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ddarker-dreams · 2 years

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Deluge. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, pregnancy mentions and not SFW themes. Word count: 3.5k.

The strum of a koto beneath your fingertips fills the atmosphere with a serene serenade.

Each deliberate pluck and twang resonates throughout the lonely courtyard as if it were a theatre with you upon the stage, performing to an absent audience. The ballad you lace together blends into the billowing breeze. Over the looming eaves, through the barren tree branches, and into clouds weighed down by future precipitation.

You’d like to think your playing will become one with the atmosphere, traveling further than you ever could. That with each raindrop, if one were to listen close enough, they’d hear the string’s gentle vibrato and be compelled to search for you. All you’d need to do is wait patiently and continue strumming your koto, guiding them to you with various melodies. They’d be strong, noble of heart, and selfless in their endeavors to free you from your picturesque prison. What a perfect, idyllic ending that’d make — just like the fairytales you read growing up where the princess is rescued by her prince.

You know better than to linger on such nonsensical ideas for long. There will be no heart-pounding rescue where you leap into the arms of your savior, no crying tears of joy and relief over finally having autonomy over your life back. The wise are smart enough to stay far, far away, and the foolish who’d dare to come to your aid would be met with a fate worse than death.

If there’s anything you’ve learned during your time here, it’s how to stop dreaming.

A chill runs down your spine as winter kisses your exposed skin. You hope none of your handmaidens are keeping careful watch, if they are, they’ll insist on bringing you inside where it’s warmer so that you don’t risk getting sick. It might be their job to look after you, but they could afford you a little leniency. You’re an adult. Getting fussed over and reprimanded for the tiniest non-issues is beyond demeaning.

Although, a warm cup of tea might not be so bad. You’ll ask for some freshly brewed gyokuro later.

Frigid air fills your lungs with each deep breath. From the darkness of the sky, you thought it might storm, but now you’re anticipating the year’s first snowfall. You’ll definitely be brought inside should snowflakes begin their fluttering descent. Who knows when you’ll be able to enjoy the fresh air again? If the handmaidens had it their way, you’d be tucked away until spring like a hibernating animal. You’re easier to take care of then, ruminating in some corner with tiny trinkets to occupy your long and monotonous days with.

Winter has become your least favorite season for that very reason.

“—My lady.”

A Fatui agent materializes by your side, kneeling, his mask-covered face further obscured by how deeply he bows. Your lips tinted in rouge curl downward at his appearance. The handmaidens who hover around you like vultures are normally the only ones who can interact with you. However, there are times when pressing news relating to your husband is delivered by his personal Fatui retinue.

Lovely, you think, your shoulders slumping. Did they finally bring news of his death? I can only pray.

He’s waiting for you to respond or acknowledge him in some way, so despite wanting nothing more than to shoo him off, you nod your head.

“Lord Scaramouche will be arriving any minute now,” he delivers his message while you struggle to maintain a neutral façade. Then, to add insult to injury, “He’s specially requested that you’d be ready for him.”

Scaramouche wasn’t supposed to be back for another week. What higher power have you insulted lately for fate to deal you such a heavy blow? It’s true that you could no longer offer your prayers to the Raiden Shogun at the Grand Narukami Shrine, but considering your predicament, you don’t think your Archon can take offense. If she feels so troubled by it, she could always reign lightning onto Scaramouche until nothing but ash remains. You'd convert yourself to a shrine maiden immediately if that were to happen.

And if he’s asking for you to ‘be ready for him’, you’re familiar enough with his lexicon to make an educated guess as to what that is. He’ll want you to have prepared the bed, dabbed your pulse points in his favorite scented perfume, loosened your obijime enough so he needn’t waste time undoing the knot himself lest he gets frustrated…

A string snaps and releases a shrill, off-key pitch.

