#insert reader writing commissions

[ivorydragoness44]

New month, new commissions.

Fixated on a specific character? We've all been there. Let me help you bring that daydream into a readable format 😄

Check out my writing commission info here.

[m-y-fandoms]

Commission: Nagito Komaeda and Kokichi Ouma - Kissing/Makeout Headcanons + First Kiss Drabble

Fic premise assumes you are the S/O (established relationship or crush) and WANT to be kissed by them, keep this in mind.

Word count: 2.6k words

Nagito Komaeda

Nagito is very ill (obviously) both mentally and physically. With this in mind and just seeing how he acts in-game, I have always retained the idea that he has different sides of himself. I think a lot of the time, the illness gets to his head.

Which Nagito you get can change day by day depending on his mood, his goals, or his current mental state, as we see in-game. Think of how he acts in the beginning of Chapter 1 versus say Chapter 5.

There was a very smug, passive-aggressive (and sometimes just plain aggressive), and sharp-witted Nagito…

Or the giggling, self-hating, hope-gasming mess of a man Nagito.

As his S/O, you got both sides, and both sides would serve you in his own way. He would always strive to please you, even if his methods and words sometimes weren’t the best.

After all, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with you if he didn’t see you as a beacon of hope. You were worthy in every way to him, even when he felt like he didn’t deserve you.

Early into your relationship, Nagito would be very needy, in disbelief that someone like him could have someone like you. He’d be touch-starved, nearly worshiping your body as you made out.

His hands would shake as he ran them up and down your sides while you kissed, clawing at your scalp, desperate to pull you in as if he’d lose you if he didn’t.

He’d be out of breath, ragged, not wanting to separate from you. He wouldn’t believe you would want to be near him, much less lock lips with him. He would savor every second, heart beating wildly in his chest. He would feel like he could pass out at any second.

As your relationship progressed and you two got more comfortable being romantic and vulnerable around each other, he would become more confident and initiate the connections between you two more often.

There would still be times where he acted a bit strange or timid, even in your trusted presence, but now making out with you was something he wanted to enjoy regularly, craved and needed, rather than an occurrence he thought would never happen to him in a million years.

He warms up to you like an engine, going from clinging to you and asking between kisses why you have feelings for a mess like him, to leaving you speechless and breathless as he pushes you up against the wall of your private cottage. He’d cage you in with his arms on either side of you, wanting you only to himself, biting at your bottom lip.

He’d become greedy with your touch and time, dragging you away from the group to make out in your room and tell you how you drive him wild.

The First Kiss

You sat on the floor of Nagito’s cabin with him like you did pretty much every night, cross-legged and hiding a hand of cards from him so he couldn’t cheat. He won nearly every time anyway, so he didn’t need that extra advantage. You enjoyed whisking him away for alone time like this. You found that many of your classmates either didn’t like Nagito or didn’t understand him. Most found him odd, even those who called him a friend. He never saw their judgements or little jabs as hurtful because he thought he deserved it. It made you really enjoy the time spent between only the two of you, because there was no judgement toward him, no stress. You could just be yourselves. He could even tell you about his ideals and plans for hope for the world all he wanted without being side-eyed. You often talked for hours as you played video games you borrowed from Chiaki and ate snacks. 

Everyone knew you two were a thing, a close friendship that had blossomed into a mutual crush. You were rarely seen without the other, and in fact most had an inkling that if Nagito wasn’t with you, he was up to something. 

You had a lot of fun with him, despite his constant questioning of your feelings for him: asking why you’d want to even be around someone like him, assuring you that he knew he could be a bother. He felt like he was a waste of your time, and you were slowly getting him out of the habit of feeling that way.

Now into early hours of the morning, everyone else was fast asleep for the night. Nagito walked you back to your cabin in the dark of the humid night, lit only by small lanterns adorning the cottage walls. This was your routine. Once in a while you fell asleep in his bed while he slept on the floor with a single blanket and pillow but him walking you back to your room before then was the norm. He’d casually wrap his coat around your shoulders on the rare occasion it was chilly, sometimes risk awkwardly reaching for your hand. He’d never been forward with you thus far, making it clear that while he wanted more, he didn’t feel like he deserved it. He wasn’t the best choice for you. He was meant to support you, to bolster your hope, not be a romantic equal. Tonight, it felt a little different, though. You wanted your relationship to move to the next level. You were going crazy, left with only the gentle embraces or leaning against him on his bed to satisfy you until your next fix. You needed more.

“Well… goodnight (Y/N),” Nagito flashed you a sideways grin, hesitating as if something were on his mind before turning to return to his cabin alone. You’d met his eyes and he looked away, already beginning his trek back. You reached out, grasping the tips of his fingers then securely moving your way up his arm to halt him.

“Nagito, wait…” He snapped his ghostly white face back to you immediately, expectantly almost…

“Yeah?” You swallowed nervously, losing the confidence and adrenaline rush when his eyes searched yours. He had a way of making butterflies appear in your stomach. He was just… so pretty, especially in the low lighting, especially with your nerves on fire. “What is it, (Y/N)...?” He stepped closer when the silence lingered.

“I, well… don’t go, yet…” You struggled to find the words. You couldn’t just ask straight out, right?

“Okay… I’ll stay. Is something wrong?” He hadn’t known you to ever be nervous or at a loss of words around him. That was everyone else’s job.

“Well, I want to… well…” he stepped a bit closer and your heart rate picked up. “Is it okay if maybe, I kiss you?” He felt his heart sink. His eyes went wide, pupils blown out in disbelief, but yet he stepped closer, as if his body and mind were at opposition.

“What? You want to kiss someone like me? Why would you-”

“If you don’t want to, please, it’s okay. Seriously, we don’t have to-.” You started back tracking immediately, thinking maybe you’d gone too far. 

“Well of course I want to, but… I mean someone like me would only soil you. Can you imagine my filthy lips on y-”

“I do imagine your lips… a lot.” You spoke barely above a whisper, and he moved closer once more, until your chest lightly bumped against his.

“Really? Wow, I can’t imagine such a shining beacon of hope such as yourself wanting anything to do with me…” His eyes darted between yours and your bottom lip, feeling the stirrings of desire in the pit of his stomach.

“You say that a lot, you know… I wish you wouldn’t.” You tilted your head slightly, leaning in gently, extending your neck just barely.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice took on a slightly husky tone, and he didn’t stop you when your lips bumped against his, so reluctantly, so jittery. When he didn’t pull away, you pressed a little harder.

Almost like his cautious and unsure mood from just before was a merely a farce, he tilted his head to match, and his lips melted into yours like they were meant to fit together. Touch-starved and needy, he brought two shaky hands up to clutch onto your shoulders, as if you’d blow away with the wind if he didn’t. Allowing you very little time or room to breathe, his tongue found its way past your lips and brushed against yours. He felt you return the gesture with even more enthusiasm, and you heard as much as felt him moan into your mouth. The rumble in his chest sent sparks to your brain. He moved one hand around your waist, the other grabbing the back of your neck desperately, pulling you further in when you couldn’t physically be any closer. He was frantic, needing more and more of you. His mind was racing with so many thoughts at once.

Needing air urgently, you pulled away and found him hesitant to let go. So you didn’t. Not wanting to part from him either, you rested your forehead against his, bringing your hands up to run through his cloud of messy white locks.

Kokichi Ouma

Kokichi is not shy.

He is bold, teasing, and very loud about his feelngs for you.

Because while he loved to lie, your flustered reactions to his affections were so much more rewarding.

When it came to kissing, well there was no better way to rile you up and get that reaction he was looking for.

He loves PDA.

Kissing you in public was not only a way to mess with you, but to show the world you belonged to him.

He would do drive by kisses, running up to you for a peck then scampering off before you had a moment to process.

He would make bets, games, dares where you had to kiss him if you lost.

Kokichi was not nice.

When he made out with you in the privacy of your own dorm rooms, he was rough and unforgiving. He liked your little yips and gasps of surprise.

He would nibble at your jaw…

Bite your bottom lip a little too hard and lick up the bead of blood that spilled out…

Wrap one hand around your throat to keep you in place…

Sometimes he would tease you, hovering his lips over yours until you were nearly begging him to just kiss you already.

Your embarrassment was super cute to him.

When he was really into it, sometimes he’d pull at your hair or grab your backside, and when your lips parted to gasp, shoved his tongue in, an opportunist.

The First Kiss

You were traipsing about with Kokichi, investigating the newly unlocked areas of the academy. Exploring the vast and mysterious campus was daunting alone, but super fun with Kokichi by your side. You bounced between recently opened labs while Kokichi bothered their owners.

After a while, as the day was winding down and you’d begun to run low on energy, you sat with Kokichi on the top step of the flight of stairs just down the hall from Kiyo’s lab. The atmosphere was dark and gloomy, like the set of a horror film. You’d never have come up to this floor alone. You wondered why such a cheery girl like Angie had her lab - used to create beautiful art - on such a spooky floor. Kokichi, of course, had been messing with you the whole time, claiming he’d seen a dark shadow down the hall or that he swore he heard Kiyo hatching an evil plan in his lab earlier. You’d punched his shoulder, begging him to cut it out before you ran back to your dorm and left him behind. Looking down the creaky steps, you spoke a warning to him:

“Kokichi, I’m serious! You know this place freaks me out already. I don’t need you adding to i- mmph!” Your words were cut off, muffled into an awkward noise when Kokichi’s lips crashed onto yours. Your eyes widened in shock, but his were closed as he kissed you and pulled back just as fast. He leaned back on his hands, smirking mischeviously at you.

“W-what was that for?!” You sputtered, feeling your pulse throb in your chest.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Kokichi feigned innocence, his mouth agape in a childish look of guilt.

“You kissed me???” Your brows furrowed suspiciously.

“Well, I like you!” He grinned genuinely. “I know you like me too~! I heard you talking to Saihara about it the other day!” You were shocked at his apparent spying on you and would address it later, but he was right. You did have a crush on Kokichi, and you’d spoken to your close friend Shuichi about it at length, but you’d never have told Kokichi himself. You expected a swift and humiliating rejection if you did. You liked Kokichi a lot actually, but thought that to him, you were nothing more than a plaything, a way to avoid boredom because you tolerated him unlike most of your peers. A friend at most. 

Your mind was racing, wondering how he could confess his feelings for you so bluntly, so plainly… Wasn’t he nervous at all? Was this a lie? Who can state that they like someone as more than a friend so casually?

But then you remembered that this was Kokichi. He wasn’t like other people. He was unique, for sure. You’d never met anyone like him.

“If you knew, why didn’t you tell me before?” You questioned, disbelief in your voice. He really was something else. “Ahhh!” You cried out as you were pushed backwards suddenly, now laying flat on the floor against the landing of the stairs. Kokichi jumped astride you, ignoring your question and straddling your waist. With a devilish grin he looked at you, pinned down below him. “Kokichi!” You squealed, not able to do much else. Your limbs felt like jelly and you couldn’t make eye contact with him.

“Awww I love that embarrassed expression on you~! You know, (Y/N)... you’re kinda cute this way.” He leaned down, letting the tip of his nose wiggle against yours. “You want more?” He mused, his tone low and impish. Turning your head away from him shyly, you paused, thinking about if you should humiliate yourself by playing along first, before nodding in response.

“Then beg for it…” he frowned down at you, deadly serious and commanding an intimidating presence.

“Stop it, Kokichi! You’re being cruel…” You threw an arm over your eyes, obscuring him from view, wishing you could just disappear at this very moment. You couldn’t take the teasing anymore. You were used to it from him, but not in this way. Never in this way.

“Come on now… if you act like that, I won’t kiss you ever again!” He crinkled his nose and furrowed his brow in disapproval. Your ears perked up at that, and you acted on instinct, reaching up and grabbing his checkered bandana in a vice-like grip. His mouth fell agape just a little, brows raising. “Oh, so that’s how it is~” he snickered. 

He knew he had you in his trap, just where he wanted you. You tugged on the bandana, and he let you, bringing his lips down to hover right above yours. You closed your eyes expectantly, waiting for a kiss that never came. After a second, you felt the weight of his body lift off of you, and your eyes fluttered open in disappointment.

“Kokichi?” You sat up to see him already a few steps ahead of you, ready to make a break for it.

“Tell you what… if you can catch me, I’ll take you back to your room and kiss you all you want~!” He gestured flippantly to you, waving his hand, and took off at the speed of light.

[cometchasinglove]

🌸 Writing Commissions 🌸

I thought it was time that l'd make a new post for my comms! However, I'm making some new updates!

Fandoms

• Original Works

• Transformers Animated

• Transformers Prime

• Transformers Robots in Disguise 2015

• Transformers EarthSpark (ONLY Season One)

• Transformers Knightverse (Bumblebee 2018/

Rise of the Beasts)

• Transformers One

• Transformers Armada

Rules

• I will write for self-inserts, OCs, CanonXCanon, X-Readers, etc!

• I will not write extreme gore or "heavy" topics.

• For smut, I will write for some kinks, but nothing too extreme. Just ask! You MUST be 18+ to ask for smut!

• For romance fics, I only accept adult/adult pairings!

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There is an extra $5 fee if the work involves explicit smut content!

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• I will ask for payment upfront!

Thank you for taking the time to read! I will update this list later on as I see fit.

Examples of my work can be found here!

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, the world was a small, uncomplicated place. Mom and Dad don't have much money to travel abroad and their jobs only allow for little leisure, so the furthest vacation spot is a beach four hours' drive from your home city. School fills your days with lessons, friends, and the promise of weekend sleepovers. Every day, you stroll down the same street and greet your neighbors by name. Happiness was as close as your mother's freshly baked blueberry pie.

But now? When your world becomes wider and the reach of your hand becomes longer, it seems that happiness finds further hiding places. It grieves you that childhood was too brief; that bubble of safety from the world's woes and tribulations burst before you could even appreciate it.

The five-year-old you looked in the mirror, twisting your tiny feet to see the new shoes from all angles. Despite your repeated protests that you preferred the blue one, your mother purchased the bright pink one—she said it matched her favorite dress, and mother knows best, so you don't have to bother thinking about what you wanted. You shrugged to yourself; at least it's better than your old one.

Walking down the hall, you found your father. He's not in his usual play clothes – he's dressed for work, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "My little princess, you look so pretty!"

You beamed at his praise, chubby cheeks glowing. Nothing makes your heart sing like Dad's smile. You spin around like a princess in a fairy tale, showing off your shoes by stomping gently on the wooden surface.

“Mom bought it for me. It's not blue, but I like it!”

Dad chuckled. “Well, at least she spent my money on my favorite girl.”

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, your lunch bag in hand. “I saw them on sale at the store and just knew they'd be perfect for school,” she says proudly. Your father turned to you, opening his mouth to say something but, Mother interrupted. “We'd better get going or she'll be late for class.”

Dad sighs, mumbling a “yes, I know,” and kneels to sweep you into a tight hug. Your secret handshake is special – finger guns with “pew pew” noises, then knuckles bumping before more hugs and kisses. Your mother rolled her fondly eyes. “You two are always conspiring, sharing your little secrets. Now say goodbye, Daddy has to get to work."

You dislike it when Dad has to leave for work—in fact, you prefer him to Mom. But, Mom said he had to go or else there would be no food on the table for dinner; Besides, Daddy will definitely come back home and you can play with him again. You waved, forcing a smile to look as happy as possible.

"Bye, Daddy!"

"See you soon, princess." With a wave of his hand, your father answered and vanished behind the wooden door.

As Daddy's car pulls away from the curb, you hear Mom walking over to where the car keys are kept. You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly, but that strange tightness in your chest persists—one that usually occurs when it's just Mom and you. She opened the door and told you to go to the car. You followed her in silence, eyes fixed on the pattern on your new pink shoes.

Sliding into the backseat, you peer out the window. The car engine started, and the radio played the same playlist. You watch the buildings and trees move backward. Mom glances at you in the rearview mirror and corrects you about your slumped posture, saying it's an ugly look for a young lady. You sat up straight in your chair and muttered an apology. Satisfied, your mother returned her attention to the road.

Secretly, you wish it could be your dad driving you to school instead. He's more fun, telling silly stories to make you laugh, and doesn't mind your messy crayons or clothes that don't match perfectly. Your mother always finds fault with anything that is unclean or out of place.

Looking up at the clear sky, you hope the sun will soon be above, indicating that lunchtime is approaching. Lunchtime means it's a few hours until sundown, and dinner will soon be served.  You want to quickly see Dad and hear whatever stories he has during the day—that is, if he comes home. Lately, work has been keeping him from home more and more. However, if he's too busy, then tomorrow will do—Sunday sounds fun. He never missed a Sunday with you.

The weekend comes quickly, and you can barely contain your excitement when Dad takes you to the park Sunday morning. You walk hand in hand down the busy sidewalk, you chat a mile a minute about school. Laughter and barking greeted you both.

A fluffy golden retriever catches your eye, and you tug Daddy's hand, pointing excitedly. “Can we get a puppy, Daddy? Please? I'd take such good care of it, I promise!”

Your father chuckled, then shook his head. “You know how your mother feels about furry friends making a mess in the house.”

Disappointed, you scruff your shoes in the dirt. Dad never refuses what you want, no matter how ridiculous it is, unless it contradicts Mom. Unfortunately, the majority of what you desire is always something your mother despises. You continue walking.

Then he points – an ice cream cart! “Can I have one?” You ask, only to remember. "Mom said no sweets before dinner."

Dad crouches to meet your downcast eyes. “But Mom's not here. And you and me, we're partners in crime, right? I won't tell if you won't. What do you say we keep our sweet treat just between us?”

Gasping for joy, bubbles of laughter escaped your lips. "Okay!" Dad got you cones, of course, chocolate ones, and you swung your clasped hands and gawked at all the colorful, melted options. There's no better way to spend a Sunday than taking a stroll with Dad in the sunshine.

Monday night, however, was spent with you lying in bed with a fever ravaging your little body. Through the haze, you hear raised voices carrying down the hall—Mom scolding Dad for letting you have that ice cream.

“I can't believe you disobeyed me, Peter! One ice cream and now she's sick as a dog.” Her shrill voice pierces your pounding head.

“C'mon Anna, the girl's allowed a treat now and then.” Dad's calmer rumble does little to quell your mother's fury.

“If you'd listened to me from the start, this never would've happened. But you always think you know best.” Their arguing grows more heated, and you curl into a tight ball, wishing you could disappear.

Your mother's booming footsteps grew farther away as their conversations ceased. You open your eyes. When your door creaks and you turn around, the light from the corridor peeks through a tiny opening, and your father's form fills the frame. He sits next to you with a strained, contrite expression on his face.

“Hey, honey,” he started. “I'm sorry our secret got out. Mom's just worried about you being sick.”

You try to smile, though it comes out as more of a grimace. “S’okay, Daddy.” You said, and he stroked your damp hair tenderly; concern etched deep.

“Jesus, you're burning up. How about a story to take your mind off feeling bad?”

As if on cue, you remember – “The Nutcracker, please!”

With a kind grin, your father got up to get the cherished book. He takes a seat next to you, acts puzzled as he flips through a book and clears his throat.

"Now let's see, how did this story go again?" You chuckled at his attempt to divert your attention from your fever.

Soon later, he starts reading aloud with a low, comfortable voice. Sometimes, he stumbles over long words or loses his place, but each time he simply smiles sheepishly before continuing on. His favorite part is the dialogue, as he frequently adopts a different voice to portray different characters. You find yourself entranced, following each magical adventure.

