❤︎ fem!reader. sfw — suggestive. knights of favonious!reader. written before lohen’s release!!! sorry if ooc i’ve known this guy for two minutes. lohen’s lowkenuinely a sadomasochist -> flirts by fighting (reader gets bruised a bunch). i saw he likes fighting and blacked out. author is bricked up and hasn’t written for genshin in a billion years apologies… heavily suggestive (no sex lohen is js crazy). word count 1043 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ masterlist
“Pardon me for the invasive question,” Albedo’s voice brings you momentarily out of your desolate mind, his tone laced with mild concern and a slight lit of sarcasm as the pen he writes with continues to scritch onto his pad of paper.
From the corner of your eye you notice that the ends of his lips curl up slightly with those words, and you groan at the sight. How cheeky, though you don’t even have the strength left in you to bite back.
Not from what had transpired earlier.
“But you seem a bit more . . . well, how should I put this? Worn out than usual. Why is that?”
A straggled groan is all you can muster in response, half of your face squished into the smooth oak of the table in the Knights of Favonius' headquarters while attempting to let yourself recover momentarily.
Your body— a body that feels less like the inhabitant of a soul and more like the vessel of a ravaged spirit, withered and broken. Your limbs ache all over, and you can only hope that the several blooming bruises littered across your skin aren’t visible to Albedo underneath your training gear.
You mumble to the best of your abilities, something half akin to a string of words that converge into a somewhat coherent sentence. It’d be rude to leave him hanging, after all. “You could say that . . .”
“That damned Lohen,” Albedo makes out amidst the rest of your otherwise incomprehensible noises, and his brows quirk up slightly at the mention of his colleague’s name from your lips. “For archon's sake he’s been putting me through the ringer since he returned to Mondstadt . . .”
Albedo’s throat clears abruptly. You think he might be laughing at you, if it weren’t muffled with his gloved palm covering for him.
“I hope you do know that whatever you are implying sounds quite suggestive to me.”
Your hands slam down on the oak of the table at his words in a fright, back straightening up with a recoil that sends a couple of the open books on Alchemy spread out on the wooden surface tumbling to the floor below.
“It’s not what you think!” You plead to the alchemist, who continues to write in peace despite the loud eruption from your outburst, seemingly undisturbed (and possibly a bit amused). “That guy— he, he just came back from his expedition!”
“Yet all he wants to do is fight! What’s with him?!” You continue to bemoan, fingers scrunching at several clumps of hairs on your head, fingernails digging into your tender scalp with irritant vigor.
“What the hell is he so restless for?!”
In your memory, you remember so clearly how he looked at you the moment his platoon had returned from his long and arduous expedition— months away from their home of Mondstadt had left many of them restless and homesick, and they were eager to crash onto the several couches at the Knights of Favonious’ headquarters and take a much deserving rest.
Lohen, though . . .
“Spar with me for a bit, miss.”
He had asked you, you who was unfortunately caught by him all alone on the Knight’s training ground in front of several wooden mannequins in poor shape when he happened to arrive.
You, who was already drenched in sweat from several hours of training and was hoping for a nice break the moment the doors to the courtyard had unveiled his untimely appearance.
“. . . Me?” was all you squeaked out in reply, a shaky grin settling on your lips. Your entire being ached for rest, legs practically trembling on the verge of giving out. Surely he didn’t mean—
He, who had already armed himself with a wooden training sword and was stalking towards you with a driving hunger swirling in those dead eyes of his before you could even shake your head in refusal. There was simply no other way to describe how he stared you down in that moment.
He looked like he had been starved for ages despite having just come back home— seeking out any opponent who would put up a good fight for him.
“Yes,” he had smiled, a princely serene expression overtaking his face, though you didn’t return the action in kind.
“Spar with me, please?”
Though a knight of Favonius, there was no hint of chivalry in those eyes before he struck.
“. . . That does sound quite eventful,” Albedo finally comments after a few seconds of thick silence marring the air between you, the subtle flip of a page being the only sound that comes after his words. You let out a dry laugh at his equally stunned reply.
“Yeah,” you grit out, slamming your head back into the table yet again and sending tingles of shock coursing throughout your blood. Maybe if you beat yourself up enough on your own, Barbara’s skills might even be too much to heal you substantially and you’ll be able to catch a break from that guy at long last.
Your arms stretch against your back in a pitiful attempt of relief for your pulled muscles and sore joints. Archons, just remembering the swing from that guy is making you have phantom pain flashbacks.
“I’m going to be staying far away from the training grounds until Varka sends that guy back onto another expedition. If he wants to pick a fight with someone so bad, there’s plenty of hilichurl camps around here that could use exterminating!”
“Aww, but hilichurls don’t fight back nearly as well as you do, miss.”
Your whole being stiffens up once you recognize that voice, a gloved hand placed on your (bruised) shoulder sends shivers up your spine as Albedo sighs in sympathetic misfortune at you.
“I may have forgotten to keep the door closed while you were rambling . . .” comes his sincere apology— one too late with Lohen already humming along happily while pulling you back out the door of Albedo’s office, practically a pep in his step as your worried eyes burn holes into the back of the alchemist’s head, silent cries of help barely escaping your lips before the door menacingly shuts once again.
From the sanctity of his chair, Albedo whispers to himself (and perhaps to the Anemo Archon too, for your safety), “Blessings upon you, miss.”
summary : a short and sweet drabble about y/n and fezco being each others peace
word count : 427 ( so damn close 😩)
a/n : so this is like my first fic in a whillleee but i’ve been loving fez so much so i wrote a very self indulgent fic about it. I’ve been heavilly inspired about writing by these lovely author’s and their personal works that i can’t reccomend enough ; @heartshapedwords @brooklynwritess @imaginemegood @dollybarnes and that’s just a few but seriously please go visit their works ,, u will not regret it ! Thank y’all so much for sharing yalls work and breaking me out of my writers block,, mwah!!
