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saulocept · 4 months ago

Text

cardinal ache

pairing: totk! link/reader

rating: t

summary: You’re mad at him, angry, for reasons you can’t explain, not even to yourself. Naturally, he could tell, and apologizes to you in the only way he knows how – or perhaps, this too, is a confession some sort. You never know.

notes: this is more vibes than plot, sorry. wanted to get back to writing bit by bit so i'm sort of practicing again. hope i got this right. on another note, i'm opening requests as a belated celebration for reaching 300+ followers on this blog. guidelines can be found here. thanks for sticking around!

It’s cold enough in the cabin, colder still with the kind of silence surrounding you. Even with the furnace on, with the logs burning all around you – it’s still not enough to keep warm. Neither are the layers of clothes you’re wearing, thick and endless in your desire for survival. Outside, the snowstorm is relentless, unnatural in its persistence. You rub your hands together form warmth, pressing them against your cheek afterward, hoping the friction would be enough to transfer the heat to all remaining parts of yourself. It isn’t. It never is.

You shiver, grit your teeth, pretend you don’t notice the way your companion glances at you, the concern obvious in his eyes, pretend you couldn’t see the worry written plainly on his face, bared to no one else but you. You’re mad at him, after all; you had been for a while now, too caught up in your own jealousy to let him explain, or to explain to him yourself what’s happening. All you’re able to give him in turn is a silent treatment that’s lasted as long as this snowstorm.

It’s irrational, you know, senseless, even. Perhaps unnecessary too, if you’re only able to get hold of some responsible part of your brain. Link’s only doing his job, his duty as a knight (as well as the Hero of Hyrule) as best as he possibly can, and here you are, getting mad at something trivial, feeling something you’re not even supposed to feel. But you can’t help it, not really: feeling this way, acting on it, acting out – it’s as though some evil has taken root of your heart, giving control to all these emotions you know you shouldn’t even allow to get to you. It doesn’t help that you’re not entirely sure where you stand with him; you’ve known each other for a while now, accompanied each other in countless adventures, bonded long enough that you could almost think of him as a friend. But the two of you have done things that no mere friends should: shared a room, a bed, a kiss; spent a night in each other’s arms, enough times that you’ve lost count; lingered a little too long in the mornings each time it’s time to leave, as though you could somehow freeze the tenderness of the moment and stay in it forever.

You’ve never once talked about it. He’s never brought the topic up, and you’ve never been brave enough to call him out on it, content on whatever intimacy lies in the space between you, casual or otherwise; or perhaps, you’re simply too terrified to confront it, fearful to put a name on something that might disappear if you prod it too much.

But the nights only grow longer, colder. You’re not entirely sure how long the snowstorm has gone on, not sure how long you’ve been cooped up in this cabin, silent and not at all speaking; without ever seeing the sun, it’s hard to tell the hours, the days, whether a day has passed, or a whole week has gone by without your knowing. Still, you remain where you are. Too prideful for apologies, and too cowardly for confrontations, you sit there shivering from the cold, as far away from him as you can, while still remaining as close to the fireplace as possible.

“Cold?” he asks after a second, the first one to break the silence. There’s a hint of concern in his voice, genuine enough that it makes your heart flutter just a little, your anger melting for a fraction. For a moment, you’ve half the heart to ignore him, pretend you didn’t hear his words. A moment of silence passes, followed by another. You’re still thinking how to respond when his voice cuts through the silence once more, loud and firm: “Come over here.”

It’s not a request this time, but something stern, certain. A command, or something close to it. Still, he doesn’t let you dwell on it too much. He scoots over to you, huddling close enough that you feel the warmth of his body pressing against you, pleasant despite all your internal protests. For the briefest of moments, there’s a part of you that wants to be stubborn, to move away and bask in your anger until it consumes the rest of you, but something in him keeps you from doing so. Maybe it’s the warmth of his body against yours, or the way this sudden proximity lights up each one of nerve-endings on fire, just enough to kill off every protest you might’ve ever had.

A beat passes, and then another. You still don’t say anything, don’t do anything. You remain where you are, close enough that you could feel his warmth, hear him breathe. He’s the first one to speak. This time, his voice is soft, quiet, barely audible even in the growing silence between you. “You’re mad at me.” A statement, not a question, simple and straightforward, as though he’s been certain of it for a long time.

You frown, scoff, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, even now. “You’ve only just noticed?”

He ignores your comment. From the corners of your eyes, you see him scoot closer to you, turning his head so he can look at you fully. “I’ll make it up to you,” he declares, his voice steady, almost firm in its determination. You turn to him, frowning still, as though you’re not quite sure what you’ve heard, but he only repeats it once more, his voice loud, his words unmistakable. “Let me make it up to you.”

And then, before you can even say anything else, he’s making his move.

You should push him away, tell him no. A part of you knows he would’ve let you go immediately if you’d said the word out loud, if you’d even once dared to stop him: a hand on his chest, a shake of your head, some quick dismissal of a sort. But you haven’t, and he hasn’t yet stopped. He pins you down on the floor, kisses you again and again, enough to make you forget all thoughts. His mouth is warm against yours, his lips soft as they press against yours. There’s familiarity in his movements, certainty in his actions. It isn’t the first time the two of you have done this, but it’s the first time it’s ever felt this tense, this charged with atmosphere.

You’ve had him close him before, though in those moments, the lights are always off, too dark to make anything out of him: his face, the kind of expression he makes when he comes apart beneath your touch. But now, it’s different. Now, there’s the light of the fireplace behind you, and the flicker of the flames casts a soft glow upon him, makes him even more beautiful. Even the photographs you have of him in your locket wouldn’t do him any justice, nor would the poems that talk of him: the depths that hide behind his gaze, the brightness in a way that captures your reflection and makes it its own.

You wonder if this is his way of apologizing, trying to quell whatever anger sits in the pit of your stomach long enough to make you give him the silent treatment for long. Or maybe it’s something else. A confession, perhaps, or a show of vulnerability. You don’t want to ask him about it, afraid it’ll further ruin the moment, but you can’t rely on simple guesswork, or even your instincts. As if he could read your mind, however, he shakes his head, pulls back long enough to look at you. He places a finger against your lips, as if to shut you up. “Not now.” His voice is soft, a little raspy. “Don’t talk.”

You nod quietly, too startled to give him a proper response. Your heart races against your chest, and your mind swims with thoughts, none of which you can say out loud. Link smiles at you then, miniscule enough that it’ll be imperceptible had you not been this close. But you are, and it makes your heart flutter, your chest ache with a longing that your mind protests against.

Satisfied with what he perceives to be your obedience, he leans down, kisses you once more, long enough to leave you breathless. Even when it’s over, he lingers still, his face hovering inches away from yours as he stares at you, takes you in. You see your reflection in his eyes, and the look of longing in your eyes mirrors the one that sits inside your chest. It’s strange, almost embarrassing in the ache it carries, an echo so very similar to your own, and for a second, there’s a part of you that wants to look away, forget its existence, but something compels you to keep looking, keep staring.

There’s a tingle in your lips when he finally pulls away, a kind of warmth that makes you ache for more. When he starts to move away, your instincts begin to take root, take hold. Propelled by the weight of your desire, your hand moves, reaches out for the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him close, closer again. A moment of silence passes, one after the other. For the briefest of moments, you’re both frozen, not moving, not saying anything. You catch sight of his expression: the way his eyes widen just a fraction, imperceptible if you haven’t been paying any attention; there’s a flicker of surprise somewhere in there, perhaps at your sudden boldness.

It’s true; you’ve never been this brave before, at least not when you’re sober, and even now, you’re still not sure why you’re moving, why you keep trying to pull him closer: one hand on the back of his neck, the other still clutching at the hem of his tunic as you tug him back toward you without ever being certain as to why.

Everything that happens that is a blur, a little hazy. All you know is that he’s kissing you again, and it’s the different from all the kisses you’d shared before. There’s no gentleness to him now, none of the tenderness you’ve come to recognize from him. This time, it’s hungry, thick with something you can’t dare to say out loud. Desire, maybe, the same one that beats inside you like a second heart? Or perhaps, something else, something more – the kind you’re too terrified to name because it skirts too close to the truth you don’t want to acknowledge?

Either way, he doesn’t let you think much about it. He kisses you still, knocks the breath right out of your lungs, and it’s hot enough to make you forget the snowstorm outside. Sweat drips down your skin, and all of a sudden, your clothes seem far too thick, too much for the occasion. By the time it’s all over, you’re breathless and panting, your lips numb and swollen.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. You stare at him. He stares at you. The expression on his face is unreadable, and you’re certain that yours look like an open book, the ache in there bared to display like a raw wound. You swallow the lump in your throat, try to find the words to speak, but nothing comes except the sound of his name, soft and raspy in your own voice. “Link.”

Even now, you wonder what that means. There’s desperation behind it, some sort of plea, though you’re not entirely sure why – or what for. A flicker of emotion passes in his eyes, brief enough that you catch wind of it before it goes away for good, and you wonder whether or not he understands it, what you’re saying, what you mean without you explaining yourself.

He moves closer, leans in. The warmth of his breath tickles your cheek. He looks at you, takes you in, and you feel your heart race against your chest, an echo of desire, a product of your longing, one you’re not sure you want to acknowledge. He remains quiet, doesn’t say anything, though there’s something in the way he looks at you now that makes you feel exposed, like he could read your mind, whatever thought you’ve kept hidden from him.

He leans in, lets his lips hover inches just above yours, close enough to kiss though not quite. His breath is warm against your lips as he remains still, waits, like he wants you to make the first move. A question, one that’s directed you. If you were less chained by your desire, you would’ve been more rational, more stubborn. You would’ve sat in your anger, demanded for a more cohesive answer, stoked the conflict until the truth is plain for you to see, to understand. But it’s too late for all that anymore. Now all that’s left of you is this longing, an ache palpable enough that you feel in your chest, everywhere in your body, hot and burning.

There’s no need to think, no time to come up with the proper words, the most human of answers. There’s only instinct now, driven by emotions, an echo of a need that feels too familiar, too intimate to be that of a stranger’s. Here comes the answer now, long-awaited in your own impatience. You pull him down toward you, and he doesn’t seem surprised by your actions to yelp and protest. He yields easily, without hesitation, and when you lean up to kiss him, he’s quick to kiss you back, eager and impatient, as though he’s waited a long time for this too.

#renwrites #link x reader #tears of the kingdom #totk x reader

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saulocept · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! Do you take requests?

sort of? there's really no guarantee i can get to it and fulfill it, but i can however promise to take a look at it. i can also elaborate on some ideas or do some headcanons - assuming its something youre okay with?

full fics however arent really a guarantee since im busy, sorry :(

#asks

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saulocept · 6 months ago

Text

a savage ache

pairing: tp! link/f (reader)

rating: m

summary: It turns out the kind of help he needs isn't the one any of the village healers can provide. It's a good thing he has you, isn't it?

notes: mostly pwp. link is implied to be in heat, but it's never really explicitly mentioned. hope i did this right

It isn’t rare for him to get into trouble; months of traveling with him have taught you that much, but it’s rare for him to need help, especially yours. Not that he’d said it out loud; he’s always been a bit more prideful than he’s willing to admit, unwilling to share a burden despite how much it hurts him in the end. But it doesn’t seem as though he’s got a choice on this one. You’ve been relaxing at the inn that night, nursing aa glass of beer when the innkeeper walks over to you, her eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Your friend,” she says, shifting her weight from side to side as she struggles to find the right words. “I think he needs some help.”

You stare at her for a long moment, blinking a few times. “Why do you think that?” you ask, voice soft, quiet. The last time you’d seen each other, which was earlier this morning, he’d been okay, seemingly still like his normal self. You’ve never caught a glimpse of him after that, though in your defense, you’d been wandering outside of town, hunting down monsters in exchange for meager pay and had only arrived back at the inn just recently.

The innkeeper shrugs, looking at you almost helplessly. She bites her lip, as if hesitating for a second, before leaning in, whispering conspiratorially. “He didn’t look good when he arrived back here,” she says, voice a quiet whisper. She looks around her, as if trying to see whether or not someone else is listening in before turning her attention to you, voice growing quieter. “He stormed off toward his room without another word and hasn’t come out since, not even for lunch.”

You frown, eyebrows furrowing in thought. Now that’s odd. He’s not the type to miss out on lunch – or even any kinds of meals for that matter; months of traveling with him had led you to that observation. He’s got an appetite that could rival a savage wolf’s, able to eat for two on a normal day, and more after an exhaustive battle, and you’ve got to admit that this bit of revelation stirs a worry in you that wasn’t quite there before.

“Is he injured?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him all that much when he arrived,” the innkeeper admits, giving you another helpless shrug.

You nod your head, leave the conversation at that. There’s no much information the innkeeper has left to offer; you’ve been staying here in this inn for at least two weeks now, memorized practically everything you needed to around here. You know where Link’s room is – on the second floor just beside yours, away from where everyone’s rooms are. A special privilege, says the innkeeper, after the two of you had offered to slay the monsters hanging just outside town, stealing supplies from the inn and the neighboring shops and stores.

With a quiet sigh, you walk up toward the stairs, stopping in front of a familiar room. You raise your hand, knocking on the door a few times, tentative. There’s no response. You wait, count the seconds in your head, before knocking once more, this time louder. There’s still no response. Your eyebrows furrow, more in confusion than in worry. For a second, you’re tempted to just kick the door down and see the problem once and for all, though you stop, knowing you can’t afford to make a mess. That, and you don’t really want the innkeeper to be mad at you, especially since she’s the only one you could almost call a close friend in this town.

“Link?” you call, pressing your head against the door. There’s nothing to greet you but silence. Still, you keep trying, careful to keep your voice relatively quiet. “Are you here?”

There’s no response at first. But then the door opens, just a crack, a familiar face peering at you from the other side.

“Hi,” you say, smiling awkwardly.

Link frowns, tries to shut the door on your face, but you’re quick to react, reflexes kicking in before you even have the chance to think about what you’re doing. Quickly, you shove your foot against the crack, forcing him to open the door just a little wider. You slide yourself in, moving at lightning speed, stepping inside the room just before he can cast you out, push you away.

And now that you’re here, you can see exactly how different he seems at this moment. He looks pale as a sheet, his skin matted with sweat. Even his hair sticks to his skin, and his cheeks seem aglow with a crimson flush. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice quiet, raspy. There’s an impatience to his voice that you’re not quite used to, a kind of annoyance that seems unfamiliar, mostly because you’ve never heard it directed at you.

You stare at him, taking in his disheveled state. Then, you clear your throat, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

He scowls. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. You give him a curious look, eyeing him from head to toe. “The innkeeper says you don’t look very good.”

He scoffs, grumbles almost to himself. “And what would she know about it?”

You frown, crossing your arms over your chest as you give him a scolding glare. “Well, she’s right,” you shoot back, voice growing defensive. “You don’t look very good. And you’re not acting like your usual self.”

He opens his mouth to protest, though before the words are out of his lips, he stops, keels over. He clutches at his stomach, and he looks almost as though in pain. Quickly, you step forward, ready to help him, but he shuts you out with a scathing glare, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

He closes his eyes, exhales a shaky breath, tries to calm himself. He looks a little different now, worse than he’d been before: paler, weaker. His skin glistens with sweat, soaking his tunic all throughout. You bite your lip, hesitating before you slowly make your over to him, slow and careful, trying not to startle him too much. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t try to stop you; with the way he’s too focused on his breathing, you doubt he could even notice you.

You stop, stand in front of him, crouching down and placing a hand on his arm comfortingly. He opens his eyes, stares at you, his gaze slightly hazy. Like he doesn’t quite recognize you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, quiet.

He shakes his head, his words coming out in a breathless rasp. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

You’re quiet for a moment, hesitating once. “I can help you if you like?”

He exhales another breath, his nostrils flaring. He opens his eyes, stares at you for a long moment, blue eyes searching your face for answers. He looks away after a second, shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I wouldn’t know if you won’t tell me,” you say hotly, glaring at him in annoyance. Worriedly, you place your hand against his forehead; his skin is hot against your palm, almost feverishly so. You purse your lips together, staring at him for a long moment before you begin to stand up, decisive. “If you need a village healer, we can call for one.”

His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly. “No,” he says, his voice oddly scratchy. Slowly, he sits up, swallows thickly as if every word is a struggle to get out of his throat. “No healers.”

“But you’re feverish—” you begin to protest, though the words quickly taper off into a painful whimper as his fingers grip your wrist a little too tightly to keep you from moving.

“Not feverish,” he rasps out, his voice weak as a whisper. He exhales another shaky breath, more sweat dripping down his skin. You’ve half the heart to tuck the loose hair behind his ear, just to see his face more clearly. “The healers… they won’t know what to do with this.”

You blink, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice. “It’s happened to you before?”

He nods, offers no response outside of that.

“Then I can help you!” you exclaim, eyebrows furrowing in determination. You try to yank your hand free from his grip, though despite his fever, his grip remains firm, unyielding, refusing to let you go just yet. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

He shakes his head, lets out a low laugh. Cold, bitter. Disbelieving. Like he’s not entirely sure you can do it or that he can trust you to do it, though you’re not sure which is which. “What makes you think you can help me?”

