Oluo. They are taken to the first few rows of the groom’s side of the aisle as the bride’s side is quickly filling up, Eren sits between Mikasa and Armin, as far from Jean as possible. Jean, Sasha and Connie take up seats behind them. Queen Historia arrives last with her small entourage of security. She insists on sitting with the 104th and has her security wait in the back pews. Soon, as all of the guests have showed up promptly, it doesn’t take long for for everybody to be in their seats.

Erwin and Hange stride around the hall, Hange checking off the guest list before handing it off to a member of the manor staff.

Erwin leaves the room while Hange walks to the front and takes a seat on the front pew. A grin is already stretching across their face as they turn in their seat and start chatting to Armin animatedly.

Outside the hall doors, Levi has descended from a great stone stairway. In his all black suit, he stands out a great deal from the lavish red carpet, the white walls and golden light pouring through the doors. His eyes focus on Erwin with a natural question within them.

“Everyone’s ready to go. Petra will arrive in a few minutes,” Erwin advises, walking forward and placing one hand on Levi’s shoulder.

Levi lets the touch linger for only a few seconds before he strides into the hall. “We better be waiting for her then,” he answers quietly.

Erwin follows him, smiling, soon catching up The two men walk together down the aisle and a hush begins to descend over the gathered crowd as they move towards the alter. Levi takes his place at the front of the church, keeping his back to the crowd. Erwin steps up next to him, half-turning so he has one eye on the double doors.

————

“Look at that garden,” Agatha Ral breatha as the carriage rolls up in front of the steps leading up to the raised lawn. She takes in the trimmed grass surrounded by neatly arranged colourful flower bushes, many of them exotic-looking. “Oh it’s a shame you two couldn’t live here, isn’t it?”

Petra giggles at her mother’s words.

“Now now, Queen Historia has been more than generous as it is.” Rupert Ral chides his wife affectionately.

Her mother shares in the laughter. “Yes, she really has. It’s all so beautiful isn’t it?” Agatha adjusts the long skirt of her spring green gown.

“It’s beyond perfect,” Petra agrees in a quiet voice, her throat filled with nervous anticipation.

Next to Petra’s mother, dressed similarly to Agatha, Nifa grins at Petra. “And the fact that you’re marrying the man of your dreams doesn’t hurt either, eh?”

“He’s such a handsome man,” Agatha muses. “Such good manners and he’s so clean. What a presentable man she’s chosen to marry.”

As Nifa and Agatha share a giggle, Petra bows her head with a smile, her cheeks warming up as she nods, barely taking in their teasing. “No, it really doesn’t hurt,” she agrees. It’s dizzying to think about, the fact that she’s actually about the man she’s been dreaming about for years. That, by the end of the day, no, the end of this hour, she’ll be Mrs Ackerman. She’ll be married. She and Levi will be able to share a room at the base or they could get their own home. They can build their own life together.

Petra Ral will be someone from the past. Petra Ackerman will be leaving Rosefayre Manor today. Her smile, and her blush for that matter, deepens. Her heartbeat is racing ahead, like the build up to a full out sprint and she has to catch her breath for a moment to steady herself.

“Are you okay, darling girl?” Her father asks, reaching across to hold Petra’s hand. He squeezes her fingers.

Petra squeezes back. “I’m really excited, Dad,” she admits.

His warm smile blossoms into a grin. “Enjoy this day. Every second of it.” He looks towards Agatha and Nifa with a playfully firm glare. “If you two are quite done tittering,” he remarked, “how about we get the girl married?”

“Absolutely!” The two women chorus and Rupert winks at his smiling daughter.

————

Petra is grateful for the simplicity of her dress as her father helps her out of the carriage.

The fabric is silky and comfortable entirely. The style is basic with long-sleeves and no patterns. The material hugs her body but not too tightly. She can walk comfortably enough and she only has to lift the skirt a bit to ascend the stairs to the raised lawn. Even so, her father and mother both place their hands on her lower back as she steps up.

Petra sucks in a deep breath to hold back the emotion from spilling out of her eyes when they did. It’s like she’s being escorted to the beginnings of a journey, one she has to make on her own, as it should be but no less daunting.

