fernslivers

[fernslivers]

What kind of kisses does Mizu enjoy the most?

Ohhh Anon. Such a difficult question!

I feel like Mizu is so touch starved that once she feels safe enough to be in a relationship, she likes all kinds of kisses:

(TW for spice under the cut)

Quick, drive-by pecks on your way past each other in the apartment, on the way out the door or between tasks. It’s so casual and easy–it warms her inside every time she's reminded that her lifestyle now comes with constant affection.

She loves the way you kiss her in greeting every time you've been apart–especially, she loves the way your face slowly lights up with the biggest smile, and how she can still feel that smile even during the kiss.

She likes the kisses that happen when she tries to kiss you goodbye in the early morning and you grab her with heavy, sleepy arms to drag her back down into the warm bed, which becomes …

… Long, slow kisses when you're both sleeping in, bodies nestled into one another, hands roaming without urgency, just appreciating each other’s bodies.

She loves the excited kisses that you pepper all over her face between squeals of joy when she surprises you with something that you like. She loves that your first desire when thrilled is to reach for her and kiss her. Plus, you're just so damn cute.

She loves the insistent press of lips on her neck when the movie gets boring and your squirming around in her lap isn't getting the attention you want. Sometimes she deliberately ignores you purely because you get so adorably demanding with those kisses … at least until you switch to wandering hands.

She loves that first, hesitant press of lips after an argument. How sometimes you still taste like salt, if it was an emotional disagreement, how you cling on to her like you hated every second apart. Every argument, even the minor ones, terrifies her that she will really lose you this time, and the yearning way that you kiss her afterwards is a relief.

She gets crazy for those toothy, playfully aggressive kisses during your wrestling/play-fighting sessions. The kind where every lick and nip of teeth tastes like a challenge being thrown down. She'll pull back, tongue flicking over the little swollen spot where you nipped her, her blue eyes flashing, before diving back in to go twice as hard.

She likes the deep kisses that come in the depths of making love, where she’s pressed as close to you as she can get, and your lips are soft and slack and open for her, your breaths panting out in soft whines between each kiss.

She likes the praise-whispering kisses that softly find their way along her temple and throat when she's moaning for you, lost in the pleasure of your hands. It fills her with an indescribable sense of safety, these tiny, pure signs of affection even in the depths of the filthiest lust.

She won't admit to this one, but it might be her actual favorite: the way you throw your arms around her and kiss her on the cheek in public–sometimes in pride as you’re introducing her, sometimes possessively when someone looks a little too appreciatively in her direction. Either way, she feels in constant disbelief that you actually want to be seen as being her romantic partner, that you're eager for everyone to know you are together. But despite the scoff she gives you, she always hooks a begrudging arm around your shoulders and plants an answering kiss on your temple. You both pretend not to notice the slight smile at the corner of her mouth afterwards.

[fernslivers]

Hi! It's my first time making a request ever :)

I really enjoy your writing! I think i'm one of the few ppl who believe Mizu doesn't necessarily need a romantc relationship (at least not now, with her vengeace being the main goal) — i barely see anyone exploring the potentials of Mizu meeting her actual mother:(

I was wondering if you could write something based on this: Mizu finds her real mother is alive (could be in London or back in Japan) and they reunite. As time goes, Mizu still feels she's ruined her mother's life by giving birth to her. Her mother reassures her that she loved Mizu from the moment she was born, despite having to give her up as a baby. Mizu gets emotionally hit by that and can't stop her tears, but she can finally cry safely in her mother's arms after years. Mizu deserves to have a mental breakdown tbh. Like let the poor girl feel her emotions for once😭 Please let it happen in season 2🙏 the more gutwrenching the better (sucker for angst)

So basically a family reunion/hurt-comfort sort of thing. Would love to read, i think it would be very heartfelt. If you could make it possible, thank you very much <3

ANON, THIS HURTS AND I LOVE ITTTTT

I went with London since we're all so excited for season two, I hope you don't mind that I just did the setup and quick bulletpoints to get to the good stuff >:)

Thank you SO MUCH for your patience, this was such a gorgeous prompt! Please always feel free to make more requests!

TW: canon-typical violence/gore/blood, mentions of kidnap, implied canon-specific SA, possible infanticide, unhealthy upbringings

-----

The discovery that her mother was alive comes by accident

Mizu sneaks into the home of one of her possible fathers, slipping in through a window

She slips down the halls, walking soundlessly on the plush, expensive carpets

At the end of the hall is a huge, ornate door, flanked by guards

Faint yellow light, flickering, is seeping from under the door.

This must be it.

This must be his bedroom.

Like a living shadow, she slips up the wall in a corner, crawling onto the hammer-beam ceiling above.

The first guard never even has time to realize he's struck before he drops to the ground in a rustle of strewing herbs, red now seeping into the priceless rugs.

The second guard only has time to gasp before he too falls to the terrifying apparition.

Breathing hard, Mizu shifts her shoulders, cracking her neck.

That second guard had been a near miss

She curses the restrictive Londoner clothes–they are a nightmare to do anything acrobatic in.

And what the hell are these plant mats–these rushes–all over the floor? It's nearly impossible to get good footing as she slips and slides on dried plants over stone.

Irritably, she turns to the door

… The handle doesn't turn. It's locked.

Well. No big surprise. She can handle that.

She leans down to begin picking the lock and then stops in confusion to see the mechanism right there, a latch, easy to lift.

Locked … from the … outside …?

She stares at it, puzzling.

Perhaps he locks it behind him when he leaves? But that doesn't explain why it would be so easily unlocked from this side…

As she rams her way inside, her grimace is fierce, her sword raised.

A tiny gasp of terror–a female voice–stops her dead.

A woman rises from her chair by the fire. The long sleeves of her elaborate kimono trail to the floor like the jesses on a captive falcon as she raises a shaking hand to a slim throat, defensively.

Mizu’s mouth opens in shock. She stares at the woman, unable to speak.

It's not the elaborate Japanese dress in the heart of London, nor seeing a woman where she expected a man.

It's that … the face staring back at her with such terror is hers.

“Who are you?” she demands, her voice harsh–but even then, something in her gut has already told her.

–

Softly, after many suspicious questions, the woman offers her tea.

They talk late.

The woman–her mother, she still cannot believe it–assures her that the guards don't come by often; ”these foreigners are very lazy”, her mother tells her with a little twinkle in her eye.

Her mother explains with a quiet resignation how she had been taken captive by Mizu's target as he left for London, unwilling to leave his caged bird behind; how she wasn't meant to be forewarned of her kidnap, but a loyal maid had overheard the plans and come to tell her as she lay recovering from birth, too weak to try to escape.

“I knew they would kill you once we were on that boat, there would be no way to protect you,” she tells Mizu. She looks into the fire, wringing her hands together almost anxiously. She does not have the pride in her plan that the false mother before her had. Her glances at her daughter are hesitant and quick, guilt simmering in her dark eyes. “I sent you with my maid, the one everyone overlooked, not a favorite that they would recognize, and all the money I had, my jewelry, everything.” She closes her eyes, sighs out a long breath of old, half-forgotten pain. “I know it wasn't enough, I'm so very sorry.”

As the woman speaks, Mizu's eyes devour her face greedily, hungry for every detail. It's strange to want to stare so closely. She's spent so many years hating her face, so strongly that the white men in her murderous fantasies wore it like a mask.

She can see how Fowler recognized her. The similarity is genuinely remarkable–the same strong, straight brows, the same high cheekbones and pointed chin, the small, sculpted mouth. There are some minor differences; her mother has lived these twenty years like a pet bird in a cage, no exercise, abundant food. Her cheeks are rounder than Mizu's, her lips fuller. Her fingers are pale and soft, though just as slender. The long dark hair is threaded with grey. Her lined eyes are dark and gentle, though they carry her daughter’s same guarded wariness.

Her daughter.

What could I have been if I had been raised as your daughter.

The thought comes unbidden, and stabs Mizu through the heart with such venom that she has to look away from her mother’s forlorn gaze, her fingers clenching down on the teacup. There are smears of blood on the fine china from Mizu's fingertips. So long this poor woman much have fantasized and wondered about what the baby she had left behind must be like... and here stands Mizu.

“No. I'm sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Her mother’s brow furrows slightly.

“I'm probably … not what you expected me to be.”

The other woman looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles, slowly, until the lines by her eyes crinkle. “You are my daughter. To have gotten you back is a blessing from the gods. I only wish I could have saved you …” her voice tinges with melancholy as she reaches across the gap between their chairs to stroke the stubborn curl out of Mizu’s face, “... from the pain that I see in your eyes.”

Mizu stares at her, her blue eyes wide. “Mama …” her voice is hushed, cracking at the edges. The name comes so easily, for all that they're nearly strangers. There's none of the instinctive guarded worry she can remember with her false mother, none of that simmering unease that she could not name but also could never shake. Tremblingly, she raises a hand to cup her mother’s palm against her cheek. Her breath hitches at the feel of her calluses catching on the woman’s soft skin. Such different lives–but both somehow full of violence and pain, both trapped in a path they should have been spared. Her mother may never have raised a sword, but she had lived these twenty years under the same white man’s curse as Mizu. “I wish I could have saved you, mama.”

Her mother’s smile turns shaky, her breathing too, and when she speaks, the edges of her words choke off. “Oh, sweet one…” She pauses on a little gasp, looking startled by her own words, and there's a hard, dull thud of pain in Mizu's chest like a depth charge; was this a name she'd been called as a baby, held in her mother’s arms, ripped away too early to have memory of it? How many times has her mother called her remembered daughter by this loving nickname?

“I'm proud to see my daughter with such a selfless heart.”

Mizu feels the ugly shadow of what came before, the previous empty flattery of how honorable you turned out becoming take care of your mother. But in this moment, the mirage of her false mother burns away in the sunlight of the warm, uncomplicated love in her true mother’s gaze. The half-tragic smile swims in front of her–her own face, lined with age and dark eyed–everything she might have been had they both escaped the blight of her father.

The life I could have had.

It's as though the full impact of her childhood, her quest, everything she's boxed away for strength, for her focus on revenge, thuds down across her shoulders at once. And though she knows they are not safe, that both of them are as in danger as ever… for the first time since her teens, she feels weakness pull her down, and she slides from her chair to her knees before her mother, clutching the hand cupping her cheek with both hands, feeling the damp air of this cold foreign land whistle down the chimney and chill the tears spilling over their joined hands.

“Oh, mama…”

Her mother does not loom above her, but slides down from her chair as well to gather Mizu’s shaking shoulders into her embrace, heedless of the tearing sounds coming from her priceless garments, rocking her daughter as she sobs; the first time both have done so since the moment of Mizu’s birth. She does not flinch from the gore on Mizu’s clothing, nor reassure her daughter with false promises–she makes no demands for Mizu to muffle her feelings. She lets the blood and the salt tears watermark the silk of her kinmono as Mizu dissolves into a mother’s unconditional love for the first time.

The tears fall too fast for either woman to speak; not the ornamented and caged mother, nor the blood-soaked daughter. But inside, Mizu feels something deep and fundamental shift in her soul. Unmoving stone grinds almost unwillingly into a rare new position, new routes bared to the light, a lifelong quest abandoned in favor of new priorities. Her grip tightens painfully against her mother’s arms as they encircle her, and the woman only grips her more tightly in return, pressing her cheek to the top of Mizu’s head, her voice a low murmur of love.

I will get us both home, mama.

I promise.

[fernslivers]

I BEGGGG for the mordern Mizu contunuation from the begining 🙏🙏🙏 or any hc along with it, anything. I live for it (all your works, but this one specificly 🫠)

YOU GOT IT ANON

HERES MODERN MIZU Pt 4 (i think)

(And thank you anons for your patience, I see you!! I'm moving halfway across the country in two months so everything is crazyyyyy)

You guys are awesome!! Please, keep the requests coming! I know I take forever but they are so fun to work on!

TW: passing mentions of sexuality, illness

Mizu When Reader Gets a Cold

The first sign of trouble is the day Mizu is sitting at her laptop in the kitchen, and you come stumbling out of your room, hair crazy, blanket over your shoulders.

Both of you stare at each other in surprise.

She knows damn well you have classes all day today

She got home in the early hours of the morning, crashed for a few hours and assumed you had left already.

She's almost never home when you're home

Because her crush is starting to get really bad and she's panicking

So you weren't expecting to see her just hanging here.

“Oh- … hey,” you croak, and her eyes widen before narrowing

“... You're sick.”

“Eh … s’fine. Just a day cold thing.”

You don’t expect her to make a fuss, and you want to keep it a minor thing

You're shocked when she stands up abruptly.

“You're supposed to rest when you're sick.”

“I just needed some water–”

“I'll bring it. Go back to bed.”

Her tone brooks no argument.

You go, though you're completely mystified by this sudden, terrifying nursemaid you've acquired.

Truth be told, she's surprised at herself, too.

She's not normally very nurturing, but you’ve come to mean so much to her.

She can't stop fretting (not that she lets you see that).

She actually almost never gets sick, so she's not really sure what to do.

She calls everyone she knows

Well–almost everyone

Ringo of course is full of food-related remedies

But they are backed up with a surprisingly in-depth amount of medical knowledge

Akemi recommends pampering: “make her feel like a princess, let her rest and not have to do anything”

Taigen shouts in the back of Akemi’s call that Mizu should try some supplement someone was hawking on Reels

Akemi tells her to ignore him

(She was already planning to)

Eiji has several more traditional recipes and suggestions

He also, of course, recommends staying active

“Do not let the body rest too long, the congestion will settle and stay longer. Work is a remedy.”

Mizu shudders a little at some childhood memories that THAT statement brings up

She even calls Madam Kaji. The woman has surely nursed many girls with the goal of getting them back on their feet fast, so she MUST know effective remedies.