You glance down at the source of the cacophony and find your fingers holding onto a frayed string. Immediately, you loosen your grip, but it’s too late; the damage is already done. That’s just something else added to your ever-growing list of problems. It pales in comparison to the main issue at hand. If Scaramouche is coming home, then that means you’ll have no choice but to reveal what you’ve been keeping to yourself. Or what if he already knows? You wouldn’t put it past him to have found out from someone else’s lips.

Whatever the case, there won’t be any more putting this discussion off. The subject of your long nights of tossing and turning and lamenting would now be rearing its head.

The Fatui agent vanishes from your sight. The second he’s gone, you spring into action, sliding the shoji open and padding across the floor. Two of the handmaidens that cling to your side the most stubbornly look up from their sewing at the unexpected intrusion. So they were sitting inside the room closest to you, even after you specifically asked them for space? It doesn’t come as a surprise, but from the sheepishness on their visage, you can tell they’re embarrassed over being caught.

“Uh, my lady, was that a man’s voice that I heard?” One of them pipes up.

“It was,” is all you care to say. You glide past them as they scramble to get up, following behind you in a disjointed manner reminiscent of a newborn fawn. If only they were anyone near as endearing. When you were first forced to accept Scaramouche’s proposal, you mistook your newly appointed handmaidens as people you could confide in. They certainly looked and acted the part. Always attentive to your shifts in mood, offering to run you hot baths and comb your hair when you appeared stressed, even handpicking essential oils to ease the tension in your muscles. It was nothing more than a falsehood for you to lower your guard.

The second you uttered anything less than high praise for your husband, he’d “mysteriously” know about it and confront you. They were like his little finches, chirping back reports to their master for a treat. You’d feel bad for the sniveling snitches had it not been for the trouble they caused you. Looking back on the mistakes you made earlier on in your marriage, you’re able to see some humor in it. You can only imagine your husband, Number Six of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, receiving a mix of reports on nefarious deeds and then your outlier complaints.

“My lord, I have news from Her Royal Highness the Tsaritsa.”

“My lord, about the politician you have been blackmailing as of late—”

“My lord, I have word from your wife back at home. She has, ahem, in the words of the handmaidens, been reportedly ‘speaking ill of your ability to perform in bed’.”

That particular grievance resulted in a long, seemingly eternal night that makes the ghost of bruises against your hips ache whenever you recall it. What you’d give to have overheard that report and seen his initial expression for yourself…

“Are you retiring early tonight, my lady? Shall I prepare supper sooner?” The other handmaiden finds her voice, bringing you out of your reminiscing. She must’ve noticed that you’re headed for your bedroom.

“There’s no need,” you shake your head. They must’ve been too absorbed in their embroidering to overhear news of Scaramouche’s premature return. Well, that’s not your problem, they can have fun dealing with that. “I’d like some time to myself.”

The girls exchange worried glances with each other and it takes every ounce of maturity in your body to not get snippy. They probably take no joy in having to monitor you, you’re sure this is just a well-paying job that supports their families. It’s moments like these where the naivety of their youth shows plain as day and almost makes you feel bad. Almost. At least enough to not come up with some extravagant dish that’d take hours of preparation. That’s saved for when they’re being particularly insufferable.

“As you wish, my lady.”

They bow and leave without further complaint.

You settle into your room and think over your next move. One more week — you were supposed to have an entire seven days to decide the best way to approach this. The reality that was thrust upon you still had yet to settle in, like sediment frequently stirred in a pond. You find your reflection in the vanity and frown. There are no physical changes to speak of yet. If you angle your body just so, you might seem something akin to a bump, depending on how the light hits you. Or maybe your eyes are playing tricks.

“You weren’t there to greet me at the door.”

Scaramouche’s accusatory voice breaks through the mental barriers of your mind. The time to think is over — now you’ll have no choice but to act.

Chimes sound with each step he takes closer to you. You feel him before you see him, his arms encircling your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, coolness from the golden emblem he wears seeping through and making you shiver. His grip is never gentle or considerate, as the embrace of a lover should be. It’s greedy, constricting, almost to the point air escapes your lungs entirely. You don’t know if it’s that or the stress of the situation looming over you causing lightheadedness.

