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inherdaze · 7 months

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jungle — kiyoomi sakusa

kiyoomi x f reader

18+ content, pining, slow burn, sakusa wears dog tags mmm, smut, acquaintances to lovers. kind of a historical au? (think 1930s) idk bro it's like all made up. mentions of pregnancy

summary: kiyoomi seeks serenity after coming home from war.

There’s lots of commotion outside. Hollering, cheering, squeals and shouts paired with the sight of lovers reuniting, families coming together, men picking up their children and spinning them around in the air. You watch from the kitchen window as you wipe down the dishes, see some people carelessly pick the flowers from your yard to bunch up and give to wives, children, husbands, the like. Normally, you’d scold them for being so careless and probably offer a pair of garden trimmers so that they wouldn't crush the surrounding flowers, but you let it pass. Everyone is happy. The war is over.

Your mother watches as she stands next to you, handing you over the dishes to dry once she’s finished washing them clean. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, gouging out your reaction before clearing her throat.

“Do you remember Kiyoomi?”

You freeze for a second, plate and rag in hand as you try to think. “Mm. No?”

“The Sakusa family?”

“Oh,” And then you start again, rubbing the plate dry. You don’t really remember the boy, only that your mother was friends with his mother and that apparently the two of you played around as young children. You don't remember the last time you saw him. Probably couldn’t even point him out in a crowd.

“He’s coming home.”

“From the war?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to gather some flowers for him? There’s plenty in the backyard, too. None of the crushed ones.”

She sighs before placing the plate she held back into the sink, turning to face you entirely.

She says your name softly. “He’s coming home. Here.”

“Why? For dinner?”

“No– well, yes– but he’ll be staying here. With us.”

You slowly put out the plate face down on the long countertop cloth to let it air dry. “Since when?”

“We’ve been exchanging letters.”

Ah. You had been wondering what that was about. Each time the mail came in, your mother would scurry to get it before you could, holding it to her chest protectively before gently slicing it open in the study, purposely keeping it from you. You thought she had been exchanging letters with some sort of admirer, so to speak. You thought she’d be afraid to tell you she’s moving on after years of your father’s death.

She continues, “His parents passed a while back– they both fell ill while he was away. He just needs somewhere to stay in the meantime so he can get back up on his feet. I'm sure there are plenty of other families that would be more than happy to host a soldier, but I suppose he would feel more comfortable here. I mentioned the garden and the chickens and he said he’d help you out with those. Don’t let him, though.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Your mother lightly swats your arm and gives a quiet scold of your name, “He isn't here to work. He’s here to rest. He’s been through a lot, you know. Just let him be while he’s here.”

You roll your eyes. Your mother can tell that you're not really annoyed.

“He seems very reserved in the letters we exchanged. If he’s formal with you, insist that he don’t be. We are friends of his. Make him feel comfortable, okay?”

You hum and nod. “Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“When will he be here?”

Your mother nearly answers before you've even finished asking.

“Tomorrow.”

You’re an early bird. Even when you don’t want to be, you must. You have to tend to the chickens in the morning, tidy up and make breakfast for your mother before she goes out to the market to sell the eggs.

The morning dew that sits atop the grass kisses at your shins as you trudge towards the coop, face lit by the oncoming sunrise. The sky shifts from deep blue to a lighter blue to purples and pinks until the sun finally reaches the top of the sky.

As you get closer to the coop, you hear the familiar and pesky repetitive clucks, appreciative that the coop is farther out into the yard and not by your window.

You slide the coop door open, stepping to the side as they rush out with curiosity.

“Mornin’ kids,” You start before emptying out their dirty water, tossing it into the grass before turning on the hose to fill up the bin.

You replace the water, give them more food, collect the eggs that are deemed ready, and hang out with them for a good thirty minutes to make sure they’re healthy and roaming around like normal. You sit on the grass, knees to your chest as you absentmindedly say hi to them when they pass by or stare at you.

Once the sun has almost fully risen, you grab the basket of eggs and make your way back into the house, slipping out of your boots before stepping inside.

The morning goes as always; Your mother wakes up, thanks you for handling the chickens, thanks you as you place her breakfast on the table, gathers all the eggs she needs to sell, and kisses your cheek before she heads out to the market.

“Kiyoomi should be here later, once I’m already home. Please make sure the spare bedroom is clean, with fresh sheets. If he happens to arrive early, be nice.”

“God, don’t act like I’m insufferable! I won’t drive him out.”

She smiles knowingly. “I know, my dear.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but swiftly turns on her heel and takes her leave.

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the spare bedroom to make sure it’s nice and welcoming for when your new guest arrives. You smooth out all the bed linen and wipe down the dressers, making all photo frames and little trinkets look presentable. It doesn't take long for you to set it all up– the bedroom has always been very empty. You wonder how it'll look like when it’s more lived-in, with boots and coats and whatever else he may carry laying around.

You slip into the kitchen and wash your hands, preparing to make lunch. With the curtains on the kitchen window drawn shut, you fail to see the man that climbs up your porch steps, eyes downcast as he raps his knuckles on the door a few times.

You freeze in your spot almost violently. It’s much too early for him to be here, and when you glance at the clock on the wall, you’re convinced that it has to be someone else– perhaps the neighbor?

Drying your hands on the apron tied to your dress, you draw back the kitchen curtain to get a little peep.

You almost squeal as you back away from the window, covering your face with your hands like you’ve just seen something you weren't supposed to– but you had just seen him. He was… big. That’s all you could think.

When you open the front door, the two of you stare at each other, silent.

Yes, he’s big. Broad shoulders, gifted with height, and his chest seems…. inviting in the military uniform he wears. You finally make eye contact with him, scanning over his handsome features, the two little beauty marks that rest atop his eyebrow, the pretty curve of his lips—

“Hello,” He says with an air of formality, and you clutch at the skirt of your dress.

“Hi… hi.”

He stares at you blankly.

“I, ah— come in, Kiyoomi,” You start, standing to the side as he takes off his boots and leaves them by the door, following diligently as you lead him to his room. He doesn’t even spare a glance to look around the house, eyes trained on your back.

“Here,” You say, opening the door to his room. “The bathroom is down the hall, my room is right there– right across, and my mother’s room is the farthest one down the hallway. There’s a, um, study if you'd ever like to read or spend some time in there. Do as you like,” You explain gently, a warm smile on your features. “I was just making lunch. Are you hungry? Would you like some?”

“No thank you,” He says immediately, looking down at you. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“Of course! My mother should be here in a few hours. For now, the house is all yours– er, ours, but– well, yeah, yours…” You trail off with embarrassment, looking into his eyes for help, hoping he’ll finish your sentence or laugh it off with you.

He doesn't.

As soon as you back away and start walking back to the kitchen, he shuts the door softly and coupes himself up in there.

You frown to yourself, remembering your mother’s words. He seems very reserved, let him be, he’s been through a lot.

You do just that, careful to not make any noise as you prepare lunch, then sit by yourself at the table to eat. There’s a light clink and clatter of the dishes as you wash them, but you can only hope he doesn’t mind.

Noon turns into night and you’re still alone. You haven’t heard Kiyoomi leave the room or rummage around at all. It’s like he never even arrived.

You’re not surprised when your mother comes home and deems the house empty (besides you being there) and exclaims that the both of you must rush and start working on dinner because Kiyoomi deserves nothing but the best. You feel your skin prickle hot for some reason. She wasn’t wrong, but if Kiyoomi had heard her say it, it sounded like she was one of those old ladies who desperately fawn over younger men. You didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You laughed nervously and bumped her hip with yours, quietly telling her that he had already arrived.

She gasps dramatically, hand flying to her heart as she scolds you.

“Why didn’t you invite him out here to sit with you? Has he eaten lunch? Did you offer him lunch? Goodness, my dear, this is no way to host someone. Ask him to step out! Did you show him around the house, at least? Oh, heavens– did you change the sheets?”

Your ears feel terrifyingly warm, knowing very well that your mother was loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear her through closed doors. Just thinking of him overhearing you get scolded made you want to scuffle away and complain in embarrassment to the chickens.

“My apologies, miss.”

The both of you whirl around to see Kiyoomi, who looks absolutely delightful, you think.

His curls are mussed as if he had been sleeping, uniform ditched for a skimpy white undershirt tucked into some slacks, the planes of his chest peeking out and greeting you handsomely. The dog tags that are strung along the chain around his neck glint in the kitchen light, almost like they’re saying Hi. “It’s not her fault, I assure you– I had turned down her offer for lunch, and I just wanted some time to myself after arriving. No hard feelings at all.”

He speaks in such a collected and calm manner, and his face and eyes look empty. He’s good at containing all his emotions.

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. “Oh, my lovely Kiyoomi!” She rushes towards him and cups his face, smushing his cheeks in her hands, beaming up at him. The action makes his eyes widen, hands immediately flying up to push hers away, but he stops himself just in time and lets them fall back to his sides.

“How you’ve grown! My goodness, it’s been ages, my love, please– please sit down, we’ll make some soup, okay? Just rest. Tell us, how have you been? Any good stories?”

She greets him like a mother would, and for a second, you think you see his features relax. Not wanting to get caught ogling at him, you turn and face the cutting board, lining up all the vegetables needed for the soup.

The two talk the entire time, your mother silently leaving the task of cooking up to you. You don’t mind at all, keeping your back to the both of them to hide the look of shyness on your face. Every time Kiyoomi speaks, you feel your hands stutter.

The conversation is mostly your mother gushing over him and how much he’s grown, telling him he’s such a handsome young man, asking him how his trip over here went, and then she asks him if there is a woman in his life. You know that it would be normal for him to feel a little flabbergasted from such a question, but you don’t know why you feel so embarrassed as well.

You figure it’s because if he says he does have a special someone in his life, your mother would turn around and berate you (in front of him) for not being ‘out there’ enough and for not seeing someone already.

To your surprise, he weakly mentions that no, he doesn’t have anyone like that in his life. He quickly excuses it by saying that he had been too busy during the war to worry about such things.

Your mother laughs good-naturedly, flailing her hand around, “Oh, of course. Silly me!”

By the time your mother opens her mouth to tell him that there are plenty of riveting people around town that he may like, you announce with your back still facing them, “Soup’s ready.”

You serve your mother and Kiyoomi, keeping your head down as you approach him and place his bowl on the table. He thanks you in a quiet, rumbly voice that makes you go completely still for a split second.

Conversation dies down as the three of you eat. Your mother has pulled out as much as she can from Kiyoomi. He avoided a lot of questions about the war, about his experiences, about what he saw. You can’t help but wonder.

Your mother interrupts the silence as she subtly turns to face you.

“How are the vegetables doing?”

“Growing,” Is all you respond as you stuff another spoonful of soup into your mouth. She’s grasping at straws to not let the atmosphere turn awkward.

You figure that if Kiyoomi is going to be staying here, may as well be casual, treat him like anyone else (despite the fact that he looks like he came down straight from Heaven).

You shift in your chair, the wood creaking. “Tomorrow, could you buy some more flower seeds from the market? You can pick which. I need to fill in the spaces that were crushed yesterday from all the people.”

Her eyes light up, “Of course, dearie. Thank you for reminding me.”

The two of you talk about mundane things for the rest of dinner, topics you usually discuss. Kiyoomi finds it comforting. Makes him feel more at home.

The next morning, you rise before the sun kisses the sky, as always.

You pull on the short linen clothing you use for working, old stains of mud and grass forever tainting the articles. As quietly as you can, you pad around the house before reaching the back porch, tugging on your work boots before stepping into the fresh morning grass.

Unbeknownst to you, Kiyoomi is also an early riser, a habit that he has cultivated over years of training. He watches you from the backyard’s dutch door, the top half open. He rests his elbows on the bottom half and leans forward, watching and listening as you greet and coo at the chickens like they’re your children. His eyebrows twitch up when he hears you reprimand one– Stop putting grass in the water, Harold!

After you dump out the water, you pick up the water bucket and take it over to the pump, working the water into it. With your back turned to Kiyoomi, you don’t hear as he steps through the grass towards you.

“Good morning,” He greets politely, and you yelp.

Whirling around with the half-full bucket in hand, the water flies out and crashes right into him, soaking his torso and the entirety of his pants.

You drop the bucket.

“Oh my gosh– oh, Kiyoomi— I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, oh my goodness– I didn’t– I’m so sorry—”

You're petting his torso worriedly, as if your hands will soak up all the water that has been spilled. He knows you have good intentions and are just trying to help somehow get the water to dry, but your touch makes him stiffen.

You’re repeating that you're sorry, and the more that you ramble on, the more he can hear the tremor in your voice as you squeak and swallow and try to push this upcoming embarrassment down. Kiyoomi lifts his hands and places them right on your arms, completely stilling you. “It's fine.”

It comes out clipped, like it's not really fine, but you can’t tell if he's annoyed. His face remains stoic.

“I’m so sorry,” You whisper.

“It's okay. You weren't aware that I was here. I understand.”

You look over him again, the bottom half of his cotton shirt soaked and his pants clinging onto his legs like paint. You’re so embarrassed and ashamed that you can't even find it in yourself to admire him.

“You’ll– you’ll get sick. Let’s go inside,” You plead, stepping away from his touch and gathering your skirt in your hands to run back into the house, hastily kicking off your boots before prying the bottom half of the door open.

He watches you scurry around the house to make him some tea, pouring water into the kettle and sorrowfully letting him know it’s gonna take a few minutes. You advise that he changes but don’t push it on him too much, not wanting to be over controlling.

He disappears into the room and shuts the door, and you plop onto the dining table chair. Resting your head in your hands, you mentally chastise yourself for messing up like this, and on the first day that he's been here, too.

The kettle whistles. You pick yourself up to see Kiyoomi already looking at you, in a pair of clean clothes. Embarrassment crawls up your spine.

“I’m sorry.” You say again, turning to silence the kettle and pour the water into a mug before adding a few loose tea leaves.

“I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I know, I know but– I’m really sorry.”

He only sighs. You take that as a sign he’s frustrated.

“I’m stepping back outside,” You say, “Still have to get stuff done.”

He nods stiffly. You walk with your tail between your legs to the backyard porch, putting on your boots and this time shutting both halves of the dutch door.

You confide and whine to the chickens as you clean up and spread out their food.

Despite the incident, Kiyoomi insists that he help you out in the mornings. He follows you out to the back porch and manages to slip past the threshold before you can shut the bottom half of the dutch door to trap him inside (he can always just open the door and walk by, but you tell him it’s the prospect of trapping him inside that matters the most. His eyebrow twitches at that).