Madam Kaji is blunt as ever:

“orgasms”

Mizu goes red, while remaining stoic on the phone: “I'm serious. This is not the time.”

Kaji sighs. “Orgasms release feel-good chemicals to the brain. You want her to feel better? Give her a hard infusion of oxytocin,” she purrs, voice dripping with innuendo.

Mizu hangs up abruptly.

(Madam Kaji laughs herself silly with her girls, imagining Mizu’s flustered expression.)

(Truth be told, she just uses OTC cold medicine.)

With you fully unaware, dozing in your room, Mizu paces

She's got no idea which one is going to be most effective

With her usual dogged determination, she decides she'll just try them all until one seems to be working.

Well–except the sex one. She should have known better than to ask Madam Kaji

Truth be told, she'd be happy to help with that one … but she doesn't think you'll go for it

So that's how you find yourself shuffled out to the couch where she can keep an eye on you

You try to protest, worried about getting her sick

But it's Mizu. A barreling train would barely slow her down.

You're banned from getting up for any reason, except for one supervised walk around the apartment every hour, in deference to Sword-Father.

If it weren't so bizarre, it would be hilarious how Serious she is about all this.

She gets you blankets, food, hot tea, medicine, ice cream, ginger ale … all the pampering things

But she gets them for you with the same Intense Focus and silence that she uses when training, or hunting leads on her father, or studying.

Brow furrowed, jaw tense, words sparse.

It is sweet, though, if strangely out of character for her.

She did hand you the remote and tell you to put on whatever you like to watch

But it's kind of hard to focus on the TV when piercing blue eyes keep appearing around the doorway to the kitchen, or over the top of her laptop from the other chair in the living room.

At one point, you innocently get up to use the bathroom…

…

“What are you doing?”

JEsus

God, your HEART

She just materialized out of nowhere

You think she might have actually scared the cold right out of your body for a minute

“Why are you getting up? What do you need? Sit down, I'll get it.”

“I need to PEE, Mizu. I don't think that's something you can do for me.”

She gets a bit huffy, but she can't really argue

She hovers around you the entire way to the bathroom with her grumpy-cat expression, her eyes sharp on your every shuffling step.

She's so close behind you that she's the thing most likely to trip you.

You stop at the doorway. “Do NOT follow me in here.”

“I wasn't GOING to!”

(The jury is still out on that ...)

“Just– … call me if you think you're going to fall.” She calls through the door.

Miracle of miracles, you somehow manage to use the bathroom without keeling over.

She hovers the rest of the way back to the couch.

At one point, you see her take a call–she looks so serious that you assume it must be business or school related.

Then, she hangs up: “Ringo is bringing soup.” She tells you, as though he were bringing over Serious Documents.

You can't help but smile.

Despite the unconventionality, she's so Mizu that it’s intensely charming.

Not to mention how strangely special this is all making you feel.

Nobody has ever fussed over you like this, and her unusual intensity makes you feel like your comfort is genuinely important

This is also the most attention she's paid you in a while, and it's good to have her close again

Even if she won't let you really talk

She says you need to rest your throat, but of course, it does help with deflecting awkward questions

Like where she's been disappearing off to lately ...

Later in the evening, after Ringo has delivered the biggest vat of soup you've ever seen, you end up falling asleep on the couch.

Mizu puts her laptop aside, and quietly watches you sleep for a few moments

Your face is so peaceful, and it's been so good to be sharing space with you again

All day she's been wondering why it's Madam Kaji's advice that won't leave her head.

She's long since accepted her crush, but with it being such a hopeless case (she thinks), it should have fizzled out by now

Instead, she spent her whole day caring for you and she doesn't even mind that it set her plans back and used time she can't spare

She doesn't even question that it was worth it, and that scares her a little.

Sighing, she gets up and pads over to readjust it blanket to cover you better

Then, she hesitates.

This is the closest she's been to you in a long time.

She can feel your warmth where her knuckles are brushing against your shoulder, smell your unique scent.

You look so … vulnerable. She knows how fragile human life can be, better than most. But you trust her, even after everything you've seen of her life.

… maybe she should spend more time with you.

Yes, the crush is hard, but you've been so accepting, she knows she's been pushing you away lately.

You're precious to her, and she truly doesn't want to lose you.

After another brief hesitation, she says your name softly, checking that you're asleep.

When you don't stir, she leans down and presses her lips to your forehead, just softly.

The way she can just barely recall Mama doing for her once when she was sick as a child, one of her happiest childhood memories, one of the only times during that period before Eiji that she felt safe.

She doesn't know how to take care of people. But she's going to try fucking hard for you.

With another sigh, she walks into the kitchen to get some more soup for herself now that you're asleep.

As soon as she's out of the room, your eyes open

What the hell was that?? Did she just–

From the kitchen, you hear a slight sneeze.

Well.

Shit.

[fernslivers]

[fernslivers]

UPDATES UPDATES

Maybe I'm the last to see this but like AHHH

PLEASE WRITERS PLEASE

Don't fuck this up 😭😭😭😭

Like if she gets her sword back does that mean other characters followed her to London??

Or is it going to be half in London and half in Japan? That would mean it'll have to take place over like ... AT LEAST four years in one season

WHO ARE THEY BRINGING BACK NOT THE HUSBAND PLEAAASSE

[fernslivers]

Nervous

~~

Yes, it's your wedding day, but Mizu knows this is just a formality, a civil service. So why does everyone seem to keep thinking she's nervous? She's not. She's never been nervous a day in her life.

~~

A/N: I heard ilblue's cover of lovestory x golden brown. (If you haven't heard it, please, it's fucking transcendental). I ascended, my soul left my body. Straight up put it on repeat, opened my word doc and blacked out. When I woke up, I'd written 1k words of the most sappy, sentimental fluff I think has ever escaped my brain.

I just think Mizu deserves to have a sweet wedding to someone that adores her, while her found family tries their best to be supportive in their own ways. :,)

