1) ASK: Mizu attempting to work on her avoidance while in a relationship with Reader
2) ASK: Mizu rescued from highway robbers by another swordswoman.
3) Breeze Blows a Crane Pt. 2
3) Modern!Mizu finds out Reader has a Nasty Ex
4) Modern!Mizu helps drunk Reader get home from the club
5) Mizu Yandere headcanons (maybe?)
6) Inexperienced Mizu finding her Dom Energy
~~~
I've been wanting to take a more active role in fandoms for a while and the Imagines blogs have seriously gotten me through the trenches in the past. You guys are amazing and should all be published. I love to write but I've never shared my stuff before, so I thought I'd try my hand now!
I'll jump around with fandoms, but if you followed me for a specific fandom that I've moved on from, you can still request writing for that fandom!
Feel free to message me to ask if I know a character/will write for them!
~~~
CURRENTLY WRITING FOR:
Mizu (BES)
PAST HYPERFIXATIONS THAT I WILL STILL WRITE:
Gerard Keay (TMA)
Vinh Lang (LiS: DE)
Ethan Winters (RE)
Lawrence Oleander (BTD)
(Sorry they’re all dudes :( 💔 )
Various Yanderesims (just ask which)
~~~
Requests might sometimes take a short wait to get answered as unfortunately my RL gets extremely hectic in short stretches. But I WILL get to them.
~~~
All triggering content will be given warnings! If I miss something, please always let me know!
~~~
I do not use any named OCs and will not be writing content with names OCs, only [You x Char].
(However, I will take asks that involve your named OC.)
I DO write with some backstory, but I try to keep it vague while making it believable, and leaving gaps to be filled in.
If I'm doing a piece that has a stronger backstory for the reader-insert, I'll put a warning. But it should still be vague enough to not limit anyone's fun.
Hello, dear. Are you still with us? There is no sign of you from months. I hope everything is alright and well <3
Hellooooo, honey! Thank you so much for asking, it's really sweet that you would be thinking of me! 🫶🫶
Yes, I fully got hit with whatever the tumblr version of the ao3 curse is 😭
I don't generally like to get TMI on here, but basically ...
Had an extremely chaotic few months with some losses in my family and a serious struggle to get on health insurance after moving to a new state, which left my chronic conditions in a bit of a tailspin. My pets haven't adjusted to the move well and their own health issues have also been adding some extra chaos.
All of that together basically meant that I had no motivation to write, including my paid writing. 🥲
BUT I feel like I'm finally climbing back out of a serious hole.
I'm still here, I still love Mizu, And yes, I STILLLLL have a bunch of half-done fics and asks waiting in my folder 😭
i really like your writing style, thank you for sharing your work!! but i noticed you haven't been posting in a while:c
how are you doing??
Hii~
Aw, thank you for checking in! Yes, I was away on a trip, I just got back two days ago! But don't worry, I have the same WIPs that I had going when I left, and I'm already back at work on them.
It might be a little while, but I'm still very much obsessed with our blue-eyed badass 🫶 New content will be coming soon!
Four years of flying under the radar, being fully ostracized and unwanted … or so Mizu thinks. Someone at the very other end of the social spectrum has been watching and crushing … and now is ready to make a move.
~
A/N: Anon! I hope you don't mind that I hijacked your ask a little bit. That "seven minutes in heaven" animation trend completely took over my feed and I REALLY wanted to do a piece based around that trope.
Hopefully this still stays within the bounds of your expectations, despite the modifications!
This does have a scene of Mizu snapping at Reader, so proceed with that awareness. It just seems accurate, given the way she snarls at almost everyone at some point in canon. They make up later, don't worry!
I tried to make Reader’s friends as realistic as I could for spoiled 18-year-olds. Not monsters, but not great. They're open to interpretation as far as how much they were trying to help versus bully.
Not beta'd!!!
Both reader and Mizu are above 18, and both are wlw!!
~
TW: moderate spice, bullying, mean girl behavior (kinda), abandonment issues, Mizu yells at Reader in a public place (resolved), passing mentions of Taigen and M*kio
~
… It's safe to say Mizu is not popular.
Maybe it's the clothes. She usually just wears Eiji’s hand-me-downs, which do look odd on her tall, slim frame. Eiji has often mentioned getting her proper clothing of her own, but she usually just mumbles about being fine with the cast-offs. She swears she doesn't care. And while it is true that she's not bothered by what clothing she wears, as long as it's comfortable … it’s also true that she's afraid–after so long of bouncing around the foster system–that being any trouble at all might get her dropped again. The less difficulty she gives Eiji, the better, in her opinion.
For the same reason, she doesn't tell him about the problems she has with her classmates–particularly that fucking Taigen kid and his cronies. Eiji’s blindness means he can't see the bruises she gets from the constant battles, and it's easy enough to say she kicked a hammer or something if he asks why she's limping.
Even though she's never once picked a fight herself, the very public scrapes with Taigen and the other idiots quickly give her a reputation that comes with a wide berth of avoidance. If they aren't avoiding her out of fear, they avoid her to make sure they themselves aren't targeted. That suits Mizu fine. Especially now that she's of age, she’s only stayed in school at all to make sure she lives up to Eiji’s beliefs in her.
And it's not like she cares about the other people in her class.
She made it through to senior year with no friends. She'll make it through college in a few months. It's just something she has to do to achieve her goals. Friends are an unnecessary distraction. She doesn't want friends.
…
“Watch it, freak!”
Someone’s shoulder knocks hard into hers, and her bag slips from her shoulder. Pencils and books go everywhere. The unmistakable sound of Taigen’s laughter rings through the corridor. Swearing under her breath, Mizu immediately crouches, scrambling to gather it all up. She knows very well how many other assholes might like the opportunity to step on her things.
“Here.”
A pair of knees in clean, well-fitting clothes accompanies a very familiar voice, and a smooth, well-manicured hand offers a handful of her things.
It's you.
You're that girl–the one that doesn't seem to get the memo that Popular girls don't talk to people like her. The one that smiles at her sweetly in the hallway, so that she struggles to sleep the following night. The one with the hair that falls just-so across her cheekbones.
She doesn't look at you, just keeps her head down, face still as stone. “Thanks,” she says shortly, voice cold, and snatches the stuff from you, jamming it back in her bag. She waits any second for you to make some snide comment, or try to knock the stuff back out of her hand for a second round of laughter. Her jaw tightens. She shouldn't care–she should be ready to hit you back.
But she doesn't want to. And that scares her. She should be glad to have her illusions shattered so she can go back to pretending you don't exist.
And then you don't go.
You just stay, commenting positively on her stuff as you gather it up, calling the boys that knocked her down jerks, chatting to her about classes that you share. Being nice. And somehow, that's so confusing that it’s much, much worse.
She knows you weren't the one to hit her, but somehow, anger at Taigen has transferred to you. You’re pretty, and distracting. You're popular, like him. You two aren't friends. Maybe you laughed, too, while she wasn't looking. Maybe you feel bad about that, or you feel bad for her. That thought makes her want to scream. Frustration is reaching boiling point–at Taigen getting one over on her, at caring what you think, at being this close to you and still too trapped in her own head to be social, at being who she is–and she can't help the way her temper rises without control. None of this shows on her face, and you have no way of realizing how close to snapping she is.
Why are you still here, still helping her gather stuff? Why can't you stay out of her thoughts? Out of her life? If she was less stressed, she might have recognized how unfair and reactive this is, but in this moment, all she can think is Why won't you let her have peace.
“This is such a cool book,” you say, suddenly, and she looks up sharply. It's one of the books on smithing Eiji had recommended her, one he had once read before his accident, and it's decorated with many impressive color photos of swords. The sight of it in your small, soft hands makes her flinch–it's like feeling you touch her life directly, like she can feel you leaving your fingerprints directly on her soul.
“Give me that,” she snaps, snatching it roughly from your grip.
“I-I'm sorry, I'm just trying to help–”
“I. Didn't. Ask you to.”
The tension snaps, and she can't stop the words pouring out, not even when she sees you shrink back, your face flushing as people passing by turn to look. “I didn't ask you to yap at me, I didn't ask you to touch my stuff, so leave me alone.”
She glares at you, breathing heavily, and waits. Waits for the anger to come back her way, for you to lash out at her in return, or toss your hair bitchily and say something cutting, something that will finally ruin the allure of the sweet popular girl. Everyone’s eyes are on you. Surely you'll be furious to be so embarrassed in public.
“...okay.”
She blinks. Your face is still flushed as you scoot back a little, out of her space, and then stand up slowly. “Okay. I'll let you be. I'm sorry for … for bothering you.”
And you walk away quietly, just like that. Leaving her staring after you, not even hearing the whispers rippling out around her, the disapproving looks. She's used to those.
Whatever. You'll probably just ask some boyfriend to beat her up later.
She braces for it after school, but there's nobody waiting for her on her walk home, no aggressive shout to challenge her.