Fez couldn’t remember when Y/N had become such an essential part of his peace. Growing up he had only ever had himself and his grandma, and then when she had fallen into a coma it was only him and Ash. Maybe, he had just gotten so used to taking care of his little brother, his grandma’s endless medical bills, and the family business his grandma had busted her ass to build that he hadn’t thought of what he needed but when he comes home to her, he knows.
She’s lounging in his bed wearing a pair of his boxers and a hoodie he swears he told her to not touch while reading some book. He couldn’t even find it in him to be annoyed at her messing around in his clothes because she just looked so damn comfortable - and shit did fez need comfort right now.
He knocked on the doorframe, “ nice hoodie, ma “ his amused voice broke her out of the deep trance this chapter had on her. “ Thanks, I’m thinkin it’s my new favorite,” she said slyly. She placed her book to the side and opened her arms gesturing for him, “C’mere baby”.
Fez felt his heart warm at her actions, quickly making his way to lay across her, his head lying in the warmth of her neck. He felt all of the stress of the day hit him while surrounded by her warm vanilla perfume combined with her acrylic nails dancing across his back slowly being lulled to sleep.
“ How did the deal go.” she hummed, leaning onto his head. Keeping his eyes closed he responded ‘‘Bout as good as it could.” he huffed “ Motherfucker talked so much, pissed me off.” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at the annoyance lacing his voice.
“ Yoo, why you laughing “
“ You’re so grumpy Fez.” she laughed. He nipped at her shoulder in retaliation, causing Y/N to let out a small screech and pinch him in return.
“Not cool,” he only hummed in response as they laid in silence together simply enjoying each other's presence. The silence was cut through by Fez’s slurred sleeping voice. “ I love you Y/N.” another peaceful silence followed “ For real, couldn’t do this without you.”
Y/N felt a wave of peace wash over her with his words, “ I love you too Fez, so fucking much.” she looked down at his sleeping figure and delivered a gentle kiss to his head and covered them both with the comforter, quickly following him into sleep.
notes. kinda wack i’ve been into the outsiders for a year now. and i’m still writing for dallas, huh? wild. it’s nostalgic. thanks for reading.
OF swollen lips and emotional breakdowns, dally winston will always choose you, the girl who tastes like strawberries and smoke, drifting into the air. you're not really there; no, not in the way dally wishes. but you're close enough, fading on the outskirts of town and blending in with the horizon so well that when he mentions your name, the boys give him a blank stare and a tilt of their head. you're still tangible, and that's all he needs.
the kisses are fast and cruel, teasing him and torturing him and allowing him control all at once. if you're a drug or a girl, dally will never know. he doesn't know where you came from or your name, though you sure as hell know him. you know him more than just by name, and it's a dynamic imbalance he hates. you know him as dallas, a broken boy hiding behind a shell of a mask. you know his coping mechnisms like the back of your hand, able to recite them like a wretched poem for english class. but you recite his flaws and make them something beautiful, flowers blooming in desolate sidewalk cracks. you lured him in with your kiss and now he's here to stay, crying for you and watering a garden. he hates it so goddamn much.
you're always there for him, tending his wounds and massaging his bruises. you're there in the fire of his kisses and the flooding of his tears as they fall on the ground in an alleyway at 3 am with his head bowed. he feels he shouldn't get his hopes up, looking at you, the pretty girl who asks no questions and tells no lies. he's heard your voice once and he desperately tries to forget it, for it'll be the imminent destruction of him as if he's not slowly deteriorating already. you told him a promise he'll not ever be ready to fulfill, words overflowing with the future and revolting emotions he doesn't want to touch.
you've seen him at his worst, crying on end for hours so that his eyes barely open and his head is drunk and simultaneously hungover by the sensation of being wholly empty. you've seen his highest highs, invincible through the adrenaline running in his veins and kissing you with the fervor of one hundred stars in the darkest night sky. you're someone he wishes he could forget and keep forever all at the same time.
he disappears under the guise of night and death, promising this time to himself that he'll find you again in a better world and reciprocate everything you've done, but not before he takes up the end of your forgotten promise and caresses it on his tongue.
it's a quiet whisper, uttered under your hooded, drowsy lids as the sun peaks out in the young awakening of dawn:
❤︎ fem!reader. sfw — angst. arranged marriage (reader + minajael both hate it LOL). enemies to lovers(?). reluctant ‘lovers’. took a lot of creative liberties with minajael’s personality (written before eng twst release of book 8) minajael isn’t that likable here but please hear me out . . . word count 814 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ masterlist
“You could at least look a little bit more happy at our marriage celebration, habibti.”
The thin veil of silk you adorn is not nearly enough to hide the thorny scowl that dares to seep out from underneath at those words, and you scoff at his demand. Ornate gold jewelry gifted by the family of your betrothed that feels too heavy on the skin weighs you down in place beside him, the palace servants placing them on almost as a precaution in making sure you don’t immediately run away from the party.
The numerous luxurious necklaces stacked along your chest feel more like a chain and collar than a gift of gracious good will from one family to another.
As a child, you never understood the tales your aunts and older cousins told of animals who would chew their own arms and legs off to escape capture, even if it meant potentially hindering their lifespan by ridding themselves of vital limbs. It sounded so foolish, so naive in many aspects to you at the time.
Now at eighteen, you understand it all too well.
Your betrothed, a young man only having met you tonight, extends his hand to you, placing it gently atop your own. To the other onlookers, his gesture appears as a sweet grace of honey-coated words to his betrothed. Shy, bashful, and romantic— from the corner of your eye, you watch them coo at the spectacle like you’re a couple of zoo animals.