~~

TW: I guess Ta*gen is technically there for a hot second.

~~~~

“Bet you're real nervous,” Taigen says, polishing his fingernails on the shoulder of his horrible flashy suit.

“Nope,” Mizu deadpans. The morning breeze stirs her wayward curl, the only part of her moving as she kneels in the early sunlight. Behind them, through the open French doors, her suit is waiting, laid across the dressing table of the back room she's been given to get ready in.

“I would be, if I were you. I'd be fuckin’ terrified she’d wise up at the last minute and book it.”

“Classy. Nice well-wishes.” Mizu curls her lip without opening her eyes. “Who let you back here?”

Taigen chuckles, leaning on the railing of the little patio where she's trying to meditate and center herself. A beer swings precariously in his hand. The good luck beer he brought Mizu–’to bro out before you get tied down ’–sits untouched on the little patio table. “My wife owns the venue. Nobody has to let me in.”

Mizu growls lightly, irritated, regretting letting Akemi talk them out of eloping. She might be on speaking terms with the man these days, but he's never lost his unique ability to needle her faster than anyone else she knows.

He's right, though, says that traitorous little voice at the back of her head. She could already be gone, and you don't even know. It’s so stupid, but it won't go away. What if she walks out there, and someone hands her a letter from you, explaining that you've suddenly realized–

A hand thumps her hard on the shoulder, surprising her. She looks up as Taigen pads past. His voice is studiedly casual, he carefully doesn't once look at her.

“Relax. She's just enough of an idiot to be crazy about you.”

Mizu says nothing, only listens for the click of the door shutting behind him. She shuts her eyes and tries anew to focus on the meditation, but her mind won't cooperate. All she can see is the way you had rolled over and smiled at her this morning, calling her my soon-to-be wife, and cupped her face like it was your entire world.

—

“You must be so nervous, huh?” Akemi says cheerily, tucking the last flower into Mizu's hair. Mizu sits still, just barely tolerating the touch. She was more than prepared to go out in her usual high bun, but Akemi had dug her heels in. It's your wedding day, you need some kind of pizazz, she had insisted.

They had argued for a full week before they had compromised; the normal bun … with flowers. Neither of them is actually satisfied; both have accepted sulking in silence about it.

“No.” Mizu says shortly. She shoots Akemi a sharp drop it look in the mirror.

“Really?” The woman asks, plucking at this hair and that petal until Mizu wants to scream. She just wants to be alone. To center herself. To stop wondering what you look like right now, if you're in your dress yet. If you're thinking of her. She stares at the flowers in her hair. Will you like them? Do they look stupid?

“Why should I be.”

Akemi frowns, wondering if she should tell her that you’re pretty close to an anxiety attack. That when she left your room to come back here, you'd been bent over a bucket for the last hour, and she'd had to redo your makeup twice.

Best not to, she decides. She knows Mizu, and the last thing the wedding needs is Mizu bringing the whole production to a screeching halt by rushing through the whole venue to hover anxiously over you, refusing to let anyone else near.

“Well, you look great,” she says instead, sincerely, and is rewarded by the smoothing out of Mizu's brow that is the closest the woman usually gets to a smile–for anyone that isn't you.

—

Eiji insists, despite the flowers, and the fancy suit, that something is missing from Mizu’s wedding attire.

Mizu’s face creases in confusion for a moment, before she sees the little box in the old, scarred hand.

“You didn't have to–”

The other hand is held up flat, silencing her.

“My daughter,” Eiji says very seriously. “...is getting married. Do not tell me what I had to do.”

He opens the box, gesturing her forward. Mizu swallows back the rush of tears when she sees the little pin in his hand; a perfect copy of her prized blade. It’s rare that Eiji works with anything small–he complains at the fiddly nature of it, how difficult it is to feel out the details on such a tiny canvas with his callused fingertips.

She bends for him as he reaches up, and he smiles, pats her cheek, carefully doesn't mention the wetness he can feel there. The words I'm so proud of you float between them, unsaid but understood.

“Remember, there is no need to be nervous,” Eiji reminds her sagely as he affixes the little sword pin to her lapel.

“I'm not nervous,” she retorts, her brow furrowing slightly, frustration creeping into her voice.

“Mm,” Eiji says, shaking his head. When he had brought you your own paired pin this morning, you had all but fallen across his shoulders with sobs, stammering how grateful you were to him for everything, how much you loved Mizu, how you hoped you would make him proud as a daughter-in-law.

“I must go. I want a good view,” he quips dryly, and pats Mizu once more on the shoulder before he leaves the dressing room.

—

Ringo sidles up closer while they're standing at the front of the ballroom, looking down the aisle. He’s been preening in his tailored new suit the whole opening of the ceremony, puffed up with joyous pride. He'd openly wept with happiness when Mizu had informed him--not asked--that he was the best man, and has since run a constant, gentle interference between you two, and Akemi's taste for extravagance in planning. Mizu knows the understated blue shades of the decor are partly thanks to him.

“Akemi says you aren't nervous,” he whispers.

“Shh.”

“Not at all?”

“No,” Mizu hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Shut up.” She tugs at the lapels of her suit again for the fifth time, hands shaking slightly.

Ringo sees the shaking and smiles, a warm fondness shining from every corner of his face. He steps back into place.

He knows.

—

The music is starting. It’s the one you chose together; the song you’d danced in the kitchen to, so far back that you hadn't even confessed yet, both of you pretending this was just a fun way to teach her to waltz, both of your chests burning up with yearning.

You'd played it for her as a suggestion for the wedding, snuggling up next to her on the couch, telling her how nervous she used to make you. You were so gorgeous, you'd said, smiling up from the crook of her arm. It felt so right to be in your arms. That's when I knew.

She didn't know how to tell you I always knew.

Now, it's playing through the entire room, rich and full and swelling with the weight of the emotions you've shared through it for so long. Suddenly her entire body seems to be fluttering strangely. Her palms are sweating. This is it, she thinks. The start of forever.

Part of her still scoffs in response to that; you loved her before this ceremony, you’ve lived together, slept together, she trusts that you're committed. This shouldn't even be necessary. It's outdated. It’s expensive.

You step around the corner, and the doubts about importance fall away as her mind goes blank. You raise your eyes along the aisle until they find hers waiting at the other end. Your smile is trembling through shining eyes; every ounce of love shows across the distance. Her knees feel like they're going to give out, and her gut clutches on a pang of love so strong that it aches.

You look beautiful.

–

She's reaching for you when you’re still feet away, hands outstretched unconsciously, uncaring of who can see her moment of vulnerability. She just wants her skin on yours, right now.

“Okay?” She asks you softly, wrapping your hands in hers, holding them like she always does; like they're something precious, to be cradled with utmost care. The delicacy of your touch still makes her heart race after all this time together.

“Nervous,” You murmur, smiling shakily. “Excited.”

She squeezes your hands, lips curving up as her eyes soften. Her voice is a quiet undertone, for your ears only.

“Me, too.”

[fernslivers]

i love women in black clothes a lil too much..

(also,she look so scrumptious here,oh my dayss)

(dont mind the watermark,i changed it for some reasons)

why cant i post this

ignore my yapping here

[fernslivers]

HEAVEN AND BACK.

CHARACTERS: vi ;; caitlyn kiramman ;; sevika ;; cassandra kiramman ;; jinx ;; ellie williams ;; abby anderson ;; mizu ;; claire redfield ;; jill valentine ;; ada wong ;; tifa lockhart ;; aerith gainsborough.

PAIRINGS: all x fem!reader (each for one scenario.)

PREFACE: and she just went to heaven and back.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: oopsie disappearing for days and now return with a banger (? no not really lol)

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni)

vi.

the room is dark, save for the dim glow of a single light, casting shadows across the walls. the faint hum of music plays in the background, but it's almost drowned out by the thumping of your heart. you’ve always found vi unpredictable—wild, untamed—but tonight, there’s a different energy about her.

she stands in front of you, arms crossed, eyes locked onto yours, challenging. "you ready, sweetheart?" she asks, voice low and dripping with something dangerous, something you can’t quite place.

your throat tightens, your words caught. vi’s been teasing you all night, pushing your limits, making you second guess your every move. and now, here you are, in the middle of this game, standing closer to her than you've ever been before, with only seven minutes to go…

"don’t hold back," she mutters, a sly grin creeping up on her lips. you shiver under the weight of her gaze.

you step forward, daring to meet her, but before you can do anything, she’s got you pressed against the wall, her body flush with yours. you inhale sharply, your breath hitching as her hand drifts down to your waist, gripping you like she owns you. the heat between you two is almost suffocating.

“you think you can handle me?” vi growls, a playful but wicked edge to her voice as she pulls you closer, making you feel every inch of her.

you swallow, unable to form coherent words, too lost in the tension that’s been building for what feels like forever. her lips ghost over yours, teasing you just enough to make your knees weak, and your mind go hazy.

but it’s vi. and vi doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own.

with a sudden move, she’s kissing you—hard. there’s no tenderness here, no gentle exploration. it’s all demand, all possession. she owns every inch of your mouth, every sigh that escapes you.

her hands roam—one grabbing your hair, the other sliding down to your hips, pulling you into her, not giving you the space to breathe. she knows you’re a mess by now, that all your resistance is crumbling with each second. but that’s exactly what she wants.

the kiss deepens. your world is reduced to the sensation of her lips, her hands, the thundering of your heart. you can feel her smirk against your mouth, knowing exactly how far she’s pushed you.

“seven minutes, sweetheart," vi whispers as she pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. “let’s make them count.”

and you’re not sure whether you're ready for what's next, but something inside you burns brighter, knowing that under all her teasing and taunting, she’s not going to let you go without a mark.

caitlyn kiramman.

the door clicks shut behind you. the room goes still.

and caitlyn turns to face you with that signature unreadable expression—chin tilted slightly down, eyes cool and steady. she doesn’t say a word at first. just steps closer.

click. the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor is the loudest thing in the room.

your back hits the wall before you realize you're even moving. she’s taller, poised, and terrifyingly in control. one gloved hand lifts to brush a strand of hair away from your face, but her fingers linger at your jawline. her touch is gentle, but not soft—measured, precise.

"you knew i’d follow you in here," she murmurs, voice low, smooth as wine and laced with danger. "didn’t you?"

your breath catches. you don’t answer. you can’t.

her thumb presses lightly against your lower lip, holding your gaze hostage.

"i’ve been watching you all night," she continues, as if she’s telling you about the weather. "the way you act so innocent, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing."

caitlyn leans in. you can feel her breath on your cheek, her mouth just barely brushing the shell of your ear.

"but here’s the thing, love…" she purrs. "…i don’t need you to pretend."

then—contact.

she kisses you with lethal elegance. no urgency, no mess. just cold fire and calculated heat. it’s controlled, like she’s tasting you rather than devouring—but still, you melt under her touch. you can’t help it. you gasp, and she takes full advantage, deepening the kiss just enough to ruin you.

her gloved hand trails down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse point.

"you’re trembling," she murmurs, smiling against your mouth. "how long have you been waiting for me to touch you like this?"

you don’t even know how long it’s been. weeks? months? every damn time she looked at you like you were a secret she’d already figured out.

she presses her thigh between yours. you whimper.

"mm. you sound pretty when you beg," she says simply. then her hand wraps around your neck—not choking, just holding. just owning.

her mouth returns to yours, slow and decadent this time. like she has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“you’ll thank me for this later,” she whispers. “but for now... be good, and keep quiet.”

seven minutes have never felt so short. or so goddamn dangerous.

sevika.

it’s quiet in the closet. too quiet.

you can hear your heartbeat louder than anything else. that, and sevika’s low exhale as she lights a cigarette—like she’s got all the time in the goddamn world.

she doesn’t even look at you at first. just leans against the back wall, smoke curling around her like some devil who already knows you’ll give in.

"you nervous, sweetheart?" she finally rasps, voice rough like gravel, like sex. "you should be."

your throat goes dry. you try to keep your back straight, pretend like you’re not intimidated. but she can see right through it.

she takes one last drag, then tosses the cigarette down and crushes it with her boot. one slow step forward, then another. her metal arm gleams in the dark.

and then you feel it. her gloved fingers tilt your chin up. she’s staring down at you like prey. like she’s already decided exactly what she’s going to do.

“i’ve been thinking about this,” sevika says, voice low and lazy. "you, stuck in here with me. no cameras. no rules. just time."

your knees almost give out.

she smiles, sharp and slow. “yeah. you like that, don’t you?”

before you can answer, she yanks you closer by the waist, and you feel her—every inch of her—broad chest, solid arms, heat radiating off her like danger.

then, her lips crash into yours. there’s no patience here. it’s rough, hot, overwhelming. she kisses like she fights—dominant, no mercy. like she’s trying to win something from you.

she drags her teeth over your lower lip, then pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth:

"you got five minutes left. be smart, bunny. sit on my thigh."

you're dizzy. you move before your brain can catch up, settling over the thick muscle of her thigh like she owns you—because right now? she does.

sevika’s hands settle on your hips, guiding the grind, slow and controlled. you're already soaked. she knows it. smirks like the smug bastard she is.

“you’re shaking,” she growls. “that’s cute.”

then she leans in close, mouth brushing your ear. “let’s see how many times i can make you come before the clock runs out.”

cassandra kiramman

the door clicks shut.

silence.

your heartbeat is in your ears—and across from you stands lady cassandra kiramman, arms crossed over her tailored velvet blouse, legs crossed like she's on a throne, not the floor of a drunken party.

she’s not smiling. she’s assessing.

“interesting game,” she murmurs, voice honeyed and low. “but i don’t care for randomness. i pick what’s mine.”

she uncrosses her legs slowly. you swallow.

“come here.”

you hesitate.

“now.”

that single word drips with authority. you obey before you can think.

she doesn’t touch you—not yet. instead, her fingers trail just along your collar, brushing a lock of hair back behind your ear. every movement is deliberate. expensive. dominant.

“you blush so easily,” she says, like it’s amusing. “i wonder if you flinch the same when i touch lower.”

your breath hitches. she hears it.

her lips curl, pleased.

“oh, sweetheart… you didn’t think i came in here to waste time, did you?”

then she leans in—slow, decadent. she doesn’t kiss you—no, cassandra claims you. her hand slides to your throat, light but commanding, as her lips press firm and slow against yours, perfectly painted lipstick smearing onto your skin like a brand.

“you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” she breathes, pulling back just a touch. “wearing those little dresses, smiling like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

her hand dips down. a gloved thumb strokes your bare thigh.

"let me be clear." her voice is velvet over steel. “you belong to me. no one else touches you. no one else even looks at you unless i allow it.”

you let out a soft sound—half moan, half plea.

she smiles now. finally.

“there it is,” she whispers. “seven minutes, my darling. just long enough to teach you how to behave.”

and then she pulls you into her lap like you’re weightless, like you were always meant to be there—right where she can control everything: your mouth, your breath, your pleasure, your body.

and you think, maybe—

maybe seven minutes will never be enough.

jinx.

click.

the closet door shuts. the world tilts sideways.

you turn around—and there she is, already lounging against the wall, twirling a knife like it’s a cigarette. jinx grins at you like you’re dessert she didn’t expect but desperately wants to taste.