You glare at him, hating how easily he brushes off your concern. “I’m serious!”

“Are you?” His voice drops lower, grows colder, more serious. Something in his tone sends a shiver through you, though you’re quick to mask it, swallowing thickly, eyes flickering restlessly to avoid staring directly into his eyes. He laughs, and the sound is deeper, hollow, mocking. It should irritate you, this obvious condescension he shows toward you, but all it does is make you feel tingly all over, a different kind of warmth pooling in the pits of your stomach.

Still, you try to keep yourself firm, unwavering. This isn’t about you, regardless of your growing feelings for the matter. “You’re my friend,” trying to affect as much seriousness as you can into your voice, ignoring the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze. There’s a part of you that wants to look away, duck your head and avoid it entirely, but something in it keeps you from looking away, pinned helplessly like a prey caught between the jaws of a hungry wolf. Is it the blue of it, that savage depths behind it, threatening to swallow you whole if you so much show an ounce of weakness?

“Friend,” he repeats, spitting the word out almost disgustedly. Like he doesn’t approve of it – of your usage of it. “You’d help your friend with this?”

“Wouldn’t you?” you ask, voice growing quiet, softer. There’s a vulnerability in your voice that wasn’t quite there before, too late to take back. “If that were me in your position, wouldn’t you have helped me? As a friend?”

He laughs, curses under his breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he says, snorts. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you, short and brief before he starts again, his voice softer, no longer cold. An opening. “And if I tell you the problem, you won’t run away?”

You nod your head, tongue darting out to lick the dryness of your lips. Vaguely, you see his gaze following the movement, his eyes dark, heady. He shifts closer, places a finger under your chin, tipping your head up so you can look at him. He’s closer now when he speaks once more, close enough to whisper the words directly against your lips, his breath hot as it fans against your skin. “Then you can help me with my problem.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond. He leans in, kisses you, lips crashing against yours. It’s clumsy, needy, rough and sharp that it almost hurts. It’s all teeth, all bruising. All heat and roughness between you. His teeth dig into your lower lip, sink hard enough you feel your mouth bleed. Drops of blood trickle down your tongue, your throat, the taste of iron making you feel a little heady, but he laps it up with his tongue, runs it soothingly along your lip before he sucks on it, starts everything all over again. Savagely.

Everything he does is done instinctively, done without any sort of rationality. Raw and predatory. He knocks the breath out of your lungs over and over, kisses you until your lips are bruised and numb, swollen and bleeding. And when he tires of it, he moves on to your neck, treats it with the same roughness he’s handled your mouth. This time, he leaves marks. On your throat, your shoulders. Your collarbone. Fills each part with enough bruises they become a canvas of their own, all red and purple in color.

“Mine,” he growls into your neck, his voice rough, harsh. Primal. He sounds more different than usual – more beast than man, and a single look at him is enough to confirm that. Blue irises blown wide, blazing with barely-hidden desire. It should terrify you, being under him, this wild beast that’s far different from the man you know, but all it does is turn you into a mess, pliant and yielding.

He runs his hands along your sides, touches you everywhere. Each caress sends pleasure racing down your spine, makes you feel needier than you should be. Your head feels lighter, faint. Everything you do is a mirror to his actions, a direct response to his own desires, echoing it in twofold. He sneaks a hand under your shirt, his hands warm and battle-worn, calloused. He feels you up, touches you all over, fondling your breasts a little too roughly to make you whine.

A low growl spills out of his throat, a sound that would’ve terrified you out of your wits if you’re not entirely too lost on the feel of his hands on your skin. He pulls back, breathes hard. You feel his eyes wander all over you, the sharpness of his gaze settling on your face. Whatever he sees there must be enough to fuel his hunger, because a moment later and he’s leaning in once more, ripping up your shirt in a single, fast move, without a care for your sudden protest.

And then he’s touching you once more, and each protest dies on your tongue, as though they’re never there at all. He twists your nipples between his fingers, the nubs hardening beneath his touches. He leans down, runs his tongue along one of them before his teeth grazes against it, and he bites. It hurts, though the pain begins to dull when he runs his tongue soothingly around it, sucking on it gently.

“Link,” you say quietly, barely able to recognize your own voice. It sounds weak against your ears, utterly pathetic. Needy and whiny that you’d hate it if you weren’t too drunk on this sudden pleasure running up and down your bloodstream. You’re not entirely sure why you’ve called for his attention like this, not completely sure what you want from him, but he lifts his head, looks at you, his eyes dazed.

Your eyes meet. You open your mouth, try to say something, but nothing comes out except a quiet whine. Still, he seems to understand. With his hands, he tears the rest of your clothing off, leaves you wearing nothing, the breeze cold against your skin, enough to make you shiver. His clothes follow suit, his pants and tunic deposited somewhere on the floor, suddenly forgotten. He turns to focus on you after a second, looking almost hungry as he runs his gaze all over you.

A quick call of his name, and he’s quick to snap into focus, moving to work. Gently, he moves to line himself up against your entrance, pushes in. Slow. He gives pause, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he savors the warmth of you wrapping around him for the very first time. His hips buck, just once, and with a groan, he’s fully inside you, buried all the way to the hilt.

He gives you a millisecond to adjust. He grits his teeth, sucks in a sharp breath, fingernails digging into your hips as he starts to move. He’s slow only for the first few times before the last threads of his self-control snaps. He pushes his hips back, snaps it against yours, hissing at the feeling. You close your eyes, throw your head back, unable to do much except accept whatever he’s giving you.

He speeds up, almost animalistically so. This time, he doesn’t give you respite. No time to rest. There’s no method to his movement, no rhythm, just relentless pushing and pushing until he’s deep enough inside you that you feel him everywhere. And even then, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a break. He lifts your legs, rests them on either side of his shoulder, rutting against you even more. With this angle, he hits into you deeper, much more than before.

Your skin grows hot, your head feeling suddenly light. Your limbs ache, grow heavy. You could hardly move against him even if you try, could hardly push him away even if you want to – which you don’t. Liquid heat bubbles in the pit of your stomach, grows hot enough to feel almost unbearable.

“Mine,” he says again, whispering the word against your throat, sharp teeth digging into the flesh of your skin, leaving a near-permanent mark. “Mine.”

A needy whimper escapes you, and in response, you wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him closer, deeper into you. His hips stutter against yours, movements growing animalistically fast. There’s a part of you that wants to push him back, away, too overwhelmed by the sensations he’s making you feel, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps his grip bruisingly tight around your hips, pushing into you still. He tilts his head up, kisses you once more, nipping and biting at your lip as he does so.

The knot in your stomach tightens. Something simmers inside you, a low boil that grows hot and heavy, threatens to explode. There’s no time to warn him, not when he’s still kissing you, his tongue pushing into your mouth, swallowing every noise that threatens to spill out of you. There’s nothing you could do but tremble, release washing over you like a tide. He swallows the whimper that spills out of your throat, the high-pitched whine as you finally come undone beneath him. By the time he’s pulling away from the kiss, you’re breathless and panting, dizzy and lightheaded.

But he’s still not done. He moves his hips into yours, tries to prolong that orgasm, while simultaneously chasing his own. He reaches down, places his palm against your mouth, covers your mouth to keep your from making too much of a noise. You pant against his hand, but there’s not much else to do but watch him and wait. His hair falls over his eyes, his sweat making it mat against his forehead. He bites his lip, teeth digging into the already-swollen flesh as he tries to stifle his groan.

His movements grow quicker, haphazard, and then he’s falling apart, spilling into you without warning. Your hips twitch, legs trembling from the aftershocks. Panting, Link remains on top of you, not bothering to pull out just yet. He rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are dazed as he searches your face, his breath warming your cheeks.

It takes a moment for you to find your voice. When you speak, your voice is raspy, breathless. Weak against your ears. “You’re okay now?”

He pulls back, stares at you, reaches out with one hand to rub his thumb along your lower lip, his touch surprisingly gentle, soothing. “You’re not done helping me,” he says, his voice quiet. His eyes are dark, heady with desire. He pushes his hips into yours, just once, letting you feel him as he slowly stiffens inside you once more. “Are you?”

#renwrites #link x reader #twilight princess #twilight princess x reader

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saulocept · 6 months ago

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thank you for writing that masterpiece with link

glad you liked it!

#thank you!

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saulocept · 6 months ago

Text

an introduction to intimacy (i)

pairing: botw! link/f(reader)

rating: m

summary: You knew what you were getting into when you first married him. You just didn't know it'll be like this. Luckily, or unluckily, he's there to refute it.

notes: there's a hint of spice near at the end, but it's nothing too explicit. there might be a sequel, depending on the inspiration.

Marriage isn’t easy. You’ve always known that, of course – some sort of knowledge hidden in the depths of your mind, vague enough to never cross your thoughts. Until now. If you’re perhaps smarter than you’d been, you would’ve thought twice before jumping into it and agreeing. You’ve got a general idea of what you’re getting into: your new role as a wife, the responsibilities expected of you, but you’ve never once thought it’ll be this exhausting.

If you’d known any better, you wouldn’t have jumped into it as easily as you had. Blame your mother for instilling all these ideas onto you, and blame your friends for romanticizing the Hero of Hyrule. He’d be a perfect husband, they’d told you. With how sweet and caring he is to strangers – people whose name he doesn’t even know, imagine how sweet he’ll be to his own wife. Bah. You’d imagined, indeed, and now you regret it. Not that it isn’t too late for regrets, but still. It’s not like this is something you’d wanted to happen in the first place. This has been, after all, a marriage of convenience, rushed and impulsive, something you had actually no say in no matter how much your mother tries to pretend otherwise. It hadn’t been your idea; it had been your mother’s, tinged with desperation as she tried to find a way to settle your father’s debts after he ran away from your mother and you, eager to hide and start life somewhere else.

Looking back at it now, it’s a bad idea, but at the time, there’s very little you can do. Stuck in a house where your mother resents you for reminding her too much of the man who’d left her, the choice had only been to get away. And so you’d agreed. The marriage had been quick, private, with little ceremony. Attended only by your mother and a handful other villagers, there were no vows spoken, no kisses shared. Everything was stiff and formal, quick and hasty. Before you know it, you’re being driven off into Hateno Village, with all your belongings packed into a single rucksack, your old life growing further out of reach with each second.

Three year later and you’re stuck in a house as cold and hollow as the one you’d left behind. You doubt there’s any real love involved between you, not even an ounce of fondness or attraction. It’s not that Link isn’t nice. He’s nice, exactly like a hero is nice. He’s helpful, considerate. He washes the dishes, puts them back the same way you’d left them. He fixes his bed every morning so you don’t have to. He doesn’t leave any mess behind for you to clean up. He’s exactly how your friends describe him – the ideal man, a hero.

But they don’t know that he could be distant too, cold as ice. Perfect and flawless. Like a statue, meant to be admired only from afar. This close, everything you know about him falls apart. He’s like a ghost in your home, a phantom presence you’ve learned to coexist with in the course of three years. He wakes early in the mornings, long before you, and sleeps late at nights, in the room across from you. He’s never around enough for you to share your meals with, or for you to get to know. You can’t remember a single time where you’d sat across from each other on the dinner table and talked. Even when the two of you had shared your meals together, which was rarely, perhaps a once in a blue moon occurrence, he was quiet, mostly just keeping to himself. He’d eat his meals in silence, and you’d do the same, listening to the clatter of the tableware as you do so. Some days, when you’re feeling particularly friendly, eager to get to know him on a more personal level, you’d strike a conversation, telling him things about your old life, asking him about his own in turn. He’s never offered much about himself, and after a few times, you’d finally given up on your attempts to get him to open up to you more.

But he listens. He always does, even as you ramble on with your mouth full of food, getting carried away with a that he hasn’t asked for, or even cared enough to know. You wonder if he finds your life more interesting than his – highly doubtful and you’re sure of that, or if he’s just humoring you, trying to be polite to make you feel better, but he listens. Or maybe he just knows how to look like he is. With how quiet he is around you, you never could quite guess what he’s thinking. Or feeling.

Even now, if pressed, the only thing for certain that you know about him is that his name is Link, and that he’s the Hero who saved the world from the Calamity a hundred years ago. Things that could be found just from listening to the people alone. Nothing personal, nothing intimate. You never knew how he was raised, never knew the kind of village he’d grown up in. The things he likes. The things he dislikes. Whether or not he’s really okay with this arrangement.

You do know, however, how he likes being away from home. Years of observation have made you jumped to that conclusion, at least. You could almost count the hours he’s here in your home – his home, one that he’d graciously shared with you; just one, sometimes three, and only to rest and recuperate. He never stays the whole day, not even a half. Most nights, he doesn’t come home at all, preferring to spend the rest of his days elsewhere, without your company to keep him.

Not that you could blame him, of course. He was probably forced into this as much as you had been, and the only reason he’d agreed with this was because he was too nice and couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to your mother, with her crying and whimpering. Oh, well. You suppose there are worse men out there for you to marry. At the very least, he doesn’t hit you. Or scream at you, or take his anger out on you in all the worse ways one could imagine. You’ve heard of tales from your old village, where women escape to get away from their husbands’ anger. You suppose it’s only luck that you’re not considering the same course of action.

Still, that doesn’t make this life any less lonely than it is. Surrounded only by women your age, married happily to their own husbands, sometimes even with children on the way, makes you feel envious. All your life, you’d never imagined you were going to be married to anyone, preferring to live a life of solitude and freedom, but now that it’s the kind of life you live, you can’t help but feel some kind of resentment. How different your life would’ve been had you married for love and not convenience? If you’d listened to your heart instead of your mother?

Two years ago, back when you were younger, more impatient, you were certain you would’ve been happier with running away, living somewhere in the woods, alone and free. As old as you are now, you’re not so sure anymore; besides, it’s already too late to change courses, and it’s not as if Link is a bad husband. It’s not a bad life, by all means. You live in relative comfort, and the people in the village are as nice as you’ve always imagined. You’ve got food, shelter. In fact, you even have people you call your friends now: two women around your age, married and with children, eager to visit you in your empty home to keep you company when their own husbands are away and their kids are busy with schooling. They stay until the sun begins to set, and the three of you would do all sorts of things together, trying to pass the time: sewing the tattered clothes from your respective husbands’ closets, gossiping about the other villagers, exchanging details about your lives as married women.

They’d egg you on and tease you, pressing you for more details about your life with your husband, asking you all sorts of things: whether or not the hero’s good in bed, if he’s that good of a kisser as they’d imagine him to be. You don’t have an answer for any of that, and it’s the truth; ever since the two of you had got married, there had been no chances for intimacy. You’ve never even kissed, not even once, nor have you ever held his hands in yours. The most he’s ever given you as an act of affection is a nod and a polite smile – which isn’t an act of affection at all, according to anyone who’s ever had a shred of romance in their bones.

Realizing you’re speaking the truth, your friends give you a look of sympathy. The teasing soon turns into consolation, and you can’t tell which is the worse. He's just busy, they tell you. Maybe he just doesn’t have the time; he’s a hero, after all, and a knight too, at that. He’s already got so many things on his plate. You know all of this, of course, and more. They always forget to mention how this is a transaction, a marriage of convenience, something he doesn’t even have to like, or even reciprocate. Or maybe they’re just trying to be considerate, not mentioning it in your presence. Everyone in here has no doubt learned of it; it’s not as though it’s a secret anyhow. Not like it changes anything.

It shouldn’t be surprising to learn that he’d do something like this. It should be unthinkable, to discover that someone like him would cheat, but the truth sits in front of you nonetheless. There’s no refuting it, not when all the signs are here, flashing in front of your eyes. How he never seems to be around lately, how his clothes seem to smell differently now, not like the usual, at least, and certainly not the one you’ve grown to memorize. The red marks at the collar of his shirt, obvious to nearly no one else but you. Isn’t this, too, a kind of truth?

Still, you’re not sure why you care. There’s no reason why you should feel this way, as though you’ve been hollowed out and left empty. No reason why dread sits in the bottom of your stomach, heavy like lead, or why your heart hurts, as though a thousand needles pricked it all at once. It’s not as if he owes you any loyalty, and it’s not as if you love each other. You’ve established that, early on in your marriage. You’ve never talked about it, not explicitly, but it’s always there – a lingering knowledge, something you both know but have never said out loud.

And yet it doesn’t stop you from feeling this way. You’ve tried to rationalize it, sitting there on the dinner table, holding his tunic in your hands, glaring at the very obvious lipstick stains on the collar, feeling both angry and heartbroken at once. But there’s no reason to, you know there’s no reason to feel like this. You don’t love him, you’re sure of it. You can count all the times you’ve shared a conversation with him with one hand, and it’s not enough to justify whatever feelings of possessiveness you have over him. As far as you know, he can do whatever he wants. And so could you, for that matter.

And yet it doesn’t stop your heart from hurting. Nor does it make your anger abate even for just a second. You hold the tunic tighter in your hands, glaring angrily at it, not sure what you want to do with it. You’re meant to sew it, initially; it had looked to be in poor condition the first time you’d laid your eyes on it, tattered and ripping at the seams already, but now you want nothing more to do with it. Another irrational thought, one you’re supposed to quell, crush beneath the weight of all your other worries.