For a little while, you can forget about the uncomfortable heat covering your body and Mom's angry shouts. In these quiet moments with your father, nothing else matters but his gentle company. In this once kinder world, he is still your father and you are still his favorite daughter—his one and only. Even if getting an ice cream is what makes you sick, you would do it all over again just to share this time with him.

By the story's end, your eyelids grow heavy enough, but not quite heavy. Dad chuckled, closing the book. “Still awake, little love? You must be feeling better.”

Your lips curve into a smile, glazed eyes glistening as flushed cheeks rise. “Mom signed me up for ballet classes,” you mumble sleepily.

A gasp escaped his lips, his forehead shot upwards emphasizing the already existing wrinkles. He looked at you with irises the same color as yours. You chuckle from his reaction, but your smile fades when his features swim and blur before you like figures in a dream. His gaze was always so kind, looks darker than you recall. Stubble shadows his jaw. When he smiles now, it doesn't reach as far.

He said your name—but it sounded foreign, it felt wrong. Why can't you see him clearly anymore?

“My little princess, you’re going to be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.” You wanted to answer, to hold this moment with him forever; but heavy eyelids won the battle and ultimately dragged you down. As the darkness enveloped you, Dad's hazy face was the last thing on your mind.

Thin curtains block the dreary morning light as you begin your daily ritual of waking up. The city has just woken up below; fog still hangs on the streets of London as you pad barefoot to the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your feet.

Filling the kettle, you set it to boil and retrieve your favorite chipped mug from the shelf. Your hand reaches for a packet of instant grounds—two scoops of it go inside, followed by a splash of cream. After lifting the whistling kettle, you poured in the boiling water slowly before taking a tea spoon to stir. The sound of the drizzle striking the glass was amplified by the apartment's quiet, and a small clink! sound is added each time your spoon meets your porcelain mug.

Lifting the mug, you breathe deep its comforting aroma before taking a careful sip, sighing as warmth spreads through your body. Coffee in hand, you turn to the task of packing your bag, put the essentials: water bottle, warm up shorts, warm up sweater, leg warmers, two pointe shoes, skirts, and a pouch containing deodorant, hair spray, comb, pins , and band aids.

Feeling quite satisfied, you finish your coffee and rinse the mug before leaving it to dry. You go shower and do your skincare routine. Pulling out your clothes drawer, you retrieve the leotard and tights, sliding the familiar fabrics over still-damp limbs.

Before the full-length mirror, you start to stretch. First position – feet turned out, heels together, arms graceful at your sides. Middle split – breathe in, reach for your toes, feel the burn in your thighs. Forward fold, palms flat on the floor, spine lengthening. After feeling warmed up for the day, you slowly got up and grabbed your bag towards the door.

The city was already starting to get busy, with the hustle and bustle of commuters making their way to work. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee wafting through the air. You quickened your footsteps on the cobblestone streets.

When the train door opens, you rush out, clutching your bag tight. Racing up the stairs, you burst through the exit and meet the cold air from the rain. You rubbed your hands against your arms in a desperate attempt to warm yourself. Overhead, heavy clouds hung low. You set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

But, as your building comes into view, you slow down—memories from last night fill your head. It was just here—under the awnings of that little café—that you first took shelter from the rain with him.

Simon. His name whispers through your mind like fog swirling around lampposts. If only the place was still open, maybe you would come in for a sweet warm drink instead of that crowded pub. Must've been nice, you think—it must've been nice to chat between sweets, enveloped in comfort that stretches time to be longer. Maybe he won't be so guarded and you'll get more than a name and a job—a promise to meet tomorrow at breakfast, for example.

Realizing you had completely stopped walking, you shook your head as embarrassment settled on your cheeks. Why do you dwell on such fantasies? Despite his kindness, Simon is just a stranger with just a name, one of many faces in this city that you will never meet again.

With a sigh, you continued your walk and disappeared behind the large doors of the opera.

The heavy doors creaked open as you pushed inside, warmth enveloping your cold body. Long hallway echoed with the conversation of the dancers who had arrived, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor while exchanging a joke or two with each other. You turn into the dressing room. Hanging up your coat, you saw a familiar sight—girls chatting and gossiping as they got ready.

You sat down at one of the dressers, placing your duffel bag at your feet. The sound of a zipper being opened sounded in the air; you bent down and reached for your pouch. Then, you pull out your trusty lip balm before applying it to your lips and gently massaging in the colorless formula.

Just then, a girl came and stopped at the door frame, panting. “It's up! The casting announcement is on the board!”

Squeals of excitement and joy were heard as they rushed to see who got what role. You hurriedly closed your balm, returned it to the pouch before getting up from the chair following the others. They had gathered at the end of the hall, jostling to see a piece of paper stuck to the board.

Air fills your lungs slowly when you inhale. It felt like your hammering heart was going to drop to your stomach as your legs started to swing. The pessimistic side of you says to turn around—why bother? It said tauntingly, you know which role you ended up having. But the hopeful side—the little girl still full of dreams stored somewhere in your ribs—insisted on peering and feeling.

As you stepped into the crowd of dancers, they turned around and some started smiling at you. One of them, Jasmine, approached you after calling your name.

“You did it! You got the role!”

As she hugged you, you scanned down the long list. Your eyes freeze on the main role. The Swan Queen. Beside it is printed in big black letters, your name. The Swan Queen.

You detach yourself from Jasmine's embrace, muttering excuses as you flee down the hall to the toilet. Step by step opening each stall to make sure the space is totally empty, you then lock yourself in one of them and sink into the closed toilet lid. Your mind is racing with a plethora of feelings as your eyes are fixed on the sections of tile plaque.

Joy, pride, disbelief... But underneath it all lies a hollow ache you can't place. Why? Isn't this what you've always wanted, to to become more than just another dancer in the group, to stop at precisely the thirteenth, and somehow take on the role of the Swan Queen—the one who shines the most on stage? Perhaps it's the self-conscious part of you, believing that the director must have made a mistake and mistook you for someone else.

Or perhaps this emptiness was once occupied by the never-ending quest for approval. In truth, that person no longer exists; you have no one left to tell this good news to. The chairs in the crowd were empty.

The cost of keeping everyone at a distance, indeed.

You clutch on your leotard, the fabric wrinkling in your tight grip. Gazing up at the ceiling and inhaling again, you make the decision to push up on unsteady legs and get out of the stall.

The hallway seems louder than before. Every footstep and whisper amplified in your mind, eyes tracking you as you pass—all judging, wondering. A flush creeps up your neck. You speed up your steps, hoping to quickly get out from under their scrutinizing gaze. However, no matter how hard you try, your ears cannot be deafened by the snatches of hushed conversation that follow.

“Can't believe they chose her; she's so soulless on stage.” Your throat constricts, and your hands are clenched into pale fists.

Claudine's piercing stare cuts through the crowd as your eyes meet. She rakes her gaze over you slowly, as if trying to decipher what the director found so special. You lowered your eyes, hurriedly passing to the safety of the empty dressing room. Grabbing your bag with shaky hands, you flee once more to the practice studio, desperate to lose their judgment.

The studio door's knob turned, and as you pushed slightly to get a glimpse inside, the hinges creaked. With the coach and pianist, the director was engaged in a serious discussion. He gives you a quick glance and gestures for you to enter.

“(Y/N), it's so wonderful to have you here. I know this role is in excellent hands with you.” His kind words did little to calm your fraying nerves, but you took the crumbs of his appreciation.

More dancers arrive behind you, their excited chatter filling the hallway. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you catch sight of familiar faces: Jasmine, Sophia, Eloise, long-faced Marie—surely she's not used to not being the main star, and you feel like you've taken her place even though you're not good enough. You swallow hard and turn back, placing your duffel bag in the studio's corner.

The director clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. “Bravo to each of you for earning these coveted roles through your talent and dedication. Now, let us begin our work to bring Tchaikovsky's magic to life for our audiences. Places everyone, we'll start from the beginning!”

Your shoulders rise as you inhale a deep breath. Swan Lake. First time becoming the Swan Queen.

Does the director know that his gaze carries a heavy weight? The more sighs he lets out, the more you suffocate, as if the air has been tainted with butane and you've reached the vertigo stage. His eyes followed your every move, but it was his lips that showed dissatisfaction. Something isn't up to his expectations, and it's not the techniques and poses your ballet teacher has been drilling you in since childhood. You are deficient in something that you are unaware of.

The director calls to a halt, praising and giving notes to the other dancers before turning to you. You brace yourself with a deep breath.

“Your technique is truly flawless as always. But I wonder, could you try injecting just a bit more... feeling?” he began. “You portray her innocence and loneliness beautifully. But what is missing is the glimmer of hope she finds in Prince Siegfried's promise to free her.”

Hope? The girl had lived most of her life as a swan; what silly hope did she still have and seek in a man? As if their hearts have the ability to keep a promise. Swan Lake wouldn't be Swan Lake without the prince declaring his love for another woman and Odette jumping off the cliff from the realization that her dreams had ended in vain. Is it not more fitting that she feels only emptiness—the result of years of loneliness leeching any warmth or longing from her soul?

You tell yourself that, if not merely to cover up your poor performance. The director is many years older than you and has directed and seen many ballets throughout his life. If anyone knows how to bring a character to life, it's him.

It begs the question, though, of whether a cursed being like her seems capable of wishing for miracles or fairy tale things like love. Can a withered flower, beaten down by countless rains, still hold the memory of the sun in its crumpled petals?

“I'll do better.” You said.

The director gives a pitying smile; you felt small beneath him. “Good.” Then raising his voice, “Well done everyone today. Let's call it a day and start again tomorrow fresh!"

Snatching up your bag, you rush towards the exit before anyone can speak to you. With your head down, you push through the doors and into the night. Breathing in trembling, you let your legs carry you down the well-known pavement. The sights and sounds of bustling London blur around you.

You shouldn't have believed that girl. You shouldn't have given that dreamy girl the chance to lead a version of herself that has grown far beyond her—because you know her judgment means nothing, just a limited view of the world through rose-tinted glasses. She is that way because a liar once said that she would make a great ballet dancer, and she stuck to it like a devoted disciple to the words of her God.

It was stupid, perhaps a misplaced self-confidence. With your every step, the negative voices in your mind grow louder, jeering relentlessly at your foolishness. This was a mistake from the start. As if you could ever do Odette justice. Best tell him you're stepping down; let Claudine or Marie have the role they deserve. Your heart is heavy, weighing you down to the floor. 

You almost pass by without noticing, but there, through the haze, glows the warm orange light of that pub. The one Simon and you ducked into that stormy night, where you shared pleasantries over pints of bitter. As you watch the door open and close for the newcomers, you halt.

You're not sure which Satan incited. But when you push open the pub door, warmth immediately envelopes you, scents of ale and smoke mingling with the bustle of chatter. A lively folk tune played on the sound system as patrons laughed together in the booths and around the bar. Steeling yourself, you approached awkwardly.

The bartender looked up, his eyes widening briefly before his lips curved into a flirtatious smile. "Well hello gorgeous, what can I get for ya?"

Warmth floods your cheeks and you shift from foot to foot. “Um, do you have anything non-alcoholic?” You said, awkward voice breaking easily. Why did you come in here again?

He raised an eyebrow but maintained a friendly smile. “Sure do, love. Give me a mo.” As he turns around to prepare your drink, you glance around helplessly.

Faces blurred in the dim light—all engaged in lively conversation. You sit alone at the bar like you're waiting for a friend while watching everyone else meet theirs. A feeling of loneliness overtakes you – what were you thinking coming here?

Bartender returns, sliding your drink across with a wink. “On the house. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

Giving a mumbled thanks, you take a sip acting busy. As you sit alone nursing your drink, you believe you understand why. Deep down, beneath all the self-doubt and shame, is a glimmer of truth you loath to admit – you desperately seek companionship, if only for a moment.

And the only person close enough for you to consider a friend is a masked stranger you will never see again. That's pathetic; you're pathetic. Clinging to the irrational part to watch Simon walk through that door. He claims he's a regular here—his “I'm here often enough” seems to make you hold out for the chance of running into him again.

Twenty minutes pass in a haze, and Simon still hasn't appeared. Maybe he's not a regular after all. You finally glance at your phone—it's time for your usual subway.

Signaling the bartender, you place some cash on the bar as a tip. “Thanks again,” you murmur, then gather your coat and slip out into the chill night.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you bump into a figure about to enter.

“No worries, love,” a British-accented voice replies smoothly, and you glance up, thinking it's someone. A stranger—tall, broad shoulders, but not Simon. Perfectly coiffed hair and skin as smooth as porcelain. He shot a charming smile at you. “Off somewhere?”

Instantly on alert, your eyes start looking for a way to get away from him. “Just heading home, thanks.”

Making a sidestep, his arms extended to block your path. Your mind's alarm goes off. His gaze burned as it swept over you, lingering in places it had no right to be before he licked his lips. You felt a cold sweat run down your back.

“Don't be like that, darling. I just want to chat. Buy you a drink, maybe?” His smile grows, and the sick glint in his eyes shows how much it amuses him to see you trembling.

“Sorry, I—”

“I believe the lady said she’s not interested, mate.”

A gruff, familiar voice cuts through the haze. You whip your head around to see Simon standing there. His face is half obscured by his black mask, but you'll recognize that steel gaze everywhere. For some reason, your heart gradually calms down in your ribs.

“And who the fuck are you?” the other asked angrily, puffing up his chest. A daring move, you think. His too-tight t-shirt reveals his consistent gym muscles, but if Simon is his opponent, you can be sure he's no match.

“Just not a fan of creeps harassing women. Now do yourself a favor and fuck off before I make you.” Simon threatened.

The color drains from the guy's face when he sees Simon's seriousness. He walked away, swallowing his wounded pride with a huff. The pressure recedes from your rigid frame as you watch the figure leave before turning to Simon.

"You hurt at all?" he asked, doing a scan of you to check for himself.

You shake your head, then manage a shaky “No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

Simon looked at you, then looked behind you towards the pub. When he turns back to you, his eyebrows raise slightly questioningly.

“You were in there your own?”

The warmth from his question traveled across your cheeks, striking a contrast with the night breeze. You didn't dare to meet his eyes, choosing to settle on your shoes instead. Despite having come here just to meet him, feeling under his judgment is like getting a shot of adrenaline into your legs—so much so that you want to run to get away from him.

“I, um…” Words fail you beneath your embarrassment.

How pathetic you must look—a lone girl nursing a drink with no companions, seeking solace in other people's conversations. You can't, however, just reveal your total lack of friends. Your mind searched frantically for a convincing reason.

“Just… needed to clear my head after a long day of practice. Thought the atmosphere might help.”

Even to your own ears, the lie falls flat. You didn't know if Simon noticed. Though you're pitiful, he doesn't furrow his brow or look at you that way. He asks no questions at all, not even about poor attempts at lying, and he doesn't press people on matters they would rather leave unsaid. Simon doesn't pry; you think that's his good quality.

Simon looked up at the dark sky instead. “Getting late, this is. I'll walk you to the tube.” He nodded, gesturing down the empty sidewalk.

Thick clouds rolled low. The two of you make your way towards the subway station, passing one by one the buildings constructed from buff-colored brick. Simon is striding beside you, his long legs eating up the pavement with ease. Secretly, you steal glances at his broad figure against the lamplight. Your eyes follow the line of his shoulders under his leather jacket—the way it molds into muscular arms.

This is different from your first meeting. There's no need now for nervous small talk to fill the quiet; you're not much of a talker, and Simon also finds more peace in silence.

Simon's presence feels more companionable than awkward. Warmth bloomed in your ribs as your lips curled into a small smile before it disappeared again. You both walk in wordless sync before you become bored and break it.

“I didn't really expect to see you again.”

Simon glances down at you, his brows quirking questioningly. Did you sound ungrateful? You rush to explain. “I mean, it was all like a chance thing, running into each other like that. Figured it was just... a one-time thing, you know?”

He thought about your words for a moment. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

Up ahead, the glow of the station sign begins to appear. You bit the inside of your cheek as you slowly slowed down your pace, but you made sure it was unnoticeable. Your journey's end draws near, but you hope this togetherness can last longer.

Summoning your courage, you try, “Were you meeting someone at the pub? Before…” Your words trail off, but he seems to understand.

“Nah, wasn't meeting anyone,” he said casually. “Just fancied a drink, is all.”

You nodded, acting satisfied, but actually feeling a little disappointed. It seemed that he was in fact a frequent visitor, coming and going on any given evening; it was just for a drink, like before he met you. Meanwhile, you cling to the prospect of another chance to meet like a lifeline. As the station came into full view, your eyes fell, brewing more embarrassment and desperation in your stomach. Maybe he has someone waiting for him. What were you thinking, letting yourself hope?

Yet, though small, the rebellious part of you refuses to let this end.

"What do you usually drink?" You ask again, grasping for any excuse to extend your time, no matter how little.

“Bourbon,” he replied gruffly. “Kentucky, usually. Good drop.”

Twenty-three years old, but this discussion is still foreign territory for you. Your fingers can count the few times you've tasted alcohol—each occasion marred by your mother's voice in your head, warning of its evil. It's rather comical, considering how it once became her loyal companion for several years—that damned thing became the only thing she looked for after coming home from work and gulping it down flat on the living room sofa to dull her broken heart. You cannot yet judge her as a hypocrite or someone who has learned from her mistakes. As if a single glass would transform you into some fallen woman. It was always all or nothing with her; there was no concept of moderation.

Such inhibitions are not for Simon, though. A man of the world who has seen and done things that you could scarcely fathom. For him, a pint after work is as regular as taking a breath.

All too soon, you reach the stairs leading down to the station entrance. Your feet stopped when he did. Turning your body to face him, you gathered your courage and looked up. His eyes meet yours, and you see him about to open his mouth behind his surgical mask. No, you can't bear to hear that final goodbye.

“Do you..” You started. “Like anything else to drink, besides bourbon? I probably have… something at my place.”

There was a change in his gaze before he returned to his usual guarded gaze. Your cheeks screamed on fire at the implication that you didn't quite mean to make. Such an invitation should be the last thing a girl like you offers to a stranger she's only met twice, particularly at this hour. To your defense, though, he's now an acquaintance, and desperation influences people to do the unthinkable. The nights are getting colder and your lonely apartment won't do.

It seems that your question surprised him too. Simon scanned your face carefully before releasing the tension.

“Tea.”

When Simon replies with a single gruff word, you can't help but smile, ducking your head to hide it behind loose tendrils of hair. Lifting your eyes once more, you find him staring at you. Two people engaging in a silent game of deciphering, each trying to unravel the secrets of the other piece by piece.

“Tea,” you repeat softly, as if savoring the taste of the word.

Fingers twisting together, you steel your nerves before turning toward the stairs to lead the way down. You hear his footsteps fall solidly behind you. Not daring to look back out of fear that this dream will shatter, you mentally urge your feet faster.

At the platform's edge, mist curls between the rails like grasping fingers. Simon was standing right next to you. Slowly, the lights of an approaching train emerge, growing brighter by the second. With a weary hiss, the sliding doors open in front of you in welcome. You turned to Simon, then stepped aboard, and he followed, as you already knew.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[mackjlee9]

Task Force 141 x Male!Reader x Vladimir Makarov [Angst&Smut] |commission|

Warning; ghost x male reader, bad use of Russian sorry, violence, mentions of manipulation, short smut scene... Uh I might be forgetting something.