Just silence, and the sound of her own footsteps. Just your quiet “okay” echoing in her head.
That night, before sleep, she finds herself staring at the ceiling, and for a moment, just half a second only, she wonders if maybe she was wrong, and you were sincere.
She thinks back over all the time she's spent roaming the same halls, stuck in the same classes. She thinks about all the smiles you've given her, all the friendly greetings.
She closes her eyes, picturing the hurt look on your face, and opens them again, unable to stand it.
Thwack
Her pillow gets punched, hard, before she curls around it and buries her face.
Fuck. Why does she have to be like this.
~
Your friends are furious on your behalf, but you do your best to soothe them. You don't cry in front of them. You explain it away as being too invasive. You did just plop down and start talking to her without asking if it was okay. You did ask a bunch of questions even when she was already stressed.
You did exactly the thing you're not supposed to. You got too cocky, expecting to just be friends; you're not unaware that you're well-liked in school. You got right in the face of a wild animal you didn't know and started cooing to it like it was a pet.
And it bit you.
You should have known better. You've gone to school with her for nearly four years now.
But you just … you couldn’t seem to leave it alone.
You're not sure when Mizu caught your eye first.
You never saw her with anyone. She didn't smile or laugh with friends in the hallways, she was never cuddled against a locker with a sweetheart before homeroom. She didn't fidget with pencils or sneak a game on her phone under the desk, instead sitting quietly and almost supernaturally still.
But she wasn't some shy, shrinking violet. You've definitely seen her hunched outside the disciplinary office more than once, a bruised eye or a swollen lip marring her face. You had wanted to ask her then if she was okay, but everyone that got near her was treated to the same icy glare, and you were too intimidated.
You can vividly recall the first time she made your heart flutter for more than just her looks.
It was early in the morning. You were already focused on her enough to pay attention when you noticed her walking ahead of you by the edge of the athletics field. She always walked everywhere, and she always walked alone, with a faint slouch that still somehow looked graceful, like the prowl of a big cat.
You were watching her closely enough to notice when she suddenly stopped and bent down. You had hung back behind some cars as she straightened up, suddenly feeling strongly that you didn’t want to be seen by her at that moment.
As you were watching, she suddenly turned to the tree nearby, and lunged in a little vault, swarming up the sheer trunk like an acrobat. Wow. She had made it look so effortless. When she reached the first junction of branches, she placed the thing in her hand there delicately, and gracefully leaped down. As lightly as tiptoeing, not a sound or a flicker.
Then she walked away without another look, into the building.
When you reached the tree she'd climbed, you’d looked up into the branches in time to see a bird alight on the nest there, and a tiny beak emerge from it, shrieking its hunger.
That had been the first time you'd noticed her for more than just being a hot mystery girl. You became almost unnaturally aware of her presence, a little prickle on the back of your neck when she was in a room, as though your crush gave you powers of Mizu detection.
Sometimes, you had thought you felt her eyes on you. But every time you'd glance around, she was glaring at her lap as usual.
You wondered if she was ever curious about you the way you were about her. Did she notice the way you watched her? Did she think you were a creep? You should just talk to her …
Well. We saw how that turned out, you tell yourself grimly.
~
You’ve always had perfect attendance, but you take a few days off from school before an upcoming holiday, wanting a little time to regroup and decide what to do. You want to respect her space if she's genuinely not interested, but you also wish you could get a better chance to talk, when she hasn't just been bullied.
Your friends think you're crazy, at this point. Why do you want that girl?, they demand. You could have any girl you wanted. She comes to school in the weirdest clothes, she scowls at everybody, she lurks in the back of the classes like an evil spirit. Even the teachers seem to be a little afraid of her. They never call on her.
Your friends eye you skeptically when you defend her; they've never seen any of the sides of Mizu that you have, watching her as you do. But they’re still your friends, and they want to support you. Even if they give each other looks that say they're wondering if they should get you put on a psych hold.
~
You're at the shopping center when you see her next, after the incident in the hallway. She’s with an old man. The sight stops you in your tracks. You watch her hovering anxiously next to him as they cross the parking lot, clearly wanting to help but carefully respecting his autonomy. Her attention is fully on his every word, with a soft look of affection that you've never seen before.
At a quiet word from him, you see her smile for the first time. Just lightly, almost unconsciously.
Oh, you are so fucked.
And also not paying enough attention to notice the gleam of devilment in your friend's expression.
“Heyyyyyy, Mizu!” Your friend calls, before you can hush her, and both Mizu and the man stop dead, turning to look with twin expressions of grumpy confusion. The similarities would have been funny if you hadn't been trying to wrestle your friend to silence.
She jabs you in the ribs and slips from your grasp, running to meet them with you chasing after.
“Friends of yours, Mizu?” You can vaguely hear the old man dryly asking as you catch up.
Mizu’s stare is flat and hostile on your friend, one shoulder between the girl and the old man. She looks about a second away from actually baring her teeth.
She opens her mouth ominously, but your friend gets there first: “We're in Mizu’s class, sir.” At least she's sounding respectful enough.
“Ahh,” the old man says. His tone is mild, but there's a set to his mouth that reminds you of some of Mizu’s more skeptical expressions. He listens quietly as your friend introduces herself–but when she mentions that you're there and introduces you, he cocks his head to the side, eyebrows raising as he repeats your name like he recognizes it. You see Mizu’s posture freeze, but your friend is too determined upon whatever scheme she is cooking to notice.
“We're very sorry to interrupt your day, but I wanted to invite Mizu to my party this weekend,” she chirps. You feel your breath stop as Mizu’s head snaps towards her, eyes narrowing. The old man's eyebrows grow higher.
“Ah, is that so,” he says. He turns his head towards you–and even though his eyes are closed, you get the clear sense that he knows he's facing you directly. “And … you are all going to this … party?”
Your friend confirms this before you can say anything. You're not even sure what you would say. You meet Mizu’s eyes silently, both of you frozen helplessly in place, watching this happen like a train wreck. You hope she can see the apology in your eyes.
“Hmm...” The old man hums, and then puts a heavy hand on Mizu’s arm. “...It would be good if someone socialized more.”
Mizu looks horrified, then resigned. When there's a moment of silence, the old man thumps her lightly on the shin with his cane. She grunts, then says through her teeth, “Thank you for the invitation. I'll … see you there.”
She meets your gaze again, looking thunderous. Your friend beams.
Oh, boy...
~
You were running late.
God damn it. Why were you even trying to look good, anyway? Chances are she won't even show up. How would her father–if that’s who he was, you didn't get to ask–even know?
She clearly hadn’t wanted to go, and she clearly isn't fond of you, so why are you spending so damn long putting on this outfit, or that outfit? Your room looked like a hurricane had gone through it by the time you finally threw on an outfit at random and rushed out the door.
The party is in full swing when you arrive, music bumping, couples already lurking in the dark around the edges of the house. Your friend knows how to throw a good rager that would put the teen movie tropes to shame.
Your eyes scan the dark lawn, the trees, even the roof of the porch, assuming that if Mizu did show, she wouldn't exactly be in the center of the dance floor.
You're not surprised when you don't spot her. It should be a relief–you don't have to care anymore if you look good, since you aren't trying to impress anybody else.
But it isn't.
You shrug off your jacket and open the hall closet, only to quickly slam it again before the absolutely-packed pile of coats and other bits falls on you.
Okay. Different closet then.
As you're opening the next closet down the hall, your friend appears, beaming with delight. “Ohmigod, hiiiiii! You made it, finally. We were so scared you weren't coming!” She hugs you, then pushes the door shut, firmly. “Not that one. Terry puked in there like an hour ago.”
“Eww, really?” You wrinkle your nose. “I couldn't tell at all. Thanks for the warning.”
“I got you, girl! You can use the closet in the far back bedroom.”
“You're the best,” you say thankfully, and your friend smiles, sweetly, giving you another squeeze.
“You know I'm always gonna make sure you got what you need, girlfriend.”
~
Mizu has thought about this a lot. She can't not go. You guys found her once, what if you find her again? If this is a set-up to embarrass her, and surely it is, then someone in your group will definitely mention that she ghosted, to get her in trouble. She doesn't care about trouble, but the thought of Eiji’s quiet disappointment is too much to bear.
It's fine.
Mizu has a plan for surviving this nightmare.
It's very simple.
Show up, make sure people see you showing up. Then, hide in a closet, preferably one that's empty, so there's no chance of anyone coming in to get their coat. Meditate. Wait until everyone is too drunk to notice you, then sneak out and book it.
It's a pretty good plan, and it's working like a charm, right up until you open the closet door.
“Oh. Hi …”
For fuck’s sake.
~
You stare down at Mizu, frozen for a half second after your instinctive greeting. Words pile up and get tangled on your tongue. Sorry, didn't mean to intrude. Or maybe, sorry, I'll go now. Instead, what comes out is,
“Why are you in a closet?”