You exhale a breath, stand up, leaving the tunic where it is as you fetch a drink.

He comes home for dinner that night. Another rare occurrence, one you don’t even dream of happening, especially now that you’ve learned of the truth. You imagine he’ll be out and about at this time, busy making love to whatever mystery girl he surrounds himself with. Wide-eyed, naïve. Doe-like and innocent, she’d be younger than you for sure, this mystery girl whose only mark of existence is the lipstick stains she keeps leaving on your husband’s clothes. Even just the thought of her makes you annoyed, though you’re not quite sure why.

You’re quiet as you serve dinner, quiet even as you sit across from him and eat. Normally, you’d at least try to make some conversation, just to ease whatever awkwardness lingers in the air. He wouldn’t speak, like always, though he’d listen to you go on about your life even if he’s heard the same story more than once. But you don’t. Not this time. With your mind circling back toward this so-called mystery girl, you can’t even bring yourself to speak. Or enjoy your dinner. Each bite seems almost bitter, the taste of blood lingering on the tip of your tongue long after you’ve swallowed a spoonful down. It takes you more than a few minutes to realize that you’ve been biting your tongue this whole time, stewing too much in your own jealousy to pay proper attention to your meal. Hurriedly, you excuse yourself, grabbing a nearby kitchen towel to wipe at your mouth.

He doesn’t say anything as he watches you go, though you could feel his eyes on your back, eyeing your every move. You don’t have to look back to know that he wears the same expression as always. Opaque, unreadable. Far out of your reach.

You find him in your room after dinner. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands on his lap, staring at something on the floor. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks like he’s deep in thought. You lean against the door, cross your arms over your chest. Taking a glance at your surroundings, just to confirm you are indeed in the right room, you clear your throat, catch his attention. “This isn’t your room,” you say stiffly, your voice flat, empty.

He looks up at the sound of your voice, eyes boring straight through yours. The blue of his eyes seems even brighter in the semi-darkness, piercing as he continues to stare at you, through you. Does he know then? Does he know that you know? Does he know how you feel about it? “I know where my room is.”

You raise an eyebrow, purse your lips together. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

He shrugs, looks away, casts a curious glance around him. He takes it all in, at once, as if for the first time. “I came to visit.”

You frown. He’s never come to visit your room before, at least not when you’re around, and you can’t imagine why he’d want to now. Not when he has something else to keep himself busy – someone else. “I don’t see why there’s a need to.”

His voice grows quieter, nearly a whisper. Still, every word rings loud against your ears, echoes and reverberates in the hollow of your soul. “I came to check up on my wife.”

The words catch you off-guard, and for a second, your mind blanks out, unable to find the right words. He’s never referred to you as such before; you can’t confirm if he’s ever done so in front of other people, but it’s not as though you’re outside often enough to ask. And even if you are, it’s not an appropriate question. Still, that doesn’t make you any less surprised. “Your… wife?”

He nods his head, gives you a lopsided smile. You’ve only ever seen this smile of his on a handful of occasions, and it always makes you feel conflicted each time. A flutter in your heart, a knot in your stomach, a sudden jump in your pulse – things you could never quite explain how, note even to yourself. “There’s only one of her, isn’t there?”

You snort, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, your words. “I don’t appreciate you thinking you could fool me again, mister.”

“I see.” His voice grows quieter, softer. He lowers his head, stares at the floor. He doesn’t speak for a second, and once again, you could never quite tell what he’s thinking. “That’s why you’ve been quiet.”

You scoff, feeling your temper rise at his sudden shift in attitude. Still, you’re careful to keep your voice flat, refusing to give in to the heat of your anger, the excruciating burn of your jealousy. “I don’t think you know me as much as you claim to.”

He lifts his head, looks at you. He meets your eyes this time, and something in his gaze pins you to your spot. You’ve never seen him look at you this way before, and something about it makes you yearn for it and deny it at the same time. “I’ve watched you,” he says. His voice is calm, steady. Soothing, almost, though it only does the opposite for you. “You didn’t see me, but this afternoon, after you ate your lunch, you laid on the couch and napped for an hour.”

You shake your head, look away, crossing your arms over your chest. “You watching me like a stalker doesn’t prove you know enough about me.”

He doesn’t falter. “You take your coffee with three sugars and no less because it’s too bitter for your taste.”

He’s right, like he’d been right the previous time, and yet the same problem remains. You exhale a sigh, growing more exasperated by the second. “I don’t see what that has to do with any of this.”

His eyebrows furrow. A hint of irritation flashes in his expression, rare and quick as a lightning bolt. Frustration creeps into his voice, makes it rise just the slightest bit. “That I know you as much as I claim to.”

You shake your head, exhale another sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation. There’s no point to this argument, is there? The boundaries of your relationship had been clear from the start; you knew what you were getting into the moment you’d agreed to the marriage. “Even if you do, we’re still strangers.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he stands up, takes a step forward, and another, then another. Until he’s standing in front you, just barely out of reach. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

He takes another step, closes the distance between you until there’s none. “Even if I know everything about you?”

Does he? Even the thought seems almost unbelievable. Laughable, too. He has too much on his plate to bother learning everything he can about you. And even if that were true and he truly did do all of those, what difference would it make? Still, you can’t help but be curious, one eyebrow raising as you keep your eyes on him. “And what do you know about me?”

He nods, smiles. A different kind this time – tiny, a subtle twitch at the corners of his lips. One you’ve never seen before, and yet one that sends an unexplainable thrill through you. “That you’re jealous.” It’s a statement, a simple fact, one that makes your ears burn in offense.

“There’s no reason for me to be,” you snap, glaring at him. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you take a step back, attempting to mask it in the semi-darkness of the room. He follows after you, takes another step forward when you take a step back, refusing to let you maintain that distance you’ve been trying to keep. The game continues on for approximately a minute before you finally hit the wall, rendering all chances of escape null. You glare at him instead, annoyed at the look of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I know what I got myself into when I agreed to marry you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look,” you begin, taking a step to the side, refusing to play his game any longer. He doesn’t let you, stops you before you can go any farther, placing both his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. “I’m not sure why you’re here in my room right now, but I’m not going to be your entertainment tonight just because you’re lonely and in mighty need of company.”

He looks almost surprised at your implication; you catch the widening of his eyes, the shock that flickers behind them, just briefly before it fizzles out, disappears once more. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“It’s not worry,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation. Has he always been this annoying and you just never even know it? Is this a side of him you would’ve killed to know a few years back? You would’ve been certain of the answer years ago, but now you’re not so sure. Everything’s too confusing, conflicting, and you’re not sure what to think, especially not when it comes to him. “It’s called—”

“Jealousy,” he finishes for you. He gives you another small smile, and it looks smug, victorious. You’ve half the heart to wipe it off, and the other half to kiss it away. You’re not entirely sure where the thought comes from, and it makes the heat in your cheeks rise, grow warmer.

You glare at him instead. It’s easier to mask whatever embarrassment you feel with anger; it’s familiar, comfortable, and it’s something he expects. You open your mouth, try to protest, but he stops you this time, refuses to let you speak. He shakes his head, presses a finger against your lips, shuts you up. His smile grows wider, and he leans down, close enough that he could look you in the eye. This close, the blue of his eyes seems infinite. Mesmerizing, as though it would swallow you whole if you forget to look away. He removes his finger from your lips, moves to cup your cheek, cradling it in his hands. Your vision swims. Your breath steams. Your heart stops. There’s a split second where everything grows still as he touches you for the first time.

Every feeling after this is magnified. The warmth of his hands burns like liquid heat against your skin. Your flesh sings. Your bones ache. You feel like a livewire at this moment, coiled and very much alive. You fear you’ll explode, turn into sparks if he touches you any longer.

You take in a shuddered breath, lifting your head just a bit, enough to meet his gaze. When he looks into your eyes, could he tell how badly you enjoy this? How much you’ve yearned for it, subconsciously, and in secret? Whatever he finds there must not be satisfactory enough because he’s leaning even closer, just enough that his breath steams against your cheeks. He’s close enough to kiss, to touch, the way he never is for the past few years.

You could tell him to stop. You won’t be his plaything tonight, and you’ve made it clear from the start. Just because he’s the hero doesn’t mean you’d bend to his whims, even if he has you at his mercy. He traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and every retaliating thought in your mind disappears, along with every half-formed protest you might have. The gentleness with which he touches you opens up a valley of desire in the pit of your stomach, hollow and greedy. It makes you lean against his touch, like a moth waiting to be burned.

He leans in, brushes his lips against yours. Tentatively, like he’s waiting to see how you’d react. Seeing as you’re not pushing him away, he leans in even more, and kisses you fully. There’s hunger with the way he kisses you, mirroring the desire that sits in the hollow of your stomach. You grab the hem of his shirt, balling it into fists as you pull him closer. He responds by cupping the back of your head and pulling you against him, kissing you more greedily.

You don’t know how long you’ve kissed, but you’re breathless by the time you’ve pulled away. Catching your breath, you give him another glare – a last show of strength, even if it’s futile in the end, especially with how putty you are now in his hands. “I’m not going to be your plaything tonight.”

He shakes his head, looking almost annoyed at your comment. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t let you protest anymore. He leans down, latches his lips on your neck, peppering kisses all over: the underside of your jaw, your pulse, the curve of your neck. Your skin singes and burns with every kiss, but he doesn’t stop there. He kisses his way down: from your collarbone to the slant on your shoulder. He runs his tongue along your skin like he’s eager to taste you, and it sends another spark of thrill through you. You let out a shuddering breath, not quite expecting that; absently, you reach up, grab hold of his hair, tugging on it just so, and it only spurs him on, feeds into his ego. Impatiently, he pops the buttons of your blouse, not caring that he’s nearly ripped it off in the process. He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he moves to kiss his way down your body: the valley of your chest, your breasts, your navel until he’s kneeling down in front of you. With your skirt in the way, he’s unable to go further. Hurriedly, he tugs it down, pulls it off your ankles, then throws it somewhere in the room.

“Hey!” you protest, but he simply ignores you. Or maybe he’s just simply too far gone to care. With you left only in your underwear, there aren’t much obstructions left. He runs his eyes up and down your form, and something in his eyes makes you want to cower and hide. There’s greed in there, mixed with something else, something you can’t quite name. Hunger, perhaps? Or maybe even desire? Either way, he doesn’t let you linger on the question much longer.

He’s much gentler this time, slower than he’d been just a while ago, when he was practically ripping your shirt and your skirt off of you. Now, it feels as though he’s got all the time in the world. He tugs at your underwear, pulls it off your ankle, no longer impatient. He takes his sweet time as he leans in and presses kisses on the inside of your thighs, each one leaving you more breathless than the last. Soft, teasing, each one a kind of agony that only makes you yearn for more. You’ve lost count after the first one, every rational thought pushed out by the impatience to feel something. You glare down at him, only to find him already watching you, his gaze glued to your face, drinking in every reaction you make. You’d have blushed if you’ve still got some semblance of dignity left somewhere in you.

“Hurry up,” you say, the words a breathless rasp as they spill out of your lips. He gives you a dark look, but he listens anyway. He inches his face closer to your bare cunt. He doesn’t give you a chance to complain this time. He buries his head between your thighs, catches the trickle of arousal spilling out of you with the tip of his tongue. Heat rises once more to your cheeks. There’s a part of you, embarrassed and shameful, that wants to run away and hide, push him off you. There’s another part that wants him closer, wants all he could offer. Right now, you’re not entirely sure which is which.

And he’s still going torturously slow. It feels intentional, mocking. He moves with the patience of a saint, all his earlier impatience forgotten in a flash. You hate it, but you can’t bring yourself to speak when he blows against your cunt, making your mind blank out. “Link,” you say, your voice thick and raspy. You’ve never imagined you’ll call for him like this – a mix of desire and desperation, and it’s so unlike yourself that you’d have laughed if you hadn’t been

You glare down at him once more, and you could almost swear that he gives you a smug smirk in response. He doesn’t let you dwell on it any further; he dives back in, surprises you this time, delving his tongue deep into you. A shudder leaves you, and your eyes flutter shut, your head hitting against the wall behind you. You could barely register the pain; there’s a dull throb in your head, but all is quickly lost in the sea of pleasure that surrounds you.

You tug a fistful of his hair, hard enough that it’s sure to hurt, and he responds by burying his tongue deeper, lapping you up like a man starved. Every part of you feels hot, every nerve ending alight and on fire. You should tell him to stop, but your body aches for more. Your hips buck, involuntarily, against him, and he lifts one of your legs to rest it upon his shoulder. He places his hands on either side of your thighs, keeps you in place as he furthers his assault, delving into you over and over until he rounds in on that spot that has your legs shaking, the entirety of your body overwhelmed with feeling. “T-there!”

He doesn’t stop. Eager to discover what’s made you tick, he only grows rougher, hungrier, zeroes in on that spot over and over until your mind is spent with pleasure. Your stomach tightens, coils. Everything’s too much, too sudden, and everything in you breaks at once. With a sharp cry, you fall apart, limbs shaking, legs trembling. He’s there to catch you, keeps his arms around you as he holds you steady against him, his tongue ready and waiting to catch every drop that spills out of you, his throat bobbing with each swallow.

And then it’s over, and he’s leaning back, wiping his mouth the back of his hand. You stare at him dazedly, too busy trying to catch your breath to pay him proper attention. You could barely find it in yourself to move. Every part of you feels paralyzed. Your chest rises and falls. Your mind is still empty of any thought; distractedly, you watch him as he picks himself back up, stands up so that he’s in front of you again. You swallow the lump in your throat, lick the dryness off your lips as you find the right words. Nothing comes. All that spills out of you is a breathless noise that falls somewhere between a croak and a whimper, nothing that resembles anything coherent.

He doesn’t speak either. Instead, he leans in, presses his forehead against yours, cups your face in his hands once more. You’re just about to ask him a question before he’s kissing you once more, soft and slow, coaxing. Like he’s trying to apologize. Or maybe he’s tempting you to follow his lead. You’re not sure which is which, but he’s convinced you anyhow, and so you lean in, and kiss him back.

#renwrites #link x reader #breath of the wild #botw x reader

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saulocept · 11 months ago

Text

sunset boulevard

pairing: kenji sato/reader

rating: g

summary: After Mina’s “death”, Ken needs someone to fulfill the role of a babysitter.

And after your sudden unemployment, you need something to get you by.

It’s only through chance that the two of you manage to find each other.

parts: one; two; three (you are here)

It turns out the place isn’t really that hard to find. You didn’t even need to ask any wandering pedestrian, didn’t even need to wander around for half an hour, or even longer for that matter. All you had to do was follow the directions on Google Maps, pay attention to your surroundings and now, here you are. You’ve probably simplified the process too much, made it seem easier than it really is, but the truth is that it’s more complicated than that. You did have to ask for some help: stopping a civilian from her evening walk in order to ask for directions, and then getting lost on the way there because the woman apparently misheard you and sent you somewhere entirely different.

But it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is you’re here like you’re supposed to, even if you’re a little late.

There’s a motorcycle parked near the entrance, though outside of that, there’s not really much of an indicator that someone else is here. Still, you’re already late; for all you know, the man you’re supposed to meet is already there, waiting for you to show up. Or maybe he’s somewhere around here, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to catch you off-guard snatch you away. You cast a glance around you, though you find nothing of note, none of value. Still, that doesn’t stop you from being suspicious, even as you duck inside the shop, stopping just a bit to get a good look around.

There’s a man somewhere at the back, sitting all by himself, drumming his fingers against the desk, almost distractedly. Could this be the one you’re supposed to meet? It seems likely, given that he’s the only one here aside from you, but you’re still having second thoughts. He looks too normal, for one: a regular citizen just like you, dressed in regular clothes like you are. And he looks to be about your age, perhaps a little younger (though you’re not entirely sure, and it’s rude to ask), not quite the man in suit you’d been imagining before you arrived: with greying hair and a mustache, bodyguards surrounding him at all sides – kind of like the bad guys you see in the movies.

You watch as the man looks around, as if searching for something. His gaze lands on you a second later, and he gives you a smile, almost as if in recognition.

“Hey,” he says, waves at you as if to catch your attention. His tone is light, casual, as though the two of you know each other personally instead of strangers who happen to be in the same place at the same time.

You frown, eyebrows furrowing a little in confusion. You look around you, just to see if there’s someone behind you, but there’s no one else, only you. The man waves at you again, a little more insistently this time, and you hurry over to his table, stopping to stand in front of him.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says, gesturing for you to take a seat.

You remain where you are, staring at him suspiciously. “Do we know each other?”

“Oh.” He stares at you for a moment; it takes a second for realization to dawn on him, and he mutters a curse under his breath, before he looks up at you once more, smiling sheepishly. He runs a hand through his hair, stands up from his chair, extending his hand out to you. “I’m Kenji,” he says, by way of introduction. “From the phone? Earlier?”

You nod your head, reaching out to shake his hand. You tell him your name, which is a pretty much formality at this point, especially if he’s read your resume, or even your email. He shakes your hand, and a few seconds of awkward silence settles between you before you finally break it, blurting the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re not what I had in mind.”