He lingers as you talk to the chickens, which you do quietly now that you know that he’s there. He pretends to look away when you tell Harold good morning.

When you finish saying your greetings to the birds, you tell him to go back inside. This is your job only and he should take this time to rest or get some extra hours of sleep– but he insists. He tells you he can’t sleep for any longer, he’s spent years rising early and getting straight to work and if he were to lay in bed he’d just lay restless.

You know your mother will scold you later, but you offer him some work to do anyway. You tell him to replace the water while you give them fresh food. And he does so gladly, falling into a rhythm with you that, if a stranger looked at the scene, would convince them that he belongs here and always has.

There’s this sort of look of serenity on his face, like he’s content to be doing something rather than staying in the house (which is what your mother has been pressuring him to do).

The rising sun kisses his face, reminding you of his beauty. His skin practically glows and you can’t help but let your eyes linger on the moles on his forehead.

In this kind of lighting, you see faded scars on his hands and arms, earned from hardwork and fighting and war and other things you cannot even imagine. They make him seem gruff (more than he already is) and in a way, scary. But the way he handles the chickens and the land and the water with such a tender touch tells you otherwise. For a brief second, you wonder if he would hold you with such care as well. You shoo the thought away.

Kiyoomi stays with you while you watch over the chickens. He stands while you sit on the grass.

“Talk to them,” You encourage.

He lifts an eyebrow. “And what should I say?”

“Ask them how they are.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat and looks at one of the chickens, “My… My dear Harold,” He starts, “I hope you are in good health.”

You laugh, “So formal, Sakusa.”

He finds himself humming. Humming. Humming in amusement.

When you're done with the chickens, you tell him he can go back inside and relax while you check up on all the vegetables, but he tells you he wants to help with that too.

You untie your apron and start checking on and picking the ripe vegetables, bundling them in the cloth. Kiyoomi, truthfully, seems a little lost as he handles pulling out the vegetables and leafy greens with a sort of hesitance as if he’s afraid to hurt them. You scoot over closer to him and offer some help.

“They won’t cry in agony, Kiyoomi.”

“I–” He starts, embarrassed. “You mistake me.”

“How so?”

He doesn’t answer, runs out of excuses. Suddenly Kiyoomi thinks the sun feels warmer when your hands brush over his own to guide him, encouraging him to pluck at the vegetables. He gets the hang of it, bundling up all the produce in your apron before the two of you make your way back inside.

When your mother sees the both of you step in, kicking off your boots and hands stained with dirt, she tsks at you.

“I specifically told you not to ask for any help.”

Embarrassment blooms in the depths of your chest. Getting scolded in front of Kiyoomi will be the death of you. You want to defend yourself but you don’t want to throw him under the bus, either. You hold the bundle of vegetables and greens closer to your chest, almost protectively.

“She did no such thing,” Kiyoomi interjects before your mother can continue. He stands tall, seems bigger, voice collected but strong enough to cause the both of you to jump. It’s been ages since you and your mother have been in the presence of someone as powerful as Kiyoomi.

He visibly slackens, clears his throat. “She didn’t ask for my help– told me to go inside, actually. I took it upon myself to help her.”

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, tone suddenly sweet and forgiving. “I see.”

The silence that rests between the three of you could pierce your ears. You skitter into the kitchen to wash all that you’ve collected and leave your mom and Kiyoomi alone. In a matter of seconds, she’s already cooing at him and telling him that there’s no need for him to be working, it’s fine if he wants to rest inside, there’s plenty of time for him to spend his days off. He’s silent in response.

After you make breakfast and your mother leaves for the market, you gather all the dishes and make a beeline for the sink, pouring hot water over the dishes to scrub them clean.

Kiyoomi follows up behind you, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, bunching it up right above his elbows. You watch as he leans forward to grab a washcloth, swallowing when you see his dog tags swing low as he dips down. They clink back onto his chest when he stands upright.

“Thank you,” He says suddenly, eyes focused on the plate in his hands as he wipes it in a circular motion.

“What for? I should be the one thanking you, Kiyoomi. You defended me in front of my mother.”

He takes a second to formulate what he wants to say. “I must thank you for letting me work with you. I know your mother has good intentions, and I appreciate that she insists I rest.”

You tilt your head up at him, silently asking if he will continue.

Kiyoomi, unbeknownst to you, is facing an internal battle with himself. Years of being in war and surrounded by men who believe vulnerability is weakness often leaves him staying quiet in moments where he wishes to speak. He mulls over what he wants to say again, wondering if you’d laugh him off and tell him to not be silly. But he knows that you sense something is up, your eyes taking on a glimmer of understanding and kindness before you look down at your plate. “I won’t force it out of you, Kiyoomi.”

He looks at you affectionately, but you miss it as you stack the plate on the counter.

“Well, since you’re practically pleading me to share my thoughts, I’ll tell you.”

That makes you laugh. You laugh a gentle little laugh, and Kiyoomi has to turn back and face the dishes so that he doesn’t lose his thoughts.

“Your mother, I… I know she means no harm. I know that she may believe that I need rest and time and some sort of recuperation period. I don’t mean to be rude, but she… it feels as if she is doing worse than good, for me.”

You nearly freeze on the spot, worried about what he’ll say next. You’re scared that you and your mother have ruined his whole stay.

Kiyoomi breathes out your name, “I assure you that I am not a wounded dog that must be left alone to rest and sleep the pain away. I want to live a normal life, now. I’ve faced enough estrangement in the war. Please, allow me to work and live with you just as anyone else would.”

It’s a simple, simple request. A simple request that would have anyone cheering and clapping and showing him to the damaged flowers in the front yard and putting him right to work. It’s a simple request that makes your heart clench and twist in the caverns of your chest, knowing that he wants to live a life of normality and serenity. Knowing that he has opened up to you about being shunned away. It makes you feel trusted, and in a way, sought out.

You’re silent for a beat too long and Kiyoomi looks like he wants to scrub away all the words he just said with the way he resumes at washing his plate. As you set another one to dry, you tell him calmly, to prevent the feeling of pity arising in the air, “Of course, Kiyoomi.”

The corners of his lips twitch up when you tell him the bushes out front need to be trimmed.

You tell your mother of Kiyoomi’s request that same night, and she scoffs and frowns and throws a little fit before she caves. She initially insists that you only give him light work, but eats up her words at the glower you throw her way.

He helps you trim the bushes, the weeds, helps you with the vegetables and the chickens and watches eagerly as you prepare food so that he can take on that task later on.

You stir the soup around in the pot, sprinkling in some herbs and seasonings to add some more flavor. He asks you how much you use, you tell him you just know in your heart when to stop. When the kitchen falls quiet, you pick on him and teasingly ask, And how should you cook? And he answers, suppressing a laugh and an eye roll, With love.

You peer down into the pot.

“Okay. Kiyoomi, I am trusting you to deem it ready. Have a taste. The fate of this dinner falls on you.”

He bites his cheek at your dramatics.

You bring the ladle up to his lips and Kiyoomi has to lean forward a little to meet you halfway. You press the spoon to his lips and he lets the liquid in, his eyes locked on yours as he takes a sip. You feel small in some invigorating, exciting way.

He pulls away to think about the taste. “A little more rosemary.”

You eye him carefully but take his word, dipping the ladle back into the pot and sprinkling in a few more leaves. After a few stirs, you scoop the liquid back into the spoon and hold it up to him again.

He leans forward without being told, almost eager to have you press it to his mouth. Again, he keeps his eyes trained on your face as he has a taste.

When you pull the ladle away, he remains close to you, face inches away from your own.

Your fingers twitch.

“Yes,” He breathes out, your lashes flutter. “It’s ready. Made with love.”

You can’t tell if your mind is playing tricks on you, but he seems to be inching closer and closer, your grip tightening on the end of the ladle as you start freezing up, debating whether or not to shut your eyes.

You watch as his pretty eyes close, and with your heart leaping and palms sweating around the ladle from nervousness and the heat that remains in the small space between you two, you let your eyes slip shut.

You know it– you know it, it’s coming, his lips right against yours, you think you can already taste him—

“I’ve arrived early!”

The both of you jump backwards and the ladle collides with the floor.

“S-Sorry,” You whisper to Kiyoomi, picking up the ladle and tossing it in the sink before grabbing a different one off the kitchen rack. His shoulders sag and you think you hear him sigh, but he composes himself quickly as your mother makes her way into the kitchen.

She sees the two of you in front of the soup pot and beams, missing how stiff the both of you look and how you’re wiping your sweaty hands on your apron.

“Teaching Kiyoomi how to cook? Good! Good good, more men should partake in household chores. I cannot wait to taste how Kiyoomi’s soup comes out, should he cook for us soon.”

He nods curtly, watching as you dip the new ladle into the liquid. You look shaken up, movements jagged and nervous, and he fears he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Did you teach him the most fundamental lesson in cooking, dearie?”

At that, a smile slips onto your face.

“Yes. Cook with love.”

When the three of you eat dinner together, Kiyoomi mulls over the fact that it was made with love. Your love. He wants to eat so much that he feels full of your affections. He wants so much of it that he cannot help but decline anyone else who offers food, because he’ll be full of your love.

You two never bring up the almost-kiss. Kiyoomi is scared that he’s pushed a boundary and you’re scared that you misread the situation– so the two of you remain silent and try to fall back into the familiar pattern of days, the rhythm you two share.

The tension is nearly unbearable when the two of you are less than two feet apart. It almost hurts. It hurts Kiyoomi to look at you so longingly and you never notice. It hurts you when you try to scoot a little closer and all he does is move away. You think it's because he's disgusted with you. He just wants you to feel comfortable.

Days pass and the both of you pack the incident up and back away into the furthest crevice in your minds. Everything seems alright again– you both talk to the chickens, trim the flowers and cook dinner by each other's side.

You’re preparing to cook and pull your apron off the hook rack that’s nailed right by the kitchen entrance. Kiyoomi watches as you slip it on and watches when you huff in frustration as you try to reach behind yourself and tie it off. Your arms start getting sore from the awkward position they've been in, the apron straps unraveling again and again in protest. You’re about to let the damn thing flail loose until you hear Kiyoomi clear his throat behind you.

“Let me help.”

Your cheeks burn.

He delicately takes the straps into his hands, making the base knot against your back and pulling it. “Is that good?”

It’s a little loose.

“Tighter, please.”

He pulls. It’s almost like you’re drawn backward, nearly knocking into his chest. He starts tying up a little bow and you feel the brush of his fingers against the small of your back, shivers running up your spine and shoulders. You have to hold yourself back from twitching.

“There,” He says, taking a step back and admiring his handiwork. He keeps his eyes trained on the bow, tries to hold himself back from drinking in your entire figure.

It’s oddly domestic, intimate. It has you drifting off in thought, has you confirming all your wonders about his touch that had crowded your mind ever since that day when you saw him pull out the vegetables. He is gentle. You can only hope that the softness of his touch is a testament to his feelings (more specifically, his feelings about you).

You cough. You make it awkward. You thank him in a quiet, choked up voice before gathering all the pots needed for dinner before scrambling away to start on the food. Kiyoomi thinks he made you uneasy and this time, stands farther away from you when you show him how to prepare the food. Your heart aches at the same time as his. Both of you are back to square one.

The following days are painfully repetitive. It’s a cycle of the two of you falling back into place, and then your hands brush his, or you catch him staring, or you lean in too close to him, and then the both of you are creating more distance and relapsing into silence and copious amounts of space.

On this particular night, the two of you are sitting far apart, him on the rocking chair with an open book, and you on the other side of the living room, pressed into the far corner of the couch, embroidery hoop in hand.

You could trick yourself into thinking that there’s a sense of peace that blankets the two of you, a scene of quiet comfort and domesticity before there’s a dull knock on the door.

You both freeze. You’re the first one to get up to go check, and Kiyoomi is a little too late in his reaction as he tries to tell you that he’ll get it, a weird sense of protectiveness overcoming him.

The door is already open and the air is knocked out of your lungs.

Before you stands a tall, handsome man, brown hair slightly disheveled, a smile growing as he looks down at you. He is very attractive. But not as charming as Kiyoomi, a voice in your head whispers.

“Well, well, well,” He starts, leaning onto the door frame. “Didn’t know Omi was staying with a pretty little lady.”

“Miya,” You hear from behind you, nearly jumping as your skin burns hot knowing there are two striking men trapping you.

“Ah! My old friend!” The man cheers, his eyes searching yours for approval to step inside. Without any hesitation, you grant him access, slowly backpedaling into Kiyoomi’s chest with a squeak before he moves out of the way, the two of you letting the man inside (much to Kiyoomi’s dismay).

“Miya,” Kiyoomi starts again, gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be like that, my good friend,” The man, Miya, repeats. “Hurts when you address me by last name.”

Kiyomi doesn’t retort. He won’t play into the man’s tricks of beating around the bush.

Finally, he fesses up.

“Bo and Shoyo and I are going to meet up at the pub in a bit, thought you’d like to come along.”

You see Kiyoomi make a face.

“I have suffered enough from your presence over the last few years. Please do not try to rope me back into your antics.”

“Omi!” The grown man whines, face falling before he remembers that you’re standing there. Slowly, his face shifts into a wicked smile, and Kiyoomi’s frown deepens.

“Ah ah ah,” He starts, dipping down and leaning in closer as if he’s examining you. “I know why you’re so adamant about staying. Find yourself a pretty little wife?”

The both of you choke.

You’re about to protest, but Kiyoomi is pushing Miya out the door, effectively letting you hide behind the broad expanse of his back, but you peek out from behind him to see what’s happening.

“If I– If I go with you this time, will you swear to not come back?”

“Don’t be like that, Omi.”

“Miya.”

“Just say Atsumu! And fine! I won’t visit after this. Won’t steal your pretty lady away.”

“You are unbearable.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Kiyoomi turns around to face you, face irritated.

“I’ll be on my way. I should be back before it gets too dark out. Please stay safe.”

You give him a meek goodbye as you watch him pull his coat from the rack next to the door and slide it on, watch closely as he threads his arms through the sleeves, watch as the article fits snugly against his form, watch as he again proves that he is a sight for sore eyes.

After you shut and lock the door, you rush to the kitchen window to get a peek at the both of them descending the porch stairs, watch as Atsumu laughs and hangs close to Kiyoomi as the latter tries again and again to maintain the space between them and throws unimpressed looks his way.