Masterlist. Commissions Rules.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (2022)

Every day was the same as it always was. He couldn't remember a day when waking up wasn't painful, surrounded by people screaming and groaning in pain while there was some cheering in the background.

He couldn't help but cringe at the sound of bones breaking, followed by the loudest cheering yet, letting everyone know there has been a "winner". (M/n) doesn't know how many days, weeks, months, or even years have passed since the first time he was taken to this place, but nothing had changed since his first day. He had been close to death more times than he could even remember.

Everything he knew about the place he was in is that its some kind of prison, and they were being kept in their cells or " rooms" until the next fight, the so-called; death arena. And well, yeah, it's exactly what you think it is.

Each passing day was a blur, mostly because he would be resting for days after being called to another fight, hating having to end someone's life just to entertain others. But one day, that fateful day, his life changed. For better or for worse, he couldn't tell, but it did.

A man named Makarov told a tale of how he had heard of this place, and he came by to maybe... buy one of their fighters, preferably, the strongest one.

That's how (M/n) found himself being woken up with freezing water was thrown on his face, making him jolt awake as he choked, having a hard time breathing.

"Get up, scum, you're leaving," he was roughly pushed out of his thin mattress, stumbling his way out of his cell and falling on his knees in front of an unknown male. He looked up and made eye contact with cold blue eyes, his (e/c) eyes observing every facial feature of the man, watching him smirking while breaking eye contact.

"I'll be going then," (M/n) watched the man reach his hand down to grab onto the chain attached to the collar he was wearing, "Let's go then, igrushka," blinking a few times, (M/n) got back up on his trembling legs and followed the men that kept tugging on his chain.

The moment the stepped outside he closed his eyes from the stinging pain caused by the natural light. He stood still, groaning as he covered his eyes, but soon, he was forced to keep walking.

"He looks like shit, Makarov," the mocking laugh of another man startled him, squinting and peeking through his fingers. Apparently, the man taking him was named Makarov... What a nice name...

And that was the beginning of it all.

At first, because of the lack of mental and emotional support (M/n) found himself clinging to Makarov as if his life depended on it, following after him like a lost puppy, developing some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. (M/n) felt in love with Makarov.

Or thought he did.

And Makarov took advantage of that, using him as if he was nothing but a toy for his pleasure, for his enjoyment, hearing (M/n) mumbling quietly 'I love you's at him, words Makarov could only chuckle at. Despite never hearing it back, the movement of Makarov's hips quickened, and (M/n) could only hold onto the male's hips as he thrusts his hips up, whining at the tight feeling around his cock, and that was all the reassurance he needed.

///////

(M/n) lived like that for years, following Makarov around, obediently listening to his orders, feeling like he lost bits and pieces of his soul whenever he was sent out to kill more people, constantly needing his love and reassurance to be able to continue on, but he was always met with being called a bother, or being told to move 'cause he was in the way, that he was a nuisance.

He was okay with that, telling himself that Makarov was just having a bad day, and he just had to unwind. (M/n) would let him, he will always let Makarov do anything he pleased.

But one night, (M/n) couldn't sleep. He kept turning around on his bed, it was one of those nights where the memories flashed in his mind, and it only got worse with the stress and self-doubt he felt during the day.

He took a deep breath and got up from the bed, slowly opening the door to his room, and walked around the halls of the facility he had memorized like the back of his hand for a short while, trying to clear his mind, dragging his bare feet on the cold ground.

His mind wandered around, observing the small details on the walls, noticing new scratches here and there, another piece of it peeling off, counting every step he took when he overhead voices nearby. (M/n) slowed his breathing, taking careful steps and pressing himself against the wall, peeking through one of the hall windows. Makarov was there, alongside Viktor, Kiril, and Lev.

"That igrushka has been getting on my nerves recently..." (M/n) held his breath for a moment, feeling his chest hurting at Makarov's words, "I'm gonna get rid of him, for good. He's useless now, and he's easily disposable."

The sound of him cocking his pistol made him release a gasp, and he saw how everyone turned toward the window, but (M/n) had turned around and was running toward the only exit that was open at this time of night. He could hear footsteps behind him, Makarov's voice calling him. Igrushka. Igrushka!

A single ricocheted by his head, making him halt for a moment, but he had to keep going, or he was gonna be a dead man soon. He didn't have much to live for anyway but... He didn't wanna die like this.

//////

His breath was ragged, his lungs painfully pressing against his ribs with every breath he took, his body trembling from the cold touch of the snowflakes landing on his exposed skin.

He had wandered around for long enough to see the sun rising on the horizon, his feet and hands numb, hugging himself to try and feel somehow heated, of course, it was a futile attempt. (M/n) walked for a few more minutes, wandering as far away as he could, but eventually, his body gave out, and passed out.

Being honest with himself, that's the last thing he's able to remember of that day, he's not sure what happened to him afterward, he only knows that he had woken up at a military medical base a few days later.

A man wearing a bucket hat approached him when he realized he was awake.

"Hey, nice to see you awake," (M/n) looked at him for a moment before blinking a few times while looking back down at his hands, "So..." The men sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, "You got a name?"

Releasing a shaky breath, he nodded slowly, "I'm... (M/n)..." He added shortly, his voice meek and quiet, feeling his body tense and stiff with every small moment.

"Well, I'm John, John Price."

Unfortunately for Price, he hadn't been able to get anything else out of (M/n), except for the small 'no, sir' when he asked him if he had a place to stay. Price didn't know what the poor guy had gone through, but he was able to tell it wasn't nice by all the scars and fresh wounds on his body.

"Tell you what," Price stands up and beckons (M/n) to come with him, "You can stay with me and my team, if you don't mind," for a moment, (M/n) was skeptical, thinking this was gonna be the same situation it was with Makarov, but there was something in Price's eyes that made him trust him, not sure why, but he nodded at him and took the man's hand, accepting his help to stand up.

//////

Reaching their base was a long, silent, and tense car ride, (M/n) stared out the window the whole time, too out of himself to be able to speak normally for the time being, but eventually, he was brought back from within his mind to get out of the military jeep and following Price silently, ignoring curious looks he got because of his appearance, or just 'cause he was a new face around, he didn't know and he didn't care. Even so, his eyes looked around for a short while, realizing this place was the same as where he was with Makarov, everything seemed so similar yet so different from that place.

It was odd, as if he was just realizing that Makarov was the bad guy in all of this.

"And this is the 141 team," Price's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and everyone in the room looked at him making him flinch and lower his head, "Guys, this is (M/n), and... He's gonna stay here for a while."

Getting to know everyone around him proved to be difficult, but Soap and Gaz did their best to make him feel welcome. He felt at home, he felt safe. And he couldn't be more than grateful to Price for the chance of living a better life. (M/n) never said anything about his past, about the fights in that dead arena, about his relationship with Makarov, he never uttered a word about it, just briefly mentioning that he had a rough life ever since he was a kid.

Everyone was nice to him and treated him like one of them, which is exactly why he asked Price, if there was any way he could join the Task Force 141 team, and be with them because they were all he had.

It almost seemed like it was meant to be, like he was meant to be there his whole life. He had been discovering new sides and aspects of his personality, there was this bitter taste in the back of his mouth whenever he remembered how submissive he used to be, but now?

Now he had Lieutenant Riley cumming undone under him, almost unable to keep his moans and cries of pleasure quiet.

(M/n) kept a tight grip on Simon's hips, his thrusts deep and rough, barely pulling out as he watched closely every reaction on his face, observing his body shivering and squirming, trying to keep his noises down, but it was so hard when he felt like his guts were being rearranged, his eyes rolling back with every hit on his prostate.

"You like that, hm?" (M/n) whispered, reaching a hand up to wrap it around Simon's neck, not applying pressure, just keeping it there. The blond looked at him through wet eyelashes, nodding as many times as he could, whining while lifting his hips off the bed.

(M/n) chuckled and leaned down, pressing their lips together, as he stopped his movements, enjoying the desperate whines and pleas coming out of Simon's mouth.

"Don't stop, please- don't stop~ I'm gonna cum," licking his lips, (M/n) leaned back, determined on making Simon cum so many times he begs him to stop because it's too much for his sensitive cock, "(M/n)..."

His voice cut off as his mouth opened wide in a silent moan, his hips lifted and his back arching off the bed, his hands gripping the bedsheets, mumbling curses over and over, muttering how close he was to cumming.

But (M/n) didn't stop once Simon's cum stained his abdomen, his thrust only got faster and rougher, "Cum again for me, baby, come on I know you got it in ya'."

Simon whimpered as he shook his head no, his hands gripping (M/n)'s wrists, "No no no, please... I-I can't-!" He mumbled, crying at how sensitive his body felt, "Can't... Cum an-anymore, please!"

Groaning, (M/n) wrapped his hand around Simon's cock, hearing his cries getting louder as his body trembled under his grip, and with a few strokes of his hand, his flushed red cock was twitching as he came again, making a mess of himself.

Neither of them know how long they kept going, but they were certainly left out of breath and exhausted after that, cuddling and holding onto each other tightly.

To be honest, (M/n) never thought- well, he did, it was more like he never believed he would be able to live a happy life after all that had happened to him before now, but he wanted to enjoy, even when, a few hours later when the sun had begun rising, something was nagging him in the back of his mind, telling him that this happiness not only, wasn't gonna last forever, but it was gonna be shorter than be expected.

//////

This mission was important, extremely so.

Price briefed them, explaining the situation to them the best he could before showing them the picture of the men they had to stop and capture. (M/n) knew what he was getting into when his eyes hardened, looking at Makarov's features with hatred and disgust. He used to think that man had saved him... But he only took him from a shithole to another shithole, effectively leaving him more scarred than he already was.

He simply sighed and clenched his fists, Ghost noticed this and turned to look at (M/n), he seemed to be disturbed by something, taking note of how hard he was glaring at the picture on the table, placed atop the marked map where tactics had been carefully mapped. He wanted to ask, but he figured (M/n), like every other person in the room, had a personal vendetta against Makarov.

Immediately as the briefing was over, they were rushed to the army jeeps, spending the ride in silence or sleeping, but Ghost couldn't stop looking at (M/n), who had avoided any kind of physical contact for longer than need, the frown in his brow seemed to deepen with every passing minute, and he was worried, maybe... This was more personal than he had guessed.

Whilst the mission was rather "easy" capturing Makarov himself wasn't, the man was so used to escaping over and over again that he had many routes to go underground and just disappear. But (M/n) knows this place, it may not be Makarov's main hideout, but he has been here a couple of times, and he's well aware of all the places the Russian could go and knew exactly which one he was going to pick, it's his favourite go-to after all.

"Makarov!" (M/n)'s voice echoed off the tunnels as he followed the men, watching with rage eyes as he slowly came to a stop, chuckling as he turned around to face him.

Holding his pistol up and steady, (M/n) knew he had a clean shot to bring the man down, forever, but that wasn't their mission. He had to capture Makarov, alive. Maybe a few broken bones too.

"So you survived... All this time I thought my little plaything had died, but look at you..." Makarov took a step forward, his hand reaching behind him and (M/n) got ready to shoot him if he had to, but the Russian just tossed his pistol aside, getting rid of his assault rifle, gripping the handle of his knife, "Let's do this like real men, kid."

Taking a step to the right, (M/n) managed to dodge Makarov's attack, but he quickly realized that he needed both his hands to be able to fight him so, with gritted teeth, he threw his pistol and took his combat knife, taking a firm stance in front of Makarov, watching the cheeky smirk on his face... It made his blood boil.

This fight dragged on for longer than he expected, beginning to struggle against the punches, the kicks, and the knife swinging at him. (M/n) had been so sure that, even if he hadn't forgotten, he was over everything Makarov did to him, but he couldn't have been more wrong, the constants flashes of images appearing in his mind every time he blinked told him so, and Makarov had taken advantage of his state to pin him down to the ground.

"Only one of us is gonna get out alive of this one, igrushka." Makarov had ditched the knife and had wrapped his hands around (M/n)'s neck, sneering down at him, "Goodbye-"

Before he could finish his phrase, Ghost had sneaked up behind him after following all the grunts and groans, gripping his submachine gun and raising it, hitting the back of Makarov's head with the stock, successfully knocking him unconscious.

Ghost kicked Makarov off of (M/n)'s body, who was coughing as the oxygen returned to his lungs. His eyes saw Simon's boots, and he struggled to get back on his feet, dismissing the helping hand the blond wanted to give him.

"Let's... Just go... Fuck..." He muttered between coughs and groans as he stumbled his way out, knowing Simon was following him with Makarov on his shoulders.

He ignored the heavy stare in the back of his head as he reached for his pistol and holstered it, making the selective decision to leave his knife behind... He could always get a new one.

//////

Everyone was in the interrogation room, waiting for Makarov to wake up. (M/n) was tense and on edge, deciding on standing in the shadows, where he knew he couldn't be seen.

That's why he hated the shiver that ran down his spine when Makarov's eyes stared right into his, he knew he was there, he could hear his breathing over everyone else's. Fuck, even now, Makarov knew exactly how to get in (M/n)'s mind to destabilize him.

"It's been so long... Igrushka," the sound of his mocking voice and the words directed at him, made (M/n) blink a few times, looking away into the dark as he tried to ignore the flashing images in his mind, making him feel sick and disgusted.

"Go die, scum," Makarov laughed at his words, causing his body to shiver and tremble, (M/n)'s senses were heightened, able to feel everyone's stare on him, and he hated being in that place, in that specific situation, and Ghost had realized that, he was about to walk toward him, but Makarov spoke again.

"I guess you don't anything about him. Not at all."

Done with his games, Price pulled harder on the chain around Makarov's throat, making him choke but his expression of superiority never faltered.

"You know? I missed you, so much, we used to have so much fun together, and... We were so happy, but then you left, now I understand why," the sounds of his sweet and psychotic voice (M/n) snap. He was making it seem like they were actually a happy couple... How sickening. Everything Makarov had said made him feel sick.

With gritted teeth and clenched fists, (M/n) launched at him, fury burning in his (e/c) eyes.

"All you did was used me! You played with me! You ruined my life!" Before he could get close to hurting the men chained to the chair, Ghost and Soap held him back. Everyone watched how (M/n) struggled for a few seconds before falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, eyes empty and void of all emotion, "I wanted to die every day I was with you, so don't you fucking dare say we were happy, Vladimir."

++++

@xdark-acadamiax thank you for your commission!

[quinloki]

A Little Pleasure

Commission for @standfucker

Rob Lucci x slave!Reader

Summary: Lucci is guarding a small group of traveling Celestial Dragons, one of which owns you. The Dragons are bored, and you're an easy form of entertainment. You've been a maid your whole life, and your first time is going to be with an audience.

One that could sentence you to death if you displeased them.

CW: non con, oral receiving, vaginal sex, degradation, you may have 1 (one) slap, forced orgasms, cream pie, knotting, zoan sex, onlookers, mdni

DEAD DOVE - READ THE CW - DARK CONTENT

His hand was over your mouth, and the look in his eyes held you still.

The front of your uniform was ripped, exposing your skin and underclothes to everyone else in the room. The sharp man over you had been ordered by the Dragon that owned you to fuck you for the entertainment of those gathered.

You were nothing but a maid. Bought for your perceived capacity to clean, and not for any physical allure.

The order was still buzzing in your head.

“Agent, entertain us. Fuck that maid over there. She’s so quiet, I want to know if she can sing.”

You couldn’t deny a Dragon what they wanted, but you’d never done such a thing, and you certainly hadn’t done it with an audience. The bodyguard - Lucci, he was infamous enough even you recognized him - didn’t seem bothered at all. You stood frozen against the far wall, gaze still on the floor as it was meant to be, unsure of what was happening.

You were the only maid in the room.

They meant you.

Panic welled up in your stomach and for a terrifying moment you thought you were going to scream, or run. Any action of defiance would mean your end, and before you could act, the bodyguard, now shirtless, moved so fast you couldn’t track him.

The thud of his fist against the wall as he loomed over you was enough to jolt your senses. You looked up at him in surprise and fear.

He looked at you blankly. Maybe sorrowfully, but maybe you were just seeing what you wanted.

“Don’t scream,” he said the words so softly you had to focus on his voice. “Don’t flee.” He didn’t need to tell you, but the reminder was sharp and appreciated. The panic that was threatening to cost you your life was now cold as ice, settling in your bones and guts.

“I can’t make it quick.” His voice is so flat and cold you aren’t sure if he’s trying to comfort you, or simply avoid the trouble of being ordered to kill you. “But I will make it feel good.”

The words surprised you, but not as much as the ripping of cloth as he pulled the top of your uniform to shreds, and then threw you into the middle of the room. You’d landed on your rear and before you could even think about anything else, he was on top of you, hand over your mouth and gaze holding you still.

The break doesn’t last, however, and he unceremoniously finishes ripping your uniform apart, leaving the ruined clothes underneath. Knocking your hands away to keep you from covering yourself he rips your bra off, tossing it at the feet of your owner.

You don’t want this, and your brain is screaming against it even if you can’t risk the words. Lucci isn’t holding you down, but he knocks your hands aside with such ease you slowly come to realize he doesn’t have to.

You’re not going anywhere.

You can’t hold your voice in when he pulls at your panties. “No,” you whimper the word so softly you barely even realize you’ve said it.

A sharp crack! against your cheek turns your head to the side, and after a beat you realize that Lucci has smacked you for your impertinence.

“The only sound you’re allowed to make, is the song I rip from you.” He growls, his cold eyes are sharp and suddenly you can feel everyone’s eyes on you.

Lucci tosses your panties aside and grabs you by the ankles, pulling you up and to his hips. For a split second you’re afraid he’s going to take you dry, but then he pulls you up until your shoulders are nearly resting against his thighs.

Lucci curls you, head on the floor, legs in the air and pushed back until you’re feet are pointed toward the Dragons who are watching. He opens your legs, exposing your pussy to everyone. You can’t help the desperate squirm that rolls through you as you fight against wanting to close your legs, but he has you held and braced so well that it looks like little more than a tremble.

Leaning down he licks a line along your slit, giving you a dark grin when you whimper. This was the song you were allowed to sing, and his wet tongue presses into your slit, pushing into your vagina. Your body tenses and you gasp at the intrusion. The thick muscle slips in easily, an unruly wiggling appendage that’s sending sparks into your body.

The soft whimpering sounds coming from you turn into louder surprised gasps as Lucci’s tongue licks heavily against the back of your thigh.

“Play with your tits.” He says, less growl than before but just as much command.

“Huh?” You make an inquisitive noise even as you move your hands over your breasts.

“Play. With. Them.” Lucci reiterates before biting the back of your thigh and making you cry out. “Put on a good show for your owner, slut.”

He licks his teeth marks, watching you intently as you begin to fondle yourself, pinching and rolling your stiffening nipples between your fingers. Lucci mouths words at you, you think he’s telling you to not stop, as he sinks his tongue back into your folds.

Instead of pushing into you again he licks and sucks on your clit. As you suck in a deep breath, squirming and moaning from the unexpected rush of pleasure, you understand the warning better. You pinch and tug on your breasts, hoping that you can help Lucci make you sing, hoping that whatever level of entertainment your owner wants, you could provide it.

With grace, exceed it. Slaves rarely lived long in the service of bored Dragons.

Pleasure coiled between your thighs, it was sweet and warm and you were starting to sink into it.

“Stop.” The Celestial’s voice halted and silenced you both. “I said fuck her, boy. I don’t care how well your mouth works, I want to know how well her mouth works.”