They linger in the lawns just long enough for her mother to gaze adoringly around. Nifa takes the opportunity to fuss with Petra’s already straight hair, tucking bits behind others, claiming that they were falling out of line like bad soldiers. Petra had to stifle her giggle.

Once Nifa’s fussing is over, Rupert takes Petra’s arm and begins to lead her up the next set of steps into the manor house itself. Petra stares around in growing awe at the magnificence. Paintings of extraordinary quality hang from the walls. Spread out across the room are pedestals with stone busts and unfamiliar faces peering at the little company as they slow to a stop. Petra squeezes her father’s arm. She’s actually getting married here. Two soldiers marrying in a house once occupied by the royal family.

“Are you ready?” he asks and Petra nods, swallowing down her nerves and letting the joy that’s been fizzing away inside her, swell up.

Her mother and Nifa step up to the double doors first. The two household staff waiting open the door for the pair of them and Petra listens as a gentle melody begins to play. She and her father stand to one side, out of sight for the time being, listening to Agatha and Nifa’s footsteps disappear inside the hall.

Petra exhales, holding onto her father’s arm to try and stem the trembling that’s started. Nervous energy is flowing around her body so fast that she feels like she’s spinning on the inside. She closes her eyes to try and ground herself. It’s just formal vows. You and Levi are saying what you’ve always said. It’s just in front of your friends. It’s just for a certificate. But those thoughts cannot hold much sway against the feelings of anticipation and happiness.

“There’s still time to run away,” he whisper-jokes to her and she leans her giggling face into his arm to muffle herself. When she raises her head, some of her nerves have begun to still. A deeper voice inside of her speaks uip.

Go and become Mrs Ackerman. Be with the man you love. Let the world see that you chose each other.

“No thanks,” Petra smiles up at her father. She holds onto the bouquet of white roses in her hand, the stems wrapped in white cloth. Her fingers dig into the fabric. “I think I’m ready to marry him, Dad.” she admits after another deep breath.

Her father’s free hand covers hers on his arm and he leans down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m so happy to hear you say that, Petra.” He smiles into her hair then pulls back to smile down at her. He takes his own deep breath, emotion weighing heavily in his eyes. “It’s time to take you to your sweetheart then.”

————

No amount of internal reasoning can chase away this feeling, Levi realizes as he waits at the altar. It’s been sitting with him for so long today that he doesn’t know if it will actually leave him once he sees her, This feeling of unease, of waiting for something to go wrong. It seems almost laughable that the day can be going this well, this smoothly. There has to be some part of this where something falls short. It’s not reasonable for it all to go perfectly, is it?

Hands folded in front of him, Levi’s body has become unbearably tense. His head snaps to the side when Erwin touches his arm.

“Relax,” Erwin whispers although he and Levi both know that this is fruitless advice. Levi remains just as tense.

He hears the approach of footsteps, two sets, as they walk the aisle and step aside to the right. He continues to look forward, however, focusing his eyes on a piece of the stained glass window, a blue segment, diamond-shaped.

The music changes and there’s a murmur of movement behind him. He knows, without looking, that the audience have risen which can only mean that Petra is here. Relief touches at the knot inside his chest, loosening it somewhat. Erwin nudges him as the music builds.

Slowly, Levi turns, lifting his eyes towards the central aisle and the angel carefully strolling down it towards him. His breath catches so quietly that only Erwin may notice.

Petra looks absolutely enchanting. She holds onto her father’s arm as she walks, the simple ivory gown clinging to her lean form in all the right ways. It looks perfect on her. She doesn’t need anything over the top in jewels or patterns or design. She never has. She’d look beautiful in it all but this, right now, is perfect on her. This is his Petra. His lovely, brave, kind, beautiful and perfect Petra. His heart begins to hammer in his chest as he stares at her. She’s opted for a very modest, square neckline and Levi has never been more grateful to see her beautiful body covered up, with the way he’s feeling right now. Even so, his gaze is drawn to the shape of her petite breasts highlighted by the chest-hugging material. The fitted material brings out her slender waist and the hips that Levi loves to hold onto when she’s in his arms.

