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fairy-writes · 4 months

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Hmmmmm let me order a large latte with spice with Toji from JJK (female reader) and another large latte with cream with Noe from Vanitas (female reader) 😌😌

AS SERIOUS AS THE DEAD

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Prompt: A fluffy Victorian-era imagine with Toji from JJK

Word Count: 1.3k

Fandom(s): Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing(s): Fushiguro Toji x Reader

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Resurrection Man!Toji, Reader is shorter than Toji

Notes: I am somewhat inspired by “Anatomy: A Love Story” by Dana Schwartz because that’s the book I just finished lol

This is also like… younger Toji… so I’m taking some liberties with his personality.

LISTEN I KNOW WHAT I SAID ABOUT THE WORD COUNT

DON’T PERCEIVE ME

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The young man on the corner didn’t draw your attention at first.

Your mother was prattling on and on about the upcoming season and potential engagements, but you paid her no mind. You just wanted to return to your books. But something about this young gentleman caught your eye.

He was dressed in a tattered overcoat over a dirty button-down and trousers, hands stuffed in his pockets against the early spring chill. He scuffed his shoes on the cobblestone, and you could see the holes in them from your carriage as you passed. His black hair was ruffled, and those dark eyes of his bore straight into yours.

You raised a hand and offered a polite wave. The man scoffed and turned his head away, but you could see him watching you out of the corner of his eye.

At least, you could see him until your mother drew the curtains, blocking the outside world, well… outside.

“Hey!” You turn back and exclaim indignantly. Your mother huffs out through her nose and sneers at where the man had been just a few moments ago.

“There’s no need for you to be looking at those ruffians.” She snaps, and you just roll your eyes and peek under the curtain, ignoring her offended cries.

But the man is gone.

You run into the man nearly a week later.

You have your nose in a book when you run straight into someone and go tumbling to the ground. Your dress and skirts immediately soak up the mud and rainwater from the previous night, and you very nearly drop your book but instead manage to hold it above your head to keep the pages dry. You hurriedly flip through the pages to ensure nothing got on them. Thankfully, there’s not a speck of mud or water on the pages.

“Oi, do you want help up or not?” Comes a gruff voice, and your eyes shoot up to meet the very same eyes you had been thinking of just this morning over breakfast.

It’s the young man from before!

You quickly grab his hand, noting the calloused nature of it, and he heaves you to your feet easily. Now that you are closer, you can see he’s well-built, especially for someone of his status. His clothes are speckled with dirt, and he holds a spade in his free hand.

What did he do for a living?

You realize abruptly he’s waving a hand in front of your face, and you jerk back, nearly tripping again and going back down. His hand grabs your waist and pulls you back into a standing position. The book is squished between the two of you, and you blink up at the man. He offers a cheeky grin, and you push him away.

“Sorry!” You yelp and tuck your book under your arm so you can brush at the mud coating your bum.

Only to realize that it’s rather futile.

You sigh and realize your day is most likely ruined when the man speaks again.

“Follow me. I have a change of clothes.” He says, and when you stare at him, he looks to the skies as if praying for patience. “Y’know, to replace your muddy ones?”

“Oh, I figured. I’m just wondering why I should follow you? I don’t even know you.” You retort, and he sighs.

Eventually, after some back and forth, you agree to follow the mysterious man whose name you don’t know.

You really hoped you weren’t about to get murdered.

He leads you to a boarding house on the edge of town. It isn’t totally run down, but it isn’t super high-end, either. It’s nondescript and quaint.

The perfect place to get murdered.

You held your book close to your chest and smiled awkwardly at a panhandler sitting outside the boarding house.

“Y’bringin’ home a woman, Toji? Y’scoundrel!” The beggar crows, and the young man—Toji?—rolls his eyes and tosses a few farthings into the man’s cup.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.” He says, but he doesn’t sound upset. He sounds teasing as if this is a joke between friends.

The man takes note of your book and dress and whistles,

“An’ y’got a proper lady this time!” He says, and Toji ushers you into the boarding house quickly without another word.

Toji’s room was just as quaint as the outside of the boarding house. It contained a small bed, a dresser, a dressing screen, and two windows. He rummages through the dresser drawers until he finds what he is looking for.

A dress.