When your mother comes home, you tell her Kiyoomi went out with his friends. She smiles and thanks the heavens, happy that he’s finally getting out there. She tells you she hopes he finds someone he may like while he’s out.

You only hum in response.

Hours pass and Kiyoomi is still out. You and your mother have already eaten dinner and she’s already fast asleep. You’re already in your nightgown and tired of waiting around.

You step outside and stand by the chicken coop. You watch them sleep and some of them scatter around and you talk to them as if you’re sending wishes to the universe. Tell them you hope Kiyoomi is okay. Tell them you hope he gets home safe.

As soon as you’re stepping back inside the house, there are drunken laughs and weak knocks at the front door. Not wanting to seem too excited, you take a few deep breaths to pass time before you hear that Miya boy holler out a muffled Pretty lady, come and get him! Which is nearly cut off by a familiar groan. Kiyoomi throws some swear words around.

You open the door and find that the two of them were using it as support as they nearly fall into you. Atsumu catches you before you can trip on your own feet and fall backward.

“Hi,” He breathes out into your face, and you have to hold back from scrunching your nose. He smells of liquor but his steady arms keep you rooted in place, his physique nearly swallowing you whole.

“Hello,” You start, hyper aware of how you look and if you have any blemishes on your face and how close the two of you are, but before you can think of anything else to find a flaw in, Atsumu is pulled back by Kiyoomi.

“Stop terrorizing my host,” Kiyoomi hiccups out, trying his hardest to remain stern and imposing, but his friend only laughs brightly.

Atsumu slurs out your name, “You must know,” He starts, leaning his arm on the door frame, trying to pose coolly. “Omi mentioned you an awful lot tonight. Think he might have taken a—”

“Miya.”

“Yes, my most beloved Omi,” Atsumu professes, cheeks pink and dewy from all the alcohol. “I’ll leave you two be.”

He clumsily spins on his heel, trips on his way down the steps, and crushes another flower bush.

Your eyes flash with pain and Kiyoomi shuts the door before you can see Atsumu trip into anything else. He’s rather good at composing himself, straightening his face and posture as he looks at you.

“Would you like some dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

You find out soon that Kiyoomi is mouthy when he’s drunk. After you reheat what was left over from dinner and slide the plate towards him, he asks that you sit down with him. His face flashes with disappointment when you sit across from him instead of right by his side.

In his drunken state, he spills all that he’s kept inside without you even needing to probe. Tells you he plans to get going soon, has his eye on a place, tells you he's ready to move on and start life from scratch. He tells you he's tired of you avoiding him like the plague, but there's no malice behind his voice– only pure disappointment, like he’s sulking. At that, you perk up and lean forward, guiltily trying to fish some more out of him.

“Hate that you stay so far away,” He grumbles before stuffing his fork in his mouth. “Always jumping and skittering around me like I’m, I’m– frightening. Hate that you think I’m scary.”

He hates that you keep your distance, hates that you've deemed him untouchable, hates that you see him as some warlord man who will crush you beneath the soles of his shoes if you utter something incorrectly.

“Miya,” He suddenly blurts, and for a second you think he thinks you’re the man that just left.

“Miya told me to confess to you.”

Your blood runs cold. Confess…?

Kiyoomi is quiet after that, finishing up his food with sad eyes. He wants more and more and more, any drop of your love that he can get, he will take it.

You don't ask if he means confessing by telling you all that he hates or if he means confessing something else. Something else that has your stomach stirring, heart doing odd twists as your fist the skirt of your dress. It's hard to think about it when he's right in front of you and slurring his words and clumsily pushing his plate away. It's something you must think about later, in the solace of your own room.

When he’s done, you help him shrug off his coat, watch as the expanse of his back reveals himself to you. You guide him to his room, expecting him to close the door as soon as he steps in again, but this time, he turns to face you and leans on the frame. He swallows as he looks over you, eyes droopy and tired, and he looks so vulnerable in this light. He’s loosened up, mouth parted only slightly as he lets his eyes wander where he usually doesn't when sober, lets his mind think what he usually holds back on any other day.

He breathes out your name. You look up at him curiously.

“I wish you could come with me.”

You stiffen. You gently place your hands on his chest and push him back into his room slowly– your touch makes him smile.

“Goodnight, Kiyoomi,” is all you say.

“Goodnight, angel.”

Just like the almost-kiss, neither of you bring up what Kiyoomi said that night. It's an elephant in the room– at least, to you. You’re not sure if Kiyoomi even remembers what he said. (He does).

The two of you delve into another game of dancing around each other in circles, putting on a show that makes it seem like everything's alright and that your hearts don’t ache. Neither of you are aware that when night falls and you're in your respective rooms, the both of you dwell and worry about what you've said and done.

As of late, Kiyoomi hasn't been around. He still helps you with his morning tasks, but after breakfast, he slips out of the house and tells you he will be searching around town for work with his friend Miya. You know that he doesn't owe you any explanations, but some part of you appreciates it.

(Kiyoomi knows this, too. He wants you to know he isn't seeking anyone else out there).

Day in and day out, he's around less and less. You start to think that Kiyoomi is now trying to get rid of his feelings ever since you didn't exactly reciprocate what he said that night, when he was drunk.

One heartbreaking evening, Kiyoomi announces that he’ll be leaving soon over dinner. Your mother has a big smile on her face as she congratulates him and cups his face and cries on and on about how proud she is and that he deserves all the best. You nod along to everything that she says, but your vision blurs and all the twines of your fork blend together and it’s hard to see what you’re eating. It's even harder to hold back your sniffles as she starts asking him where he’ll move and where he’ll be working and if he's met anyone. She's always on his back about that last one. It makes your heart feel bitter and heavy.

The next morning, your mother insists that she go out to the market and get Kiyoomi some farewell gifts. He reassures her that she doesn't really have to, tries to convince her to stay as she's already putting on her coat, and then she's walking out the door.

Kiyoomi asks if you could help him tidy up before he leaves. It’s more of a statement than a question, so you oblige.

You help him take off his sheets and load them into a basket to wash later. You wipe down the dresser and the desk, help sweep the floors, help him fold his clothing neatly so that his suitcase shuts securely.

When everything's done, you wipe your hands nervously on your apron and give him a curt nod, turning to leave the room.

“Stay,” He suddenly blurts, fists clenching at his sides. “I have to tell you something before I go.”

And so you turn and face him, letting your hands fall to your sides. He steps closer to you.

“Before I go,” He starts, eyes scanning your face for any emotion, but he gets nothing. You look numb.

“I don’t expect anything from you in return, but I must tell you, or else I don’t think I can live with myself. You,” He hesitates, feeling like he instead wants to turn away and save it for another day.

The curious glimmer in your eye pulls him back in.

“You have captured my heart,” Kiyoomi says breathlessly, “The entirety of my soul. I have no regrets in opening myself up to you, in letting you in, and I can say that you have made me a better man. I want to be vulnerable with you as I am now, time and time again. I want us to be one, but to be our own all at once.”

His eyes search yours frantically, “I love you.”

Your mouth drops open.

Hands shaky, you try smoothing out your dress and formulating a response, the right response, one that tells him you feel the same.

Kiyoomi begins to lean away, taking a step back, face calm. “As I’ve said, I don’t expect anything from you in return. You can leave, if you wish.”

You stay rooted still.

“Kiyoomi,” You finally squeak, voice cracking like you're on the verge of tears. The tone of it makes him stand up a little straighter, like he's worried about what he's done, but then you're beckoning him forward with your hand.

He comes in closer, approaching you like you’re injured- gentle and calm like he mustn't startle you any further. You try to lean into him, try to pull him closer, hands wrapping around his shirt and bringing him towards yourself, voice shaky as you manage to get out, “And I you.”

It’s all he needs. It’s all he needs before he’s dipping down, lips slotting against your own as you sigh out wantonly. Days and weeks and months of pent up feelings and unspoken words all pour out in one kiss, a kiss that has you stumbling backward and grasping at his shirt, his hands roaming down your back and pulling you into him, closer and closer and closer, like he is going to fuse the two of you together.

(He wants to).

It isn’t long until you find yourself pressed into his bed, both of your clothes thrown into some corner of the room, underwear torn off as he hovers above you, licking into your mouth and grinding against your cunt.

“Kiyoomi,” You whimper once he pulls away. “Please.”

He dips down again to kiss and nip at your chest, the metal of his tags stinging your skin and giving you shivers. Kiyoomi hums into your shoulder, licks a stripe up your neck before lifting himself off the bed, planting his hands on your hips. He drags you closer to him, lifting you up as he drags his cock over your warmth.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he groans as he slips in, eyes falling shut when you immediately flutter around him. Kiyoomi almost falters, almost curls in on himself and leans atop of you again before he collects himself and starts dragging his cock in and out, hissing at the way you clamp down on him.

It’s a build up, Kiyoomi starting gentle and slow until you’re bucking up your hips and whining at him to go faster, till the only thing you can get out is a weak string of please please please.

Kiyoomi cages you beneath him again as he starts drilling into you, broken cries slipping past your lips as your hands race up and down his back, leaving light scratches that make him moan so prettily right by your ear.

He brings his hands to your thighs, pushing them up and trapping them against your chest and your eyes roll back, body falling pliant to him. He’s so close, all up in your face and humming about how wet you are for him, how fucking good you feel, how you’re made for me, doll, all for me.

His breath fans your face as he thrusts into you desperately, making the bed shake. The tags on his chain bump into your chin, clinking softly like little chimes and bringing you back time and time again as your mind spirals under the feeling of him pounding into you. Kiyoomi grunts and lifts himself up for the fastest second, taking the tags in hand and ripping the chain off his neck, metal grazing the wood floor as it slides away. His irritation with it makes you want to laugh, but the sound gets caught in your throat as his cock hits the sweetest spot in you, making your toes curl as you cry out his name.

He watches you as your hands sneak down, nimble fingers spreading apart your folds to try and get a good look at his length sliding in and out of you. Kiyoomi looks down, watches the spot where the two of you meet, watches as his dick comes out covered in slick before pushing himself back in.

“Fuck, fuck, angel, you’re so– so good, such a good girl for me.”

Your head bobbles up and down in a nod, weakly whimpering out his name, “I want to cum, please let me– let me cum all over you, Kiyoomi!”

He shudders, hand coming up to grab at your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me when you cum.”

You sob out pathetically, legs shaking and twitching as you tighten around him, gushing for what seems like hours until you fall limp, tears invading your vision. Kiyoomi murmurs praises into your cheek before planting both hands on your hips again, using you to reach his high, and you let him, let yourself be his little doll.

You feel his warm seed trickle into you, stomach fluttering at the sensation before he collapses on top of you.

Kiyoomi nestles his face into your chest for a few minutes before rolling onto his side, cupping your cheek with his big hand. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, trying to scoot in closer to him, albeit weakly.

“I love you, Kiyoomi.”

He smiles. He’s beautiful, you think. He opens his mouth to return the affection, your hand coming up to brush his curls away, but there’s a telltale sound at the door that alarms the both of you.

In an instant, you two are up, laughing and tripping over your own feet, Kiyoomi hustling into his slacks as you awkwardly slide your dress back on, thumping into the footboard of the bed as your mother chirps out like a bird, “I’m home!”

“Your mother,” Kiyoomi says in a hushed tone, leaning close to you as he buttons up his shirt, “Always has to go and interrupt us.”

You smile up at him cheekily, and he catches the mischievousness in your eyes.

“Just means that you must take me with you, I presume?”

You step out into the grass of the backyard, the sun already hanging in the sky since you’re a little bit late to your task. Nonetheless, you head straight towards the chicken coop and unfasten the doors, the chickens pouring out and clucking around obnoxiously, as they always have. The rest is muscle memory– throw out the old water, replace it, add in fresh food, sit with the chickens. The familiarity of it all soothes you– not that you need soothing. You simply feel in touch with your roots again.

“Good morning, Harold.” You jeer at one particular chicken, who eyes you warily. You laugh. “Now don’t be jealous, I’ll always come back to check on you.”

He gives an approving cluck.

You gather yourself and get back up, slipping off your boots on the back porch. As you approach the dutch door, you see someone already leaning onto the bottom half of it, a little bouquet in hand.

“He told me to give this to you,” Your mother swoons, holding out the bundle of flowers to you. A laugh bubbles at your lips as you observe the flowers, holding the stems together, “Aren’t these from the front yard? Such a romantic,” You joke, rolling your eyes as you make your way inside. You tuck the flowers into one of your mother’s vases to keep them safe.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” You call out, despite it already being later in the day and, technically, lunch time would be rolling around.

“Oh no no,” You mother gasps, a sound that you had become all too familiar with when Kiyoomi was around, when she’d clutch her chest in shock.

“You rest, my dear, I’ll start working on the food.”

“Mother,” You press, “You need to go rest. That’s the exact reason why we came over here!”

“Nonsense!” She chimes, pushing you down to sit at the dining table as she pads over to the kitchen. You remain still for a few moments to appease her, but then the front door creaks open and you’re on your feet immediately.

“Hi lover,” You say almost bashfully as Kiyoomi approaches you, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he sinks down to kiss your forehead, your chin, your lips.

“Hi, my little doll,” he mutters against you before pulling away. “Did you like the flowers I got you?”

You laugh, observing the green and brown stains on his white undershirt, evidence of his hard work in the front yard. “I shouldn’t be praising a thief, seeing as you took my mother’s flowers right from her yard.”

“Oh?” He suddenly challenges, “I think this thief deserves a little praise, seeing as I successfully made your heart mine.”

You can’t help but scoff, tongue poking at your cheek with how embarrassing he is, how corny he’s become now that he’s in love.

Your mother scurries back in with two plates in hand, telling you both to Sit, sit! like dogs, and Kiyoomi looks at you with a knowing smile on his face. Always interrupting things.

As the three of you start eating, your mother points her fork accusingly at you.

“And you, my sweet girl, better eat up. You need more nutrients for when a baby is on the way.”

You choke. Kiyoomi smiles into his cup as he takes a sip.

“We’re not expecting,” You scold, stabbing your fork into your food. “You can’t just say things like that, mother—”

“How come? You never know! With the two of you in that new big home, you’ll surely want to fill in some space. You’re young! There’s no shame!”

“You’re the one who may as well fill up the space, visiting nearly every day!”

“Oh honey, I’m just excited for you—”

The bickering is all in good fun, Kiyoomi knows. He takes your hand into his underneath the table, finger brushing against the golden band that encompasses your own.

Yes, he thinks to himself, heart swelling. Perhaps it’s time to start filling up the space.

#sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #kiyoomi x reader #sakusa smut #sakusa kiyoomi smut #hq x reader #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #sakusa fluff

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shanastoryteller · 9 months

Note

Happy holidays! Lady mo please?

a continuation of 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Jiang Yanli does not often feel old. Her golden core does not keep her eternally young like it does her brother, does not prevent the more persistent illnesses from plaguing her, but it does east the aches and pains non cultivators her age often complain of, does keep her skin youthful without the aid of strange poultices and she’ll probably never need dyes to keep her hair dark. But she feels old now, watching Xuanyu and Lan Wangji fumble around one another, watching her struggle for the affection of a husband who might care for her, but does not treat her with care.

At least by the time she married Zixuan, he’d told her that he loved her.

“What was all the commotion about?” Zixuan asks, arms encircling her waist as he tugs her back against his chest now that they’re back in their own quarters.

“Your cousin got drunk and pissed off the wrong people. Again.”

He huffs, his breath warm against her neck. “Yanli. You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I know A-Yao thinks I’m stupid, but even I notice servants running about and clan leaders and their wives going missing. Especially when one of them is mine.”

“A-Yao doesn’t think you’re stupid,” Jiang Yanli says, even though he kind of does. He thinks most people are stupid and Zixuan has at least grown out of taking it personally. That doesn’t mean she has to rub it in. “Xuanyu was just – a little upset. About things.”

“Lan Xichen likes her. Lan Wangji’s kid adores her. And we all saw what Lan Wangji thinks,” he says. Defending is also not the same thing as caring, but she doesn’t say that. “A-Yao even calls her our sister. Do you remember how long it took him to call me brother? It seems like it’s going well.”

If it had gone a little less well, she’d be less distraught.

Jiang Yanli is debating how much she can say without revealing Xuanyu’s pregnancy – enough people know that it won’t stay a secret for long, but Zixuan is terrible at faking surprise – when there’s a loud, frantic knocking at their door.

Zixuan frowns and goes to open the door.

“Fuck off,” slurs a familiar, beloved voice.

Jiang Yanli hides a smile and goes to stand next to her husband.

A-Cheng is standing there, sort of, considering he’s mostly being supported but a long-suffering Li Jun. “Meimei said she won’t deal with him anymore.”

“Ah,” Zixuan says, already resigned.

A-Cheng stumbles forward, grabbing her wrist and tugging her towards the table. He blearily glares at Zixuan. “Go away.”

He sighs, leaning down to kiss her and then saying, “I suppose I’ll be in a guest room.” He makes a face, remembering that the tower is full of foreign disciples. “Somewhere.”

He’s going to end up sleeping in their son’s room and A-Ling is going to complain about it. Loudly.

“Good night,” she says, barely keeping from laughing as she closes the door on Li Jun side eyeing Zixuan. Her sect has never completely forgiven Zixuan for being a teenage boy, not matter that she’s spent over a decade in the Jin rather than the Jiang.

She lets A-Cheng pull her down beside him at the table, leaning his head on his arm while he stares at her. She pours him a cup of water that she hopes he’ll drink. “Are you all out of sorts because of Xuanyu too?”

His face goes blank then it creases and he’s turns to hide it in the bend of his elbow.

With the first stirrings of genuine alarm, Jiang Yanli realizes he’s crying.

“A-Cheng? A-Cheng, what’s wrong?” she asks, putter her arm over his back and pulling him into her side like she used to when they were kids.

The words come out muffled, but he says, “I hate him. How could he – I hate him.” Then, quieter, in a tone that doesn’t match the words at all, “I hate him.”

She runs through everyone who’s here, every cultivator she saw A-Cheng speak to, but it’s a fool’s errand. No one gets to him like this. No one but –

“Wei Wuxian came back.”

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #xxqiao #untamed

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see-arcane · 2 months

Text

Jonathan is escaping just as the beginnings of brain fever and far worse things are roiling in him. Making him more ill and haggard as he traverses the Carpathians in search of a train. Running, burning, withering. Dying.

The closer he gets to death, the more he can feel Dracula's poison trying to overtake him. It's a trap waiting to spring. He knows it. Dracula knows it. Just as the Count knows the Brides let him slip away--

Ah, well, their loss. It seems you are to be mine alone after all, my friend.

--and dreams little visions his way when Jonathan dares to sleep.

Flashes of dark water and mist. Men screaming like sheep before the butcher. Slaughtered with less mercy than any farmer ever showed his livestock before being discarded like trash.

What loss are they, my friend? I have tasted the finer things. A sweet English vintage; I shall savor more of the same in time. But these? Bah! I have seen a thousand of their paltry kind come and go. I would no sooner cherish their meal than you would swoon over a cut of shoe leather. What difference is it if I play with this coarse fare? You shall learn the same habits in time.

"No. No, no, I won't, I can't. I have to go home. I have to get to her. My life is there. My life is her."

What home is that, my friend? Who is she?

He does not answer. He cannot answer. His head is all fire, burning holes through mind and memory. No, God, he must know! He must remember! He has come all this way, he must know where he's going and who is there! His nightmares fill with as much saccharine sympathy as cutting laughter. The most sincere comment he receives in the mire of it is a single reassurance:

You will recall it all, my friend. Sickness makes no mark upon us. You will know. You will be well. Some night, in this year or the next, perhaps we can go and meet her together. In the meantime, cease your struggling. I can feel your fatigue, poor boy. Put down your head. Stop running. Let it take you. Let it help you. Rest.

"No."

Rest.

"No!"

Rest.

"No, no, no--,"

He stuffs himself with berries and a hare and handfuls from a river. A ferryman takes pity--he thinks? a river, he remembers a River, the Ferryman telling him where to go, how soon the sun will rise, he doesn't know, his head, his chest, everything burning, dying--and a blur passes between himself and the train station. He was loud there. Did he scream? Sob? Bare his teeth? They shoo him away with a ticket.

(Sharp. Why do his teeth feel so sharp? Why is he so thirsty when the fluttering shapes of the nuns keep forcing water down his throat?)

(Quiet now. He cannot get through the walls here. Ha. Could not even open his journal if he tried! The crucifix is wrapped around it! Ha!)

(Stings to hold. Why? God, God, please, not now, don't don't don't, please do not do this, the nuns, they think him mad! They are of faith, but they do not believe! They do not know! They won't understand what he is when they put him in the cemetery they won't know what they invited in unawares they won't know until he is up and out of the dirt and oh O God the Cross and the Son will not save them not entirely not when he feasted on an entire mountain range of the faithful whose prayer saved no one and soon he will not need their necks only whatever meat his teeth can reach and no no no no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO--)

Something is different.

A white light twinkling in the red inferno. He knows it. It has brushed him more than once. She found him in the graveyard, weeping over the stones of his parents. How did she know then that he was there? He'd never told her.

Her.

Her who?

(Love. Darling. Soul. I know this. I know...)

Even if he cannot pierce the veil of a holy place, her presence can. It fires through his eyes--he is caught mid-kiss, the girl's head is hanging down, familiar sunny locks, who..?--and into Jonathan Harker's.

Jonathan Harker. Yes. Yes, that sounds right. And she is...

Running to him, to the nodding girl, a wisp under the moonlight coming to throw herself into danger for the sake of another, as ever and ever amen, she is--

"Mina."

"Pardon?" asks the attendant refilling his pitcher. She watches him carefully. "Did you say something young herr?"

"Mina. Mina Murray." His bloodshot eyes roll to the window. It faces the west. It faces her. Within him, something blessedly cool turns over, quelling an irate blaze. "I should like to write to her."

"I can speak with Sister Agatha about this. Who is Mina Murray, if I may ask?"

"My fiancee. And my name is Jonathan Harker. We live in Exeter." He offers a weak smile. One without sharp teeth. "My apologies for taking so long to remember it."

#having feelings about this again #Mina saved his life and his humanity without ever knowing it #jonathan harker #mina murray #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #my writing

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flseur · 9 months

Text

꒰ 𐙚 memories — satoru gojo ꒱

⟡ synopsis : after a life-changing accident, yours and satoru's lives will never be the same. he's slowly beginning to forget you and soon, it will be as if your relationship never exisited.

⟡ content warning : gn!reader, angst, hurt no comfort

౨ৎ note : i've had idea in my google docs for over two years and it was originally for a genshin chara but i wanted to change it to satoru!

when you had first heard what had happened, you hardly could believe it. some kind of weird illness that he’s suffering from after the accident. you had made it out with barely a scratch while god just continues to deal the worst hand to satoru.

survivors' guilt? no, because he’s still alive and he’s still himself, but he’s not himself.

you know that soon, instead of having love and adoration swell in his cerulean eyes, there will be nothing. not a thought about who you are, not a single memory about you.

the doctor described it as his brain resetting. he’s going to eventually lose all of his memories, including the ones before you.

everyone that knows of his condition isn’t taking it well, they’re all trying to spend as much time with him before he fades, but what about you?

you’ve never left his side since, you’ve accompanied him to every doctor's appointment, listened to all the specialists say the inevitable is going to happen and it just feels like they’re rubbing salt into an open wound.

the two of you have talked about it, terrified for the near future. years of memories that the two of you took the time to piece together like a puzzle will become one-sided. each hello, goodbye, kiss shared, spending friday nights together in your shared apartment, the hours spent together with your limbs intertwined, will all be erased.

as the months progressed, the more of satoru’s memories regressed. you both decided it would be best if he moved back in with his family, leaving you alone in a once warmth filled home to be an empty, cold shell.

initially, satoru would be the one to suggest that the two of you should visit places where the two of you have been together.

the park where you had your first date, the bookstore where you had your first kiss with each other, hiding behind the dozens of bookshelves with you giggling and satoru whispering teasing words into the shell of your ear.

eventually, the daily calls would stop. you would reach out by calling or texting and asking him if he’d want to eat dinner at the restaurant that the two of you ate at for your second anniversary and the reply would always be the same,

“sorry y/n, i’m just not up for it right now.”

the next time you called after that, there was no answer. the second time, still no answer. the third time, someone picked up.

“hey, i’m sorry but i think that you’ve been calling the wrong number.” a voice that was on the other side of the line. except there was no love in his words, no familiarity of warmth laced through his words. they were cold. empty. this was not your satoru.

“what? no? satoru, i don’t have the wrong number..”

“how do you know my name?”

“how do I know your name? satoru, we’re enga—-”

“ah, listen. i don’t know what kind of sick prank you think this is but please stop calling me. seriously, this is really uncomfortable. goodbye.”

oh.

so it happened.

he forgot.

satoru doesn’t remember you anymore. you knew it was going to happen, but you still had some sick, twisted maybe even selfish hope, that if he was going to forget everything, he’d at least be able to remember you.

unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.

“life is unfair.” is what you thought after that moment. for months after that moment. it flooded every inch of your mind, coupled with the now one-sided memories you had with satoru.

but, you’re starting to heal, you’re starting to come to terms with it after nearly 12 months.

today, your therapist said that the next step for you should be visiting the places that you’ve been avoiding. every place that you had a memory with satoru with. so you decided that you’d visit the park.

you turn the corner to enter it and come face to face with geto.

“oh? geto? how have you been?” you ask.

geto looks around nervously, like he’s trying to search for something.

“i’ve been good, y/n. i was actually just thinking about you. let’s, uh, let’s go get a cup of coffee, it’s on me. we can catch up more there and talk about sa—-”

“suguru?”

you know that voice. the voice that had once told you that he loved you over a thousand times. the voice that would whisper you sweet nothings, the voice that caused heat to run all over your body. you freeze on the spot, already feeling your eyes sting with tears.

“whose this?” gojo asks, looking towards you. his face holds no recollection of who you are whatsoever.

“shit.” geto swears under his breath. “this is, um, this is my friend, y/n.”

“hello, it’s nice to meet you. i’m gojo, suguru’s close friend.”

you purse your lips, continuing to try and hold back tears.

“oh, i almost forgot,” satoru says.

and you look up into his eyes, with the smallest glimmer of hope that he’ll remember you. who you are, what you mean to him, the love you held for each other. god, please remember me, please.

“this is my fiancée, yume.”

#𐙚 works #jujutsu kaisen #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk angst #gojo angst #gojo x reader angst #x reader #jujutsu kaisen angst #angst

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drabblesandimagines · 11 months

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Home

Leon Kennedy x female reader I just wanted to write some damsel in distress nonsense with Death Island Leon, but imagine whoever you like! Fluff - though mentions of blood, smatter of death.

Coming to, you feel as if you’re hungover - disorientated, nauseous and a sore head - but that can’t be right, you didn’t drink last night.

It takes a moment to localize the throbbing pain only to the side of your head rather than all over and, as you catch sight of blood smeared against the white tiles of the kitchen floor – something you were desperate to change as white shows up everything - you remember.

You’d been working in the home office. Leon had set it up for himself originally – you’d never been brave enough to research what the price of the beautiful mahogany desk must’ve been, but you’re always sure to use a coaster to avoid marking it. He used a laptop, so he’d insisted you utilize the space instead for your desktop when you moved in over a year ago. It was a nice house, on a quiet, suburban street – he’d bought it as a fixer-upper, a bit of a passion project. The rooms were all in various states of completion but he wanted your opinion and input.

“This is our home,” he’d stressed, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Plus, you’ll be here more than me…”

You’d heard of the conspiracy theories surrounding the Raccoon City incident. Who hadn’t stumbled down that rabbit hole before? Leon had confirmed it in vague, half-told recollections of the night a few months into your relationship after an argument about his commitment issues, and you hadn’t pressed further than that since. He told you the bare minimum so you were aware of what his work now entailed, why he had to go away for weeks at a time, why he was so desperate to keep his work and personal life separate for your safety and protection.

He accompanied you when he could to family and friends’ celebrations, charmed them all into forgiving him for his flaky appearances, but they could all see how happy you were since the two of you had got together.

You’d been wearing noise-cancelling headphones as you worked to drown out the next door neighbour’s relentless building works that had started on Monday – a basement leak meant the foundations were being fixed and the noise was horrendous - and had gone to the kitchen to make an ill-advised afternoon coffee and…

Nothing.

Well, the building works have stopped which is a positive, but that doesn’t negate the blood on the floor and your thudding head.

“Mrs Kennedy, I presume.” A man, well-dressed in an awful tight-fitting suit kneels down in front of you. He doesn’t look familiar - blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a bit of stubble, looking tired, mid-40s, you guessed. You’re confused by the way he’s addressed you – you’re not married, there’s no ring there - and he clocks the bemused expression at once. “Or perhaps you’re his whore, waiting for him to return to your little love nest, hm?”