You can’t see your owner’s face, but you understand his tone. The expression on Lucci’s face was dark too, as he looks down at you. It wasn’t quite apologetic, but there was a strange softness in the cruelty that sat heavy in his eyes.

He moves his pants out of the way, freeing a thick, stiff, throbbing cock that looks a little too big for someone your size. Not that anything about him was small, he had to be nearly seven feet tall, if not more.

He gives you no time to react, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance and filling you to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Everything freezes for a split second.

Your brain and body cannot grasp what’s happening immediately and then you scream. The scream comes before the pain, you think. You had been on the cusp of orgasm and now there was nothing but a sharp pain deep inside your body and a terrible, throbbing ache. He’s ripped you open, you’re sure of it.

You’re not singing, you’re wailing. Even the beatings you’ve received before didn’t feel like this. It was too internal, too tender. You had been so close to pleasure it made the pain all the more worse, but no one demands your silence as you sob and struggle underneath him.

Lucci pins your wrists to the hard, cold marble floor, forcing your legs back with his arms. He’s given you a second to try and adjust, but you already know he can’t show you much more mercy than that.

He's pulling back and your breath hitches in your throat from the movement. It hurts, but the sharp pain is already lessening. He pulls out completely, licking his lips as he rubs against your slit. You know, you do, you understand, but you can’t help it.

“Please,” you cry.

He hilts again and you scream again. It’s not as intense the second time, but it’s still so sudden. He doesn’t pull back out a second time, but starts to piston into you in earnest. Your legs are nearly folded back to your shoulders, and it’s hard to breathe. Every thrust pushes air out of you, along with garbled, choking cries that are more pain than pleasure.

Your strangled cries quiet a little as the pain subsides, but you start moaning in frustration as the pleasure builds. You can’t dare risk vocalizing it, but to go from such terrifying pain, to something that feels good makes you feel sick. At this point you didn’t want to enjoy it, but his earlier words were still with you.

This was the skill he had, to turn the pain demanded by the Dragons into something good.

But good and pleasurable were fleeting nightmares as a slave, because they did nothing more except remind you that such things weren’t for you to have. At best you would get something like this.

The murmurs of the audience came into focus as your owner spoke again. “Ah, Lucci, was it?” He says and Lucci stops again, buried deep inside you still.

“Yes, Saint.”

“You have a Zoan, do you not?”

“I do, Saint.”

“Transform inside her, and then continue.” Your owner says. “If she dies, I won’t be angry.”

“As you command, Saint.” Lucci says.

You don’t know what they mean. You’ve been a slave your entire life and you’ve never heard the word ‘Zoan’ before. You understood the concept of transformations, but you felt like you were missing context.

At least, until he starts to transform.

Lucci’s large frame grows larger, his muscles bulging as his skin changes. Furry patches and animalistic traits overtake him. His hands grew larger over your wrists, and his arms force your legs to spread wider as they grew thicker.

You can feel him throbbing and expanding inside you. Looking down in a panic you see the swell at the base of his cock. A knot, growing thicker and thicker as he twitches wildly inside you. The change puts a curve in his length and the pulsing, shifting growth rubs the needy spot inside you.

The sweet keening cry that’s pulled from you is too much. You can’t take it. It feels good and it’s terrifying, he’s so much bigger and he was already too much. Your own slick and the short breather you’d received as he transformed was enough to let the pain fade to the back, but you couldn’t take that knot. There was simply no way it was going to fit.

Lucci pushes heavy against you and you cry. “No! Please!” You can hear him growl as he pushes harsh thrusts into you, spilling out a mix of lewd moans and half-babbled pleas to stop. You’re going to be sentenced to death, you’re sure, for daring to say no, but the knot’s going to split you open and kill you anyway, you’re even more sure of that.

“Ah, she’s enjoying it.” One of the Dragon’s says.

Your brain stutters, and so does Lucci’s pace for a split second.

“Indeed, my father always said lowly creatures scream ‘no’, because it feels so good to their simple lewd bodies that they can’t help it.” Your owner agrees. “I was concerned Lucci wasn’t going to be able to sate her properly, being a low creature himself, but this is a delightful turn of events.”

Lucci fucks you harder, slapping his hips into yours with such force that the knot is going to bully into you, you’re sure of it. You let the fear you’re feeling slip past your lips, broken and shattered by the pleasure you can’t fight against.

He shifts, and his rough fur pushes against your clit. You shake your head, feet kicking uselessly against his thick arms.

“No! Not - I’m gonna!” Your words break against a heavy and hot moan, pleasure sinking into your chest as a rough leopard’s tongue licks your breasts. It’s harsh, stinging slightly, but the prickly feeling doesn’t draw blood and instead sinks more pleasure into you. Pinned to the floor you can’t hope to thrash enough to dodge the wide cruel tongue.

“No, stop! Please, Lucci, no!” You don’t want to orgasm in front of the Dragons. You don’t want to have your brief pleasure on show for everyone else. You didn’t want to deal with pleasure at all if you could help it. It wasn’t your place.

He doesn’t stop, shift, or slow and after a moment you can’t hold it back anymore. Frustrated tears slip down your face as you cum hard against his cock. Your toes curl and you scream, a sound that starts as what little defiance you can muster, and ends in a truly lewd sound. Pleasure soaks your muscles and lungs and Lucci doesn’t stop.

Shaking your head you sob. “No… not again.” Your voice is tiny, a useless whimper against the wet sounds of Lucci fucking you. The second orgasm is building, and you know he’s forcing it. You don’t understand why, he seemed nice at the start of this. As nice as he could afford to be, and now he wasn’t giving you any reprieve.

The second orgasm tenses all your muscles and your body goes rigid against Lucci’s. You can’t cry out, your chest is too tight for the sound to make it past your throat. You can’t breathe. You can only take in the pleasure as Lucci doesn’t let up.

Your body relaxes enough you can pull in a deep and greedy breath, but moans keep escaping you with every breath out. Leaning down enough, he devours one of your breasts into his mouth, his tongue swirling around and teasing your sensitive nipple. The hard, sharp, fangs against your soft skin kept you still even as the pleasure sends lightning through your body.

“I can’t,” you gasp, sweat causing your hair to cling to you. Exhaustion has relaxed your muscles, you don’t have the energy to hardly even squirm. “Not again,” your words evaporate into the air, a moan consuming them as Lucci thrusts in deep.

Again and again, he’s slamming heavy thrusts against your cunt and you don’t even have the energy to beg him to stop. Lucci’s claws mar the marble, cracking the delicate stone under sharp claws as he finally forces the thick knot into your pussy.

You cum involuntarily from the intense stretch, eyes rolling back as your body shivers against the marble. Your mouth is open in a wide, soundless circle, drool and tears sliding down your face unchecked. You can feel the rush of Lucci’s orgasm flood into you, the thick dribble of cum leaking out as he pushes in deep, releasing the seal made by the knot.

He pushes into you again, grinding against your clit and licking the side of your face. You let out a soft tremulous moan that turns into a whine as he starts to pull out. Turning to look at him he pushes his tongue into your mouth before you can say anything. The scratchy tongue makes you squeak in protest, but you can’t do anything to stop him as he forces it down deep, nearly fucking your throat for a moment while he pulls himself free of your throbbing cunt.

Lucci leans back on his heels, changing into his human form again. He’s looking down at you, and you at him, but you can both see the circle of Celestial Dragons around you. You’re aware of the fact that they’re stroking their own cocks, but you would never dare to look. Instead, you keep your eyes on Lucci’s until he closes his.

You do the same and are thankful that he’s fucked you to the point of exhaustion. You don’t flinch as the ropes of cum splatter across your face and against your body. A gift for a pair of lowly creatures, for putting on a show that was deemed, at minimum, acceptable.

[thevanillerose]

KANJI | SANEMI x READER | DEMON SLAYER

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators.

“Kill…”

You stared at the back of that white, long-sleeved shirt, just puzzled. All other slayers bore the kanji for ‘destroy’. ‘Kill’...was so much more extreme…

“Huh??”

Then again, ‘extreme’ was his middle name, wasn’t it? After all, this was Sanemi. The guy who perpetually looked like he was about to bust a blood vessel. When he heard your comment, he turned around and glared at you with those sharp, bloodshot eyes, the very aura of his anger taking up space in the tatami-lined corridor.

You probably should have just kept quiet while walking behind him. You were a fresh trainee, still nervous a lot of the time, and reluctant to mis-step, save you get a beating for it. Why you’d chosen to pipe up with a pointless comment around the angriest guy here, when you were both alone (and didn’t have your good friend Tanjiro there to defend you) you didn’t know. But, too late. You’d done it.

Sanemi towered over you, folding his broad and muscular arms, glaring down at you with a fierceness that almost made you want to drop to your knees. Timidly, you tried to explain yourself, gesturing to his shirt, which was half open and showing all his scars at the front.

“...I-I was just…looking at the back of your shirt, your…your kanji…it’s different from the others.”

The menacing snow-haired man processed your words for a good minute, no doubt mulling over just how incensed he wanted his response to be. The corner of his lips curled upwards though, becoming a half smile, partially showing the whites of his teeth. His right eye twitched slightly, and you could spy those tiny scarlet lines sneaking in. The anger approaching.

“Wow. You can read.”

Leaning down closer to you, bringing his taller, muscular form level with your smaller, fragile frame, you could see his condescending grin had widened all the more.

“Should I be impressed?”

“I…I’m sorry-” you blurted out quickly, cowering by the side of the corridor, wanting to step away but feeling frozen in place, worried he might react even more harshly if you did, “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. I was only…c…curious.”

Your mind was running frantic reels of his numerous freakouts, the various times he had become so pissed off he’d beaten the shit out of some poor trainee. Even Tanjiro sometimes, and that guy was such a relentless sweetheart, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to hurt him. Well, anyone that wasn’t Muzan, granted.

“Curious, hah!” he laughed, his hot breath lightly punching your face on the exhale. This was the first time he had been so close to you, and, mad as he looked most of the time, your heart was pounding for two reasons. Not just fear but…another…

Sanemi shifted closer. His knee bumped into yours and you were practically forced back against the wall of the hallway, lamplight flickering on both your forms, his palm pressing flat to the side of your head like a scarred barrier. Your breath hitched in your already tight throat, and you met his gaze a little desperately.

From this perspective, his eyes practically glowed beneath the shadow that was cast upon his brow, shifting his already menacing features into something much more monstrous, albeit, strangely appealing at the same time.

He was damaged, but handsome. It was something you’d thought since day one. You only wondered what he might have been like if he were only…happier.

“How’d a pathetic little shit like you survive this long here anyway?” his vulgar words stung, his hand coming to meet your waist and grip onto it suddenly, startling you at his sudden touch, his fingers and thumb pressing bruisingly hard into the surface of your skin. He felt how scrawny you were, not a strip of muscle on you. 

Despite what he said though, you knew you were capable. You just needed time. You just needed to work harder and harder.

Wincing as he squeezed your waist tighter, you now tearfully asked: “Are you going to hurt me?”

And in response, his grin actually wavered.

That manic mask slipped a little, as he registered your words.

Hurt you? No that’s…

…That’s not what this is about…

Now, him calling you pathetic came from the heart. It was exactly what he thought. But beneath that mockery, there was a twisted kind of concern. He didn’t want you to go stupidly getting hurt. He had no clue why you’d gotten involved in all this danger in the first place. Muzan was guaranteed to rip you to shreds.

And…he didn’t want to see that happen.

But…he was too proud to admit it.

Quickly, he tugged his smile back up, fitting the twisted mask snugly again, as he leaned in to where his lips were practically at your neck, causing you to flinch and shut your eyes when he spoke and you felt his breathing on your sensitive, goose-pimpled skin again.

“Why? Do you want that?” his other hand moved off the wall and snatched your other hip, nails digging in, “Is that what you’re into? Is that why you signed up for your own suicide?”

His face moved to position itself right in front of yours, his forehead pressing against your own, eyes boring into you from mere millimeters away. If anyone would have happened across the two of you now, they’d have assumed you were both slacking off in a very…particular way.

“...No I…I don’t want that…”

You breathed out shakily, cheeks turning heated as you registered the proximity between the two of you. And for a moment, his own eyes calmed a little too. The iron grip on your waist loosened to a gentler hold. His lips hovered right before your own, close enough they almost brushed together.

Closing your eyes, you wondered if he was really going to do it. If he ever actually would.

He lingered long enough that it really seemed like he might. But, he backed off before he did, finally letting you go, your figure sinking weakly into the wall, feeling utterly sapped of all your energy after that. In a way, it might have been easier if he had just railed on you like he did with everyone else who ticked him off.

This was only confusing. You had no clue what to think.

With a scoff, Sanemi turned away and started storming down the corridor again, heading towards his quarters like he’d been meaning to. As he walked with heavy, furious feet, no doubt waking up every early-sleeper trainee on his way, he kept thinking about your timid little voice piping up from behind him. Your sweet, scared little facial expression when he confronted you.

An innocent question. You only wanted to know why he chose that kanji. 

What it meant. Well, he knew.

‘Kill’.

It’s what I’ll do to anyone who tries to hurt you.

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[rqgnarok]

music to my eyes - jamie tartt

fandom: ted lasso

wc: 4,266

warnings: spoilers for the season 3 finale of ted lasso, jamie being a lil self deprecating. reader uses female pronouns.

summary: jamie has a crush on the band’s bassist. 

author’s note at the end!

Jamie’s so, so late.

Roy’s gonna have his balls. It’s the first training for the Queen’s Cup final against Tottenham– their first one without Ted, a little something before the freaking Champion’s League starts next year– and Jamie’s having the worst morning of his life.

He woke up late for his 4 am training that ran long, traffic was absolute shit and now he’s sprinting– not running, cause he’s not allowed to after he and Colin almost ran over the Prince of Denmark while racing each other to the locker room, a story for another day– down the hallway with Roy Kent’s fury just waiting to find its rightful owner. 

He didn’t even have time to comb his hair today. It still looks amazing, but it’s the routine that matters. For his mental health or whatever. 

Maybe that’s why he feels so jittery and doesn’t look where he’s going as he makes his way to the locker room. Jamie’s got his bag clutched to his chest and his headphones hanging around his neck, his jacket halfway on before he gave up and left it trailing down his side like a sad blanket. 

He’s cursing whatever Gods control alarm clocks and traffic and hairbrushes when he knocks onto someone. It’s so forceful it sends them both to the ground with a grunt and a little ah! of surprise. Jamie tries not to grow annoyed and fails. He considers laying on the ground and becoming one with the carpet so he doesn’t face Roy’s justified punishment and sighs out his nose, pushing himself to a sitting position.

“–so sorry,” and it’s a woman, Jamie just knocked out a woman in his rush to work. What’s next? Is he gonna hit a cat with his car? Maybe spit on a kid’s face? She keeps babbling apologies, unaware of Jamie’s foul mood. “–supposed to be at her office but there’s just– there are so many hallways–”

“‘s alright,” he cuts her off harsher than he means to, guilt stabbing at him when she looks at him with wide, remorseful eyes. Jamie sighs, dusting off his clothes and standing, offering her a hand. “Me fault for bein’ in a rush. Should’ve seen where I was going.”

“Oh, god, you actually know where you’re going,” she says with a grimace, accepting his hand. She’s on her feet and standing too close to Jamie for a second that feels like a lifetime– almost nose-to-nose with Richmond’s greatest. Her laugh is stuttery and nervous when she steps back, barely meeting Jamie’s eye.

She’s cute. Jamie’s not planning to do anything about it, especially not with his fine for being late slowly becoming one for missing training but she is. Cute. His mouth lifts in a half smile at the thought, charmed. 

“I was looking for Rebecca Welton’s office but I only got myself lost,” she says sheepishly, putting her hair behind her ear every couple of seconds since it keeps stubbornly falling out of place. Jamie’s fingers twitch a little but no. No, absolutely not, he’s not doing this to himself, no sir. “Is there any way you can give me directions without having to go with me? I don’t want you to be late for– shit. Practice, huh?”

Jamie thinks she’s the smartest woman that’s ever walked the face of the Earth until he remembers where they are. At Richmond’s training facilities. She’s looking at a disheveled man in a sports outfit. The story kind of tells itself.

“I– yeah,” Jamie stutters a little, clearing his throat to disguise it. “There’s, um, it ain’t a problem. I can take you there if you want.”

Her entire posture screams relief as soon as he offers, and it’s enough for Jamie to make up his mind even if she hasn’t said yes yet. “Would you? They said in the group chat not to be late and, like, they weren’t specific about it but you just know when a message’s for you, you know. And here I am, late–”

A beat.

“–and rambling,” she smiles at him again, the sight tugging at Jamie’s chest as he stands there like an idiot, his brain rebooting whenever she does it. “Yes, please. I’d really appreciate it.”

And so Jamie asks a kitman to take his stuff to the locker room while he walks her up to Rebecca’s office. His hand hovers but doesn’t quite touch the small of her back while he blabbers his way through small talk. Nice weather, today, innit, traffic was absolute hell though. Oh, you’re not from around here, that’s nice, do you plan on going sightseeing?

He delivers her to Rebecca’s floor to a thankful, ecstatic Higgins, who welcomes her with a hearty shake of the hand and promises that she hasn’t missed anything important. She’s barely able to spare him a smile and a quick thanks before the door’s closed behind them and Jamie’s standing there on his own, smiling at nothing.

He’s still wearing a dopey grin when he finally finds himself on the field, Roy yelling at him to run laps until sundown for being late. His legs are killing him, he’s £200 poorer, and he didn’t even get the woman’s name; but nothing can drag him down from his high and make him forget how she’d squeezed his arm in gratitude, touch warm and calloused against his skin. 

The next day Rebecca’s there before practice starts, looking tall and pleased as she claps her hands and shares the big news: since the final of the Queen’s Cup is being held right here at Nelson Road, she managed to get a band to play during the halftime show. They’ll be here the entire next two weeks for rehearsals and staging, so everyone must be on their best behavior if they don’t want their name in the summer transfer market.

Jamie doesn’t connect the dots until he sees her again, this time at a local bar big enough to house less than two thousand people. Keeley hears from Roy who hears from Beard, who heard from Higgins that Rebecca said the secret band was gonna hang around the city for a couple of other smaller, quick gigs. 

Jamie manages to excuse himself from video games at Colin’s with the guys and offers himself to Keeley as a buffer between her and Roy at a bar tonight. Though, in Jamie’s very humble and very right opinion, they’re already on their way to getting back together for good.

The band’s gathered a nice crowd, the lighting low and the thrum of the music hammering on Jamie’s teeth. He’s nursing the beer Roy bought him, the man charmed enough by Keeley’s presence that he let Jamie bend his rigorous diet regime. Just for the night. 

It takes three songs for the bassist to speak up, a makeshift spotlight landing on her, sweaty and delighted at being onstage. Jamie’s blood rushes to his face and his vision blacks out for a second. 

It’s her. No longer is she lost and out of her element, shyly asking a stranger for help. Both of her feet are steady on the ground, the strap of her bass snug around her neck. Her fingers are toying with the strings even when no song’s playing, an air of rightful confidence washing over the room as it takes her in. Jamie isn’t the only one suddenly breathless.

She grins against the microphone, coy. “Thank you so much for having us, Jaded Joker. We’re Karma Police, and we hope you have as much fun hearin’ us as we do playing for you.”

They fall into another song with that quick introduction and Jamie can’t take his eyes off her, barely hearing the song as the world around him slows down. Her clothes and jewelry sway with her to the rhythm of the music, the lights shifting seamlessly into different colors making her look ethereal. 