It’s muddy brown in color but will do nicely as you are starting to get cold. You set your book on the dresser and step behind the dressing screen.

“Thank you.” You say as you attempt to lace up your corset by yourself.

Keyword being attempt.

You usually have maids and help. But now? You’re floundering and tugging at the laces.

A few minutes later, Toji finally speaks.

“You doing okay back there?” He asks, and you make a frustrated noise,

“Just peachy.” You respond and let out a shriek when he comes around the dressing screen. He rolls his eyes and motions for you to turn around.

“I’m not going to do anything. Just turn around so I can lace you up and get you home.” He says, exasperated, and you eventually comply.

Toji stays true to his word and doesn’t try anything as he laces up your corset. He deftly maneuvers the laces through the holes and tightens the article of clothing but not so tight so you can’t breathe.

“Not bad for a body snatcher.” You mumble and realize very quickly that that was not the right thing to say. His hands still, and you swallow thickly.

Was he going to kill you?

Body snatching was illegal in these parts. But that didn’t stop people from trying to make a pretty guinea and digging up bodies.

“I prefer the term “resurrection man,” much more romantic, don’t you think?” He says and finishes up lacing your corset. You turn around and watch him warily. He watches you with the exact same emotion in his eyes.

He was just as scared of you as you were of him.

But it wasn’t until he was walking you home that he spoke again.

“How did you know?” He says as he scuffs his shoes and watches a carriage cross your path. You shrug, closing your book for the umpteenth time so you don’t trip.

“You were covered in mud. And carried a spade. So I was right then?” You retort and make to cross the street. He catches your arm, and you stop. He looks around to ensure no one is following or listening in on you both.

“Are you serious?” You gesture awkwardly with your book to the mud still on his clothes.

“As serious as the dead, I suppose.”

Toji throws his head back at that and laughs loud and boisterous. People begin to look, and you duck your head to avoid being stared at. He slings an arm over your shoulders and tugs you into his side roughly. Your book gets bent slightly as it’s stuck between the two of you.

“Oh, I think we’ll get along just fine.” He chuckles in your ear, and you feel your heart begin to race.

Just what had you gotten yourself into with talking to him?

#toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #fairy writes #fairy1300followers

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partystoragechest · 2 months

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Lady Trevelyan returns to Skyhold.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,726. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 36: Lady Trevelyan's Folly (Reprise)

The Frostback mountains stood vigilant over the road to Skyhold. Low cloud, and its gentle snowfall, obscured the very peaks. But their presence, nonetheless, was felt.

Trevelyan pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself. This cold was a far cry from the milder climes of the Dales, from which her cart and retinue now returned.

Though her fingers were already numbing, Trevelyan would not give them respite. She held tightly onto the parchment in her hand, her parting gift from Varric: his very own notes on red lyrium. Through every lump and bump upon the road, she read, over and over and over.

“Anything in there?” asked Dagna, sat beside her.

“I have some theories forming,” Trevelyan muttered in reply. She flicked back to the start again. “I’m not sure, I—”

“Hey—confidence, remember?”

Trevelyan smiled. “Confidence. I’m certain I’ll find something.”

“That’s more like it!” Dagna smiled in turn. “You know, I should find a way of bottling confidence.”

“I think they already have something like that.”

Dagna laughed. “Well, maybe we could use a less intoxicating version.”

“Now, that would be useful. You could name it—”

“Halt!” called the captain of the guard. The cart shuddered to a stop.

Trevelyan and Dagna’s concentration broke at once. “What’s going on?” Dagna asked.

The driver of the cart nodded ahead, to movement at the side of the road. “Traveller in distress, looks like,” he said. “We’ll check it’s legitimate.”

The idea of it not being so chilled Trevelyan even further. She settled down into her seat, and tucked her papers away. Everything would be fine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced in the direction the driver had indicated. One of their guard had dismounted her steed, to approach the figure ahead.

They stood beside a large riding horse, of black mane and dappled grey coat. With their back turned, and body obscured by a travelling cloak, there was little Trevelyan could divine of them. But the approach of the guard caught their attention, and they looked round.

The glimpse Trevelyan caught of their face made her brow flick upward.

The traveller was feminine in feature, though their fine black hair was cropped and ruffled. Their beige complexion, in this cold light, was earthy in tone, but turned to warm as the sun broke through. Cheeks bunched, as their face came to a smile.