There’s no good answer or witty comeback so you keep silent, instead trying to raise your hand to feel your head, gage how bad it is – head wounds bleed a lot, you knew that much – but your arm doesn’t comply. Your gaze finds the plastic of the zip-tie cutting into your wrist, holding it snugly against the arm of the chair you’re now seated in - dragged in from the dining room.

“Ah, yes.” He cups your chin, tilting your face back towards him in an effort to get you to focus on him. “A necessary measure. I need you to play the damsel in distress.”

“Leon’s not here,” you reply, quietly, words feeling thick on your tongue though it’s not a lie. “He’s away with work - I don’t know when he’s going to be back.”

“Oh, he’s due home very soon. I couldn’t make such a pretty thing wait for days on end.” He lets go of your chin only to place his hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You try to jerk away from his touch but find your ankles have received the same treatment as your wrists, though tethered together as if to stop you standing.

“I apologize about your head,” he stands up then, a smug look on his face as he towers over you. “I did tell my men to be gentle, but it appears one misunderstood.”

You shuffle in the chair in a pitiful attempt of relieving the pressure on your wrists. “Who are you?”

He clucks his tongue. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Kennedy’s ETA is four minutes, sir.” A gruff voice states from behind you.

“Excellent.” Your captor smiles. “I suppose he was hoping to surprise you with his arrival, hm? Nice that we can turn the surprise around on him.” He snaps his fingers at one of his subordinates, “You can gag her now.”

A hand yanks your hair, forcing your head back and you gasp only for a wad of fabric to be stuffed behind your teeth. You try and push it out with your tongue on instinct but another bit of fabric is forced between your lips, keeping it snugly in place as it’s knotted at the back of your head, causing you to whimper – or at least attempt - when he brushes up against your head wound.

There’s a hive of activity around you – the three grunts getting into position, checking their ammo. They can’t just plan to shoot Leon outright, surely. Why would he need a damsel otherwise? Your captor grabs the back of your chair and drags it, positioning it in line with the hallway door, meaning that you will be the first thing he sees. He places his hands on your shoulders and squeezes.

“Showtime.”

Your heart is pounding so loud it’s all you can now hear – maybe it’s so loud Leon will hear with that incredibly sensitive hearing he has before he opens the door, know something’s wrong and get the hell out of here.

No such luck, though. The building work next door hasn’t resumed, so you can hear him cut the engine in the driveway, hear when the Jeep door opens and closes, hear the jingle of his keys in the door. He has his eyes cast down when he enters, immediately turning to the lock the door behind him out of both security and habit.

“Sweetpea?” He sounds upbeat, happy as he calls for you and it breaks your heart all the more when he turns, eyes meeting yours. “Fuck.” He breathes out, taking a hurried step forward, hand automatically reaching for his pistol still holstered on his belt. A loud click pierces through your left ear, cold metal prods into the side of your temple and Leon freezes in place.

“Uh-uh, Kennedy. Unless you wanna see your lovely lady’s brains splattered all over the floor, I’d drop that right now.”

Leon doesn’t hesitate, holding his hands above his head and dropping the pistol to the ground, hitting the wooden floorboards with a thunk.

“Keep those hands up and kick it over.”

Leon complies, kicking the pistol so it skids down the hallway, swiftly collected by one of the grunts.

“Dante.”

“Oh, I’m flattered you remember little ol’ me. Come - join us.” The gun leaves your temple but the fear remains as Leon slowly strides up the hallway, hands still in the air. “Pull Kennedy up a chair and make sure he’s comfortable.” A grunt ducks into the dining room and emerges with one the armless chairs, placing it down heavily on the kitchen tile as Leon enters. He’s swiftly smacked across the face with the butt of a gun, followed up by a punch to the stomach, causing him to double over. Another grunt grabs his arms, yanking them behind his back and you know by the way his biceps tense that he could break out of that hold easily enough, but he’s choosing not to.

You feel horrible that you’re the reason why he’s not.

He’s pushed down onto the chair and his wrists are quickly secured behind his back with a zip tie through the wooden slats. He lifts his head up to reveal a bloodied lip, but his eyes are immediately on you as he speaks.

“She has nothing to do with me and you, Dante.”

“Oh, I know that.” He scoffs, digging his fingernails into your shoulder once more. “But your little sweetpea is so useful in making sure that you remain on your very best behaviour.”

“You’ve got me now, okay?” Leon shrugs his shoulders in demonstration. “Let her go.”

“Aw,” Dante tuts. “Did you think you had her out of harm’s way, Kennedy? Kept your personal life underwraps? Granted I couldn’t quite confirm her name, but here we are all the same. Pretty little thing – shame she had to get wrapped up with you.”

“What do you want?” You can tell Leon’s annoyed, though he keeps his voice measured.

“The Apollo files.”

Leon raises an eyebrow, scoffing. “I don’t ha- Ugh!” The grunt in front of him had pistol-whipped him once more, his nose now bleeding a little in consequence.

“Next time you tell a lie, your woman is going to get the same treatment.” You grip the armrests in apprehension and Leon once again tenses as he notes your discomfort.

“Okay, okay! They’re in the attic. One of the storage boxes up there – there’s not many. Against the south wall.”

“Good boy.” Dante chuckles, ruffling his hand through the agent’s hair condescendingly. “You two - with me,” he points at two of his men, before turning to the third. “You, keep an eye on the lovebirds.”

“Be careful where you step up there – I haven’t put in a permanent floor. Been busy.” Leon retorts.

“Aw, boys, he’s worried we’ll hurt ourselves.” He grabs Leon by the chin then, squeezing his cheeks. “We’ll be right back. I wouldn’t want to keep this lovely lady waiting any more than she has to.”

He shoves Leon’s face to the side and heads out to the hallway, the two grunts following as the third remains in position to the side, gun in hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetpea, but I’ll get you out of this – I swear.“ Leon says softly, turning his head to the side to look at you. “Okay?”

You nod – there’s little else you can do – but you know you’re shaking. You hate yourself for doubting him, but you can’t see how the two of you are getting out of this in one piece. He doesn’t say anything more, his eyes flitting from one direction to another as he calculates his moves for what feels like hours.

The building work next door resumes – a loud drilling echoing around the kitchen. The grunt winces at the sound and Leon gets to his feet, arms still bound around the dining chair and headbutts him, sending him stumbling back, blood gushing from a broken nose. Leon spins then, slamming the chair against the marble countertops, splintering the wood and releasing himself from the chair. He then jumps again, tucking his legs impressively close to his chin, though letting out a strangled grunt and his bound hands are now in front of him. He lifts up his knee, tenses his biceps and slams it down, the zip-tie splintering across the floor – all in the time it takes the grunt to come to his senses and aims his gun blindly, sending bullets thankfully in every direction but yours.

Leon ducks and dives, swiftly grabbing the grunt around the neck with an arm and holding it tight, cutting off his air supply until he goes limp in his arms and he grabs hold of the man’s gun, quickly checking the cartridge with one smooth downward motion.

A bullet sails over his shoulder as one of the grunts returns from upstairs and Leon quickly takes him out with a headshot. You divert your eyes then, not wanting to see. It’s them or you – you know that – but it doesn’t make the act easier to witness.

It is barely a second before another gunshot rings out, followed by a second - Dante and the remaining man at the kitchen doorway, though the grunt goes down as quickly as he entered due to Leon’s return fire.

Dante’s face is furious, his gun aimed squarely at your head and he pulls the trigger. Leon sidesweeps the chair legs from under you, sending the chair toppling backwards and you with it, your head smacking once more against the tile and making your ears ring and vision dance with black. The bullet soars over your head and into the kitchen cabinet.

There’s another gunshot, a horrible, squelching sound, and then a series of grunts and groans – flesh on flesh – but you can’t look up, can’t see what’s going on as a succession of gunshots ring out and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor.

There’s the clatter of a drawer being opened frantically and then, suddenly, Leon is above you – his shoulder bloody – and a knife in his hand. He lifts your head up gently, cutting through the back of the gag and pulls it away from your mouth, fishing out the fabric that had been making you feel close to choking.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you.” He says softly as you catch your breath, taking glorious mouthfuls of air. “Stay still, okay? I’ll get these off you.” He presses the blade against your wrist with a careful flick and you’re released from the first of your restraints. He makes quick work of your other wrist and the ones around your ankles, pulling you up into his arms, cradling you in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, rocking you back and forth. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Leon, it’s-”

“Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not okay. I promised to never get you mixed up in this. I don’t know how they found this place, how they found you. I’ve been so fucking careful, baby.” His voice breaks, along with your heart.

“I know you have.” You try and soothe. “It’s not fair, but it’s not your fault, sweetheart. I love you.”

He presses his lips to yours then, kissing you softly. “Love you too – so much. Feel so selfish.”

“Uh-uh, no – you deserve to be happy. I want to make you happy.”

“You do, sweetpea, but-“

“If I can’t say it’s okay, you can’t go down this road either and we both can’t pout about it.”

He sniffs, rolls his eyes and you finally remember the blood patch on his shoulder.

“Did you get shot?” He shakes his head. “Grazed me. I’m fine. You, however, need a full check-up.”

“If I’m having one, you’re having one too. We can have a date to the emergency room.”

He laughs – it’s nice to hear, to see the smile reaching his eyes. “I owe you a much better date than that.”

“Nah – maybe they’ll put you in a hospital gown.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What?” You bite your lip.

“The ones that don’t tie at the back?”

“Oh, don’t they? Interesting.”

He kisses you again then, with a bit more passion than before. “Baby, you do not have to get me in a hospital gown to see my ass.”

“Who said anything about seeing your ass? Get your head out the gutter, Mr Kennedy.”

Leon rolls his eyes once more, getting to his feet with ease with you still in his arms. He pushes your face into his chest as he walks towards the front door.

“Leon, no, you need to rest your shoulder. Put me down - I can walk.”

“Don’t want you to see.” He murmurs. “I’m gonna get you in the Jeep, call work quickly – they’ll come sort this mess – then straight to the hospital.”

You keep quiet then, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent as you nuzzle your head against his chest, a realisation hitting you.

“We won’t be coming back here, will we?”

He pauses, fiddling with the keys in lock.

“I’m sorry. I know you were finally feeling at home here and-”

“No.” You cut him off. “Home is us together – wherever. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He opens the door. “You’re right. Home is with you, sweetpea.”

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you

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shougojo · 9 months

Text

MORNING KISSES

cw: established relationship, sae itoshi x gn! reader, fluff, sae wants his daily morning kisses, probably ooc ??

note: this could be for rin or any other bllk characters as well !! probably not my best piece though

sae is usually a very blunt and serious guy, but how could he hold up his serious face when you’re around?

every morning; cold or gloomy — sae will always receive his daily morning kisses from you. he sees it as a boost or fuel whenever he has soccer practice or a game.

and if there’s neither practice nor game, he’ll still want your kisses.

even though he never mentions it, he loves his mornings even more if when you two cuddle in bed or comb his hair, he dislikes how vulnerable he gets when he’s around you — but he’ll never tell how much he loves you either way.

there’s just something about you that sae just absolutely adores and loves — cause he isn’t very affectionate with everyone else. whatever the answer is, he’ll still receive his kisses — right?

well, today was a little different. you wanted to play around with sae and not give him his morning kisses, wanting to see how he reacted.

you quietly yawned as you slipped out of bed, “im gonna go brush my teeth, okay?” you waddled your way towards the bathroom in your shared room. “i’ll be back.” you said, trying to hold in another yawn.

sae’s eyes followed your footsteps. he held his emotionless face, but deep inside — he was confused at why you didn’t give him your attention and kisses that you gave him every morning.

unfortunately, sae isn’t a very patient person and decides to walk into the bathroom without knocking.

“ah! what the heck, sae!?” you nearly jumped at his sudden appearance and dropped your toothpaste. “don’t you remember to knock the door before coming in!? how rude.” you quietly muttered the last two words.

sae quirked up an eyebrow, knowing what you were up too. “don’t play dumb, y/n. come back and give me your kisses.” it was your turn to quirk up an eyebrow, “what do you mean, sae? i just want to brush my teeth.”

swiftly, sae started to tickle you.

“w-wait sae! ill give you y-your kisses, s-stop!” you laughed while trying to pry sae’s hands off from tickling you. this wasn’t the first time he uses this technique on you. you were a very ticklish person and he uses that advantage to get almost whatever he wants.

excluding being greedy.

he finally stops ticking you and leans close to your face — waiting for his kiss. you were easily out of breath — and sae started chuckling at how cute you were.

“so? where’s my kiss?” — how cocky. you mumbled something under your breath — “i hate you.” before giving sae a few brief kisses around his face and finally landing a kiss on his lips.

you gave a him a small glare, which he always find cute, before pushing him out the bathroom.

“do not forget to knock next time, Sae Itoshi!” you half yelled — half scolded before slamming the door shut in his face.

‘never doing that again.’

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bridgetotheskyyy · 1 year

Text

Research - Jiraiya

Kinktober Masterlist

Warnings: 18+, titfucking, cum eating, fluff, has the nerve to be romantic lmaooo

A/n: Day 2! Jiraiya is the perfect mixture of raunchy perv and gentlemen and if I get to use my bring back one character card it's gonna be on him 😭❤❤❤

Read on Ao3.

The door slid open, but not with ease.

"Jiraiya?" You pushed past the scraps of paper, potato chip bags, and discarded notebooks interfering with the door’s lower half.

You let yourself into the small apartment and surveyed the damage.

“In here.”

You strode to the living room and there he was: Jiraiya sulked in his chair, lording over an apocalyptic desk. You had never seen so many sheets of paper in your life.

“Is ―” You broke off as a groan lodged itself in Jiraiya’s throat. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Clearly something was up, and you didn't know what gave it away ― maybe it was the putrid smell of defeat or the dozens of crumbled rejection letters your feet swam in.

Again, Jiraiya groaned. He leaned into a chair creaking under his weight. His enormous arm lay slung over his eyes to block the nonexistent daylight, his tailed hair roping around the floor.

He hummed tiredly. "You didn't come to collect rent, did you?"

“Jiraiya,” You began with a tone to emphasize what came next should be obvious, “I don’t ask for you for rent, remember?”

It had only been a few weeks since you had let Jiraiya stay in one of your units rent free to finish his latest pulp novel ― how has he forgotten?

“Ah,” he said. “That’s right. Remind me once this infernal book is finally done to include my appreciation for your hospitality in the acknowledgements.” His other hand shot out as if to give a toast. “To the kindness of strangers!”