“well, well, look what the bottle dragged in,” she purrs. “i must be the luckiest bitch alive.”

you try to laugh it off. “just a game.”

jinx tilts her head.

“oh, baby…” she giggles, pushing off the wall. “you’re adorable when you lie.”

before you can blink, she’s in your space—nose to nose, pupils blown wide, smile carved deep into her face like mischief incarnate.

“i’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers. “for you.”

her hand curls around your waist—tight. too tight. her lips brush yours once, like a threat. then again—feral. she kisses you like she’s starving, like she’s got seven minutes to drag your soul out through your mouth and keep it.

you gasp, and she moans into it.

"mm-mm. don’t run. you asked for this, didn’t you?" her voice is sing-song and sharp as broken glass. her thigh slides between yours, and she grinds up with a jerk that makes your breath hitch. “seven minutes. that’s enough to make you mine.”

her nails dig into your hips. her mouth trails messily along your neck, biting, sucking, marking.

"bet you thought i’d be shy," she chuckles darkly, licking up to your ear. "surprise, sugar. i’m a lot of things. shy ain’t one of ‘em."

the closet’s too hot, too small, and she’s everywhere. you’re pinned, breathless, mind spinning.

“you gonna cry for me?” she whispers, eyes glowing with madness and lust. “good girls cry when they’re ruined.”

tick, tick, tick.

and you realize—

you’re not getting out of this the same person you were going in.

ellie williams

click. the door shuts. the closet swallows the light.

it’s silent for a second. two.

then you hear it: the soft scrape of ellie leaning back against the wall, hands in her hoodie pockets, boots crossed at the ankles. she’s not looking at you. yet.

“so,” she drawls, casual as hell. “guess this is happening.”

you try to laugh, play it off, but your voice wavers. ellie catches it immediately. her head tilts, eyes finally dragging over to meet yours.

you forget how to breathe.

“you nervous?” she murmurs, stepping forward slowly, eyes half-lidded. “or just shy ‘cause we’re finally alone?”

she’s close now—so close her scent hits you. woodsmoke, weed, leather, something unmistakably ellie. she reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek.

“didn’t peg you for the bashful type.”

and then? she smiles.

that cocky, tilted smirk that always gets you.

“you wanna know how long i’ve been thinking about this?” she murmurs, voice dropping lower. “you. pinned. mouth open. just for me?”

her hand slides to your waist—slow. careful. but firm.

“and now i’ve got you in a closet,” she mutters, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “seven whole minutes. no one watching. no one to interrupt.”

her breath ghosts over your lips.

“say stop, and i’ll stop.” she whispers it like a challenge. “but if you don’t…”

her hand fists in your shirt and pulls you into her.

she kisses you like she’s been starving for months. it’s rough. desperate. full of teeth and tongue. her hands are everywhere—under your clothes, gripping, exploring like she owns you. like she’s earning her seven minutes.

“fuck, you taste good,” she pants between kisses, backing you into the wall. “what were you thinking, wearing that little outfit around me all night? you wanted this.”

you whimper.

she grins.

"yeah, you did.”

you’re flushed. breathless. dripping down your thighs and ellie hasn’t even undone a button yet.

and then she leans in again, mouth to your ear.

“next time… i’m asking for ten.”

abby anderson.

click.

you’ve never felt so small in your life. the door locks behind you, and abby’s already there—arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like you’re her next meal.

“didn’t expect to be locked in here with me, huh?” she smirks, voice rough like gravel. the tension between you two could snap if you breathed too hard.

you swallow, trying to stay cool.

“you don’t get to be shy now,” abby growls, stepping closer, her muscles flexing under the fabric of her shirt, her towering frame making you feel like a mouse. “you’ve been looking at me all night. don’t pretend you don’t know what this is about.”

before you can answer, she’s got you pinned against the wall, her body heat overwhelming. the sheer force of her presence makes your breath catch.

her hand snakes up to your neck, fingertips grazing lightly at first. then she tightens, just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“seven minutes," she murmurs. "that’s all i need.”

you don’t have time to respond. abby’s mouth crashes onto yours, commanding, all teeth and fire. she kisses you like she wants to leave a mark on your soul—like she’s trying to carve her name into your skin with just her lips.

her body presses into yours, big and solid, like a wall you can't escape. abby takes control—one hand grabbing your wrist and pinning it above your head while the other moves to your waist, pulling you closer.

"you like that?" she growls against your mouth, her hips grinding into yours, the friction making your body tremble. "i could’ve had you begging for me the second i walked in here."

she pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her breath heavy, her lips flushed and swollen.

“you’re mine now. don’t worry about anything else.”

abby’s mouth finds its way back to your throat, nipping and sucking with such force you can already feel the bruise forming. she’s marking you, staking her claim in the most satisfying way.

and as she continues to kiss down your neck, her hands moving faster than your thoughts can catch up, you know:

seven minutes will never be enough.

mizu.

the door closes.

you don’t hear anything.

she’s already leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, the glow of a single lamp barely brushing the edge of her blade still sheathed at her hip.

her eyes—sharp, blue, impossibly cold—track you like prey.

you fidget. she doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

you try a joke. “seven minutes. guess we better make the most of it, huh?”

silence.

then, her voice—soft, deadly, calm.

“come here.”

you hesitate. but your body obeys. you always obey around her. something about her control—unshakable, unreadable—draws you in like a current you can’t fight.

mizu doesn’t grab you. she doesn’t have to. her hand raises—barely a touch—and she tucks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to hers.

"you've been staring at me all night,” she murmurs. “is this what you wanted?”

you nod. barely.

“use your words.” her voice doesn’t rise. it doesn’t need to.

“i… yes,” you breathe.

a pause. then:

“good.”

her lips crush into yours—firm, precise, like a blade meeting flesh. there’s no mess, no rush, just control. she kisses like she’s claiming you. not with desperation, but with certainty.

one hand curls into your hair, the other cups your jaw, steadying you. making you feel how easily she could ruin you. and how badly you want her to.

you gasp, and she pulls back just enough to whisper, “keep making those sounds and i’ll forget this is just a game.”

you whimper.

she smiles—barely. just a twitch of her lip. it’s devastating.

she steps forward, crowding you into the corner, pressing her thigh between yours, her hand sliding down your waist.

“seven minutes,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’ll beg me to stay longer.”

and when she kisses you again, slower this time—deeper—you finally understand what fear and desire taste like when they bleed together.

she doesn’t touch you like you’re fragile. she touches you like she already knows exactly how to break you.

and you want her to.

claire redfield

the door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

you turn to face claire, and she's already standing in the corner, arms crossed, her eyes dark but calm, like she’s seen it all. she’s not like the others—there’s a restraint in her gaze, a quiet command that makes your heart race without her even moving.

“you look nervous,” she says, voice low and smooth. “don’t be.”

you swallow, but your body betrays you. your chest rises and falls a little too quickly, and claire sees it.

she takes one slow step forward, her boots making a soft sound against the floor. “seven minutes. that’s all we get.”

you try to speak, but she’s already close enough to reach out, her fingers brushing along your jawline. she’s so gentle, but there’s a strength there, an edge to her touch that makes you shiver.

her thumb traces your lower lip, and you can’t help but lean into it, drawn to the warmth of her skin.

“don’t try to hide it,” she whispers, her other hand cupping your cheek now, tilting your head up so she can look into your eyes. “i can tell how much you want this.”

she moves in slowly, her lips brushing against yours with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. she pulls away, just a fraction, and her eyes flicker to your lips again.

“you’re mine, for the next seven minutes,” she says, and you can hear the promise in her voice. a quiet command that leaves you breathless.

she kisses you again, deeper this time, her lips firm but soft, taking control without ever making you feel overwhelmed. her hands slide to your waist, gripping you like she’s making sure you stay close, stay right where she wants you.

“you’re good at pretending you’re not into this,” she mutters against your lips, “but i see it. i know what you want.”

her hands wander—slow, deliberate, like she has all the time in the world. she pulls you closer, and you feel the warmth of her body against yours. claire’s not rough, but there’s a tenderness in the way she touches you—like she’s savoring every moment, making sure you feel everything.

and as she moves against you, her lips tracing your neck, you realize—seven minutes will never be enough with her.

jill valentine

the door clicks shut. you blink in the dark.

jill’s already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes scanning you with that unreadable, soldier-grade precision. she doesn't speak at first. she observes. watches the way your fingers twitch, the way your breath stutters.

“didn’t expect me, did you?” she says finally, voice low, husky. “you were hoping for someone soft.”

she pushes off the wall, steps closer, and you swear the room shrinks.

"bad luck," she murmurs. "you got me instead."

you try to answer, but her hand is already at your chin, tilting your face up. her thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, slow and steady, her gaze fixed on your lips like she’s calculating exactly how to destroy you.

“you’ve been dancing around me for weeks,” she says, voice low, magnetic. “wearing that perfume. making those eyes. and now here we are. alone.”

jill leans in—so close her breath brushes your cheek. she doesn’t kiss you yet. she just lets the tension build, and build, and build, until it feels like your skin is buzzing.

“you scared?” she whispers.

you shake your head.

“liar.”

and then she kisses you. firm. cold. perfect. it’s not messy—it’s methodical. jill kisses like she’s mapping your mouth, figuring out how to undo you from the inside out.

her hands are on your hips, pushing you gently—strategically—until your back hits the wall. her thigh slides between yours. you gasp. she smirks.

"yeah, i thought so," she mutters, her voice dark and satisfied. "you like control? you want to hand it over, baby?"

you nod before you even realize you’re doing it.

"good girl."

her mouth is back on yours, her hands tight on your body, moving with intention—every move made like she’s clearing a room. efficient. lethal. and absolutely fucking devastating.

she groans into the kiss like she’s been holding back for days. and now? no more restraint.

"you’ve got five minutes left," she growls. "and i’m going to make every one count."

ada wong.

seven minutes in heaven – ada wong version

click. the door locks behind you.

you barely turn before you feel her. her perfume hits first—jasmine, danger, silk. then comes the whisper of her heels. smooth. slow. predatory.

“looks like luck’s on your side tonight,” ada murmurs from the shadows. “or maybe not.”

your breath catches. you turn to face her—and she’s already close. red dress, dark eyes, lips parted like she’s debating whether to ruin you slowly… or all at once.

"you’ve been watching me all night," she purrs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with two perfectly gloved fingers. "cute. but sloppy."

you barely manage a reply. you don’t need to—ada’s already crowding your space, body heat like a flame against your skin. she leans in, her breath cool on your cheek.

“seven minutes. that’s how long i need to make you forget your own name.”

she kisses you—lethal and slow. her lips glide over yours like silk across a blade, sharp enough to cut but soft enough to beg for. one hand snakes around your waist, the other slipping beneath your chin to keep you still. her control is effortless.

you try to keep up. you can’t.

“shh,” she hums when you moan. “no one’s coming to save you.”

her thigh presses between yours, her voice a velvet threat in your ear.

"you’ve been wanting this. all that staring, the breathy little laughs. you wanted me to notice.”

she smirks. “i did. now deal with the consequences.”

she kisses you again, harder this time. one of her gloved hands slides down your back, possessive, anchoring you like she already owns every inch of you.

“you’re mine tonight,” she whispers. “and i don’t share.”

the timer ticks. but you don’t hear it. all you hear is the sound of her lips, your gasps, and her voice, low and addictive:

“you should’ve known better than to tempt a woman like me.”

tifa lockhart

the closet is small. too small.

you don’t even get a word out before the door clicks shut behind you—and then it’s just her. tifa.

leaning slightly against the wall, arms crossed, her long hair falling over her shoulder like liquid ink. her expression is soft… but her eyes? her eyes burn.

“i didn’t think it’d be you,” she murmurs, voice low, just a little breathy. “but i’m not complaining.”

your heart pounds. “y-yeah?”

she steps forward. just one step. it’s all it takes to make you feel cornered—in the best way.

“you always act so shy around me,” she says softly, tilting her head. “but you keep looking at me like you want something. something you’re too afraid to ask for.”

you open your mouth, but she’s already there. her fingers tilt your chin up. her other hand slides to your waist—warm, steady, possessive.

“you want me to touch you?”

your breath stutters. you nod. barely.

tifa smiles. “then say it.”

you whisper her name.

and she kisses you.

slow at first, careful. but when you sigh against her lips? she deepens it—gripping your hips tighter, backing you into the wall. she’s so much stronger than she looks when she fights. and now that strength is all around you, pinning you in place.

“i’ve wanted this too,” she says between kisses. “i’ve just been waiting for the right moment.”

her hands trail up under your shirt—teasing, gentle, but with enough pressure to make your knees weak.

"you trust me, don’t you?" she whispers, mouth brushing your ear.

you nod again, breathless. she leans closer, lips tracing down your neck.

“good,” she murmurs. “because i’m not stopping until you fall apart in my hands.”

seven minutes?

she’ll make you feel every second.

aerith gainsborough

the door shuts.

you barely get your bearings before you hear her giggle.

“looks like it’s just the two of us,” she says sweetly. too sweet. the kind of sweet that makes your spine tingle. that hides sharp teeth beneath a sugar smile.

you turn—and aerith is already way too close.

lips curved. eyes glimmering like she knows every little secret you thought you hid so well.

“you’ve been looking at me all night,” she whispers, brushing a finger down your arm. “was that on purpose… or do you just like getting caught?”

you open your mouth to reply. you don’t get the chance.

she pins you—softly, but surely—against the wall, her hands pressing gently to your waist. her smile is still in place. her voice still kind.

but her eyes?

predatory.

“seven minutes,” she says, tilting her head. “that’s not very long. but it’s enough.”

her lips meet yours, feather-light, teasing. she kisses you like she’s playing a game—one she already knows she’s going to win.

and then she deepens it.

she presses you closer, her knee sliding between yours, her hands climbing your ribs like ivy.

you gasp—and she smiles against your mouth.

“i knew you’d sound pretty,” she coos. “i’ve been wondering all day what kind of noises you’d make for me.”

you whimper. her hands tighten. her grip? unrelenting.

“you want to be mine?” she whispers, warm breath against your throat. “then be good for me, flower.”

she kisses lower—neck, collarbone, lips brushing your pulse—and your knees threaten to give out. her hands hold you up. like she planned this. like she knew you’d fall.

she leans up, nose brushing yours.

“seven minutes,” she purrs. “but i always take my time with the things i like.”

and you realize—aerith’s not soft.

she’s sugar laced with poison. and you drank every drop.

[fernslivers]

⋮ ⌗ ┆in the shadow of peonies.

ﾒ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: mizu x fem!reader

ﾒ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄: she came in like a ghost, but stayed like a curse you wanted to carry.

ﾒ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: hello my loves, i’m back—and with a brand new obsession ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა don’t worry, once i’ve decided to write about someone, i never ever abandon any of my beloveds. 💞✍️

ﾒ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): lowercase, violence. ⤷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.2k

the first time you saw her, it wasn’t the sword at her hip that stole your breath. it was her eyes. a pale storm behind lashes dark as lacquer. unnatural. dangerous.

you had been playing shamisen with half your mind, keeping your smile trained and your gaze lowered — the perfect geisha in a room full of men pretending to deserve you. then she walked in.

