#A TIME IN MY LIFE I WANT TO FORGET /SILLY | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pricegouge · 2 days ago

Note

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

#incest cw #papochka #🗡️ anon

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thegreatyin · 1 month ago

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How did you manage to handle not one, but FOUR separate accounts in fl? I recently made the account for my HD little guy but having to do the tutorial again just seems miserable

there's... weirdly several answers to that question, actually??

a HUGE part of it is due to the way FL is structured. the 10-minute action timer is a core part of the game on a fundamental level, and the fact that i can very easily run out of stuff to do on one character and thus have an excuse to quickly and easily swap to another is just... convenient? satisfying? i'm not entirely sure how to explain it. the fact that i can make progress even while i am fundamentally simultaneously Not Making Progress is like pure dopamine for my freak insane awful little brain. there's just something really pleasing about spending all of my actions pursuing The Goal Of The Day™ on one account before casually swapping to another and doing the same without feeling like i'm wasting time or acting to the first account's explicit detriment. the downtime helps! the recharge time helps! the structure really really works!!

i'm technically only actively playing three, maybe two accounts minimum. the only reason the fourth (the one that'll be my future BaL playthrough) currently exists at all is so i can get his earlygame completely out of the way now and not have to waste time running through it all later, when what i actually want to do is play the ambition i've made myself wait a full year to play. and also getting free goodies as seasonal stuff happens,, something something surprise tools to help us later. the only two accounts i'd say i'm really "actively playing" at the moment are caeru and lark- and of the two, lark takes the most priority, since his ambition is the one i'm currently pursuing in earnest. for a couple months now- despite being My Main FL Character- the scoundrel has actually been pretty inactive on a gameplay front outside of the occasional progression in TLC and discordance content. purely by virtue of having Very little left to do outside of Very long-term grinds and vanities. they're in their "now what?" "now you can start playing the game" era. they've graduated to previous protagonist background cameo in a sequel anime series. they're like the yin FLPC equivalent of red at the top of mount silver. they're Literally just vibing rn. i only keep posting about them regardless because i'm insane and i will never ever ever ever ever let that bat go. but yeah, big TLDR, outside of doing the bare minimum to keep making waves/notability up every week, i'm not actually spending that much time on accounts i'm not currently actively interested in playing. and that accounts for way more gaming spoons than you might think.

i have a virtually lifelong history of playing MMOs, especially and specifically world of warcraft. i was born in the endless grind for useless video game pixel vanities and/or bragging rights. molded by it. you all have merely adapted to doing the same piece of content a pointlessly excessive amount of times for literally no reason besides whimsy and folly. me? i've done my time. i've served my sentence. i've spent weeks doing the original burning crusade netherwing dailies. i've devoted days to running praetorium over and over and over again, back-to-back, nonstop, long before square enix cut it in half and made it NOT take at minimum an hour and a half per run. i've perfected my silverwastes + auric basin goldfarming strategies. i've (almost) crafted dragonwrath tarecgosa's rest. i've killed the sha of anger so many times its dying scream of agony is embedded into the very fabric of my being. ""only"" doing making your name content four times over? that is nothing to me. it means nothing to me. it is so infinitesimal i can do the persuasive seduction quests in my sleep. it's not a matter of handling misery, or having the capacity, or even sighing as i remember the brass embassy raid segment of the watchful questline seriously i don't know why i keep forgetting that exists or what even is my problem with it i just am so consistently mildly inconvenienced by it and its highly specific resource requirements and it is the worst thing ever. maybe i'm just so used to the scoundrel's near-infinite money and troves of disposable items that i've completely forgotten what being poor is like. despite having done that step 3 fucking times now. ahem. anyway. i have transcended the feeble mortal bindings of my resistant-to-grinding flesh and ascended to a higher plane of enlightenment, they may call me insane but they will be the ones left laughing when they see what that "insanity" has wrought, i've usurped them, i've usurped them all-

hacks and coughs and awkwardly clears my throat. i mean. uh. um. Ahem.

the empress' court artistry + tales of the university nerfs helped too.