A hinge of hurt sent you frowning. “So, I’m a stranger?”

Silence. Jiraiya peeked to admire you.

“No, you’re not.” He shrouded his eyes again. “Sorry. Shouldn't have said that.”

You approached him, circled his defeated form like a concerned mother hen. “Are you ill? Do you need something?”

He finally removed his forearm. “Have you had much luck with love, (Y/n)?”

You perked. “Hm? I ― What do you mean?”

He quirked his head at you. “C’mon. You know what I mean.”

“Well … I mean …” Your face grew warm. You nodded. “Yeah. I mean …” This part was under your breath. “... depends on what you mean by luck …”

“I knew it.” Jiraiya sighed and collapsed against the back of his chair. “You weren’t fooling anyone with that pretty face.”

You grew warmer under the spotlight of the compliment. “I …” He thinks I’m pretty?

“You’ll never know how good you have it,” Jiraiya said. Without ceremony, he abandoned the chair to pace around the room. “Do you know how hard it is to write about the raunchy threads of everlasting love when you’ve had no real practice?”

You blinked. Not the first time the man’s diction has thrown you for a loop and thoroughly bewildered you.

“Raunchy ― raunchy threads ―?”

“Sometimes, I wonder if I’m really cut out for this.” Jiraiya shook his head. “Even success doesn’t guarantee satisfaction with one’s work. Who knew!”

“Jiraiya,” You implored. “You have a series of bestselling novels under your belt.” You playfully pushed at his shoulder ― what bit of it you could reach anyway. “Everyone struggles. You shouldn’t give up so fast!”

Silence, save for the crickets demanding attention tucked away in outdoor bushes.

Jiraiya laughed, a heaty, deep laugh from his belly.

“Now you sound like one of my students!”

You shrugged. “I’d offer to help, but you never let me, remember?”

Jiraiya stopped, as though an idea had held its arm out to stop his pacing.

“You have …” He turned to you. His eyes flickered downward to study you. “Say … Would you … be up for helping me now?”

You threw him a suspicious look. “Depends on how I’ll be helping.”

Jiraiya’s expression shifted ― nervousness etched onto his face. “Ahem … well …”

He began pacing again. Your brows creased as you followed his movements. What was he up to?

“It’s just,” he began. “When you’re writing, there are just so many unknowns. Things I can’t possibly know, being such a loser with women.” He socked the side of his head with a fist, seemingly convinced in his dried-up state the abuse could lead to some heart-stopping revelation. “Things I can’t even begin to imagine ― you know, ahem, despite the job description.”

“You’re stalling,” You teased. “It’s never good when you stall.”

Jiraiya faced you. You leveled with his chest, the sheer enormity of the man baffling in comparison to you.

You probably would’ve been scared.

If it hadn't been him.

Jiraiya reached out. His palm touched the wall, leaving you semi-caged in as he leaned toward you.

“I’m going to do something,” he muttered. “Something I’ve always wanted to do. Promise not to hit me?”

“Why would I hit you?” You hoped he could not hear the tremble in your voice.

Jiraiya shrugged. “Minimal success with the fairer sex has taught me to proceed with caution.”

Your stomach knotted into itself. The shadow of his intentions fluttered vaguely over the penumbra of your mind.

“Okay,” You whispered.

Jiraiya inched closer ― every inch a century ― and bridged the gap between you and him, his lips brushing yours before securing them in a soft kiss.

Soft. Gentle, both his lips and the technique he used.

It was a good thing, too; for if he had used any more force, you surely would’ve died on the spot.

His unoccupied hand came to cup the back of your head, cajoling you closer. Your lips moved on his while hands cupped the sides of his face. His rough-textured skin laid under your timid touch. Jiraiya hummed in appreciation. His tongue flicked out to ask tentative permission into your mouth.

But once you offered it, he pulled away. He held your gaze for a few seconds before retreating. He stopped midway to press a reverent kiss to your exposed shoulder pad.

When he parted from you, you trailed his every move back to his disastrous desk.

“Sorry,” Jiraiya murmured. He laid a hand on the back of his chair for support. “If I went on, I wouldn’t have stopped.”

You said nothing, only sucked your lips in to taste the phantom of Jiraiya’s kiss.

“Hopefully, I’ve made my true feelings known,” he said. He leaned over his desk for a second before swiping something from it, one sheet of paper amidst many.

“You …” You trailed. “You … Me?”

He approached you with a chuckle nestled in a smile. “Yes.”

He leaned over the wall, cool-guy style, and the position strangely suited him. You were still recovering as his eyes roved over the sheet of paper limp in his hold.

“I’m sure you also know now all my female love interests are secretly you,” Jiraiya went on. “I’m just so good at remaining subtle, I bet you didn’t notice.”

You had, in your wildest dreams, thought a character or two possessed your likeness, but you had never been so full of yourself to have actually imagined ―

He offered the paper to you. “This is the scene I’m stuck on. Would you mind reading it over for me?”

You blinked. It felt like a thousand things were happening when, really, one thing had happened at a time. But so many things.

“Su ― Sure.” You took the paper.

You read it, Jiraiya suspiciously close to you, peering over to watch you review his work. His scent dizzied you ― pinewood and paper and pencil shavings, hardly a dazzling combination, but it was him. So it was.

You read. You understood. You blushed.

Jiraiya’s lip-corner quirked, seemingly suspecting you were at the end of the scene.

“I wanted to make my true feelings known before I suggested this ―” Jiraiya tapped the paper with a finger. “I didn’t want you thinking for a second I was trying to use you for anything.”

You laughed, prompted by the absurdity of it all. He wanted you to ―

You smirked.

“So,” he began, a flirtatious lilt to his voice, “will you do it?”

You turned to him, tipping your head up to stare at the bigger man.

“I’d be happy to.”

“Hold still ― hah ― that’s good, argh, that’s gooood ―”

Jiraiya sat above you, face strained. His mouth hung open, the heated huffs of his breath warming your skin, prompting your sensitive nubs to perk.

You laughed; it was fun to watch him come apart like this, better than any vague fantasy.

“How does this even come up in the story, Jiraiya?”

Jiraiya chuckled amidst the pleasure. “Hehe, ahem, well …”

You squeezed your tits against his cock, presumably to shut him up. Jiraiya stilled, breath sharp.

His shaft sat nestled, secure in the valley of your breasts. You sat your chin on your collarbone to glance at the red, flared cockhead twitching up at you.

You licked your lips. “Is this what you’ve been seeing in your mind’s eye?” You gathered your breasts and began to jerk him, cupping him between your tits. “Picturing me like this, underneath you?”

Jiraiya leaned forward, his tail of hair falling inches from your face.

You cupped your breasts around him, working them against the sensitive skin of his excited cock.

“I can’t imagine why you got stuck,” You purred, eyes narrowed on the gorgeous man above you.

“Ah, aahah …” Jiraiya’s mouth hung open as his hips worked in tandem with you. “Too enthralled with the real thing ― aargh!”

“I love seeing you like this,” You breathed out.

“I’m sure you do ― aah, gods, they’re perfect!” Jiraiya retrieved his cock to slap it against one tit before securing it in the slit you'd made for him. He jerked his hips; they stuttered as you closed any further gap between his cock and your pillowy breasts. “You’re perfect.”

He opened his eyes ― wrong move; just in time to see your tongue flick out and swipe at his cockhead.

“Urgh!” Jiraiya planted a hand beside your head to secure his balance. “Who knew you’d be such a natural at this?”

“I did say I had experience, didn’t I?” You swiped and sucked at his cockhead with a hungry mouth. “Did you ― mmf ― forget?”

“Head’s kinda cloudy right now, admittedly ― aah!”

His cock dangled at your mercy, following the swift up-down motion of your breasts.

You continued egging him on amongst his moaning. It was heavenly, watching the Great Toad Sage come apart just by the use of your tits. You licked and took his cockhead into your mouth, popping it out before speeding up your motions.

“C’mon,” You urged at the hastening of his breath. “C’mon, Jiraiya, mmm …!”

“Please stop talking,” Jiraiya said. “Nurgh ― so good.” He cracked an eye open to smile weakly at you. “I’ve gotta last, y’know?”

You stared crookedly. “Why?”

“Research purposes ― ah, oh, gods ― we’ve been over this.”

You paused, your breasts falling flat at your sides.

“You know we could always just do this again right?”

Jiraiya popped both eyes open, collecting himself just enough to speak clearly.

“You’d let me?” he said. “You’d really let me?”

Your eyes flickered over his face lovingly. “Yes.”

“Huh … I guess you’re right.” He smirked, stars in his eyes. “Totally right.”

You rolled your eyes. “S’what I just sai ―”

Jiraiya kneaded at your breasts, thumbs grazing over the precious nubs. You shuddered as he gripped them, adjusting his hips ― and gave a thrust.

He grunted as he took the reigns, thoroughly fucking your tits at his own preferred pace. You gasped as he pinched a nipple in his grasp, twirling it between huge, calloused fingers.

“Aha ―” His cockhead brushed repeatedly over your lips. “Jiraiya ― ah, hah ―!”

“So good,” Jiraiya hung his head back, exposing the raw muscles of his pectorals, the beautiful outline of his collarbone to you. “Such a sweet girl, letting me use you like this …”

Your cunt throbbed from the heated praise. Again, you licked out for him, your tongue swiping at his cockhead, swishing into the slick slit with each jut of Jiraiya’s hips.

Jiraiya gritted his teeth. His cock twitched in your hold. Against his own desires, his pace quickened. His abdomen barreled into your chest, skin to heated skin.

He groaned, lurched forward, more animal than man. “I’m gonna ―”

“It’s okay, do it ― cum for me ―”

Jiraiya threw his head back. He released with a growl, his seed patterning your clavicle, your chin, your lower lip.

He panted as the thrums subsided. He recovered, staring down at you. A string of his cum dribbled down the side of your face.

Sense returned to him; he frowned. Without fanfare, Jiraiya un-straddled you, as though it was the most gentleman-like behavior he could muster in that moment.

“I’m sorry.” He let you up. “Let me get you a ―”

You laughed. You collected what was left of him and licked it off your finger.

He went bug-eyed. “You ― you want to ―?”

“Of course,” You said. You patted his inner wrist, having been left limp on the floor in surprise. “It’s okay ― it’s okay,” You insisted as Jiraiya moved to stop you.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You swept up his spent, swallowed, and he watched you with an amazement you couldn’t name.

“You weren’t lying, were you?” You muttered, turning on your side to face him on the floor. “You really don’t know how these things work? You haven’t …”

Jiraiya recovered enough to perform a halfhearted shrug.

You gasped, tilted your head. “You’re not ―”

“No,” Jiraiya said before you got carried away. “I’m not a virgin, just … Never been super lucky.”

Jiraiya’s fingers brushed against the soft skin of your inner wrist, calloused fingers trailing the faint train of your veins. “Until now.”

#jiraiya smut #naruto smut #jiraiya x reader #jiraiya x you #kinktober

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mysumeow · 17 days

Text

──CYCLE

ᓚᘏᗢ WARNINGS: Gender-neutral reader. Implied established relationship. 100% sfw.

ᓚᘏᗢ SUMMARY: Jamil gets sick and reader takes care of him.

ᓚᘏᗢ WORD COUNT: 1k.

ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: im so happy i got jamil's applepom ssr :'DDD i knew i wanted that ssr the moment it was released in the japanese server TT_TT

⸝⸝⸝

The first few seconds after Jamil woke up, he registered a faint warmth that blossomed from his chest and broadened to the rest of his body.

It was a matter of time for said warmth to become unpleasant, however. Little by little, he noticed the dullness and soreness of his limbs, along with the annoying pain that sliced through his throat.

A fever.

Jamil recalled the last situations he was involved in that could’ve led to this result.

Ah, yes. It was yesterday. The day began with clear skies. Next thing he knew, gray clouds that harbored thunders and lighting covered the sky. He realized Kalim was outside and could get soaked by the rain if he didn’t hurry, which would end up in the housewarden getting sick, and, as a dutiful attendant, he couldn’t allow that.

By the time he found an umbrella, it was already raining. Left with no choice, Jamil went headfirst into the downpour.

A shiver struck through Jamil, cutting his recall short. As he rolled to the other side, he embraced himself under the blankets.

It was only after this change of position that he spotted you. He saw you sitting on a chair next to his bed, your head down and on the verge of losing your balance if you didn’t wake up soon.

“Hey,” he grimaced when the sting in his throat became stronger. “You’re about to fall from the chair. Wake up.”

You blinked the drowsiness away and stretched.

“Hi, Jamil. Did you sleep well?”

Even though Jamil nodded, his expression devoid of any joy didn’t convince you. You’d checked his temperature earlier, and it was a whopping 39 °C, so it was safe to assume he felt awful.

You got up and removed the wet cloth that was on his forehead.

He wasn’t one to fall sick often, but when he did, it hit him hard. In other instances, he would take ibuprofen and deal with it in silence. He couldn’t ignore his responsibilities due to a cough and sore throat.

“I’m going to dampen it again, okay? I’ll be back,” you said, heading in the bathroom's direction.

His eyes followed your retreating figure, his head in atypical quietude.

Being taken care of…Jamil acknowledged to himself that it felt refreshing. Don’t ask him about it, though. He would deny it. Nevertheless, there was a tiny uneasiness that stemmed from not being used to being this level of vulnerability.

You emerged back from the bathroom. With the damp cloth on your hand, you were about to place it on his forehead, but Jamil stopped you. His recalling about yesterday’s events made him remember he needed to keep an eye on Kalim!

“I’ve got to prepare Kalim’s breakfast,” he jumped out of bed and walked a couple of steps before dizziness made him falter. If not for your effort to get him back to bed, he would’ve tripped.

“Breakfast? It’s past midday.”

Jamil’s eyes opened like saucers. “What! You could’ve woken me up earlier!”

You shook your head disapprovingly as he tried, for a second time, to get up. You pushed him back to bed again.

“Do you think you’re in conditions to carry on with your usual schedule? When you can’t even stand up without losing footing?”

He was a stubborn one when it came to being responsible, and even if he wanted to insist, the fever obfuscated his train of thought.

Jamil watched you brush away the disheveled hair strands that were on his forehead, combing your fingers through the long locks of hair with gentleness. His heartbeat picked up, but he convinced himself it was because of the fever and definitely not because of a different kind of warmth that ignited within. Unlike the hot temperature caused by the illness, this one was pleasant.