Keeley clocks it in immediately.

“She’s good, huh?” she nods at the stage where Jamie’s stranger is moving to the beat of the bass like no one’s watching, shamelessly enjoying herself and making funny faces at her bandmates. “Fuckin’ smoking, too.”

Jamie only hums in a very Roy Kent-like way, knowing there’s no fooling Keeley fucking Jones. The last thing he needs is to give her details and have her dip a toe into Jamie’s nonexistent love life.

Of course, he doesn’t take into consideration that Roy’s a brazen gossip.

“So,” Sam elongates the word as he’s spotting Jamie on the press the next day, happy watching him grunt at the effort. “How was the band last night?”

Jamie almost drops the damned thing on his chest.

“Roy said you enjoyed it,” he continues giddily like he didn’t almost commit accidental manslaughter by catching Jamie off guard. “Especially the bassist. What was her name?”

Sam fakes confusion for less than a minute before Jamie gives, mumbling it under his breath. He’d been weak and googled Karma Police in the privacy of his car before going home, swiping through the images that popped up until he recognized her face. 

(Y/N) (Y/L/N), the article he clicked on informed him. Jamie had repeated the name under his breath just to see what it felt like on his tongue for an embarrassing amount of time. 

Thanks to Karma Police’s bassist and lyricist (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the band’s sophomore album New Perspective has found a home in people’s hearts and high on the global charts.

Keeley wasn’t kidding. She’s good. 

“Oh,” Sam realizes, some of his amusement softening into genuine interest when he watches Jamie’s face do whatever the fuck it's doing. “Oh, you like like her.”

Jamie immediately flushes under Sam’s gaze, making sure the weight is safe in its place before physically fleeing the conversation. Sam doesn’t mention it to anyone, which Jamie appreciates so badly he could cry a little, but he does find his eyes across the locker room later when Rebecca comes in, four people in tow.

“Everybody, these are the wonderful musicians I spoke to you about the other day,” she says it in a way that screams I’m a pleasant human being and embarrass me and I will end your career right where you stand all at once. “We’re on a little tour of the installations and I thought we’d all come to say hi to wrap it up.”

The boys are charming and welcome them with ease. They’re not one of the most liked teams in England despite their bad runs for nothing, but Jamie’s frozen the second he catches sight of her. She’s a step behind one of her bandmates, shaking hands and smiling politely at conversations while staying slightly in the background, the stage persona from the previous night gone like taking off a jacket. 

Jamie takes pride in the way their eyes meet and her tight expression loosens, her smile blossoming into something more genuine, less unsure.

“Hey, stranger,” she says a little awkwardly after having gathered the courage Jamie couldn’t to cross the room and say hi. It feels like they’re alone in a room full of people, and for a second Jamie thinks he sees Sam stealing a few looks, making sure he keeps the others away and distracted for a little privacy. “Did you make it to training the other day?”

“What?” Jamie blanks like an idiot, then shakes his head when he remembers how they met; both of them, late for their respective responsibilities. “Oh! Oh, yeah. I– yeah. I had to run for me life to make up for it, but I made it.”

“Good,” she smiles, shifting in her place. “I, um. I’m glad we get to play for you guys. What you’ve done this past season, getting back to the top, has been unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he replies, awestruck, and backtracks when she looks a little apprehensive. She’s doing the hair thing again, combing it back while it stubbornly escapes its place every couple of seconds. A nervous tic, maybe. “I mean– some friends and I, we saw you last night at the Jaded Joker. If anything, it’s an honor we get you guys to play for us.”

“Oh!” she seems pleased, ducking her head at the compliment. Her shoulders loosen again, and Jamie tries not to feel like he just scored a goal against Man City. “Oh, you should’ve said hi! Did you enjoy yourselves?”

“I did,” he says, too soft, and it feels like an admission of something when her eyes search his face, for a moment landing on his mouth before putting herself back together. “Up there, it’s like– it’s like you forget everyone else. You’re made for the stage.”

If anything, (Y/N)’s delight only strengthens, tugging at the neckline of her shirt. Jamie finds himself trying to follow the trail of new skin and flushes as well when he catches himself just in time. 

“Thank you,” she matches his tone. “You’d think it’d be nervewracking but it’s… silence. In my head. Does that make sense? I feel like it doesn’t.”

“It does,” Jamie agrees, breathless. It’s exactly how he feels when he gets the ball on his feet, every anxiety and worry and part of him he doesn’t like quieting the minute he steps on a pitch. “I get the same when I play. Peace in the chaos, I guess”

(Y/N) looks at him like she’s discovering the world’s eight wonder. 

“Kids!” her bandmate breaks the moment by coming over, arm draped around (Y/N)’s shoulder. (Y/N) blinks, looking a little shell-shocked. “Sorry to interrupt this party, but rehearsal awaits.”

Disappointment claws at Jamie’s belly, but before he can let it fester the conversation continues, bubbly and loud. “Alas! We’ll be done around 5. You’re welcome to visit then. We’re going to the third floor, I think.”

(Y/N)’s only amused at her friend’s antics, even if Jamie’s back to having a knot in his throat out of nervousness alone. Jesus, what’s wrong with him? It’s like he’s eight again and crushing on the cute boy that lived in the apartment in front of the Tartt’s. 

“See you then?” (Y/N) says, hopeful, and Jamie thinks it’s only fair he’s brave as well and nods as resolutely as he can. 

“I’ll be there.”

He ends up having to ask Higgins for directions, after promising he’s not gonna stir up any trouble at least four times. It takes Roy passing by and giving a few reassuring grunts, guaranteeing Jamie’s best behavior before Higgins gives him the location. When Jamie goes to thank him, Roy only points at him menacingly, though lacking his usual frown, and says don’t fuck this up. 

Rehearsals are just wrapping up when Jamie gets there, instruments being packed and people saying goodbye to each other when he makes his way into the room. He immediately finds (Y/N) sitting on the piano playing a complicated melody.

She lights up when she sees him, the music seizing. “You made it!”

Jamie stops her from standing up, instead sitting next to her after she scoots over to give him room. “That was nice. A song of yours?”

(Y/N) shrugs. “Hopefully soon. You never know, when you’re writing. You start working on a song and it ends up being a completely different thing from when you started.”

“Sounds messy,” Jamie says, a little consternated at the thought. Fortunately, (Y/N) laughs.

“It is. Do you play?”

“Fuck no,” he says quickly, then tries to explain himself as she splutters in amused surprise. “I mean, I don’t think I can. It seems pretty complicated. I’ve always been better with me feet.”

He reaches for the keys and begins playing some nonsense, loud and offkey, knowing it’ll make her laugh again.

“No, you gotta–” she cackles, placing her hands on top of his and quieting the dissonant echo of the keys. Jamie feels the tug at his lips, insistent, automatic, the same rush of delight that courses over him whenever he’s in her presence. “Gentle. Be gentle about it, jeez.”

She lines up their hands so her fingers move his and begins playing a quiet, fun melody. Jamie’s doing shit other than staring at her face, slightly twisted in concentration as she mumbles the notes under her breath. G, G, G, F, G, B, G, G…

“I know this one,” Jamie mumbles in recognition. (Y/N) turns her head to smile at him, pleased. “‘s from Nottin Hill, innit?”

“And a million other movies,” she murmurs back, unable to break the spell that’s fallen over the room. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.”

“‘s my favorite film,” he concedes, finding it incredibly easy to be honest when they’re sitting side by side like this, alone, their sides warm against each other. He loves his teammates, but (Y/N) didn’t know him when he was awful and arrogant, too cocky. There’s nothing she holds against him, no standard he needs to meet for her to be happy in his company. “Cried me eyes out at the end. Though I’ll deny it if you ever ask in front of anyone.”

(Y/N) laughs. “I promise I won’t. It’s a good movie. Doesn’t beat While You Were Sleeping, though.”

Jamie’s expression remains blank. (Y/N)’s face falls into disbelief, her hands tightening against his. “You’ve never watched While You Were Sleeping.”

He’s heard of it, but it’s hilarious to watch her forget herself, any sign of nervousness or polite shyness finally out the window. Jamie likes it– likes her, wants her to be comfortable with him and stop holding herself so tightly whenever she’s off the stage. 

“You poor, sheltered boy,” she exhales, aghast. “Holy fuck, I can’t believe I’m about to introduce you to the best romantic comedy ever made.”

Jamie goes to take the opening but stops himself at the last second. He knows this process; the flirting, the leaning in for just a moment so she smells his cologne then pulling away, leaving her wanting more. The asking for a date, a fancy dinner, then taking her home. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, dodging calls until she stops trying to reach him. 

He’s been doing it for years. He wants to desperately break the cycle and he wants to do it with her, but does he have it in him? Jamie’s been working on himself harder than he’s worked for anything else in his life, but what if he’s one slip away from becoming his old self? From turning out like his dad?

Sure, the old man’s changed, or– well. He’s trying to. But whether Jamie likes it or not he sees a little too much of him in himself sometimes, and he can’t do that to her. He’s known her for less than a week and he knows she deserves better. Everyone does. 

Roy told him not to fuck it up. Maybe this is what he meant. 

His expression stutters, shatters, and reestablishes itself in a matter of a moment, a blink of an eye. Jamie knocks his shoulder into hers gently, leaning back into place after a second. He teases: “And who made you the expert, eh?”

Rather than letting it drop, (Y/N) takes the bait just like Jamie knew she would. They stay there until a security guard comes to kick them out for the night, and they talk about everything and nothing. Movies, songs, bands they like, and foods they don’t. Jamie’s favorite players when he was a kid, his hero-like worship for Roy Kent, and how he’s made him a better player, a better man.

(Y/N) shares with him the first time she held a guitar in her hands, the albums she listened to when she was a kid that changed her as a person, realizing she could create magic through words and music. Her favorite cities to tour, how long she’s known her bandmates, how she’d die and kill for them if necessary.

By the time he’s walking into the pitch at Nelson Road two weeks later, the roar of the crowd around him swallowing every other sound, Jamie’s spent every free moment of his time with (Y/N) (Y/L/N). It was unavoidable, helpless as he is in his attraction to her, but Jamie doesn’t know what to do without, as Roy so carefully put it, fucking it up.

It hadn’t helped when (Y/N) snuck into the locker room to wish him luck, showing him the Richmond bracelet she was gonna wear onstage with a roll of the eyes. “Our stylist wouldn’t let me wear the jersey, but don’t you doubt for a second that I’m rooting for you, Tartt.”

Jesus Christ. Jamie had felt his cheeks warm up and dared to thank her with a loud, exaggerated kiss on the forehead that left them both grinning like idiots and Roy staring at them knowingly.

Before Jamie followed his teammates into the field, Roy had pulled him aside with a hand on his shoulder. “Tartt–”

“I know, I know,” he answered a little too self-deprecatingly. “Don’t fuck it up.”

But Roy only raised his eyebrows, realization dawning on his features. “You think I say that because I think you will?”

Jamie mumbled some not-words under his breath and Roy cursed. “Prick. I say it because you deserve good things, dickhead. And you should let them come to you when they do.”

Good things, Jamie thinks after one of his passes gives Dani the first goal of the night. The younger man jumps into his arms while hugging him tight and laughing into his ear, their teammates joining their embrace less than a second later. 

He looks towards the general area of the VIP seats where he knows (Y/N) and the rest of the band are cheering them on. He pictures her screaming at the top of her lungs, arms in the air, and being happy for him like she’s known him for all his life.

She might be the best thing. Whether he deserves her or not, Jamie wants her. Wants to be with her, watch romantic comedies until they both cry and spend his free afternoons watching her play the piano while he plays FIFA in the living room. He wants songs written about him that have him blushing whenever he hears them in public and for her to come to his games and be able to dedicate every goal to her he ever scores.

Good things. Yeah, Jamie can get down on that.

“You fucking asshole!” she jumps into his arms the second she finds him on the pitch after the game, a medal hanging from his neck and sweat sticking to his skin. (Y/N) doesn’t seem to care as she lets him lift her in the air, holding onto each other tight. “You did it! You fucking did it!”

“I missed your show,” he replies instead, only a little bummed. He’s seen her play live before but there was an itch under his skin the entire half-time, knowing how close she was and being unable to get to her. Jamie grins. “And stole it, too.”

“There he is,” she teases gleefully. “For a second there I thought you were gonna be humble about this.”

“I don’t even know what that word means,” he says cockily.

“And how’s Mr. Man of the Match gonna celebrate, huh?” she wonders, hitting him lightly on the chest now that he’s put her back on the ground. “A fancy club? Getting shitfaced with the boys? A date with your left hand?”

Jamie puts his hand on hers at the last second, stopping her from pulling away. She sways into him, all traces of joking vanishing from her expression. He forces himself to stay on her face, the urge to look away defeated by how she’s looking at him. In wonder, open, hopeful.

She deserves good things, too. Jamie is determined to be the one to give them to her. 

“I was thinking dinner?” he asks, fidgeting a little on his feet. “Maybe a movie? Thought I could see what While You Were Sleeping’s all about.”

(Y/N)’s mouth is fighting against a smile, somewhat hesitant still. Jamie doesn’t blame her, he’s been beating around this bush the entire time they’ve known each other.

“You want any company?” she wonders.

“Well, what kind of date would it be if it was just me?” he forces his features into faux confusion, watching her finally lose the battle and beam like a kid on Christmas. Her fingers twitch where he’s holding onto her hand.

“Not a great one,” she concedes, looking like all of Jamie’s dreams. “How do you feel about Mexican?”

Awful. Jamie feels awful about Mexican. He’s a white sexy boy in all the ways that matter and his taste buds punish him for eating spicy food no matter how much he likes it. But he can compromise. He’s starting to realize there’s very little he wouldn’t do for (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

“I feel fantastic about anything you like,” he answers truthfully. “I’m sure me tongue will forgive me eventually.”

(Y/N) laughs, fingers in Jamie’s hold shifting so she can hold his hand. “I think there’s a good lyric somewhere in there.”

“You plannin’ on writing me a song?”

She smirks. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t yet.”

Jamie squeezes her hand, leaning in to kiss her cheek. 

“Can’t wait to hear it, love.”

___

there’s an ache in my bones to make a series out of this fic omg

i can’t believe the show’s over (is it tho????) so here’s some jamie fluff to heal our tender, mourning hearts. as always you’re welcome to tell me what you think and chat jamie and ted lasso as much as you’d like! thank u for reading AND for all the love on my last jamie piece that you can read here!

<3

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

[queenendless]

🔞❤️‍🔥 — MINE AND MINE ALONE — ❤️‍🔥🔞

A/n: Short smut commission for @bellarosethefangirl

Dom!Mello x Fem!Reader. Death Note AU. Short smut time!

SUMMARY: Collaborating with the mafia made Mello so preoccupied. So rendezvousing at the hotel room was his chance to be himself. Plus he missed his darling. Very, very much.

Mello yearned for your addicting warmth. Pinning both your hands behind your back, your nude fanny protruded out in the air as his sturdy stock was immersively devoured by your creamy cunt, greedily sucking him in immediately. His head craned back to let out that pent up frustration in various swear filled groans. Nearly dying from explosions and being just a pawn in his rival's own plot to thwart the nefarious Kira can really rile him up.

“Fuck babe~ I've missed you~ And your scorching tightness~ So damn much~!” Spanking your blushing cheeks to hear your yelps and watch them cheeks resplendently ripple got him squirting thickly. “Mmh~!” You mewled in the sheets as you looked back, drooling with your tongue out, eyes crossed, high on arousal. “More, Mello, more~! Make me cum all night~!”

“Desperate little cunt, aren’t ya? But alright.” Grabbing a fistful of your hair, his rough tugs back made you shout loud and hard as his tempestuous self pounded you ferociously into the mattress. “You won't walk for weeks after this … fine by me~" Knotting himself in your womb, he nutted hard, springing your climax out as well. “Don't you worry. We're just getting started.”

[ijwrsmff]

My Dear Daughter-Yandere! Father-Figure Mihawk & Daughter-Figure Reader

A commission for anonymous! This is a longer one, and I'm grateful they gave me the chance to write for this prompt <3 Platonic Yanderes need love too!

Summary: Reader is a stowaway on a pirate ship, and after getting injured you find yourself a savior in the man who destroyed the ship with but a single blow. You're terrified to speak up, but he's done nothing but spoil you. It's not enough though. You want to go home. Mihawk however, now seeing you as a daughter, is doing anything to prevent it from happening.

Word Count: 5,127

Everything was going well…too well. You should have expected everything to go awry, but you had hoped it wouldn’t. The crew had found you. You were trying to hide in the storage room, escaping the dull life of your home island. But people had been reluctant to take a 17 year old to another island, claiming you’d only weigh them down. Even aside from that, the next island was a total of nine days away. So your solution? Hide on a ship when there weren’t many people tending to it. 

Little did you know, it was a pirate ship. It was a lapse of judgment, and you regretted it only when they found you. Luck wasn’t on your side today, it seems. They had dragged you out, and tossed you down on the main deck. You could already feel the bruises forming, but it was nothing in comparison to the fear you felt being surrounded by all these pirates. They were looking at you in a way that you know meant you were in for a world of hurt. 

One drunk was holding a sword, and made a “fake” jab towards you, but he clearly intended to slice your leg, which he did. But you refused to make a sound, even though it was severe. Your blood started to seep through to the wooden deck, and you glared at the pirates as they laughed. After that, there were several more little cuts and bruises. 

Why did you have to try and leave? If you’d stayed at home, it wouldn’t have been exciting by any means…but you wouldn’t have been hurting, surrounded by who knows how many pirates. They were vile, spewing promises on the pain to come. You were probably only there a couple minutes, but it felt like years. You only hoped they reached the island soon. If they didn’t…you’d have another eight days of torture. You didn’t know if you could bear that. 

Within minutes of this realization, you heard shouting coming from the crow’s nest above you. He sounded confused, but announced it to the crew and his captain. It made you curious, as his words…didn’t really make sense. 

“Captain! There’s a man floating on a small raft in the water! What do you want me to do?” He leaned over and looked down at the group, his eyes lingering on you momentarily before returning to his place in the crow’s nest. 

“Raft? What’s on it?” The captain called back to him, not sounding too concerned. If anything, he seemed to smirk in place and call back, “Someone shoot him down.” He turned back to you and grabbed your shirt collar, pulling you close to his face with a look that could only be described as sinister. “Hey little girl…you wanna see what happens to people who bother pirates? If you don’t listen, it’ll be you next.” 

His breath reeked of alcohol, and it made you flinch back. When he mentioned shooting down the man, your eyes widened. Was he about to kill the man? If he was on a raft, he might even need help! “W-Wait! Don’t kill him! If he’s just on a raft he doesn’t have anything valuable, what could you possibly get from kill-” But the words were cut off when the captain yelled in your face.

“WHY? WHY am I doing this?” He cackled, and the crew joined in. “Because we’re pirates. Why SHOULDN’T we send a message? It’s a message for you, don’t you feel special?” He turned to a couple crew members and nodded to the cannons with his head. “Don’t miss. There’s no warning shots this time.” He grabbed you by the back of the neck and dragged you to the side of the ship, so you could see the spectacle about to happen. 

As the crew loaded the cannons and got ready to fire, the captain tilted his head slightly. “Wait…” the gears in his head were turning, and as the small raft got closer he began to shake in fear. “WAIT! MEN DON’T SHOOT-” He sounded frantic, and continued, “WE HAVE TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” He let go of you, clearly not concerned with you right now. Whoever that man was, even this group of pirates were terrified of him. 