#and yes #before you ask #i have forgotten which account has which items/has done which content many a time #i think the most painful incident was forgetting to keep up the scoundrel's making waves while i was still playing nemesis with caeru #given that im trying to build it up to 12 and reset their specialization... that was uniquely painful #then again they have like 40 BDR so it wasnt actually that inconveniencing lmao #fallen london #ask #long post #sorry for the infodump + sudden villain monologue.#all jokes and personal accounts aside i totally get the apprehension abt doing that stuff again #it's not for everyone. not by a long shot.#im only doing this because im genuinely invested and in love with this silly little browser game #and way back when i started i made a (only half metaphorical) solemn oath to experience all of its ''main stories''#and truly see everything it has to offer #(bc i like. physically cant do hyperfixations by halves. i need to consume Everything abt the thing or i'll explode)#(and even then i'll probably explode anyway. it's either completely drop it or go All In until it stops taking up so much space in my brain #(and. given the track record. that is not happening with FL for a while yet)#but like. that isnt actually normal behavior. just. just to clarify.#from what ive seen a VAST majority of people do not go out of their way to play literally every ambition #and that is so valid. it is so overwhelming. you have to juggle so much.#you have to play the earlygame So Many Goddamn Times.#(as i said. served my time. did my sentence. i am my scars. etc etc)#the best advice i can give as someone who's so completely desensitized to that repetition it doesnt even phase me anymore?#the same advice i can stress to all FL players. legitimately just take ur time with it. play when you want to.#dont when you dont.#sometimes you have to grit your teeth and bear things. and when it comes to alts you Will have to grit your teeth and bear it all again #but the beauty of this being a game that one plays for fun is that unlike. say. crushing deadlines or annoying coworkers in real life #you are completely within your power to decide when where and if you want to grit and bear it all #..wow this is ADVANCED yin rambling holy shit. i actually reached the tag limit. i think this ask should be put on some kind of list

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seneon · 4 months ago

Text

silly desperate samurai yuta ily

TILL DEATH DO US PART 𖤐 SAMURAI!YUTA OKKOTSU

ii. WISHING ON YOU

SUMMARY. Even when separated, both you and yuta couldn’t help but long for each other. after all the time spent apart, you could no longer resist your temptations

WORD COUNT. 6.8k

SERIES SUMMARY. Set in Edo Japan, you, daughter of the L/N Clan’s head, are left powerless while your clan is on the brink of a war with the Zenin. In order to protect the clan’s future leader, your father assigned a samurai to remain by your side. Although his duty is only to protect you, Yuta Okkotsu couldn’t help the feelings that developed along the way

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After Yuta switched guarding duties with another samurai, you realized how much you had taken him for granted. Behind his stoic face was a soft, kind-hearted boy that you grew too comfortable around. You missed him, terribly so. And combined with your confusion, you felt a bit lost without him if anything.

You had less privacy than you wanted. Masuro Tashiro was the name of your new guard, and he took watching your every move seriously. Even as you attempted to sleep, he stood guard, watching like a hawk. Not even Yuta did that, and he kept you safe (excluding when you didn't cooperate). The thought of Tashiro keeping guard creeped you out.

You were deprived of entertainment. You no longer received any gifts or trinkets from Yuta to take up your time, and you definitely never left the estate. You would attempt to take up painting when you had absolutely nothing else to do, yet your artwork wasn't even good enough to be considered mediocre.

You no longer had a friend by your side. When you were in the same room as Yuta, he avoided your gaze. You'd stare, boring your eyes into his figure as if it would make him finally face you. You wanted to meet his eyes, even if it was only for a brief second. It never happened.

After all the time you spent frustrated with his determination to ignore you, you eventually became devoid of hope for him. He told you he was sorry, yet he didn't seem to be. Months of no communication made you think that maybe letting him go would be for the better. But even when you've tried, you couldn't help but think about him in your free time, which was practically all the time.

It was almost as if... No— it couldn't be that.

One day, 9 months after Yuta switched duties, you found yourself seated on the engawa near the estate's garden. Since it was early winter, there weren't any flowers in sight. A frozen pond and large piles of snow were all you could see.

You sat by the irori, warmth seeping through your clothes and to your body. In front of you was a half-painted canvas of the scene in front of you. Your paints and brushes, which were gifts months old that Yuta bought you, sat by your side. Despite how nice the materials were, your artistic abilities couldn't keep up.

A sigh escaped your mouth, and your eyes traveled to the door. Tashiro stood there, his hands at his sides as he talked to a few other samurai. He was not looking at you, nor were the people he was speaking to. You stood up without any noise, waiting to see if they'd notice. They didn't.

Your heart hammered against your chest as you backed further, eyes still set on them. Once you were hidden by the wall, you lightly speed-walked away. You repeatedly checked behind you to see if any of the guards had followed, but they failed to.

When you got further away, you had made a run for it. Your steps thudded against the wooden floor as you made your way towards the back of the estate in the direction of the nearest town. With the occasional samurai roaming around, you made sure to avoid them easily.

You took a moment to catch your breath as one of the men was walking nearby. Since your hand was over where your heart resided, you felt your family's pin beneath your fingers. Without even looking, you ripped it off and threw it near one of the bushes.

After the man passed, you walked in the opposite direction. The clothes you wore weren't the warmest, so you shivered slightly as the wind blew. You only got so close to the woods when a hand grabbed your arm. In fear, you turned around, expecting a threat, only to find that it was no threat at all.

"Tashiro-san is looking for you," Yuta's gentle voice reached your ears. You noticed his voice was deeper than when you last heard it. Although he was nearing 19 years old, it still seemed like he was still growing, even if in the smallest ways.