“Did you hear me?” He murmurs near your ear. “You didn’t go deaf while I was away, did you?”

His hands wander while he speaks and you fight the urge to cringe away. One begins to slide downward, settling on the curve of your hip, while the other seeks out your still clothed chest. You squeeze your eyelids shut. Why couldn’t he have had the decency to extend a greeting before jumping at the chance to feel you up? The harsh manner in which he fondles your chest causes you to inhale sharply. It wouldn’t bother you under normal circumstances, but the area is particularly sensitive right now…

“Kunikuzushi, I have something very important I need to discuss with you.”

He presses feverish kisses in the conjunction of your neck and ignores your wriggling. “It can wait until later.”

“I… don’t think it can, so please, if you wouldn’t mind—”

You hear him exhale through his nose. Impatience is oozing off him in waves, had you not been so intentionally gentle with your voice, he may have given you a warning zap for denying him. This culmination of knowledge amassed from being forced to interact with Scaramouche is serving you well. You’ve spoken his real name, maintained politeness, and let him grope at you freely; all the factors he takes kindly to.

Still, it isn’t enough.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, it can wait until I’m finished with you,” he says, his mind made up.

“But—”

He cuts you off this time by sinking his teeth into your flesh. You grimace as he laps up the tender area. Easing into the subject at hand isn’t going to work, and with your anxiety rising into a crescendo, you speak the words that have haunted you without a filter.

“I’m pregnant.”

Scaramouche goes stiff as a corpse behind you. The room is quiet enough where you could hear a pin drop, the only sound you pick up on being the thumps of your heart. His arms go lax and you take the opportunity to squirm yourself free. One weight is taken off your chest and then immediately replaced by more. Your husband may masquerade as an intense man to be feared, but you’ve begun to piece together the puzzle for survival’s sake. This strenuous lifestyle became easier once you figured out this simple truth: he wants a human connection without getting vulnerable himself. It’s like skipping a hearty meal to get straight to the delectable dessert.

He desires “love” without the risk that comes with it. You’re forced to shoulder the burden that should’ve been shared, curating an experience to keep him appeased.

This is the conclusion you’ve come to after spending years glued to his hip, observing his mannerisms, and playing with fire just shy of getting burned.

He’s a coward, you remember when the realization hit you many moons ago. Rather than risk being outright rejected for his affections, he took extreme measures to explain away my aversion.

“She’s upset with me because she’s forced to be here,” is easier to deal with than, “She’s rejected my confession despite my heartfelt efforts.”

This is the kind of man you’re dealing with.

“Explain.”

There’s a glow to his indigo eyes that you don’t believe you’ve ever seen. You become transfixed on the otherworldly hue — he may be a monster — but he’s an unfairly beautiful one at that. The glossiness reminds you of the porcelain dolls you passed as a child in the streets of Inazuma City. You remember staring at them in awe, enchanted by the near-perfect mimicry of human features. The eyelashes that were perfect lengths, hair silky and smooth, cheeks with just a touch of rosiness, cupid bows curved just so. Scaramouche’s features were similar, if not prettier still.

His eyebrows furrow together and you recognize the difference between the two.

If this is a doll come to life, you think, biting your lower lip from unease, then perhaps it would’ve been better off forgotten, sitting on a dusty shelf somewhere.

“I don’t know what there is to explain,” you reply, the final threads of your patience beginning to wear thin. “We’ve been… intimate a number of times.”

Scaramouche parts his lips as if to retort, then pauses, recollecting himself with seconds that seem to drag on an eternity.

There’s no way he isn’t familiar with basic human biology, right? You’d be aghast if that were the case. He never made an effort to take basic precautions against getting pregnant. You’re half-convinced that the word “protection” doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, and if your past trysts were to be of any indicator, he almost always finished inside you. Really, it was a miracle that this hadn’t happened sooner than it did. Tracking your cycles and trying to avoid sex the times you’d be most susceptible to getting pregnant could only do so much.