When he leans in close though, the words that escape his lips are anything but flowery. A serene look graces his face, but behind those kind eyes that had won your grandfather over in an instant you hear his teeth gritting when he speaks.
“Even if you don’t like it, at least pretend you do.”
His hand begins to try and interlace his fingers with yours, and you slap his hand away carelessly, knowing you’re sure to be scolded behind closed doors long after the sun rises on the horizon of a new day by relatives from far beyond that the family tapestry can even name. “Don’t you dare try to patronize me,” comes out faster from your lips than you mean it to, venom laced and on edge by his mere presence alone.
His gaze narrows at your actions. Luckily, no one can hear your exchange of silent battle declarations against one another. The constant chatter of other party go-ers; relatives, merchants, politicians from neighbouring nations and beyond is enough to drown your voices out alone.
Live music blares through marbled walls that tower above your head, a marvellous display of architectural beauty and a finite reminder of how small you truly are. The chandelier that hangs above roars to life even hours after it has been lit, with too many candles for you to even count out of boredom. Such a flashy, audacious display of wealth.
It’s absolutely suffocating all around. The stares of those waiting on either of you two to make a wrong move in this careful chessboard of a marriage— could one even call this a marriage? A union devoid of love, lacking in the joy of what you’d expect in a real marriage.
Maybe he can sense the emotions you’re feeling from the way he leans into you yet again. Perhaps he’s going through the same thoughts and situation as you are. There's no reason for you to care, not when you barely know each other, but his next words pique your interest as he lifts the veil over both your heads.
A moment of privacy in such a whirlwind of a night.
He looks beautiful under the moonlight of the Scalding Sands, with long lashes and such delicate, handsome features to his face, and surely you’d fall in love with his good looks with time— like the cutesy tales of princes coming to sweep their beloved off their feet you’d hear from the storybooks read to you by your caretakers.
But his next words only affirm exactly what you had thought previously.
“When I become king, I’ll have the power to null this . . . union. For now, just grin and bare it.”
You almost laugh at yourself for believing that something so fruitless, so fantastical, could ever occur between the two of you. There is no space for love to bloom in this excuse of a marriage, for neither of you feel the same about one another— and even the most resilient of flowers can’t take root and blossom in a home of dry, barren sand.
The only interests you both share are the desire to be freed from such a tiresome cage lined with silver and gold.
With your spine straight and your gaze held high, you nod in response. He understands where your heart lies, and that may be enough for now.
❤︎ fem!reader. fluff — sfw. first love. reader is prefect. canon accurate annoying shit ace. deuce is in like half of this fic i love him word count 1257 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ sprint! series masterlist
a/n: thank you to @stellar-twisted for beta reading <3 this is the first fic in my sprint for your love! mini series!
Maybe it just comes with being the youngest in your family, but Ace Trappola is a notorious instigator— and purely for the fun of it. Mischievous, cheeky, and a dash of smugness all rolled into one is how most attending NRC would describe the first year.
It’s because of all these traits combined that it shocks the troublemaking Heartslabyul student’s friends when he begins to date you of all people, someone who was believed to be (in Deuce’s own words), “too good for him”; the prefect who came into this world solely due to a mistake from the cosmos, a momentary lapse in judgement from the Dark Mirror that summoned you to NRC on the whims of the universe.
Despite all that you had been through, the first years recognize that you have a strong head on your shoulders. Bravery in the face of danger, in a world where magic is almost akin to a necessity for survival, you’re able to face these hardships head on without a magestone or potions, or any other sort of blessings from the Seven.
Maybe, the first years reason, that is why you are able to handle someone like Ace Trappola, who is in every way a striking parallel to the very essence of all that you are.
Whereas you try to lay low and not cause trouble, mischief and chaos follow in Ace’s every waking step. A snide remark or two towards an upperclassman that almost results in a book thrown at his face, an oblivious eyeroll whenever Professor Trein calls him out in class for being empty headed that nearly slams him into detention.
The bright eyed first year has quite the nasty habit of not keeping his mouth shut at the right times, forcing you to intervene on numerous occasions in order to spare him the Heartslabyul housewarden’s wrath.
In the front row seat to this wonderlandian show is Ace’s roommate, Deuce Spade, who really begins to question if you had accidentally hit your head upon exiting the coffin that brought you to Twisted Wonderland.
For every instance of Ace who starts a commotion for fun, there is you trailing right behind, always saving the day with hasty apologies, promises of reparations and a few slaps upside the back of your boyfriend’s head.
Deuce reminisces on the tale of the Queen of Hearts and her lowly husband who wagered behind her meekly as she ruled over her subjects with a scathing fist of iron, only he finds that the roles seem to flip whenever it comes time to apologize for whatever troubles Ace has somehow landed himself in.
He can almost see the red head’s imaginary puppy ears drooping with a whimper and a pout tugging deeply at his lips as you physically yank the boy up by the collar of his uniform, forcing him into a deep bow while housewarden Rosehearts chews the both of you out (despite protests of you not being the main culprit, “your partner is a reflection of your manner of behaviour, prefect!”).
It’s not until on a random spring day as lunch time rolls around that Deuce realizes what your seeming thirst for self sabotage at the hands of your boyfriend really is— and he discovers it entirely by accident, too. All while standing in line for the caféteria, yawning as warm rays of sun peek through NRC’s windows when his eyes drift to the grassland outside and onto a familiar glimpse of fluffy auburn hair bouncing around in the grass.
His gaze follows and then lands on you, opposite of his roommate, seemingly arguing with Ace, who in Trappola fashion is completely keen on messing with you every second of the day. The two of you exchange a few words each, though Ace’s are more jests and quips.
His roommate wears a grin and eyes that twinkle with cheekiness, whereas he finds your face to appear more somber, more downtrodden in its tone.