Before she can say anything, there's a sudden rustle of fabric behind you and someone shoves you hard on the back. You tumble into the closet with a yelp, and a pair of strong hands catch you before you hit the floor. The door slams behind you, casting you both into darkness.
Mizu was already on her feet in the time it took you to fall, and for a moment, as she steadies you, you're dizzied by the sudden smell of clean detergent and smoky metal that clings to her clothing. She’s strong, and warm.
“...Alright?” She asks, more softly than you expected, and you nod, rubbing your arm where it struck the wall.
“Yeah. Thanks …” You try the door and it doesn't budge. “Hey!” You raise your voice a little. “What the hell!”
An explosion of giggles and laughter cascade outside the door, and you recognize your friends’ voices.
“Seven minutes in heaven!” They cry out in chorus, before collapsing into more mischievous giggles. Your face flushes in the dark, mortified.
“What the fuck, guys! Let us out, this isn't funny!”
“Chill, it's only seven minutes!” One of them calls back. Other voices rise in confirmation.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine!”
“Maybe this’ll cure your crush!”
“Have fun, lovebirds!”
You slam your shoulder into the door with a frustrated growl, but it doesn't budge. Damn these old houses and their actually-sturdy construction. You hear the sound of footsteps and chatter growing fainter, and then the bedroom door shuts. Despair engulfs you. If she yelled at you about the books, what are you in for now?
“I'm so, so sorry about this, I don't know what got into them…” You babble anxiously, one hand going up to unconsciously try to fix your hair, even though it's dark. You're so frantic that you're shaking.
Mizu has been watching you argue through the door and flail, with very little outward reaction. Now, she reaches up and pinches the bridge of her nose, other hand cocked on her hip.
“Your friends are jerks,” She informs you, and you hang your head, defeated.
“I know … I swear, I'm going to kill them.”
She shuffles you aside, again firmly but surprisingly gently, and tries the knob herself, to no avail. She tsks quietly, with a little sigh. Something about her calm resignation steadies you.
“Should have brought my lock picks,” she grumbles absently. But she seems far less irritated than you would have thought she would be.
“I really am sorry, Mizu, I swear, I didn't know–”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is still so oddly mild. As your eyes adjust, you can just make out her expression in the light from under the door. She looks … almost accepting. “I thought there would be something going on.” She shoots you one sharp side-glance. “You're not in on it?”
“No? In on what?” You ask, and the confusion in your voice sounds so sincere that any lingering doubt is gone. She looks down at the doorknob in her hand.
“You know.” Her voice sounds flat. Resigned. “Set up the weirdo with a popular kid. Laugh that they think they have a chance.”
You can feel your heart beat faster at the thought of you both together, but you're also horrified that she'd think you were here to humiliate her.
“What? I wouldn't do that!”
“You know, I actually believe that,” she agrees, grimly. She still won't look at you. “So I guess this is to humiliate you, too. So people think you're with me.”
You can feel your face flush, and pray it isn't visible in the dark. But then you look again at her downturned face, and something constricts in your chest. You're not going to let her think like that, even if it means embarrassing yourself in a different way.
“...That wouldn't be humiliating at all,” you murmur.
She gives a short snort of cynical laughter, and turns her face a little so you can't see it. Clearly the implication of your words has gone right over her head. You're about to push back, but she speaks again before you can.
“I'm– …” she seems to swallow her tongue for a moment on a gulp, before forcing out. “...sorry. For the other day.”
“Oh.” You blink in surprise. You want to blow it off, but it did hurt. You aren't going to lie about that, however, the apology is already more than accepted. “... Thank you. I'm sorry for freaking you out.”
“No, I …” She sighs again. “It wasn't about you.”
“No?”
Mizu drops the doorknob and thunks back down to sit on the floor of the closet, knees to her chest. It's the most ungraceful you've ever seen her.
“...I got asked out once,” she says, so quietly you almost can't hear her.
You crouch down slowly, until you're kneeling in front of her. You're afraid to speak. In the hush of the closet, her vulnerability feels strangely sacred.
She continues to speak to her knees. “He was popular, like you, and older… a senior. He seemed more mature than the others.”
You swallow back your surge of jealousy at the thought, and wait, listening patiently.
“... it was a prank.” She finishes heavily, fingers tightening to fists in the cloth of her pants. “I was supposed to meet him after school, and I got jumped by the whole football team instead.”
“Oh… Mizu…” Your chest aches. You put out a hand, afraid to be shoved away again, but she lets you rest it on her knee.
Her head thuds back against the wall. She glares at the ceiling of the closet. “It’s fine. Whatever. I'm over it. I just thought … maybe you were being nice to me for the same reason.”
Her pre-emptive lashing out suddenly makes so much more sense.
“I would never. He's a fucking idiot.” You say, with unusual venom. It startles her into looking at you for the first time. “He fucked up.”
She gives a reluctant, humorless chuckle. “Well, yeah, he did. I broke his nose.”
“Fuck yeah.” You hold up your hand, and she looks at it in confusion and surprise, before giving you the requested high-five, shaking her head. She looks almost amused. “You're awesome, Mizu. He missed out.”
She goes still, seemingly stunned. “You don't even know me.”
“I know enough,” you say seriously.
Unfortunately for you, she seems to finally be registering some of what's going on. Her gaze settles on you with an uncomfortable level of focus. It feels like your inner thoughts have been written out on your forehead, and she’s scanning over the lines. Slowly, the pieces are coming together.
Into her silent calculations, you decide you would rather go out on your own terms, before you have to see the moment of realization in her eyes probably turn to horror.
“And I think that … they probably didn't lock us in here to embarrass you but because they know … that … I have a crush on you.”
You keep your eyes on her knees. She's silent for so long that your stomach sinks–did you read the room wrong?–and you begin to catalog all the ways that you'll kill your friends for this.
Then, she says very quietly, “I thought they were talking to me.”
For a moment, you don't know what she means. And then like a lightbulb, you clearly hear one voice as it called, maybe this’ll cure your crush.
And Mizu thought … they were talking to her?
“You … D-do you … ?” You're too nervous to keep going.
Her blush is bright even in the dark, matching yours. In a sharp, jerky motion that betrays her nerves, she nods. Suddenly, you feel almost giddy; maybe there's not enough oxygen for two people in here…
“Oh– …” You can feel your face cracking into a goofy grin. “Oh, wow.”
“Shut up,” she snaps, but even you can hear that she's just flustered.
“No way am I ever shutting up about this,” you protest immediately. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She looks torn between astonishment and amusement at your vigorous tone, but your next words make her freeze in shock. “I've been crushing on you since freshman year.”
Her eyes are wide enough for the dim light around the edges of the door to reflect in them. For a long silence, she processes this. Then, almost adorably, her face sets in sudden determination. She looks from your eyes to your mouth, and you can feel a thrill run up your spine.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“Fuck yeah I do,” you say fervently.
Both of you look at the door.
Oh.
Right.
“...It’s definitely been more than seven minutes,” she finally comments.
“They probably met some boys and forgot about us,” you sigh. It is a house party, so you think it's probably likely they might also be tipsy already, You bite your lip, a hesitant smile blooming on your face. “We could … we could just start a little here, while we wait?”
She blinks at you, eyes narrowing as the corner of her mouth lifts. Being the sudden focus of all of that intense stare is making your stomach do flips. “... yeah?”
“That's the game, right?” Your pulse is fluttering, and your smile grows uncontrollably. You giggle, nervous and excited. “When in Rome … ”
“Hmph.” You can recognize the false crankiness in the tone now, versus the real deal. “I guess … an exception … “ she trails off distractedly as she shuffles up on her knees so that she's facing you, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips.
Your breathing is shaking almost as much as your hands as you rest them on her shoulders. Both of you lean in, before hesitating at the first puff of breath on each others lips. You feel as though time almost stops for a moment, registering the warmth of her body so close, finally, and the solid reality of her hands gently finding your waist. This is real. It's really happening.
Then, like the decisive person she's always been, she pounces.
You let out a severely undignified squeak to find your lips suddenly under attack. Now those trembling fingers are twined tight around her neck, clinging in for life. She kisses like she fights; hard and fast, decisive–not afraid to get dirty.
Your skin feels suddenly hypersensitive as chapped lips work firmly against yours. Her hands are hard, gripping tightly before sliding to your hips. Her tongue presses hungrily at the seam of your mouth, a slick glide across your lower lip, a hint of teeth revealing her impatience. You part readily for her, shuffling a little closer. The fingers at your hips go bruisingly tight at your eagerness, a sharp breath sucking in through her nose. Quickly, the closet is full of heavy breathing, and the soft wet sounds of her invasion into you. Her tongue against yours is feverishly hot, teeth sharp where they sink into the plushness of your lower lip. It's like being devoured, or overrun–with every forceful flick, your mind melts further away. In the span of only a few moments, every coherent thought is being replaced by Mizu. Her scent is drowning you, while you float on the drugging taste of her.