The tender sensation had an abrupt interruption from a second shiver that ran up his spine; goosebumps rose.

“I hate this. I feel like I’m freezing.” Jamil lamented, irritated at his state.

Jamil closed his eyes for a moment, with the intention of coming up with a plan to get back on track as soon as possible.

An unexpected shift on the bed prompted him to look at the source of it: you were cuddling him.

“You’re going to get sick.” Jamil groaned. You snuggled up to him while he was deep in thought. Your arms were around his torso, with your cheek squished on his chest.

“It’s okay. I’ll help you stay warm.”

In other circumstances, he would’ve put up a little bit more resistance since he didn’t want to infect you. Anyways, he knew you wouldn’t listen, and he didn’t have the energy to argue.

Resigned, Jamil sighed and placed an arm around you. You got comfortable and placed a leg on his, his body was like a heater. He was in silent contemplation, and his lethargic breathing lulled you to sleep.

Within a pair of days, Jamil’s health recovered with swiftness.

You, on the other hand...

“I told you were going to catch it.”

The way he scolded you sort of reminded you of your mom—a thought you found quite funny and still laughed, albeit the discomfort.

“Don’t be so mean, Jamil,” Kalim sided with you. “The prefect spent the past days taking care of you.”

“Tell him, Kalim. Speak the truth.”

“Do you want me to buy you something? Do you want ice cream?”

“That could increase the inflammation. Don’t,” Jamil stopped the housewarden before he could worsen your condition. “I’ve brought enough medicine.”

“Way to be a killjoy,” you crossed your arms, pretending to be angry.

“I’ll invite you to ice cream after you’re healthy again.”

“Alright, I guess…”

After a few more exchange of words, Kalim’s club activities urged him to leave sooner than Jamil.

“Take these,” He handed you a glass of water and ibuprofen. “I also made soup. That should help you soothe the ache, too.”

“Will you feed me it?” you asked with a grin, remembering how bashful he became when you did that favor for him. “And will you cuddle me too?”

“I’ll feed you the soup. Although, I won’t cuddle you,” in spite of his serious tone, you heeded the timid hint suppresed in it. “It would become a cycle of both of us getting sick.”

“Fine, fair point. That’d be silly.”

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

Text

Apologue.

Yan Albedo x F Reader. Commissioned piece.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, Albedo just having this strange unsettling energy... Word count: 3k.

There’s a homely atmosphere to Mondstadt that you don’t experience in other cities.

Everyone knows one another and does their part. If a neighbor falls ill, without requiring formal organization, the community provides meals so fresh, you can still see steam rising off it. Birthdays are remembered each year, you go to one childhood friend’s wedding then the next, and funerals pack the Favonius Cathedral to its limit. There’s an unspoken sense of togetherness each denizen of the city of freedom possesses. It is invisible, yet tangible, like a gentle breeze.

That’s why you don’t think much of it when Noelle seeks you out, carrying the news that once again, Klee has been placed in solitary confinement.

When the stalwart maid departs, you just sigh and shake your head. Klee’s solitary confinement punishment has become synonymous with ‘wait until [First] comes to take her off our hands.’ The Spark Knight may not be your blood relation, yet you often care for and look after her. Her eccentric mother is gone more than she’s around. While you can appreciate Alice’s zest for adventure, you wish she’d take her daughter into account before disappearing for half a year.

You can practically hear the globe-trotter’s voice from the last time you raised this concern.

“That’s what I have you for,” Alice would say. “Klee is fortunate to have such a kindhearted influence like you in her life. If it ever gets to be overwhelming, why not rely on her big brother more?”

At the mention of him, you dropped the topic. If Alice noticed the change in your demeanor, she didn’t comment on it. She instead elected to discuss a stipend you then respectfully refused. Monetary compensation was the last thing on your mind — you were raised in a community that helped one another because they wanted to.

You slide a bookmark into the latest novel that caught your interest. Chapter five will have to wait until after you’ve rescued Klee from the strange way the Knights try curbing her behavior.

Not even a second later, a shadow envelops your form on what is otherwise a sunny day.

“[First],” a calm voice belonging to a certain alchemist greets. Then there’s a gloved hand held out for you to take. “I assume you’re also going to headquarters?”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you inspect the choice you’ve been presented with. Presently, you’re sitting in a field of fluffy dandelions, right outside Mondstadt’s gates. This particular gesture is harmless enough. It feels like a concession on your part, but nonetheless, you place your palm in his and he hoists you up from the ground.

You come eye to eye with Mondstadt’s resident genius, Albedo.

It isn’t until silence resounds that you realize you should respond.

“Yes, I was just about to walk over there now. How did you…?”

“I heard about Klee’s predicament. As her guardian, I wanted to smooth things over with Jean.”

“Of course,” you say a little too hastily. Your eyes flicker downward, to where your hands remain connected. Should you tug it back? The thought doesn’t sit well with you, it’s too flagrant. Fortunately, he notes where your attention lingers, and releases his hold. You pray the relief you feel isn’t too palpable.

You dust some imaginary dirt off your blouse. “I’ll let you get to it, then. I know you’re busy.”

“You aren’t planning to come with me?”

His tone isn’t the slightest bit accusatory, and still, you’re burdened with this burning need to defend yourself.

“Ah, well, there’s no need for both of us to go, right?”

“Klee’s missed seeing you around, you’re all she talks about,” The edges of Albedo’s lips tug into a smile. His eyelids then droop ever so slightly, and he tilts his head. “I hope your reluctance isn’t because you’re trying to avoid me.”

Incredulous, you gape at him, heat flooding your face. He’s impossible to get a read on. If eyes are windows to the soul, then that wall of impenetrable teal might as well be shutters. Most consider Albedo to be aloof and polite enough, if not impersonal. He doesn’t entertain conversations longer than necessary and prefers to be left alone to his own devices. You either pique his interest or you don’t. Depending on the category you land in, he’s more willing to show his wry disposition.

“I’m joking,” Albedo claims, though his composed visage remains impassive. “You’ve already done plenty for her. You’re under no obligation to do more.”

This snaps you back to reality. “It isn’t like that. Should we discuss this later? I don’t want Klee to be in that dark closet longer than necessary.”

He takes a moment to study you. You instantly regret the way your words came out, they were more abrasive than you intended. He didn’t technically say anything to incite your displeasure. From a purely logical standpoint, this rings true every time you’ve talked. You’re never given a justification for the apprehension his presence brings.

At least with a bad omen, you know what to expect, even if it foretells disaster. There’s a paradoxical comfort that comes from learning certain doom awaits. It is kinder to tell a man he’ll be killed tomorrow than to say he’ll be killed sometime in the future. He’ll rest easier the night total oblivion awaits compared to an agitated lifetime of glancing over his shoulder. True anguish comes not from knowledge, but a lack of it.

This is the limbo you occupy where Albedo is concerned. A permanent state of inertia that could equally be a product of your overimaginative mind or a legitimate threat. A pendulum swings yet tauntingly, yet never fully settles between the two.

Albedo finally grants clemency from being held prisoner beneath his stare.

“You’re right. That takes priority,” he relents. When he’s no longer facing you, he then casually adds, “It’s never good to be kept in the dark.”

You scrunch your lips to the side and follow him into Mondstadt.

“Big sis?”

Klee sits before you on a red gingham blanket. The little girl pinky promised not to try playing leapfrog with her bombs in Mondstadt’s main square again, but in return, she wanted an outing with you and Albedo. This request was paired with doe eyes and a pout. Although you had your reservations, this infamous combination easily demolished your defenses. So here you are, sitting beneath the shade of the monumental oak tree in Windrise. For the moment, Albedo is absent, the only sign he’d been here is his easel. He said something about needing a more accurate shade to faithfully paint your hair and took off to his workshop.

“Hm? What is it, Klee?”

You continue brushing through her platinum blonde locks. In all the excitement today, her signature hairstyle got entangled in knots.

“Are you mad at big brother?” She inquires, much to your astonishment. You’re grateful she’s situated in such a way that she can’t see your face. “When he comes back from the snowy mountain, I don’t see you as much.”

Your grip on the hairbrush tightens. Kids are nothing if not observant. “I’m not mad at him, no. I’ve just been busy lately.”

“All the fun grownups are always busy,” You can practically hear the way she puffs out her cheeks. “No one can tell stories like you, big sis. The chatty lady with a bird tried, but I couldn’t understand.”

What’s admittedly a cute anecdote tugs on your heart in a painful way. You do come around less often when Albedo is in town. For the longest time, he seemed content to conduct research for months in the frigid climate of Dragonspine. This allowed your interactions to be few and far between. Lately, however, he’s been hovering around Mondstadt like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Hence your current predicament: avoiding him meant avoiding Klee. It’s a temporary solution in desperate need of a better fix.

Not wanting to sully the mood, you extend an offer. “Would you like me to tell you a story now to make up for it?”

She practically leaps up in excitement. Stars twinkle in her eyes as she wraps her arms around your form, pulling you into a tight hug. You can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. You’ve never found the stories particularly impressive, though Klee would vehemently disagree. It must have to do with your flexibility to retcon Dodoco into every fairytale. He’s been a valiant knight, a mad scientist, an explorer of the sky, and far more. Your humble apartment is decorated with colorful drawings from Klee, depicting these collaborative storytelling efforts.

Her attention goes up and over your shoulder. “Big bro! Big bro! Big sis is gonna tell a story!”

He must be back. That was fast.

“Oh, is that right?” You hear Albedo reply. Klee nods fast enough that it’s a miracle she doesn’t get dizzy. “I had good timing then. It’s been a while since we’ve been treated to a [First] narrative.”

Is he going to make a point of mentioning that as well? You pay him no mind, instead opting to fix Klee’s hair before she gets too impatient. She sits crisscross, unclasps Dodoco from her backpack, and places him on her lap so he can participate. Meanwhile, Albedo gets to mixing his paints. He’s already roughly sketched various outlines onto the canvas. So far, it’s Klee tugging on your hand, pulling you to some unknown yet fantastical destination.

Klee once told you her big brother has drawings of you “everywhere” in his laboratory, prolonging the first syllable for emphasis. You still recall how you shuddered upon hearing this revelation.

“Let’s see… what kind of story would you like to hear, Klee?”

“A scary story!”

You knit your eyebrows together. “... A scary story? Are you sure? I don’t want to give you bad dreams.”

“It’s okay. I have Dodoco and my big brother to protect me,” Klee reassures. “Ms. Lisa told me I can’t check out a scary story until I’m older. She said you’d share one with me instead. Pretty please?”

That’s one crafty librarian. What is it with the Knights of Favonius and pawning their Klee-related problems off onto you? Your genial nature must lend itself to such dilemmas. After mulling it over a few moments, you arrive at a story that frightened you as a kid, but not excessively so. You’ll still tone down some elements regardless.

“Once upon a time, there was a poor married couple who lived in the woods. The wife was pregnant with their first child, yet she never had enough to eat. She asked her husband to pick vegetables from a nearby field, believing it’d long been abandoned by its owner, who they never saw. Her husband did as he was asked. He returned with cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. His wife cooked a yummy stew. Full and happy, she no longer had to worry about being hungry. A healthy baby girl was soon born. Their daughter grew up to become a sweet young lady who everyone in the nearby villages loved. Though the family had little, they cherished one another. All seemed well. Until one day, the father went hunting, and came across a man wearing a cloak.”

Klee’s eyes widen and she leans in closer.

“The man wearing the cloak revealed himself to be a warlock who had magical powers. He knew that many years ago, the husband had taken vegetables from his garden. The warlock demanded to be paid back for what was stolen. The husband said he had nothing of value. The warlock threatened the husband, saying that he’d place a curse on him and his family for a thousand generations. Unless, that is, he made it right by giving up what he loves most. And there was nothing the husband loved more than his sweet daughter. Left with no other choice, the married couple tearfully gave up their daughter to the warlock.”

“Oh no!” Klee exclaims in a whisper. “The poor daughter…”

You nod solemnly in agreement. “And so it was that the daughter was taken to a dark, isolated tower where the sun never shone. The warlock quickly fell in love with the woman, for she was very beautiful and kind. He did everything he could to make the young woman love him too. He gave her the finest jewelry and clothes in the land. Still, she wept bitterly at the sight of him, no matter what he tried. The warlock then thought to use his magic. One night, when he approached her, he created a pretty bundle of the reddest roses from nothing. She—”

“He made a flower? Like what big brother can do?”

…

An audible snap can be heard behind you.

You look over your shoulder to see Albedo holding his paintbrush, which has splintered into two.

There’s a quiet intensity radiating off him in waves. He’s frowning, though other than that, his countenance remains as unreadable as a tome in a foreign tongue. He ignores you completely and fixes his strange stare on his younger sister.

“Klee,” he starts in a monotonous voice, “Would you mind running back home and getting me a new paintbrush?”

“Aw, but big sis is in the middle of her story! I wanna know what happens to the nice girl and evil magic man.”

“You can find out when you get back. I’d really appreciate your help, Klee.”

It’s rare that Albedo ever asks for help, much less from her. She promises that she’ll be right back and sets Dodoco onto the picnic blanket, so that “you and big brother won’t get lonely.” She then skips off onto Mondstadt’s main road. Once she’s out of earshot, you stand to your feet, smoothing out the wrinkles on your skirt.

“Unaware of your own strength, huh?” You ask Albedo, almost absentmindedly. When he doesn’t respond, you swivel on your heel.

The alchemist is scrutinizing his work with a hand on his chin. He must’ve been in the middle of painting your hair when his paintbrush broke, the glossy streaks revealing that it’s still wet. You pull your lips into a straight line. It isn’t like him to zone you out. You’re about to voice a similar sentiment when he finally speaks up.

“It’s smudged,” he mutters under his breath.

The impossibly idyllic scene he tried depicting is marred with an imperfection.

Teal hues scrutinize you next. “Would you be open to changing the tone of the story when Klee returns?”

“Hm? Why’s that?” You cross your arms over your chest. “It’s important that she learns there are people in the world who don’t take no for an answer, always testing the limits of what they can get away with.”

It’s such a miniscule motion, you almost miss it, but you know for certain his eye twitched.

“Is that so?”

The calm waters of his voice obscure the raging tides hidden beneath the surface. Soft tufts of sandy blonde hair brush against his face as a zephyr passes through, rustling nearby branches with it. To be a citizen of Mondstadt and a child of Barbatos means to ascribe importance to the wind. The direction it blows, its strength, and what scents or sounds may come along with it. The Anemo Archon watches over his people with a certain fondness the other gods lack.