Too far away to make out either of your words (and reading lips has never been a strong suit of his, too), Deuce faintly catches the crease of your brow, your frown deepening, and the rigid shift in your posture as your shoulders slump in tired defeat.
Your mouth opens; a few words tumble out hastily, and the triumphantly smug look on Ace’s face plummets within mere seconds.
The next thing Deuce makes out in a blur is you spinning on your heel, stomping off with balled fists and an expression he can only describe as apprehensive, maybe even regretful, while his friend’s feet are planted to the ground in shock. Too scared to move, yet with each step you take has you growing further away from him.
Tempted to jump out of the lunch line, crash through the window and scold Ace for hurting your feelings (and maybe give the guy a few good right hooks to the jaw to emphasize his point further), Deuce instead watches as in a flash, Ace begins to sprints off after you.
Not a light jog or a leisurely stroll, Ace full on bolts.
A messy mop of ginger-red hair, swaying crazily in the otherwise calm spring breeze, Ace runs like he’s never run before. Not for basketball, not when the headmaster was chasing him down after he had accidentally set one of the Seven’s statues on fire.
His heart swells with remorse, pounding as the sensation of pumping blood rushes to his ears, reverberating within his head. Once close enough to the fading view of your back, his hands reach out, tugging you into his chest and stopping your escape dead in its tracks.
You struggle in his hold momentarily, squirming around like a drenched cat who just got unexpectedly hosed by its owner. If the windows weren’t blocking out all of the sound from outside, Deuce is sure he’d catch a few mean spirited jabs thrown his friend’s way by you too.
But when Ace buries into the crook of your neck with all the sincerity in the world, your anger dissipates softly and sweetly as you both sway in place under spring’s warmth.
Although hidden by his hair, Deuce knows that underneath, the tips of Ace’s ears are as vibrant as the roses in Heartslabyul’s gardens as he mumbles out an apology— a genuine one— into the soft skin of your neck, his eye makeup smeared along your collarbone in a messily scandalous smudge of crimson.
He even manages to look away politely when out of the corner of his eyes he sees you plant a kiss on Ace’s cheek, assuming that his friend’s apology was accepted graciously.
Deuce smiles to himself, shoulders relaxing once he finally realizes; it was never about whether or not you and Ace matched each other one to one, or were always on the same page together. It was never deliberate self sabotage on your end (though he won’t ever mention that joke to either of your faces).
You have a lot of patience for Ace Trappola, even for as much of a troublemaker he is— and Ace has a tremendous amount of love in his heart for you, love that encourages change in ways that Deuce never thought he’d see his friend accomplish.
Old habits die hard, but when Ace Trappola remembers the sight of your back disappearing further away from him, a sight he’d much rather not have to see again for as long as he lives, at least he’ll know you’re only a sprint away.
❤︎ fem!reader. fluff & comfort — sfw. childhood friends trope. kita is 2 years older than reader. reader cries easily. old draft i finished sorry, not rlly beta read haha… word count 2176 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ masterlist
At the ripe age of four years old you met him.
Or rather, he met you— hidden away in the tall field of sunflowers that surrounded your new home, crouched in the dirt with tears rolling down your cheeks.
From the tiny-tot toddler car seat you were once strapped in, looking through the glittering rain-drop covered car window, it felt like your new house stood tall and proud amongst the few acres of farm land and lush green fields, with colourful flowers bursting at each corner surrounding it.
When you were finally unbuckled and placed down on the dirt road, you asked your parents if you could venture out into the expansive field for just a second.
They, who were unpacking several boxes from the moving van, warned you to be careful. To not go too far in without them first.
Still, you took off running head first into the shrubs as your mother called out to you in a haste, ignoring her pleas as you indulged yourself carelessly in the newfound world of what felt like heaven, freedom and fresh air, where pollen danced all around you in a haze.
The leaves of the sunflowers tickled your exposed neck and arms as you frolicked about in glee, running further and further into the patch fueled by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
It wasn’t until you stopped momentarily to catch your breath, a bright smile on your face that slowly diminished when you soon realized that all you could see around you was yellow.
“. . . Mama?”
In a panic you began calling out for your parents after realizing you could no longer see the tiled rooftop of your house, running around aimlessly you yelled and screamed amongst the hauntingly striking golden flowers, their beauty mocking you in your aimless search.
Tall stalks of leafy stems and fields of bright yellow flowers clouded your view, obstructing the cloudy sky above as you knelt onto the rough dirt with tears beginning to well up in your eyes.
Voice hoarse with exhaustion and fatigue you felt your field of vision shrinking in on itself, the pretty sunflowers you admired from afar in the safety of your mother’s arms now seeming like they’d suffocate you.
The soft snap of a twig that echoed with the whistling of wind and rustles of sunflower leaves alerted you of another’s presence in the field— ears perking up instantly with a small glimmer of hope.
Wiping away at your puffy red eyes, managing barely to let a croaked out “Mama . . . ?” your head whipped around frantically, the sunflowers beginning to shake together in one direction as the footsteps drew nearer.
“Mama!”
From your tear stained vision you could barely make out a small hand no bigger than your own poking out from behind one of the larger leaves of a sunflower stalk, pushing the plant aside with a strong, forceful shove and revealing a head of white— along with the face of a young boy, a bit older than you were, dressed in a grey shirt with black shorts and boots carrying a pail full of dirt and bugs, dinky yellow shovel stuffed carefully inside the mound.
He looked at you with raised eyebrows and a face full of confusion and intrigue, clearly not expecting such a sight. It was evident you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.
Chest tightening and squeezing in on your ribcage, you meekly bowed your head to him.
“Uh— I’m sorry . . . ”
He set down his pail onto the ground beside him, the plastic wall and toy shovel inside hitting against each other with a rattle while still looking at you in startled silence.