He places his hand to his chin, something you’ve noticed he does when in deep contemplation.

Does he not actually have knowledge of human conception? No, that couldn’t be possible. He’s discussed many aspects of your marriage and future together, with children being an omitted topic. You felt no inclination to bring the possibility up yourself and never did. He would’ve slipped up his misunderstanding once throughout the years if he genuinely had no understanding of the topic.

So what is it that has him looking so perplexed?

“Why did I not hear about this sooner?” Scaramouche inquires, his expression darkening upon noticing your refusal to maintain eye contact. This could be an area of contention, and thus, another reason why you were dreading this conversation. Lying is the solution you want to go with, but you figure it’ll only get you into more trouble down the line. So you decide to settle for the truth. Whatever happens next is a consequence you’ve prepared to face.

“I thought it’d be best to tell you myself,” you fixate on the tatami beneath your feet, too frightened to know what terrors his visage holds. “I was waiting for you to come back.”

He clicks his tongue. “Still, you must’ve called on a doctor.”

You pick up on the unspoken part where any doctor who treats you would be required to immediately send a report his way. The day had been such a blur, that if someone told you it was a dream, you may have believed them. Unusual fatigue and morning sickness brought a Fatui aligned doctor to check up on your health. After running various tests with equipment you’ve never seen before, likely from Snezhnaya, he delivered the final verdict that sent your world spiraling into chaos.

“I did…” you trail off. Then, finally, you sigh and admit, “I threatened him to stay quiet.”

His eyes widen a fraction and then narrow as if scrutinizing you for dishonesty. When he finds none, he repeats your assertion back. “Threatened him? You?”

Scaramouche must not understand how his now pregnant wife, who has never seen a wink of combat and possesses no fighting skill, could intimidate a hardened Fatui doctor. He doesn’t sound upset, just genuinely curious. Which adds to your optimism of not getting in trouble for this particular transgression.

“I told him that you’d only want to hear this news from me, and if he ruined that, you’d kill him.”

“When was this?”

“Four days ago.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, but you notice him fighting back an amused smile. “What a cunning wife I have… perhaps you’re more resourceful than I give you credit for.”

You try not to deflate from that comment. Your life is easier now due to his habit of underestimating your intelligence, when in fact, you’ve got numerous plots hiding in places he’d never think to look. The doctor isn’t the first to fall for your meticulously crafted lies and certainly won’t be the last.

Scaramouche mimics what you’ve been doing for days, dropping his attention down to your stomach, as if expecting it to be showing so early on in the process. A rush of complex emotions you could never begin to understand passes over his face. He reaches his hand out to brush it against your abdomen, then changes his mind halfway, and settles it on your cheek. His hand is soft in spite of the cruelties it can commit, you think. Far too soft. Deceptively so.

“You do have a different look about you,” he decides, his words sounding far away. “What is it you’re scheming beneath that amicable front, I wonder…”

He places a finger over your lips when you try to deny his claim. Goosebumps litter your entire body as they did in the cool of the courtyard — you’re convinced he’s somehow colder than winter itself.

“I’ve heard tales of women who become ruthlessly protective of their offspring, to the point they consider their lives secondary to that of their young. Although, I suppose that is better than callous indifference,” he smiles in an eerie manner before continuing, “Heed my words, [First]. Should you ever attempt something as foolish as running away, it isn’t a matter of if I’ll find you, but a matter of when. I would see to it that the world burns away to ash before letting you leave me. As the mother of my child, consider yourself fortunate to receive this warning.”

The two of you stay like that, gazes locked, engaged in a battle of wits spanning years of time. A wide variety of responses permeate your head. Some ranging from vulgar to borderline incomprehensible, all of which he deserves and more, but you settle on one better. Leaning forward, you wrap his frame into a soft embrace, much to his apparent disbelief. Whatever he was expecting from you, it must not have been this.