Months of not speaking, of Yuta ignoring you to the best of his capabilities, and those were his first words to you. You've wanted him to talk to you for months, yet you couldn't be any more disappointed. A part of you wanted to laugh, but you were too shocked to do that.

"He is looking for me, so why are you pulling me away? He can come to find me himself," you responded, releasing your arm from his grip.

Yuta seemed a bit surprised, but he returned to his normal expression quickly. He answered, "It could've been me or someone else. I'll just make the excuse that we were only catching up compared to another guard saying you were running away."

"No need," you dismissed him with a wave of your arm. "I'm leaving now."

"But you'll get in trouble-"

"I don't care, and neither should you."

The man frowned at you, "Why are you being difficult, Y/N? You know it's not safe out there. You're also not dressed appropriately."

'Why am I being difficult?'

You turned back to Yuta, hurt flashing your eyes. He worked so hard to ignore your existence, disregarding all your attempts at communication. Did he think you'd forget that so easily? Yes, you missed him, but you weren't so blind as to forgive him immediately.

Before you could criticize him, Yuta's red scarf was wrapped around your neck comfortably. He tied a soft knot before propping it up to cover the lower half of your face, effectively keeping your teeth from chattering any longer.

A feeling of warmth spread throughout your chest at the action. His scarf smelled faintly of wood, a scent you noticed he usually smelled like.

"Why are you so confusing?" your hands dropped to your side. Yuta, who was a step away, dropped his hand from your shoulder to his waist. "I... Stop making it impossible to stay mad at you."

His eyes widened, but he never got to reply because Tashiro had shown up, his hand gripping your arm tight. Your brows furrowed in pain, and you tried to yank it out of his grip but failed. Instead, the man moved his hand to your shoulder. Yuta eyed his hand unapprovingly.

"Good job catching the runaway, Okkotsu," Tashiro praised. And despite the words he spoke, the younger man didn't listen at all.

He told himself that he'd no longer reach for you, but watch in the distance. If there was a gap between the two of you, everything would be okay. With close proximity came misfortune, so he wanted you far from him.

Yet when he saw you running across the estate in a hurry with your nose stuffy and arms shivering slightly, he couldn't help but chase after you. In the direction you were going in and the fact that Tashiro was looking for you, Okkotsu knew you were running towards the lake. In weather like this, you were bound to get hurt.

"I attract misfortune to those I love, and I'm afraid that doesn't exclude you."

So as Tashiro had walked away with you in his grasp, your eyes on Yuta, he held himself back from running to you. You'd be fine without him, he told himself. Again and again, he said the same thing in his mind, but it didn't take him long enough to give up on what he promised and give in to his desire for you.

It was two months since your last encounter when you two stood in the same room again. This time, you were accompanying your father to another clan's estate for a gathering.

Although you did not want to go, he forced you to anyway. So as people mingled amongst each other, you found yourself alone, sitting on the engawa near the estate's garden. The weather was not completely warm yet, but you chose to stay outside anyway. You preferred this over the heat of random bodies near you. And since Tashiro was talking with the other guards, you were allowed to slip away on your own.

Yuta, who only kept his eye on you, followed you to the spot you sat on. You were bored, he noticed. Your fingers tapped against the wood with no interest, and the view in front of you was not entertaining either. And if he had anything to say about your expression, it'd be that you almost seemed sad.

Carefully, Yuta took a seat 3 feet away from you. You didn't bother looking in his direction as he adjusted himself. The two of you sat in silence until you spoke up.

"Did the other samurai bore you enough to come out here and sit with me?"

"Somewhat. They're all old enough to have two children if they weren't samurai. It's rare for someone my age to be fully fledged like I am."

"Right. It's been 3 years since you've begun to serve us L/Ns."

The silence between the two of you returned. With nothing else to say, your insides swirled in discomfort. Matters between the two of you were awkward, something you never thought would happen. You were no longer angry at the black-haired man, but bitterness still gnawed at you.

With a bit of attitude in your tone, you mentioned, "You told said you'd attract bad things if you were near me, and that work and personal matters shouldn't mix. Why the sudden change?"

Yuta's eyes widened, "Are... Are you mad at me right now?"

"That's doesn't matter. I asked you first, you know," you tilted your chin. "Do you no longer care for me like you did then? Is that why you're suddenly open to talk? Or are you quitting to serve someone else?"

"That's not it at all," he replied.

"Then what is it? You've left me high and dry without an answer for a year now! Just go to my father if you want to and stop leaving me to wait for you. Your incomplete answer makes me spend hours thinking. Agh, how frustrating!"

Losing your composure, your hands grabbed at your hair and pulled slightly. Immediately, Yuta sprung up from his seated position to hold your wrists so that you'd stop pulling at your hair. You only looked at him with a frown.