“I just wanted to look at the pretty flowers . . .” You tearfully admitted to him in a fright, not even looking him in the eye as you wiped away the snot running down from your nose with the threadbare sleeves of your sweater.
“And I got lost . . .”
He waited a bit more before speaking, swiping away the dirt clinging to his hands the best he could before offering them to you, pulling you up onto your feet and dusting off your knees.
“Is your house the red one?”
The tufts of white hair appear to sprout from his head like soft clouds, the urge to touch them overwhelms you as your eyes trail down to the softening greyish-black ends of his hair.
“The red one with a black roof,” he later clarifies when you don’t respond, straightening up after he had cleaned you up.
“Yes,” you hesitantly reply, rolling the cuffs of your sleeves up and down nervously as his lips purse.
“Okay, come with me.”
He extends his hand out to you again, urging you to take it with a quick glance at the many rows of sunflowers in his path, firmly assuring you. “I know my way around the field, I can take you back.”
Nodding quickly you find your hand clasped in his as he begins leading you out of the suffocating space, the clacking of his pail against his bare legs every second while he pushes on through sunflowers with ease, periodically stopping to look around at his surroundings before changing directions.
“Your hand is grainy,” you mention quietly when he stops again at one point. He turns to face you with a raised brow.
“It is?”
You nod, swallowing a lump in your throat when he hums in admittance and continues walking.
“It’s from the dirt.”
His thumb digs under his fingernails by habit, flicking away the dirt from underneath.
“It’s also cold. And kind of wet.”
“. . . that’s also because of the dirt.”
“But I thought dirt is dry.”
“It is,” he sighs, a bit too deeply for someone of his age. “But my dirt is from the river, so it’s wet right now.”
“Why do you want wet dirt?”
“For my gran.”
“Why does she want wet dirt?”
He’s quiet for a moment, hand resting on a leaf before pulling it out of his reach. Loose pollen dusts above both of you, sparkling in the sun’s harsh afterglow.
“I don’t know,” he eventually admits with a shrug, and you both leave it at that, continuing to walk alongside one another in tranquil silence. The striking sounds of grass blades crunching beneath your shoes fills the air around you, with his tiny palm clasped safely in yours.
As if out of nowhere you begin to hear shouts of your name, your own cries now permeating the silence between the two of you.
“Mama!” you try to call out, dragging the boy through the flowers in a haste.
“Papa!”
He tugs your hand back harshly before you get too far away to be able to wander off again, distracted by the echoes of your name that can’t be easily deciphered from either direction you go.
“Don’t do that,” he warns softly, interlocking your fingers for a firmer grip as he takes the lead again and marches on. His hands are bigger than yours, and cold at first, but they eventually warm to the shape of your palms as the heat slowly seeps into your fingertips.
Like the sun coming out from the clouds after rain.
“You can get lost again, just follow me.”
Pouting, you yank on his arm, intending to steer him away from the chosen course. “But I heard my mama—” you begin to argue, though your pleas are cut short by the sudden tightening of his hand around yours, tugging you closer towards him as he irritatedly huffs, his pace increasing.
He manages to find his words eventually, without explicitly raising his voice towards you he grits out a “It’s dangerous to wander off in the fields” while you trudge not too far behind him.
Your throat clamps up at his noticeably irritated demeanor, and you feel yourself wanting to shrink away into the tall leaves of the expansive sunflower patch.
A soft-spoken “I’m sorry,” slips from your mouth, lips wobbling and shaky as you hold back a sniffle, and when the young boy looks over his shoulder behind him he notices tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, sparkling like the morning dewdrops he often finds on the leaves of his grandma’s garden in the early mornings.
You wipe the stray tears that have begun to roll down your cherub cheeks away with the ends of your fuzzy sweater, the scratchy fabric scraping against the thin skin of your eyelids, loose fibers fraying into the field.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”
Shinsuke Kita, aged six, had never needed to comfort another person before.
Normally, his gran had been the one to offer solace when he was upset, she wiped his tears away and held him in her arms for as long as needed, until his tears had dried up and he was dozing in-and-out of consciousness in her gentle hold.
An only child himself, who had no experience with kids younger than him, he thought that if he were ever in the scenario that he needed to offer warmth to another child, he would be at a loss for words— unable to bring any encouraging words to their ears as all his thoughts fell loose before they managed to escape his lips.
Even now, he doesn’t quite understand what he did to make the waterworks start up all over again.
But still, he crouches down beside you, knees planted in the dirt as he drops his tiny pail beside him.
“Stop saying that,” he sighs, eyes full of worry and concern laced in his tone.
Your flushed face lifts up from behind your hands, hiccuping. “Saying what . . . ?”
“That you’re sorry,” Shinsuke reaffirms.
“Why?” You stutter out, red eyes blinking away the remainder of the tears that are already beginning to dry up.
“Because there’s no need to be sorry.”
His face is hard to see through the gaps of your fingers, but a faint, warm smile is visible. His hand reaches out to your cheek, smearing away any lingering trace of the tears left behind.
“My gran told me that people should only say sorry when they’ve done something wrong.”
He stands up, taking your hand in his once more as he leads you through the field. You notice that he’s more attentive this time around as he tries to match your pace, rather than pulling you along behind him, eventually leading the two of you to walk alongside each other in silence.
“I’m not in trouble, am I?” you meekly squeak out after some time, shoulders slouched and head held low.
You pull at the loose fibres of your sweater again anxiously, unraveling it further as you faintly remember your parents telling you that your new house was situated next to another family, who had a kid around your age and who were the owners of most of the acres of field that you had been parading and fooling around in like it was yours.
It didn’t take much thought for you to finally connect the dots.
“I’m really sorry . . .”
