pairing: favourite male!anime character x fem!reader
warnings: ‼️18+, minors dni‼️, rough, creampie, talk of a/b/o-verse (but in a funny way, not the actual world build), slight degradating and praising talk
a/n: if you know what instagram reel i'm talking about, you know
you’re watching a gag reel on instagram about a woman talking about betas invading alpha spaces and your boyfriend leans over your shoulder to see what makes you laugh.
you get to the part where the lady says I see betas cosplay as alphas, and you turn to him, gently cupping his wide jaw in your hand. “look, it’s you.”
he furrows his brows. “you think I’d be a beta?”
“no.” you chuckle against his skin, kissing his cheek. “you’d be a little omega bitch.”
not even twenty minutes later, he has you on your knees, fucking you face first into the mattress. your screams are obscene, the sound of skin slapping against skin delicious. in the peripheral part of your mind that isn’t filled with thoughts of yesyesyes and dickdickdick you hope your neighbour isn’t home. if the police shows up a second time because someone called in for domestic abuse, you’ll die of embarrassment. the only thing being abused right now is your dripping pussy, clenching around his fat dick as he pounds into you at a neck-breaking pace.
“who’s a little omega bitch now?” his voice is rough, his lips bruised. he’s always so determined to map your body with his mouth, to draw paths on your skin with his tongue. you turn your head, desperate to taste his lips, sweet like honey, but his large hand finds the back of your neck and holds your head in place, cheek pressed against the soft pillow, wet from your drool and sweat.
“pretty, so pretty,” he mumbles. “an’ for me, only for me.”
apparently you aren’t the only one with her brain fucked stupid right now.
he’s close. thrusts growing sloppier, not losing their intensity though, he pulls your knees from under you, lying you flat on your stomach, he on top of you. his weight presses you further into the mattress, your wails smothered by the cushion. he’s started babbling now, incoherent sentences that only make sense to him.
you’re doin’ so good, so so good.
take it, take everything you stupid, little slut.
one, two, three thrusts and he’s spilling inside you, grinding his dick inside your clenching cunt as he paints your walls white with thick ropes of cum. his free hand steals between your body and the mattress, his clever fingers finding your overstimulated clit. one light brush is enough to wreck your body with a toe-curling, shaking orgasm, your walls milking him completely dry. he doesn’t stop tapping your pussy, doesn’t shut up. “mine, mine, you’re mine.”
oh, you’re his alright, and you’re going to make him walk his walk, already moving your hips against his shallowly, ready for round two.
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All you wanted was a nice part time job to scrape by. But if you had known how much of a smug sass-master Akira Kurusu would turn out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing to tutor him.
Pairing: Akira x fem!Reader; later: one-sided! Akira x Akechi
Warnings: age difference, consensual underage romance, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, references to depression, unreliable narrator, angst, hurt & comfort, p3 cameos, p4 cameos, no persona 5 royal spoilers
A/N: A story that’s very dear to me, especially because it’s one that I managed to complete after three years of working on it. I just really love Akira and Persona 5 so here you go, have fun with it.
after dumping all my stories on tumblr I sort of just disappeared from the surface and didn’t work on anything major. work’s been hell but there’s an end in sight.
for 2022 my goal is to use tumblr more and work on growing a bigger reader base. i want to write stuff i usually don't (especally smut and headcanons and drabbles) to widen my horizon. though if it comes to the smut and 18+ content, i think i'll make a separate blog for those who don't want to read that.
i'll definitely change the visual's and navigation of my blog, i'm not rlly happy with it as it is now.
so, here are the things i stared working on last year but couldn’t finish any of it, so here’s what i want to publish at some point (not in this order):
[no title yet]
pairing: Noé x Vanitas
tags: au, ghost hunters, falling in love, fluff, mature audiences only because we'll deal with some serious, triggering stuff regarding vanitas, eventual hinted/inexplicit smut
about: while out on a job, noé (ghost hunter) meets vanitas (medium) and he just knows he’ll never see eye to eye with him. but it won’t be the last time their paths cross and if they want to survive whatever the wicked spirits from the beyond hold in store for them, noé has to do the unthinkable: trust vanitas to save them both.
a/n: this has been in the making for so long. after the manga got the anime adaption, i thought it would be good to dive back into vnc but unfortunately, i didn’t rlly find any motivation to keep on working on this one. hopefully with the next manga volume coming out in a couple months, i'll finish this baby.
[the forest of hands and teeth]
pairing: Albedo x Aether
tags: au, mystery, modern setting, bittersweet ending, angst, kissing, supernatual
about: winning the meet & greet special of his favourite cryptid youtuber albedo, aether is beyond happy to finally see his crush in person instead of behind a plastic screen. it was supposed to be a nice away time from college, from mourning his sister’s absence after the fatal accident three years ago. hang out with albedo, venture through the forest in search for cryptids. stay very close to albedo. but albedo has his own reason to allow aether to grow closer to him, one that he might not follow through to the end as he starts to see aether as a friend. perhaps even more, though he doesn’t dare to, for the forest has eyes everywhere.
a/n: now this one. this one is very special to me and i wish i wouldn’t have plotted everything till the end because now i can’t bring myself up to put it into a decent story. it'll certainly happen because coming up with and seeing how both aether and albedo develop during their companionship hit home. this one hopefully might happen sooner than later. i loved the recent event with albedo and his doppelganger and thought maybe that’d give me some motivation but nuuh. genshin in itself isn’t just bringing me joy anymore, so i think this’ll be the last fic for genshin in a while.
[on earth we’re briefly gorgeous]
pairing: Osamu x Suna
tags: au, post-apocalyptic world, supernatural, angst, from enemies to lovers, major character death, mature content, eventual explicit smut
about: in a dying world where osamu’s priority number one is his brother and his priority number two is staying alive, meeting suna rintarou is a danger to both. hunted by monsters, always scared the disease might catch up to them, osamu can’t have another person to worry about; to take up a seat in his heart because he’s already lost too much. but maybe, suna is worth it. maybe, suna is the answer to end all this.
a/n: now this one is also very special. when work started to go downhill, this pairing kept me afloat and going. it's become my top comfort pairing of 2021 and i need to write my own story with them, for them. this was the first idea i had, inspired by eve’s music video [yuseiboushi] that is an abso-fucking-lutely master piece. because the story ends as it ends, i decided at some point i'll write an additional chapter after that (which you don’t have to read if you’re satisfied with the ending of this story) that’s a take on ‘they’re all movie actors and this was just a film and everyone’s happy. also osamu and rin are engaged.’
[no title yet]
pairing: Osamu x Suna
tags: au, photographer!suna, kitsuna!miya twins, mystery, supernatural, urban fantasy, falling in love, hurt and comfort, betrayal, bittersweet ending, japanese youkai and folklore
about: suna rintarou knows desperation isn’t a good look on him, but he still accepts the commission that leads him deep into the abandoned forest. what he expected: rain inside his tent, bug bites, poison ivy. what he didn’t expect: meeting twins looking after a shrine up on the mountain and falling for one of them before unravelling the secret that might end them all.
a/n: the second osarin story i started working on, kinda inspiried by the vibes of sou's [harehare ya]. it's going to be a lot more personal than the other, but hopefully it’ll be as rewarding in that sense. this might also get a sequel, depending on how much i can go back into haikyuu and if i still want to write the atsumu/sakusa sequel to this.
[metal between your teeth]
pairing: Atsumu x fem!Reader
tags: ❗❗18+, minors dni❗❗, time-skip, growing from people with benefits to lovers, falling in love, angst, somewhat of an unrequited love with a certain someone, reader is jackal’s pr manager, lotsa smut tags once i get there, alternating pov
about: atsumu has it all. a sport's career, a great team, enough money to buy a small village and unlimited access to the best onigiri in town (don’t tell osamu that). he’s still young, the world lies at his feet and rarely he doesn’t get what he wants. so when he meets you, and you’re ready to give him your body but not your heart, atsumu does the thing he’s unrivalled at: act like a spoiled child until hopefully, you cave.
a/n: yeah man, haikyuu got me so good again thanks to finally watching season 4 and all those amazing fanfics about atsumu. it's just something self-indulgent, if you squint also a character study. if you wanna be generous, you can call it porn with plot
[no title yet]
pairing: Itadori x fem!Reader x Sukuna
tags: ❗❗18+, minors dni❗❗, dacryphillia, dirty talk, size kink, sukuna has big sexy hands, chocking, spitting, creampie, deepthroat, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, manhandling, mating press, reverse cowgirl, ooh they (sukuna & reader) wanna fuck each other so bad it makes them look stupid, itadori and sukuna switch while railing you
about: it’s in the tags
a/n: do i have to say more. thinking about sukuna taking over when you and itadori do the dirty deed is hot. sukuna is hot. you've been a brat because you thought itadori had control over sukuna. you were wrong. sukuna fucks you into oblivion and back. it's funny. porn without plot ✨
[no title yet]
pairing: Gojo x fem!Reader, kinda Sukuna x fem!Reader if you squint
tags: ❗❗18 +, minors dni ❗❗, unresolved romantic and sexual tension, enemies to people who hate fuck each other to maybe lovers, original characters, original plot, possessive gojo, smut tags and warnings will follow as i work on this/when it's in the chapter but you can expect the usual delicious gojo smut warnings
about: three years ago, unable to continue living as part of the jujutsu world, you left everything behind. but then gojo satoru crashes back into your life, someone you thought you’d long ago cut out from you like a cancer. now you're forced to return to the neverending fight against curses, curse users and people you'd initially thought were on your side—all while trying not to get wrapped up in gojo's games that have far too important things at stake.