"Yuta, let me-"

"I've wanted to stay by your side this entire time," Yuta heaved. "For the past year, it's all I ever wished for. I know I hurt you by pushing you away, and I'm always going to be sorry for that, but it's for the better. What my mind wants and what my heart wants are different. I didn't want to hurt you with the confusion."

"I'm afraid you already have," you exhaled, closing your eyes for a brief moment.

"I know, and I'm sorry. That's why I want to tell you it now. Although I'm still working in the estate, I'm guarding your father, not you. My mind knows this is better to avoid danger I may cause you, but what I truly want is to stay by your side, just like how it was before."

As he spoke, Yuta's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink. You felt your own face warm up at his confession, letting him hold your hands as he pleased. The man's hands enclosed yours.

"Why do you think you attract misfortune?" you asked, since it seemed to be the root of the problem. "I know Rika died, but that wasn't your fault. Your whole village was under attack, so what could a child do?"

Although you were slightly lost about his guilt, you completely understood when he painted the full picture for you.

It was the middle of the night when Yuta first heard the sign of an incoming attack. The village was not densely populated and nearly 4 miles away from the main city, so they weren't given the attention they needed. The adults, as a whole, ran the village. They held their weekly meetings late at night, the time when all the children were fast asleep.

Yuta, however, was a light sleeper. His mother always kissed his forehead before they left for the meeting hall, and, without fail, the boy always woke up. This night was no different, except for the fact that he couldn't fall back asleep.

When Yuta first heard the screams while he lay in the dark, the first thing he did was light up the lantern by his bed. One scream, another, and the sound of a door slamming open.

His heart hammered against his chest as he was left scared and alone in his small house. That was, until someone slammed open the door to his bedroom. He jumped violently in fear, watching as Rika neared him with a frantic expression.

"Throw on your shoes, we have to run," she bent down to reach for Yuta's sandals underneath the bed. "Hurry!"

"W-what's going on, Rika?" he asked, slipping on the sandals and following behind the girl.

When they reached the front door, Rika looked in both directions before she took Yuta's hand in hers. They ran, the brown-haired girl leading the way further back into the village.

"Some men came and started attacking the houses up front! Nakajima-san went to get help, so we have to get as far as we can."

"But the meeting hall! It's at the front near where-"

"Most of them are dead," Rika bluntly stated. The images of his parents flashed through Yuta's mind. "My mother showed up bloody at the front door before I ran. I watched them set my home on fire as I came here."

"Are we-!" Yuta, who had been running as carefully as he could, tripped over his own feet. The lantern in his hand fell to the ground as he staggered to get up. Tears brimmed his eyes, "Are we going to die?"

"We will if we carry that lantern with us. Come on, we can go to the abandoned house near the flower garden."

The children picked up their pace as they ran further into the village. There was one home that remained unoccupied for years and for a good reason. It was run-down and unsafe to live in. Putting it to good use, the gardeners used it as a shed for their tools.

Upon arrival, Rika shut the door to the shed and held it in place using a chair. Out of breath, she grabbed one of the shovels and stood near Yuta. Even though he was the boy and he should've been protecting her, Rika was normally the one protecting Yuta.

"What if they come here?" the boy tugged on Rika's sleeping gown.

"Then I'll use this shovel and hit them on the head."

With fear brimming through their bodies, Yuta and Rika stayed in the kitchen area of the abandoned home. Every scream and noise made them jump. "It'll be over soon," they reassured each other. But being the children they were, their hopes were crushed.

The smell of burning wood eventually filled their nostrils, and the roof was burning before they knew it. The brown-haired girl ran to the front window, watching as a man laughed at her despair. Yuta took a step closer after Rika's arms fell to her side.

Once she turned around, his eyes widened at the single tear that ran down her cheek. Before he could utter a word, part of the roof collapsed right there. The little boy covered his head as he stumbled back onto his bottom.

"Yuta?" he heard her faint voice.

"Rika!?" Yuta coughed, trembling as he got up. "Rika are you okay!?"

The dust cleared and revealed Rika's figure trapped beneath a heavy pile of wooden beams. Just her luck, one of the fallen beams pierced her shoulder. The little girl hacked blood as she viewed the spreading fire.

"Y-you need to run," Rika cried at Yuta's frozen figure. He didn't move. "Yuta! Please run away!"

"I-I I can't- you-" his body trembled at Rika's spilling blood. "Rika..."

As Yuta stepped closer, Rika suddenly burst into screams. Her eyes widened and her body thrashed beneath the fallen beams as its flames burned her small figure. Her flesh melted as her eyes tearily met Yuta's.

In response to her pained cries, Yuta's feet took off without a thought. He turned around and climbed out of the window, running as fast as he could to a nearby cluster of trees. Once he was in deep enough, he climbed up one of the biggest trees and hid atop, sobbing until the sun rose.

"Rika died. My parents died. My first friend during samurai training died. It's like everyone close to me ends up dead, and it makes me fear for you. I don't want you to die, Y/N."