Shinsuke Kita met a tender-hearted girl in a field of sunflowers while staying with his grandma over the summer in Hyōgo’s outskirts.
“You’re not in trouble,” he reassured you again. “I promise.”
Shinsuke Kita met you, sweet and easily excitable, with petals stuck to her hair and whose emotions were as flippant as the countryside’s rain, who clung to him tightly for guidance while he led you back to your new home.
As the black roof tiling of your house came into view and the desperately-relieved cries of your parents rang through your ears, Shinsuke leaned down and hugged you tight after you had been returned safely, letting your parents embrace you first before he had his turn.
His embrace was strong, and you had to tiptoe to hug him back with his taller stature— but the comfort you had felt with his hold was soon shattered as you cried yet again when he sadly bore the news, “I have to go back before it’s dark, or else gran will be worried.”
You didn’t want to let go of him; afraid that everything that happened today was just a dream, and that when he left, you’d be alone again— still stuck in the field of towering sunflowers all by yourself.
Eventually, you were ripped away from the boy by your father, who apologized to Shinsuke while you wailed louder. Teary-eyed, you hid behind your mother’s legs in the doorway as Shinsuke was thanked again by her for keeping you safe. “Please, come back anytime!” She had said to him before ruffling your hair, her thumb wiping away salty-tears.
“I think she’ll be happy to see you if you do.”
He walked down the stone-laden path of your barely paved driveway— and when he reached the end, he turned around and gave you a wave, one that you reciprocated with a hopeful wish that the sun would rise again sooner than normal.
“Gran will be happy to know you enjoyed playing in the sunflowers. Let’s play again tomorrow, okay?”
❤︎ fem!reader. fluff — sfw. florist!reader. implied older!reader (1-3 years older than suo). young love / first love. flower language. first meet (maybe hehe). suo is kinda cheeky i love him… open ended ending bcs there might be a part two! word count 3299 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ masterlist
20.03.
Scattered sunlight filters its way through the stained glass windows of the dinky flower shop, currently empty and tucked away in the far left end of Makochi’s shopping district’s main street, rainbow coloured shards illuminating the dimly lit establishment into tiny specters that faintly wander in their afterglow.
The sun’s rays are warm against your skin, merely feeling as if they were the heated palm of another’s, wrapped around your being in a gentle, loving embrace.
Your ears pick up the faint sounds of the shop’s door opening, the welcome bell stationed just above it dinging with a pleasant chime to signal the entry of a new customer.
The pots of hydrangeas that you previously gave your attention to are left on a rolling tray-top table as you attend to the newly arrived customer, rubbing any excess dirt left over from flowers on the front and sides of your apron. Some bits still manage to get under your fingernails despite that.
A polite smile is thrown his way as your footsteps settle just in front of him, putting comfortable distance between the two of you for customary purposes.
“Welcome,” You greet him politely, just as your parents have instructed you countless times before while gesturing around the store’s many selections of flowers for his viewing pleasure.
“Feel free to browse around or call for help if you have any questions.”
His expression doesn’t change that much. It’s calm and collected still, but he returns your greeting all the same as he gives you a smile back. His head bows quickly.
His actions are curt, but he seems pleased to be here.
You try not to let your stare linger on the black eyepatch covering his right eye, feeling that it might be rude to stare too long at such an accessory.
Instead your eyes find interest in his hair, kept neat and coloured a deep mauve red that glows a pretty auburn in the sunlight.
When his head turns, so do his tassel earrings in sync, twirling beside his face as he takes a preliminary glance at the entirety of the store’s stock.
They’re a hue of yellowish-gold, reminding you of golden-spun straw as they seemingly glow in tune with the rest of the shop’s ambiance, hanging from the most beautiful pair of coral gems you’ve ever laid eyes on.
You find your gaze peering downwards, ripping away from his earrings and trailing down to the green of his school uniform’s collar and cuffs that catches your eye.
There, clasped onto the edge of his collar is a silver emblem-embellished badge, the logo of the school being instantly recognizable to you.
Your eyes lift slightly in your momentary wonder, and a quiet “Furin high?” slips past your lips softly, barely above a whisper— yet his ears manage to pick it up when you hear a faint chuckle from him not long after, the clinking of his tasseled earrings’ gems shaking as he laughs.
Though when your eyes meet again, his face has settled back into that same serene smile he had on when he came in, but maybe a little more amused this time.
A flush of warmth spreads on the back of your neck at that.
You vaguely recall Furin students coming by to your shop a few days prior to assist after a rival gang had broken some of the shop’s crates and signage, your remembrance only due to your parents' recollection as you were busy at the cash register instead of on the floor while they tended to the students’ needs, not entirely recognizing the boy in front of you now— even though the glint in his eyes makes you believe he may have recognized you from somewhere before.
He keeps his hands placed behind his back, and you snort internally at the thought that his demeanour is very much like the grandpas that like to come in and browse the store during weekends. He’s also surprisingly empty handed.
“Thank you.”
You find that his voice is quite gentle, a stark contrast to the other Furin students you’ve had encounters with in the past, being loud and boisterous.
Him being empty handed isn’t a big deal either, as there are many customers who prefer to window shop on the weekdays. And some simply like to take their time choosing in advance before coming back a week later with the necessary recommendations by yours truly.
“I’ll be sure to let you know if I find anything that interests me.”
You step away to let him wander on his own terms, gaze lingering on the back of his figure for a moment longer before approaching the plants you were caring for earlier again.
He seems to know what he wants to check out, there’d be no point in hounding him around the store anyways.
You pick up the ceramic pot again, careful to not shift the roots already implanted in the dirt inside. Your hands spin it around to admire the blooming flowers inside— the hydrangeas this time of the year are especially vibrant in their colour schemes, blossoming brilliant reds and dazzling purples, with dreamy midtone pinks scattered about.