a/n: this is inspired by a couple of things. it's basically about a subcategory of special grade sorcerers called 'sacrists' that are vessels to very powerful relics (inspiration of relics used: senki zesshou symphogear) and let's just say some of them are about to go really apeshit and maybe want to kill all sorcerers for the way they were treated.
reader is the vessel of the very first and oldest relic called ame no habakiri (again, senki zesshou symphogear with a huge touch of genshin impact's raiden shogun). i want her to be absolutely stupidly strong—but she doesn't want to be part of anything, cue gojo coming in and ruining her life.
there's gonna be angst, there's gonna be a war, there's going to be delicous fucking. look at it as if it's an arc before shibuya incident arc because no one likes shibuya incident arc ✨
there we go! i can't make promises that i'll work on the other stuff (especially the dawn will come), but i think i've reached the point where i'll try and orphan my other reader inserts on ao3. this year i just want to write what i want and don't pressure or guilt trip myself into writing what i don't want just because the last updates are long ago.
okay but listen a vanoe ghost hunt au where vanitas is a medium and communicates with spirits and everyone else is a ghost hunter tasksd to banish them. noe meets him and is absolutely smitten since day 1 and the only one who can bring vanitas back whenever he connects a little too much with spirits.
give me 7 days to write this chonker, if i feel spicey, we'll also get some light smut 🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️
Warnings: age difference, consensual underage romance, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, references to depression, unreliable narrator, angst, hurt & comfort, p3 cameos, p4 cameos, no persona 5 royal spoiler
Summary: All you wanted was a nice part time job to scrape by. But if you had known how much of a smug sass-master Akira Kurusu would turn out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing to tutor him.
Notes: Part 10
Masterlist
a/n: Jesus Christ. Reposting it here on tumblr makes me go through all the chapters and my heart is still with so much love for this story in particular because I really needed it during a tough time and I’m really happy with how it came out to be. I’m sure this won’t be my last Akira / Reader story but god damn, it does hold a special place in my heart.
[Epilogue]: This Was Then, This Is Now
The only thing left to do is putting the cake outside the freezer for what you consider is going to be the best Welcome Home Party and should Akira think otherwise he can take the next train and go right back to his home town. You tell Narukami as much while he’s standing on top of a chair, trying to attach garlands on your curtains.
“I didn’t know you were such a tsundere,” he says, finishing his work. He steps down, nodding when he’s satisfied with how it looks. You feel like it’s a little off and should go more to the right, but he’ll probably clock you if you ask him to get up again, so you just leave it at that and pay his generosity with some well earned mochi filled with orange you picked up at the bakery near the station this morning.
“Maybe I’m just a little nervous,” you admit. “It’s been almost half a year since we really saw each other.”
“Just a little?” Narukami’s eyebrows disappear behind his hair. “When I woke up I saw you were online at four a.m. Did you watch tarantula videos again?”
“Don’t judge me.” You stuff your mouth with more mochi just to be busy with something else. Narukami shakes his head, but he has a hard time not smiling seeing you this happy. And happy you are. Euphoric even. Akira is returning to Tokyo, to his beloved attic above Leblanc. His plan is to work for a year and see if college might be an option after that. Since you’ll finish your studies around the same time, travelling doesn’t sound so bad either. You two will have a lot to talk about once he’s here, which won’t be for another couple of hours since he’ll have to unpack all his stuff in Leblanc.
“You know, at first I wasn’t really sure you’d manage a long-distance relationship.” Narukami helps himself to another mochi. You have a hard time swallowing the sticky mass in your mouth.
“How so?”
“You’re not someone who comes to my mind when I think of the word ‘patient’.”
“Is this about me blue-balling Akira for a yea—”
“We are not going there.”
“Are you telling me you never looked at him and wondered who he bribed to become so god damn pretty?”
Narukami looks at you as if you’ve thrown something wet in his face. He takes out his phone, tapping away. “I am reporting you for predating on a minor—”
“He’s been 18 since January,” you mumble a weak objection which Narukami turns into solid ice with his frosty glare.
“Just keep digging yourself in deeper,” he replies. He stops, eyes fixed on his screen, then sighs. “I can’t believe Nanako’s starting her last year this month.” You peak at his phone, recognising her immediately in her black Yasogami High School uniform. She’s grown into a pretty young lady, her auburn hair falling past her shoulders as she beams at the camera.
“You sound like a man in his forties.”
“I sure feel like a man in his forties sometimes.” He gives you a pointed look as if you were the one responsible for that and you pretend to ignore it by wrapping up the remaining mochi. Since he can be as stubborn as you, he just keeps staring until you concede and go take the strawberry cake out of the fridge.
“Hey, we had tons of fun too? You ever heard of ‘adversity makes two hearts grow fonder?’”
“It’s ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder,’” Narukami corrects you without mercy. He gives the glazed strawberries a longing look. “Though I guess you’re actually right this time.”
“We are not going to talk about—”
“Remember December last year? That was quite eventful.”
If that isn’t the understatement of the century. First was the reveal of Masayoshi Shido’s crimes. If Akira thought sending a calling card to the most powerful man in Japan was not considered stupid, then you really should have had a serious talk with him about how that word is defined. There must be a guardian angel protecting him because despite all odds he succeeded and saved Japan from a megalomaniac tyrant. All was good for two days—preparations for Christmas were going well, the elections were put on hold to search for someone who might step in as prime minister.
You were at Inokashira Park on December 24th when the end of the world began.
The first rain drop falls on your cheek and leaves a wet trail down to your chin. Still engrossed in telling Narukami about Kinoe’s new clinic, you don’t notice anything out of order until his expression changes into horrendous surprise.
“What?” You frown. “You don’t have to worry, I’m keeping a close eye on Kinoe’s appointments.”
Instead of answering, he reaches out and wipes the droplet from your chin. It leaves a red smudge on his thumb. Your heartbeat picks up. You can’t remember hurting yourself, there is no pain. He must read the confusion on your face. A second later, his head snaps up to the sky as the floodgates to heaven open and it starts to rain blood, drenching you both in crimson red.
“What the hell is going on,” you whisper, all colour drained from your face. Narukami jumps to his feet, hands balled into tight fists. There is an intense look in his eyes you’ve never seen before.
“Come on,” he demands. “We have to get somewhere inside.”
That is when the first bone breaks out of the earth and rises into the air, connecting to others until they look like ribs looming over the ground. Every appendage is like a crooked finger with sharp claws trying to reach out—only no one else seems to notice them. Couples and families stroll down the path, completely oblivious to the grotesque sight around them.
A tight grip closes around your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Narukami marches off, each step so big you have to take twice to compensate for his long legs.
“What is going on?” Your voice flips at the end, shrill and scared. “Yu, what is happening?” Your free hand latches onto his arm, trying to find hold, something secure. Finally Narukami slows down a little. Worry cuts wrinkles so deep into his forehead, you’re sure they’ll stay there forever.
“I don’t know. But no matter what happens," he orders, not looking back at you. “Don’t let go.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You wouldn’t let go if your life depended on it—which somehow you feel it does.
When trees finally make way to tall buildings spearing the sky, you realise it really is the end of the world. The sun is hidden behind red clouds, casting everything in the colour of pain and ruin. They’re swirling in dizzying circles around a tower in the middle of Shibuya, painting the picture of the apocalypse, the wrath of a God bearing down on mankind.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space. You’re pretty sure Lord Byron didn’t think his imagination would become reality.
Peoples’ screams echo through the streets. It’s Hell on earth, panic and fear rule over the crowd. They trample over each other like frenzied animals in search of safety, ants with no coordination, nowhere safe to go.
Narukami leads the way to Central Square where confused policemen try to get the situation under control and fail spectacularly at it. Not that you can blame them. They’re panicking as much as the citizen demanding their protection.
“This is insane.” If this really is your last day on earth, maybe it’s time to atone. Narukami still doesn’t know it was you who broke his MP3-Player by accidentally dropping it to the ground. That is when the first person disappears beside you. You scream. Narukami whirls around, his hold on you turning painful. He pulls you behind him with a quick tug and scans the area. People flee to the underground walkway, tripping over their own feet as they descend the stairs. Children cling to their parents, wheezing, just as confused and frightened as everyone else.
Thunder lights up the sky in feverish yellow for a second, followed by an infernal rumble that sounds like someone is laughing in the distance—hollow and ghastly.
Narukami exhales audibly and you look up at him, his broad shoulders the only sight of comfort in a world that is so foreign and grotesque. When you look away, out of the corner of your eyes you imagine seeing a wavering silhouette looming above him in eye-blinding white. When you blink, it’s gone.
Under his breath, Narukami whispers, “I entreat thee not to leave me. Watch over us, Izanagi-no-Okami.”
More thunder rumbles above your heads. For a second, the clouds open and show the glimpse of what might compete to one of Maffei’s paintings of righteous angels. Gold glints off a stainless surface in the sky, blindingly striking like a flash of lightning. This thing hanging in the air looks so otherworldly that no words seem sufficient or capable enough to describe it. It looms over Shibuya like an infernal device with wide wings stretching to engulf the world.