unannounced. uninvited.

the entire tea house fell silent as if someone had plunged the air underwater.

you looked up — a mistake. her gaze was already on you.

"play something worth listening to," she said, voice like river stones scraping. she sat down. not at the usual cushions, not by the men who coughed and shifted uncomfortably. but across from you. directly.

your heart thudded in your chest. the okiya mistress gave you a quick glare. so, you played.

a haunting melody. slow. wounded. proud.

she didn’t look away once.

later that night, as you folded your silk obi and extinguished the candles in your private room, you found something slipped beneath your shamisen.

a white peony. crushed slightly at the stem. no note. no explanation.

just silence and the memory of blue eyes burning you alive.

she came back. but not during a show. not when the lanterns were lit and the rooms were filled with drunk warlords.

no. she came after.

the hour of foxes and sins.

you were alone in your room, painting the final stroke on a fan — a pale peony, like the one she left — when you felt her presence before you heard her voice.

“still awake, little flower?”

you turned sharply. she was already sliding the door shut behind her. quiet. fluid. like she belonged in shadows.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“and yet,” mizu said, stepping forward, “here i am.”

your fan trembled slightly in your hands. you placed it down. “you’ll ruin me if someone sees.”

she tilted her head. “aren’t you already ruined?”

you could smell blood faintly on her. not fresh. faint and iron-sweet, tucked beneath the scent of rain and smoke. her kimono was darker than the night outside, soaked near the hem. her eyes, those unnatural eyes, tracked every movement you made — like a predator trying to decide if it was hungry or patient.

you didn’t back away. why didn’t you?

“did you kill someone?” you asked softly.

she didn’t answer. but the silence screamed yes.

“i don’t want to know,” you said. she smirked. “too late.”

then she reached into her sleeve — your breath hitched — but all she pulled out was a small comb. jade. expensive. yours. you had lost it two nights ago after the performance.

“i meant to return this.”

you swallowed. “you’ve been watching me.”

mizu stepped closer. “i don’t watch things i don’t want.”

she didn’t touch you. didn’t have to.

just stood there. one pace too close. one breath too warm. one gaze too sharp.

and you hated that your knees almost gave in.

you had entertained worse men. but this one was different. his hands were too bold. his gaze too greedy. and when he asked for your company past midnight, you lied with a practiced smile. "i have another appointment."

he didn’t believe you.

“you’re too good for them,” he said, voice slurring, fingers grazing your wrist like grease. “you should stay with me tonight. i’ll pay double.”

you kept your tone soft. “i am grateful, but i—”

his grip tightened.

you froze.

it wasn’t the first time a man had forgotten your refusal. but something about tonight felt… off. he was drunk, yes. but mean. that kind of rot that crawled under skin and festered.

“let go,” you said.

he didn’t.

he leaned in, breath sour and thick, and you flinched— but then his body jerked violently back.

you blinked. he was on the floor. bleeding.

and behind him—

mizu.

her boot still pressed where she’d kicked his ribs. her eyes flicked up at you, then down at him like he was nothing.

“i heard laughter,” she said coldly, “but it wasn’t yours.”

you rushed forward. “mizu—! you can’t—”

“i can,” she said, not even winded. “and i will.”

she crouched. grabbed the man by the hair. dragged his head up to look at her. “touch her again, and i’ll make sure you never touch anything again. you understand me?”

the man whimpered.

mizu let him go like one might drop a sack of trash. he scrambled out, bleeding pride more than blood.

you stood there, heart hammering.

she turned back to you. and this time, you saw the fury behind her stillness. it wasn't just anger. it was… possession.

“i don’t like men touching what’s mine,” she said.

you trembled. “i’m not yours.”

she stepped closer. close enough to feel her heat. “no?” she murmured. “then why did you call for me?”

you hadn’t.

not out loud.

but somewhere deep down, the part of you that feared men like that — and longed for women like her — had whispered her name like a prayer.

she bled like any other human.

that was your first thought when she collapsed at your back door.

her face was pale. lips drawn tight. the blade she carried had been dropped in the garden, slick with something that wasn’t rain.

you pulled her inside without a word.

no questions. no hesitation. just instinct.

now she lay stretched on your tatami floor, eyes fluttering between sleep and pain. you had cleaned the wound at her side, stitched what you could, wrapped her in linen and silence.

the storm outside raged like it knew what you'd done.

mizu stirred.

"why…" her voice was barely there, gravel soaked in blood. "…did you let me in?"

you dipped a cloth in warm water. wiped her forehead.

"because you were dying."

she laughed, low and bitter. "would've made things easier. for both of us."

you frowned. “you don’t get to decide what’s easy for me.”

silence.

her eyes opened fully. they still had that sharp blue glow, but dimmer now, dulled by exhaustion. she watched you like she always did—studying, searching, doubting.

"you should be afraid of me," she said.

"i am."

your fingers paused on the cloth.

"but i’m also afraid of never seeing you again."

mizu blinked. her throat bobbed. for once, she had no retort.

you sat beside her, legs tucked beneath your kimono, as if tending to a wounded stranger was part of your geisha duties.

except this wasn’t duty.

this was you, bare and honest, sitting beside something wild and cruel and beautiful. something that had protected you. killed for you.

and now bled for you.

"you shouldn’t have come here," you whispered.

“i had nowhere else,” she whispered back.

she wasn’t supposed to be watching.

you didn’t hear her come in — but that was her way. always silent. always dangerous.

you sat at your mirror, gently outlining your lips with red pigment. the kind of red that ruined men. the kind that could start wars.

and in the glass… mizu.

standing behind you. eyes locked on your reflection. expression unreadable. but her hands—clenched at her sides.

you didn’t turn around. “you shouldn’t sneak up on a woman when she’s painting her face.”

she didn’t respond.

the silence was too loud.

you dipped the brush again, slower this time, dragging the red across your lower lip. pressed them together. your eyes flicked up to meet hers in the mirror.

she looked like she was in pain.

“mizu?”

“you look…” she swallowed hard. “different.”

you arched a brow, still seated. “disappointed?”

“… dangerous.”

the word made your breath catch.

you capped the pigment. let your hands fall to your lap.

still, you didn’t turn around.

“why are you here?” you asked softly.

mizu stepped forward.

you could feel the weight of her gaze sliding over your shoulder, down the curve of your neck, to where your robe dipped just slightly out of formality. where skin met silk like a whispered secret.

she stopped just behind you.

“i told myself i’d leave,” she said, voice rough. “that i wouldn’t stay. wouldn’t come near.”

she leaned down. and her breath hit the nape of your neck.

“but then i saw you. and i forgot everything.”

you turned your head slightly. just enough to see her eyes — wild, unsure, like something unraveling.

“do you want me to stop?” she asked, voice hoarse.

you could lie. you should.

but instead, you reached for your brush. held it out without looking.

her breath hitched.

"then let me paint you," you whispered.

it was supposed to be a quiet evening.

you were pouring tea for a merchant when the sliding doors cracked open — and the room filled with cold wind… and colder authority.

inspector takeda. and behind him — two guards.

the air thickened instantly.

you bowed low. “welcome, takeda-sama. i was not informed—”

“no need for ceremony,” he cut in. his voice was oil over steel. “i’m only here for a few questions.”

you stood, still smiling. trained, polite.

but inside, your bones froze.

because you knew. you knew exactly what this was about.

takeda’s eyes scanned the room. "you’ve been hosting… uncommon guests lately. warriors. foreigners. one in particular — a woman with unusual eyes."

your smile didn’t falter. "many travelers pass through, inspector. i don’t ask for their lineage, only their coin."

he stepped closer.

too close.

"that’s not the only thing you've taken from her, is it?"

your heart thudded.

he leaned in. “she’s wanted for five assassinations. high-profile. clean work. you’re not clean. so why is she always seen near you?”

you said nothing.

he grabbed your chin.

“you’re either sheltering a killer, or you’re her next mask.”

your hands trembled. you wanted to scream. but you thought of her. the way she bled on your floor. the way her eyes softened — only for you. the way she once whispered, “i don’t belong anywhere. except maybe when i’m with you.”

so you swallowed your fear.

and you lied.

“i haven’t seen her in weeks,” you said, voice even. “she never stayed the night. she never said her name.”

takeda stared you down.

then — finally — let go.

“if i find out otherwise,” he said, “your body will hang beside hers.”

he left.

the silence after was unbearable.

you sank to your knees. trembling. breathing in short, desperate gasps.

and then—

a creak.

from the ceiling. from the panel above your room.

she had been watching. the whole time.

mizu dropped down soundlessly.

she didn’t speak.

just knelt beside you.

and reached for your hand.

"…you didn’t have to lie,” she said hoarsely.

“i know.”

“you could have let me go.”

“i know.”

“…why didn’t you?”

you looked up at her.

and through the tears, you smiled.

“because i’d rather die beside you… than live betraying you.”

the first arrow missed you by inches. the second one hit the lamp beside the door, shattering it in a burst of sparks.

“run,” mizu growled, grabbing your hand. her grip was iron. her breath was fire.

and then you were gone.

out the back, through the garden, into the woods. moonlight sliced through pine branches, lighting your path in flickers and flashes. you could hear them behind — shouting, crashing, tracking.

“where are we going?” you gasped, lungs on fire.

“where they can’t follow.”

she didn’t stop.

not even when her side reopened, blood soaking into her robes. not even when your sandal snapped and your ankle twisted. she lifted you onto her back without a word and kept running.

because to stop was to die.

it wasn’t until hours later that she finally slowed.

a stream. a clearing. the trees like ancient sentries around you. she dropped to one knee, finally breathing like a human.

you sat beside her. panting. crying.

“you’re hurt,” you said, reaching for her waist. your fingers trembled as they pressed against the soaked linen.

“i’ve been hurt worse.”

“that’s not the point!”

you turned to her — and for the first time in what felt like forever — you weren’t afraid.

just furious.

“why do you keep throwing yourself into death?” you demanded. “do you want to die?”

she looked at you.

eyes rimmed red. blood on her lips. but her voice?

soft. barely audible.

“not anymore.”

you froze.

and then—

she leaned in. her mouth crashed into yours.

it wasn’t gentle.

it wasn’t sweet.

it was the kind of kiss that takes, that hurts, that leaves a mark behind. the kind of kiss that says: i almost lost you. i can’t. the kind of kiss that says: if i die tonight, let me have this.

you gripped her face. pulled her closer. let the pain, the blood, the fear fall away.

there was only her.

and you.

and this impossible, blazing thing between you.

when she pulled back, she pressed her forehead to yours.

“if they catch me,” she whispered, “promise me you’ll run.”

“i won’t.”

“promise me.”

“i’d rather die beside you.”

she smiled — broken and beautiful.

“then you’re a fool.”

“i’m your fool.”

mizu had slept in trees. in ditches. in temples. in the blood-warm bodies of her enemies.

but never like this.

never with someone curled against her chest.

never with peace.

the first thing she noticed was the light — soft and golden, seeping through the gaps in the pine canopy above. the second was warmth. not from the rising sun… but from you.

you, breathing gently against her shoulder.

you, clinging to her kimono like your dreams depended on it.

you, still here.

she didn't move.

didn’t dare.

your face was turned toward her collarbone, lashes resting on skin like ink on paper. there was a faint smudge of red on your lips — from last night. or maybe from her.

her breath caught.

you were real.

you hadn’t vanished like the rest.

her hand hovered above your back. for a moment, she considered pulling away.

running.

going before she ruined this, too.

but then your fingers twitched — catching hers. even in sleep, you found her.

mizu froze.

“…idiot,” she whispered softly. “you should’ve run from me.”

and yet.

she closed her hand around yours.

not tight. not possessive.

just… afraid to let go.

a bird called somewhere above. the world was waking.

but for once, mizu didn’t feel the need to rise with it.

she studied your face. the softness of your lips. the faint bruises from the night before. the way your breath hitched now and then, like your dreams weren’t peaceful either.

she wanted to take all of it. the fear. the pain. the danger.

and leave you only with this. this quiet. this morning. this moment.

but she couldn’t.

so instead— she gave you her warmth. her body. her silence.

and hoped it would be enough.

“no one will believe we’re a couple if you keep scowling like that,” you whispered, tugging the scarf higher over your chin.

mizu grunted.

“i’m not scowling. this is my face.”

“no, it’s your ‘i’ll kill you in your sleep’ face,” you muttered.

she shot you a look — the exact one. you laughed, muffling it into your sleeve.

the streets of the town were loud, fragrant with food stands and spring blossoms, but you couldn’t enjoy it fully. not with patrols prowling like hounds and bounty sheets fluttering with mizu’s inked silhouette.

hence the disguise.

she wore a traveler's yukata — plain, soft blue — hair tied loose and lips faintly tinted with the pink you’d dabbed on that morning.

you’d done it.

you’d painted her. she let you.

and now… she walked beside you, pretending not to be her.

pretending to be yours.

“try smiling,” you said, watching a guard pass. “just for a second.”

“no.”

“mizu—”

“it looks unnatural.”

“that’s because you’re doing it with your teeth,” you hissed. “try with your eyes. like you’re… happy.”

she glanced at you.

“i’m not.”

your heart sank.

then she added, quieter:

“not unless you’re laughing.”

you blinked.

and before you could recover, she reached over and took your hand.

just like that.

no warning. no words. just her rough fingers closing over yours like armor.

you looked up at her.

and for a single second — she smiled.

not big. not perfect. but real. like dawn breaking through a wall that’s always known nothing but night.

the world went quiet.

not because it stopped spinning.

but because for one impossible moment…

she looked like she belonged here. with you. among people. in the sun. alive.

it was a quiet village. too small for maps. too peaceful for men with swords.

you rented a home at the edge of it. just wood and paper walls, a garden of plum trees, and a stream that never asked for anything.

here— mizu was not a killer. you were not a geisha. you were just… two people trying to begin again.

she was terrible at fishing.

you laughed every morning when she came back soaked, empty-handed, with reeds in her hair and that rare scowl of hers — the kind that made your heart squeeze in the best way.

“i’m not made for peace,” she said one evening, sitting beside you as you lit the lanterns.

you leaned your head against her shoulder.

“you’re not made for war, either,” you whispered. “not anymore.”

she was silent.

then slowly, carefully, she tilted her head and rested her cheek on yours.

“maybe i’m just made for you.”

you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to.

your hands found hers. your breath met hers. your world ended and began — in the same room. in the same moment.

there were no grand declarations.

just small things.

she let you braid her hair when it got too long. you taught her how to write your name. she practiced it on rice paper until the brushstrokes stopped trembling. you built a bench together, even though it tilted left. she kissed you under a plum tree with petals in your hair.

and at night— she held you.

with no blood between you. no lies. no fear.

only warmth.

one evening, while watching the lanterns float downriver for a local festival, mizu slipped a small carved comb into your hand.

you turned to her, surprised.

“i saw you eyeing it,” she said, not meeting your gaze.

you laughed softly. “that was weeks ago.”

“i remember things.”

you smiled. “you’re learning to love.”

she looked at you.

“no,” she murmured. “i’ve always loved. i’m just learning… not to run from it.”

[fernslivers]

Hiho >-<, could you write what mundane life would be like after years of relationship with modern!mizu? She and the reader living the life that all sapphics dream of, even with a mutual marriage proposal at the end?

🤍 domestic life with mizu 🤍

•domestic!mizu, established relationship, engagement, fluff, chubby femme reader implied, loser!mizu if you squint, brief smut mentioned, no beta we die like men, post college au

🐾 i love this ask sm… ty for the request my love, i hope this is up to standards <3 mizu deserves this kind of life so bad ugh ilh

life with mizu, since you'd both left college, had been so much better than anything you'd planned for yourself as a kid. it was peaceful, quiet, serene.