She’s smiling up at him and it’s a relief to see the nerves in her own eyes. Seeing them wakes something in Levi. He steps forward as her father brings her to him.

Rupert Ral takes his daughter’s hand and places it in Levi’s open, outstretched palm. “Take care of her,” he whispers as Nifa comes to collect Petra’s bouquet.

“I promise,” Levi whispers back.

His hand closes around Petra’s and he brings their hands to his mouth, kissing her fingers tenderly.

“I love you,” Petra mouths to him, her smile growing.

He kisses her hand again. “I love you,” he mouths back.

————

Once he and Petra have taken their positions, the priest steps forward and greets the congregation.

“Welcome to all who have gathered here this day to share in this marriage ceremony of Levi Ackerman and Petra Ral,” the priest begins. “These words, spoken today between Levi and Petra are indeed important and sacred, but they are not what joins these two together, nor is this marriage ceremony. We are not here to witness the beginning of their relationship, but to acknowledge and celebrate a lasting bond that already exists between them. Levi and Petra have already joined their hearts together and chosen to walk together on life’s journey, and we have come to bear witness to a symbolic union and a public affirmation of the love they share.”

He looks gorgeous, Petra thinks as she gazes up at Levi, her hand squeezing onto his. He rubs his thumb over her fingers and holds her stare with his own. She itches to reach up and stroke his slicked back hair, maybe loosen a couple of strands of it. She fights back a giggle at the thought of his reaction to that. God forbid he should look untidy at his wedding. She brings her other hand to cup his as the priest continues.

“Those of us in attendance today are present to witness a statement of lasting love and commitment between Levi and Petra. The ceremonial union of two people in marriage, in its primordial form, is as ancient as our very humanity and yet is still as fresh as each day’s sunrise. The commitment of love between Levi and Petra speaks of their shared experience together and their dreams for the future, of the importance of each of them as individuals as well as the special bond they share, and of the importance of their community of family and friends.

Everyone gathered here today was invited to this ceremony because you have played a special role in Levi and Petra’s lives. You are present at this ceremony to celebrate their marriage and to witness their vows of love to one another. Will all of you, gathered here to witness this union, do all in your power to love and support this couple now, and in the years ahead? If so please respond, “we will.””

“We will,” the chorus behind the couple is loud, especially from Hange’s direction.

Levi glances back at Hange and Petra bites her lip to suppress a laugh.

“Levi and Petra, have you come here today with the intention to be legally joined in marriage? Do you pledge to choose respect, kindness, and compassion toward one another, to listen deeply to one other, and to speak to one another truthfully, today and always?” the priest questions.

Petra nods as she speaks the words alongside Levi. “We do.”

“Levi and Petra, your love is something that you both cherish, so much so that it’s moved you join in the union of marriage and create a home together. Today, you dedicate your lives to giving one another happiness and support. To be certain, entering into the covenant of marriage is an act of deep trust and faith in the strength of your love. It would be a fool’s error to base your marriage on the hope that your partner will change to become something they are not, or do something in the future that they do not already do today. Your marriage must be based on the heartfelt and sincere acceptance of one another, as you are, in each moment.

The pledge you make today expresses your devotion to one another and to the love you share, and the words spoken here will support your marriage if you are able to sustain your commitment through the inevitable hardships you’ll face together. Today, in the presence of your families and friends, you pronounce your love for each other and make a commitment that will define the next phase of your journey. We celebrate it with you, and wish you well.”

Petra steps closer to Levi instinctively. His fingers squeeze her hands and Petra wonders if anyone else could feel the very audible thumping of her heart. She brings their hands up to her lips and kisses Levi’s fingers for several long seconds. When she looks to Levi, he’s watching her with a curious, concerned look. She kisses his fingers again, holding his gaze with a smile.

“Repeat after me,” the priest says, looking at Levi. “I, Levi Ackerman, take you, Petra Ral, to be my wife.”

Levi turns his whole body so that he faces Petra, holding both of her hands in both of his. “I, Levi Ackerman, take you, Petra Ral, to be my wife.” He speaks the words with a solemn firmness to his lips but Petra can hear the dedication in his voice, the care, the love.