When someone points to the sky, it is not at the apparition of gold and white. “Isn’t that … the Phantom Thieves?”
You close your eyes, dread sinking to the bottom of your stomach. Please don’t let him be there, please don’t.
The giant screen facing Shibuya Crossing changes from the black and white static to flashes of an image showing a group of people dressed up in a variety of costumes that in any other situation you’d think belong to a carnival. If they really are the thieves, the reformers of society, then there is only one person you are interested in and you’re able to find him really quickly because only one of them has hair jet-black as the night.
“Oh God, he’s up there.” Narukami’s arm must turn purple where your fingers are digging into his skin. “He’s not—he’s not thinking about fighting that thing, is he?”
“If he’s as good as he thinks he is, he’ll be fine. Okay?” Narukami ducks as another gust of wind whips his hair left and right. “But we should get out of here.”
You wish you could show Akira somehow that you’re here, that you support him. But getting to safety might help him more than flailing like an idiot trying to get his attention. Before you let Narukami lead you to the roofed smoke area, you glance back at the screen. Donned in a long, black coat, he is the definition of the picaresque hero set out to steal hearts. His complete posture is different—squared shoulders, slender, red-gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as he barks orders to his team. The realisation hits you like a punch in the gut, hard and unforeseen. You stop in your tracks and press a hand against your mouth in shock. “Oh no,” you say.
You cling harder onto him, expression serious. “No really, he can step on me with those heels.”
Narukami shakes his head and pulls you after him, right into another group crowding inside the smoke area. He’s shielding his eyes from the rain, squinting up at the screen. You know him long enough to recognise the glint in his eyes as pride.
What happened after that always remains a blur, a picture on canvas unable to dry and now smudged beyond recognition. Akira and his friends were somehow able to overcome the danger threatening the world. When the people started cheering for them, led by a blue haired boy in a Shujin uniform you remembered meeting with Akira in the diner on Central Street, you joined, screaming like everyone else until your throat hurt and your lungs went ablaze.
On that day, December 24th, a God was slain.
***
After Narukami leaves, you get comfortable on your couch. The goal is to rest just for a little since the excitement of seeing Akira again has kept you up all night. Instead you doze off while watching a few videos explaining the endings of horror movies because you’re unable to watch them on your own. Right on the verge of falling asleep, you hear the door being unlocked. Mind still on this thin line between sleep and wakefulness, the sound is so foreign it makes you bolt up and fall off the couch. A familiar voice calls out if you’re alright.
“Yep!” Your back hurts. “Got everything under control!”
Akira peeks into the room, and wow your heart simply decides to go into overdrive and try to break out of your chest even though you saw each other via video call this morning before he went to the train station. He’s stopped wearing glasses pretty early on upon his return and has started wearing his hair slightly shorter but still untamed as always. You two just kind of stare at each other from across the room, afraid to move and unfreeze time.
Finally, Akira opens his arms. You jump to your feet and fling yourself against him. He easily picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You cling onto him like your dear life depends on it and he doesn’t seem interested in letting you go as well. He makes a strange humming sound against your temple, then proceeds to press dozen kisses all over your face.
“Uh huh, yes.” You rake your hands through his hair, settle them around his nape, his skin as soft as you remember. “I missed you too.”
He mumbles something unintelligible and because the entrance area isn’t the best for reunions, he carries you over to the bedroom and drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. It dips under your weight. He straddles your waist, his eyes roam all over your face like he still has to make sure this is real. They settle on your lips, and he smiles a secretive smile that lights a candle in your stomach.
“You’re not going to take off your jacket?” you ask, fingers itching to continue playing with his hair. It’s much shorter in the back, his curls barely grazing his skin. How you’ve missed it.
“Nu uh.” He leans down and takes your face in his hands. His breath is hot on your skin when he presses his forehead against yours and tells in a quiet voice, as if not to disturb this moment, how he reached Tokyo a couple of hours ago and brought all his stuff to Leblanc where his friends threw him a first welcome party.
“And now you’re here,” you finish for him, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“And now I’m here,” he echoes and nibbles on your bottom lip, then presses his lips against yours. Over and over, one kiss sliding into the next. His mouth grows more demanding but never in hurry because time doesn’t matter. Seconds, minutes stretch into hours, lips slowly turned bruised. Akira changes positions from sitting on top of you to lying next to you, allowing you two to be even closer. Occasionally giving your mouths a break only to whisper how much he’s missed you, how beautiful you are, how he can’t wait to start mornings with you, end evenings with you. His words are as sugary sweet as the cake frosting still sitting in the kitchen and you happily consume each vowel and consonant.
Hours later, after the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the room is now dipped in darkness. You wake up with your cheek squished against Akira’s back, both of you curled into each other like a human pretzel. He still loves to be the little spoon, making himself much smaller than he is. You carefully untangle your limbs from his, head dizzy and spinning from a nap that took too long and now leaves you questioning what year it is. In the kitchen, the little lamp on your phone blinks, notifying unread messages. It’s the usual criminals, Narukami and Kenji, lately also Minako, though you can’t recall giving her your number after your reunion. Kinoe as well has sent you a picture of the furnishing in his new apartment coming along nicely. He too can’t wait to finally see Akira.
After the whole day travelling and settling back inside the attic, you decide to let him rest. There are still a few chores you can do around the house. A full laundry basket is waiting to be taken care of and sure, people can doubt that midnight is the best time to do it, but who cares? Rules are meant to be broken.
***
The small room reeks of wet fabric and mould.
The steady rumble of the washing machine puts you in a lazy, tired state; the words on the page in front of you merge into a blurry line, the letters shifting and eating each other. Okay, doing laundry and reading the first duty papers for your internship wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but there’s no turning back now because you forgot your keys on top of the dresser in your entrance hall.
You’d probably execute it a lot better, were it not for the dim light in the room withholding any possibility to actually see what’s in front of you, and the sound of the washing machine drum rumbling doesn’t help either. Everything would be a lot easier if you could do your laundry in your dormitory, but once again you still don’t feel responsible for contacting the janitor each time they break. Nothing has really changed, has it.
It’s past midnight. The small, red numbers on the display tell you with very lacking interest 13 minutes are left before you can buzz off. The night is calm, somewhere outside a cat hisses, and despite it all, you feel comfortably at peace. Maybe it's because you’re alone and no one’s talking. Maybe it's because it’s the first time today you can sit and think about nothing at all. Someone tugged your brain into a cosy blanket and accidentally left it there even though there’s all kinds of stuff you should rather focus on. Well, a break is important, you decide, because sometimes it’s better to treat yourself to one before losing one’s mind over all the things still in need to be considered. About to pull your phone out of your pocket, your eyes fix midway on something else.
In the doorway of the tiny, cramped laundromat stands a tall guy, both hands jammed in his jeans pockets. Akira yawns, sleep still inscribed on his face. He pulls a set of keys from his pockets, jiggling them. “You just leave without these?”
“No, no, I knew you’d come,” you lie, really glad now that you left him a short note telling him you’d be out here. The dozen calls clearly helped too. “You can’t tell me there’s something more romantic than spending our time here together.”
Akira gives the room a doubtful once-over. He leans his slim hips against a dryer, and while he is looking around, a wistful curtain falls over his eyes. “I can’t believe a laundry area is where everything started.”
“It’s a story worth telling.”
“Seems so.” He puts the keys back in his pocket, but it seems it’s not the only thing he’s hiding inside. You try to get a glimpse, but Akira turns around, uncertainty darting across his face. It’s fleeting though, as if he’s decided there’s no secret worth keeping from you. His hands come back outside, a black chess piece between his slender fingers. It’s the king figure, standing tall as Akira places it on a dryer. You consider it, unable to determine its significance.
“I got that in the mail a couple of months back,” he explains, grazing the top of it, the crown, with the tip of his finger. “I used it to play chess with Akechi.”
You need a second to make the connection—staring from the piece up to Akira and back down. At first there’s nothing you could possibly say, until you manage, “Why can’t he just come up like a normal person and apologise?”
Akira gives a dry huff of laughter. “Because he likes to be dramatic.”
You’d like to glare at the piece, imagining Akechi in its stead, but it’s hard to recall his face when it’s been so long since you saw him. How must it be for Akira, you wonder. Surely he has missed him—is still missing him judging by how he carries that piece around with him. It’s become a memento, the accumulation of every what-if that in time turns into regret and latches onto the soul until it wears down, grief settling deep into bones where it spreads like weed overgrowing a flower bed that first bloomed in tender affection.
A slender finger taps against the underside of your chin. You haven’t even noticed Akira crossing the room, the king already back hidden inside his pocket as he holds on to the memento—no, the promise. “I can already tell you’re thinking of unnecessary things.”
“Maybe I’m just thinking about how I’m already missing your uniform. That turtleneck, hmmmm.” You hook your fingers in his jean’s belt loops and give a single tug, pulling him closer. He lifts a single eyebrow when you sling your arms around him and press your face against his stomach. Mine, mine, you can only think.
“I can get one,” he offers, rubbing your bare arms to warm them after sitting out here in the cool night.
“What a about a virgin sweater?” you mumble into his shirt.
“Now you’re pushing it.”