One hand slides up to press between your shoulder blades, then up from there to the back of your neck, tangling her grip in your hair. In the same moment, she tugs you easily by the hips with one hand until you both tumble backwards and you land into her lap. Fuck. You can't resist a little moan. You're in her lap. And she moved you like it was nothing at all. Your noise prompts another sharp nip of teeth, and a husky groan that goes straight to your core.
The hand in your hair tugs your head to the side. God. She's so urgent for you that she's rough, and you're just as desperate. Your voice has gone high and breathless, uncaring of the setting, nails leaving red marks on her shoulder blades even through her thick shirt layers.
Everything between you is such molten heat that you're sweating in the tiny space. You barely notice. You've never realized arousal could feel like this. It's like an ache down to the very joints of your fingers, a need between your thighs that burns so white-hot you feel like you could die of it. Everything but Mizu could cease to exist and you're not sure you would ever notice.
~
Your friends did indeed forget about you, briefly. It's a party after all–and they played a long line of good songs for dancing, all in a row!
But they don't actually want a pair of suffocated bodies to deal with, so they eventually trail their way back to the bedroom, whispering and giggling, morbidly curious as to what's going on behind that door.
Maybe by now, you'll finally see that there's nothing in Mizu that's worth the effort. Maybe after sitting in silence and staring at each other for so long, you'll even want to hang out with them and talk shit about her.
But when they reach the door, they're surprised to hear sounds coming from inside, even through the thick wood. Not Mizu shouting, or even you shouting. Not a conversation.
The girls all turn to look at each other in confusion. Finally, the girl who lives in the house inserts her key, and the rest crowd around to watch as she slowly cracks open the closet door.
As the gap widens, a strip of illumination falls directly over Mizu’s face where it's buried in your neck. Blue eyes crack open under darkly furrowed brows. In the light, her icy gaze blazes with a possessive fury at the interruption, teeth still gripping the soft flesh at the base of your throat.
She says not a word, but the glare she levels them with snarls get out in no uncertain terms.
They gasp, stumbling backwards and falling all over each other. The door swings loosely as they all flee, too genuinely shocked and confused to even whisper to each other.
~
Mizu releases your neck.
“Door’s open,” she rasps throatily, and you open your eyes slowly, in a haze. It takes you a moment to recall how to speak. You turn your head to look around uninterestedly, then back to her.
“ … uh?”
God damn. Mizu nearly throws caution to the wind at the sight of you; perfect hair mussed to complete chaos, makeup smudged, eyes heavy-lidded and blown nearly black with lust. And you're looking at her, reaching for her, all but begging for even a crumb more of her touch. The sweet popular girl, putty under her touch.
She could just fuck you here…
But. No.
No more interruptions.
So, despite her own kiss-swollen lips and inky-blue eyes, she jerks her head at the half-open door. You look at it again, with a dazed frown of confusion. You're so far gone that it's adorable. How did that get open …? You can barely remember why it was closed.
A pair of strong arms bundles you close again; she can't resist nuzzling in under your jaw again, savoring your eager sigh, and the way you arch up against her. Your eyes close immediately as you surrender to her touch.
“Wanna get out of here?” She asks again, voice lower this time, a hungry playfulness in her tone.
You can only offer a whimper of assent as she nips again at the mark on your throat. You're not sure your legs will support you.
You both only make it as far as the shadow of a tree outside.
A stranger with startling eyes makes an appearance in your brothel. Both of you know what it is to be on the fringes of society, marked as outcasts by a face you cannot change. Used to unkindness and rejection, you create a space of mutual acceptance that blossoms into more.
~
A/N: IM ALIVE. Have another long prose!! I'm still settling in, so updates will still be sporadic but HEY PROGRESS!
Here you go, extremely belatedly! Anon, truly, I hope you're still around and see this. You've been a champ for having to wait so long for a reply.
NOT beta'd, so apologies for any horrendous spelling errors.
~
TW: This has spice at the end. Reader works in a not-so-nice brothel, so go in prepared for most of the kind of triggers you would have seen in Episode 4 of BES. verbal degradation, name calling, shaming for physical appearance. Lots of bad stuff hinted at: prostitution, physical abuse, parents selling to a brothel, etc.
~
They send you over last.
“Go on girl, maybe you'll finally scare him off, if nothing else,” your madam sneers. “So he'll stop taking up space and drinking all my tea.”
“Maybe he'll like her,” one of the other girls giggles cruelly. “Maybe that's the problem, you've been sending all the pretty ones and he likes freaks.”
When you make your way towards the stranger in the corner, it's with a chorus of laughter following behind you.
~
You sit down across from the man, and immediately you take note, not only of the eyes–exactly the bright blue they've all been whispering about–but of the knifelike prettiness of his features; strong but finely honed. Your heart thumps faster even as it clenches in dismay. It's one thing to be rejected by the slovenly regulars. But you've never spoken to someone handsome. The girls would never let you near someone that might be pleasant to sleep with, and the thought of being sneered at by someone you actually find attractive is so much more disheartening.
Are they truly turning him down purely because of his unusual eyes? But they’re so striking, so distinctive. Why wouldn't they want someone that looks different from the endless crowd?
Then again … you think dismally, knowing your own experiences with looking different.
He glances up with a frown, and you see his eyes find your marks through the face paint you try to use. You wish you could forget your training and just close your eyes to brace for the rejection.
He makes no crass comment like all the patrons before him have, though. No disgusted grumbles of put me off my drink, or you better be cheap to make up for that face. His glare simply bores into you without a blink.
Your eyes drop to the tea service between you, unable to stand the piercing blue. “I've come to see if the gentleman would like some com–”
You don't even get to finish.
“I have already said I want no company, only a word with your proprietor.”
You lower your head further, your voice trembling as you carry on with your assigned script. You wish they'd bothered to train you in how to glide socially like the other girls can. Hopefully he isn't one of the ones that will take his frustrations out on a hired girl.
“I-I can please the gentleman’s any desire, I am very open-minded and obedient–”
With a little exclamatory growl, he shoves away from the table and storms away across the room. Mortified, you see him stalk right up to your madam. Whatever he says to her is short and sharp, but her reply comes with a sly smirk at the corner of her mouth. He whips around to frown right at you, before looking back at her. Oh gods, what is she telling him? The girls behind her are all falling over in laughter as his expression grows more and more disgusted. Oh, no.
He says something hard that cuts them off mid-laughter, and turns away without another word to them, his expression a storm cloud. He's glaring in your direction. The other patrons scramble to get out of his way as he crosses the room again.
Your heart is sinking all the way into the ground by the time he thumps back down to the ground across from you in dead silence.
“I'm sorry…” you mutter before he can speak, looking away and beginning to stand. You don't even want to know. You’ll take whatever horrid punishment they give you for leaving. You just can't stand to hear what terrible things this beautiful man believes of you.
“No.” You turn, startled by his sudden voice. “Sit,” he says, and his tone brooks no argument.
Surprised, you lower yourself back down. You glance across the room, to see the others looking surprised, too. He notices, and follows your eyes across the room to them. His glare darkens and they scatter.
He looks back at you, and his eyes are softer. But still they hold none of the cloying lust that so many of the other patrons have dripping from their expressions. “I will not sleep with you,” he says, as though warning you of expectations. He looks back down into his lap, almost as if avoiding your gaze. “I have no use for your services.”
For a moment your brow furrows, confused and secretly a little disappointed; what does he want, if not that? But then another possibility occurs to you.
“I don't want pity,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
His head jerks up at your sharper tone of voice, but you hold his gaze this time. For a half-second, something completely alien flits across his features. You could almost believe it was respect. But then he scowls again, and gets up abruptly without offering you a gentlemanly hand.
His voice is as cold as ever as he gestures impatiently for you to lead him to a room.
“Good. Because I have none to offer you.”
~
He introduces himself reluctantly as Mizu. That first night, the conversation is stilted at best. He is not much of a talker and you aren't used to being listened to. Most of your clients do not hire you to chatter.
The only moment that even begins to feel like a connection is when you ask hesitantly about his eyes. You think for a moment that you're about to meet his blade, the way his head snaps up lightning fast. But he takes in the way you flinch, and looks away again.
Though it begins extremely tense, it slowly leads to spending a moment commiserating on society’s reaction to your faces.
“At least they see you as human, if a scarred one,” he mutters into his tea. “I'm nothing but a monster to them.”
You watch his slim throat convulse as he swallows a mouthful. For some reason, the line of it looks more beautiful to you than the many men you've seen, but why … ? “At least if you have to be a monster, you get to be a beautiful one,” you mumble back.
There's a second of silence. His voice is quite different when he next speaks–unguarded with genuine surprise.
“Why did you call me that?”
You stammer in horror, assuming he's offended. You should have known better. Just because he can say it about himself doesn't mean you can do that. “I- I didn't mean to call you a monster, sir, I'm sorry–”
But he waves that away impatiently. “No. No. …Not that. The other thing … why … beautiful?”