You leaned towards the ledge, and considered jumping over and begging the man on the raft to get YOU out of here. Staying with these pirates was dangerous, maybe he was with the marines? Why else would these pirates be so terrified? It wasn’t a great option, but neither was staying with these pirates. But you didn’t have much time to debate. 

The man stood on the small raft, and pulled up a sword bigger than any you’d ever seen. It was shaped like a cross, and it hit you. This was Dracule Mihawk. One of the seven warlords of the sea. Meaning he was a pirate, just like them. But what if he thought you were one of them, he surely wouldn’t kill someone innocent when working for the government…right? 

You waved your arms at him, hoping he’d get the message. But he had already swung his sword. Within half a second, the boat was split in half. You stumbled, and tried to gain your bearings, but with your injuries it proved to be a more difficult task than you imagined. Falling several meters into the ocean as it churned was terrifying, and you struggled to swim back to the surface. But with all the debris falling…you knew. You were going to drown here. 

You were near passing out, and you couldn’t hold your breath anymore…until a hand reached down and pulled you up. As you coughed, placed on a solid surface you looked up and saw the gaze of Mihawk. His eyes were piercing, and it was as if he was looking straight through you. It took everything in you to not cower under that look. He was much taller than you, and his sword was resting behind the makeshift seat. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, though his eyes were glancing over your body, taking in the injuries you had. You had no idea what he was thinking, his face was completely blank, and his voice monotone. “Allow me.” He said and reached down to help you up. 

You swayed, and all but fell into his arms. The raft didn’t rock much, but you could still feel the movement of the waves under your feet. He placed a firm hand on your upper arm and kept you steady. “What…are you doing? Why did you save me?” Was all you could get out. You tried to scour his face for any traces of emotion, but found none. Aside from a brief second of softness in his eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“You needed help. I’m providing that.” He carefully moved you to set you on the only seat on the small raft. He knelt down and looked at you. Even when you were sitting on the small chair, he was bigger than you as he rested on one knee. His tone was ‘matter-of-fact’ and you were reeling your mind trying to think of what he was thinking. 

“Uh…okay…” You couldn’t find any other words. Help was needed, and if he was willing to provide that…it shouldn’t be too bad? You were bleeding more and more by the second, and the sea salt in those wounds were only aggravating them. It honestly made you feel as if you’d pass out. Your eyes continued to flutter shut, but the fear of being alone in the vast sea with a warlord kept you fighting. 

“Don’t worry…you’ll be able to rest soon.” He tore off small strips of his clothing and wrapped it around the larger wounds, and opened the water bottle he had in an attempt to clean those wounds. He moved swiftly but carefully, as the raft floated further and further from the remains of the shipwreck. 

Once he was finished, you were practically asleep. He took the moment to look you over in curiosity. There was a small tug at his heartstrings, it was small…but still there. He could bring you to the nearest island, but a large part of him wanted to continue to check on you. Make sure you’re recovering well. It was a brief moment of hesitation, before he started moving the raft to his island. Once you were healed completely, he would bring you back to your island or one of your choosing. That’s what he told himself at least. 

Once you were asleep, he gently lifted you, and sat down on the seat. He cradled you to him, with one arm under your back and the other your knees. Your fears and worries of the events must have scared you terribly, he concluded. You softly cried in your sleep, as you unknowingly nuzzled your face into his neck. All Mihawk could do was hold you closer, as he whispered “You’re safe, now.” Over and over again until the tears stopped. 

You ended up stirring awake not long later. Your eyes opened before you moved anything, and you instantly shot up, only to be held down with arms much stronger than yours. The first thing you wanted to see after passing out, traumatized for life, was…well not this. Mihawk’s practically glowing yellow eyes staring down at you. You were in his lap, being held like a damn princess. He had no shame, either. When you caught him staring he had the audacity to maintain that eye contact. 

“Uh…I can get up now?” You wished you were shaking less, but you were being coddled by a warlord. “You can drop me off at the nearest island, so you should…do that.” It came out a lot less assertive than you meant for it to, but you didn’t want to walk on eggshells. If he wanted, he could throw you into the ocean never to be seen again. Or even worse, cut you down, himself. If he can slice an entire ship in half without even trying…you didn’t want to think about what he could do to you. 

“No.” It was so matter-of-fact that it caught you completely off guard. He continued to look at you, analyzing everything on your face. “Your wounds need to heal, my island is closest.” It was a lie, but you had no way of knowing that. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he lied. He gave you what was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze, but it came across as a warning. 

“Okay…?” You were beyond confused at this point, and his short responses weren’t helping that. It just made it so much worse. But you were terrified, despite trying to appear as if you weren’t. So you settled as much as you could, and tried to put as much distance as possible while still being secured in his lap. Whatever his plan here was, he sure wasn’t going to talk about it. You tried to take the initiative, and said a small “Thank you for saving me.” 

It was all he needed to hear, and he looked a bit surprised. It wasn’t much, just a slight twitch in his eyebrows at most, and his eyes got just slightly wider. But he did his best to try and give a small. He wasn’t used to it, but he could see how scared you were. The smile was forced, but his eyes continued to not reveal anything. Maybe a small trace of contentment? You didn’t know him enough to be able to tell. 

Arriving at the island took at least another hour past that, but being out in the middle of the ocean made it hard to tell exactly what time it was. As the raft hit the shore line, you went to stand up and get off him, but he effortlessly kept you in place. “What? I can walk, you know!” Another attempt to get out of his grasp, was futile at best. You looked up at him with the best glare you could manage but it looked as shaky as you felt. 

“Not safely.” He shifted you a bit, carrying you with a single arm as he poked your ankle. It made you hiss, and he lifted an eyebrow in a ‘see?’ display. “You’re injured, I’m simply helping you.” He then shifted you a bit more to try and get you comfortable but it jostled you enough you quickly wrapped your arms around his neck with a small noise of protest. Your face was buried in his neck as you tried not to fall. 

If you could have seen his face, it would have been the biggest reaction you’d seen of him yet. His eyes were wide, and he paused for a moment, before giving a much more genuine smile. You reminded him of a child. He wasn’t sure exactly how old you were, but he would get to know. He cradled you with both arms, trying to return his facial expression to neutral. “Shh…it’s okay. I’d never drop you. You’re safe.” Even the tone had a twinge on sincerity. 

You gulped, and did everything you could to not fight against his grasp. It was difficult, you weren’t used to this kind of treatment anymore. It had been a long time since someone carried you like this…maybe you could indulge just this once. Besides, he made a point. Your ankle wasn’t in the best condition. You shuddered thinking about how bad it could be. If it hurt that bad from just a poke, what if you needed a real doctor? What if it got infected?

Though Mihawk wasn’t great at empathizing, he could tell you were panicking. He shushed you softly, and carefully brought you to a spare room in his home. It was fully furnished, with anything you’d reasonably need. Even some things you didn’t NEED but could want. He spoke to you softly, and it was giving you whiplash. The warlord who can end a person’s life with just a glance was treating you with kindness and even being accommodating. It was confusing you beyond measure. 

“Your house is huge…” Was the first thing you mumbled back at him as he eased the door closed with his foot. He walked over to the bed, and rested you on it. You weren’t going to make a big deal out of it, but when you were resting on the bed you couldn’t help it. “This is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever laid on in my life!” You let out a small giggle and got comfortable as you could with your injuries. “Is it…really okay if I stay here? I don’t wanna cause any trouble! The second I’m feeling better I promise I’ll get out of your hair!” You had realized you’d been a little too giddy, and didn’t want him to feel as if you were milking your injury. 

But he did give a rather large smile. Large smile for him at least. In response to your giggling, he let out a low chuckle. Hearing it was somewhat soothing, and the look in his eyes was something close to adoration. You think. It was so hard to tell with him…but regardless, he replied. “You can stay here as long as you’d like. As for the bed, it’s yours if you’d like it. I can always get you a new and better one. Money is no issue.” He pulled the chair from the desk over to where you laid on the bed, and took a glance at the small amounts of blood seeping through the makeshift bandage he’d given. 

He hummed, and walked to the bathroom, only to return with a first aid kit. “I’ll check them over, and then I can give you a better estimate on when you’ll be safe to walk again.” He slowly unwrapped each of the bandages, and worked slowly and carefully so as to not hurt you. He hummed a couple times, and you’d look between him and the injury. 

“What? ‘Hm’ what?” You got anxious, he was staring so intently at the bleeding. “Is it bad? What does ‘hm’ mean!?” It was getting hard to stay still, and when you tried to pull your leg away, he grabbed an uninjured part of it and kept it secured in place. 

“Be careful…a couple of these are going to need stitches. Which means no walking for around four weeks or so I’d say.” He looked at you a bit sympathetically, and pulled out the needle prepared to give you the stitches needed. “I apologize…it will hurt a bit, but I’ll make it as painless as possible. I promise.” The look in his eyes held some deeper meaning, but you couldn’t tell what it was. 

“Four whole weeks…of not walking…? Shit…I’m not going to burden or bother you or anything, right? I mean, not even just you but also. Wait, how many people live here?” You shifted a bit, and winced at the movement from your ankle. “And I’m bleeding on your bed sheets! I’m sorry! Just a few stitches and then I can go to a different island, I can see a doctor, It’ll-” He cut you off promptly with a look and short phrase. 

“You’re staying. I can help you, here. If you need to go anywhere in the mansion, I can carry you until you’re better enough to walk with me as a crutch.” His tone wasn’t quite harsh, but assertive. He addressed your question next, “As for how many live here. Just…two.” It seemed like he came to a conclusion of some kind, and smiled a bit to himself before smiling at you. “It’s safe here. No one should dare harm you under my care.” 

Rather it be for better or for worse, he had decided. You’d be staying with him indefinitely. You would come to realize that in time, but for the moment you were clueless. Simply settled on bed rest for a few weeks, you fell back asleep immediately following getting stitches. It really was a comfy bed, it’d be easier to have bed rest in this kind of comfort. If Mihawk seemed sure no one would hurt you…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? He was a warlord afterall, so you doubted many would even do so much as attempt to harm you. 

You thought it would be easy, you really did. But he hardly ever left you alone! It was somewhat expected the first day or two, but a three and a half weeks? Of just laying in bed without being able to even stand up and walk? It was suffocating! He had asked a million questions, about everything to do with you. He didn’t even ask about your family, your friends, did he not care? He seemed content to have you talk about yourself though. Your responses were getting shorter, and he definitely noticed, but didn’t say much of anything about it. Simply continued with the small talk and questions. 

“Do you have a favorite restaurant back on your home island?” He’d ask. 

“Not really.”

“Did you have any childhood pets?”

“A couple.” 

“Is there a dream job you have?”

“Haven’t decided.” 

“What island have you heard of that you want to visit?”

You reached your breaking point. So many questions, and even when you slept! He’d be in that chair in the corner most of the time. You didn’t know what his endgame here was, but you were sick of being grilled about anything and everything. “WOULD YOU JUST STOP WITH THE QUESTIONS?” A glare was sent his way from you, but it faltered significantly when it was met with a glare right back at you. It wasn’t much, but it was the most anger you’d seen from him. 

“I’ll give you some space.” His expression was neutral once more, and he stood to leave, only to stop in the doorway. He seemed to hesitate there, and he turned back to partially face you. “I expect an apology for your tone. Screaming at me gets you nowhere.” He turned back but ended up deciding to say one more thing before fully leaving. It was a softer tone, as he said “I don’t wish for you to scream at me, I despise it so.” Before leaving the room entirely. 

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding. Did you…really just scream at a warlord? He took you into his home, cared for you, tended to you, and even carried you to the dining table for three meals a day! You watched him cook for you numerous times, but you still yelled at him? It’s not like he did anything wrong…he just wanted to get to know you. That’s all…right? You flopped over in the bed, and pulled the covers over your head. Beating yourself up won’t solve anything, but maybe some sleep would. 

You woke up not long after, extremely confused. The injury on your ankle…it wasn’t hurting. A little bit maybe, but not bad at all. What made you notice it, was your other foot had found a spot on top of the injured one in your sleep. It made you giddy beyond reason, thinking maybe it was almost completely better, and you could finally walk around! Maybe then you could go back to your home island, you missed everyone…and you were sure they were worried. You had been talking about running off to another island, so it might not be surprising you disappeared for a while, but you hadn’t even been able to write to them. 

Placing your good foot on the ground gently, you took a few deep breaths and placed the other one on the ground. You were bracing yourself, getting ready to stand up. It had been a whole week and a half, but if you bursted the stitches open it would be so much worse. Mihawk might get pissed at you…and you valued your life. He’s been kind for the most part, overly kind in fact, but he seemed focused on your progress in getting better. Putting a set back on that might make him explode and you didn’t want that. At all. 

You swayed between all the options, before taking one more deep breath and putting weight slowly on your ankles, being sure to favor the good one the most first. When that was fine, you put a little more on the other foot. After a bit, you were able to stand evenly on them both. You wanted to jump in joy, but you weren’t about to push the boundaries. After the little snap at Mihawk, you decided the best course of action would be to leave and head back to your island while he was gone. You’d overstayed your welcome, and now that you could somewhat walk again, it was time to go. 

It took a bit of practice to walk around the room, but you figured you’d rather start off with some small pacing, before making the long trek from the mansion to the shore. It wasn’t long into your pacing when you heard a knock at your door. Shit…so leaving without a trace wasn’t an option. But you were excited, you’d get to see everyone again. Maybe he’d show you where the rafts and boats were!

“Darling? Are you alright?” He called, his tone laced with worry. “May I come in? We need to have a discussion.” Those words made you hesitate a bit, it sounded serious. Maybe he knew you were feeling better, and decided to talk to you about returning home? It was all you could hope for. There were certainly much worse possibilities running through your mind. 

“Sure…” You were curious, but ended up continuing to pace even as he entered the room. “Look! I’m feeling so much better!” You made a demonstration of walking around the room. When you looked back at him, he looked conflicted. Like he also had many possibilities running through his head. It stopped you in your tracks, and you wanted to walk closer, but hesitated. 

“That’s wonderful, I’m glad you’re recovering well.” He turned to the side and came in with a tray. It had a few different kinds of food on it. “You never specified your favorite restaurant, so I attempted a few different types of food.” He walked to your bedside table and set it down. “Come eat. We can discuss a few things.” He said as he sat on the foot of the bed, before patting your spot to signal you to sit again. 

“I actually…wanted to ask you something.” You said hesitantly, and followed the instructions to sit by the bedside table. When you didn’t touch the food, he knew something was wrong. “Would I be able to have a small boat? Or a raft even! I could make my way back home, I’ve been here for so long now at this point…It’s time for me to go home. But thank you! For everything. You didn’t have to save me but you did and I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” You fidgeted with your hands, and avoided looking directly at him. While he’d been soft and kind to you, his power and authority still caused anxieties of what could happen. 

“Darling…” He scooted a bit closer and urged you to look at him. “You ARE home. You’re to live here, with me. I’ve given you anything you’ve wanted, why would you want to leave?” The word ‘me’ hangs in the air at the end of the sentence as he hesitated before saying the next sentence. “Have I done something wrong? Whatever it may be, I can do my best to fix it.” 

“No! There’s nothing you’ve done wrong, but I can’t just live here with you! I have friends I need to see, and my mom and dad-” That word shouldn’t have made him react that way…but it did. It made your sentence cut off on its own. His eyes were glowing more than usual, and his face was contorted with anger. He looked away and seemed to struggle with his own words as they came out. 

“I’m your father. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t known you since your birth, I care for you greatly. All of our conversations, I know I can be a better father to you than whatever the ‘man’ before me ever was.” He was getting closer now, and you were trying to retreat but he wasn’t having it. He looked over your face, and still saw fear. “Don’t worry, I know it must be confusing for you.” He chuckled a bit, but it was far from comforting as it was the first you’d heard it. 

“You don’t have to be ready to call me your father right now, but we’ll get there. As for your friends, I can find new ones for you. I will make sure they’re safe people.” He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I would give you anything, darling…so I do hope you’ll be able to forgive me for keeping you here. You mean too much to me for me to let you go. If I were to do so, you could get hurt. Emotionally, mentally…and even physically. Those pirates deserved a fate much worse than I gave them.” 

“You’ll give me anything? THEN GIVE ME A BOAT TO GET OUT OF HERE! DON’T JUST ACT LIKE YOU CAN REPLACE EVERYTHING I HAD!” You were pissed, but this time you wouldn’t back down. Your anxieties and fears wanted you to, but Mihawk was saying you’d never get to see them again! As if people were replaceable! You leaned forward as you yelled and got closer to him, you flung the blankets off and tried to walk towards the door. “IF YOU WON’T GIVE ME THAT THEN I’LL FIGURE OUT HOW TO LEAVE, MYSELF!” 

You heard a sigh behind you, and as you went to open the door he was already next to it, shutting it and preventing you from leaving. His speed was much faster than yours, and you already knew well that his strength was too. You took a step back, and became fearful of his expression. It wasn’t angry, in fact it was back to the blank and neutral expression he had when you first met him. He’d put up the walls he’d slowly been taking down. 

He reached forward, and you flinched but he also wasn’t giving in this time. He placed a finger under your chin and tilted it so you looked at him directly. “Look at me, please?” He held your head there until your eyes met his. “There she is…my dear daughter.” He sighed, and when you opened your mouth to yell at him again, he sighed once more. “Please stop screaming at me, love. You know I hate it.” He grabbed your arms and moved you carefully, but firmly back to the bed. 

“YOU CAN’T-” But his neutral expression was scaring you more, and you found yourself unable to finish the sentence. There was so much you wanted to scream at him, the overflowing emotion was building up so much that tears started to fall down your face. “I’m not your daughter…” Was all you could spat at him angrily as he forced you further into the room. No matter how much you thrashed, you couldn’t hurt him. And he knew that. You both did. But you had to try…

“You are. I know you are. I knew the moment I saw you. Take your time, love. You can call for me when you need me, but for now I think you need to learn a lesson.” He spoke softly at first, before his tone became much more firm. You really…really didn’t want to know what he meant. But it became clear in the seconds following. 

He placed a kiss to the top of your head, before the door seemed to open and close instantly. He was gone. You should have known it’d be locked, but what you didn’t expect was just how sturdy the door was. When you banged on it, screaming for him to let you out, it didn’t budge in the slightest. Not even a small tremor from the strengths of your blow. That bastard must have planned this…was this his plan all along?

Only time would tell, but no matter how many times you had to do it…you’d try to escape. He can’t keep you here forever. He can’t…and he won’t. You’re resolved, knowing you’d go to further and further lengths to get out of here. You would return home…to your real home…no matter the cost. 

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

[sincerely-your-fo]

Howdy! Have a birthday coming up and want your family member to wish you a happy birthday?

What about a desire to receive a valentine's day confession from your crush or a romantic letter from your significant other to celebrate?

How about a simple slice of life letter from your best friend telling you what they've been up to and what fun things they'd like to do with you next time you see each other?

Want to read how proud and happy your parent is to call you their child?

Then you've come to the right place ♡

Electronic

● $3 USD per letter

● guaranteed 4 paragraphs minimum

● can easily be a birthday/holiday gift for a beloved mutual via you giving me the username of who you want me to send a letter to + their f/o's information or just buy a letter and send me to your buddy's DMs :)!