They were not quite what one might expect some kind of bandit or ruffian to be. But then, what better bait, than someone so eye-catching?

“Ah, how lucky I am!” they called. “Are you Inquisition?”

“We are,” replied the guard who’d approached. “May we assist you?”

“Thank you, yes! I am headed to your fortress, serah—but my reins have snapped.” They showed the broken ends. “Must be this cold! If you have any rope to spare, I could fashion something temporary and be on my way!”

The guard nodded, and glanced back to the cart. “Cut some rope, would you?”

“Thank you!”

Trevelyan helped another guard to find it, buried amongst their things. He drew his blade and sliced a segment, that was then handed over.

The traveller accepted it graciously. “Thank you,” they said. “I have not yet reached your hold, but shall already have stories of your kindness to tell back home.”

The guard offered help with the knots, and asked, “Where is your home, traveller?”

“Ferelden.”

“You are of Ferelden, but you travel from Orlais?”

The traveller nodded. “I had business there for my family, the Orroats of East Coldon.”

Trevelyan’s ears pricked. She had previously been listening only out of curiosity; now she listened with purpose.

Another soldier called over, “You do not travel with a guard?”

“Oh! Should I?” The traveller seemed quite genuinely startled by the notion. “I had assumed the Inquisition keeps its roads.”

“We do,” answered the guard assisting them, “but these are unprecedented times. Best to be prepared.”

“True enough! Though if this is proof of anything, it is that I have always been a reckless sort.” The temporary rein was finished, and secured around their horse’s head. “Admittedly, I was so excited by my invitation, that I took very little care in making my preparations.”

The guard nodded, and shook their hand. “Then it is well we came along, ma’am.”

“It is. I thank you.”

With a glance back to the retinue, and signal of approval given, the guard told the traveller: “You are welcome to travel alongside us, though it may prolong your journey—Skyhold is an hour at our pace.”

The traveller still smiled. “I would be a fool to reject such an offer—so long as it is of no mind to you.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

The traveller mounted their horse—‘twas not a small beast, yet they were up onto it with ease and no assistance. They were shown their place amongst the retinue, as it began to form up once more. The tension of the air had dissipated; the soldiers once again returned to calm vigilance.

The order was given to march on, and so they did.

But Trevelyan’s gaze lingered upon their new companion. Curious, she moved to the other side of the cart, and leant over the edge.

“Pray, you wouldn’t happen to know—or, perhaps even be—Lady Hul Orroat, would you?” she called.

The traveller looked over, their eyes—a beautiful onyx that reflected the snowlight—widening in surprise.

“Hulnes, if you please,” she said, with a smoothness of voice that caught Trevelyan quite off-guard. “Hul is an atrocious name, and there is but one person in all of Thedas I allow to call me by it.”

Trevelyan grinned. “Lady Erridge?”

If she had not already confirmed herself to be Lady Orroat, her reaction would have done so sufficiently. The Lady beamed at the mere mention of the name.

“Yes,” she said. “Marcher accent… are you Lady Trevelyan, by any chance?”

“I am!”

“A pleasure to meet you!”

Lady Orroat guided her horse closer, but a guard closed rank. He looked to Trevelyan; with her nod, he moved away again. Orroat was permitted to draw in.

Her Ladyship was ever more handsome up close. She stretched out a hand, and Trevelyan took it, expecting to shake. Yet, Lady Orroat drew her hand up, and pressed a small, warming kiss to the knuckles. Trevelyan smiled. She knew someone that Lady Orroat could teach a thing or two.

“Lady Erridge has said so much about you,” Trevelyan told her.

“And you also!” Orroat concurred. “Thank you, for being such a good friend to her. She is such a sweet soul—she struggles, sometimes, with finding people who will respect her, given her wonderful silliness.”

“That is a shame, she’s one of the kindest people I know.”

“Indeed, I can gladly say the same,” Lady Orroat agreed, with exactly the smile Trevelyan had expected.

“Was it she who invited you?” she asked.

Orroat shook her head. “No, it was the Commander, curiously. Said he wished to meet me, and for Lady Erridge to see her dear friend again.”

Trevelyan blinked. Firstly, how in all of Thedas did the Commander know who Lady Orroat was? Secondly, why in the name of the Maker was he inviting her to Skyhold?