He laughs, a little caught off-guard by your comment. He pulls his hand away from yours, then sits back on his chair, gestures for you to do the same. “So,” he begins, leaning forward, resting his chin against his palm as he stares at you closely. “Do I still look like someone who’s here to sell your organs off?”

You hum under your breath, pretend to think the answer over. “Maybe?”

He snorts. “Are you always this paranoid?”

Not really, but at this point, you’re just humoring him. “Are you always this suspicious?”

“How am I suspicious?” he asks, gestures to himself, as if trying to make you see better. “Look, I even met with you here!”

“Your post, for one,” you reply, leaning forward to meet his gaze head-on. “It’s cryptic, and your username. I mean, Baseballlover26?”

“I couldn’t think of a better one, okay?” He raises his hands in surrender, voice growing louder, a little more high-pitched this time, frustrated. “And I was in a hurry!”

“Also, the fact that I’m hired literally after a day I sent you an email.” You lean closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”

“Well, you were the only one who applied,” he explains, voice growing quieter, softer. He looks almost chastised, ashamed, caught doing something he never should’ve done, and you’d laugh at the sight if you weren’t trying to keep up an act. “The site deleted my post after a few hours. Said it goes against their guidelines or something.”

You snort, unable to hide your amusement. “They probably thought it was a spam and reported it.”

“Probably,” he agrees, shrugging. He drums his fingers against the table, restless, still not looking at you. “But the job offer’s still up. And it’s yours if you want it.”

You blink, a little taken aback. “You’re not going to interview me?”

“I read your resume.” He turns to look at you, the corners of his lips quirking up into a tiny smile. He looks amused, almost mockingly so, and you know quickly that the tables have finally turned – against you, no doubt. “Says you know a lot about the kaiju.”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding your head, deciding to play along. It’s not as if you could tell him where you got all your knowledge from, anyway; he doesn’t need to know any of that, and it’s not like it’s something you’re proud to admit, especially in a setting like this. The fact that you’d learned everything by watching the movies repeatedly doesn’t seem like a befitting to say, and it doesn’t seem like it would endear you more to him, so you decide to move the conversation along, settling on another topic. “Godzilla, right?”

“Not… really,” he says, growing slightly hesitant. He looks around thoughtfully, as if deciding how much he can tell you. “Listen. Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

You open your mouth to protest, say you’d rather talk about the job now: what it entails, what you’re supposed to do, if he’s actually serious about this or if he’s just pranking you, but before the words are out of your mouth, he hurriedly stands up from his chair, reaches out to grab your wrist and pulls you along after him. He leads you through the doors, then out to the streets, where a singular motorcycle’s parked: the one you’d seen from before you went in.

“Hey,” you say in protest, shaking your hand free from his grip. He lets you go easily enough, turns to face you.

“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair, musses it up. “I didn’t mean to drag you off like that. I just…” he pauses, tries to think of something else to say, then shakes his head, stops, leaves the rest of his words unfinished.

“Is this about the job?” you ask, staring at him curiously, waiting for an answer. He seems weirdly secretive about the whole thing, like he doesn’t want anyone else to know about it.

He nods. He looks around him, thinking, as if mulling his options over. He turns back to your after a moment. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

You shrug. “Okay.”

Admittedly, you’re kind of curious now, too; what’s this something that he doesn’t want anyone else to know? Something that he has to be careful not to say too much of in fear of revealing it?

He stares at you for a few moments, studies your expression curiously. Whatever he finds there, he must be satisfied, because a moment later, he gestures at his bike. “Let’s go,” he says, then hands you a helmet.

You stare at him, blinking, gripping the helmet in your hands, not quite sure what to do with it. You turn it over a few times, inspecting it idly. “Go and do what?”

“Hop on.” He jabs a thumb against the direction of his bike, looking just the slightest bit impatient. “Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

You take one last look at him, eyes roaming over his face, studying his expression. He looks serious enough, and you can detect no hint of lie on his face. (Then again, you’ve never been a good judge of character.) “Okay,” you say.

Then before you can change your mind, you do as he asks.

#renwrites #kenji sato x reader

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saulocept · 1 year ago

Text

sunset boulevard

pairing: kenji sato/reader

rating: g

summary: After Mina’s “death”, Ken needs someone to fulfill the role of a babysitter.

And after your sudden unemployment, you need something to get you by.

It’s only through chance that the two of you manage to find each other.

parts: one; two (you are here)

There’s no reply that comes, and the post is deleted by the time you wake up from your short nap. You’ve expected this, obviously; the offer seems a little too shady, and it doesn’t help that the person behind the post is anonymous, with no other way to reach except for the dummy email address they included in the post.

Whatever. As disappointing as this is, it’s not the first time it’s happened. You’ve already done your part, but there’s not much else you can do except the usual: scout the sites you frequent on and hope that there’s another new job offer this time – hopefully not as suspicious as the last one.

You’ve spotted a few entries since then, and you’ve promptly sent out your applications to each one, though even now, your efforts still bear no fruit.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation. You don’t know how long you can keep doing this: stuck in a limbo with no solution, or even a way out. You don’t even know what’s wrong; you send out your applications, your resumes, you go to the interviews, you follow the instructions, but even now, nothing seems to happen.

You’re not even picky. You’ve applied to any job opening at this point, including that kaiju babysitting offer that proved to be a scam after all.

With a groan, you cover your face with your hands, trying your hardest not to cry. Whatever. There’s no using moping about it, anyway. What’s done is done, and it’s not like you’ve got anything to lose, anyway.

Well, maybe your apartment.

Ugh. You’ve almost forgot about it, especially with all the stress of everything, but any day now, you’re certain that your landlord would visit you with the intention of kicking you out on the spot. He’s sent you multiple messages this week: long, angry reminders about paying for your rent, coupled with a few threats here and there.

Not like you can blame him; you’ve been behind on rent for months now, and he’s been considerate enough to let you stay this long, even if it comes in the form of high interest rates.

You’d pay him double, if you could, just to keep him off your back, but it’s not like you’ve got money. In fact, you’ve been living off of your savings this whole time – which isn’t much to begin with, and you’re this close to emptying the entirety of your bank account.

There’s not much of it left, so you’ve stocked up on instant coffee and water just to stave off your hunger (they were on sale at the time; a few bucks for a whole box). Not a good thing to do, but it’s not like you’ve got much of a choice.

You could sell off your belongings on the internet; that would keep you afloat, probably, for a few more days, but that doesn’t really solve the crux of the problem.

Besides, you don’t really own that many things to begin with: just your laptop and your phone – both of which you need to apply for jobs, and also emergencies; some clothes shoved into your backpack – just in case you get kicked out of your apartment any minute now.

You need a job, and fast.

You’re still mulling over your options when your phone rings beside you, loud enough to make you nearly jump. Heart racing, you reach for your phone, glancing at the flashing numbers on the screen. You don’t recognize it, and briefly, you wonder whether or not this might be your landlord, using a different number just so he could threaten you once again.

Still, you answer it anyway, pressing the phone against your ear. “Hello,” you say, a little cautiously. “Who is this?”

“Hey.” The voice on the other line is different, unrecognizable. This couldn’t be your landlord, or at least, you don’t think it is. The stranger sounds younger, less angry, non-threatening even – which could still mean a lot of things for you. “This is, uh, Baseballlover26?”

Oh. You sit up straighter, clutching the phone tightly in your hands. You’ve never even expected a call, dismissing the whole thing as a scam or some sort, and now that it’s here, you’re still not entirely sure what to feel – or think. “You saw my email?”

“Yeah.” There’s a nervous laughter that comes on the other side, and something that seems like screeching, though slightly muffled. It’s a little hard to tell, especially when it seems to come from a distance. “And well, I’m here to tell you you’re hired.”

“That fast?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, suddenly suspicious. It seems quieter now on the other line, and eerily so now that the screeching’s finally disappeared. “This isn’t just a ruse so you can sell my organs to the black market, right? Because I’m telling you right now, they’re failing. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in months—”

“What?” he asks, a little taken aback. There’s a moment of silence between you, growing longer by the second that for a moment, you think he might’ve hung up and left you in the dark. But then: “You think I’m trying to sell your organs?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

It takes him a few more seconds to come up with a reply. This time, his voice is softer; there’s an urgency to his voice that wasn’t quite there before, something that tugs at you, though you’re not sure what that is. “Listen, can we meet?”

You mull over his words, thinking. Anyone rational enough would refuse him outright in fear of something dangerous, and maybe once upon a time, you were that person. But now, you’re not entirely sure; you’re broke and desperate, which makes you even more reckless than usual, prone to rash decisions. And more than that, you’re curious. Against your better judgment, you want to know more.

As if sensing your hesitation, the man continues to speak, trying to ease your worries. “I promise this isn’t a ruse to sell your organs. Can you at least trust me on that?”

You know what? Fuck it. “Alright. Where?”

You could practically hear his sigh of relief on the other end of the line, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh. “Tonkatsu Tonki. Do you know where that is?”

Not really, but you’ll figure it out. Better to wander around for an hour in hopes of finding something rather than owe a stranger already more than you already have, especially a shady one at that – even if he’s ready to prove you otherwise. “Yeah. I’ll, um, see you later?”

“See you in ten.”

And then he hangs up without another word.

#renwrites #kenji sato x reader

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saulocept · 1 year ago

Text

sunrise boulevard

pairing: kenji sato/reader

rating: g

summary: After Mina’s “death”, Ken needs someone to fulfill the role of a babysitter.

And after your sudden unemployment, you need something to get you by.

It’s only through chance that the two of you manage to find each other.

notes: this is the first part of a mini-series ive been working on. a little on the shorter side. this was originally going to be longer, but i had to cut it since the other part didn't quite fit well with this. so uh. consider this as an introductory part?

parts: one (you are here)

No one ever tells you how hard it is to be unemployed at your age. Harder still when pretty much every person your age is living a good life, with houses of their own, and high-paying jobs they could brag about in their socials.

It’s not like any of this is your fault, not really. You weren’t always unemployed; things just sort of happened. In fact, you were a star employee, (or a former one, at least) in every sense of the word: you were never late, were never absent. You always wore your uniform properly, ironed the creases each night so they’d look more pristine than ever. You’d dealt with the customers perfectly, answered each of their queries as best as you can, leading them to the correct aisles when they couldn’t be bothered to find it themselves.

You’d maintained the place, kept it nice and spotless, sweeping off the floors and wiping off the counters. You’d probably done other stuff, too: fixed the light bulbs, cleaned the toilets, unclogged the sink, even repaired them when they weren’t working as intended – which was difficult work for someone not knowledgeable in such things like you were.

But you did all of them, anyway, without complaint, without hesitation.

And still, they fired you. No, not fired, but rather laid off – as they put it. Not like you can blame them anyway. The shop’s closed its doors a week after they fired you (again, laid off) which at least meant that they weren’t lying to you when they said they couldn’t afford to keep you employed any longer.

You’d be sad about it if you aren’t so busy trying to stay afloat. It’s not easy being back to square one, after all. It’s even harder to be on square one for months now.

It’s not like you aren’t trying your best either. You’ve pretty much applied everywhere by now, sent your resumes to companies and institutions, however large and small. You’ve even lurked on multiple sites, too, just to make sure you aren’t missing out on anything: Linkedin, Indeed – hell, you’ve even started to look for jobs at Craigslist, too, and even Facebook Marketplace, of all places, desperate for something, anything.

Not like you’ve ever had an array of skills to boast about. You know the basics, obviously, but you don’t have a doctorate degree, or some kind of Masters. You know a lot about kaiju; years of watching Godzilla at the orphanage with the other children had given you more knowledge about them than anything you could ever do with (Godzilla, mostly), but you know it’s not going to be of any help to you now.

Hell. You’re not even fluent in any language outside your own – no, wait, you’re a little fluent in Klingon, but that’s only because you’re a nerd as a kid. You doubt that’d be enough to impress anyone, but there’s no harm in putting that out there, right? Just in case.

Maybe you’d fool some employer out there who didn’t know any better. Or maybe you’d make one of them laugh.

So far, your efforts have all been for naught. There’s no response from anyone, from anything: no calls, no emails. No text messages. Nothing but radio silence, and obvious text scams trying to get you to shell out money you’ve never even had.

You exhale a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you take a sip of your coffee. Instant this time, and black, because you couldn’t afford a creamer and a sugar.

You blanch a little at the taste, but force yourself to swallow it down. You can’t afford to waste any more coffee, especially not when you need it to stay awake. It’s useless; you haven’t slept for a week straight now, enough that you’re pretty sure you’ll pass out any moment now, but you still haven’t given up hope.

You stare at the screen, rubbing your eyes once more. You could feel the thrum of your computer in front of you: rhythmic and steady, familiar and comfortable. It’s the only thing that’s been with you throughout all this fight, not once giving up on you despite its multiple issues: old age, outdated system, cracked screen, wonky keyboard – plus a whole bunch of other things you haven’t managed to discover.

You’ve been lurking at this site for a while now, something you’ve only managed to find by doing a thorough search on the internet, scouting for new job opportunities.

So far, there hasn’t been anything new, and you’re already close to giving up for the day and catching up on some sleep when there’s a sudden ping, nearly startling you out of your wits.

Still, you know that could only mean one thing. With your heart hammering against your chest, you hit the refresh button, watch as the screen freezes for a few seconds before displaying the entire page again.

There’s a new entry at the top, posted just a few seconds ago. You lean your head forward, squinting, double-clicking on the post, skimming through the entire thing.

Looking for a kaiju babysitter. Experience not needed. Knowledge welcome, but not necessary. If interested, send an email to this address: [email protected].

You raise an eyebrow at that, looking a little skeptical. A dummy email address, which already seems shady enough at first glance, but a kaiju babysitter? Now that’s new. You’ve only ever learned about kaiju in the movies, but you doubt they’d need a babysitter, especially when they seem even more capable than a regular human.

Could this be some sort of a code, then? A message hidden somewhere? You read the entry again, starting from the beginning, searching for hidden clues, but nothing comes to mind.

Curiously, you click on the person’s profile, still not feeling a little convinced. There’s no entry outside the one that you’d just read. Hell, there’s not even a description or anything of the sort. No name, not even a profile picture, which just makes the whole thing even more suspicious.

Is this some sort of a ruse to lure you into human trafficking? That feels very likely, considering the nature of the job (babysitting a kaiju? Seriously?), but it’s not like you’ve got anything to lose.

Free room and board? Hell yeah. At this point, you’ll take anything that offers a place to stay, especially if you don’t have to pay for it, no matter how dangerous it is. Beggars can’t be choosers after all, and you’d be damned if you let this all go to waste.

You flex your fingers, typing up a short email to the address, attaching your resume and your contact numbers, mentioning the fact that you know a little bit about kaiju as a postscript– which isn’t quite a lie, but not quite the truth either. If any of this were real, then perhaps, you’d be able to impress the person behind the post.

And if not… well. You’ll know for sure at least.

Without hesitation, you finally hit send. Now all that’s left for you to do is wait for a reply.

#renwrites #kenji sato x reader

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saulocept · 1 year ago

Text

a streetcar named desire

pairing: kenji sato/reader

rating: g

summary: “Do you love him?”

You don’t know, not really. Love feels like a foreign word to you now, a distant emotion you’ve long since forgot about. You’re not entirely sure if you love him. He’s caring and considerate, and he’s more than you could ever deserve in the entirety your life. You know that, of course, know it still, even now.

But now you’re not so sure.

notes: timeline's a little wonky here. set after the film, with a sprinkle of spoilers if you haven't yet watched :)

tags: pining. mostly.

Even now, you’re still not entirely sure how things had ended up this way. You’re not even supposed to be here, staying over at Kenji’s apartment – colder and emptier than his previous one – nursing your glass of wine, listening to him tell you stories about his career, littered, as always, with his theories of kaiju existence in America.

It’s supposed to be a quick visit, just to help him get a feel for his new home, and yet you’re still here, watching as the seconds tick by on the clock, taking a slow sip of your wine as you listen to him ramble on and about something. You’re not entirely paying attention now at this point, especially when he doesn’t sound too sober anymore. Even his topics have become a jumble now, jumping from one to another, without you having to say much.

At this point, it’s almost like he’s talking to himself, but he’s far too adorable to stop. And besides, when’s the last time the two of you have got together like this? As children, you’re both inseparable, talking about anything and everything – no secrets in between. But as adults, you’ve both been terribly busy. Him with his career, and you with yours. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d heard his voice outside of your television, blaring cool and confidently through your speakers, masking the fact that he’s anything but in real life.

With the news of your engagement reaching his ears, he’d promptly told you off through a phone call, refusing to answer any of your calls and ignoring all of your text messages, no matter how times you’d told him you’re sorry.

You know you’re supposed to tell him first; he’s your best friend, after all. Of course, you’re supposed to tell him everything first, every news, no matter how good or bad, long before anyone else. You’d both made that vow since you were children, and yet with everything piling up on your plate: wedding preparations, work demands, you’ve just never had enough time and gradually forgot about it.

At first, you’d been terribly afraid he wouldn’t talk to you again, so you’d flooded his inbox with a bunch of messages, each one an apology, varying the spelling just a tiny bit, so none of them would get flagged as a spam mail. You can’t tell if you’d succeeded; after all, he’d never replied to a single one of them.