● will always be sent via anon (if anon is allowed) with my handle @sincerely-your-fo attached in small letters at the bottom like so: @sincerely-your-fo

Physical

● $13 USD per letter

● guaranteed 3 paragraphs minimum ($5 per additonal paragraph)

● comes with the electronic copy sent to your askbox so you may have it there too (it will likewise bear the mark '@sincerely-your-fo' in the bottom corner)

●*can easily be a birthday/holiday gift for a beloved mutual via me sending the envelope containing the f/o envelope to you so you can then send it to your friend or you provide me with your friend's mailing information; whichever is more comfortable :)!

● will be sent in a second envelope to add protection to envelope containing letter

Customizable:

-wax color(s) & wax stamp

-envelope

Available upon request:

-flower petals

-perfume/cologne spritz

-star confetti

-washi tape

-miniature framed artwork

Additional notes:

-will do NSFW thirst writing for adult clients requesting a letter from a canonically adult character (ergo, a character that is NOT aged up by the client).

-I will need links to webpages / docs regarding the character I am writing for so please have that on hand or be ready to make one once I contact you :)!

- I have and will exercise the right to politely refuse a commission request if I am uncomfortable with the topic given to me to write or the character the client wants me to write for.

Important Qs & As

1. How to request a letter:

Please contact via sending an Ask and I will DM you.

2. How & when to pay for a letter:

Payment is required upfront and can be paid through PayPal or Zelle.

3. Which Fandoms do you write letters for?

I do not focus on Fandom but instead on individual case by cases instances when given a character to focus on; part of the process of writing the letter is me asking questions and getting webpages to refer to the character's personality.

4. Do you write for OCs?

Yes I absolutely do! Please be ready to answer lots of questions/have a doc on hand to describe your OC so I may be a good scribe for them :)

5. Do you have any references of already written works to browse?

Indeed I do! Please turn to this post to be able to view what I have done so far ♡

6. Do you ship internationally?

Yes I do! I am based in America (for now) and indeed am open to shipping physical letters internationally.

Please tell your friends / tell your mutuals ♡

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again. 

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

 He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[m-y-fandoms]

COMMISSION: Kokichi Ouma dating a taller woman (headcanon list + drabble)

Word Count: 1.4K words approximately

Warnings/Details: SFW was requested, so any NSFW headcanons would have to be a separate piece. Expect fluff, romance, and possible unhealthy relationship elements because it’s Kokichi, but still SFW overall.

(A taller woman is defined here as literally even an inch taller than him, all the way up to a major height difference. I’ve dated a man only an inch shorter than me and definitely noticed that inch difference so we have a wide height range to work with here! I personally am imagining a woman at least a good five inches taller than him in my mind, but again, anyone taller than him in any way would work!)

As friends before you two were officially dating (but he had a crush on you):

Kokichi is definitely the type to tease and pick on the people he likes. It might even be hard to tell he has a crush on you because he’s mischievous and obnoxious with everyone. Depending on your personality type, you might enjoy just having his attention so often or, you might think he hates you or is just trying to bully you.

If you respond by liking the attention or teasing him back, he would get super confident and a little more touchy each time. It would become increasingly obvious that he’s flirting with you.

If you responded by pulling away or getting offended, he would become frustrated. In his mind it would be obvious that he likes you. Why else would he be giving you so much of his precious time and attention??? He would be a little whiny when you responded poorly or eventually feel the need to explain that he really likes you, but he would hate having to explain it. His cheeks would get all red, he’d roll his eyes, talking to you like you’re some idiot for not picking up on his cues.

Kokichi lies to everyone, even himself, so even though he acts like his height doesn’t bother him and even might joke about it sometimes, it probably bothers him at least a tiny bit deep down. He doesn’t make it a focus in his life but doesn’t like when people point it out, even if he plays it off and has a sarcastic rebuttal for them.

Therefore, when he finds himself crushing on you, a woman taller then him, he for sure would use your height to tease you. If he’s going to feel insecure, then everyone’s going to feel insecure. He doesn’t want you to think his height matters/is a flaw, so him teasing you will prove he’s confident in himself, right?

You’d definitely hear a bunch on uncreative jabs and nicknames: tree trunk, giraffe, skyscraper, stretch, bigfoot, lamp-post, daddy long legs, gigantasaurus, Goliath, stilts, rooftop, and so on and so forth.

He might surprise attack you, running and jumping onto your back and latching on. Whether or not this takes you down to the ground or you carry him around like a baby sloth matters little to him.

After you two start dating:

Sometimes, he will like to prove implicitly that he is not weak and not to be looked down upon for his size…

When you two are alone, he sometimes will pull at your hair or the collar of your shirt to bring you down to his height so he can kiss you or whisper in your ear. 

He likes to put you in physically uncomfortable positions to fluster and corner you. Feeling like he’s in control and can make you nervous excites him.

He will corner you in hallways, push you up against walls and trap you in between his arms.

He’s much stronger then he looks, but like with most aspects of Kokichi, what you see initially, isn’t always what you get.

When you two are alone in his room, he will cage you below him on his bed to kiss you, hold you down, be more assertive and initiate make-out sessions.

If you’re sitting together talking or playing games, he might pull you onto his lap, reassuring you in his own immature, aloof way that you’re not too heavy for him.

The teasing never stops, and certainly not in public. Kokichi isn’t one to bring down his walls and be vulnerable and romantic in front of others. Protective, possessive, or jealous maybe. He reserves his true feelings and mushy moments for when you two are alone, and threatens you with death should you tell anyone.

If he does let out some PDA with you, it’s purposely to fluster you or scare away others that he thinks are interested in you.

Also, he’s very much the “Only I can make fun of Y/N” or “Only I can hold Y/N’s hand” type of boyfriend, especially if you’re insecure about your height already. He gets clingy and jealous even when you’re just being platonic with others.

You were sitting in your dorm room for once. Usually, you found yourself spending the night in Kokichi’s, but he was being rather secretive about his room for some reason this week. You sat next to him on the ground, looking at a splayed out deck of cards on the floor. You often spent the nights like this: with him, either wandering the school grounds and getting up to trouble or in his room where he could have you all to himself. He could be selfish like that, clingy. Sometimes seeing others get close to you made him more jealous than he’d like to admit.

And you could most definitely tell when it was one of his more needy days. He’d be more whiny, showing his true feelings through a furrowed brow here or a scrunched nose there. He sighed, tired of leaning his head onto your shoulder. He wanted more, more contact with you, more of you entirely. Without warning, he grabbed both hands firmly onto your legs and pulled you into his lap. He was sitting with his legs criss-crossed, and with an unexpected show of strength for someone of his size, he sunk his slender, pale fingers into the meat of your thighs and slid you effortlessly into his lap. He snuggled you in and you slotted perfectly into the cavity of his hips and thighs.

You squirmed in protest, gasping a little at the surprise of being lifted so suddenly. Your cheeks warmed up at the close contact and intimate position. He placed his chin back onto your shoulder, nuzzling against it every so often and resumed the game, handing you cards and promising not to cheat and peek at your hand (probably a lie).

When moments passed and you still squirmed about uncomfortably in his lap, he grunted, irate:

“Sit still, I’m trying to get comfortable!” He tilted his head, biting down into the skin of your shoulder in a childish display of frustration.

“Well… Kokichi… aren’t I a little heavily? Are you sure you want me to sit here like this…?” You finally voiced the apprehension behind your wriggling. You were bigger then him, and his frame was so lithe and petite. You felt like a beast crushing it’s prey. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the closeness and his touch, but you couldn’t help but feel self conscious.

“Why would I put you here if I didn’t want it, stupid head?!” He puffed his cheeks out in exasperation.

“It just… I mean I feel like I’m grating your pelvis into dust right now…” He wouldn’t say it directly, but he hated comments like this. Though he knew it was your own insecurities against yourself at work, he couldn’t help but be offended for himself, like you thought he was puny and weak at the same time. You would never say that to Gonta or Kaito, right? Even Kiyo, who was thin as could be would be spared from such comments. Why? Because he was 6’2”. Kokichi frowned at your comment, trying not to take out that anger on you, though he really wanted to.

“If you move even an inch, I’m going to bonk you over the head and knock you out…” he grumbled, wrapping both arms around your torso and crushing you into his chest in a show of dominance. He wanted to prove that he could hold you, he could be strong and in control, he could handle all of you.

You relaxed into his hold, feeling the beating of his heart against your back and deciding to let the topic go for now. 

BONUS: In a NON-DESPAIR AU

He gets pissed, crossing his arms and practically steaming when you guys go to amusement parks and people imply that he’s not tall enough for certain rides.

He finds your body super attractive, content to sit back and simply watch you try on clothes without complaint.

He refers to you as his “tall gf” or “huge gf” in many different scenarios, even if you’re just the least bit taller than him.

[quinloki]

Bird Bath

Commission for @kazieai

Marco/Reader/Thatch

Summary: What was supposed to be a relaxing couple of hours in the hot springs alone, turned into a relaxing couple of hours in the hot springs with company.

CW: fingering, oral giving and receiving, double penetration, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, threesome, size difference, mdni

Stretching you headed to the open air hot spring. It was an hour or two from dawn, but that was the perfect time. The rest of the crew was passed out from the party, having drunk themselves into a stupor a half hour ago or so, and now you’d have the springs to yourself.

The village you were in was letting the crew stay at the springs for free after, by sheer luck, managing to arrive in time to save them from a convergence of disasters. Pops had stopped a tsunami, and Marco had held back an erupting volcano. Others in the crew had sent off pirates who were razing one of the other villages, and then everyone else had gotten to work putting out fires.

You’d spent the next couple of days helping fix crop fields and repair houses.

The island had been part of the world government alliance, but you were fairly certain they were going to step down voluntarily and redirect at least a portion of their Celestial Tribute to Pops. The jolly roger of the white beard pirates was certainly more of a deterrent in the new world than the threat of marines anyway.

Instead of trading out your terrycloth robe for a towel, you just walked through the space that divided the hallway from the springs. Taking off the robe, you weren’t worried about being naked underneath, and lazily piled the garment into a loose coil, setting it down by the pool’s edge before you slipped in.

The warmth of the water sank into your bones quickly, and you let out a satisfied sigh as you crouch down and put everything below your neck into the water. It’s been a long couple days taking care of the island and then partying afterward, this was bliss.

Quiet, solitary, bliss. No one else to-

You jolt as something breaks the water’s surface and you hear someone take in a deep breath. The small spout of water surrounding them rains down around you and the two of you look at one another in shared shock.

Thatch’s long hair was clinging to his neck and shoulders, the broad, hairy chest of his towering over you. The water was barely deep enough to his hips below the surface as he was standing before you. Somehow he managed to look much taller when he was naked.

“Eh?” He makes the odd sound before stepping back and nearly falling back into the water. “Shit! Sorry!”

“Sorry for what, yoi?” Marco calls out and you see him coming out from around a bend in the pool. The lantern light shifts over his tattooed chest softly, but the moonlight is glinting off his hair. “Oh.” He grins and moves a little closer. “I can’t imagine you mustered up the courage to join us. I bet you expected the springs to be empty, yoi.”

You look mutely between him and Thatch for a moment before nodding. “Yeah I - wait a damn minute.” You glare at Marco. “Whaddya mean ‘courage’?”

He gives you a bemused look, and you see Thatch’s face start to turn pink. “You aren’t exactly subtle, pretty bird.”

You feel the heat rush to your face, and look away from both of them. “… If I was so obvious, why not say something?” You grumble.

Marco moves easily through the water, coming up behind you. It almost feels like he’s cutting off your escape, but as you turn to face him, putting your back to Thatch, you know that if you wanted to leave, they’d let you.

“I’m saying something now.” He hums, leaning toward you slowly. When you don’t move away he leans down until his lips are by your ear. “Me an’ Thatch will take good care of you,” he promises. He’s so close, but he’s not touching you. Not yet.

“Whether you want that just for just tonight, or longer.”

The heat of his words against your skin makes you dizzy. You can’t think well, it doesn’t seem real. If it’s a dream there’s no reason not to indulge, and if it’s reality then Marco’s already given you permission.

“There’s…” You swallow, turning toward him slowly until you can barely catch the intense teal-blue gaze looking back at you. “No need to worry about… duration, right now, yeah?”

You can feel Thatch behind you as Marco straightens up. There’s no verbal answer to your question, but there doesn’t need to be. You stand up slowly. The water that’s at Marco’s stomach, the same water that’s barely keeping Thatch from being indecent, isn’t quite deep enough to hide your breasts from the night air.

They each place a hand on your arm, leaning down slowly until there’s soft, tender lips against your shoulders. A quiet sigh slips from your lips and they squeeze their hold on you just a little tighter, until they’re kissing at the crook of your neck sending sweet shivers through you. Their free hands move and they both start to fondle your breasts as they’re pressing heavier kisses into your skin.

“Ah! Fuck!” you gasp as the pleasure rushes into you and you grab onto Marco’s arms. Their hands shift, and Thatch’s big, calloused fingers are against your breasts, teasing your nipples with fervor. Marco kneels down in front of you, one hand wrapping around your torso and pressing against your back.

His gaze finds yours, hazy and heated, between the pleasure and the spring you’re just melting. Leaning in you move without thinking as he captures your lips, his fingers slipping between your folds at the same time. The soft hum in the back of your throat turns into a squeal of pleasure that Marco happily devours.

Thatch continues to tease your nipples and Marco doesn’t relent in fingering you, making you moan and squirm between them. Your trembling legs were grateful for the buoyancy of the water, steadying yourself against Marco’s arms, you let your legs float, suspending you between them.

Marco leans back and lets your sweet, breathless moans float between the three of you. The heat in your face, from the heat of the hands having their way with you, could care less about the warmth of the hot springs right now.

“Please, I’m gonna,” your words melt into a moan as Thatch leans in and begins kissing your neck.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs into your skin. “It’s okay if someone else hears you.”

“Caah-can’t, I can’t,” you gasp, your body shivering in the water enough to create waves between you. The sloshing of water heralds the sweat moans that follow as you cum between them. Thatch pinches your nipples a little more harshly as the pleasure crests and Marco curls his fingers inside you, making your body tense and tremble between them. It almost felt like an orgasm within an orgasm, though any noise was cut off in your throat, your body too tense to cry out.

Your first wet-eyed whimpering gasp is from Marco pulling his fingers out of you. He and Thatch are holding you above the water, even though your feet could reach the bottom, you’re not coordinated enough to bother right now.

Their hands move over your body under the water, bringing parts of you above the water for a moment so they press kisses into the shimmering damp places they want. Slowly you begin to return the actions, moving your hands over their arms and returning soft kisses whenever a part of them was close enough to your mouth for you to manage it.

Marco and Thatch moved you more than you moved yourself, but you were comfortable between them. After a few moments of petting and kissing you find yourself leaning against Marco’s chest as he’s leaning back into the water. The phoenix looks down at you with a soft smile, watching as you nuzzle into him, your hands on his shoulders. There’s been no rush in anyone’s movements since you came down from your first high, and he brushes a lock of wet hair back from your face.

“My fingers aren’t as smooth as Marco’s,” Thatch begins, his voice low and easy. You can feel his admittedly rough fingers moving softly down your back. “But I can make you sing just as sweetly.” He assures you.

Marco puts a hand between your shoulders, keeping you pressed to his chest as Thatch’s hands grip your thighs. He’s so much bigger than you that he nearly gets his one hand around your thigh all on its own. Lifting you up enough to bring your hips out of the water you barely have time to feel the cool air against your skin before his mouth is against your cunt.

Marco holds you as your back arches and your fingers flex against his shoulders, Thatch’s tongue pushing deep into your vagina. The rough hair of his goatee teases your clit randomly, and he’s turned his head enough to avoid sticking his nose in your ass. The revelation of it is more embarrassing than you expected, and your struggling to look at Marco.

“O-Over,” you whine, pleasure already starting to overtake you. “Let me turn over!”

Marco’s brows raise and he smiles. You can feel Thatch pulling away from you. “Oh? You want to watch him?” He teases, seemingly knowingly.

They’re turning you on your back before you can answer, and you’re suddenly even more embarrassed than you were before. Marco holds your back to his chest by cupping your breasts the way Thatch had been before, and he’s kissing the top of your head as Thatch lifts your hips above the water just enough to lick along your slit.

Thatch’s deep green eyes are nearly black in the dim flickering light of the lanterns around the springs’ edges, and he’s not letting go of his hold on your gaze as he pushes his tongue between your labia.

Slowly.

A tremble skitters down your legs as his tongue teases past your clit and pushes into your vagina. Your mouth falls open wider and wider the deeper he pushes into you. His tongue shouldn’t feel so long, and so thick, and once his nose nuzzles into your clit you suck in a heavy gasp.

Marco rolls your stiff nipples between his fingers while Thatch seems intent to devour you. Caught between them there’s little more you can do but shiver and moan from the pleasure. Your wandering hands end up finding Thatch’s hands against your hips, your fingers curling around one of his, giving you something to hold onto as the two slowly worked you up again.

“Listening to your song,” Marco husks, his voice rough and low. “Is even more of a pleasure than I imagined.” One of his hands slips away from your chest and disappears under water, but you can feel the flex of his muscles against your back. “Don’t hold back.” He murmurs, nuzzling against the side of your head and keeping your attention turned to Thatch.

Thatch’s originally intense gaze has gone a little hazy. Pink tinges his cheeks and his fingers flex against your skin. He looks like he’s getting drunk, and he shakes his head from side to side rubbing his nose over your clit, retracting and thrusting his tongue, twisting it inside your throbbing cunt. A deep hum rolls around in his chest and shivers through his mouth, sinking into your desperate body.

You can’t halt the steady dribble of broken moans and needy whines that fall from your lips.

“There you go, yoi.” Marco praises, his voice shivering in his own pleasure and you realize what he’s doing with the hand you can’t see anymore. “I’d suggest you thank him,” he muses, hot breath against your skin as his tongue flicks over the curve of your ear. “But I think he’s too drunk right now.”

“Drunk on… on what?” You gasp. Thatch shifts a little and starts rolling his thumb against your clit, pushing your legs wide and pushing his tongue a little deeper. “Ah—Shhhhhhhit!” The word hisses between your teeth until the orgasm washes over you and rips a deep, satisfied, and heady moan from your lips.

“Drunk,” Marco husks, a grunt cutting off his words as his hip bucks under the water. “On you, pretty bird.”

Thatch moans deeply, eyes nearly rolling back as he seems intent to devour the sweet slick of your orgasm, nearly riling you up for a second one before he pulls his tongue out. You roll beneath him as he licks long lines up your lower stomach.

“Sweeter than any dessert I could make.” He murmurs, placing soft kisses against your skin and pulling half-hearted giggles from you with the soft ticklish feeling.

“I don’t think you could put me on the menu,” you grin, pressed between the two of them again. Cradling Thatch’s face in your hands you pull him toward you for a warm kiss. He presses brief and soft kisses against your lips a couple times before kissing you deeply.

“A special menu then,” he teases, eyes shifting to Marco before he looks back at you. “One where you can decide who gets to order from it.”

You laugh at the idea, exchanging a few more sweet kisses with Thatch, and then Marco. The three of you slowly worked your way to the shallower part of the spring. No one seemed to want to let anyone get too far away and it made it a little slow going. The dark sky was beginning to give way to the first subtle signs of day, though proper sunrise was still some time away.

You can’t help where your gaze wanders as the two stand well above the water line. They’re both, perhaps a little dauntingly so, well-endowed. Marco’s not hard, but you’re pretty sure he got himself off in the spring earlier. Thatch is not only hard, but twitching in the cool air.

It seemed a shame to leave him like that.