You wonder what it is he’s trying to get across to you.

“You have that expression again,” Albedo comments.

“... What expression?”

“A prey warily eyeing a predator,” he’s walking toward you now. You go stiff yet remain firmly planted. “Attempting to access the threat level and plan accordingly. To fight back, flee, or do nothing. Do you no longer find the last option appealing?”

The pendulum errs to the side of warning.

He still isn’t giving you anything substantial. In passing, you’ve heard of Sumeru scholars who spend their entire lives trying to find rare, elusive species. Camouflage is what allows these lifeforms to go undetected for so long. They slip under the researcher’s noses, almost tauntingly, blending into their surroundings and giving the false impression there’s nothing worthwhile to look at. Then the researcher moves on to the next area, frustrated and at a loss.

Perhaps you came to a conclusion prematurely. A lack of knowledge may be damning, but possessing it and being unable to do anything might be the cruelest fate of all.

“I don’t get it. Why don’t you just do something already? Say what’s really on your mind?” You seethe in a fit of frustration, jabbing your fingers at his chest. He doesn’t so much as flinch. “You obviously want something from me that I’m not willing to give. Is this some sort of punishment for not feeling the same way you do?”

“Nothing I do is intended as a punishment on you, [First].”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

You take a step back as if the word had physically pushed you. “What is it you’re waiting for…?”

Albedo extends his hand into the air. The sensation surrounding him begins slowly, a focusing of energy. He sees the world for what it can be, not what it currently is. A light golden hue emanates from his outstretched palm. You’ve seen him do this enough times to recognize the alchemical process. For a natural like him, overlooking notes or extensive preparation isn’t necessary. Sucrose often impressed upon you just how prodigious Albedo’s abilities are.

The gold light fades.

Dark green stems twist into vivacious hues of blood-colored petals. Utilizing his esoteric knowledge, Albedo produced a bundle of red roses from thin air. He takes one, inspects it for thorns, and once he confirms there are none, nestles it gently behind your ear. He sweeps your hair aside with such tenderness that any passerby might mistake you two as lovers.

Dumbstruck, you accept the bouquet into your hands at his prompting.

There it is. That mischievous glint, flickering in his eyes briefly, just long enough to burn. It extinguishes before you can gauge how dangerous the fire will one day become.

“Finish the story and maybe you’ll find out.”

#albedo x reader #yandere albedo x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff #commissions

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blackcherryvelvet0909 · 1 year

Text

Carnival Fair (Epel x GN!Reader)

Content Warning: Vomiting mentioned Note: Reader is implied to be the same height as or shorter than Epel

“Alright, next ride!” Epel grinned wide as his eyes scanned the carnival. “Where ‘r we goin’?”

“The Scrambler sounds fun,” Deuce said. He looked down at the small carnival map in his hands, little dots marking everything of interest. “That’s over to the right. There’s also that water ride over there,” he said as he pointed to the ride in question.

“That kiddy shit?” Epel scoffed as he smirked. “C’mon, Deuce, ya gotta have somethin’ better than that.”

“Well, when you guys are done bickering,” Ace glanced over his shoulder at you all as he walked away, “you can meet me at that coaster over there.”

The roller coaster in question was called Sunside Sweep. It looked fun, but you weren’t sure if you were ready for something so thrilling. You and your little group -Ace, Deuce, Jack, and Epel - had just eaten all that junk from the food trucks, and you knew it would come right back up if you went through even one loop. Ace would realize that soon. You knew you couldn’t stop him if you tried, so you just waved at him as he left. You scooted closer to Deuce to look at the map. “How about the little river boat ride?” you asked.

“Again, that shit’s for babies.” Epel rolled his neck, a small pop sounding from it as he groaned. “Ah want somethin’ that’ll be fun.”

“How about The Blender?” Jack piped up for the first time since lunch. “That looks fun - not too bad on the stomach, either.”

At least one other person was thinking of your digestive systems. You looked over towards the ride in question; you watched as it swung back and forth, the bottom half of its body turning as it went. Not too thrilling, yet not too boring. It was-

“Good enough, ah guess.” Epel shrugged as he started heading towards the ride. “But ah’m with Ace - ah want to get on a coaster after this.”

“Alright,” Deuce said as he folded the map and tucked it back in his jean pocket. “The Blender it is.”

You smiled and nodded as you walked after Deuce, Jack close to your side as you went. The aftertaste of cream soda and funnel cake still lingered on your tongue - so good! You hoped to get a little more sweets before you had to leave.

***

“You alright there, [Y/n]?” Epel asked as he eyed you curiously.

You sat on a bench in front of the entrance to The Blender, hunched over with your hand over your mouth. “Y-Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Your reassurance was ill received. Jack kneeled down in front of you, ears flattened against his head. “Take it easy, alright? Maybe we should stay off of the rides for a while.”

“But the carnival closes in two hours!” you protested. “By the time it opens again, we’ll have to go back to the college. I don’t want to-” You mumbled a groan as your stomach grumbled uncomfortably. You managed to finish your sentence in a garbled whisper, “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” Deuce reassured you with a smile. He sat next to you and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We’ve been out here since this morning - we’ve had so much fun. We can go back to the hotel if you want.”

“No, no,” you shook your head, “I’ll just…stay here for a bit.” You forced a smile as you looked from Deuce to Jack. “I’m sure my stomach will settle after a few minutes. I’ll catch up with you guys once I’m better.”

“Alone?” Jack furrowed his eyebrows at the thought. “I don’t like the sound of that. What if you get worse and need someone?”

“I have my phone, remember?” You held up the phone Crowley had given you months earlier. It wasn’t the most reliable device, but it’d get you through in a pinch. “I can call someone to come get me - and you guys can text me whenever you want!”

“[Y/n],” Deuce started, voice filled with concern, “we can’t just-”

“Ah’ll stay with them.” The three of you looked up at Epel, who now stood in front of you. His hands were shoved in his jacket pockets; that letterman looked really nice on him, you thought. “Y’all go on ahead.”

Your expression fell and you began to shake your head. “Epel, no, I’ll be-”

“That weren’t a suggestion.” He flopped down in the seat opposite you. He directed his next words to the other two present. “Y’all go find Ace, see if he still wants to ride that coaster. I’ll meet up with y’all when [Y/n]’s better.”

The two boys stared at Epel for a moment, as if trying to get a read on him. To your surprise, they made no argument - they simply nodded and smiled. Deuce glanced over at you, “We’re only a text or phone call away. If you ever need us, don’t be afraid to.”

“Yeah,” Jack affirmed. Though his smile remained, he looked you dead in the eye with his next words. “And don’t try and push yourself too hard. If you’re faking being better, I’ll know. I-”

“Yeah, yeah, you can smell it.” Epel waved Jack off and gave him a lopsided smirk. “Go on, get! Tell me if Ace vomits his guts up.”

With another nod and a chuckle from Deuce, the two turned and made their way to the Sunside Sweep. Though you smiled at them as they left, the moment they took their attention off you both, you frowned and looked over at Epel. “You really don’t have to stay here with me. I know you looked forward to this more than anyone.”

“Eh,” Epel shrugged his shoulders, “it’s just a carnival. Not like ah’ll never get to go to one again.”

That didn’t make you feel any better. You didn’t notice your frown morph into a pout as the guilt overwhelmed you. Your eyes grew big with sadness at the thought of Epel missing out on yet another thing he wanted to do. And you’d all finally managed to sneak him away from Vil’s eye! It wasn’t fair…

Epel glanced over at you - his expression fell as he took in your sad look. “H-Hey, what’s with the pout? Ya looked like a kicked puppy.” He smiled to try and cheer you up. “It really don’t bother me.” He poked at your cheek, “C’mon, buck up!”

You wanted to believe him, you really did…but your mind kept wandering to how excited he’d been the day before. He was the one to suggest the fair to you all; Epel had been the one up really early, anxious to go. You glared down at your stomach in a mix of shame and frustration. You knew you shouldn’t have eaten all that food…

Epel observed your current state and sighed. “Ahlright, if ya really wanna make it up to me,” he stood up from the bench, “let’s go on the ferris wheel.”

You raised your head as you eyed Epel, confused by the suggestion. “You said it was a baby ride.”

Epel clicked his tongue and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, it’s not that bad. ‘Ts not the worst ride in the world.” He glanced down at you with a lopsided smile. “That and, ah mean, if that upsets yur stomach, yur real bad off.”

You supposed he had a point. You glanced over at the ferris wheel, watching as it turned at a slow, languid pace. It looked rather peaceful…you gave a small nod as you slowly stood. “Y-Yeah, I guess it’ll be fine.”

Epel smiled, relieved that you agreed. He tugged at your wrist and gently pulled you along with him towards the ride. Thankfully, there wasn’t a line when you arrived. Epel reached into his pocket and dug out two tickets and handed them to the ride operator. They tucked the tickets away in a pouch on their belt before they led you up the stairs to where the carriages docked. There was a railing either side of the stairs for you to grab…yet Epel held your hand the whole way up. He glanced at you as the next empty carriage came to a stop; he glanced back when the operator opened the door and directed both of you inside.

Once safety tucked inside, sat on benches opposite each other, the operator closed the door. Seconds later, you began to move. You lightly gripped your bench as the carriage swayed as it traveled upward, pulled up by the wheel. You bit your lip to hold back a grunt as your stomach turned at the slightest movement. Epel seemed to notice your discomfort - within seconds he was beside you, hand rested on your knee as he examined you.

“You aren’t gonna throw up on me, are ya?” he asked, looking a little nervous at the thought.

“N-No, I think I’m fine.” This time, your smile was not forced as you looked Epel in his pretty blue eyes. “Thank you…for making sure I’m okay, I mean.”

“Well, ah mean, what didja want me to do?” he asked, voice laced with a small chuckle. “Leave ya there to die? I ain’t like Ace - I’m not an asshole.”

You let out a small giggle. “It’s still a little weird to hear you cuss out loud like that.”

“Ah know, right?” Epel leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head, his right leg crossed over his left knee. “Keep waitin’ for Vil to pop out from behind somethin’ and squawk at me for it.”

“Is he treating you better?” you asked. “Since his overblot, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Epel replied with a nod. “Still scolds me fer somethin’ just ‘bout every day, but ‘s not as bad.” He glanced at you as his teeth peeked through his smile. “He’ll even compliment me every now ‘n again.”

“That’s good.” You straightened your posture; you suddenly felt a lot better. “I’m happy he’s allowing you to be more free - more like yourself. I like it.”

“Oh yeah?” Epel now smirked as he uncrossed his legs and arms, sitting up before he inched closer to you. “What’chu like ‘bout me?”

“W-Well…” Now you suddenly felt nervous. His gaze was more intense than before, like he was trying to look into your very soul. Paired with that smirk on his face, he looked…attractive. Well, he always did, but…it was different. You scrambled to think of something.

“I…I like how laidback you are. You’re a lot more confident, too. It…suits you.”

“Mm, yeah?~” He inched closer with every passing second, so much so you had to scoot back along the bench to allow him room. “Ya like how manly ah can be? When ah’m out of all that frilly stuff?”

“What you wear doesn’t matter.” Something shifted in Epel’s gaze, but you couldn’t tell exactly what it was. “I guess it’s because you can be more…free? You don’t have to remind yourself of manners and other things; you can be yourself. I like that you can just be…well, you.”

Epel took in your words for a moment, as though to let them soak into the deepest parts of his brain. In those seconds, his expression had fallen into something akin to surprise - shock, even. Then, slowly, that expression came back, but this time the smirk was wider than it had been before. His eyes narrowed as he got even closer, so close your back now pressed against the wall of the carriage. The curve of the carriage’s body made your back contort to its figure. To do that, you had to sink down a little in your seat - to where Epel now towered over you.

“You know how cute ya look when yur all genuine ‘n shit?” Epel lowered his face down towards yours. “Real cute, sweetheart~”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a flush of red rising to your cheeks. You’d never seen Epel like this, so forward, so…hot. Hot was the word, yet you never dared let yourself think it. Epel was your friend, one of the guys! You wouldn’t let yourself think of him as something more, but now…now it was all you could think of.

“Tell me somethin’, sweet thang.” His lips were now beside your ear. Even at this angle, you could still glimpse that handsome grin. “Why do ya think I wanted to stay with ‘cha?”

“T-To make sure I was okay?”

“Ye, that,” his hair tickled your cheek as he got really close to your ear, “and because ah don’t want the other guys tryin’ to take what I want.”

Your heart nearly lurched out of your chest as the carriage suddenly came to a stop. In that quick commotion, you almost didn’t notice the lips that brushed against your cheek. But you did - you were sure your cheeks were as red as Ace’s hair. Epel suddenly scooted away from you, then pulled you back up to a sitting position. As soon as you sat up, the carriage door opened. In stepped Ace, who was led into the car by Deuce. He looked pretty bad, face a near green color as he glanced in your direction.

Deuce clumsily sat him on the bench opposite you and Epel, Jack stepping in behind him as the door slammed closed. You glanced out the small window on the door to see the ferris wheel’s operator, who looked a little too happy to leave you all in there with Ace. When you turned your gaze back on the redhead, you could see why: he looked ready to pass out, or barf, whichever came first.

“Da hell happened to you?” Epel asked.

“This is what five rides on two different coasters, with four sodas in-between, will get you,” Jack replied as he sat beside Deuce. He glared at Ace, who sat next to the large window of the carriage. “I told him not to do it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Ace grumbled something unintelligible in response, though didn’t even bother to look at Jack to deliver it. He simply stared out the window, gaze a thousand yards away from where they were. Deuce simply shook his head, a sorry smile on his face as he patted Ace’s shoulder. “It’ll wear off eventually, man, don’t worry.” Deuce mumbled something under his breath as he took his hand off Ace. “Hopefully before Riddle finds out what you did.”

You nearly jumped out of your seat at Epel’s laugh bellowed out next to you. “What did ah tell ya?” He lifted his index finger into the air, “One braincell.”

“C’mon, Epel, give the guy a break,” Deuce said, though a snicker lay hidden beneath his words.

“Oh, like he gave me a break when ah dropped my lunch all over myself that time when ah-”

You didn’t hear that next part - you were distracted by the arm Epel draped over your shoulders. Though you smiled as the three continued to talk, and as Ace continued to glare and grumble (he even managed to flip the bird once), you were constantly aware of how secure Epel held you. He nary took his arm off you the rest of that afternoon at the fair. And whenever you’d peek over at him, he’d catch you - then smirk and wink.

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