The laundry machine starts peeping, sparing you the humility of begging. Akira helps you hauling the wet clothes in a basket and easily carries it like it weighs nothing. On your way out, he pauses in front of Leblanc and looks up at the dark windows.
You follow his gaze. “How do you feel being back?”
“Like I never really went away.” He blinks as if in daze, then turns back to you, a mischievous smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s get breakfast here tomorrow.”
“Curry for breakfast?” A moth flutters past you towards the still lit lamps of a busy bar down the street. You scurry closer to Akira—another moth drawn to a flame. “You do know the way into my heart.”
“I want to spend the morning with you.” He shifts the basket so he carries it in one hand, and with his other, he laces his fingers together with yours. “And the noon. And the afternoon. And the evening. And the day after.”
Giddy excitement bubbles inside you. Sometimes reality takes time to set in, and for you it’s a couple of hours before your brain finally catches up on the fact that yes, this present of you and Akira, finally together, is real, and what naturally follows is the future.
“We could invite Kinoe.” You swing your arms back and forth as you make your way through the narrow streets. “For breakfast. Not the rest of the day.”
Akira pretends to pond over it. “Is it going to be the test of his approval?”
“No, that’s going to be with Narukami.”
“Ah, of course.” He sighs theatrically. “Peace was never an option.”
“Think your chances are good?”
“Not in the slightest.”
It makes you laugh out loud, thinking there’s something Akira might be afraid of.
“You literally shot God in the face last year.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And went to jail.”
“Yep.”
“I’m still mad you did that, you know?”
Akira frowns. “I apologised.”
“I can still be mad about it.” After his release, you made it pretty clear how much of a dick move you thought it was that instead of hearing the news from him, someone called Alibaba hacked your phone to deliver a message that had pulled the rug right from under your feet.
There was little time to freak out about it though as they assured you that there was a way to get him out and they and multiple people were already on it.
I am sure you too can come up with an idea. It is our turn to help him, you still remember Alibaba’s words, confirming your idea that maybe this was another phantom thief. What came next was easy. You spent the new year’s days collecting signatures around campus to demand a wrongly convicted young man to be released. Weeks later, you sent a thick envelope to court, the signatures easily finding their way to the responsible people as the case has gained quite the attention in a small circle that really want Akira out of juvie.
Three weeks later, he was back where he belonged inside the sacred halls of Leblanc. Only to tell you that he’d soon return to his hometown.
This boy is just a rollercoster of emotions.
Which also means it never gets boring with him.
“I said, I’ll make it up to you.” Akira tugs at your hand. You round the convenience store. Inside, the clerk is busy scanning the bento boxes and coffee cans of businessmen currently on break during their all-nighter. “Are you listening?”
“Always.” You blink innocently. “You said we should make out. I highly approve of that.”
“Oh?” Mischief has found its home in Akira’s voice. He looks down at you with an expression that suggests he has no problems to make good on that promise right here and now. But then his eyes dart over your shoulder and his expression softens.
“You think we could get us a pot someday?” he asks. You blink, trying to figure out if this is a new way of flirting. When you follow his eyes, you see he’s been looking on a sign showing different ingredients on sale … that yes, usually go into a hot pot.
“Hot pot in March?”
“Well, it brings people together,” he says, swinging back and forth on his heels like he wants to bump into you. “And there’s a lot of people I want you to meet.”
You look back at the convenience store, considering what else you two might get that’s missing in your apartment when the thought that this, something as simple as thinking about what you two should buy to share, means that you’re starting to build something you’ve been longing for for a long time, and that knowledge unfolds something carefully hidden inside you that you’ve put away since your last conversation with your father.
The emotion is so raw, you’re rendered speechless for a moment, unable to swallow past the lump in your throat.
Akira carefully says your name, the question in his voice asking what’s wrong. You shake your head, tightening your grip on his hand. “Let’s get that pot tomorrow,” you say. “And everything else we need.”
“Sure.” Finally you two move on, though Akira has slowed down to a leisurely stroll. “I like it when you say ‘we.’”
“I’m sure there is more you’ll like me saying,” you say, ready to count I love you and I need you off your fingers to get a reaction out of him, when he, without batting an eyelash, says, “For example ‘Yes, Akira,’ and ‘Let’s do it again.’”
Hand still half-raised, you snap your head towards him, feeling the heat creep up your face. He takes in your embarrassment, visibly proud he came up with that but past the mischief glinting in his eyes, you can easily read the challenge in them as well.
You raise your chin, accepting. “We’ll see about that.”
“Ah, there it is again.” Akira closes his eyes for a moment, content like a cat sleepily blinking into the sun. “We.”
“Yes, we,” and there you kiss his knuckles, the skin still warm against yours, “should head home.” There it is, four letters forming a word that has been a stranger to you up until now, but together with Akira, you’re happy to rediscover it.
give your heart and soul to charity
'cause the rest of you,
the best of you
honey, belongs to me
killing me softly with his song | (Childe / Reader) [chpt.1]
Fandom: Genshin Impact
Pairing: Childe / Reader
Tags: #fem!reader, #from childhood friends to lovers, #reader is a fatui agent, #slow burn, #unresolved sexual tension, #mature language, #forbidden love
Words: 2k
Summary: "Lybuov zla, polyubish i kozla," sighs your sister as she wipes off the table, but that makes you feel even more miserable. Falling for a goat might save you from an actual heartbreak by Tartaglia's hands.
____________
Loosely connected chapters about you and Childe finding happiness.
Maybe.
Notes: Part 2
Masterlist
***
childe? what a problematic asshole i hate him i-
*trips*
*thousands of pictures of childe spill from pockets* fuck those aren’t mine i swear i’m just holding them for a friend i-
*slips on a pile of pictures* fu ck no they’re not mine i hate him i just-
*more pictures fall out as i fall to my knees, desperately trying to pick them up* hang on a sec jUst LISTEN
Chapter 1
A cold gust of icy wind drives you deeper into the sheets and you swear by the name of Her Majesty Herself once you get up and find Alexei, you’ll smother him with a towel for leaving a window open in the middle of the night.
Somewhere outside, a rooster crows. Fine, not dead of the night then, but no one cares for technicalities like these when sleep is involved. Especially after a night like this one, when Alexei fucked you into oblivion and back, you need every minute of shuteye you can get before another day of exhausting missions in the Chechnaya Taiga of Snezhnaya claims your last strand of sanity.
It’s peaceful mornings like these that make it all worthwhile though—the quiet during the early golden hour when people slowly wake up to a brand-new day and get ready to do their chores, their factory work. The sheer number of possibilities stretching out before their hands, and hope rekindled every morning despite the harsh cold waiting at their doorsteps. You love how everything stands still, how even the uncaring universe seems to grant people a sliver of peace, allows them to be soft and vulnerable. To be kind to themselves by indulging in a freshly brewed cup of coffee or tea. Nothing can spoil this for you, nothing and no one—
An awkward cough sounds from the door. You close your eyes, willing him to disappear by simply ignoring him, but his eyes burn into the back of your head like two smouldering coals and eventually, you turn around to see Alexei standing in the door frame, shifting from left to right. “There’s someone out there who wants to talk to you,” he says.
Turning around, you try to disappear into your pillow. “Whoever it is, I’m sure they can wait until it isn’t such a damn unholy time.”
Alexei clears his throat. “It’s uhm … it’s someone from the Fatui.”
Your eyes snap open. Suddenly the warm, cosy blankets feel like a snake’s tight hold around your body, and you struggle out of its grip, grabbing for the dressing gown you carelessly threw around the back of your chair last night.
The sun hangs low in the east, painting the city of Kerch that stretches outside of your window a sheen of dusky gold. When the red-brown bricks of the dacha cottages come into view, you think of the gingerbread houses you used to make as a child every year in celebration of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of the Zapolyarny Palace.
Cold already seeps into your bones even though the robe is tight around your body. You hiss when your bare feet hit the icy floor but can’t find your slippers. Time to die like a woman.
You brush past Alexei, who’s scratching his head, still just in his underwear and you think him crazy for walking around half-naked like that even though it’s minus 58F outside and the heating systems inside your barracks only start to work once outside temperatures drop to minus 75F.
Maybe what they say is true. People from around Noyabrsk in the north of Snezhnaya regularly dip into frosty rivers and you do remember him mentioning ice swimming is his hobby. It was one of the few things you thought attractive about him. Actually, it was the only thing you thought attractive about him.
Light streams into the floor from the kitchen, flickering once, twice in dangerous foreboding. It’s time to switch the lightbulb. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure, because that isn’t important right now. What’s important is Tartaglia sitting at your table, leaning back in a chair, both feet crossed on top of the table, and eating your leftover mayonnaise sandwich you saved up for breakfast.
His eyes slide lazily toward you, taking in your form—barefoot, shivering even though the fur from your bathrobe is of the finest white wolf fur obtainable on the market.
Tartaglia finishes your sandwich, smacks his lips and licks mayo off his fingers. He doesn’t even like it, and you know from time to time he can’t handle dairy all that well. He just eats it because he knows how it infuriates you.
“Alexei, huh,” he says in lieu of hello. “Didn’t know you’re into himbos.”
Behind you, Alexei makes a sound like a kicked puppy. You glare at him over your shoulder, then jut your chin towards the front door. “Out. Now.”