“Oh, I… I'm not sure, it just seemed like the right word …” you say hesitantly, still afraid that you've stepped wrongly. Perhaps you offended his masculinity; so many patrons of the brothel can be touchy about that. “I'm not very skilled with words, sir, please forgive me if I've offended…”
He only shakes his head, leaving you confused.
You have no way of knowing how much that moment changed everything. You have no way of knowing that Mizu has struggled her entire life with the concept of beauty, her beauty. Her ideas of beauty are tangled in the trauma of her childhood; and since she tries to avoid deep feelings or self-reflection, many of those beliefs are simplistic and barely registered. Since no one has once questioned her face or voice as being too feminine or pretty, she has simply assumed she is not beautiful. She tries to tell herself that this is merely flattery from you, but that rings false even to her. She has already paid for the night and has made zero demands for your actual services. You have no idea of her true gender and no reason to flatter the man you think she is.
You just … genuinely seem to think it true.
When the stranger departs hours later, his face has stayed icy all night. You watch him go despairingly, sure that you failed to capture his interest, sure that you'll never see him again.
~
“Your admirer is back,” hisses one of the girls nastily, elbowing you and nearly knocking the serving tray from your grasp. You're used to this sort of thing, though, and just barely manage to keep your grip in time. You look at her in confusion.
She nods at the corner, and your heart leaps to see the blue eyed man again.
“Can't believe you have a regular,” she sneers.
“A freak will always want another freak,” snorts another girl nearby.
You don't even hear them tittering. On floating feet, you cross the room even before anybody sends you to him.
He looks up as you approach. He doesn't smile in response to your beaming bow, but his face has lost the deep, furrowed scowl that dominated it last time.
~
He asks you, once, after a few visits, if you wouldn't prefer to take a different client.
Before you can help yourself, you give a very un-courtesan-ly snort.
“What?”
“You're asking if I'd prefer to take a client that wants to use me, that doesn't see me as a person, versus you?”
“I'm no conversationalist,” he points out. He doesn’t smile, but one eyebrow quirks up at you.
“You don't waste words,” you counter, a little glint of challenge in your eyes. “That's admirable.”
“Or boring.”
“Peaceful.” You're smiling a little at the game of it, now.
“You must find me rude?”
“Only straightforward.”
“Some would say brusque.” His eyes are watching you unblinkingly, as if trying to ferret out falseness.
“You have boundaries.” You shrug a little, smile fading. “And you respect mine. That is valuable.”
“You've asked nothing of me,” he protests, brow furrowing.
“Basic human boundaries,” you say, frankly. You look into the depths of your teacup, toying with its delicate rim. So easy to break something delicate, you think, turn it into something jagged that can only cause hurt, through no fault of its own. “You treat me like a person, not an object.”
He watches your fingers on the teacup, then looks away, as has become his habit. That's the end of the long conversations for that visit, and he never asks again.
~
“How did you end up here?” He asks you on the next visit, lounging back on the cushions in the room, finally doing something other than sitting ramrod straight.
You shrug a little, unable to meet his gaze, and gesture to your face.
“They hired you for those?” He asks, and you cringe at the note of skepticism in his voice. He notices, and you see his mouth tighten as if to hold in an apology. He shifts awkwardly.
“No,” you reply quietly. “My parents had to all but pay them to take me.”
“... Hm.” His face darkens, only briefly; he is truly a master at guarding his expressions. “How old were you?”
“Too young.” Your voice is even quieter this time. There's nothing of the courtesan polish about it, and on this topic, you don't know how to soften your answer, how to make the words sound pretty.
He does not press further, but moves on.
“Do you get many clients?” Again, there's a funny twitch of darkness in his face at his own question, so fast that you think you might have imagined it.
“Enough,” you say, more steadily. “Mostly the ones with little money, or the ones that might damage the other girls.”
“What?”
You look at him in surprise, startled by the sudden anger in his voice. He's sitting up now, scowling.
“You know…” you falter, confused. “Someone rough, or unstable. They wouldn't want him to cut a pretty girl–...”
“You are a pretty girl,” he says sharply, then catches himself and flushes as you gape at him in shock.
Silence descends again. Your lips are twitching into a smile despite your best attempts, and you can feel heat creeping up the back of your neck. You quickly duck your head, hugging those words tightly to your chest like treasure. It's the first time you've ever heard them.
“The gentleman flatters me,” you mumble, and he grunts, grabbing his teacup to hide behind. Both of you fall back into your usual masks.
~
He comes by more often after that. Occasionally, there will be weeks where he doesn't show up, but inevitably, you see him again. Sometimes he looks unusually tired, or pale as death. Sometimes there are fires of rage in his eyes that only blow away when you get close. He starts to smile at you, just a tiny bit, when you greet him.
You share stories of clients or of the other girls, to pass the time; the funny ones, not the depressing ones. He still doesn't have much to say, but when he does occasionally contribute a sentence, it reveals a cunningly sharp wit. His dry comments on your gossip are darkly hilarious, and more than once, he's made you choke into your tea. He never reacts or laughs himself, but there's a self-satisfied twitch to his mouth when he looks down into his own cup.
He tells you about his mission, but does not seem to want to dwell on it, as though he would prefer to make this place a haven from death and violence. You learn quickly to simply let him speak as he chooses, and not to ask follow-up questions when he offers some passing mention of his life outside of these visits; ask the wrong thing and he'll clam up for the rest of the night. Once, you ask about his childhood and he just gets up and leaves.
He grows verbose only when talking about a man he calls his sword-father. It began when you asked about his sword, something that seems tentatively acceptable, and morphs slowly into a surprisingly intellectual lecture on the philosophies of sword making and the souls of samurai.
“Your sword-father sounds deeply wise,” you offer, gently.
Still, he does not smile, but his face grows softer and more open than you've ever seen it.
“He is,” he says simply, and then goes on, into the more technical aspects of metal smelting.
You let him. Your cup is brimming over to see him wax poetic about something that clearly brings him pride. You feel intensely honored to see beyond the stoic mask.
Slowly, he begins to feel like a comrade, instead of a client. Slowly, you stop calling him The Gentleman, and you start to grin at him rather than smile with practiced sweetness.
You can never convince him to take sake rather than tea, as you madam orders you to try and do. Personally, you have no complaints. You've had too many bad experiences with men that seemed pleasant until the alcohol hit their blood.
Not that Mizu is like that.
You're not really sure what he's like. You let the girls think he is a regular in the truest sense of the word, to avoid awkward questions, but he's never once made any effort to touch you.
And it's starting to drive you insane.
Besides his comment on your prettiness, there have been small indicators that he may be interested–a lingering glance that he tries to hide, a bright involuntary flush when you compliment him or giggle at something he says–but besides that, he comes here and pays for time with you and then simply sits quietly, rarely talking, more often just listening.
You don’t know why you're surprised. He had warned you at the very start. But what did he mean by I have no use for your services? You want to ask, but you're afraid to offend him, or scare him off. Perhaps an ailment, a medical condition? Perhaps he is simply the type that does not welcome another's touch.
But then there are those moments where he does seem responsive, and they eat at you. You would hate to think he does have some malady that he thinks you would not accept.
~
Tonight has been more of the same; quiet, slow-paced conversation. A little island of peace for you both, with the ruckus of the brothel left outside these four walls. But you can feel your heart thumping this time. You’ve decided. You may be left feeling like an idiot, but you have to know.
“It has been a warm summer, has it not?” You ask, and he gives his usual grunt. Not one to waste words, is Mizu. You're used to this, and it leaves you undeterred.
“Today especially, so hot!” Your little sigh is unfeigned–it is hot. “All of these layers begin to feel like a prison. I envy you men and your easy clothes.”
A tight smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth as he tosses back his tea, as though this brought to mind a private joke for him–but one that tastes a little bitter.
You hesitate, and then plunge in.
“Would … would the gentleman mind if I let myself be a little informal?” He looks up, brow furrowing in immediate confused suspicion. Whenever you speak formally like this, he knows there's something more going on in your mind. Slowly, he nods at you, a go on gesture.
In response, you push the layers of your kimono out, and down; baring your shoulders and a generous sweep of cleavage.
You're so nervous that your hands are shaking; what if he only said you were pretty to be nice? What if you alienate your friend? Or repulse him? You're almost too terrified to move.
When you look up, he's frozen, teacup left hovering midair, dripping a steady stream into his lap. The only part of him that moves are his eyes, raking from your throat to the dip between your breasts, as though his gaze was an insect trapped in honey, unable to escape your skin.
Oh.
Your heart is suddenly pounding for a different reason. By the gods. Your mouth is dry. Nobody has ever looked at you like that before; transfixed, entranced. And this isn't some drunken idiot; this is Mizu. Beautiful, special Mizu, who is just different than the other men in a way you can't quite understand. Who you desire the way you've never desired another patron. You can feel your body respond to his attention, your breathing growing a little heavier.
“Would the gentleman like to get more comfortable as well…?” Your voice comes out throatier than you've ever heard it, husky with arousal. You'd make a fortune as a courtesan if you could do that on command.