“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”

“To have and to hold, from this day forward.” Levi’s thumbs stroke the back of Petra’s hands and her excitable heart flutters with each stroke. She can feel her throat drying up and immediately swallows.

“For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.”

“In sickness and in health.”

“In sickness and in health.” Levi’s hands tighten a little on hers and Petra wonders if he’s thinking of his mother, who had no such partner making vows like this. She squeezes his hands in return, her smile softening. I love you. I will always be here for you.

”To love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.”

”To love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.” Levi’s fingers caress hers and Petra takes in a nervous breath as he finishes the vows. She sees him exhale slowly which does not help with her own rising nerves but she smiles anyway.

Her turn.

The priest looks to her and she nods. “Petra, repeat after me. “I, Petra Ral, take you, Levi Ackerman, to be my husband.””

“I, Petra Ral,” Petra begins, trying to hide the shake from her voice and ignore the presence of the crowd of faces behind her “take you, Levi Ackerman, to be my husband.” She’s grateful when Levi seems to read the tension in her hands and strokes them again.

“To have and to hold from this day forward.”

“To have and to hold from this day forward.” The more of the vows she recites, the more confidence she feels. The more she realizes just how much they have to look forward to. What saying these vows really means. Her smile grows as does the happiness in her eyes.

We’re really doing this.

”For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.”

”In sickness and in health.”

All the way, my love.

“To love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.”

“To love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.” This time Petra says the words alongside the priest and Levi’s mouth curves into a smile.

“May I please have the rings?” the priest calls out and Erwin hands over the two rings to him.

“The ring has long been a symbol of the unbroken circle of love,” the priest explains, smiling around the hall, his voice carrying with an easy grace, “with no beginning and no end. Love given freely has no giver and no receiver, for each is the giver and each is the receiver. May these rings always remind you of the freedom and power of this commitment you make here today.”

He hands Levi one of the rings.

“Levi,, placing the ring on Petra’s finger, repeat after me: “Petra, I give you this ring, as a sign of my vow to love, honor, and cherish you.””

Carefully, Levi takes Petra’s hand, his thumb nudging her ring finger apart from the others. “Petra,” he tells her, his voice low but heavy with warmth and promis as he slides the ring onto her finger, “I give you this ring, as a sign of my vow to love, honor, and cherish you.”

Petra’s cheeks warm as a smile of pure joy spreads across her face.

“And Petra,” the priest declares, “placing the ring on Levi’s finger, repeat after me: Levi, I give you this ring, as a sign of my vow to love, honor, and cherish you.””

Petra accepts the ring from the priest and takes Levi’s hand. He spreads his fingers for her and she rubs her thumb across one of his knuckles in thanks. “Levi, I give you this ring, as a sign of my vow to love, honor, and cherish you.” She tells him, trying to fill her voice with everything that she feels for him.

He brings her hands to his lips and kisses both of them. Her stomach flips over itself.

“Levi and Petra,” the priest declares after a short pause, “inasmuch as you have pledged yourselves, each to the other, and have declared the same in the presence of this company by the exchange of vows and the giving and receiving of rings, by the power vested in me I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Petra releases a breath and steps forwards, her body flooded with lightness and euphoria. Levi’s hands move up to cup her face even as the priest continues speaking.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Levi’s lips touch hers less than a second later, soft and gentle, chaste and full of love. Petra holds onto his waist as the crowd behind them breaks out into applause.

The noise fades into silence as Petra loses herself into Levi’s kiss. His hands lower to pull her against him. Her arms slide up and around his neck as their kisses continue. It’s like being suspended in a daydream, a feeling of total and utter bliss. Petra clings to the feeling. It would be nice to stay here forever.

Levi pulls back all too soon, both of them flushed and needing to breathe. Levi looks towards the guests, conscious of an audience. He continues to hold Petra close though, his hands rubbing her back as she happily lays her head against his chest.

We’re married. We’re really married.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you, the new Mr and Mrs Ackerman!” the priest declares.

As a new round of applause begins, Petra gazes up at her new husband and one of his hands moves to cup her cheek. He kisses her lips briefly, once more.

“I love you,” Petra tells him.

“I love you,” he replies against her mouth, “with all my heart, Mrs Ackerman.”

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