You settle your lips near his ear and notice how he shivers ever so slightly. “Why would I ever want to leave you when I’m so happy here, Kuni?”

The lack of derision in your voice is a testament to your acting abilities. Your tone is light and sweeter than the candy he pretends not to favor, and given how he inhales shakily, it must be eliciting a similar pleasurable response.

Scaramouche returns your affection, holding you like you were made of glass ready to shatter at the slightest change in pressure. It’s not an experience that you’re used to. When harshness is what you’ve come to know, gentle touches become a stranger worthy of suspicion. Even if your words lacked sarcasm and were bathed in sunlight itself, the contents must’ve been enough to rile him up, given the electricity thrumming in the air.

A paper lantern to your left flickers.

“You really are…” his fingers twitch against your waist, yet he manages to recompose himself.

“Very well. I’ll play whatever game you want, so long as you continue to make it entertaining.”

Your intuition tells you that it’s going to be a long nine months.

#yandere scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche genshin impact #kunikuzushi x reader #yandere kunikuzushi x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact imagine #yandere #yandere x reader #not sfw #my stuff

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pabsterthelobster · 2 years

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In the Sega arcade game Ninja Princess, you play as Princess Kurumi, daughter of a Japanese emperor, as she fights of the forces of Zaemon Gyokuro, a noble who has staged a coup on the empire. The game would be ported onto the SG-1000, where it would be known internationally as Sega Ninja.

An enhanced port would be released for the Sega Master System, known as Ninja Princess 1 Mega Ban - Ninja in Japan or just The Ninja internationally, would replace Kurumi with a male samurai named Kazamaru, with Kurumi herself simply being made the damsel in distress.

Despite this change, Kurumi would end up being the more popular protagonist, making a number of cameos throughout Sega's growing library, particularly in compilation releases. Her most recent appearance was in the Sega Ages series of games released on the Nintendo Switch, being one of the random sign holders seen as you boot up a game.

#princess kurumi sega #kurumi sega #kazamaru sega #ninja princess #sega ninja #the ninja #sega

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nobuverse · 3 years

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@more-than-a-princess ll Plotted

‘Prisoner’

That was a word that was rather foreign to Japan, especially here in the warring states era. Violence was beyond rampant here - it was the norm. There was not a single person fear from the grip of paranoia and constant stress of wondering when the next attack from the neighboring warlord would be launched - whose village crops would be burned and whose families would be torn apart by this never ending madness of civil war. It had been nearly two centuries of the fighting now - with no visible end in sight.

They didn’t have time to care about something as insignificant as human life. The ‘prisons’ they did have were little more than mass holding cells, storing people like cattle waiting for the day they’d be slaughtered in what they branded as executions. If one should be so lucky, their punishment for any crime committed would be a flogging or a year’s worth of work in a labor camp.

So when Kipposhi overheard talk among the servants at the palace that there was a prisoner being kept in one of their unused tea houses, the teenage girl had been excited. They said she’d come from a far away land - from somewhere where people dressed and behaved in strange ways. Something completely different from anything anyone had ever seen. How could she not want to talk to someone like that? Unlike the old geezers at the schoolhouse or the temple, she actively sought out things she didn’t understand - not stuck in this stupid trap of thinking the Japanese way of going about things was always going to be the objectively better route.

Before this, the closest thing Kipposhi had encountered to this foreign concept of a “prisoner” was the political hostage her family had taken in a year or two ago. Her dear Kicho - someone she was starting to strongly suspect had been handed over by her own father to spy on her. She was sure neither of their families approved of the way they’d befriended each other, though. ( You did find allies in strange places sometimes! ). Anyways, she figured this whole foreign noble affair would be something like that.