He actually flinches with a gasp, tea sloshing out of his cup and soaking the tatami as his eyes fly to your face. He looks stricken, almost … terrified. “No,” he chokes out in a strangled tone, tugging the neck of his top more tightly closed.
“N-no…?” You blink at him in surprise, arousal dissolving. Did you get it wrong? But he was so clearly … At the confused hurt in your expression, he hesitates, his face crumpling. He looks more vulnerable than he ever has before.
You can't help but put a hand out to him, gently.
“There's nothing you need to be ashamed of, here–” Your voice is reassuring, but you don't even get to finish. He turns his face away, still tugging his clothing tighter around himself, multiple emotions warring across his sharp features.
“I- … need to go–” he says, in the same strangled tone, and scrambles to his feet in a clumsy rush that is out of character for him. “I'm sorry–”
“Wait–...Mizu…” You try to get to your feet after him, but you're encumbered by exactly the multiple layers of clothes that you used as an excuse. Before you can get your feet under you, the sliding door is banging shut.
You're left in a puddle of your own disarrayed clothes, and a guaranteed beating for the tea-stained tatami.
~
He does not come back for two weeks. It's not the longest he's ever stayed away. But this time it feels like forever, because you're not at all sure you'll ever see him again. If any of the girls had been close enough to you, they would have noticed your downcast demeanor and probably tormented you mercilessly for losing your first ever regular.
Lucky, then, that nobody cares but the person who isn't there to see it.
~
Then, miraculously, after two grueling weeks of uncertainty, there he is. Waiting in the usual corner, staring down at the table. He does not lift his gaze, but keeps his head bowed until you're almost at his side.
Your entire body is shaking as you approach, unsure what to expect. Will he be here to tell you he's ending these visits? Perhaps to complain to your madam, or choose a different girl; one that's smart enough to accept an easy client that just wants company. A prettier girl, this time, you think to yourself, your heart clenching horribly. One that won't act like an idiot and ruin everything.
What you don't expect is for him to look up at you with anxious eyes, face full of the exact same uncertainty that you feel in your own chest. Now that you’re close to the table, you can see how his usual stillness is disrupted; his hands fidget restlessly with each other, wringing long fingers over and over. He says nothing. He looks like he's bracing for you to tell him off.
You offer him a tentative smile, still wary of bad news. “Would the gentleman like his usual room?” You ask, softly. His mouth twists, and he swallows visibly, but nods in silence.
The silence persists down the hallway, growing deeper as you slide the door of the room shut, cutting off the outside noise of the brothel. When you turn away from the door, it’s to see him staring blankly at the stain on the tatami that he had left.
You grimace at the sight of it. The bruises from that are still healing, not that you'll ever tell him.
“...I'm sorry.”
You blink.
That's not at all the kind of thing you expected to hear from him. You think at first he's speaking about the stained mat–he has shown an occasional fastidious side–and you smile. “It's alright, they're just too cheap to replace it–”
He shakes his head, and you cut yourself off. Waiting patiently for him to find his voice.
Into the silence, he says, “I've deceived you most dishonorably.”
“What do you mean?”
At the note of wariness in your voice, his shoulders tense, and then release with a sigh. His words plunk heavily into the still air, monotone and reluctant.
“I … owe you an explanation.”
You open your mouth, ready to protest that he owes you nothing, but he plunges forward with the air of someone who is forcing the words out before they lose their nerve.
“I came to you as a man, enjoyed your company as a man … but I … am … not a man.”
Your mouth drops open.
…Oh.
You remember the moment of panic, the frantic tightening of the collar. The way you'd felt an uncontrollable attraction from the first night, one that the other girls didn't seem to feel. The silence drags out for an agonizing full minute, while you process this.
“...What?” Now it's your turn to sound strangled. You feel no anger, only raw shock, but at your words, he– …she drops her head. The blue-clad shoulders are so stiff that they nearly shake.
“I … I know that it was wrong. But I felt as though– …” Her mouth tightens sharply, and you see her master herself before the sentence is completed. “There are no excuses.”
…A woman. Tall and lean, with eyes like the depths of a clean river on a sunny winter day. Hard eyes, merciless, but soft for you. With her hair scraped back, with those long perfect fingers, with that beautiful sword at her waist. A woman. It’s as if the heavens have opened to rain blessings upon you in particular.
There's only one possible way that this could be a disappointment to you. You cut straight to the main concern.
“So you … aren't attracted to women?”
Clearly, based on her perplexed expression, this was not the expected response to her shamefaced confession. She opens her mouth and closes it again, silently, like a fish, before finally saying in a strangled tone, “That's not– … that's not– … is that …?”
“...An option?” You finish for her, feeling strange; somehow, working in a brothel has made you more worldly in some respects than she is, despite her travels. “Of course, there are many women who prefer the company of other women.” You hesitate, afraid to scare her off, but decide to be honest about the other reason your parents turned you away, “Like … me.”
“But you attempted– …” she seems unable to say it, which is odd; she's not usually squeamish about being blunt–even vulgar when needed. But the idea of someone attempting to seduce her seems simply too strange to say. You can understand that feeling. “... You wanted me as a man,” she finishes instead. “Not …”
“I wanted you for you.” Your voice is soft; you step closer like you're approaching a hurt wild animal. She takes a step back, wide-eyed, as though you could ever be a threat to her. She looks almost lost.
You stop, carefully. Your heart is in your throat, pounding tightly. Don't mess this up. Don't scare her away again.
“And not just from desire. I've missed your company, Mizu.”
Her eyes and shoulders drop, and she looks away.
“Then you need better friends,” she answers flatly.
“No, I don't.” You can't help the way you sway closer, longing to take another step, but too afraid that she'll bolt. Your hand comes out, tentatively. You want to tell her how clever and funny she is, how much it meant to her when she protected you on that first visit. How beautiful you think she is. But you're afraid to overwhelm her.
“I need someone I like for who they are. Who likes me for who I am.”
She looks at your hand, the tight line of her mouth wavering, and then up into your eyes. She's listening.
“I don't need protection, or caretaking–”
“I can't give you that,” she interrupts, quickly. “I am on a mission–”
“I said I don't need it.” You stand your ground, your eyes finding hers. “I just need you, Mizu.”
Her eyes close, tightly, as though your plea were a temptation she needed to ward against, and simultaneously the most perfect words she could have heard.
With her eyes closed, she puts a hand out. Still, even now, afraid to look and see rejection in your eyes.
Your smaller hand finds hers, warm and soft, and she gasps at the soft touch. When her eyes open, they look up from where your fingers intertwine, and the blue has darkened from open sky to something stormy.
It's your turn to gasp as she reels you into her arms. You knew she was strong, but still the ease with which that slim shape can move you is … well. It's certainly got an effect.
You can tell immediately from the press of her lips that she's learned to kiss from someone that didn't know what they were doing. But her passion is intoxicating. She kisses you like she wants to drown in you, hard hands pressing between your shoulder blades and keeping you locked against her. Uncomplaining, your own find her hair. Finally, finally, you can muss that sleek bun, and the strands are as silky as their shine promised.
You tilt your head, nipping at her lip to make her slow down, wanting to savor her–but at the spark of pain she moans openmouthed against your teeth instead. Her grip tightens, and a forehead rubs into the column of your neck, nuzzling hard, almost frantic with long-suppressed need.
You can feel your legs going. Rather than holding you up, as she can clearly do, she lets you both sink into a tangle of limbs on the tatami, still holding you tightly against her.
She shoves your kimono roughly to the side, with the air of someone that has been yearning to do so, mimicking the motion that had caused all the ruckus to begin with. With a strangled groan, she presses panting kisses down the line of your bared shoulder.
“Talk,” she begs you, hot breath against the soft skin under your ear. “Please, let me hear you.”
“Talk?” You ask breathlessly, barely focusing through the haze. You're surprised. You're not allowed to sing in the brothel for a reason. “You want to hear my voice?”
“Yes,” she confirms, looking up from where she's tasting the line of your cleavage, with another of those husky moans that sets your toes curling. “I love your voice. When I was alone by the fire at night, I would close my eyes, uhn… and remember sitting here and listening to your voice.”
You flush, flattered and amazed, but you're quick to oblige. You press gently on her sternum, urging her to lie back, your lips against her cheek. “Lie back, Mizu,” you murmur, and are rewarded with another frantic moan. “Lie back, and let me take care of you.”
Looking up as you climb astride her, you can see the flicker of conflict in her expression; wanting your touch as much as she wants to touch. “I should–”
You giggle. “Don’t you want me to teach you what to do?”
You mean it as a flirtation; I'll talk you through it.
It was exactly the wrong thing to say to keep her submissive.
She scoffs, the light of challenge immediately kindling in her eyes. Her hands find your waist, your world tilts. Before you know it, you've gone from tilting her chin up as you straddle her, to lying on your back. Her voice comes down to you, rasping dry amusement.
“I have the same parts as you. I know how to make you feel good.”