Humming quietly to yourself, you crouch closer to the petals of one of the potted plants. Squinting carefully and inspecting the petals as you take a few in your hands with gentle caution, making sure not to apply too much pressure on the flower itself.
‘This one needs more water,’ you conclude after a few moments of introspection, your thumb rubbing against the rough, dehydrated surface of the petal.
The spray bottle situated in your apron’s pocket swishes about, filled halfway. A few light rounds of spritzed water onto the flowers and directly into the soil itself is all the plant needs.
The soil turns dark as the water absorbs well into the roots, and the droplets left on the surface of the petals are akin to morning dew as their edges sparkle in the sunlight.
‘That should do nicely.’
You shift your attention to other plants in your little corner of the store, making a mental checklist of all the chores your parents have entrusted you with today as you count on your fingers all of the tasks you plan to complete by the end of your shift.
‘Repotting the camellias, displaying the shipment of new soil bags, restocking the fertilizer . . .’
“Excuse me?”
You jump back slightly at the sight of the boy you greeted not even two minutes ago now beside you once again in one of the narrow pathways of the store, attempting to recollect yourself in a moment’s instance.
‘How did he manage to sneak up on you like that?’
You notice that his eyes (or, eye singular) are brighter this time, and he holds a white vase filled with vibrantly coloured lilacs blooming inside.
He motions to the flowers in hand with the same pretty, closed-eye smile on his face as before.
“I had a question about these flowers.”
“Oh— uhm, Yes?” Your voice comes out in stutters as you blink owlishly at him, stepping backwards to widen the gap between your bodies until you accidentally back up against one of the glass shelves full of gardening equipment.
It shakes momentarily as you rush to stabilize it, holding one of the steel legs down with your hand as the boy unexpectedly rushes to your aid— setting down his own items and gripping the other side of the shelf.
The ceramic pots and vases on the shelves scratch against the glass surface, screeching like nails on a chalkboard as you carefully reach up to push the ones that have fallen further towards the edge back to the center of the pane.
You hop onto your tippy toes, the pads of your fingertips brushing against the smooth bottom of one of the pots as you try to maneuver it backwards, though without the stepstool in your reach it’s much harder.
Wordlessly the boy helps you without question, gaze bouncing between your hand and the potted plants before he reaches up beside you and pushes their pots back into place carefully, your knuckles brushing lightly against one another as the shelves slow their rocking, eventually stabilizing thanks to his aid.
Your hand reels back to your side as soon as you’re confident none of the pots will fall and crack open, spilling dirt and plant roots all over your freshly mopped floor, before shyly turning back to the boy again as your thumping heart beat slowly staggers back to its usual levels.
“Thank you . . .” you swallow the lump in your throat, trying to avoid meeting his gaze, embarrassed that he had to witness such a spectacle of your (in)capabilities that he managed to handle with ease. If he really is a Furin high student though, it was to be expected he could handle something this simple.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures without any temperance, simply picking his flowers up again as he glances back at the shelves once more.
“It was a good thing those heavy pots didn’t fall on you,” he notes, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I’d recommend switching out the glass for metal, the glass could easily shatter under the weight of all these plants.”
You agree with his words, making another mental note to tell your parents to purchase more structurally sound shelves next time they’re at the department store when his eyes light up.
“Ah yes, how could I forget what I originally came over here for?” With another quiet chuckle he gestures to the plant in hand.
“Would you mind telling me what these flowers represent?”
“Hm?”
Though that’s not a completely absurd question, it’s one that can be easily solved by a simple google search on his phone. You find it funny that he’d rather have it explained to him by a store employee who nearly split her head open in front of him due to her own incompetence.
You gesture to the flowers in his grasp, silently asking him to bring them closer for your inspection.
He obliges without question, handing them over and letting you check them over.
“Lilacs, syringa vulgaris . . .” The scientific name of the flower rolls off your tongue with ease, beautiful to his ears as he watches you think over their symbolism while snapping your fingers deep in thought, trying to remember.
“Uhm . . . oh! They mean ‘newly sprouted love’.”
You hand the vase back to him, and he holds it close to his chest, quietly nodding along as you continue your explanation.
“They’re sort of seen as a symbol for first love in some cases, I guess, since they’re associated with the ancient Greek mythos of Pan and the nymph Syringa.”
“Oh? I’ve never heard of that story before.” He comments, dipping his face into the shrub to take a whiff of their scent. A pleasant smile appears on his lips as he breathes it in.
“Syringa was a nymph in ancient Greece who was being pursued by the god Pan,” you tell him.
“But she had sworn to remain a virgin because she worshipped the goddess Artemis. She ran to a river to escape from him, where she asked for help from the river nymphs, who are said to have transformed her into lilac flowers.”
He hums in thought at your explanation, mulling over your words carefully as he picks up one of the flowers inside, twirling it between his fingertips, being careful to ensure he doesn’t snag against one of its thorns.
“I see,” he smiles again before meeting your gaze.
“That’s quite the story, I’ll say.”
You chuckle a bit, leaning on the edge of a flower pot filled counter. “I know, it’s a bit crazy isn’t it? Greek mythology is so interesting!”
The young man nods. “The legend behind the meaning is a bit bleak to represent first love though, I’ll say. Since Pan never had his love reciprocated by Syringa.”
“It’s not all sad, though,” you reassure him.
“Lilacs are among the first flowers that bloom during the spring, so people associate them with the warm season. I guess that’s why they go so well with young love, too.”
“The refreshing youth of a first love is one that cannot be rivalled,” he sighs without missing a beat.
“Yeah,” you gleam, a hazy, dreamlike-serenity filling your eyes in pure bliss.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The warmth that comes with spring coupled with having a blossoming crush, it’s like something out of a fairytale.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, again holding out the lilacs to you.