“The Commander?” she questioned.

“I was as baffled as you are, your Ladyship!” said Orroat. “Though he seemed quite eager to meet me.”

Trevelyan suppressed a look of confusion.

“Anyway, would you kindly introduce to me your companion, there?” Lady Orroat asked, nodding toward Dagna.

Trevelyan remembered herself, and introduced her. She was treated to the same gesture Trevelyan had been, which she certainly did not seem to mind. Talk continued, of Skyhold, of Lady Erridge—Orroat was, in particular, keen to hear of her time there—and of the journey ahead.

But all the way, in the back of Trevelyan’s mind, she was attempting to square the circle. Why had the Commander invited Lady Orroat? What had happened, in her absence, to cause such an event?

She was soon to find out, as they travelled slowly down the mountainside, and the great grey shadow of Skyhold began to loom. Stubborn and magnificent as she’d left it.

Trevelyan’s eyes drifted from the castle to Lady Orroat, whose mouth had fallen open in awe. She watched this reaction with something like pride, strangely glad that Orroat found the place as impressive as she ought to.

They trundled along through the riverbank encampment—which Trevelyan attempted to ignore the sight of—and up the winding slope that led to Skyhold proper.

“One would never expect to find such a place as this in the mountains,” Lady Orroat murmured, as they came upon the fortress’ facade.

Trevelyan smiled. “And yet it stands.”

There were calls and orders on the battlements, as they crossed the bridge. With a rhythmic clanking, the portcullis raised and locked into position. The warmth of the lush and lively courtyard beyond was as a siren’s call.

The retinue entered, breaking apart as it did, each rider finding their way to a waiting stablehand. The cart halted, and the driver jumped down, a hand up and ready to help his passengers.

Trevelyan took it, finding her way to the ground. She almost stumbled as she did, for her eyes were on the structure around them. Back in the embrace of the keep and its walls, she felt a comfort that had been lacking on the road. That hum of magic that always maintained the place brought her into its equilibrium, and she felt a tranquility suffuse her.

The Lady Orroat rode alongside, and dropped to the ground. She laid her cloak over the back of her horse, the latter of which a stablehand arrived to guide away. Orroat thanked them.

Trevelyan was finally able to take her in, properly. Lady Orroat, besides her refined features and somehow perfectly-mussed hair, wore a tight-fitting outfit reminiscent of a huntress. A bodice and trousers in dark leather, with a sheathed dagger at the waist. Maker.

Trevelyan’s confusion only grew at the sight—though this time, it was sheer wonderment at how Lady Erridge had not contented herself with her prospects in Coldon.

“Lady Orroat!” came a cry. Speak of the demon.

Trevelyan glanced to its source, and saw stood upon the landing outside the keep, one beaming Lady Erridge. She immediately broke into a run, hurrying down the stairs.

“Lady Erridge!

Orroat raced to meet her. They collided at the bottom of the stair, Erridge leaping into Orroat’s arms, Orroat spinning her through the air. When they slowed, and Orroat set Lady Erridge’s feet upon the ground once more, their foreheads came to touch.

“Oh, my dear Lady Orroat, how I have missed you,” Erridge breathed.

“And I you,” Orroat replied, brushing a curl behind Erridge’s ear. “My heart has hurt every day without you, my dear Lady Erridge. I have not known warmth since you left.”

“Oh, Hul…”

It was at this point Dagna came up alongside Trevelyan, and commented, “They seem like very good friends.”

Trevelyan concealed a smirk.

The pair finally broke apart, and Lady Erridge at last noticed Trevelyan was even there. Her face lit up.

“Lady Trevelyan! How good to see you!” she said, hurrying over for a hug. Trevelyan gladly gave it. “Oh, have you already met my dear Hul?”

“I have,” Trevelyan confessed. “I am sorry, I know you wished to introduce us.”

Erridge giggled. “Oh, I am far too happy to be sad about that! That you have met at all is enough for me”—she looked to Orroat—“and Lady Trevelyan is quite lovely, is she not?”

Orroat, hovering close to Erridge, nodded. “Very lovely.”

“And fine marriage material, I think you’d agree.”

Trevelyan’s brow flew up; Lady Orroat’s contorted downward.