He doesn’t wait for you to repeat yourself. Surprisingly fast for a guy this big, he bolts into your room, gets dressed in record speed and leaves your little one-bedroom apartment without so much as a Goodbye or “We’ll hear from each other,” and you prefer it that way. It saves stuff from getting messy.
Speaking of messy, you really wish Tartaglia would have sent you a note before coming. The smell of icy wind and snowy forests clings to his clothes. He must have come straight from a mission, not unusual in the slightest, yet in most cases he sends a message your way just to make sure he doesn’t run into one of your one-night stands and it doesn’t get ugly.
Like right now.
“I thought you had a little more class than that,” he says nonchalantly. His feet keep wobbling from left to right until you make your way over and push them off your table. Not that you actually sit there to take your meals, no. But this is your home, you have to assert dominance.
“Well, I’m not picky,” you say, taking the empty chair opposite from him. “The nights of Fyrva’snezh are really fucking cold.”
“I’m sure Fire-Water will do the same trick.” He’s sulking, yet he has no right to it and knowing Tartaglia, that’s why he sulks even more.
Your relationship can be summarised with one word: complicated. Which is funny, because besides martial arts classes (taught by a teacher that is a real ball of sunshine who could easily snap your spine like a twig) and infiltration tactics courses (led by a grumpy teacher who once woke you all up in the middle of the night to do a spontaneous quiz about infiltration steps and everyone who failed or fell asleep had to run a marathon through the forest in their underwear) you had to take at the Fatui military school of Zapolyarny, they also teach mathematics and molecular physics, and that shit was complicated.
Growing up in a small seaside village—bless little Morepesok; how much you miss babushka Katya’s refreshing botvinia soup—with only a handful kids your age, gravitating towards Tartaglia was the natural development. He loves ice-fishing, you love eating fish. You gag just smelling solyanka, he wolfs it down like it might be his last meal on earth. Opposites attract each other, as they say, and how true it is for you two—you, the morning person and he, the night owl; his will of iron and your nerves of steel. Your bow, his sword, even though Tartaglia is a masochist who likes to make it hard for himself by trying to switch weapons solely because you’re better at it than him and he is a sore loser.
His worship of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, your fear of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.
“I don’t think you came all the way here just to call me a slut,” you say. He is in no position to do so anyway, because Camilla from the ptychy’moloko shop down the road that leads to the Sarov church didn’t shut up about blowing him for weeks until you sent her a liver of a pig and claimed that was the leftovers from the last girl that thought she could put a leash on the Eleventh of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. Camilla quickly moved on to an inconspicuous merchant who sells matryoshka dolls for a living and all is well that ends well.
“What do you want?”
Tartaglia starts tapping a gloved finger against the wooden table, a nervous tick you don’t know he’s aware of.
“I’m leaving for Liyue first thing tomorrow.” His tone is low when he speaks, his earlier nonchalance replaced by a sense of urgency.
“Okay.” It isn’t the first time he’s leaving Snezhnaya by order of the Tsaritsa, but every time he does, something inside you leaves with him. “So, you want me to keep an eye out for Teucer and the others?”
“He’s really unhappy I’m leaving again already.” Tartaglia doesn’t mention the reason he was sent away just a couple of months ago to Inazuma was because he accidentally blew up an artillery factory belonging to a nobleman that secretly shipped orders to Fontain. The fallout from that was easier to handle with him not being anywhere nearby. Tartaglia is like a pair of hot tongues; no one is sure where to put him or how soon he would cool off, but if they just drop him, he might light the world on fire. Kid gloves are put on and a careful perimeter marked out.
“And what excuse did you make up this time?” You knock your foot into his leg, lingering on his calf just a second too long before withdrawing again. “Another business trip to promote your toys? You can’t hold up this charade forever, you know.”
“Why, your eyes feast on Snezhnaya’s greatest expatriate toy seller, now extending to the Liyue Branch of our Institute for Toy Research.” Tartaglia’s eyes have taken on a playful glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “You wouldn’t be so cold to break a little boy’s heart. That’s not you.”
You want to remind him that you have no problem to put an arrow between a man’s eyes, or rip out his fingernails, one by one, to get the information that you want.
“You owe me, toy man.”
“Put it on my tab.”
Tartaglia looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but as always, he decides to swallow those words even though they must hurt like swallowing needles. You know that feeling, and so you help him sort out his tightly entangled yarn of emotions by figuratively pushing him off the cliff.
“Don’t forget to bring condoms. I hear the women of Liyue are beautiful.”
Tartaglia goes a sickly grey colour, like the ashes of a dead fire, but he’s been the leading role of this play too long to fall out of character now. He gets up and stretches like a cat getting comfortable in a spot of sunlight. His jacket rides up, showing a stripe of skin, and you quickly turn your head away before giving into leaning over the table and mark him with your teeth.
Patting his left pants’ pocket, Tartaglia says, “I’m always prepared.” He carries a grin that is dry, humourless, and for a brief moment, you two lock eyes, trading a look that feels like a dare. You allow yourselves to imagine how he picks you up and carries you to your bed where you two would proceed to fuck without abandon through the whole day and the following night, leaving the bed only to get food until Tartaglia leaves for Liyue and you’d send each other love letters until his return. What an idea. What an utterly stupid, naive, wonderful idea.
“Well, lucky ladies,” you say, not bothering to hide the jealousy in your voice because jealousy is easier to handle than regret.
“Lucky indeed,” he agrees and dons his easy-going smile, one that he’s perfected after hours upon hours in front of the mirror until it accomplished what he wanted: to mock people, infuriate them.
On his way out, he stops to ruffle your hair in an affectionate way, one typical for childhood friends, but the distance between you is like the ocean separating Snezhnaya from Liyue.
It was on the very first day of your conscription into the military organisation, Number Six of the Ten Laws that the Fatui abide by: Any physical or romantic relationship between Fatui agents is prohibited. As thou would not exchange flesh with thy brother or sister, so thou shalt not with your comrade, for he or she is thy brother or sister in arms.
And everyone knows Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s word is law, and though the law is hard, it is the law.
Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings
Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content
Words: 6.7k
Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.
Notes: Chapter 1 | Chapter 3
Chapter 02: The Herald of Dawn
Hold me, O Night, with motherly affection,
While the wan earth wakes with a misty yawn.
By my blood will be born the Dawn
and from my fleeting dream—the undying sun!
[Gabriele D’Annunzio]
Hushed whispers wake you from the dark. The crackling of fire sweeps away the last remains of weary unconsciousness, and you blink at a tent's ceiling. Someone draped heavy blankets over you, and with every breath you exhale, puffy white clouds rise up. The shadows of a fire dance across the walls, their blurry movements flush another wave of dizziness over you, and as you sit up, you notice a tight feeling around your head. When you raise a hand to your forehead, there is a bandage sitting tightly wrapped around your head, covering your right eye. The pain has finally stopped, but it still feels dully raw, like an injury that hasn’t healed properly and serves now as a reminder of anguish.
The memories from the battle rush back to you, the sound of metal hitting metal and heavy bodies dropping to the ground echo in your mind. Death was nothing new to the soldiers and mercenaries, so how come you don’t feel particularly sorry for the fallen? You’re no soldier, at least that’s what every fibre of your body tells you, so normalising killing isn’t right. You rebuild your surety of that, one shaky brick at a time.
Once on your feet, you make your way outside, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and quiet chatter. The sight of a small camp greets you: more tents build a row on this side of the camp, and in the centre, solders sit around a small fire, their voices barely audible. They lean over a steaming kettle, their weapons at their feet or beside tree trunks—laid down for the night but still within reach.
“Heey, you’re finally back with us!” Claude’s voice rings through the camp, and several heads turn in your direction. As he waves for you to join him, you duck your head and move quickly to his side, wishing you could just merge with the ground and disappear from everyone’s attention. “Little one, you got us worried there,” he says. On his knees, he’s balancing a steaming wooden bowl, and the sight and smell reminds you how hungry you are. Your stomach agrees by providing a low growl.
“How long have I been out?” You barely recognise your own voice, the sound rough from exhaustion. Claude hums in thought and gestures with one hand to a soldier to bring you food, while his other pats the ground beside him for you to sit down. “We managed to march a couple of hours after cleaning up the mess from the battle. Right now we’re near the edge of the forest. There should be only one more day of marching until we reach the monastery.”
“And you guys are sure they can help me up there?” you wonder, watching the first group of soldiers get ready for the night watch. They’re frighteningly young, jostling and bumping into each other, laughing and stamping their feet against the cold snap that still lingers, the last gasp of winter before spring begins in earnest.
“If not there, I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who can help you.”
You glare at Claude. “Surely you must be the voice of confidence in this merry bunch, right?”
He laughs. “I’m the closest you’ll get to an optimist around here.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Reassuring is my second name.”
“No, you said it’s von,” you mumble. Claude stares at you for a long minute, then bursts out laughing, the sound dark and rich. “No, that’s a noble prefix. You don’t even remember that?”
You open your mouth, and close it like a fish, feeling your cheeks raise in temperature. He shouldn’t make you feel guilty for forgetting something like that, and yet the shame settles in your bones and you want to smack your head against something to help your brain remember.
“Ah, but pardon my rudeness,” Claude purrs and gives you a mock bow. “I can tell you everything you want to know about nobility and how overrated it is. In fact, I might as well convince you to join the Alliance before Their Highnesses steal you to their side.”