At one point, you’d even entertained the idea of flying over to visit him, just to personally apologize, but your upcoming wedding had made that practically impossible.

And then before you knew it, there was a knock on your door, unbidden and unexpected. You’d expected it to be a robbery; in this part of the city, nothing’s impossible, after all, and it was two in the morning – anything could happen, but what you didn’t expect was to see a familiar face, slightly changed but still the same as you remember. Kenji Sato.

Kenji Sato, crashing over at your apartment at two in the morning, exhausted from the flight and slightly tipsy, because yours was the first address he could recall. Or at least, that’s what he’d told you. You’d never got quite the chance to ask him about that, especially when he’d promptly passed out on your couch after roughly a minute of conversation.

He’d left the morning after, quickly finding himself an apartment despite your protests that he could stay with you for as long as he needed.

And now here you are. Enjoying a drink, conversing with him like there’s nothing’s changed between you. Like old times, when you’re still just college kids sneaking out late at night for impromptu study sessions, and for a midnight snack at the nearest McDonald’s.

But now you’re both older. And something’s changed between you, even if you’re not quite sure what it is yet.

“How long will you stay here for?” you ask, resting your chin against your palm, trying to make conversation. Absently, you watch the lights flicker against the glass table. A new one, not the one from his old apartment. You’ve half the heart to ask him about it: where’d it go, whether he’d sold it or left it be, but stop yourself at the last second. It’s not wise to pick at old wounds, no matter how curious you get. He’d tell you when he’s ready, you tell yourself,

He sits across from you, distant, farther than you’ve ever had him. Was he always this far from you before? Did you just never notice? “Just for the month,” he says, his eyes almost glimmering in the dim light. There’s something else in there – some meaning, some implication, hidden behind the shortness of his response. Just for the duration of your wedding. Nothing else.

“And then you’ll be off again soon.” It’s not a question, but rather a remark. When he’d left a year ago, you’d assumed it had been for good. A permanent decision, one that you would have no say in. He’d told you as much before, on the phone, just a night before his flight. He’d never told you what ultimately pushed him to do it, and you’d never had the heart to ask. Back then, the loss of his mother was a fresh wound, raw and bleeding. But now, it feels like a distant memory, an old scar that lingers about him, a miasma you can’t quite fix, and a ghost he can never get rid of.

“Mm-hm.” He shrugs, leans back against the couch, raising his glass his lips. He takes another sip of his wine. Not an agreement, but not quite the opposite. He looks away after a moment, stares blankly at the wall, lets the silence stretch between you. You follow his gaze, note the lack of pictures, portraits. His old apartment had been more vibrant, colorful, littered with a thousand photos, his childhood trophies arranged in a neat row, dusted and polished every single day. Well taken care of, no doubt by his mother.

And yet this one’s emptier. Duller, more lifeless. Granted, it’s a new apartment, and you’re still helping him arrange his stuff, but it still doesn’t change the overall vibe of the place.

“Are you still mad at me?” you ask all of a sudden, breaking the silence between you. You lean forward, placing your empty wine glass back on the table, staring at him in earnest, watching his face for some kind of reaction. You can’t help but be curious; he seems different somehow, more sullen, melancholic, and you’re not sure why. Is there something he’s not telling you?

He snorts, looks up to meet your eyes, a small smile playing about the corners of his. Familiar, and yet not quite the same. “You’re my best friend. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because you’re the last to hear about my engagement?”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he says, waves his hand dismissively like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just ignore your texts for a whole week. “I’m busy, you’re busy. We both have stuff to deal with. I get it. It’s all part of life.”

“And yet you’re still childish enough to believe in all those kaiju stuff.” You don’t mean to say it, not really. You know how much he believes in those; even when you were both children, he’d told you all kinds of stories, sketching an incomprehensible doodle at the back of your math notebook when it’s clear you couldn’t understand a word he’s saying.

He narrows his eyes at you, looking almost annoyed. “You want me to ignore you for a week straight again?” There’s no real edge to his voice, there never is, just a playful sharpness that has you biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you say, playing along, reaching for your glass and then the bottle of wine, filling your glass just halfway before placing the bottle back on the table. “Please don’t back out of the wedding. You know you’re the only one I can trust there.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, almost tauntingly. His voice drops, grows into a whisper, more serious. “You know I’ve never liked that fiancé of yours.”

You know that, of course. He’s never kept that a secret from you; even back when you and your fiancé had started dating, Kenji’s never failed to voice his disapproval out loud, as though he could somehow get you to change your mind before things are too late. You’ve almost lost count how many times he’d talked shit about him to your face, making fun of everything: from his name (“Sylvester. Really?”); to the way he stands (like he’s one minute away from constipating); to the way he dresses (like his grandmother’s wallpaper).

You shake your head, sigh, take another sip of your drink. “We’re about to get married soon, you know. You can’t just talk shit about him like before.”

“You can still back out now.” He sounds serious, more serious than you’ve ever heard him. You pause, look up at him, searching his face for something. His eyes are dark, his expression opaque. You can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, or what he’s feeling, but all you know is that he’s serious about this.

“But I—” you begin, stopping as soon as you realize you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say. But I love him. It feels like an instinctive response, a kneejerk reaction rather than the truth, something you’re supposed to say instead of something you actually mean. You stare at him for a long time, mouth agape, suddenly at a loss for words.

He doesn’t wait for you to finish, find the right words. “Do you love him?”

You don’t know, not really. Love feels like a foreign word to you now, a distant emotion you’ve long since forgot about. You’re not entirely sure if you love him; Sylvester’s a good man, a good boyfriend – he never forgets the important dates, the important details. He’s caring and considerate, and he’s more than you could ever deserve. You know that, of course, know it still, even now. At the time, it had been enough.

But now, you’re not so sure. You’ve never really sat down and thought if you truly loved him. You’ve never really had enough time, and confronting the truth of the matter seems more than you bargain for. You’re comfortable with him, yes, but is that enough to call it love?

When he’d knelt down and proposed to you in front of an audience you never quite felt comfortable with, you just said yes. Automatically, instinctively, mostly because that’s what anyone in your position would say. But love’s never been part of the equation. Not when it comes to him, to this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice jolting you out of your thoughts. With a sigh, he raises his glass to his lips, downs it all in one go. Quickly, he grabs the bottle from the table, fills his glass to the brim, the liquid nearly overflowing. “You know I’m not trying to ruin your wedding.”

“I know.”

He brings his glass closer to yours, gives you a tentative smile. “Peace?”

“Peace.”

You clink your glass to his, then, following his example, you down the liquid in one go.

This is a bad idea, objectively so. At the back of your mind, you’re well aware of how terrible it is to stay longer in his apartment, getting drunk out of your mind. You have a meeting in a few hours with your boss and it wouldn’t do well for you to arrive at work with a hungover, or slightly drunk and nursing a headache.

But you can’t help it. And you can never say no to him.

You should’ve stopped after a few glasses. You’ve told yourself you’ll stop after the third one, but for some reason, you’re still here, taking a languid sip of your drink, cringing slightly at the bitter aftertaste. You’re not even sure what you’re drinking now at this point. Vaguely, you’re aware that you’ve emptied all the wine you had a few hours ago, and now you’re drinking something else. Something darker, bitter.

Stronger too, from the looks of it, as evidenced from the buzzing in your head.

Not that Kenji’s faring any better. If anything, he seems even drunker than before, more than you even. He’s lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling, his glass sitting innocently beside him, nearly empty. He’s always been worse at holding his alcohol than you are – having no coach who tells you what you should and shouldn’t do definitely helps with the tolerance, though it’s not a feat you can brag at parties.

“So,” he begins, hiccupping a little, pointing at something you can’t quite see. Slowly, he turns to look at you, raising his head so he can look at you. “You believe in kaiju?”

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head. There’s a buzzing in your head, an incoming headache. Maybe you’re getting older and reaching your limit. Or maybe you’re just losing your touch. You sit up straighter, gently rubbing your temples, trying to ease the feeling. “Not real. Didn’t you watch the documentary with me before? The one where they debunked it?”

“What if…” he begins, pauses, hiccupping once more. “What if I told you they’re real?”

You raise an eyebrow, resting your chin against your palm as you stare down at him, watching him in amusement. “And you got proof of that, mister?”

“Yep.” Quickly, he stands up on the floor, swaying a little from side to side. He wobbles to his feet, and he only manages to take a few steps before he’s stumbling about, losing his balance in the process and falling face-first on the floor. With a laugh, you stand up from your seat, helping him up and gently guiding him back into the couch, placing him on the empty space beside you.

“Come on,” you say, laughing. “You’re clearly drunk.”

“Not drunk,” he says, shaking his head. He shifts a little, lays his head on your lap, his feet dangling at the edge of the couch. He stares up at you, his eyes hazy and unfocused, absently taking you in.

You hum under your breath, smiling at him. “Hi.”

He’s quiet, doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he reaches out, touches your cheek. He’s a little clumsy this time; more than a few times, he’s nearly poked your eye out, but there’s a practiced gentleness behind his touch, a muscle memory he can’t quite forget even when his mind is slowed by the alcohol. His palm is rough, callused, no doubt from years of practice, training, littered with scars you’re not quite sure where he got. You take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together, marveling at how perfectly your hands fit even after all these years.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Stop that.”

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence, just to poke fun at him, though you still don’t let go of his hand, enjoying the warmth of his hand against yours. “You’re the one who touched me first.”

He shakes his head, ignores your remark, frees his hand from your grip, lets it rest against his stomach. “I’ve seen kaiju before,” he says, his voice growing softer, quieter.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, eyebrows furrowing a little in thought. “Uh. Huge?”

“Like in the movies?”

He rolls his eyes, looking almost offended. “Those movies suck.”

“You’re the one who told me to watch them!”

“Well, I’m telling you now: they suck.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “What do you mean they suck? You loved them when we were kids!”

“I’m not a kid now, am I?”

“That hasn’t stopped you from acting like one.”

“Very funny.” He turns to glare at you, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying your hardest not to laugh. A moment of silence settles between you: warmer this time, more comfortable. Familiar. As if all that gap between you has suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but this old familiarity behind. This is how it’s always been between you, isn’t it?

You’ve missed this, more than you could even think of. You’ve almost forgot how it feels like: the casualty of his affection, the warmth of his touch. How you fit perfectly together, like complementary puzzle pieces. Like two halves of the same soul.

Instinctively, you lean in, reaching out to brush a stray strand away from his face. This close, you could see every little detail on his face: the dark circles beneath his eyes, the crease between his eyebrows. The fullness of his lips. How soft they are from this distance.

You’re not sure what possessed you to do it, but you’re doing it long before you could think twice. Curiously, you run a finger along his lower lip, gently tracing the outline; it’s a little chapped, though nothing too bad. Maybe you should buy him a chapstick as a present?

Just as quickly as that thought crosses your mind, you pull back, jolting your hand away from him as though you’ve been burned. He stares at you, his eyes dark, his expression suddenly unreadable. You bite your lip, looking almost ashamed. “Sorry—”

He doesn’t let you finish. Without warning, he reaches out, grips your wrist with one hand, pulling you just the slightest bit closer. This time, he meets your gaze head-on. “Don’t marry him.”

“I—what?” you ask, blinking at him a few times, looking a little uncertain. Gently, you try to shake your hand free from his grip. He lets you go easily enough, and you’re not entirely sure why it leaves you feeling cold, empty. “Ken, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer your question, doesn’t say anything for a long time, his expression still as opaque as ever, unreadable. You stare back at him, eyebrows furrowing a little in concern. “You’re not sick, are you?” you ask, frowning; slowly, you lean in, placing your hand against his forehead, trying to get a feel for his temperature.

He’s a little warm beneath your touch, though you can’t quite tell if it’s from a fever or it’s simply from the alcohol. You sigh, shaking your head, staring at him worriedly. “I told you drinking’s a bad idea.”

He snorts, as though in amusement, then leans away from your touch. “You know what I wish for every night?” he asks, his voice growing softer, quieter that you have to lean close to hear.

“What?”

“For that fiancé of yours to get eaten by a kaiju.”

A nervous laugh escapes you, forced and awkward. “Come on, Ken,” you say, poking him a little at the cheek, trying to catch his attention. “You know that’s a childish thing to say. I know you never liked him, but you can’t really wish for that.”

“Can’t I?” He meets your eyes then, his expression serious. He doesn’t seem drunk this time, only honest.

“Of course not,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re supposed to wish us well, you know. And be happy about it.”

“He doesn’t deserve you.” He sounds almost sulky now, childishly so, like a kid who hasn’t been given a candy. You’d laugh at the sight if it isn’t so ridiculous.

“Are you serious?” you ask, voice growing louder, taking on a higher-pitch. You rub your temples soothingly with the pads of your fingers, trying to soothe the incoming headache. “Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean—”

He frowns, cuts you off before you can say the rest of your words. “You don’t understand.”

You give him a level look. “Then make me understand.”

“I—” he begins, stops. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he stops, hesitating. With a sigh, he shakes his head, looks away. “Never mind,” he says, and his voice is colder now, unfamiliar. He glances at the clock, at the flashing red numbers on the screen. “It’s late. Get some sleep.”

And just like that, the veil is back once more, the distance between you growing farther and farther. Slowly, you stand up from the couch, untangling yourself from him in the process. A hollow feeling follows you afterward, lingers around you as you stumble about in his apartment, trying to find your belongings: your coat hanging on the makeshift rack at the door; your shoes at the doorway.

Quietly, you slip out of his apartment, locking the door behind you, teeth chattering from the cold wind that breezes past you. By the time morning comes around, he’ll forget about this – hopefully – and everything will be alright between you. But for now, you’ll go back to your apartment, grab a bottle of wine from the shelf, and drink yourself to oblivion.

At least until you manage to stop thinking about everything.

#renwrites #kenji sato x reader

128 notes · View notes

saulocept · 2 years ago

Text

bloodstream

pairing: blade/f! reader

rating: m

summary: He'd do anything to get you back. Anything at all.

notes: sort of still getting back to writing, so forgive the mess, inconsistencies, what have you. reposted from my ao3 account so if u see this in there, hi!

tags: finger sucking, excessive use of pet names. sort of implied stalking.

When you step inside your apartment, you know all too quickly that something’s wrong. It’s an instinct, a gut feeling – something you’ve honed over the years to keep yourself safe, keep a certain predator off your tail. You straighten your shoulders, narrowing your eyes as you observe your surroundings. It’s a little dark, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary; either your senses have grown dull in all the years you’ve spent away from him or you’re just being paranoid again, terrified he’d found you. You aren’t sure which is which, but all you know is that you shouldn’t be rash, do something impulsive.

Hasn’t it been years since then? You haven’t heard anything about them after you escaped, and surely, that must mean they’re caught. Spending the rest of their lives in prison, where they could never do anything wrong again. Or maybe you’ve been just too complacent, believing in the lies you’ve made for yourself, trying to make excuses for the fact that you’ve grown to love this city too much to leave it all behind as quickly as you left the other ones.

But you’ve been careful to lie low, haven’t you? Hiding your identity as best as you can, using different names for different people, switching personalities as quickly as a snake sheds its skin. No one knows the real you now, and at this point, you’ve pretty much forgot. If there’s even a memory of the old you behind, he’s the only one who has it, but even then he’s not around anymore to remember, is he?

You exhale a sigh, shaking your head. You remain where you are, standing very still, keeping watch around you, trying to check for the slightest shift in your surroundings. But you still can’t spot anything out of place; everything’s where you��ve left it this morning: the papers on the couch, the books on the floor. Coffee cups littered around the table, some of them still halfway full, cold and abandoned – a mess you still haven’t had time to clean up ever since you’d started working as a waitress down the diner you frequent in.

Work. The word feels normal, ordinary. There’s a sense of belongingness in it that you haven’t quite felt before. Like you’re settling in, trying to make a home for yourself instead of fleeing, making an escape plan in case things don’t go your way.

But enough of that. You take another look at your surroundings, observing them a little longer, your eyes narrowed in suspicion, waiting for danger to come. But nothing does.

You exhale another sigh, shaking your head, tearing your eyes away. You’re probably overthinking things, being paranoid. It’s been a while since you’ve last got a proper sleep, after all, especially with your fluctuating shifts down the diner, and maybe that’s why. Maybe all you need to do is get a good sleep.

But even as you try to make sense of things, nothing seems to reassure you. There’s a dread coiling in the pit of your stomach, growing only by the second. Even your heart skips just a little, and you feel it pounding against your ribcage, loud enough to drown out every sound.

Nothing’s wrong, and yet something isn’t quite right either. You bite your lip, trying not to falter under the weight of your growing dread, and bravely press on, slowly making your way toward your bedroom. You suck in a breath, trying your best to stay quiet, daring not to make too much noise.

You stop in front of the wooden door, taking a moment to steady your nerves. You square your shoulders, take a deep breath, then slowly open the door, stepping inside the room, not quite sure what to expect.

Darkness. Everywhere you look, you can’t see anything but the dark, inky blackness spreading all throughout the room that makes it a little difficult for you to navigate. Even now, silence still follows you like a long-lost friend not quite different from the one you’d felt before, but still a little strange, eerie.