You, a brothel worker, laugh–charmed by her overconfidence … at least until she teaches you exactly what a fast learner she is. Her mouth trails a blazing path from chest to lower belly, lips and teeth replacing your old bruises with marks of pleasure. In only minutes your head is whirling. Where has this kind of sensation been all your life?
“...Oh– Mizu!” Your exclamation is breathless. Looking up from between your legs, you see her features turn up in a rare smile of pride. She's nearly preening, for all that she's a disheveled mess. It’s taken her no time at all to lock in on the places she can put her tongue to make your legs shake. Where did she even learn this act–?
“Talk,” she says again, her tone at once commanding and pleading. She presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, then bites down, eyes blazing like the fires of a forge. “Let me hear you.”
As she buries herself and her fingers inside you again, the only thing she hears is a babble of praise and her name–but that's all that matters to her, anyway.
—
“Come with me,” she murmurs to you, much later, when you're both curled up on the mats, exhausted and sweating, tangled together with one of the kimono layers spread across you like a blanket. In the far distance, the brothel rattles on in its chaotic sounds.
You look up at her, heart in your throat, and she gazes back at you. Her expression is almost shy, but her eyes are direct as ever, and full to the brim with something fragile. The words seem to have slipped out of her without meaning to.
You don’t answer, trying to master your suddenly surging emotions. You’ve been trained so long to hide that you're afraid to burst into tears, or say something too honest. I think I might love you.
When you don't say anything, the yearning flickers with pain. She stiffens a little in your arms, uncharacteristically stammering to fill the silence.
“I … I'm sorry. Nevermind,” she turns her face away quickly. “It is not an easy life, and my path is monstrous. It will be dangerous.”
You push up on an elbow, your hair tumbling around your shoulders, and pull her chin back towards you. “I'll come,” you say softly. “My beautiful Mizu.”
It's her turn to be silenced.
“I just …” You look for the right words, and as always, she waits. “I know how important this is to you. I don't want to get in the way.”
Her smile is grateful, but bittersweet. That you would worry about hindering a demon’s path … She pulls your hand up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I'll keep you away from the fights. I can find you safe places to wait.” Her eyes flicker for a moment, laden with a long history of betrayal.
“You will wait, won't you? If you have to?”
You smile, squeezing the hand in yours.
“For a little while, maybe.” Your smile was playful, but when you see the hurt begin to grow in her gaze, you finish the thought quickly. “Then I'm going to come find you.”
You tug her in by the hand, and despite her strength, she goes willingly, shuddering out a sigh at your hand around her waist.
“You won't need to. I will come back. I promise.”
“I'm counting on it,” you whisper, slotting a thigh between hers, enjoying the gasp that you get in return. In these quiet early hours, while the debauchery sleeps, you show her your own devotion, again, until–without even knowing it–you've erased the old touch that has haunted her with betrayal, and transformed love into something beautiful again.
~
Though the stolen hours of sensuality are ones that you will recall for the rest of your life, you think the moment of satisfaction that tops it all is the sight of your madam held at the end of Mizu's sword.
You had been all for sneaking out, running away in the early dawn, but Mizu had hauled you to your feet and said, simply, “no”, and led you to walk out the front door, her chin held high.
Your madam is furious, the other girls peeping out of various doorways with wide, frightened eyes. You know she can't stand the idea of being subjugated in front of her charges, but can't do anything to fight back against a warrior like Mizu.
“Fine, take the freak,” she snarls, her makeup doing nothing to hide the flush of rage.
Glancing sideways, you see the blaze of hatred in Mizu's eyes, and shiver. But the sword point lowers, and Mizu takes your hand, turning away.
“I hope the onryō eats you, girl,” comes the parting shot from behind.
Before you can snark about her being too late, Mizu reacts like lightning.
It happens in a flash of blue metal, and you close your eyes on the sound of your madam’s scream. You only open them when you hear her sobbing. Still alive.
The other girls are gasping and whispering, watching your madam scrabble at large hanks of hair on the floor. The top of her head is choppy stubble.
“Huh.” Mizu's voice is casual, as she tugs you out the door and into the sunlit morning. The plaintive wails of the brothel fade quickly. “I think I could get that fully shorn, next time.”
When a startled laugh bubbles out of you, she flicks a glance your way and gives you her first true grin. Her fingers stay tangled in yours as you wend your way through the streets to freedom.
Apologies for being gone for so long. I've received my diagnosis for my mental condition and have been on meds for a while. Many things have happened in my life and it was a really dark time for me.
To make up for the time I haven't been active, here's a fic of our lovely Mizu in Fallout NV Au. Fallout has been one of my favorite games and I thoroughly enjoy the lore.
Relearning how to write fics has been difficult so I'll try to take it slow, but I hope I still make something that makes you all happy. Please tell me if you want me to continue this.
Hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*
warning/s: not proofread, extremely short, she/her for mizu, a bit of violence and blood
The Mojave.
Hot, dry, dirty, and filled with the stench of radiation. As if the blazing heat of the sun wasn't enough to send someone into a heatstroke, the creatures that roam around the sandy terrain would send anyone running—if they still could.
This wasn't some sort of rainforest or desert they had in the old world. There were no trees, no rain, no small bugs.
No.
The creatures that roamed this godforsaken land were brutal. Designed and man-made because god was merciful and only a demon as hideous as man could replicate its own cruelty.
Every second spent under hot scorching sun was a second closer to death. Heat and radiation enveloping your very existence until hell felt like a dream better than the suffocation of to wake up suffering in this shit hole.
Mizu was no stranger to the dangers of the Mojave. In fact, she must be more acquainted to it than most. From the moment she was born, she was told by her mother to hide her real identity, to be a man and never a woman, to shave her hair and bind her chest, to be tough.
However, a creature more cold-blooded roamed the radiated wonderland. Something much more unfeeling than the tough shells of a deathclaw and much more resilient than the muscular structure of a supermutant.
Cunning, smart, and cold.
This creature had desecrated more corpses than an abomination and was smarter than the chip of a Mr. Handy. Its hands had ripped more limbs than hordes of ghouls could ever do with their weak raw arms. Never even batting an eye to the loudest of cries and most tearful of pleas.
A danger the dull buzz of a scintillation counter could not measure.
A creature Mizu should have been more familiar with than most.
That creature was man itself.
"Fuck," the blue-eyed traveler cursed under her breath. Each gasp of air felt heavier than the last, burning through her lungs. But she couldn't stop here. Not when Fowler's lackeys were just around the corner.
How could she be so stupid?
This was supposed to be such an easy journey. Travel on foot to The Strip, track Fowler, slash his head clean off.
Maybe the radiation had finally mutated her brains off and made her think a group of 'merchants' would be kind enough to provide her temporary security while she repaired her armor and weapons. That maybe, the stories they shared as they laughed were true and real humanity could have been found in a den of hedonism and debauchery.
It was foolish to think that man could be kind to someone like her.
Each drop of blood dripping from her wound stained the dry sand of the Mojave. It was only a matter of time until Fowler's men found her. Clutching her katana as tight as her weakened hands could, she peeked around the corner, trying to come up with a sensible plan despite her pain-hazed mind.
Fighting against the pain, Mizu carried herself in whatever shadows the sun could provide, hoping to escape for the meanwhile. Her hand clutched the knife wound on her side. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and let death embrace her, but she knew she couldn't.
She couldn't die here. She couldn't.
Not until Fowler was dead.
Begging for his life in front of her.
Apologizing for creating her.
A mistake. An abomination made from the blood of the Brotherhood and some wastelander. Her own faction threw her away, rejecting the idea of tainted, ruined blood in their halls, in their ranks, in their power armor. The reclamation of America didn't include a monster like her.
Mizu knew she had no place in this world. Even in a place that was never meant to be, she was a much more blasphemous existence that the Elders could not stomach.
Her breathing grew more stuttered as the amount of footsteps down the street grew. The sound of the mercenaries barking orders growing more incoherent as the bleeding from her wound continued to grow worse.
'Hurry,' she thought to herself, continuing to limp towards the gates, hiding herself in the shadows. 'I can't die here. Not yet.'
The crimson beneath her feet bloomed further with every ragged breath. Static was blurring her vision as the cold sweat covered her back.
"There he is!" she heard them shout. Immediately, Mizu's legs picked up the pace, pure adrenaline running through her veins. The sound of gunshots could be heard before the cracks of cement and wood as they shot at her location.
Heavy footsteps followed her as she ran to escape. She was so close but her vision was growing darker fast. Hand reaching out to what hope she had left.
A choked gasp passed through her as a hand suddenly reached out, grasping at her wrist, and pulled her in before the loud clang of the gate being closed. The shouts and gunshots from Fowler's lackeys could be heard from the other side.
Before she could point her katana at the stranger, she was already being pulled further away from The Strip.
Your pace grew more frantic as you looked back at the bloody mess she had been trying to stop. "Just a little more, okay?" you tried to reassure her. "There should be a med stash somewhere here."