A gust of wind suddenly blew, yet you remained indifferent to it. Yuta uncovered his eyes and fixed his hair while you watched him.

"It's been about 3 years."

"What?"

"Since we met," you clarified. "3 years and I'm still standing, Yuta. Despite the dangers, despite everything, I'm still standing. I was close to dying at birth, I nearly drowned when I was a kid, I was close to splitting my head open after falling down stairs, and a samurai from the Zenin nearly killed me! It's somewhat concerning to say, I guess, but I'm a bit stubborn with death. I won't die, especially because of you. So please, I know it'll be difficult, but reconsider."

His lips parted, "I... You almost split your head open?"

"Is that seriously the first thing you say?" you took your hands, which were wrapped by his the whole time, and placed them on his shoulder. "Yuta, did you tell me those things because you wanted to stay beside me, or because you never wanted to ever again?"

"Neither," he closed the distance between, placing his forehead against yours gently. "I'm not sure about being your assigned samurai again, but what I do know is that I'm tired of pretending I don't care. It's too hard to ignore you in the same room when all I want to do is stand by you. I'll start to visit you when I can, okay? That is, only if it's okay with you."

Your arms slid down from his shoulders to his biceps as your heart quickened its pace. Although your proximity made you increasingly nervous, part of you enjoyed it. Your eyes met his blue ones, longing, and Yuta resisted the urge to finally seal your lips with his.

"What I want..." you mumbled, squeezing his biceps tighter. You didn't dare to move your face closer to his, "Yeah, I'd like that; you visiting."

Yuta finally moved his body away from yours, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "I'm not sure when the next time I'll be free is, but I do hope it's soon."

As Yuta talked about other things, your shoulders relaxed. You placed a hand on top of your chest, saying nothing as you felt your heart pumping relentlessly.

—

Yuta's first visit was 3 long weeks later. You were gazing out your bedroom window when he walked into your bedroom, which surprised you considering Tashiro normally stood outside. You perked up at his presence, swinging your feet to the ground and standing to greet him.

"Sorry, am I bothering you right now?"

You waved your hand, "Not at all. I was just looking outside, but since it's only starting to warm up outside, the only interesting thing I see is the icicles melting off the trees."

"I'm afraid that isn't interesting at all."

"Tell me about it."

With a tired exhale, you retired to your bed. You sat by your pillows before you patted the space in front of you, beckoning Yuta over. He sat down without any argument. Seeing his conflicted expression, you chose to ask him what was wrong.

"I overheard a conversation your father was having, and it seems like he actually arranged a marriage for you. The boy was taken in from the Zenin clan by the Gojo clan. His name is Megumi, and he's only a year younger than we are."

"So much for freedom of choice," your face twisted at the thought.

As you grew up, there were a lot of things you couldn't choose on your own. You couldn't choose what to wear, what you should eat, what instrument you wanted to learn, what friends you could make, etc. And now, sitting on your bed, you realized that you didn't even have the freedom to choose the man you'd spend the rest of your life with.

Life was unfair, but you thought that you'd at least be given the time to choose your future husband. Your father, once again, proved that he wouldn't give you a choice on such matters. As long as you lived under the same roof he did, nothing would change.

"It's like I'll never escape my father's grasp. Now, I'll be stuck with a husband I don't even love."

Yuta tried to console you, "I know it isn't ideal, but at least he isn't a bad person. Megumi-kun can be standoffish, but he really cares about the right people. I'm sure he would treat you with respect."

"Have you met him before?" you questioned.

"I have," he hummed. "I used to be trained under the Gojo clan before leaving and finding work elsewhere, which happened to be here."

"Wow, I never knew. Actually, I feel like there's a lot I don't know. You know so much about me it almost feels unfair," you brought your face closer to his. "Yuta, what's your favorite food?"

"Are we seriously doing this right now?"

"Getting to know about you will help ease my mind. So, what's your favorite food? I remember you really liking that yakitori you brought me once, and also those udon noodles with tempura we had at one of the food stalls. I don't think they're your favorites though, as good as they taste."

Yuta smiled, "You're right, they aren't. My favorite food is cabbage with salt and sesame oil."

"Wow, that really says a lot about you."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Sunrises or sunsets?"

"Sunrises. They're nice to wake up to."

"Your favorite season?"

"Spring."

"Oh wow, I thought you'd say fall."

"It was my favorite season until a few years ago."

"What made it change?"

"You did."

Your gaze, which was previously set on your bedroom window, moved to the black-haired man's. "Me?" you questioned.

"It was because of you, yeah," Yuta avoided your eyes. "We first met in the spring. I remember it was sunny that day, but the breeze prevented it from being too hot. I knocked on your door and told you what was going on, and you immediately complained to your father."

"Don't remind me," you covered your face in embarrassment. "I know now that there's no point in doing such. He won't listen to what I want and will proceed with whatever he wants. I thought I'd get the choice to marry someone I fell in love with naturally, but he proved me wrong. Again."