“I’m not going to be on anyone’s side,” you mumble, and steal Claude’s blanket as payback, relishing in his offended expression. “It has nothing to do with me.”
Claude raises an eyebrow. “Ehh, I’m not so sure it’s that easy.”
“It is,” you insist, unable to hide the sulk from your voice. “Because I say so.”
Claude raises both eyebrows. “That’s not how it works.”
“Watch me.”
Something like a shadow flashes across his emerald eyes, but it disappears quickly enough for you to think it’s only the light from the campfire playing a trick on you. “We’ll see about that.” He scrapes the remaining contents from his bowl and lets out a satisfying yawn when he’s finished, stretching his long limbs like a cat getting comfortable. “Sooo,” he starts, unnecessarily dragging out the vowel and the sound of it locks up your shoulders into one tense muscle in preparation of what he’s going to say next. “Care to explain what happened back there?”
You take a deep breath. “You mean when it felt like my eye was going to fall out of its socket?”
“Actually I meant when you tripped over that one root after we found you.” He gives you a crooked grin. “But that’s interesting too, please go on.”
“I thought no one saw that,” you mumble, and avoid his gaze as you remember that stupid root that nearly broke your neck. Well, Claude surely knows a thing or two about tricking someone into talking about exactly what he wants to hear.
You thank the mercenary that brings you food, and notice it’s the one from the battle with the crooked nose. He gives you a just as crooked grin and limps back to his comrades. The stew warms your chilled bones, the rich flavour of meat and vegetables lifting your spirits and filling you with energy. As you eat, you drag out the minutes but Claude doesn’t even squirm as you let him wait, and starts whistling an off-key tune until you start to feel uncomfortable.
“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t be afraid that it might happen again,” you admit begrudgingly. “Because that was scary.”
“Yeah, it didn’t really look like fun,” Claude agrees. “But what was it in the first place?”
“I don’t know.” You start to become weary of those words. “But it hurt.”
Claude gives you a sympathetic look, and goes silent, allowing you to eat, but you can’t shake off the feeling his mind is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with you. He can, for all you care. And once he’s done, he can write a report and hand it right to you so you’ll understand as well.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone moving towards you. Dimitri approaches you with caution like you’re a small animal he might scare off with hasty movements. But the look he gives Claude is that of a disappointed father, and he shakes his head once he’s standing in front of him. “Claude, we were supposed to not disturb our guest,” Dimitri says sternly, then bows his head in your direction. “Apologies. We should let you rest.”
“No, it’s okay,” you admit, and shuffle a little to the side to make room. “Please stay.”
Both boys exchange a quick look, but then Dimitri sits down, minding a polite distance unlike Claude who only needs to stretch his legs for his feet touch your knee.
“We were worried,” Dimitri starts. Just like Claude, he’s taken off most of his armour, and nothing about him stands out as a member of the royalty. He looks just like any other boy, and you’d never admit it out loud, but you already miss the blue tones on his uniform, the colour making his remarkably ice-blue eye stand out even more. “Luckily we could dispose of all bandits and return to a safe area. Byleth carried you here all by herself.”
“Yeah, remind me not get on her bad side, okay?” Claude laughs, but you think you hear a slight nervous tremble in his voice. “She looks like she can decapitate me with a butter knife.”
“She doesn’t look like it. She very certainly will behead you with a butter knife,” Dimitri provides with a pleasant smile as if he’s talking about the weather.
“See, and that’s why she fits best in the Alliance,” Claude says, winking at you. “We’re always full of surprises.”
Dimitri rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. “You might try it. I personally plan to convince her to join the Kingdom.”
“I think you’re both too late for that,” you say as you look to the other side of the camp where Byleth and Edelgard are currently engaged in a deep conversation, their heads leaning close to each other. Claude groans miserably, but quickly recovers as he turns to you, his eyes brightening up with excitement. “It’s okay, because once my disarming charm has wrapped you around my little finger, I’ll have an impressive tactician on my side.”
You almost choke on your next spoon of stew. “Tactician? I wouldn’t go that far.”
Beside you, Dimitri clears his throat. “Though I have to question Claude’s way of persuasion, I must admit he isn’t wrong about the latter. What you did back there was impressive.”
“I really didn’t do anything special,” you mumble at the same time Claude raises both hands leisurely and says, “Hey, it’s not my problem you think you’re immune to it, Your Princeliness.”
Dimitri grumbles something in a foreign language under his breath. Grinning smugly, Claude turns to you, and nudges your side. “Have confidence, little one. They’ll teach you everything you need to know up there.” He points up towards a mountain where you’ll apparently be heading tomorrow. If you squint, you think you can make out lights in the horizon brightening the night sky.
“That monastery,” you say, trying to ignore how Claude’s body radiates heat. “What exactly is that place? I’ve never heard of a monastery that holds a school. I think,” you quickly add, unsure what thoughts provided by your hazy mind are facts.
“The Officers Academy is a facility where students learn the arts of warfare, magic, and leadership,” Dimitri explains. He’s very obviously trying not to look at Claude, which in return has Claude’s grin widening even more. “The lessons provide us with everything we need as upcoming heads of our families. Swordsmanship, sorcery, authority, the history of our continent. There is much to learn for everyone attending the classes.”
“So it’s a death factory,” you translate, the sudden bitter taste in your mouth overshadowing the taste of the stew. “How can they just teach that stuff like it’s normal?”
“You saw it yourself, didn’t you.” Claude stretches his long limbs and leans back until he props his body up on his elbows. “Bandits and thieves everywhere.”
“And most students come from a noble house,” Dimitri adds. “They need to be taught how to take command, and about the responsibilities coming with leadership.”
You blow a strand of hair away from your face, mood dropped now that you know where you’ll be from tomorrow on. “This doesn’t sound right.” Though you can’t really say how a school is supposed to be instead. This is a world with different rules, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be easy to accommodate to them.
While the boys bicker how good the plot of the tale mentioned earlier really is, you see Byleth approaching. A bruise is forming on her left cheek, and she holds her arm as if bearing the pain from a wound. But nothing of that is portrayed on her face, as if her brain hasn’t registered she’s wounded yet and hence doesn’t need to express it.
“How are you?” she asks, sending the boys a quick look. Dimitri and Claude climb to their feet and wish their good nights with a quick bow. They hurry to Edelgard and gang up on heir, probably interrogating her about the conversation she's had with Byleth.
“I’m better,” you say, a little surprised you actually mean it. You feel refreshed and nourished, ready for another day of walking. Byleth sits down and watches the camp for a moment in silence. The chaos from before has settled into a quiet hum. Men and women sit together in little circles and tell their glorious battle stories with boisterous laughter, selling the illusion of a victorious life. But that might easily end the next day because of a hasty recklessness. No one thinks of that. Everyone is just celebrating, reaching for flasks and living in the moment. It’s a beautiful sight.
As the buzzing sound of people chatting subsides and the first turn in for the night, Byleth turns towards you, her voice lowered. “What you did back there,” she starts, and for whatever reason remains silent as if she decided talking about it isn’t a good idea. Shadows from the weakened fire dance across her face, and again you’re flooded with the unfathomable feeling of familiarity. It’s in the sharp lines of her face, the way her eyes move and settle on something as she observes her surroundings. It’s almost a painful sense of nostalgia. Something about this woman just brings you an unusual amount of ease, like it doesn’t really matter who you are, and rather that you’re here that makes the difference.
Before you can stop your brain, you’re already asking, “Do we know each other by chance?”
Byleth looks at you for a long minute, then slowly shakes her head, and you try not to show your disappointment too much. “I’ve travelled a lot with my father,” she says. “We’ve come through many lands and villages. You may have seen me at some point, but we’ve never exchanged a word until yesterday.”
You nod at the plausible explanation, but the feeling that this isn’t the right answer curls like a hook into your heart. “And your father hasn’t said anything about me as well?”
“No.” Byleth’s eyes follow your hands as they set down the empty bowl. Seeing that you’ve finished everything, she nods in approval. “And he doesn’t forget a face.”
“How do you all just … trust me,” you wonder, looking to where Jeralt is miserably leaning against a tree trunk as Alois keeps talking and talking. He looks like he wishes someone would take him down with an arrow.
“He doesn’t,” Byleth says. “And he calls me a little whippersnapper for that. He hasn’t called me that in the five years.” At the sound of the smile in her voice you snap your head in Byleth’s direction, but when you look, she wears the same bland expression like before.
“But you do,” you start carefully, not trusting your ears again, so you settle on staring at her until she gives another emotion. “Care to explain why?”
“For now, you haven’t given me any reason not to,” she states as if it really were that simple. It couldn’t be. Up until now Byleth has been your only anchor that your meeting wasn’t purely coincidental—that the reason shrouding your memories would dissipate like the night once dawn breaks if you just stick to her side, and everything will be revealed in time. But now without anything to hold on to, you feel like you’re slipping deeper and deeper into an abyss from which you can’t ascend. This feeling is terror fizzing in your blood like poison, and you shudder at the thought that you’ll forever remain adrift.
“Your powers,” Byleth continues, unaware of your mental breakdown right next to her. “They’re unusual, and if you learn to use them right, very dangerous.” Spoken by everyone else, this might sound like a threat, but Byleth says it like a simple statement, a fact, unaware how much she tilts your world with it. “What do you plan to do with them?”