You blink a few times, trying to let your eyes adjust to the darkness as you fumble with the light switch on the wall, turning it on. Nothing happens. You raise an eyebrow, curious, then try it again, though the result is still the same.

You frown. You do it again another time, this one with more force behind it, wondering absently, if perhaps, you’ve forgot to pay the bills on time. Still, the same darkness greets you, shrouds you, cages you in.

Dread turns into fear, coils around your neck like a noose, tight and suffocating. There’s a tightness in your chest, a sudden awareness that you can’t seem to breathe. Cold wind blows at your skin, and you feel a shudder run through you, not quite knowing why.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to turn back, leave this room once and for all, call someone, get some help. But your feet remain rooted to the ground, frozen, paralyzed to the point of immobility.

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel your heart thrumming against your chest, loud and wild against your ears, and still, you can’t move, can’t do anything even as the sound of footsteps pierces through the silence, slow and steady, certain. Growing closer and closer.

You shut your eyes, not daring to turn around, willing it away the way you would a bad dream. You’re not entirely sure what you’ll find behind you, and you’re not nearly strong enough to find out. You keep your eyes shut, counting down the seconds in your head, hoping that the footsteps aren’t real. You’d rather be mad, you think, plagued with hallucinations of your own making, than be right.

The footsteps stop. Everything grows quiet, eerily so. A second passes, and then another. A feeling nags at you, though you’re not quite sure what it is. Slowly, you open your eyes, turn your head around. What greets you is a familiar sight – a face you’ve seen countless times in your dreams. Those bright eyes, that eerie smile. That predatory look that haunts you even in your waking moments, reminds you of the truth you’ve been trying so hard to forget.

His name comes to you in a second, familiar, unforgettable. Still, you can’t bring yourself to say it, as if doing so would make everything any realer than it is. You remain quiet, lips slightly parted open in surprise, unable to look away from him.

“What’s wrong, little mouse?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, studying you closely. There’s a small smile playing on the corners of his lips, almost mocking. “You look surprised to see me.”

“Blade,” you breathe, voice soft, a little raspy. You could barely hear yourself to speak; everything feels like it’s done by someone else – someone who isn’t you. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just runs his gaze up and down your body, his gaze intense, almost hungry. The weight of his eyes on you is a little too much to bear, and all of a sudden, you feel the need to hide, curl in on yourself. Instinctively, you take a step back, trying to maintain some distance between you, but even this is not enough, will never be enough. You know this, of course, by experience; how many times have you tried to get away from him, only for him to render all those attempts futile, fruitless?

Even now, it’s no different. His pursuit of you is relentless, dogged. He takes a step forward, follows you when you take another step back, laughing as he keeps up this game of cat and mouse, amused by your defiance.

But there’s only so much space you can move in, and all too soon, you feel your back hitting the wall, signifying the end of this little dance. Blade moves toward you with surprising quickness, pressing closer against you, caging you with his arms, cutting off any and all escape routes.

He leans down, moves his face closer to yours, his breath hot against your cheek. He laughs, deep and raspy, and you hate how the sound of it makes you feel hot all over, yearning for something bad, something you know you shouldn’t want. He reaches out, places a cold hand against your cheek, his touch uncharacteristically tender, a delicious contrast that makes your stomach coil in wanting. “You didn’t think I’d find you, did you, little lamb?”

There it is again, that pet name – the one you hate and love with the entirety of your being. Little mouse. Little lamb. Little prey. An identity he’s created for you all those decades ago, and an identity you’ve spent years trying to outgrow, leave behind. And now it’s come back to slap you once more in the face, along with the man you’ve promised yourself you’re going to forget.

“Blade,” you say, looking up at him, shaking your head. Even now, with his body pressed against yours, it still hasn’t quite sunk in to you that he’s real, that all of this is happening. “How are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be—?”

He presses a gloved fingers against your lips, shutting you up. Meekly, you nod your head and obey, pressing your lips shut, hating how quickly he’s reduced you into a prey.

“Surely, you didn’t think you could just get rid of me that easily,” he says, staring down at you, playing with the loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger.

You swallow the lump that forms in your throat, lowering your gaze, not quite meeting his eyes. You keep your lips pursed, your mouth shut. Truth be told, you’ve been complacent, blissfully ignorant. He’s a wanted criminal, isn’t he? And it’s been years since you’d last seen each other; naturally, you’d assumed that he’d been caught, locked away in prison, unable to disturb the peace you’ve made for yourself ever again.

You should’ve known that wouldn’t happen. You should’ve known the peace in your life wouldn’t last for long. When you don’t reply, he tugs at the lock of your hair, firm enough to startle, but not enough to hurt.

“Little lamb,” he says; impatience bleeds into his voice, and he tugs at your hair once more, demands for your attention. “Answer me.”

You bite your lip, remaining quiet, defiant. You keep your gaze, not looking at him still, though you could feel his eyes boring a hole into your head, watching you with an intensity that makes you want to disappear.

“Did you not hear what I said?” he asks, his words carrying a hint of annoyance. He reaches out, places a finger under your jaw, lifts your chin up so you’re looking at him. He keeps his grip firm on your jaw, not letting you look away. “Or are you being a brat again?”

You don’t respond, glaring at him instead, defiant even to the very end. He smiles, makes a sound of amusement in his throat – almost like a laugh, though not quite. “You know what happens to brats like you, don’t you?”

You remain where you are, glaring at him still, refusing to give him any sort of response. His smile widens, turns wolfish. But his eyes remain sharp, his gaze intense, cuts through you like a knife.

He traces the outline of your jaw with the tip of his finger, his touch gentle, almost feather-light, leaning closer, whispering in your ear. “Or maybe that’s what you want, hm, little lamb?”

“Maybe you want to be punished,” he continues, his lips so close to your ear. You can’t stop the shiver that runs down your spine, can’t stop the familiar heat that coils deep in your belly, spreading all throughout your body. You shut your eyes tight, exhaling a shaky breath. Your reaction doesn’t go unnoticed; you hear the sound of his laughter against your ear, soft, breathy, and you bite you lip again, trying not to shiver again.

He runs the tip of his finger down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, lets it ghost along your collarbone, the valley of your breasts, and you could barely suppress the tiny whimper that escapes your lips, weak, a little helpless. “Maybe you need me to remind you of our years together. Is that what you want, little lamb?”

You shake your head, quick to deny his claims. You’re not even sure who you’re trying to convince at this point: yourself or him, but it doesn’t matter. He laughs again, deep and loud, almost bellowing.

“No?” he echoes, sounding slightly amused. “Tell me, then, little lamb,” here, he pauses, his grip on your jaw tightening just a little, forcing you to meet his eyes once more. “What is it that you want?”

You shake your head, promptly ignoring his question, trying to keep your gaze locked on his. “But I thought you’re—”

“In prison?” he finishes, his smile wide and wolfish. You nod dumbly, not quite sure what to say. He laughs again, shakes his head, patting your cheek gently with a gloved hand. “Little lamb,” he says, shaking his head, and there’s a sweetness to his voice that seems almost mocking.

You close your eyes, breathe out a sigh, instinctively leaning into his touch before you could even stop yourself. You hate it, hate this – hate yourself even more for the way your skin aches for his touch, the way your body yearns to have him close.

“You really are stupid, aren’t you?” He traces gentle circles along your skin with his fingertips, and you exhale another sigh, unable to focus on anything but the warmth of his touch, the feel of his hands against your skin.

“You really think I’d let anyone catch me before I could take you back?” he continues, humming under his breath, watching you slowly fall apart beneath his touch. “Think again, little lamb.”

You open your eyes, shaking your head, staring at him with wide eyes. “Why did you come looking for me?” you ask, your voice cracking just a little, unsure if you want to pull him closer or push him away. “You must know that I don’t want to be found.”

“Of course I know.” He leans closer, brushing his lips against your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and gently nibbling. You gasp, startled, and he laughs, pleased by your reaction, biting a little harder at your earlobe just to see you squirm. “But did you really think I’d let you leave just like that? Didn’t I tell you before already? You’re mine, little lamb. Always.”

Your lip trembles. Tears form in the corners of your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you have any chance to stop them. Weakly, you push him away, placing your palms flat against his chest, trying to get him to back off. He doesn’t let you. He presses closer against you, pushes you back against the wall, obliterating the distance between you, no matter how little.

“You shouldn’t even be here,” you say, shaking your head, your voice growing higher in pitch, more desperate. “You shouldn’t—”

Your voice breaks, the words disappearing into the silence, unfinished. Blade doesn’t say anything. He stares at you, takes in your reaction, the expression on your face. Gently, he brushes away your tears, almost soothingly, hushes you in the only way he knows how.

He runs his thumb along your lower lip, and it’s instinctive, how your lips part open just for him. Welcoming the familiar intrusion, as if your body remembers.

He laughs, breathless and a little startled, staring at you with a growing hunger in his eyes. He smiles a little, then pushes his thumb in your mouth just a little more, pressing it flat against your tongue. Every movement of yours is automatic, powered by muscle memory. You take him in, wrapping your lips around his thumb and gently sucking.

Blade watches you intensely, his breath catching in his throat. He seems pleasantly surprised by your obedience, and it only urges you on, makes you bolder in your movements.

“You may have changed your name a hundred times over,” he remarks, laughing in amusement. He keeps his eyes locked on you, watching you hungrily. “But you’re still the same obedient slut as before, aren’t you, little lamb?”

He shoves his thumb further in without warning, and it startles you enough to nearly gag you. A choked-out moan suddenly escapes, and you feel tears forming in the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision, but he only laughs even more, looking pleased by your reaction. With his free hand, he reaches out, gently pats your cheek. “There, there. What a good little lamb you are.”

Drool spills down the corners of your mouth, trickles down your chin, stains his gloves in a sticky mess. It’s a little filthy; you pause, grimacing at the sight, feeling the need to apologize, but he follows your gaze, shakes his head, giving you another one of his sharp smiles, a short laugh escaping him. He pats your cheek again, his gaze growing slightly softer, tender. “Good girl.”

Somehow, you’re getting sick of the praise.

He rubs his thumb against the tip of your tongue, runs it up and down once. You taste the faint sweetness that coats the finger of his gloves, a little strange, almost cloying. Your eyebrows crease a little in confusion, though you barely have any time to discover what it is before he’s dragging his thumb out of your mouth and pulling away from you, making no move to wipe your drool off his gloves.

You stare at him, blinking, your gaze slightly hazy. Curiosity beats inside your chest like a second heart, though you can’t quite find the right words to say, the right question to ask. Instead, all you can do is stare at him, as though you’re waiting for him to explain, tell you anything.

In his usual fashion, he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you his signature sharp smile, reaching out to pat your cheek. He leans down, brushes his lips against the crown of your head, just barely enough to make you ache, yearn for more.

“Good girl,” he says again, whispers the words quietly enough that only you can hear them. A shiver runs through your spine, and he laughs, moving forward to gather you in his arms, pulling you flush against him, closer and closer until all you could feel is him.

His grip tightens when you try to wriggle free from his grip, keeping you in place and refusing to let you go. He leans down and takes your earlobe between his teeth, giving it a playful nip. Another startled gasp escapes you, and you can’t stop the way your body trembles against him, yearning for the very thing you should be running away from.

But whatever kind of dilemma runs through your head, he doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls you even closer, pressing another kiss against the top of your head, wrapping his arms even tighter around you: possessive, territorial, as if staking a claim. “My good little lamb.”

His words linger, the sound of his voice seeming to echo in the silence. It’s the last thing you remember before darkness envelopes you, pushes you under.

#renwrites #blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader

187 notes · View notes

saulocept · 2 years ago

Text

house of cards

pairing: ayato kamisato/reader

rating: m

summary: He can love. He can. And he won’t stop proving it to you, over and over until you see it, too.

notes: this is a rewrite of one of my older pieces, so if it seems familiar, i guess thats why? features yandere ayato + a gender neutral reader.

The first time he lays his eyes on you, he’s certain he’ll love you for the rest of his life. He knows it as an instinct, some sort of gut feeling – an emotion that comes off as slightly surprising. It’s not rational, he knows, illogical to the point where he won’t be able to answer where it comes from. Even the warmth that blooms inside him feels startling; it’s the first time he’s ever felt like this, and though it’s strange, unfamiliar, he finds that he doesn’t dislike it.

In fact, it’s a feeling he’s quick to welcome. He stares at you from a distance, watching you with a growing interest. Bright-eyed, curious. There’s something about you that screams naivete, a wild-eyed wonder he’s certain he’s not seen from anyone else. As though you’d only stepped into the world the first time, eager to experience everything it has to offer. Even the way you move seems to magnify that wonder; there’s an excitement in your gait, a spring in your step that quickly endears him to you.

He walks over to where you are, uncertain, at first, what he should do. There’s a brief second where he wonders about approaching you, make your acquaintance, but that decision is quickly taken away from him when he finds you stumbling into him: accidental, awkward. He catches you at the last minute, one hand shooting up to grab your wrist and steady you just before you hit the ground.

His breath stops, catches in his throat. Your skin is warm, solid; that simple touch is enough to wake something in him. Taking root, growing teeth, alive and electric. He feels more than alive, more than real, as if he were not a creature in a dream, but out of it.

He opens his mouth, tries to say something, but there’s a second where everything moves slowly, as if in a dream. He isn’t even sure if he’s moving, isn’t even sure if the words are spilling out of him. But then you’re looking up at him, smiling sheepishly, and it’s as if the spell’s broken, everything moving normally again.

He hears your voice: mumbling an apology under your breath. He waves it off with one hand, clearing his throat as he speaks. His hands dangle uselessly against his sides; he clenches his hands into fists, stops himself from reaching for you again.

“Are you alright?” he asks, giving you a once-over, careful not to let his gaze linger on you for too long.

“Ah, yes.” You smile at him once more, distracted. You scratch the back of your neck, glancing around you before turning to him once again, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say again, and he frowns, because there’s no need for you to apologize. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He waves off your apologies, reaches out to touch your arm, reassuring. It startles you a little, and this time, you look up to meet his eyes, lips parting open as if in surprise. He smiles at you, pats your hand gently, before finally pulling away. “It’s quite alright,” he replies, smile growing a fraction wider the moment he sees your expression relaxing. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No!” You shake your head, giving him a thumbs-up and a smile. He nods at you, pleased. Here, the conversation falters; silence grows between you: awkward, tense. He watches you quietly, studies your face, the expression that flits in your eyes. You’re fiddling with your hands now, as if you’re not quite sure what to do with them.

“Um, if you like,” you begin after a moment, scratching your cheek almost sheepishly. He raises an eyebrow, waits, curious to see what you’d say next. You turn your head to the side, refusing to meet his eyes once more as you mumble, “I could… treat you to some coffee? Just to make up for it?”

An offer. A way out, but also a way in. You sound embarrassed, and as adorable as he finds you to be, he’s aware it’d be rude to laugh. He bites the inside of his cheek, watches you with a quiet amusement. “Ah, it’ll be my treat, of course!” you continue, when he still isn’t responding. You’re babbling now, trying to mask the awkward silence that’s fallen between you, growing longer by the second. “So, you don’t need to be worried about anything…”

“Of course.” There’s a second where you seem almost surprised by his response: looking up, staring at him, eyes wide. He locks his eyes with yours, gives you a gentle smile. “I would like that.”

“Oh, good.” You breathe out a sigh of relief, smiling faintly. “For a second, I was worried I’d scared you off for good.”

You can never scare me off, he thinks, though he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he only smiles at you, playful, teasing. “I’m afraid that’s not the case at all.”

You laugh. “Good, good.” You beam at him, excited, and he’s convinced that there’d never be a reward greater than this: the twinkle in your eyes, the smile on your lips – genuine, warm. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He stares at you, startled, but you’re off before he can even say a word of goodbye, turning back one last time to give him an enthusiastic wave before finally disappearing into the crowd. He stares after you, watches until you’re nothing but a smidge in his vision, uncertain if he’s made you up, dreamed you into existence.

He shakes his head, turns away, still smiling. It doesn’t matter.

He draws you that night, in a piece of paper he’s supposed to read, sign, closing his eyes as he recalls images of you: sharp and vivid. The brightness of your eyes, the color of them. The curve of your lips as you smile at him. The way your hair flutters about in the wind, wild and carefree.

In a short while, he learns everything about you. The name of your cat who died when you were nine, in an accident that had left you afraid to get another one. The book you’d read and reread for nearly your whole life, the pages folded and creased, notes written on the edges of the pages, the words in varying shades of colors: red, blue, black, your thoughts exposed for everyone to see. The way you make your coffee in the morning: black, with a little too much sugar, a combination bitter and sweet.

He knows where you’re from, why you’d left. Why you’ll never come back again. He’s confident no one else will know you as much as he does. After all, you are meant to be.

And now, he can’t wait for you to be his.

Everything happens just a little too quickly. Like a whirlwind, a raging storm, moving too fast that no one knows for sure what’s going on until it’s already happening. What forms between you is an easy friendship, filled with casual affection (from you, mostly) that leaves him breathless, aching for more. You invite him to different places: cafes in the neighboring cities, restaurants all over the region, diners in unexpected parts of the town, trying out new desserts each time, getting to know him in between conversations and laughter.