after college, mizu had gotten a job as a tattoo artist and she was happy. she earnt enough, and she actually enjoyed her job! and combined with your job you both make enough to live comfortably, you can afford the good things.

you'd moved into a little house on the outskirts of the city, two bedrooms so you each could have space when you needed it—because couples with their own bedrooms last longer and sleep better, supposedly—but you both end up in the same bed almost every night either way.

you did most of the decorating, mizu did all the heavy work. she built the furniture and hung pictures and lugged in all the boxes when you moved in. she'd gotten multiple headaches stressing over it all, but the smile on your face when she was done made it so worth it.

your house is organised, but not... too organised. it's clean and tidy, but it looks lived in. there are small details that make it clear people live here; mizu's half finished sketches on the coffee table, the dishes that are always on the drying rack, the occasional sock on the floor. without these details it would probably be uncanny.

the walls are littered with pictures of the both of you, framed and hung neatly with pride. mizu puts posters up and so do you, and there's the occasional drawing pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, magnets on the fridge with sticky notes and grocery lists. it feels personal, loving.

you and mizu have a routine. wake up, pretend you aren't procrastinating for ten minutes before getting out of bed. mizu showers, so quickly you'd barely think she did, and makes breakfast—the only meal she can make—while letting you get ready in peace. she gets ready after breakfast. you both kiss each other goodbye and go to work, and when you come home later on you make dinner, which you eat together while watching whatever you've decided on that day. by the time you both go to bed you're well fed and well loved. you fill any free time with whatever. sometimes you both just exist within the same space, not talking or interacting, just existing together. it makes things a lot more peaceful, allows you both time to think over your days before the inevitable chatter before bed and/or during dinner.

on saturdays, you go on dates. you take turns picking where, and neither of you ever complain. you frequent the aquarium often; mizu's idea most of the time. you go to museums, parks, the beach, dinner, etc etc. and every time you do, your face hurts by the end of the night from smiling.

the vases in the house are always full of fresh flowers. this is mainly because mizu works right next to a florists, and she always thinks of you when she sees a new arrangement or a new flower.

the day you get engaged seems like a normal saturday. you go to the aquarium, because of course, and then she takes you to the park; where you've set up a picnic by the lake. mizu had been planning to propose at the aquarium, but you'd then told her about the picnic and she decided to wait, just because you seemed so excited about it.

she proposed first. and was very blunt with it. she's a woman of few words, she doesn't enjoy emotional speeches or anything like that. she just distracted you with swans before getting on one knee with a very simple, "will you marry me?" and immediately you burst into both tears and laughter, before producing the ring you'd brought with you, and you spent the rest of the evening with your hands intertwined, rings clinking quietly every time they touch as you both stare at them glittering. you laugh a lot that night.

[fernslivers]

Highschool Sweetheart, University Love

~~

In a chance happening, you're paired for a group project with the girl you've been dying to meet all school year. You're determined to befriend her, just as she's determined to hide away. But fate has already made it clear whose side it's on, and your connection follows you both to university, where it blooms into something more.

~~

A/N: ANON, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I've been chipping away at this piece for ages and it just kept growing. I did tweak it a bit from someone asking you out, as the original prompt mentioned, because I already had that on my list of topics for Modern Mizu headcanons (so you'll be getting it anyway). I hope that's okay! This was such a comforting fic to work on, honestly. It's the fluffiest (and spiciest) piece I've done so far, though naturally that means it's still full of minor angst and pining. I hope nobody minds if I tried out my hand at loser!Mizu. I champion the switch-Mizu supremacy.

Reader is meant as wlw, but their preferred gender isn't really specified.

((You can see the original prompt here: "https://www.tumblr.com/fernslivers/784084562788679680/had-thoughts-about-a-high-school-into-college-au" ))

TWs: Spice, some internalized self-image issues, insecurity, mentions of He*ji Sh*ndo and T*igen (in passing)

---

It started with a fight.

See, the teachers had a bad habit of pairing the quiet studious students with the rowdier ones, thinking they would balance out. Often, it does. And so, innocently, your teacher had tried to put the quiet Mizu with…Taigen.

Gasoline…meet spark.

“Enough! Enough!” Your teacher shouts over the chaos, waving her arms as she tries to separate them. Desks clatter to the floor, people shrieking and scattering out of the way, as she finally bodies her way in between them, fearless in the way only older female teachers ever are.

Silence finally falls.

Taigen is sporting a spectacular black eye, Mizu a split lip. Her bloodied teeth are bared, eyes blazing under her uneven bangs, while Taigen laughs mockingly from behind the teacher.

“Enough, the pair of you!” The teacher shouts again, furious. Both of them glare at the floor. She huffs, out of breath, and looks around the room. She seems too flustered to figure out what to do; she's also not the type to send kids for punishment without talking to them first. “We will deal with this after class. For now, Taigen, you are with him…”--she points somewhere on the other side of the room–”... and Mizu, you go there.”

She points. You freeze when you find yourself at the end of that point.

Your eyes slide from the teacher’s to Mizu’s. Two shards of ice glare back above a bloodied mouth.

Without thinking, you give her an awkward little wave. Here goes nothing.

—

You both work very quietly for a few minutes. You keep glancing her way–wary of that aura of anger still emanating from her, but unable to stop looking at the already swelling lip. She'd looked terribly fierce when she'd been fighting… the memory of that tooth-baring snarl is making your heart flutter strangely.

You've had a crush on this exact girl for most of the school year at this point. It started when you'd walked out of class and directly into a slim shape crossing the hallway; you'd looked up into the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen, recognizing the new girl right away. She had apologized, quickly and efficiently, then turned away before you could say a word. You'd been watching her ever since. The way she walked with such a strange mixture of flinching and defiance; as though she expected to be struck down, and already planned on stubbornly getting back up. You had waited and waited for an opening, always had a smile ready on your lips when she passed by, but she never looked up, never gave you an ounce of an opening… until now.

Meanwhile, Mizu sulks, avoiding your gaze, already assuming that you hate this forced pair-up. She doesn't want to see you looking at her like she's a rabid animal you've been forced to sit close to. She wonders with a dull pang of resignation what stories you've heard, about her, about where she comes from. She had tried to catch Ringo’s eye when this all started–he can be annoying, but he is at least diligent. But he had already partnered with Akemi, sitting next to him. Then the teacher had partnered up who was left, and…

A soft voice catches her attention.

“That looks painful…”

She meets your gaze with a start, surprised to see your brow furrowing slightly in concern.

“S’fine,” she mumbles, but it's clear the swelling is starting to affect her speech, and she scowls harder at her own human limitations. You dig in your bag, pulling out a little pack of wipes. When she looks at you skeptically, you giggle nervously. “They're not scented or anything, but they're supposed to soothe…it might help?”

Wonderingly, she reaches out. You think she looks much less intimidating when her eyes are wide like this, her fingers hesitant. Nervous…almost shy.

She takes the wipe like she's preparing for you to snatch it back and laugh. When you don't, she smiles tentatively, as much as her swollen lip will allow.

—

The project goes surprisingly well. You both fall into a strangely easy rhythm of meeting for your free periods, occasionally after class … This is the first time Mizu has ever had a fellow student to meet up with. Eiji grumbles about her lack of presence in the forge, but she catches the edge of a smile as he turns away, shooing her out the door to the library, where you're waiting, every day for the next few weeks, with a ready smile that makes her guts feel squirmy.

Mizu handles the display; you handle the presenting. She blushes with half-hidden delight when you praise the artistic beauty of her work with genuine admiration. She'd always wondered if her designs merited any pride, but who could she ask? Eiji of course could tell her plenty about technical skill, but he isn't the type to bother praising her aesthetics, even if he could. And she feels a profound sense of gratitude when you field the questions at the end; blocking those that would previously have asked her joke questions just to force the weird kid to speak.

When the presentation concludes with a spattering of the usual bored classroom applause, you shoot her a beaming smile. She feels a little glow in her chest, swelling up like a warm bubble. This is the first project where she didn't end with wanting to sink into the ground and vanish.

The bell rings, and you walk with her out into the hall, the same way you have every day since the project started. She's grown used to the company, now. It's… really nice.

“That went so well!” You chirp, pausing in the hallway. “That's the first time I didn't hate a group project.” You rub your arm, wondering if you're saying too much. “I'm actually kinda sad to see it end…”

…Oh. Right.

The bubble in her chest pops abruptly.

The project is over. She’s got no further reason to spend time with you. Her suddenly empty ribcage aches; no more afternoons in the library filled with your chatter, no more emails and texts to cut the monotony of training and working with Eiji. She might never see your name pop up on her little flip-phone again. She's horrified to feel her throat tighten painfully.

Why is she so disappointed? What is this? Spooked by her own emotions, she panics, just as you start to speak.

“Would you maybe wanna–”

“I gotta get to class.” She blurts out over top of your words, turning on her heel and hurrying away, terrified you might see the emotion on her face. That would be humiliating. It was just a project.

You stare after her, your mouth still open on the half-finished invitation to hang out.

—

It takes another school year, and at least one more paired project, to get her to the point of even conversing outside of class-based activities.

You don't care.

You saw the way she warmed to you during that first project. And–frankly–you know what she's like with people she can't stand, you share several classes with people she has snarled at. If she wanted you gone, truly, she'd have cut you down already.

You’re determined to make this strange, prickly girl like you. It's like slowly coaxing in a wild animal; there's an honor in gaining that trust.

It's not easy.

She looks away when you sit next to her in class, mumbling her responses to your greetings. She hunches her shoulders and speeds up when you call out to her in the hallway, then hyperventilates in the bathroom stall, berating herself for being unable to just turn around. She won't sit with your friends at lunch; she finds them banal and irritating.

She sits very close by, though, close enough to hear the bright arpeggio of your laughter, to glance over the top of her sketch book and study the way your hand raises to cover your smiling mouth selfconsciously. Each laugh strikes like an arrow, a pang of wistfulness that she immediately resents. She feels irrationally jealous every time someone else prompts that laugh. She wishes you were laughing with her.

Sometimes, rarely, you do sit with her. Those are the best days. When she can sit quietly and let herself sink into your voice like a warm bath. You always ask about her newest sketches; she always hopes that you will, but can never bring herself to offer first. Slowly, she's begun to draw with the hopes that you'll soon be looking at these pieces and praising them. The praise begins to settle in her mind as pride in her own work; it's new, a little scary.

You never chatter too much; the silences are easy. In those moments, she knows you understand; the importance of giving each other room for thought, of knowing when you do choose to speak, it will instantly be picked up with warmth, of following a conversation half-started inside another person’s head. There's an intimacy in that silence, unquestioned and full-felt.

But the next day, you’re back with your friends, and she's left to wonder, to drive herself slowly crazy with doubt.

She has no idea that you come so rarely only because you worry you're bothering her. It would surprise her that her quiet presence is a balm to you the same as yours is for her. That she feels more real to you than anyone else in the school. That when she raises her pale gaze and listens to you, you feel like what you're saying has more weight than ever before. Simply by listening, she makes you slow down, think harder about what you say and what you believe. You feel yourself becoming more you every moment you spend within her simple acceptance. You'd sit there every day if you could; but instead, you only do it when you just can't stay away a second longer.

For her, those are bright moments of beauty, where she has your full attention, and she can believe that you're here because you feel that same need for her. For you, they are tiny moments of connection to something that feels already deeper and more special than the fleeting teenaged fancies of high school.

The day she finally, grumblingly, agrees to give you her social media accounts, it feels like getting the wolf to briefly let you stroke its muzzle. It is a prize you hug to your heart and allow to buoy you up for weeks afterwards. She trusts me–it electrifies you with excitement that even impedes your sleep.

The social media in question is bare-bones. No profile picture, no posts. Her friends list is hidden.

You don't realize it's because she created it for you.

Because you kept asking.

That hidden friends list is only two people long; you, and Ringo (who immediately discovered her page with the skill of a bloodhound, despite her attempts to be unsearchable).

For your part, you try not to think about the little thrill that pops through you when you notice a like from her in your notifications. You sometimes just stare at the grey outline of her blank profile photo, at her name next to it. Thinking about her. Wishing she would post some tiny hint of her life, her interests, anything that might give you a glimpse past the wall of stoicism. You aren't sure when you started posting your own content hoping she'd see it, but at some point towards the end of that second year, you can admit that you think of her with every new upload.

She regrets it every day; it makes it impossible to turn her brain away from you. It’s like a little reminder of you in her fucking pocket that dings every time you post a story, a picture, a note, a video–how many ways can people post on these things?? It's torture.

She consumes every pixel of it religiously.

Memorizes the exact curl of your real smile versus the one you think makes you look nice in photos. Learns what music you prefer to go with your posts. What days you’ll be putting up little Stories and why; the ones that come with being bored in class, the ones being out with friends, the ones when you're at home. She learns hints of what your room looks like through the back of your selfies.

She's not trying to be creepy; she isn't lurking in your bushes or something. It's just that you're…interesting. For some reason.

For the thousandth time, she slams the laptop shut abruptly, glaring at her ceiling, hearing the ring of Eiji’s hammer downstairs. Mizu he shouts up, and she hops to her feet, grateful for work to purge her mind temporarily.

It doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

You'll be gone soon, anyway, and she's certain you won't remember her. She's watched you from afar, seen how you're always happy, always smiling, with everyone equally.

Meanwhile, she feels like her chest only lightens when she's near enough to hear your laugh. The yawning pit of grief she feels when she looks at that looming graduation date…it feels impossible, like it can't truly happen. Surely something so essential to her life can't simply…leave?

It doesn't. Matter.

She's used to losing things. She'll adjust to this too, who cares? And you seem to have no problem being happy without her. You'll move on.

—

She freezes on the threshold of the dorm, statue-still with her cardboard box in hand. Behind her, Eiji crashes into her back and swears loudly. She doesn't move, even when his cane-tongs clonk her ankle. A pair of familiar eyes look up at the commotion, going as wide as hers.

“Mizu…?”

She drops the box. Before she can scramble for it, you’re leaping into her suddenly empty arms.

She's assaulted by the warmth of you, your familiar scent; only ever caught in wisps except for that one painful, poignant hug at graduation–the last time she thought she would ever get the chance to hold you close. As her brain struggles to reboot, her body reacts, wrapping around you, gripping you back tightly, as though she'll never risk letting go again.