"Why not present Megumi-kun with a proposal? When he's alone, tell him that the two of you don't even have to bother trying to love each other. Since it's for the clans coming together, the two of you just have to keep up with appearances. I'm sure he'll understand."

You gave Yuta's idea some thought. Playing the role of a happy wife wasn't anything close to ideal, but you felt as if you could do it as long as Megumi's personality was how Yuta said it was.

"I'll try that, but I'm still scared," you admitted.

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that I'd actually fall in love with him."

It was a thought neither of you wished to become true.

—

Satoru Gojo was different than you expected him to be. You were at the Gojo estate to meet Megumi for the first time when the tall man greeted you himself and offered to walk you. You bowed at him out of respect, but he only waved you off.

"No need to be so formal, kid," he patted your shoulder. "I'm not like your dad."

In more ways than one. Not only did Gojo's attitude seem different, but his looks were very different compared to you or your father's. Gojo's eyes were a bright shade of blue, nearly crystalline, and his hair was a shade of snowy white. You wondered where he got his rare features from.

"Shall we start walking?"

"If you'd like to," you nodded.

And within a few minutes of knowing him, you realized Gojo was, indeed, very different than your father. He was laidback, cracking jokes here and there and talking to you as if you were a friend. You laughed at his words a few times, feeling at ease in the great Satoru Gojo's presence.

"Your dad told me you can be a troublemaker. That true?"

"It depends," you shrugged. "Give me a reason and I might just run away before I marry Megumi."

"I'm not the type to interfere, so any reasons you want to run away won't be on me. Are you opposed to this marriage?"

You pursed your lips and without hesitation, you replied, "I am."

Gojo's lips curved into a satisfied grin, "Oh, you kids will get along just great."

The two of you stopped at the end of a long hallway somewhere in the estate. Gojo stepped aside, gesturing for you to slide the shoji door open. You gulped, fingers pressing against the wooden indent of a handle. Behind the doors awaited your future husband who you'd, unwillingly, spend your future years with.

You took a breath before you slid the door open slowly. Your gaze traveled from the floor to the two people sitting at the room's chabudai. One, like described, was a black-haired boy with an uninterested expression. However, the brown-haired female seated in front of him wore a welcoming smile.

She was the first one to stand up, and bowed out of respect, "You must be Y/N. You can just call me Tsumiki. I'm Megumi's sister. It's our pleasure to meet you."

You reciprocated the bow, "No, the pleasure is all mine. I'm Y/N. I guess we'll be in-laws soon enough." You exchanged eye contact with Megumi, "And we'll be... husband and wife."

"Well, I should excuse myself. It was lovely meeting you, Y/N. I'll see you around whenever you visit."

Tsumiki smiled at you one last time before she left the room with Gojo. You awkwardly cleared your throat before you walked towards the low table. You sat across Megumi, in Tsumiki's previous spot, and rested your hands in your lap.

"So, I've heard a little about you," you started.

Megumi raised a brow, "If Gojo said anything embarrassing, just know that he was probably lying. He likes to poke at me for fun."

"Really?" you chuckled. "Actually, I didn't hear much from Gojo, but from Yuta. He works under my family, and he used to be personally assigned to me. He told me a little about you. He says you're smart, understanding too."

"You said that he used to be assigned to you. Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

"He... he felt that his personal feelings and thoughts were a hindrance. He switched with one of my father's guards and has been protecting him ever since. I don't see him all that often now, unfortunately," you sighed.

"There's no need to beat around the bush. Over a year ago, we began to exchange letters after he reached out of nowhere. He told of his feelings for you," Megumi poured some tea into both of your cups and with his same neutral expression, he took a sip.

You felt your cheeks grow warm at the thought. Although he didn't say the phrase directly, what Yuta told you was close enough. You were so excited at the thought of talking with him again that you nearly forgot. And even though you didn't reciprocate his feelings back then, you knew that had changed.

You bit the inside of your cheek, "Do his feelings not matter to you? We'll be getting married and all."

"Do you want them to matter to me?"

"Well... not really."

"Then they won't. We'll be married, but neither of us exactly wants to be. I'm doing this solely for Tsumiki's protection, and you're doing it because your father left you with no choice. Although we'll be together by the law, let's just be free to do whatever we want."

At his proposal, you slowly nodded your head. The freedom to do whatever you wanted, the freedom to feel for whoever you wanted— you liked the idea. And Yuta, who you told as soon as you saw him, agreed.

"You didn't even have to propose it. He did it for you," the noirette leaned against the wall he stood by.

Sitting by your bedroom window, you smiled, "Yeah, it was like he read my mind. Neither of us asked for this marriage, so we'll be together for appearances and appearances alone."

"See, I told you he would understand."