“Um, of course!” she said, politely.

“Lady Erridge,” Trevelyan interjected, “you should introduce the good Lady Orroat to the other Ladies! Oh, er, Samient and Montilyet, I mean. I am sure they are excited to see her.”

Lady Erridge clapped her hands, thankfully distracted. “Oh, yes, yes! Let us go see them!”

She grabbed Lady Orroat—still somewhat bewildered—by the hand, and began to lead her off, up the stairs. Trevelyan turned back to Dagna.

“I should go and see them as well.”

Dagna waved her off. “Heh. You know what I think. I need to write up the report, anyway. See you in the Undercroft later!”

“Absolutely!”

Trevelyan waved, and hurried off to follow the Ladies Erridge and Orroat, who were already charging far ahead. She caught them on the stairs to the Great Hall, and entered just behind.

The Great Hall swallowed her up, and drowned her in familiarity. The smell—of the citrus and herbs used to clean the statues, mixed with the burning logs of the open fire—put an arm around her shoulder, and welcomed her in as if family. The ambient noise, the hustle and bustle, seeing the servants and soldiers to and fro—it all felt so right.

“I left Lady Samient in the garden,” said Erridge, marching off in its direction.

“I take it, then, that this is the way,” teased Orroat, in tow.

Trevelyan laughed to see it, and followed them along. Lady Erridge shoved open the door, and headed on through. Orroat came after, then Trevelyan—who was quite excited to see the place again, and the Lady Samient that was promised within.

Her face fell.

The garden was there, sure enough. Lady Samient was there, sure enough. But she was not alone.

The Commander—

Lady Samient stood beside him, laughing and talking. Laughing. Talking. But they’d said—they said they wouldn’t—

Why was she—?

Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat continued on without her, finding their way over the garden path to join the conversation. But Erridge had said—

There was no awkwardness, in their meeting. They joined together seamlessly. Erridge’s giddy little voice echoed around the place, and Samient’s Orlesian tones came in turn.

But Trevelyan stared at the Commander.

And as he shook Lady Orroat’s hand, his gaze left her. It shifted across the garden. And it caught upon Trevelyan.

His hand fell limp, and withdrew. His stance changed. His mouth fell a little ways open, as if he was to speak.

He began to back away from the group, but Lady Erridge called out, “Commander, where are you going? There is still so much to discuss.”

The Commander muttered something in response, and with one final glance at Trevelyan, he escaped, striding for the battlement stairs.

Lady Samient followed the direction of his last look, however, and finally spotted Trevelyan. Though her face lit on first notice, it quickly dimmed. She took a step. Trevelyan turned.

She didn’t need this right now.

She returned through the door with haste, closing it before Samient could follow. The smell, the noise, they hit her again, and scrambled her already-muddled mind.

Trevelyan did her best to hide from it all, as she crossed the space, and went for the opposite door. To the guest chambers, she fled.

The stairs she did not even have to look at, by now. She knew her way up them. As her hands began to shake and tears clouded her vision, she made her way with nary a stumble.

The corridor she entered, eager to find her quarters. But as she went for the door, her movements attracted attention. A shape, emerging from one of the bedrooms, manifested within the hall.

“Lady Trevelyan?” said Baroness Touledy.

Trevelyan looked to her in disbelief. She dried her eyes, if only to ensure this was no hallucination. But it wasn’t. The Baroness stood before her, alive, and glamorous as always.

Trevelyan collapsed into her arms, and held her tight. “You’re still here,” she murmured, into the Baroness’ dress.

The Baroness stroked her hair. “I am. Val Misrenne still stands, for now. The tide of battle has turned. I wait in hope of victory.”

Trevelyan clutched tighter, hopeful of the same.

“What of you?” the Baroness asked, guiding her to part. She took Trevelyan’s hands, and ran her thumb in circles over them. “Was your trip a success?”

Trevelyan smiled, as her tears began to fall again. Slowly, but surely, her head began to shake.

“We failed,” she cried. “We failed.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #look he's in there #it may be a very short appearance but he is in there #i am afraid it'll be a couple more chapters before he's Back properly #my aim is to get to ch 39 by the end of march #anyway lady orroat is hot shit and that just makes erridge's situation even funnier #be prepared for her to do even more hot shit

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