“Mizu, I can't believe it!” She looks down into your beaming face. Your smile is so close. Have your eyes always been this full of light? Your skin so soft-looking, your hair falling so perfectly? She's still frozen, even with Eiji growing frustrated behind her.

“It’s like fate!” Your voice, that same bright peal of laughter.

She is so fucked.

—

Slowly, impossibly, you settle into a routine.

Not that it isn't torture. It absolutely is, to be so close to you, actually haunted by the scent of your shampoo, even your laundry soap. Even more devastatingly, your dorm begins to smell like both your scents mingled–sometimes she can catch a whiff of you on her own jacket. It's as though her own fantasies are laughing at her.

Every time she opens the door to find you glancing up from your bed with that bright smile, her heart lurches, a joy that is somehow knife-sharp. It hurts to look at you too long, and yet she can never satisfy the need to do so.

This is so much harder than high school.

For the first week, she lies awake, staring in awed silence as you sleep peacefully less than a room-length away from her. You're here. Not just on campus–in her room. It feels impossible to have gotten this second chance to be close, even if she'll never have you the full way she wants. This is already more than a blessing. It’s like a kind of greed; surviving on tiny gasps of your presence before, and now she can just breathe you in.

---

It only takes her that first week to notice that you always wake up too late to get breakfast before the hall closes.

As you shovel one of the pop-tarts from your care package into your mouth, again, frantically shoving your shoes into your sneakers without untying them, already looking around for your bag, a raspy voice arrests you.

“What do you usually eat in the morning?”

“Mmph?” You stop and turn to her; her voice has always had the power to do that. She speaks so rarely and always with purpose.

God, she looks good; you remember how long she's been doing her sword training now, and her body has that well-seasoned fighter’s slouch as she sprawls in her desk chair. You could just crawl into that lap... Whatever she did in your summer apart, it's working for her. Her high bun highlights the sleekness of her cheekbones, lets more light into those intense eyes.

Rousing yourself, you shake your head on an indistinct noise, waving at the poptart in your teeth.

She curls her lip up with a stoic look of disapproval. It shouldn't be hot; it really is. “If you could get up in time. Get real food.”

“Hmg–...mm…” You decide not to comment on the hypocrisy of this; you can remember how often she seemed to survive on tea and pure spite back in high school. You finish your bite hastily, pulling the rest of the pastry away to mumble around it, “I don't know… I'm not really very picky.”

You get a bombastic eye roll. She's grown a bit more confident over the summer as well, and that sharp sass you've always seen buried under the surface has come out in full. You're not complaining.

She leaves the conversation there, but the next morning, the clack of a plate dropping onto your bedside table is what wakes you. You squint up at her, confused; of course she's already dressed without a hair out of place. She swallows the thought that you look extremely cute like this, and soft, and warm, and she would very much like to burrow down into the extra plush blankets with–

“Eggs.” Her voice is as clipped as ever.

“Did you steal that plate from the dining hall…?” You push yourself up on one elbow, blinking, too disoriented to think to say thank you. “They have to-go boxes…”

She’s already turning away for the door; your voice is husky from sleep and it's killing her slightly.

“Eat.”

You eat about half the eggs; they aren't your favorite. She surveys the leftovers on the plate the next time she's in the room, but says nothing.

The next day it’s oatmeal instead. She watches as you crinkle your nose before hiding it in a flash, remembering this time to say thank you, and eating a bit to be polite.

Then bacon. Then waffles.

You thank her profusely no matter what it is; she grunts and flees. Every day.

You’re not about to be outdone. You begin to notice how often she gets back late to the dorm from her practices. You've got to take the breakfast plates back anyway (she keeps stealing them), or she'll try to do that for you, too, so…

The next time she comes in late, she drops her duffle with a sigh, and goes towards her side-table to grab a protein bar from her stash. She finds a takeout container waiting. She looks over at you, startled.

You smile. “Eat,” you tell her, playfully.

—

She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to reveal some fundamental incompatibility. Maybe you put dirty socks on the radiator? Or talk loudly on the phone late at night? But as the autumn cools and the leaves crisp to burnt caramel and drop, things only grow warmer between you.

Slowly, your things begin to encroach on each other’s sides, her jacket slung over your chair on her way to sit on your bed, your books stacked on her desk, trying to entice her to read your favorites. Slowly, she finds that more and more Friday nights are spent curled distractingly close to you on one bed or the other, watching something on the laptop, instead of studying in silence or training at the gym. It still feels like a miracle when you turn to her and smile like she’s something special to you, but it’s no longer a bizarre shock.

When will you start to hate her? There must be something she's going to do that will turn you away, fill your eyes with the cold distaste she's come to expect as a greeting from others. When will she catch you gossiping about her? When will your smile suddenly turn cruel, and you reveal this has all been some ridiculously long joke? Or that you've just figured out that she's not worth your time? Surely you can't really be the only one who will never turn on her, another like sword-father?

One day she catches herself smiling even when she's alone–just remembering your laughter the night before.

Panic sets in. She's … happy. You make her happy. This is all going too well.

She’s getting in too deep. It can't last, she knows it can't.

She begins to pull away.

At first, you take it in stride; this is Mizu, she gets in weird moods, and you've seen her go through grumpy phases before. Something from class, something Taigen said–frankly, just her suddenly recalling that he somehow ended up at the same university is sometimes enough to put her in a funk.

But after the third week of untouched takeout containers, and two skipped Friday hangouts, it starts to sting.

You thought things were going well. What did you do wrong?

Suddenly, you're back in highschool again, wanting to sit at her table but afraid you'll piss her off by coming around too much, having to constantly calculate how much you can be with her before you scare her away. Have you been spending too much time around her? Is she burnt out on you? Every time you ask her to do something and she turns away with a shrug and a grunt, it feels like something breaks in your soul.

You can feel yourself wilting away, your smiles less ready as her scent starts to fade from your clothing and pillow. You blame yourself. You got too comfortable and forgot about moderation. You let yourself be yourself too much, and now you've lost her.

Maybe…maybe you can still fix this. Maybe if you just give her space, maybe spend some time with your other friends, and let her have more time to herself, she'll come back around again?

Mizu notes your cooling demeanor, the sudden absences from your room, the way you stop inviting her to shared activities, the empty spot on her desk where your books have vanished. Within her, something grows cold, and nods with cynical resignation. Things are going back to the way they were always meant to go.

It's better this way, she thinks, lying awake and staring at the ceiling.

She still feels cold.

She feels like something important is slipping through her fingers. There's another, realer panic, quieter and more confusing, bubbling under the surface that she can't quite grasp. She shoves it down deep and tries to ignore it.

Lying dead still, barely blinking, she watches the cracks in the ceiling fade out of sight in the dark, then slowly reappear as the room lightens with the next morning’s dawn.

The cold only grows deeper.

—

Akemi has had just about enough of this bullshit.

Seriously.

Her friend group is in tatters thanks to the two of you.

It used to be fun; you two were thick as thieves. If she invited one, the other would show up without being asked. And somehow with you next to her, Mizu would sometimes smile, maybe even talk! Not to mention, Akemi had less of an issue keeping the conflicts between Mizu and Taigen to a minimum. She even had time to chat to Ringo without having to manage two ridiculous hotheads slinging their swords around in endless dick-measuring contests that neither could seemingly back down from.

Now? Forget it.

If one of you shows up, the other shuts down or leaves. More often it's you showing up, which of course means half the time, Ringo scuttles off to make sure Mizu isn't dead in a ditch somewhere, so Akemi never sees either of them. When Mizu does make a rare appearance, she's so damn irascible that Akemi is genuinely starting to fear for her boyfriend’s safety. In the miraculous event that you do both join the group, she has to endure the cliched sight of you both staring longingly at each other when one is looking away, only to turn quickly when they glance towards you, prompting them to start looking longingly…

She’s never seen two bigger, more oblivious boneheads. My god.

Something simply has to be done.

When she mentions this to her boyfriend, Taigen offers to flirt with you to entice Mizu to act; Akemi is forced to pretend at jealousy just to keep him from getting his ego bruised by the fact that she’s sure Mizu would outright kill him.

See? This is exhausting. Everything is conflict. Can't a girl get some damn peace.

That said… Taigen might be onto something here.

While Akemi isn't willing to risk her boyfriend’s life … there is a party coming up soon. She's happy to gamble on a few less frat bros in the world if it means getting her friends group off of life support.

Time to rehearse how she's going to rope you into dressing up.

—-

How Akemi roped you into this, you have no idea.

You're grousing under your breath in the mirror, still struggling to get your hair to behave, when the door to the dorm room opens behind you. You freeze. Dammit. You had been trying to get out the door before Mizu got home, but you're so out of the habit of dressing up that you've lost track of time.

You turn warily around to find Mizu outright staring.

When she catches your eye, she drops her duffle on her foot, trips over it, and then shuts the door on the bag, having dropped it right on the threshold. Her expression shifts rapidly as you watch; one betraying wide-eyed flick up and down your outfit, her cheeks flushing, then a guilty flash as she catches herself doing it and quickly glances away.

“Hm. Fancy,” she comments dryly, looking down at her dropped belongings and finally managing to shut the door.

Picking up her bag with deliberate casualness, she then hangs her things up with unusual care, the activity keeping her back to you. The brief fizzle of certainty that she was checking you out dies in the face of her now-customary coldness.

“Yeah,” you mumble, giving up on your hair. You don't really care if you look good for this thing anymore. It's amazing how one reminder of the lost closeness between you two can immediately kill your mood. “Sorry–I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

She grunts in reply, stalking over to throw herself into her bed without looking at you, and grabs her sketchbook. That seems to be the end of her input on the matter.

Jesus. You'd think such a rare event as you dressed up would–... well, maybe some part of you had hoped she might– … Well, fine. Whatever.

Stifling a sigh, you pad over to the end of your bed and bend forward to start putting on your shoes. Maybe you'll talk to your RA about a room transfer, you think. This late in the year, they probably won't replace you and then Mizu will have a room to herself. That would probably be better for her… Your mood is dropping to gloom when she unexpectedly pipes up again.

“Where are you going.”

You're surprised enough to turn and glance at her, but she's firmly ensconced behind the book and hasn't looked up. You aren't aware that she risked a glance a moment ago while you were bending forward and nearly swallowed her tongue. All you see is a literal wall, hiding her face from you when she used to meet you with eyes like a warm ocean.

You feel yourself crack.

Okay. You've been patient. You've been nice. But now you're just confused, upset–and mad. You're not sure if it’s the sight of her face blocked by that sketchbook–the one you know almost every sketch in–or the way she’s demanding to know where you're going despite ignoring you for weeks. Maybe it's the way she definitely looked you up and down when she came in, then pretended nothing happened. Regardless of what it is, something absolutely evil burrows into your chest.

“I'm going to that party tonight at Heiji Shindo’s.”

You had planned to be gone, or at least to tell her you were simply partying with Akemi. You weren't going to tell her. You know exactly how much Mizu hates Shindo; admittedly, that might have been a private reason you let Akemi talk you into this. And for the first time since this all started, you find that you kind of want to piss her off. God, at least maybe then she'll do you the courtesy of looking at you.

You get your wish.

“What.” The sketchbook flops forward, covered by her hands, and you almost flinch at the expression on her face. She looks stricken rather than angry; naked shock and a genuine disbelief etched in every angular plane and line.

You grit your teeth; you can smell an argument coming like rain on the breeze. Too late to turn back now.

“I said I'm going to–”

“Heiji. Shindo.” She cuts in. Every syllable tinkles with ice. Her face is twitching, emotions shifting rapid-fire between dismay and disgust, disbelief and something deeper, something that crumples the edges of her mouth and makes your heart clench. You shake your head; already you regret everything.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Akemi asked me to go. She thinks it'd be good for me to get out, meet some people.”

You can see her fingers tighten on the edge of her sketchbook.

“Meet people.” Her voice drops with disdain. “Dressed…like that.” She curls a lip, but as her eyes drift to your outfit, you can tell the snark is, as usual, masking something else.

You can't help the way your shoulder slump, even if you want to pretend she doesn't bother you. “What's wrong with my outfit?”

The snark melts off her face at once at the sight of your stung expression, and she looks almost regretful for a moment before her face disappears behind the sketchbook. “Nothing. It's fine,” she snaps. “Nevermind.”

You pause, biting your lip. It's clearly not fine. Only a few weeks ago, you'd have pursued it, but not now, not when you’re already afraid you've driven her away by being too pushy. You go back to fastening your shoes, and for a few moments, the only sound in the room is the skritch of Mizu’s pencil. It stops suddenly.

“I don't think you should go.”

“Huh?”

She takes a breath. “You talk to enough people,” she says shortly. You frown.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” mumbles the sketchbook. You can see her shoulders hunch around its edges. “... You're always out. With people.”

“Are you saying I get around or something?”

“No!” Horrified blue eyes peep over the top of the sketchbook, then disappear again. “… Just … the people at those parties…”

You wait, as you always do, for her to find her words.

“They're… they might be unsafe.” Even she sounds confused by her own words. What the fuck is going on.

“You know I can take care of myself.” You cross your arms, but your tone is less angry this time; you're staring at her in bemusement. This is the most she's talked to you in weeks.

“They’re not your style,” she counters irritably. She's grasping at straws now; even you can hear the mounting frustration in her voice. A little whisper of intuition stops you from flaring up, and you pause, studying the taut figure on the bed.

“Who says they’re not my style?” You ask, more softly this time.

“They're just not.” She sounds certain. Internally, you know she's right–but you're not about to cave to a literal blank page with no answers.

“Well … maybe it'll be good to broaden my horizons,” you counter. You hear a faint choke disguised as a scoff.

“Sure, get harrassed by some frat guy,” She snaps. “I'm sure that's what your social life needs.”

You stand for a moment longer, shoe in hand. You could get angry at her tone, or the harsh words. Maybe you should. But…

As slowly as if you were approaching a stray cat, you walk over and sit at the edge of her bed. Her shoulders hunch further as she feels your weight dip the mattress. She draws her knees up defensively. Suddenly, you're reminded of the girl you met in high school, the one that watched you and waited for you to pull away when you'd just seen her thrash another student. Who looked surprised when you reached out instead. Maybe I've read this wrong.

“Mizu? Why are you so worked up about this?”

“I'm not.”

O-kay. You can already feel the wall you're going to hit if you insist on pushing that angle.

“... Okay. Well. Why … don't you want me to go?”

“Because I don't want you to– …” She nips off the end of her sentence abruptly.

“To?”

“Just– … forget it.” She's not even pretending to draw anymore. The sketchbook is pulled almost touching her face, purely a shield. You've never seen her like this. She's avoidant, to the max. You do know that. But hiding behind a book, openly almost cowering–that's not Mizu. A little grain of possibility is beginning to take root in your mind. But it can't be…