“Would you please ring these up for me, then? I’d like to purchase them.”
You gladly accept the vase from him. “Of course,” as you walk over to the register at the back of the store. He follows behind you diligently, pace matching yours.
A faint scent of brewed tea leaves stuck to his uniform lingers in the air.
It’s pleasant.
Setting the flowers on the counter with careful consideration, you open a drawer from underneath— one filled with sheets of cellophane and parchment paper, along with several colourful spools of ribbon and lace.
Remembering the customer service script your parents had drilled into your head several times every morning, you ask him, “Would you like these wrapped in a bouquet?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
“Perfect!” You hum, “And what colour would you like for the ribbon?”
A few rolls are set on the countertop for him to pick his choosing of while you ask him what material he’d like the bouquet to be wrapped in.
“Cellophane, please,” he decides, giving you another pleased smile. He scans over the various ribbons for a moment, deep in thought as you grab a few sheets of cellophane before he meets your eyes once more.
The way his tassel earrings move when his head turns is reminiscent of a wind chime, Makochi’s staple. The golden threading of them makes you wonder if they were really gold, would they tinkle the same way as real fūrin’s do, producing the pleasant music that made one yearn for summer and spring.
You can’t turn your gaze away from them— they’re beautiful.
He, is beautiful.
“The ribbon can be any colour you decide is the prettiest.”
Your back stiffens up at his words, caught off guard while lost in thought.
He chuckles at the apprehension that sets on your face, “I’m not a picky person,” he reassures you.
“Please, pick whichever is your favourite.”
His insistence makes you stammer. “Oh, alright,” you breathe out, a giddy sense of relief and warmth washing over you like the early hours of a sunrise.
You feel so honoured that a customer entrusts your taste so much as to choose the colour of ribbon that suits his bouquet the best.
Throughout your time working in the store, watching and studying the interactions your parents have with other customers— you find that most have a very specific vision in mind when coming into the store, one that they rarely stray from.
And considering the thought he put into choosing the flowers as to even inquire about their meaning and origin, it must be because they’re for someone special to him— Someone dear to his heart.
‘I won’t disappoint him!’
You cut a long strip of ribbon that you decide will match the lilacs from the spool and wrap it around the bunch of flowers carefully— a quiet atmosphere settling over the shop as the only sounds that ring through are crinkles of cellophane, the snip of scissors and thwips of tape.
Despite all your mother’s classes on teaching you how to wrap the perfect bouquet ribbon, you imagine that the one that you manage to procure right now would not be up to her snuff. You’re hopeful that the inconsistencies of your inexperience are hidden with a few well-thought out tape strips.
“Here you go, sir.”
Proudly, you hand over the finished bouquet to him. He cradles it gently in his arms so as to not harm the lilacs, inspecting it with a satisfied look to him.
“Thank you very much,” from inside his uniform’s pocket, he pulls out a small coin purse. The sight of him handling it is sort of cute in your eyes, now he really does remind you of the grandpas who come by the store often.
He opens it with diligent care, “How much for the bouquet?”
“2200 yen,” you inform him, waiting patiently as he takes out a few bills and coins.
You stretch your hands out to receive the money when he instead grabs your wrist gently, opening your hand flat and pressing them securely into your palm.
From what you heard of the students at Furin High and the kinds of acts they get up to, you expected his hands to feel rough or calloused. But instead they’re soft, and smooth. Well taken care of.
Once done, he folds your hand closed again for you before smiling back up at you.
An act that feels innately intimate.
There’s a hint of a devilish glint in his eye from his actions towards you, and you stammer through the rest of the interaction as you finish ringing him up.
‘This guy is . . .’
To your luck, the usually slow machine prints his receipt quickly, and you hastily thrust it into his hands in your flustered state.
“Have a good day, sir,” you bow, mustering up the little strength you have left in your bones from the whole ordeal.
Hayato doesn’t move an inch though; even as you straighten up again you find that his feet remain firmly planted in place, standing right in front of you still, bouquet in hand.
His face is unchanging, as calm and serene as he’s been throughout you knowing him.
The back of your throat runs dry. ‘Is something wrong with the order? Oh no . . .’
To your horror, he hands the flowers back to you.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You begin to apologize profusely, accepting the bouquet again from his arms. “Was there anything you didn’t like that you wanted to change?”
“No,” he affirms. “I’m very satisfied with my purchase.”
“Did you want to change the wrapping material or ribbon?”
“No,” he insists again, the ends of his lips curling up into a knowing smirk.
“It’s a beautiful bouquet, just what I envisioned.”
“Then why—”
“Today is the first morning of spring, correct?”
Taken aback by his sudden interruption, you nod, unsure of where this is going.
“Yes . . . yes, that’s right.”
He hums, satisfied with your answer.
“Then please, accept these flowers from me.”
Hayato asserts once more, drinking your frozen stare in quiet glee. The way your mouth opens and closes with no words managing to escape while you clutch the bouquet in your arms, trying to figure out his motives.
It’s all too cute to him.
Oh well, you’re sure to connect the dots eventually he thinks.
Without warning he turns on his heel, briskly making his way back to the entrance of the store despite the shocked, desperate calls from you for him to come back and explain himself.
“Wait, sir! Your bouquet . . . ! Are you returning it? Oh wait, you forgot to take your money back too!—”
The bell above the door chimes open once more as he opens it, a tune you’re so used to hearing by now that feels lighter than before.
The tinkling sounds of spring’s coming days, carried by the wind as a season of love settles over the city of Makochi.
“I’ll come back in a few days,” he cheekily warns you before the door closes shut, a teasing lit to his tone that sends warmth rushing down to your fingertips.
“So let me study up on some floriography first before then, okay?”