You chuckled, "You were right. He was straightforward but still respectful. He also seemed to care a lot about his sister, Tsumiki. He said that he was only doing this for her protection. Ah, I'm afraid there's a tiny chance I might actually fall for him after marriage. He's cool and protective of his family. Ah, this is bad."

Yuta immediately stood up straight and took a step towards you, "H-Huh? I thought this would be a good thing for you. Um... maybe you'll actually fall for him. Don't you want to be married to someone you love?"

A sigh escaped your lips, and without a word, you got up from your seat and walked towards Yuta. The two of you stood a breath's distance away when you shifted your weight onto your left foot. Tilting your head slightly, your eyes made contact with his

"Well, the person that I love isn't Megumi."

Yuta parted his lips. His brows furrowed slightly as he asked, "You're in love...? Was it the chef I saw you talking to the other day? I know he's only a few years older than us, but you shouldn't go for someone older like that. It's better if you're the same age so that-"

You laughed, "No, it's not the chef. I barely know the guy."

"Then who is it? That is- if you don't mind me asking."

"If I tell you, you have to at least hear me out."

"Of course."

"Well," you fiddled with your fingers behind your back, "he is, in fact, my age."

"Okay..."

"He's sweet and caring, not to mention adorable. I find plenty of his actions endearing, and he does it so effortlessly. It seriously frustrates me sometimes," you huffed. You watched Yuta hold his katana's handle tight, "But despite how much I love him, I'm not so sure anything will happen."

"He'd be a fool to not take the opportunity."

"I agree," you shrugged, "but who am I to tell you what to do and not to do, Yuta?"

The samurai took a moment to process your words before his eyes widened in realization. As you spoke, he tried comparing the image you were painting with people he knew and came up empty-handed. That was because of all the people he thought you'd love, he didn't think of himself.

He realized his feelings long ago, but when did they become reciprocated? Yuta first thought about the day you tried running away from Tashiro but decided that was too soon. At that point, you were still upset at him and didn't seem to realize your feelings, if any.

His mind then traveled to the moment you had towards the end of winter. Yuta's head was pressed against yours almost urgently as he held himself back from pressing his lips to yours. And your hands, firmly placed on his biceps made his skin burn.

"I'm not sure about being your assigned samurai again, but what I do know is that I'm tired of pretending I don't care. It's too hard to ignore you in the same room when all I want to do is stand by you. I'll start to visit you when I can, okay? That is, only if it's okay with you."

"What I want..." you mumbled, squeezing his biceps tighter. You didn't dare to move your face closer to his, "Yeah, I'd like that; you visiting."

Now that he thought about it, he was surprised neither of you moved any closer.

Yuta hesitated to say your name, "Y/N..."

"I know you're scared," you cut him off, taking his hand and holding it between both of yours. "People die Yuta, and the death of those you cared about was never your fault. You think that people get hurt because they're close to you, but all the time I spent with you kept me safe. The L/Ns and Zenins will battle eventually, so while we have the time, I want to spend it with you. I love you, Yuta, and if there's anyone who can keep me safe and happy, I know it's you."

A loud knock sounded at your door before Tashiro entered the room. You immediately took a step back before he announced that your father was leaving the estate and Yuta had to report back. The man left back into the hallway but left the door ajar.

"Give it a week," you told Yuta, who was biting his lip. "Switch back with Tashiro or don't. It's your choice, so I won't stop you. Though, I hope you know that I miss having you by my side. I was the happiest with you."

You made sure no one was looking before you pressed your lips against Yuta's cheek, leaving a chaste kiss. At your bedroom door, he sent you a final glance before heading towards the entrance of the estate.

Once you were sure he was far enough, you ran onto your bed and shoved your warm face onto a pillow. You had just confessed your love to someone for the first time.

—

Everyone in the estate was in a frenzy a few days later. You stood by the estate's blooming garden as samurai rushed past you and maids gossiped in worry. Apparently, your father and the samurai with him were ambushed by a group of Zenins and were left outnumbered.

At the news, you couldn't help but worry for Yuta, who was one of the ambushed. You were sure that he was not weak. After all, if he was, your father wouldn't have chosen him amongst the many people who applied to work for the L/Ns. But even so, if there were too many people for him to face at once, he really might...

You shook your head in denial.

Yuta never told you his answer, and until he did, he couldn't die. You carried yourself back to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you. Tashiro was one of the many samurai who left to assist, so you had no one following you around.

You frantically dug through your drawers to find an item Yuta had given you. It was one of his last gifts before he stopped guarding you. After some time, you pulled out a thin bookmark that had a ribbon tied to it.

Your fingers ran across the bumpy surface, which would've been smooth if it weren't for the flower sealed inside. You stared at the preserved plum blossom, its color still as rich as it was when you first received it.

"Plum blossoms symbolize good fortune, so I wanted to get this for you, Y/N."