“Mizu. Please.” You keep your voice soft, but you're starting to get concerned, and the distress is showing in your voice. “Tell me what's going on. Why don't you want me to go?”

“I don't care if you go.” Her voice is tight behind her shield.

“Mizu, come on.” Your voice cracks; you're trying not to cry. What happened to you two? All you've ever wanted was to be close to her; a friend if that's all she wanted, even though you wanted more. How did you make so much progress and then suddenly get caught up in such a tangled mess? The words spill out of you in a frustrated rush; you can't seem to stop them. “You've been weird for weeks, and…and I thought we were close, you know??” You stand up from the bed abruptly, beginning to pace. “I don't know what I did wrong. But you won't even look at me, much less talk to me– and now you’re finally talking to me again but just to tell me not to go somewhere without even telling me why–”

“Because I don't want you to meet someone.”

It's so quiet that you could have talked right over it, but Mizu’s voice has always had the power to stop you in your tracks. You stop pacing.

“… What?”

“I don't… want you to-... meet someone.” You can't see her face, but the words sound like they're coming out through a tightly clenched jaw.

… Ho-ly shit.

“Mizu...” You sink back down onto the bed, feeling a little dizzy. You're at a loss for words, your voice genuinely stunned. Does she… does she really mean…? Is she saying…? Suddenly, you're consumed by the need to see her face; you can't know if this is real until you've seen it in her eyes. You reach out tentatively, and try to pull down the sketchbook, but she grips it tight. Damn. You always forget how strong she is.

“Mizu, please? Talk to me?” Your voice is cracking again, trying to stay soft with such a potent need building behind it.

At your soft plea, she almost seems to flinch. After a moment, slowly, jerkily, she lowers the sketchbook. You glance at the page in passing, and then stare at it in surprise.

It's a rough outline, barely, but it's clearly you, in your outfit, perfectly represented in only a few graceful strokes.

You stare at it for a long moment, pieces fully clunking into place in your brain. Then, gently, you pry the sketchbook from her stiff fingers and set it aside, before reaching out to take her hands. You can feel her fingers spasm under yours, as though she's afraid to squeeze back, but wants to.

“You know, you're right that the party isn't really my style,” you say very quietly. Raising your eyes from your entwined fingers to her eyes, you finally see her face. You’re struck again with a vision of your very first meeting; she looks as lost and uncertain as she did in that first moment of connection. This makes … only the second time you've ever seen Mizu look afraid. You hold her gaze in yours. “I'd rather be here. With you.”

Her breath catches on an inhale, blue eyes widening even further. Convulsively, the long fingers suddenly wrap around yours.

“Mizu, I ... I really missed you lately,” you continue, your voice still quiet. Your eyes are searching hers, vulnerable with hope. Color is rising along the pale column of her neck, her lower lip trembling. You shift up the bed a little, closer to her. You're not going to ask her why she pulled away; now that this has happened, you know her well enough to guess. Actually, you suspect you might understand better than she could have explained it to you–if she even would have.

A giddy, excited nervousness is bubbling in your chest. She likes me. She likes me. She likes me. This is happening. Oh my god. Don't fucking blow it now.

“Did you…miss me?” You're close enough to whisper now, your fingers still entwined between you. Your voice is husky now, somewhere between enticement and encouragement.

“Yes.”

Startlingly, her hands suddenly tighten hard around yours. Squeezing, gripping like iron. You couldn't pull away if you wanted to–lucky that you don't.

She says it with such drive, almost aggressively. One of her hands slides to your upper arm, tugging you in closer with one unintentionally rough jerk. Her eyes never leave yours; the yearning suddenly revealed is so potent that it knocks you breathless for a moment.

“Yes,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Yes. I missed you. Yes.”

Your foreheads are nearly touching. She keeps her firm grip on you, but she seems at a loss now that you're close; she doesn't seem to know what to do next, only that she wants you as close to her as possible. She says your name hoarsely; you can see her pulse rabbiting in the hollow of her throat. I'd like to kiss you there.

You’re afraid to spook her. You don't want to accidentally ruin this before it even starts. Gently, you raise the hand that's still entwined with one of hers; you watch her eyes fasten on your lips as they near her hands, giving her time to pull away. As you breathe lightly over her knuckles, you can see her eyelids flutter for a moment, before the softness of your lips makes her swallow.

“Good?” You ask softly. She nods, swallowing again at your immediate, heart-melting smile.

She wants to kiss you. And–like she does with every goal in her life–she immediately throws herself directly into what she wants now that she knows how to get it, the hand on your bicep suddenly tangling in your hair, yanking you into a hard kiss.

It's clumsy with mutual inexperience, a bit toothy, but Mizu’s lips are on yours, her hands grasping you, her harsh breaths against your mouth–and that's enough to pull a faint moan from you as you scramble around on the bed to pull closer.

The dam of mutual desire is breaking after so many long years, both of you surprised by the other’s intensity, and your own. Nothing could stop the torrent now. In a rushing tangle of limbs, you end up in Mizu’s lap, one hand braced on the wall behind her, her face buried in your neck. “Smell so good–” she mumbles into the flesh of your throat, mouthing with inexpert passion at the soft skin. You feel woozy; this is real, her hands gripping at your hips, those slender fingers digging into the soft flesh there.

“Oh– fuck, Mizu…” your whine is almost lost in the rustle of fabric as you press yourself closer to her on top of the blankets.

With a desperate groan, she disentangles and pulls back to look up at you. “God–” She gasps, taking in your hazy expression, tracing down over the reddened marks littering your neck and shoulders, down to where your clothes are riding up, the skin of your thighs soft and vulnerable wrapped around her hips. “You look–... you're so–...”

“You too,” you say, breathless, sounding somehow both giddy and hungry. She looks fucking delicious. Her hair is coming down in tousled strands from its tidy knot, her blue eyes hazy, a heady flush painting her cheekbones. As she devours the sight of you greedily, you cup her face, bringing her gaze back to yours. “Mizu– I want you,” you say, simple and blunt, and watch the shudder roll through her.

Her eyes darken even as they widen. She buries her face in your neck again, hiding from her own reaction, struggling to control her breathing as she veers between painful, fearful joy and a deep chasm of arousal. “Fuck–” she rasps, her grip on your hips tightening almost painfully, dragging you closer, one hand skating up your back to wrap you in her grip fully.

“I want you,” you murmur in one reddening ear, again, and feel her shudder again, her teeth fastening into the meat of your shoulder. Your cry cascades into a moan. “I need you.” She hisses out your name again, maybe a warning–too much–too real–too powerful–or maybe a prayer answered, maybe some kind of grateful call and response. It's everything she never even let herself fantasize–it's more than she could ever believe she could have. It's terrifying. She clings to you tighter, presses her face closer to your skin, pushing away her terror with the feel of you, your scent like a drug around her.

“Mizu. I love you.”

You can feel the hot breath against your skin suddenly hitch and stop for a moment, her body going still. She pulls away again, looking up at you like she did before–the Mizu that took the wipe all those years ago, the Mizu hiding behind the sketchbook. Scared to hope, scared to reach out and take the connection even as she craves it desperately.

“I love you,” You whisper again, even softer, your hands cupping her face again. She closes her eyes, pressing her cheek harder into your hand, her breathing heavy. Her lashes are darkening--there's wetness under your cupped hand. When you lean in to kiss her softly, you can smell the faint tang of salt.

Her lips move automatically against yours for a moment, trying for that same clumsy urgency of that first kiss, but you hold her to a sensual pace–slow, gentle, thorough–making her feel the lingering depth of your desire until she's shivering against you. When you pull back, the blue gaze is raw.

“I-... I-I…” Her voice cracks; suddenly she looks stricken at her own lack of words. You can see the struggle on her face; to bare such a tender spot, after a lifetime that has battered her tender spots mercilessly. She says your name again, helplessly, her hands clutching at you. “I…”

“It's okay,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to her lips to silence her. You already know; just like every other unspoken moment that's passed between you two in the comfortable silences ever since your school days. There's no need for her to say it when she isn't ready. The sentiment is clear. “You don't need to, Mizu. I know.”

“I'm sorry–” she says anxiously–you cut her off with a soft nip to her throat, melting some of her anxiety into a moan.

“Don't be,” You murmur. “Just be here. With me.”

“I am– I am–oh–...”

As you trail more kisses down her neck, across your collarbone, you can feel her hips twitch up underneath you, and you smile, shaky with nerves, but determined, as your hands find the hem of her shirt. You're no more experienced than she is, but damn it if you aren't going to put those long hours of internet research to some constructive use.

“Fuck,” she hisses again when your lips close around one already tight nipple. “Ah!” She was utterly unprepared for the sharp jolt of sparks that shot straight from where your lips connected to her very core. You hum with delight, taking her soft cries as positive feedback as your tongue laves over the tight bud.

You would happily stay here all day, switching from one pert breast to the other, feeling her thighs clench around your waist with each swipe of slick muscle, but you take mercy on the helpless bucking of her hips, the way her voice is going higher and higher every time you switch nipples and start afresh.

Her toned belly flinches at the first kiss, as though even that were too sensitive, and her thighs twitch around you again as you breath over the slick mess between her thighs. When you look up, the nervous desire in her face is almost adorable; brows quirking up, blue eyes gone soft and hazy. You know you're not doing much better; you’re shaking, you want to please her so badly.

“Tell me if it's bad?” You ask her, a twinge of self-consciousness showing through your attempts at confident seduction. At seeing you nervous, too, some of the stress leaves her face--reassured that she isn't alone in being overwhelmed. She reaches out, stroking a lock of hair from your face.

“It won't be,” she whispers, shakily, and you smile, turning to catch her palm with a kiss, before your lips find her thigh and begin to move inwards.

She claps a hand over her mouth at the first swipe of your tongue along her slit, muffling a broken cry. Her taste already dominating your senses, you glance up, still unsure of yourself, but she nods, panting.

You bury your face in her folds at last. It's not at hard as you expected it to be; you just pay attention to what she responds to, finding your rhythm quickly as her moans and cries grow louder. God–fuck, I could die here and be happy. You don't look up again, lost in a daze at the taste of her, her arousal slicking your chin as she bucks her hips up frantically. She sounds perfect, and feels even better against you, all slick, wet heat and delicately fluttering muscle. She's already so keyed up that it takes nearly no time at all. When your lips find her clit and close around it, she abandons all attempts to muffle herself, both hands finding your hair as her thighs tighten around your head, shuddering helplessly and crying out your name to the ceiling as orgasm whites out her vision.

You work her through the aftershocks greedily with lips and tongue and fingers, until finally she's pushing you weakly away with a whine, legs falling limply to the mattress. Grinning, you crawl up to pepper very wet kisses to her neck and cheek, unable to hide your smug pride.

“The great Mizu, finally subdued,” you purr teasingly, your voice warm with affection, nuzzling into her cheek.

Her eyes snap open. The room suddenly spins around you.

You fall back against the mattress with a yelp, your outfit now fully ridden up to leave you exposed between parted, soaked thighs. A shadow blots the overhead light.

Mizu looms over you, hair a mess, skin sweat-slicked, pale eyes as sharply intent as a predator. Holy shit. Your skin is already tingling as she hooks your knees over her shoulders and drags you easily back towards her with a palm on the top of each thigh. Seemingly, you aren't the only one to have done your homework.

“My turn.”

Her voice is a husky, ominous rasp, an undercurrent of danger and play making your stomach flip.

Those burning eyes never leave yours, even as her face buries itself between your legs.

—

Akemi taps one heel on the sidewalk outside of the party, irritated. She tries to do something nice and what does it get her? She gets to be the Walmart Greeter for Heiji Shindo’s bash for over an hour while you leave her dangling. Five missed calls. Five! All the good booze is gonna be gone by the time she gets in there; she knows Taigen doesn't have the empathy to save her a bottle of anything good.

She opens her phone again, sighing at the sight of the long string of texts lining her side of the chat window with no replies from you.

Well?! Are you coming?!?!?!

She's not exactly expecting a response, so she surprised to see the three dots pop up within a few minutes.

Oh, I'm coming.

Just not to the party ;)

GIRL

WTF

TMI

You heart her texts without replying. Akemi sighs. So, as it turns out, the frat boys weren't the sacrifice this evening; she was.

Tut, tut. That's what I get for being the responsible one in this friend group, she tells herself, before turning and making her way into the party.

All in a day’s work.

Maybe she'll be lucky enough to get a sip of Malibu before she has to chug the orange-flavored Mad Dog.

[fernslivers]

SOBBING

I just wanted to try this trend lol, my two fav blue eye husbands

[fernslivers]

I just wanted to try this trend lol, my two fav blue eye husbands

[fernslivers]

Just a PSA, I still can't follow anyone or like anything from this effin' account.

So if you're wondering why I never followed you back, I DID, I just did it with my other account bc I had to 😭

If you see a follow or a like from abyssleaves, that's me! (I just don't use that account anymore bc I'm not really into any of those fandoms anymore)

[fernslivers]

something that i really like about blue eye samurai, now that im thinking about it, is that it discusses violence against women without becoming torture porn. like, in a lot of media that portrays women's issues, they show you that scene. like they give you this extended visual of a woman experiencing something traumatic and then laud themselves as feminist for doing so.

blue eye samurai doesn't do that. the whole show is set in a world that is extremely antagonistic toward women, and it makes a point to tell you that being a woman right now sucks, because they are property and are used sexually. but even though it doesn't shy away from this, it doesn't show you the violence itself, which you would almost expect it to because of how graphic the rest of the show is.

im thinking specifically of kinuyo. they very well could have shown us a scene of her being abused, but they didn't. they didn't show the abuse itself, but they did show how it affected her. they showed her seeing a doctor for her sores. they could have made this incredibly traumatic and grotesque scene a spectacle, showing us exactly how powerless she is and how powerful he is. they could have shown us this incredibly triggering event in full detail for our entertainment, but they didn't. they chose not to. and i think that's how it should be.

it is not necessary to have an extended visual and auditory reenactment of violence against women. we the audience understood the gravity of the situation and were able to empathize without needing that scene. having that scene would have completely detracted from the point they are trying to make. it would have turned something completely reprehensible that women everywhere fear because it's a very real issue into entertainment.

[fernslivers]

HI HELLO, same anon who sent the idea for your "the marriage game" fic here :D just dropping in to say THANK YOU SO MUCH!! you brought that idea to life sm better than i myself had it in my head and i still am absolutely in love with it. Your work is amazing and I can't wait to read more of it <33

🥹🥹🥹🥹 aaaaaaaaaaaaa-- I'm gonna SOB

Thank YOU anon, it was a really cool idea and I'm so glad you liked my interpretation of it! I'm hoping to put it up on my new ao3 account sometime soon, if you're okay with that! (If not, no worries, just drop me another anon line here!)

I really seriously appreciate your message so much, it's exactly the pick me up I needed today. You've made my whole week, much love back your way!! 🫶🫶🫶

[fernslivers]

I forgot to share this here . HELLOOO BES COMMUNITY 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 (ilovemizuuplss)