She wanted to rip her wrist away from your hold and protest. Mizu didn't trust you a single bit. You were some stranger meddling in her business. Who knows if this was another ploy to get her to trust you?But for some reason, she could not find it in herself to fight back. It was as if her body instinctively knew that you were someone safe.
The stutters in her breathing grew more frequent as the sensations in her body grew numb. Static-like tingling crawled through her arms down to the tips of her fingers and toes. The noise soon dimmed as her vision tunneled.
'No,' she thought to herself, struggling to keep herself awake. 'I must kill him. Even if it leads to my death.'
A soft thud startled you, head turning to look at her before jerking in surprise. "Hey!" you called out to her, kneeling by her side, hand lightly slapping her cheek. "Don't pass out on me now!"
Her cold hand reached up, trembling and pale. Her cerulean orbs could no longer focus as the bright Mojave sun blinded the sky above her. You could hear every breath she took and each one causing a rack of anxious waves to pass your system. "Hey! I said don't—"
"I'll kill you," she rasped out, eyes blurring as images of Fowler's smug smirk flashed through her mind, "I swear...".
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Check out my kofi account to support my endeavors!
Adding a little WIP section to my pinned post so everyone that sends Asks knows that I did see them and I'm writing responses! 👍 And so ppl can see which fic stuff might be coming next!
Mizu is one of those people that really aren't into pets or animals but every animal/pet is always going to end up at her lap or begging for her attention. I just know this deep within my cells.
On a not completely unrelated note, imagine mizu coming over for a sleepover or just spending her first time at reader's place and meeting their infamous pet (bonus points if it's a cat) and she's co-existing with said pet for as long as she can, but at one point she sits on the couch and IMMEDIATELY the pet is on her lap begging for 100% of her attention and she ends up falling asleep like that.
When she wakes up she complains about the whole thing and makes such a big fuss about it, but every time reader and mizu hang out after that she always asks how the pet is doing and listens a lot more intensely when reader talks about the things their pet does.
Sorry this was long af 🥹♥️
Mizu and cute pets?? LETHAL COMBO
I'm not sure they notify you on anon when your ask is answered. But I hope you find this after waiting patiently for SO long 😭😭 (facial-scars anon, I see you, and your fic IS started!)
It's just a quick one, but I hope you like it!
(And don't be sorry for long prompts! More detail means i have a clearer picture to work with and you definitely get what you want!)
DID NOT PROOFREAD, so there might be some spelling errors. (I'll read it over again tomorrow and edit if needed) No trigger warnings for this one, unless you count Mizu being a grumpy-gills about cat hair. Enjoy some fluff!
YOUR CAT GETS YOU A DATE
--
“It's not going to sit on me again, is it?”
“Geez, already grousing and I haven't even opened the apartment. That's a new record, M.”
You hear the telltale huff of a pouting Mizu behind you as you unlock your door. You turn with a little grin.
“I did say we could go to your place.”
“I told you,” she mutters, looking away. “Eiji complains.”
“Oh, uh huh.” You don't even try to sound sincere. The last time you were there, Eiji had gruffly insisted you have a bowl of the soup he had just made, and then ordered you to “make sure Mizu studies hard and does well”, before vanishing into his forge. Your presence had not altered his path in the slightest. You suspect a crowbar could not turn Eiji’s path.
Mizu grumbles something under her breath and stalks past you into your place.
Immediately, you both hear the mrrt and telltale thumping of little feet as your cat comes running to twine around your ankles.
Mizu’s eyebrows dip into a heavy crease before she rolls her eyes at the furry little purr machine. It blinks back at her slowly with both eyes. She disgustedly sighs and demands you shoo it away, while not moving an inch.
“I just got rid of the hair in my clothing from last time.”
But when you laugh and turn to look, you notice her straightening up in a hurry–almost as if she had been bent over reaching a hand down. Given that the cat is still purring loudly, you suspect that hand was not extended to push it off her.
—
“... Okay, so … I think I've almost got my part finished.” You rub your eyes and lean back, checking your watch. Nearly midnight. Ugh. “How's your part coming?”
No answer.
“Mizu …?”
You look around, confused … and there they are; Mizu sprawled over your couch, completely passed out, your cat a perfect loaf on her chest. It turns its head to look at you, radiating smugness. You have to stifle your mirth. You had heard Mizu give a little aughh of irritation when it jumped on her earlier, but you'd been too deep in your work to rescue her. Besides, as you had distractedly pointed out at the time, it's Mizu. She hardly needs anyone to step in and be assertive for her.
Apparently, the cat was the foe she finally couldn't best.
Now, it has a specific expression that tells you it is undoubtedly going to do the cat thing and become the world’s most powerful Velcro if you try to shift it, and you really don't want to hear the complaints if Mizu is awoken by claws in her chest.
Frankly, it's amazing that she's fallen asleep at all. You've never seen her sleep in any of your other study sessions no matter how late they ran or how tired she looked. Have you ever even seen her yawn?
She looks so peaceful … her face is so soft without the habitual scowl.
So, instead, you carefully turn off the lights and slip away, trying to ignore how suddenly jealous you are of your furry best friend.
—
When you awaken in the morning, you're actually surprised to find that your cat is absent, and you don't have a furious Mizu standing over your bed. Padding sleepily into the living room, you stop on the threshold of the room and stare.
Mizu is still sprawled on the couch with the cat triumphantly planted on her chest, but she's awake. And … smiling?
As you watch, she trails one long-fingered hand down your little gremlin’s back, and it arches into the stroke with a loud purr, making her give the faint, rare huh of laughter that you have only ever gotten out of her a few previous times.
You stay quiet for a moment, watching it, privately wondering what it might take to have her pet you like that … but then your cat spots you and gives a mew of greeting. Damn.
Mizu’s face goes from soft to scowling in record time, but her face carries an embarrassed flush that no amount of scoffing and low-voiced grumbling can disguise.
She threatens to send you a dry-cleaning bill for the cat hair, swears she's never visiting you again, grouses that she'll have a neck crick all day after that furball messed up her sleep.
You don't respond, except to beam at her. Your heart is still bursting from the sight of your two favorite living creatures bonding.
The dark shadows under her eyes seem a little lighter this morning. You don't remark on it, but your smile carries a warm sincerity that makes her subtle hissy fit falter and dissolve away.
She's still blushing when you both leave, but this time she doesn't try to hide the goodbye pat that she gives your cat before you head out.
—
You're still shocked, though, when she asks you about it a week later.
You gape at her. “Huh?”
You get the typical Mizu look of stonefaced impatience at having to repeat herself, but she does ask again. She asks how your pet is. By name.
Amazed, you stutter out that it's fine, it's doing well. She waits for a moment, then nods. You could almost believe she looks disappointed by the lack of further details.
You could almost shrug this off as a fluke–sometimes Mizu gets odd moods like that–but then she asks you again the next time you see her. This time, tentatively, you add an anecdote about buying some new treats that were rejected for being too crunchy.
It almost looks like she smiles.
The time after that, she asks you first thing. You're beginning to learn to respond normally without staring at her in shock by now, and you have a few more fun little stories to share. Unbelievably, she listens patiently when you jabber on about the mundane bits and bobs of your daily life with a cat. Most of it isn't even interesting. Any of your other friends would be shifting around impatiently by now.
Hell, on any other topic, you know from experience that Mizu herself would be zoning out by now. She never sighs or shifts around or excuses herself awkwardly; she just stares into the middle distance, if she likes you. If she doesn't, she will just walk away. You're not used to her turning those icy blue eyes on you with such focus, absorbing every word.
The time after that, you call out to her in the gym that you have cat pictures, meaning for her to come and find you when she's done training. But she stops training and actually comes over to you expectantly. Her face might not be smiling, exactly, but her eyebrows are up from their usual scowl and her eyes are open and almost bright.
And that's how you find yourself nearly cheek to cheek with a sweaty, flushed Mizu, her damp hair sticking to your temple, her breath still hard from running through her sword routines, her body warm next to yours. Looking at pictures of your cat being adorable.
What is even happening right now?? Your heart is threatening to beat right out of your chest.
You finally scroll back far enough to some unrelated screenshot. “... that's the last one,” you say reluctantly, mourning inwardly when she draws away with one of her trademark grunts of acknowledgement. You watch her start to walk back to the training mat, your mind racing.
“Are you busy Friday?” You blurt out abruptly, without thinking. She turns towards you, eyebrows furrowed again, but more confused than irritable.
“Um… I was just thinking you could come over to hang out, if you wanted.” You stumble, nervously. She hesitates, looking genuinely surprised for the first time you've ever known.
But then you mention how much your pet has missed her, and her face twitches into a very small smile.
“If you … don't mind the cat hair,” you add, smiling back.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile stays, playing just at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll bring … bribes. … Not crunchy.”
“Not crunchy,” you agree, waving to her as she heads back to training. You're not going to tell her how much chicken your cat is already going to get tonight.