And in return, he invites you out to places he knows for sure you’ll like. A theater in a different corner of the world, famous for its unbelievably expensive entry prices, as well as its controversial performances.Or thought-provoking, as he knows you’d always say.

He rents out a booth, huge enough for three, with plush seats and velvet curtains thick enough to allow for complete privacy. This way, no one else will disturb the two of you. This way, he’s the only one who’ll see your reactions, watching them unfold right before his very eyes. Even the thought of it is enough to make him shiver in excitement, and it’s almost a struggle to keep still when all he wants to do is savor every moment of this, of you.

“Seriously, Ayato,” you say, shaking your head as if in astonishment. There’s a glimmer in your eyes, a smile on your lips. Excitement radiates off of you in waves, and he can’t stop himself from smiling back at you. He leans forward, rests his chin against his palm, stares at you intently. This close, he could see you clearly, watch your every move, every emotion that flickers in your eyes – all the little things he could add to his ever-growing memento of you.

You lean forward then, meeting him halfway, your smile growing wider, brighter. It reminds him of the stars – one bright thing in the sea of darkness: alive and shining. And all for him to see. It feels like a present, something godsent; if he were a little more religious he might weep, jump in joy. But he remains where he is, still and seated, watching you with bated breath.

“You’re amazing!” You’re beaming at him now, eyes alight, twinkling, “How’d you know what I like?” You motion around you – a vague gesture he easily understands. You mean the play, of course; you’ve never mentioned the kinds of performances you like, but he knows you well enough to guess. He’d spent days poring over your favorite book, handling that beat-up copy he’d secretly stolen from your apartment last summer like it’s a treasure, something fragile, precious, reading every annotation, studying every underlined passages just to know how you think, how you see the world around you. It’s a little exciting to know that all his research had paid off, though it’s something he’d rather keep a secret, leave you guessing for a little while longer. After all, there is power in secrets. (Besides, he finds that he rather likes the reactions you make each time he surprises you like this, likes it enough to keep him wanting to do it more.)

He shrugs, gives you another smile, tries hard to make it look casual. “A lucky guess.”

You shake your head, click your tongue. “Stop being so humble!” You chastise, though you’re smiling. “Clearly, that’s not just a lucky guess.”

He leans even closer, bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smirking. “What do you think it is, then?”

A taunt, a bait, phrased into a harmless question you’ll have no choice but to answer. The truth, of course, is simple enough, hidden into the depths of him still, waiting for the right time to show itself, because he can’t tell you how much he loves you yet, can’t prove it to you yet in fear of scaring you off.

I know everything about you.

He runs his tongue along his teeth, stares at you, waits.

Here, your voice has grown softer, your gaze suddenly warmer. In an instant, the atmosphere between you changes, grows from light, easy to tense, charged. There’s a weight between you now, heavy as a loaded gun, amplified by your brief silence. You smile at him, gentler than he’s ever seen it, keeping your gaze locked onto his as you speak, your voice soft as a whisper, “I’m convinced we must be soulmates in this life.”

His breath stops, catches in his throat. He blinks at you once; for a second, he wonders if he must be dreaming, making this whole thing up. But you’re staring at him still, the gentle smile still glued on your lips as though it’s never left. Slowly, you reach for his free hand across the table, holding it in yours, loose enough that he can pull away, and yet he knows he’d never want to.

He laces your fingers together, tightens his grip as though he never wants to let go. You grin at him, though you don’t pull away. “No one knows me as much as you do.”

And no one will. He smiles at you in response, tries to hide the fact that the only thing he could hear is the pounding in his chest, loud as a wardrum. Here, finally, every piece of the world falls away, disappears until there’s no one but the two of you left, separate from the world, together.

It’s a struggle to hide his disappointment when you finally pull away from him. His hands, all of a sudden, feel very cold, the ghost of your touch still lingering long after you’d let go.

He reaches for his glass on the table, lifts it to his lips, takes a sip of his drink. He could only vaguely taste the wine, the sweetness of it swirling on his tongue, grows warmer as he lets it linger. Cloying, sticky. He swallows it down, and still, the sweetness of it lingers, sticks to his tongue like glue the same way the warmth of your touch does.

“Yes,” he agrees quietly, lifting his eyes up from the glass to meet your eyes again. He gives you a tiny smile: secretive, conspiratorial. As though he’s telling you something only you are allowed to know. “We’re soulmates indeed, aren’t we?”

Your grin widens, enough that it nearly splits your face into two, and here, in this space and time, he’s convinced that he can’t ever love you any more than he does.

The conversation lulls after that. The voices around him fade into a background noise, and everything, however brief, is light, comfortable. You reach for his hand again on the table, giving it a gentle pat, and he grabs onto it at the last second, just before you can pull away, holds it firmly in his like he’ll never have the chance to do so again.

A look of surprise flickers into your face, though it’s gone as quickly as it appears, smoothing out into the easy expression he knows and loves too well, too much. You smile at him, a little sheepish as you entwine your fingers together, loosely yet still just right. He smiles at the sight of it – your hand, his hand: pieces of you that’s combined now into a single entity.

It’s hard then not to be amazed at how perfectly your hands fit together. How the spaces between his fingers feel like they’re made to fit the gaps between yours. He’s certain then that he could say the same thing about your bodies, your souls. Are they not made of the same thing, same substance. Is this not what it means to be soulmates?

Soulmates, he repeats the words again, as if to test them. He likes the word, the meaning behind it. How you’re both meant for each other, always. He smiles at you again, squeezes your hand. You squeeze back, an automatic response, quick as an instinct. And it’s perfect, everything’s perfect. He’s always known it’s going to be like this: the two of you together, perfect in every way.

And now, he just has to make sure it stays that way, forever.

“Ah, before I forgot,” you say, and the sound of your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He blinks, gives you a distracted smile as he waits for the rest of your words. You lean forward, squeezing his hand again. Warm, too warm. He’ll never get used to this: the whole galaxy in your eyes, the sun in your touches. “Thank you. For today.”

“Of course.” He places his other hand on top of yours, encompassing the warmth of it. He leans even closer, locking his eyes with yours as he smiles. “Anything for you.”

He watches you from the gaps of his windows, not bothering to hide the frown on his lips. He hates it, despises it with every ounce of his being, seeing you with another man who isn’t him. He hates it even more to see you laughing: jovial, carefree. Like he isn’t the only one who knows everything about you.

He crosses his arms over his chest, narrows his eyes into a glare. He leans against the windowsill, watches the two of you for a few more moments, a little distracted. Alain. The name crosses his mind, quick as lightning, bitter as a rotting fruit.

He knows everything about him, the way he knows every little thing about you, though it’s a knowledge born out of need than anything else. He knows his family’s secrets. His worst vices. The kind of debt he owes but could never pay back. The things he could never escape from, no matter how hard he tries.

He’s no good for you, in the way that you’re too good for him. Surely, you must know this, too? But of course he knows you well enough to know that you won’t think the same way. You’ve always been too naïve, too clueless as to how the sound works. He steals another glance at you, frowns when he sees you laughing at something Alain has said. A joke perhaps, or something equally as silly, and he hates it, hates the sight of your smile, your laughing face, hates the two of your laughter, how it echoes in the silence, haunts him, follows him around like a ghost.

Wild, carefree. He’s heard you laugh like this before, a thousand times and more, and it sounds so different now that he knows it for someone else. He closes his eyes, sighs, shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, lets his eyes flutter open, forces himself to watch the two of you with gritted teeth, clenched fists.

There’s a wire between his ribcage, barbed and sharp as a knife. He hates how that other man has your full attention, as though there’s nothing else around you, no one else. Alain – even now, the name brings a bitter aftertaste to it, as though he’s swallowed something awful, something bad – leans in to whisper something in your ear, and he hates how close that awful scum is, how casually he touches you, as though you’re his property, something to own, and not something to be treasured, worshipped. He doesn’t. He never will.

He digs his nails into his palms, as if the sharp pain that comes with it will be enough to sober him up, calm him down. It isn’t. Still, he watches, feels fire brewing in the pit of his stomach: hot, molten. You’re laughing now, smiling, refusing to pull away even after that scum puts an arm around your shoulders, pulls you close, leaning his head against yours, and he hates it, hates you even more for allowing it.

There’s a fragment of the sun in each of your smiles, and it’s almost maddening to know that they’re not all for his. When you stare back at him – Alain,his brain supplies bitterly, ever the beacon of truth, there’s a part of him that wishes he could pluck them out, crush them between his fingers, just so no one else would ever have them again. No one but him.

You’ve never even looked at him like that, not after that. There’s always a wall between you now, a distance that wasn’t ever there before. Even the memory of it makes him wince and there’s a part of him that wishes he could just erase it from his memory forever, cast it away like a dead skin, something not worth carrying.

His heart throbs, aches. He feels hollowed out, as if something’s carved out of him, vital enough that it leaves him half-dead, filling up a void too endless it swallows everything like a vacuum.

Once, he’d told you of his feelings, waited for the perfect moment to bare a piece of his soul to you, pressed into your palm like a gift, an offering. He’d asked for your hand in marriage then, because what else could come after this? Love, isn’t it? Acceptance, some form of happily ever after he’d read from children’s books, and he’s sure he’s done everything right, and all that’s left for you to do is say yes, tell him you love him, too.

He's wrong. He remembers it clearly, like reopening a wound too raw to close, still bleeding. A sorrowful smile, a quick turn of the head, eyes glued to the ground, as though you can’t bear to look at him. A whisper in the dark, almost mournful in the silence. “I’m sorry. I think we’re better off as friends, wouldn’t you agree?”

Some attempt at levity – jokes he could barely remember in detail because his heart’s broken and his ears are ringing. An echo of the apology inside his head, reverberating inside his skull until he’s certain he’s about to go mad from it.

The touch of your hand, bringing him back. Dead, half-dead. (Is he even alive?) That sad smile still on your lips, sympathetic, comforting. “We’ll always be friends, won’t we?” Three gentle pats – a gesture meant to be reassuring. But he doesn’t want your reassurance. He wants your love.

Instead, he nods his head, smiles at you. Of course we’ll always be friends. He isn’t sure how he’s managed to keep his composure all night, noticing how distant you’re being: the casual affection gone, the touches now light and fleeting, careful not to overstep, be overly familiar, but he does.

And now you’re in love with someone else, a man who’d never know you as much as he does, who’d never willingly make the effort to, and he hates it, hates everything about it.

He shakes his head, sucks in a deep breath, promptly draws the window shutters in front of him. Blocks you out, pushes the thought of you away. He turns away, walks over to his desk, the echo of your laughter haunting him still. He takes a seat, picks up the quill, dips it into the ink beside him.

He writes slowly, deliberately. Carefully. Neat brush strokes against the paper, the letters too clear to be mistaken for something else. In the morning, everything will disappear.

In the morning, everything will be perfect again, just the way he’d planned it. The pieces will fall into their proper places, and everything will be right, perfect. Because the two of you are meant to be, aren’t you? Always, and he’ll make sure of that.

He knows you well enough to know where you’d be at this time of the day. He’s quick to find you, sitting in the corner booth of your favorite café, staring off into the distance, lost in thoughts.

He slides into the seat across from you, says your name, quiet at first, then louder when he realizes you probably couldn’t hear him. You blink, turn to look at him, giving him a faint smile. “Hi.”

This close, he could see how awful you look: dejected, sad, like someone’s broken your heart. Your eyes are puffy, bloodshot from too much crying. There are bags beneath them, made worse, of course, by your obvious lack of sleep. The sight of you like this brings him a flurry of emotions he isn’t sure he can comprehend. A part of him wants to comfort you: hold your hand and tell you everything will be alright, but the other spiteful part of him wants to rub salt in the wound, tell you how right he’d been from the beginning.

He dismisses the thought, swallows everything that comes with it, including the sudden guilt, made physical by the lump forming in his throat. Everything will fall into place soon, and he won’t have to see you like this. Ever. It’s the thought of it that brings him comfort as he stares at you.

He clears his throat, tries to catch your attention again. You’re drifting away from him every second, floating and lost in the ether, alone. All alone. It’s up to him to bring you back, tether you into something solid enough so he wouldn’t lose you again.

You turn to look at him, staring at him blankly. Here still, but only barely. He gives you a gentle smile, keeps his voice soft as to not startle you too much. “What happened?”

You turn away from him, shake your head, drawing in a deep breath as you close your eyes. You relay the whole story, recalling bits and pieces of conversations you’re not too keen on sharing. Then, with an almost angry sigh: “He’s getting married tomorrow.”

Ayato nods sagely. He already knows about it, long before it’s set into motion, even if he’d never dare tell you about it. “I heard. Word travels fast around here.”

Vaguely, you nod your head – a near-automatic response, like you’re only barely listening. He reaches for your hand across the table, catching your attention. He holds it firmly in his, thumb stroking gentle circles along your skin. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

You stare at him for a long time, quiet. Then you shake your head, turn away from him. You stare at the coffee cup in front of you: cold, untouched, glaring at it too hard he’s a little afraid it might break. With a sigh, you open your mouth, speak. Your voice is too soft, too quiet; for a second, he can’t tell if you’re talking to him, telling him about another memory, or simply talking to yourself. “Three nights ago, he’d told me he loved me.”

You laugh. Sharp, bitter. Venomous. It slices through him like a knife. “He’d even asked for my hand in marriage.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. It’s all he can think to say. He holds your hand a little tighter, squeezes it once in a show of reassurance.

You shake your head, giving him a faint smile. “Don’t be. I was the one foolish enough to believe him.”

“You’re not foolish,” he rushes to tell you, because the truth is that you aren’t. Just naïve, clueless, but he lets the rest of the words go unsaid, lets the silence fall around the two of you like a curtain, grows longer by the second.

You shake your head, give him another faint smile. Weak still, tiny, but it seems more genuine than the previous one you’d given him. “Thank you, Ayato.” You squeeze his hand back, and it feels nice, familiar. “For being here. For everything. To be honest,” A pause, a quiet laugh, sheepish, awkward – and still very much like music to his ears, “I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

You wouldn’t have to, is what he wants to say, but it’s too early for another confession, another secret to bare. He smiles back at you instead, hums under his breath as he continues to hold your hand in his: firmly, without the intention of letting you go. He leans forward, meets your eyes. “Anything for you.”

Your smile grows warmer, widens into a fraction, and everything falls exactly into place.

Everything comes quickly together after that: little chess pieces aligning on the board to create a perfect victory. You are his in a matter of weeks, faltering under the weight of your loneliness, your grief. He bares his heart out once more, asks for your hand in marriage, seals it with a kiss, primal and hungry.

Everything else is a whirlwind, done in a single night. The wedding happens at night, in the same day you’d said yes, agreeing to marry him. It’s a quick ceremony, private, witnessed only by the moon and her stars. Plush seats draped in white, soft, silken. You walking down the aisle, not crying, but smiling. Laughing, nearly, with him, as though he’s part of a joke you refuse to share with the rest of the world.

Moonlight catching in your hair, your skin. You look beautiful: elation solidified, compressed until it can fit into a single person. Radiant, practically glowing. Like something from a dream, or maybe something even better.

The distance between you and him, growing shorter with each step, until finally, finally, you’re standing in front of him, and then beside him, smiling, eyes bright like the stars above your heads.

His name on your lips. The warmth of your touch, the feel of your skin against his. The words “I do” spilling out of you, and that little smile on your lips. How everything seems slow, as if in a dream. And how everything’s over, everything moving quickly, normally again.

He kisses you then, slow and gentle at first, like he’s savoring the moment, does it again as if to make sure, and again, just because he wants it to feel right. You’re smiling, kissing him back, and everything’s perfect, too perfect that he’s almost certain he could see the stars smiling, the moon smiling, every little thing around him smiling too as if to congratulate him.

They say all things must come to an end, at one point or another. He’s been a little complacent, too relaxed in his new life that he’s failed to see his ruin coming along in the form of a letter. A carefully mailed one, sneaked in between the pages of a book in the library, hidden enough that he doesn’t see it. And now it’s too late, and there’s no taking it back, redoing it all over.

He knows, for sure, that there’s something wrong the moment he steps into the room. There’s a weight in the air, a tension that wasn’t ever there before, magnified when you finally turn around to face him. You’ve never looked at him like this before: anger beyond words, and repulsion that soaks through his bones, leaves him bare and exposed.

It’s almost chilling, but he presses on, calmly, leans against the door, waits. This time, you don’t even try to hide your disgust when you say his name. He doesn’t respond to it, just stares at you again, waits. It’s clear you have something more to say, waving the letter in your hands, practically seething. “How could you do this?”

He blinks, tilts his head at you. Innocently. “Do what?”

In response, you throw the letter to him, glaring, a near-guttural scream bubbling in your throat. He catches it mid-air, unfolds it to see an unfamiliar writing. He frowns, skims over the words, finds a familiar name beneath.

All my love, the signature says, Alain.

He hums thoughtfully under his breath, rereads it again, makes sure to catch every word this time. Here, Alain (rotten fruit, horribly bitter) writes about the “truth”: his marriage, his debt. Things he can’t run away from, even in the end. He spends the next few paragraphs talking about his supposed love for you in detail, how it’s the only truth he’s ever known in his life. At the near bottom is an apology, and a promise to meet you in the next life, and love you still in that.