Closing your eyes, you pressed the bookmark between your hands. One thought circulated in your mind, and it was for Yuta to return safely. Again and again, you repeated your wish.

You didn't know how long you were praying for when a few muffled shouts reached your ears. Some of the voices got louder, passing by your door and eventually turning back into silence. You were about to shut your eyes again when your door flew open.

"Y/N?"

Yuta's voice, unusually rough, reached your ears. The bookmark that you held onto so tightly, without you even meaning to let go of it, fell onto the ground. His clothes were stained with blood and grime, even bearing a few tears. But what had worried you the most was the cut on the right side of his forehead.

"Oh my- Yuta are you okay?" you rushed towards him without a moment's thought. "I was so worried!"

Once your feet brought you within arm's length, Yuta immediately grabbed you by your arms. You let out a sound of surprise as he pulled your body close, tilting his head slightly before moving his face towards yours. And with your eyes wide and nose right against his, Yuta pressed his lips against yours with utmost desperation.

Your hands found his waist as you shut your eyes and kissed him back. A warmth spread throughout your body as you freed yourself of Yuta's grip and threw your arms over his shoulders. Gently, he pressed his calloused hand against your cheek and pulled away, heaving.

"Yuta-"

"I've been thinking about it these past few days, and Rika crossed my mind. I often think about her dying in front of me, her teary eyes, and the pained cries she screamed. While we were ambushed, it crossed my mind again, but instead of it being Rika, I saw you in her place."

Yuta's other hand also cupped your face as he scanned your body from head to toe. While fighting, the sound of your voice screaming in pain echoed in his head, so he couldn't help but check for any injuries anyway. Finding nothing, he sighed before he tilted his head towards the ground.

"I was too weak to save Rika or anyone else, but I have the strength to protect you. I love you, Y/N, and I'll be damned if I let anything happen to you."

"Took you long enough."

"I know, and I'm sorry."

This time, you took it upon yourself to brush your lips over his before pressing them together. The noirette held your body tight as the two of you began to kiss again, his right hand traveling to your lower back. A quiet groan escaped Yuta's lips when you tugged at his hair slightly.

"If you're not sure about this," you murmured between kisses, "tell me now."

"There's plenty of things I'm not sure about, but I can't dwell on them any longer. The only thing I'm sure about is that I want you, Y/N. I, Yuta Okkotsu, promise to make you happy for as long as you live."

And with your lips smiling against his, your eyes shone, "You always have such a way with words, you know? I'll happily spend the rest of my life with you."

He gave you one last peck, "I'm looking forward to it."

—

In a certain room far away, a group of men sat in a room lit up by a single candle. Some of their katanas lay flat on the floor in front of them, taking up space for a certain someone's legs. Without a care, he stretched his legs out and crossed his fingers behind his head, leaning against the wall.

"The L/N girl is getting married," one of the men spoke, his voice gruff.

The youngest amongst them all sneered, "And that matters how? Do you think some information about the girl even matters?"

The dual-haired man raised his hands when he found a silver blade placed to his neck. The man next to him, Ogi Zenin, pressed the blade into his skin lightly, "Quit it with your attitude, Naoya."

"Sorry, sorry. Now please, Oji-san, no need to draw blood."

"Do what he says," the clan head, Naobito Zenin, waved his hand. Ogi withdrew his sword before the elder brother continued, "Did the ambush work?"

"We were able to take down most of L/N's personal samurai before more showed up. He and two others were left when we retreated," the first voice, who belonged to Jinichi Zenin, spoke again.

Naobito took a gulp of his sake, "Good. They're bound to move the wedding date up after that. We strike during the party after the ceremony. Naoya."

"Hm?"

"When the time comes, I want to you kill the L/Ns. Don't fail."

Now interested, Naoya's lips curved into a smirk, "Oh, I won't."

NOTE. 4 months later and we did it... this is the longest chapter i've ever written in my years of writing which is acc crazy to me. i usually max out at around 3k but this series has got me going past my limits 🙂‍↕️ next chapter will be the last! i just have to figure out all the in betweens before i write because i only have the beginning and ending in mind 😭 see you guys until then 🤍

TAGLIST. @seneon @crystalcclaer @mochuchi @soleelia @little-miss-chaoss @dievia3 @diogodxlot @sorasushik1 @st4rdusttx @elliesndg @michelleeveline @brad-is-rad-blog @willowgirlmaiden @shyfurina @xil3k

#thank u for this masterpiece ava #im too lazy to write the tags #cuz ive already read it b4 HEHEHHE #im special fr #ONCE AGAIN THO I PAUSED SO MANY TIMES #TO TAKE BREATHERS #rethinking my life bc im blushing #n giggling n twirling my hair #dont forget the feet kicking #SILLY CHAPTER #get naoya out i dont want him there #also megumi omg hes the realest #۟ ❨ reblogs ❩ ָ֢ #yuuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #﹙👻 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ avava﹚

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