She’d wanted to start off on the right foot, erroneously thinking she’d just find some bored maiden in her chamber that would enjoy the company. She’d even gone through the trouble of mixing the meat of a small bird she’d killed with white rice ( The later of which being a luxury she didn’t particularly feel bad about stealing after the cook had criticized her desire to creatively wander outside the recipes he gave. jerk. ). Her partner in crime, Katsuzo, had even gone through the trouble of brewing her a pot of cold, green, gyokuro tea that she could bring in without any issues for when she was ready. Maybe this was a little late at night. Maybe she’d be grumpy for her rude awakening. It was good to come bearing gifts, no?

( Wow. How all of that would seem so tactless for her think about in hindsight...)

This place isn’t too hard to enter, at least. It’s just a wooden plank baring her way in, the type of thing that was set up to keep people from getting out rather than stopping anyone from coming in. All those days spent climbing trees with the boys in her class made it not too hard to lift it out of its metal hinges. She only briefly glances at the tea house’s boarded windows, trying to recall which one had been shredded when she’d been shot in the shoulder by that arrow. No wonder they didn’t use this one anymore. Still, it’s only a few moments of nervous excitement before she opens the door.

She’d thought long and hard about how she wanted to present herself, only to fall on her usual “I’ll think of something when I get there” option. For once, it’s a a blessing she didn’t plan that far ahead. Because nothing could have prepared her for the unfortunate scene before her.

“...w...what? What is this....?”

Her excited smile quickly fades into one of shock and disgust. Where she’d been expecting to find a well-cared for hostage, she instead finds a young girl - one either at or slightly older than she is - in a horrid state not fit for a dog. Beaten. Starving. Stripped down to her undergarments and a torn, shirt that looked it was only in slightly better condition than the rest of her body. ( She doesn’t want to think about the specifics right now. It’s - well, it’s a bit too much. )

She looks upon the foreigner in a prolonged silence, the other girl’s ankle chained to the leg of a table her and Kicho had used to drink tea at, now ruthlessly dug into the ground to keep the shackle in its place. Her restraint gave her just enough leeway to access the bare minimum of sanitary facilities, but not enough to reach the millet currently rotting at Kipposhi’s feet in the entrance. Not enough to reach the Kimino she should be wearing on this chilly night.

Slowly, the shogun’s daughter finds herself coming out of her state of bewilderment. Her blood’s still running too cold for it to boil in anger at the moment, picking up the piece of clothing that’d been left out of her reach and placing it over her shoulder. She puts down her teapot down once she she’s but a foot away from the outsider.

“...here.”

She can barely look at her in eye as she attempts to hand the kimino over to the stranger, fingers trembling lightly as the plate was held in her other hand. She didn’t tend to feel shame much in her life, but she was truly overburden with it now that reality had finally come to meet her. To think she’d been worried about impressing her - now she couldn’t blame her if she wanted her and her entire country dead for this. She probably would be thinking that in her place, anyways.

“....I made something for you. Do you....do you think you could stomach food right now?” She asks, hesitating if she had the place to so much as speak to her. Unlike her usual boisterous self, she sounds almost meek at the moment.

“Um...my name’s Kipposhi, by the way...what’s yours?”

The whole explanation of “I’m the firstborn daughter of the asshole who locked you up here” could probably wait. Besides, the fool of Owari was barely holding it together as it was....

#im using a readmore because this got...stupidly long rip #figure I'd let you add in the descriptions of what you think would have happened to her didnt want to go too deep #but if you wanna talk it out im good with that too!!#GOD WRITING HER IN HER MORTAL LIFE GIVES ME THE SADS #because she's not this open with her feelings in her usual fate verse she's so much more honest and caring here gghghgh #morethanaprincess #v; Mortal Life #The Fool of Owari [ Nobunaga ]#Servant Manifestations [ Threads ]#torture cw #ask to tag //