You don’t have to think long about it. “I won’t do anything. Whatever it was, it’s over,” you say and gesture at your bandaged eye. It’s true. Since you woke up, your eye has remained calm, no red veil or eery proclamation someone might step into the campfire and burn alive. The pounding has stopped, and the normalcy of it is like a soothing balm.
Byleth studies you. You really wish she could give you more than her vacant expression. “You don’t know yet … your eye.” She takes your spoon and with the end of it, she draws a symbol on the ground. “Do you know what that is?”
You look at it, but nothing comes to your mind. It’s just a four pointed star with two lines crossing the right and left tips. “No, I’ve never seen it.”
Byleth holds your gaze as if she hopes to find a lie written between your eyes, and this time you don’t look away until she relents with a barely audible sigh.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because before you passed out, it appeared here.” She taps a finger against her closed, right eye, then points at you. Your body goes rigid. Immediately, your hands fly up to tear off the bandage, but Byleth catches your wrists and holds them down. “Not yet.”
“I want to see it.” Your breath catches in your lungs. It sounds like you need air because you’re drowning. “I want it off. Take it off!”
“I can’t show you, there are no mirrors,” Byleth says quietly, and throws a quick glance around the camp to see if your panic has alarmed anyone. You want to point out that you could use the reflection of her sword, but maybe Byleth has considered the same and thought it a bad idea, because she doesn’t know what else you might do with a weapon in your current state. Seeing that fighting against the vice grip she has on your hands is futile, you slump down, your arms falling slack back to your side. “Just what… what is happening. What is that?”
“Edelgard said it might be a Crest, but none she or the others have seen before,” Byleth explains. “They told me there is a teacher at the monastery who studies Crests.” She gives your arms a barely noticeable squeeze before she lets go. “So it’s going to be okay.”
“How can you say that?” you nearly sob, and wish you could hold onto her longer as she stands up and brushes dirt off her uniform. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not,” Byleth says, giving you one last look. You want to tell yourself it’s something like worry you see in her eyes, but her expression remains blank, like a board that’s been wiped clean. “I can only hope.”
The next morning, Jeralt and Alois set an unforgiving pace, determined to reach the monastery shortly after dawn broke. While everyone else couldn’t wait to reach their home as fast as possible, you feel worry grow with every step up the hill towards the walls and towers. The monastery looms like a stronghold, a building so tall and intimidating, built to make people feel small.
You were allowed to take off the bandage, and there was nothing worse than knowing something was on your eye but you couldn’t see it. Unlike everyone else. They kept staring at you, mumbling to each other in quiet whispers, and more than once you considered telling them that just because your eye was different it didn’t mean you were blind. It was reason enough for you to put the bandage back on and stay away from the soldiers and mercenaries, leaving them to their superstitious rumours. Who could have thought that you’d grab someone else’s attention entirely with that revelation.
Even before the first sunbeams broke through the budding branches, the wind carrying the smell of spring and new life, Edelgard stuck to you like a tick. It wasn’t hard to find out she was more interested in your Crest than you as a person, and every question you couldn’t answer fuelled her irritation. Still she was nothing but determined to squeeze the tiniest information out of you, and even though you tried to avoid her by either marching way too fast or way too slow, Edelgard didn’t relent and remained by your side. Fear is a little exaggerated to describe what you feel towards her, but it's close. Whenever her sharp eyes focus on you, unease takes hold of your brain and the words leave your mouth as nervous stammers. It certainly doesn’t help that you know she can easily hack off a grown man’s arm without so much as blinking. Or that the corners of her mouth curl up into the sweetest, rare smile.
Once you’re on the trade road up to the monastery, pebble makes way to smooth cobblestone. Giant iron doors stand wide open, and as your group enters, a merchant’s cart rolls past you and greets the returning knights. After the first entrance point, the second waits in the form of a portcullis and more knights standing on guard. Past the second ring of walls, you enter a small forecourt. On both sides are stalls and booths with merchants screaming their prices and the sound of metal hammered into the right shape at the blacksmith’s. At the foot of wide stairs leading up into the first building, a man dressed in dark blue robes awaits you, his strong arms crossed behind his back.
“Welcome back,” he greets Alois and the students. “Your messenger bird has reached us yesterday late into the evening, and preparations have been made.” To Jeralt, he says, “My name is Seteth. I am an adviser to the archbishop. Lady Rhea awaits you.” Jeralt nods but he looks a lot more cautious since you’ve entered the monastery grounds. At the mention of that name, his posture visibly tenses, but he gestures to Byleth and you to follow him nonetheless.
“We shall return to our respectable classes for now and make known we are unscathed,” Dimitri says. “Please, Byleth, and you too, if things have calmed down, meet the other students as well, won’t you?”
“Ohh, good idea. You have to go around and introduce yourself as our great saviours.” Claude winks at you with both thumbs up. Edelgard slaps his hands back down.
“We’ll be standing here until evening if we don’t get going," she says. "Please give Lady Rhea our regards. We’ll report to her once everything is sorted out about you.” She eyes you sideways, then ushers the boys down another hall like a mother hen. You exchange a quick look with Byleth who already looks very exasperated with the student’s antics.
Seteth leads you into the Audience Chamber, a rectangular room with statues decorating the walls, and asks for you to wait. The moment he leaves the room, you turn towards Jeralt and Byleth and ask, “Who is this Lady Rhea?”
“I’m aware Byleth doesn’t know much about her, I haven’t taught her he teachings of Seiros, but you—” He stops mid sentence seeing the way you look at him, and clears his throat. “Lady Rhea is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. She’s commanding the knights and sees that the people don’t do anything stupid in the name of Seiros.”
“Seiros?” you ask, turning the name in your head. Nope, nothing.
“You know, the one who defeated the King of Liberation and founded the Church of Seiros?” When you just shrug, Jeralt scratches his beard and hums in thought. “Well, I sure won’t be the one preaching what you should know or not. But maybe don’t make it all too obvious you aren’t a follower.”
Or what, you want to ask, but Seteth returns and he isn’t alone. The woman walking ahead of him looks like she belongs on the portrait of a saint. It isn’t much that she walks towards you, but rather strides in grateful steps to the middle of the room, her chin raised high and shoulders squared. And yet when she looks at your little assembly, her eyes are soft and kind, her expression open and friendly.
“I welcome you into these sacred halls,” she says, her voice like soothing velvet on your skin. “Alois informed me of what happened, and I thank every one of you for saving the students.” Lady Rhea smiles at you all separately. Her eyes linger on you, and she titles her head slightly. “I've also heard about the wondrous things that happened to you. Please, be so kind and remove the bandage. Let me take a look at this Crest.”
You hesitate, your fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. But Rhea waits patiently and raises a delicate hand when her advisor Seteth flinches to repeat her request. Slowly, you take the bandage off, barely able to imagine how the symbol or Crest as they call it looks upon your eye. When you meet Rhea's gaze again, her smile freezes, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her lips part slightly, then stretch into an ecstatic smile. Beside her, Seteth inhales sharply. “This is impossible,” he breathes, growing pale. You start to panic.
“Why, what's wrong with me? What is impossible?”
“Nothing, nothing is wrong,” Rhea quickly reassures you, but it's hard to believe when Seteth looks like he's seen a ghost. “A fortunate day indeed. Not only does one of the strongest knights to have ever walked these halls return, but it also seems that a new chapter of history dawns upon us.”
All eyes land on her, one more puzzled than the other. Even Seteth doesn’t look like he fully comprehends what’s happening. “Lady Rhea?” he asks cautiously at the same time as Jeralt demands, “What are you talking about?”
The archbishop ignores them both, and the longer she gives you that pleasant smile, the more unsettled you feel. “When Alois wrote about a Crest appearing on your body, I was not sure what to think of it. But now, I cannot hide my joy at the return of a Crest that we thought was lost to history.”
“I—I don’t know why I have it,” you quickly say, feeling you have to defend yourself before they accuse you of stealing it. Can Crests be stolen in the first place? “I don’t remember why I have it.”
Lady Rhea nods, her solemn expression making way to worry. “Of that Alois informed me as well. You may stay here until your memories return. Allow me for now to tell you about the Crest. Maybe that will dissipate some of the darkness shrouding your mind.”
You nod, and brace yourself for whatever she’ll reveal. It certainly helps that Byleth stands close to you, her mere presence a standing stone you can hold onto for now without drifting away.
“It is a Crest most uncommon,” Lady Rhea explains, her hands gracefully crossed in front of her. “For there was only one person who bore it. This Crest belonged to the very one who served our Lady Seiros against the evil powers that threatened Fódlan thousands of years ago. He was known as Seiros’ Champion. The Herald of Dawn.”
She allows those words to sink into you, and how deep they sink. Now that they’re out here, you feel like they pull you down, deeper down into a dark sea from which you can’t surface. The only result is drowning.
“Herald of … you don’t think. You can’t think—” Your thoughts move way too fast, you can’t grasp any to sort them.
“What I think means nothing in light of what has transpired and therefore is reality. You are chosen by the Goddess herself to bring hope to the people of Fódlan. You are the Herald of Dawn.”