“Thatch,” you point to the steps leading out of the spring. “Sit down for me, please.”

“Hm? Sure thing, sweetheart.” His questioning tone turns into a cocksure grin as he sits on the top step, little more than his feet and the backs of his thighs left in the water. He spreads his legs, seeming to know what you have in mind. Despite the bold move, you can see blush dusting his face.

You press your lips together, feeling more transparent than you intended, and step up until you’re between his legs.

“Oh?” Marco hums. “I thought you’d want to run away from the coming dawn.” He teases.

You can feel the heat rush into your face as you lean down. “It seems rude to make him wait longer.” You manage to say wrapping your hand around Thatch’s thick shaft and hearing him suck in a breath. Grinning up at him you pump your hand up and down a couple times. “I don’t think this will take long.”

“Me either.” Thatch agrees. A whimpered swear falls from his lips when you lean down and lick the tip.

“Don’t half-ass it just because he’s easy.” Marco says, grabbing your hips and shoving two fingers inside you without much warning. Gasping as you tip forward you end up with nearly half of Thatch’s impressive length in your mouth before your hands are on his thighs, steadying yourself.

Marco doesn’t relent in fingering you, making you moan against Thatch as you right yourself enough to suck on his tip. Using one hand to stroke him - you’re not going to take him completely into your mouth without a little prep and a lot of practice - you  can already hear his breath coming out hot and shaky. Leaning back, he sweeps your hair off to the side, giving himself a better view while you go to work.

“This is almost too lewd,” He husks, spreading his legs a little further.

“And yet,” Marco grins and Thatch can’t help but chuckle.

“I don’t want to scare her,” There’s a jovial tone in Thatch’s voice. You straighten up a little, giving him a look.

“I’m not a glass wind chime,” you pout. “You don’t scare me anyway. Big,” you squeeze his cock a little, “fluffy cook that you are.”

Thatch’s grip on your hair tightens and he holds you in place. There’s kindness in his eyes, but a lusty grin on his lips. “And yet I want to pull your hair and force that sweet little mouth down to my balls.” He explains and you can’t help the flush of need that rushes through you at the idea.

Sweet, gentle, and more pointedly, gentlemanly Thatch, doing something so crude. The idea of him being rough was more of a turn on than you expected. He tugs your hair enough to pull you into a kiss, the sudden, rough movement making you squeak into his lips, pulling your hand away from his cock.

Thatch pushes his tongue deep into your mouth, the action coarse and still sweet somehow. Even demanding as the action was, you knew you could’ve pulled free with little fuss. When he relents you suddenly remember to breathe, a single line of saliva connecting your tongues for a moment before the distance was too great.

“Puh… please.” You beg and he smiles, kissing you far more tenderly.

“One day,” he agrees, releasing his hold and leaning back again, leaving you to return to your task.

You try to deep throat him and realize you’re not going to get more than halfway down. Thatch doesn’t stop you, and doesn’t say anything when you give yourself a break and bring your hand back into things. He’s too long and too thick, but you were sure you’d be able to get plenty of practice.

Even with the interruption it only takes a couple minutes of effort to bring Thatch to the edge.

“Sw-sweetheart,” he stammers. “I’m close, I’m - gonna cum, if you don’t - oh hells.” At Thatch’s words you began to take more of him into your throat and there was nothing he could do but accept it.

“That’s beautiful,” Marco hums, pulling his fingers out of you and smacking your ass sharply. You squeal against Thatch’s cock and the cook swears, cumming down the back of your throat. Thick and hot you had to pull back a little to swallow, your hands pumping his shaft until he’s shivering and gently - but relentlessly - pushing you back until you release his cock with a soft pop from your lips.

“You’re almost as insatiable as Marco,” Thatch huffs.

“It’s not my fault all the birds of paradise in my collection have such sweet songs.” Marco grumbles.

“All?” You question as Thatch gets to his feet.

“Mm, a worry for later,” Thatch assures you. “Someone didn’t want to worry about duration tonight, right?”

You laugh, stepping out of the spring with the two of them. “No, I suppose not.”

“Speaking of,” Marco begins, picking up your robe and putting it around your shoulders. “There’s no one in our room, and Thatch doesn’t have to make breakfast for everyone else this morning, yoi.”

Thatch grins down at you. “You’re welcome to turn in now, if you want.” He offers. “But I don’t think we’ve had a chance to… properly sate you, princess.”

“Princess?” You raise a brow.

“Certainly,” Marco agrees, offering his elbow. “Won’t you let us give you the royal treatment for a while longer?”

.

.

.

Thatch was laying on his back on the futon, him and Marco easing you down over him. The swollen head of his cock was covered in lube, and slipping easily between your labia.

“We’ll lift you back up,” Marco promises as you lower your hips enough that Thatch was pushing into your entrance. “So relax.”

Nodding you sigh. “Yeah, y-yeah, I’m good - Ah!” Your cry is more pleasure and surprise than anything else, though they manage to hold you in place for a second while you adjust. The stretch was more than you expected, but once you’d left the hot springs, Marco and Thatch had spent almost twenty minutes slowly working you open.

It wasn’t your first time, but Thatch was big in a lot of ways, and it wasn’t just him that was going to be inside you. The toy plug in your ass wasn’t going to be in there much longer, but first you wanted to make sure you could even take Thatch completely. If you bottomed out before you even got halfway down then you’d have to readjust the positions everyone was in.

“Poor Thatchie,” Marco teases. “Always having to be so careful.”

You squirmed, pulling up a little before settling back down further. “It feels… so good though,” you gasp, rolling your hips up again and then sinking down further. Thatch is holding onto your hands, though your fingers barely make it past his palms, but it’s giving you leverage. Marco’s hands are at your hips, helping you move since your feet are barely reaching the futon.

You sink lower and bite your lower lip to keep from crying out as the heads of his cock nuzzles into some sweet spot inside you. With a satisfied sigh you sink the rest of the way, surprising the two of them as your thighs rest flush against his hips. Marco has a hand over your mouth just as you cry out in pleasure. You hadn’t cum, but it still felt so good.

“Worried about being overheard now?” Thatch questions and Marco shrugs.

“I didn’t know if it was going to be pleasurable or painful.” He admits, leaning down and kissing against your shoulders. “You’re incredible, pretty bird, taking him in like that.” His hands slips around your hip, moving toward your clit. “You can cum like this with a little help, if you want.”

You make a noise, you can’t say no, but you’re almost afraid to say yes. It feels greedy when you’ve cum so many times already. Thatch squeezes your hands and you manage to nod as Marco’s fingers tease your clit.

“Don’t worry,” Marco purrs against your skin. “You’ll cum with both of us inside you soon.”

You lean back into Marco, fingers trembling against Thatch’s hands as the pleasure builds inside you quickly. Every twitch and shiver of your body creates an embarrassingly wet squishy sound from all the lube, but the pleasure that’s starting to overtake you is enough for you to not care.

“F-fuck,” you gasp, your hips jerking under Marco’s fingers. The first division commander moves with you, not giving you a moment’s respite as the orgasm rips through you. Thatch grunts as you cry out, throwing his head back with a heavy thump.

“Don’t brain yourself trying not to cum.” Marco grumbles at Thatch, one hand cradling your head as you melt against him, murmuring soft thank yous once he stop playing with your clit.

“She got so tight for a second there,” he huffs, as Marco slowly lifts you up. You and Thatch both sigh from the action, and once he pulls you off Thatch’s cock entirely he works the plug out of your ass.

“You’re doing so good, pretty bird.” He assures you, smiling as you whine from the sensation of the plug coming out. “You’re so sensitive, you sing so easily.” He presses the head of his cock against your ass. The plug had been a little bit thicker, but the stretch was still painfully sweet.

“Relax,” he commands, pushing in slowly as he and Thatch sink you back down onto Thatch’s cock. Both of them slowly push into you, easing in and out carefully until they’ve filled you to the brim.

“Gods, holy -,” you gasp squirming between them. “-fuck, it’s, hnnngh!” You’re effectively pinned between them, the angle leaning you forward a little and pushing your clit against Thatch’s coarse pubes. “Too much.” You take in a deep breath as they shift just a little before filling you completely again. “It’s almost too much.”

“Almost,” Marco hums, hands on your thighs. “Then you can handle a little more?”

You nod. Your legs are already trembling, but you squirm between them, part of you concerned, and part of you curious about the pleasure to be had.

“Good girl,” Marco and Thatch say at the same time. The words go straight to your brain and you can’t even tell them not to praise you like that before they’re already helping you ride them.

You can feel them rubbing and stretching inside you. It’s surreal and it feels so good. You understand vaguely why people call it having your guts rearranged, because it almost feels inhuman, but there’s no pain. The pressure is intense, but every movement is sending shudders through you. If it wasn’t for them holding onto you, you would’ve collapsed into an uncoordinated pile of bones by now.

Once you thought you’d adjusted to them they switched it up. Thatch pushes into you deep as Marco nearly pulls out. They piston in and out of you like this and all you can do is whine and tremble between them. Your thighs shiver and your legs twitch, but you don’t have leverage to move much more than that. Thatch has your hands, and he’s drinking in every shiver of your body.

“You’re doing so good,” Marco husks. He’s been murmuring praises to you the entire time, but even so there’s a desperation to his tone. Like he’s on the edge of just wanting to take you no matter what you might say. Right now you’ve no intention of asking them to stop.

“Cu-KUHNNNGH!” Your intent to warn them you were going to cum turns into a tense growl. You stutter and twist, your body spasming against their cocks, but they don’t stop. Both Marco and Thatch fuck you through the first orgasm, until they’re pushing airy moans from you as your body begins to tremble from overstimulation.

Thatch lets go of your hands, putting one hand against your clavicle, his fingers curling gently around your throat. You hold onto his arm and he starts teasing your breasts with his other hand. Your wispy whimpers turn into a growl and you shatter a swear between your teeth as a second orgasm crashes into you.

The sound you make is guttural, but you don’t care. You’re almost drowning in all the pleasure, and it’s only the deep trust you have of your crew mates that keeps you from panicking. You don’t know if you’re going to pass out or not, but you do know that Marco and Thatch will take care of you.

“Poor thing’s long gone,” Thatch says through grit teeth.

“She sounds as beautiful as she looks,” Marco growls. “I hope you sing for me long after this, pretty bird.”

“Please, please,” you sob as the third orgasm builds. It feels so good already you don’t know what to do. “Marco - Marco, Thatch, please, fuck - please!” It’s going to be your fifth? Sixth? Who cares at this point, but you don’t know if you’re going to scream or just lose control of your body entirely.

“We will,” Marco assures you. “Once more, pretty bird, sing one more time.”

Thatch swears, his hips lifting up off the futon to slam into you, the rush of his orgasm flooding hot inside you. The sensation is enough to push you over and you dig your nails into Thatch’s arm as all your muscles spark and tense. Marco cums with you, pressing into you as his fingers risk leaving bruising marks on your hips. He barely makes a sound, but the hot rush in your ass and the twitch of his cock makes it through your hazy senses.

“Fuck me,” Thatch sighs, nearly melting into the futon.

“We just did,” Marco teases, and you manage a weak chuckle as Marco slowly pulls himself and Thatch out of you.

“Haaa,” you sigh, the shivering whine escaping you from the sudden emptiness. You were stuffed so full that it’s almost disappointing how empty you feel.

Marco helps you lay down on Thatch’s broad chest, and the cook pulls you into a gentle and warm hug. Marco lays down next to you both, running his hand down your back soothingly as he leans over and gives Thatch a kiss on the cheek.

“You both did good, yoi.”

“I… I don’t think I can walk.” You admit. Marco and Thatch are quiet for a second before they both start laughing.

“We’ll take care of you, pretty bird.” Marco promises, ruffling your sweaty hair.

Thatch hums in agreement. “For as long as you want us to.”

[thevanillerose]

VILLAIN | CHILDE x READER | GENSHIN IMPACT

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators.

“I just want you to understand something, [Y/N]! I’m not a villain!”

Sometimes, a person’s words could sound so hollow. And right now, in this moment, his did. 

You didn’t want to believe that Childe would ever be the type of man to do something like this. As flames licked and burned at Liyue’s once bustling harbor, you ran and hid in your bewilderment, unable to believe that he had just done such a thing. Attacked this place. 

The explosion that ricocheted through the docks had torn away much of the structure, scattering the debris of ruined boats and piers, leaving the water riddled with remnants…and bodies.

Bodies. People had died.

You’d had your skepticisms about Childe from the beginning, but his charm had swayed you into thinking he was one of the good ones. For him to turn on a dime like this…to reveal his true colors were so twisted…

“Come on! [Y/N], let me talk to you!”

You had taken shelter after the initial attack, taking to hiding in one of the alleyways leading to the now inflamed harbor, your hands twitching as your own magic power surged through them. The thought of actually fighting Childe, or whoever he really was, left you quivering though.

I never really knew you at all. But I thought, at least…that you were my companion.

“There’s so much you don’t understand! I can explain everything, just come out and talk to me!”

Childe stalked along the water’s edge, illuminated in amber as bold as his hair, stepping over the charred remains of what had once been one of the local shopkeepers. 

“We don’t have a lot of time, you know…”

He knew you were still nearby. He’d traveled together with you for long enough to understand you weren’t the type who’d give up without trying to understand someone. Even someone as seemingly ‘evil’ as he was.

And hell…maybe he was evil. He also knew himself well enough to realize it. There was an undeniable thrill that came with being the ‘bad guy’.

But even so…the thought of losing you, even despite this…

It surprised him when you willingly stepped out of that alleyway and into his path, giving up your hiding spot, facing him head on. Tears stained your cheeks, power sparked in your hands. Your stance was tense enough that he could tell, you’d probably be willing to put up a fight.

But he threw his own gloved hands up in innocence, despite the blood that stained them tonight. His deep sapphire eyes looked soft, but you could only assume it was a mask.

“I know, I know…this looks bad. But just give me a chance to explain-”

“EXPLAIN!?”

Your barely contained fury came to a boiling point, as you snapped at him sharply, taking a step forward. The elements surged within you, a rage you’d never felt before. In so many ways, you wanted to tear him apart, and yet you were so pained by it all. 

Still, you tried to take a deep, if tense, breath, and speak calmly.

“Look around you…Chi– whoever you are. Just look! People are dead because of you!”

It was the first time you had ever seen it. His confidence faltering.

“...How can you say you’re not a villain…when you’ve killed innocents? How can you say you’re not, when you’ve been lying to me and everyone else this entire time!? I don’t even know who you really are!”

You swallowed back a sob, and steeled yourself, lifting your hand out before your body and letting the magic gather at your palm. 

Childe’s bewilderment gave way to a small, sad smile as he observed you.

“Look at you…you’ve gotten so powerful already, you don’t even need your sword anymore. But [Y/N]...”

His spear materialized, glowing harshly against the already vivid backdrop.

“...You can’t take me on. Even if you’re strong, you’re not strong enough for that.”

Calmly, he took a step forwards, and instinctively, you stepped back.

“I don’t want to have to fight you. I want you to listen to me. I know I lied to you about a lot of things, but I can help you understand. We don’t have to do it like this.”

You felt it. The slight tremble in your body. The danger that emanated from him, even towards you. Even towards someone who he really, really didn’t want to have to destroy.

Looking around, you took in the morbid sight of blackened bodies laying across the harbor, people who had just been minding their own business, living harmless lives before they’d been snuffed out from his selfishness. Gritting your teeth, you met those blue eyes again.

“Or maybe we do. Because there’s nothing you could tell me that would justify this.”

Your heart ached. You cared for him, you realized more and more just how greatly. But this…this was too much.

“There’s no truth you could confess that would ever make this right. And you know what else?”

You stepped forward again, bravely.

“I don’t think you even care about justifying it. I don’t think you care about anything except your own enjoyment. Isn’t that right?”

Again, his smile faded. Usually he was so cocky and self-assured, it was a trip to see him actually impacted by someone else’s words. But it was because they were coming from you. If it had been anyone else, he might have cut them to the ground already. You, though…you were so different from anyone he had ever met before.

And though he wouldn’t usually care about it, maybe even enjoy it as you said…the thought of hurting you…

“...I don’t know how much anyone told you about me. Or how much you figured out on your own. If you just think I’m evil, then fine. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s all I’m meant to be. But…”

With a swift motion, he readied his weapon, the pure light illuminating his dirtied, bloodied face.

“The plan’s already set in motion. There’s something coming that I know you’re not ready for. I can get you out of here before that happens. And that’s what I intend to do.”

Pain and confusion stunned your heart again, and your magic faltered. The water in the harbor rumbled and rippled, rain began to spit upon your face, sizzling in the lingering flames. Heavy clouds began to gather and mingle with the acrid smoke in the air. 

Liyue was already shaken by the bombing, but it was a mere distraction, a way to bring the capital of commerce to its knees before a far greater threat would be summoned. It was the Harbinger’s hope that a place already left so fragile would now succumb entirely to the power of a god…

But Childe…Ajax…could admit it. 

Rigging bombs beneath the harbor, setting them off before the real beast had even been summoned, was perhaps…just for his own amusement. 

Destruction he could see firsthand. Pain he could witness. Chaos he could enjoy.

An unnecessary necessity for his own amusement.

And…the perfect way to separate you from the others. While they were busy pulling themselves free from the rubble, he’d bought the ideal window to sweep you off with him, and let the waves wash away the rest. Osial was already summoned, his job here was done. All he needed now was to get you to safety, whether you cared to listen to him or not.

In this chaos, he now had his perfect chance.

“Come with me, [Y/N]. You’ll only die if you stay here.”

As he advanced on you, you shook your head. You couldn’t fathom it. Why he didn’t just kill you too.

The storm formed. The waves rose, lapping over the harbor and dousing the remaining flames. Childe advanced on you, sea spray on his face, a cold determination in his eyes. 

Yet as the embers died, the heat in your own heart grew, and you suddenly attacked first, thrusting both hands forward and summoning a massive blast of light. The dock was illuminated, everything turning white in the briefest moment, as it seemed your attack had found its target.

And for a moment, you were pained. 

Did I-?

“You need to work on your aim, girlie.”

A smug voice in your ear, and then a sharp thud against the back of your head. You were sent into instant darkness, falling over your own feet but collapsing into his arms as he caught you just in time. As fire and water raged around the two of you, Childe lifted you back up against his chest, your skull lolling limply as you passed out in his embrace.

“[Y/N]!? Where are you!?”

The distant cries from your friends finally rushing to the dock gave him his signal to leave. Smirking at the sight of the now raging sea, knowing what they’d be facing next (and unlikely to survive), Childe hauled you fully into his arms and left the scene.

Making his escape, he took a look down at your strangely serene expression, cradled in his embrace. For all his sadistic tendencies, for all his lack of care and want for chaos, he was still hell-bent on making sure you were unscathed.

Because, you weren’t like any of the rest.

—

A/N: Oh Childe…

I took some artistic liberties with this one, mainly because I liked the imagery of Childe standing among flames (ironic when he’s Hydro based, right?). Plus I feel it’s a pretty ‘villainous’ thing to do to just cause destruction for the sake of destruction, especially when it probably wasn’t that necessary for his mission.

I also like the idea of playing with the idea of the Traveler having slightly different powers. Though you could argue that, since this is a story with ‘you’ in it, ‘you’ may not even be the Traveler. You might just be some super cool wizard person.

I’d say this is tentative ‘yandere’ because Tartaglia is Tartaglia in canon, lol.

He definitely likes you a lot though!

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