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dolgelo · 5 years

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He has nothing to offer her; the princess who has every thing, but his time. The obligatory sachertorte sits pretty, alone on the table amidst its gift wrapping-- even she ought know what lay within the box before she is to open it. After all, he is a creature of habit. Still, he creeps hands around her middle, as she brews her morning tea, falling for the scent of her hair. His heartfelt whisper of good wishes falls soft between her neck and shoulder. 💕

moments like that had to be enjoyed to the fullest, such was their policy. one could say they had fought against the very concept of Time ever since their middle school days, and that they still did, albeit in a very different and less death-threatening fashion. mornings and nights had to be lived to the fullest, they had promised it when coming up with arrangments of their work and free time. and her birthday was no exception. she knew he was approaching and did not jolt, or gasp, at the sudden embrace. delicate as ever, especially now that he was intently watching her setting up the hot water for their breakfast. good thing they both had always been one lively couple of early birds– !

his whisper felt more like the lightest kiss she had ever felt, which made the girl chuckle a bit at the odd feeling of his breath against her skin. for a moment, it distracted her from the thought of what Akihiko’s face would have looked like when she’d have promptly shown him her newest purchase: the biggest can of whipped cream she could have ever hoped to find at the store, to accompany the dessert. it would have been one sight to behold and cherish in the back of her mind throughout the whole day at the office, in-between a fake smile to some old corporate member and more paperwork to send to Public Security departments – till she would have seen him again just before sunset. for the Empress had learned to expect a sweet or cake from him every May 8th. if she knew Akihiko as well as she thought, Mitsuru knew he would have made her find a chocolate cake under all that white paper. her tastes were no secret. and he would have shared it with her, of course.

yet, feeling so warm and comfortable in his arms happened to way more happily confusing and pleasant than some whipped cream or a cake. she might have gotten used to it. once made sure the water had boiled enough, the woman turned her back at the scented leaves and the cute two cups to be filled yet, to face Akihiko. her hands stopped for a second on his cheeks, down to his chin and light hint of stubble. silently glad he was slowly deciding to let his hair grow to cover the bad scar on his temple, Mitsuru found their height difference ( well, a momentary one, the only one she would have allowed when still so unpresentable in the morning, barefoot and with messy hair ) to be a problem - and tiptoed to kiss him gently, on his soft lips. an old habit, yet still sweeter than any cake she had ever had the pleasure of tasting…

« Thank you… we should eat quickly, it’s incredibly hot in here for being just May, or is that my own impression ? »

Gyokuro tea before work, a small piece of cake and… oh, right ! with a little mischevious smirk, her plan now unfolding, she grabbed of his hand - still on her waist, and conducted him towards the fridge. he couldn’t have protested, right ? a bit of cream wouldn’t have been too bad on their diet and routine. she glanced at his puzzled look for a second, before continuing, with a flip of her red hair and a grin.

« … now, I must show you something. Try something. Just, please, make sure not to mention it at dinner tonight, or we will never hear the end of it. »

#sabazio #(( ic ;; ʷᶤᵗᶰᵉˢˢᶤᶰᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒˢᵗ ᵍʳᵃᶜᵉᶠᵘˡ ᵉˣᵉᶜᵘᵗᶤᵒᶰ ))#[ event ; birthday ]#[ this was sweet and so funny ;____; xoe ty for feeding me after all this time ]#(( save ;; ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᵐᵉᵐᵉᶰᵗᵒ ʷᵉ ʷᶤˡˡ ᶰᵉᵛᵉʳ ˡᵒˢᵉ ))#[ i must save this. ]#[ transistor ost also helped heck ]#[ will they 28yos self finally stop being babies ??? and just love each other ]#[ we can only hope HHH BUT YES THIS WAS SO FUN AND I MADE IT ALSO SILLY BC ]#[ its still them its still akihiko and mitsuru two dorks reaching adulthood ahahah ]#[ ilu and luv this ty for indulging mein this heavenly scenario ;____; youre amazing ]#[ take teh whipped cream as you wish ]#[ gift her your time tonight too aki i beg ]

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