He stops reading then, crumples the letter in his hands, shoves it in his pocket, out of your sight, away from your reach. Emotions well up in him, but he isn’t sure what those are yet.

He turns to look at you then, keeps his voice flat and toneless. “Alain killed himself.” Simple, straight to the point. A declaration of facts, nothing more, nothing less. “I did not order him to do it.”

“Did you not fucking read it?” You’re seething now, angry, unable to keep your voice down. Tears are welling up in your eyes; on instinct, he reaches for you, but you take a step back, glare at him. Your voice grows higher in pitch, angrier now than ever. “How could you even do this? You knew he loved me. You knew I loved him!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Why does it matter? Do you still love him?”

You clench your jaw, balling your hands into fists. Angrily, you wipe your tears away with the back of your fists, sniffling. “You know very well that’s not the point!”

“It is to me.”

“Tell me, then.” Your voice has grown softer now, teetering on the brink of despair, or else: visceral rage. “Why did you do it? Is this all a game to you?”

He shakes his head. “I did it because he didn’t know how to love you. He wouldn’t know how.”

“And you would?” You laugh: bitter, venomous. It cuts through him, sharper than any blade. “Don’t make me laugh, Ayato. You don’t know how to love. You have no idea how.”

He remains quiet for a second, lets the words sink in. He takes a step forward, narrows his eyes at you. In response, you grow more alert, tense, taking another step back, as if on instinct. There’s a frightened look in your eyes, and he hates it, hates how you look at him that way, as though he’s a stranger, some sort of a monster.

He wants to make it disappear, kiss it away. Make everything right, like before. Wasn’t everything perfect, before?

He takes another step forward, and you take another step back. The dance continues on for a while, with you seeming more and more like a cornered animal with every step. It stops, when your back hits the wall; quickly, he closes the distance between you, cages you in before you can even think of escaping.

(He has you now, and he won’t let you go. Never.)

There’s that frightened look in your eyes again (he hates it, hates it, hates it), mixed with uncertainty, a little of desperation. He gathers you in his arms then, holds you close, not letting go even as you struggle against him, trying to break free. He kisses the top of your head, says your name, calms you down, even as you refuse to.

“It’s alright,” he says, repeats the words over and over, as though it’ll somehow be enough to convince you, make you see the truth.

“It’s not,” you reply, shaking your head. You’re beating your fists against his chests (but it’s useless, futile), and he shushes you, pulls you closer. You’re crying now, your sobs muffled by the fabric of his clothes, “You’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined everything.”

He soothes you through your tears, lifting your chin up with a finger, forcing you to look at him. Here, he peppers your face with kisses, presses his lips against every inch of your skin, willing you to calm down, forget.

You claw at his back then (useless, futile), pleading for him to let you go. But he shakes his head. He can’t let you go. He won’t. He presses another kiss against the crown of your head, your hair, holds you even tighter against him, as if to show you his resolve, unwavering even now, unfaltering. He won’t give up on you, not now ever, because isn’t this what love is?

He can love. He can. And he’ll keep it proving it to you, over and over, no matter how long it takes, no matter what it takes, because is this not what love is?

#renwrites #ayato kaisato x reader #genshin impact x reader

12 notes · View notes

saulocept · 2 years ago

Text

cause love don’t get no higher than this

pairing: nicholas wolfwood/f! reader

rating: m

summary: He’s been a little too stressed out lately. Luckily, you’re there to help him out.

notes: some warm up, tbh. been a while since i wrote anything so! lots of apologies. tags include: smoking, blowjobs, slight praise kink - nothing too explicit. had this idea for a while, ran with it, and now im apologizing for it. sorry

Rest and relaxation. R&R. That’s what you’ve called it, dragging him and everyone else inside the nearest pub you can find. He hates it, somehow – the word, mostly because he neither feels rested nor relaxed, and trying to force himself to doesn’t seem to be working. In fact, he’s certain he’s downed one too many drinks, and still he feels stressed, jittery, his limbs aching to move, do something, anything but stay still, be in a single spot for too long.

It’s easier to think that he’s just high off the adrenaline. The previous battle had been intense, if he could even call it that. It’s not like he fought anything; he’s not too stupid to think he could take on a giant mindless desert monster anyway, especially when it’s far too hungry and probably hasn’t eaten for days. For the most part, he’d just ran, hiding behind alleyways and abandoned houses, trying to reach the nearest safe space he can find.

He didn’t know how long he’d ran, exactly. The next thing he knew, he’s standing in front of a small town, nameless, though not quite abandoned. There’s a sign in front of him: huge letters in blood red, though they’ve faded so much he could hardly read them anymore. He thought it might be the name of this town, though he’s not nearly curious enough to want to confirm. Whatever. It’s not like it matters, anyway.

The rest of the day passes by without much of an incident. You’re the one who’d pressed on ahead, strutting toward town without a care in the world. The rest of them follows after you without much complaint, likely a little too tired from running to think about anything else. You, however, were still a little too full of energy. It’s almost amusing seeing you running around from place to place, approaching villagers and asking them questions none of them had enough energy to ask. He snorts, shakes his head, watches as you beckon them along, urging them to follow after you. No wonder you and Meryl get along so well.

In the end, though, it’s all because of you and your incessant questions that he’s sitting in this pub, nursing another drink. He’d hardly call it relaxation, or rest, but he supposes it’s better than nothing. Here’s to another day of survival.

He breathes out a sigh, places his empty glass back on the table. He reaches for his pack of his cigarettes in his pocket, grabbing a stick and placing it between his lips. He’s still trying to find his lighter when the lady in front of him: the bartender, nameless and old and greying, yanks the stick out of his mouth, bending it between her fingers. It crumples easily under her touch. “No smoking on the premises, young man,” she chides, giving him a stern glare.

He stares at the wasted stick in front of him with open mouth, silently mourning its loss. Fuck, and he hasn’t even got a lot of them left. Realizing that the woman’s still glaring at him, waiting for a response, he nods his head, shoving the pack of cigarettes back in his pocket. “Yes, ma’am,” he says finally, slumping his shoulders and then sighing.

The woman turns away from him without another word.

How long does it take for a man to get drunk? Surely, he must’ve drunk enough glasses that the alcohol should be taking effect. But he’s not drunk yet, not even a little, and he’s starting to hate this because somehow, he feels even more restless than before, aching for something stronger, something else he can’t quite name.

He drums his fingers against the wooden table, stares blankly at his empty glass, breathing out another sigh. Boredly, he grabs the lighter from his pocket, turns it over and over between his fingers, steadfastly ignoring the glare the nameless woman keeps sending his way.

He isn’t sure how many minutes have passed before he feels a tap on his shoulder. With a grunt, he turns his head, glares at the intruder. “Oh,” he mumbles, his glare quickly disappearing at the sight of you. “It’s just you.”

“Yep,” you say, with enough energy to make him even more miserable. “Just me.”

He slumps further into his chair. “What do you want?”

“What do you say we go outside,” you ask, and at your words, he turns to look at you again, eyeing you suspiciously. You keep a straight face, affect a flat tone; still, there’s a glimmer in your eyes that piques his curiosity enough. “Get some fresh air?”

“Fresh air, huh?” he echoes, and you nod, giving him a gentle smile at the curious look he gives you. With another sigh, he stands up from his chair, places a few bills under his glass; it’s all he’s got with him, but he figures it’s enough to cover for whatever he’s drunk this night, probably even more.

Your smile widens when he moves to follow you, and you lead him out of the pub, through a door he’d never seen before (the side one, he presumes), expertly dodging Meryl’s questions all the while. In the end, she’d let you both go without much of a fuss, though he could still feel her glaring daggers on his back, like he knows exactly what you’re up to. He turns around one last time to give her a quick wave, both playful and mocking at the same time, just to annoy her a little more.

And then he follows you out the door, and into the streets. It’s dark out, with only the street lamps to light his way. It’s not enough to see clearly; he could still hardly see a thing, but it’s enough to keep him from stumbling into things.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, whistling a quiet tune under his breath as he trails after you, observing his surroundings. You’ve reached an alleyway now: empty, quiet, hidden from view. Dark enough that no one would think to stay in here for long. Sinister enough that no one would think to search here for you.

He hums under his breath, amused. “Wow,” he mumbles, and he can’t help but sound impressed, “You really planned all this, didn’t you?”

You shrug, turning to him with a coy smile plastered on your lips. A little too innocent that he knows it’s anything but. “What do you mean planned?”

He narrows his eyes, stares at you in suspicion, but you only bat your lashes at him, keeping the innocent act. “Come on,” you say soothingly, “I just thought we could use a break.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We?”

“You,” you correct, uttering the words a little too quickly that he doesn’t have much time to question it. There’s a sheepishness to your voice, your words, an uncertainty he finds rather endearing. “You seem rather stressed, so I thought I’d do something to cheer you up.”

“Oh?” There’s an edge to his voice now, and slowly, he takes a step toward you, inching dangerously closer. You remain where you are, quiet, staring up at him. He smiles. “And how would you do that exactly?”

You smile back at him, resting your hand firmly against your sides. There’s a glimmer in your eyes now that wasn’t there before, and the sight of it sends a little thrill through him. “Why ask?” Here, your voice drops, turns teasing. It’s your turn to catch him off-guard; you step toward him, closer and closer until you’ve finally cornered him against the wall. He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t move to push you away, and your smile widens, grows almost sharper in the dim light. You reach out, rest a palm against his chest, trailing it slowly downward. A bold move, he thinks, something he almost wouldn’t expect from you.

You take another step forward; you’re so close now, enough that he could practically feel the warmth radiating off you. He could smell you now, could almost taste you on the tip of his tongue, sweet as sugar. You keep your eyes on him the whole time as you trail your palm downward: slow and teasing and playful, stopping just at the hem of his pants, “You know I could just show you, right?”

He laughs, leans back against the wall as he watches you, tries to hold back a groan when he feels you palm him through his pants, squeezing him once through the fabric. Teasing. “Getting bold now, are we?”

“Mm-hm.” You’re kneeling in front of him now, fumbling with his pants, fiddling with the zipper, letting his cock spring free. He sucks in a breath, a little startled by the quickness of your movements, though he makes no move to stop you. You pause, looking up at him with half-mast eyes, giving him a tiny smile. “Only for you.”

“Alright,” he says, just because he refuses to let you have the last word. “Let’s see it.”

You make quick work of him. He’s not hard yet, not quite, but it doesn’t seem to deter you. In fact, it seems to have quite the opposite effect; you lean your head forward, press a kiss against the tip of his cock. Soft, almost teasing.

He bites back a groan, leans his head back against the wall, watches you with bated breath. It’s fucking torture, some new kind of agony, watching you take him into his mouth. Slow, and definitely on purpose. Like you’re toying with him, trying to see how much more of this he can take.

He glares at you, but it’s hard to look intimidating when he’s got his cock shoved in your mouth. You catch it well enough, though you only send him a mischievous look in response. He’s still halfway through figuring out what it means before you’re making another move, leaning forward, taking more of him in – not wholly, not yet, but you’re getting there.

Shit. It’s surprising enough that he can’t stop the strangled breath that spills out of him, soft and shaky and seemingly too much like a groan. He throws his head back against the wall; with trembling fingers, he reaches for his pocket, grabs the pack of cigarettes he’s always kept in there. He takes a stick, shoves it between his lips, fishes for his lighter. He doesn’t fumble this time. No tricks, no hesitations. He flicks it open, lights the cigarette between his lips, watching the flames dance around the edges. Bright red, orange, fading to black as quickly as he could blink.

He takes a deep drag, leans further back against the wall and watching as trails of smoke drift upward and away from him. He gets a moment of reprieve before you’re making your move again, swirling your tongue around the head, slow and teasing, fingers touching the rest of him, caressing, trying to make up for whatever your mouth can’t quite reach, and fuck, it’s too good that he can’t stop the way his hips jerk into you, shoving more of his cock in.

He hears you gag before he even realizes what’s happening. Shit. He startles a little; he tries to glance at you, concern etched on his face, but there’s a slowness to his movements, as though he’s just waking up from a dream. He can’t see a damned thing in this place, not even if he squints his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, just to make sure. You give him a thumbs-up from where you are, and the sight of it is so ridiculous, unexpected, that he can’t stop the laugh that spills out of him, equal parts amused and disbelieving. Still, he lets it go, doesn’t press any further, slumps even more against the wall without moving too much, giving you room to adjust, catch your breath.

He rubs the butt-end of his cigarette against the wall, smearing black ash behind him. He folds it in half, throws it somewhere down the ground. Then he grabs another, lights it up, tips his head back against the wall as he closes his eyes and takes another drag.

You’re still trying to fit all of him in, taking in as much of him as you could, and he can’t help but feel amazed by your determination. He lets the cigarette dangle from between his lips as he decides to help you out. “Hey, come on,” he says after a moment, almost soothingly. He knows he still hasn’t apologized from before, not directly, but he does try to make it up to you, placing a hand on your head and patting you gently. Encouraging. “You can do it, can’t you?”

He's egging you on, trying to see how far you’re willing to take this, and he knows he shouldn’t, not when you’re practically choking on his cock, but you look so good right now that he can’t help it. He watches you then, grows quiet, runs his fingers through your hair absently.

Your eyes are glistening with tears. Drool spills at the corners of your mouth, but you’re making no move to stop. The corners of his lips twitch into a smile. He reaches out with his free hand, gently caresses your cheek. “Do you want to stop?” he asks, tracing little circles along your skin, slow and soothing.

You make a noise in your throat, and when he only raises an eyebrow at you, curious, you shake your head, wrapping both arms around his hips, leaning forward and taking him deeper into your mouth.

All of him now, he thinks, and it’s a sudden thing, unexpected and surprising. He throws his head back, unable to stop the groan that spills out of him. The cigarette drops from between his lips, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s an awareness that comes to him vaguely, as if from a fever dream, and he stubs it beneath his shoe, crushes it in the process. He kicks it away from the two of you, doesn’t even bother to light up another.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and his voice is soft, raspy. He gives your cheek a gentle pat. The praise only spurs you on; you moan around his length, bob your head up and down. He clutches a fistful of your hair, tugging a little as he closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling.

“You remember your safe word, don’t you?” he asks you, just to make sure. He twirls a strand of your hair between his fingers, tugs at it once more when you don’t respond. You hum around him after, and he makes a surprised noise in his throat, one that quickly turns into a laugh a second later. He shakes his head in disbelief when he catches you staring at him, the mischievous glimmer in your eyes bright like stars. You really are something else, aren’t you?

His grip on your hair tightens, more desperate. There’s a warning in there, hidden in between, something he feels he doesn’t need to vocalize. He’s closer now, almost there. He knows you can feel it, too, knows you can tell; there’s a certain kind of hastiness in your movements, a quickness born out of desperation, determination – something that grows with every second.

It doesn’t take long; he tugs on your hair once more, a little more harshly than before, rougher. It’s a quiet warning, the only thing he manages to give you before he’s coming undone, spilling all over your mouth, your hands, between your fingers, on the ground beneath you.

He watches you swallow it down, all of it, moaning at the taste of him and licking your lips as soon as you’re done like you miss it still, can’t get enough of it, and the sight of it is almost enough to get him hard again, ready for more. Still, he ignores the feeling, pretends it isn’t there. This can wait, he thinks, and besides, this isn’t the kind of place for secret trysts, after all, even if it’s dark and perfectly empty.

He lets go of your hair, ruffles it a little and then moves to pull his pants up. He laughs when he sees you pouting at him, reaching out to pat you once more on the cheek. “Get up,” he says, and though his tone is stern, there’s no bite in it, no real venom.

You frown at him. Your expression’s one of pure confusion now, and he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head, reaching out to flick you gently on the forehead. “Come on,” he says, grinning when he sees you glaring at him, pouting. “You can’t really be this cockdumb to want to do it here of all places now, can you?”

“Oh.” You seem almost flustered now, embarrassed. “I thought—”

“That we’re done?” he offers, tilts his head to the side as he studies you. You’re squirming now under the weight of his gaze, more embarrassed now than ever, and he bites the inside of his cheek, tries to stop himself from smiling too widely. “We’re not—” here, he pauses, raises an expectant brow in your direction. He knows what your response is going to be, but he couldn’t stop himself from teasing you anyway, “Unless you want to, that is.”

“No!” The response comes, faster than he anticipates. He tries his hardest not to laugh, but the sound spills out of him at the last second anyway, and he’s rewarded by the burn of your glare, something he isn’t fazed by in the least bit.

But your cheeks are still burning, and you look practically ready to get swallowed up by the ground. He clears his throat, gathers his composure, deciding that he should stop embarrassing you any further.

“Come on,” he says again, trying not to smile. He reaches out, ruffles your hair, grinning when you give him another scathing glare. He moves away, stretches a hand in your direction, then slowly pulls you to your feet. You reach for his hand, holds it in yours, twining your fingers together. He snorts, rolls his eyes, though he makes no move to pull away, or push you off him, “Let’s go.”

#renwrites #nicholas wolfwood x reader #trigun stampede x reader

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