You feel sick. It may be phantom pain, but you could swear your right eye starts hurting again, as if the Crest is reacting to the revelation, the call of its true nature. You dig your trembling fingers into the fabric of your jacket, considering for the tiniest second to gouge your eye out. Can’t be anyone’s champion or Herald without the Crest, right? “So, you’re saying … am I the one from back then? This Champion?” If you were really the same person, how were you still alive after a thousands of years? The prospect of finally having an identity is great, but you aren’t sure you’re ready to pay the price that comes with it. And this one seems to carry a very heavy price.
“That seems quite impossible.” This time Seteth speaks up. He looks just as unnerved by this revelation as you feel. “The Herald appeared when Saint Seiros was in dire need, and once his duty was fulfilled, he vanished. ”
“But now, another Herald has come, and with you the promise of suffering and hardships,” Rhea explains, her expression now strict and foreboding. “The task of giving hope is the most difficult to ask of a person. But that is the path the Goddess has chosen for you.”
“No, no, you’re wrong. I’m no Herald … and certainly no Champion of anyone. I can’t give people hope, I don’t even know what to give them hope for!” Your voice borders on hysteric, but you’ve never been more determined to plead your case. “I’m not the right person. I’m really not.”
“Then how come you bear the Crest of Seiros’ Champion, my child?” Lady Rhea asks, and you notice the tiny shift in her voice. The kindness grows thiner and thiner, and in its place austerity and even coldness settle—the voice of authority and undeniable command. “It is Our Goddess’ will. The Church of Seiros needs you. The people of Fódlan need you. You cannot turn away from your Fate.”
You want to argue that yes, you can; you’ll turn around and leave this place filled with crazy people and their fanatic beliefs. One look from Byleth stops your thoughts. Lady Rhea interprets this silence as compliance, and nods, visibly pleased. “We have waited for this opportunity for so long,” she continues, now smiling again. “There shall be festivities today. As a welcome to our Herald, and the return of Blade Breaker Jeralt. For you, his daughter, we have also thought of a task that will greatly help Garreg Mach.”
Jeralt grunts, clearly unhappy, but Byleth only cocks her head to one side. You’re astonished that after everything, she’s still awfully calm and collected.
“A teaching position has become free as of yesterday,” Lady Rhea explains to Byleth. “By Alois' recommendation, you are to take that position and teach one of the Houses here at the Officers Academy. Your colleagues will provide you with further information. As for you,” and you flinch when she turns to you, afraid what else she has in store, “you too shall teach the students the course of leadership and command. Seiros’ Champion was a great tactician. He honed Saint Macuil’s abilities. I would not be surprised if you too show an unparallelled gift for strategy.”
“Well,” you start, but the hesitation is clear, and Lady Rhea smiles like she knows what you can do once the Crest is activated. “Whereas you are to choose one house,” she tells Byleth, “the Herald will hold seminars. As a servant of the Church, you cannot call in favourites.”
“I don’t even know what to teach,” you mumble weakly. “How to teach.”
“Me neither,” Byleth says, the first time she’s spoken since entering the Audience Chamber. The amusement glinting in Lady Rhea’s eyes is like the sun reflected on a purling river. “Do not worry,” she says. “You will learn in time. And we are here to help you as well.”
On your lips lie the words that they certainly didn’t help you. You came here so they could help to search for a way to return your memory.
Instead, they made everything worse.
The ceremonial robes hang heavy over your shoulders. The feast hasn’t started yet, but you’re already sweating and panting with the weight of the golden embroidery and the head piece decorating your forehead. When Seteth brought everything in a couple of hours ago, he was grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, at his side a little girl who, unlike him, was happy to meet you and to see that you’d take on the role as the Herald. You wanted to tell Flayn there was a difference between want and have to, but she was already focused on helping you dress and prepare for the festivities. Servants handled the remaining tasks of making you presentable, and now you’re standing in front of a giant mirror, observing yourself.
It was scary how things changed so fast. Not even 24 hours ago, you were a nobody, a nameless figure roaming the woods, and now there is a name that isn’t your own—no, not a name. A title. A title that will all but replace your name. History won’t remember you as a person, they will remember the deeds that you’ve done, the mistakes that you’ll commit. Lady Rhea spoke of honour like it’s a crown on your head, but you see the noose that it really is around your throat. The head piece feels too heavy, and the golden necklace sitting on your neck reminds you more of a dog collar.
There’s a knock on your door. Seteth said that someone would get you before everything starts, and you don’t even try to hide the relieved sob when Byleth enters the room. She examines you from head to toes, and leans her head to the side, one finger on her chin. “You look … different,” she says.
“You mean ridiculous.” You move your arms, demonstrating how the wide sleeves flap uselessly at your side. “I wish we could do this all without me looking like a sack of potatoes.”
“I had to think of cabbages, but you aren’t wrong either.” She crosses the room and looks outside the window. You can already hear the masses as they enter the Cathedral, and it does nothing to calm your haywire nerves. Byleth seems to notice as much. She turns to you, and asks, “How are you holding up?”
“Do you want the real answer or the one I prepared for Lady Rhea?”
Byleth raises a brow.
“Not good. I’m just … how could this happen?” You throw up your hands in frustration, and the robes give a dangerous tearing sound. Your arms fall immediately down, the thought of damaging a hundreds of years old ceremonial robe the last thing you need today. “Of all the things, how could I suddenly become some figure of the Church.”
“Is it so hard to believe that the Goddess of Fódlan has lead you to this path?” Byleth crosses her ams and leans against the wall next to the window, eyeing you curiously.
“I don’t even believe in this Goddess,” you groan, flopping on your bed. The chambers chosen for you overlook the bridge leading to the Cathedral where people swarm inside like little ants returning to their anthill. It was a small room equipped with all necessities for comfort but no additional expenses on luxury. A bed, a dresser, a simple table and chair, a mirror, and a shelf take up all the space. Not that you could have brought anything with you.
You look up at Byleth and dread the next question. “Do you believe in it?” you ask. “That I’m someone chosen?”
“Hmm.” Byleth casts one last glance outside, then pushes off the wall, gesturing you to follow her. You sigh, and mentally prepare yourself for what will happen in the Cathedral. Before you leave the room, Byleth rests her hand on the door handle and looks back at you over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Where I’m from, belief doesn’t save you from the sword of a thief. Only deeds and actions. It’s the reason my father and I are still alive.” She considers you for a moment, and when you blink you imagine you see the tiniest smile on her face. “What you did yesterday was very much real to me. Maybe a Goddess guided you, maybe it was just lucky instinct. But you saved my life, and that certainly is something I can rely on.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, and swings the door open. You quickly follow, your steps feeling a lot lighter than before. “I guess I’m just frustrated,” you admit, carefully paying attention your voice isn’t too loud. “That they think there’s someone who can just decide how my life is going to be. Like this herald business suddenly defies who I am.”
“As long as you don’t forget who you are, does it matter?” Byleth wonders aloud, turning down another corridor that ends in stairs leading down. “As long as there is just one person who doesn’t forget, does it really matter?”
Maybe not to her, but for some inexplicable reason, it means a great deal to you. So you answer with a grumble, and Byleth hums like she knows she’s right. To change the subject, you ask, “What about you? How can you just follow along with being a teacher here?”
“Truth be told, I’m not happy,” Byleth says, nodding to the knights standing on guard in the first floor that leads outside. “But at the same time I can see Lady Rhea’s reasoning. Those students need someone who teaches them not to be stupid on the real battlefield. Especially when they are to be future rulers of Fódlan. If I’m the one shaping those little whippersnappers, I can rest at ease.”
You follow her down the hallways, staying silent until, “Whippersnapper is such a weird word,” you say.
Byleth gives a huff of air that barely passes as a chuckle. “It is.”
Together you leave the living quarters and enter the Cathedral at the backside where everything is closed off for the rest of the people. Lady Rhea and Seteth are already waiting for you, both dressed in equally complicated robes as you.
“Thank you, Professor.” Lady Rhea nods towards Byleth, who nods back and joins the other teachers. “And now, Herald, it is time to meet the sheep you shall shepherd from today on. Please, follow me.”
She doesn’t give you time to prepare for the crowd waiting for you, and glancing at Seteth for help doesn’t do anything either as he just crudely nods towards Lady Rhea, telling you to go along. You square your shoulders and hope for the best.
The Cathedral has been decorated with candles and tapestry showing the banner of the Church of Seiros and above it the Crest of the Herald. A platform has been built for your entrance, and stepping on it, your gaze roams over all the assembled students, clergy, and knights. Seeing them, you feel terror seize your body, locking up all muscles. The masses look at you with hunger in their eyes, ready to devour you like you’re the last piece of bread on the table. “Herald, Herald! ” they cry, and each time they open their mouths, the noose tightens around your neck. Saint and Martyr vaguely dance at the edges of your mind, beyond your grasp, mocking how you know them but don’t understand their very being. This is bigger than you. This is far bigger than you can manage, and you want to run away and hide from their greedy eyes.
Scanning the crowd, you notice the house leaders in the far back. Edelgard looks unpleased, her mouth set into a grim line, while Dimitri claps politely with the rest, and Claude raises a golden cup in mocking salute. You really want to break down and cry. The only solid point is Byleth, has always been Byleth up until now, at the other end of the room, holding your gaze steadfast like a pillow of strength in troubled waters.
