The Swan.

The Swan.

Yan Feitan x F Reader.

Synopsis: You can’t believe your eyes. He came back for you, or you at least think that is him, from the silhouette of the shadow coming down the stairs.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence/some gore, kidnapping, a mention or two of Chr*llo, implied body transformation (not on the reader), implied cannibalism, minor character death, and manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Psycho by Mia Rodriguez

Enjoy the Silence - 2006 Remaster by Depeche Mode

First Love/Late Spring by Mitski

Twisted by MISSIO

Oblivion by Grimes

Chasing It Down by Mother Mother

Killshot by Magdalena Bay

Bernadette by IAMX

Bad Things by Cults

Mastermind by Mindless Self Indulgence 

“The healthy man does not torture others.” – Carl Jung

*~*~*~*

The machete in your hands, underneath the cold running water of the sink’s faucet, looked like an amalgamation of silver coins or chains glued together and attached to a metal pole. You would have thought as much too, if the man looking over your shoulder was not there, if your glasses hadn't been shattered on the ground by his boot. He would make you clean the mess up later most likely, with a dustpan and broom you could hardly see regardless of whether it was night or day. He always made you clean up around here in some way, this moment you somewhat expected because of that, but you hadn’t because there was blood on it.

Even though it was so dark, because it was nighttime and your captor hadn’t bothered buying any sort of lamp or another possible source of light, you could still clearly see the crimson combining with the clear water and soon fading away into the drain. He made you touch it too, so you could clean it properly.

The blood was so much stickier and thicker than the water, so much warmer, with a smell that lingered in the air, and little droplets of it clinging to the very walls of the sink, desperate to not dissolve.

Feitan didn’t kill whatever poor unfortunate soul was locked in the basement in front of you. You suppose that was somewhat a mercy on his part. But the blood on the machete was still fresh and not dried up, as was the blood on his jacket. The sight of him coming up the stairs, the large blade behind him thumping with every step and staining the rotting wood, is a sight you will never forget.

“Make sure it is fully clean.”

The way he spoke made you jump a bit, leaving something akin to a snicker leaving his covered mouth. He never talked really to you, only communicating with a hmph here and a swift pull of your ear there. If you were disobedient he would usually break a finger or slam your head against the wall until there were bruises all over your face. Him breaking your glasses, though, was something that you did not expect. Perhaps you were sort of asking for it because no successful escape results from trying to poison a captor with a lethal amount of sedatives when it was clear the captor in question was beyond anything human.

The mug of watery black coffee was still in the back of the so-called kitchen, cracked open from Feitan throwing it onto the table in a fit of absolute rage. 

Maybe you should have thought first as to whether or not he would have noticed that his medical cabinet was broken into because you didn’t lock it back up.

He hurled insults at you, deeming you foolish, before striding towards you with haste. 

In a swift motion, he snatched your spectacles from your face and forcefully discarded them onto the ground. He then proceeded to ruthlessly trample upon them. In countless ways, you were his complete antithesis. Spontaneous, driven by emotions... utterly vulnerable. On most days, you obediently abide by instructions, rarely daring to challenge them. Or, at least, you have learned not to, the lesson of absolute submission was drilled into you faster than any hammer or screwdriver would.

You inquire with a tone of utmost innocence, or at least with the greatest semblance of innocence that you can summon.

You still hold onto hope that Robert will come back for you, with police or weapons or at least a concrete escape plan. Even if Feitan’s movements and behavior were far from any ordinary human, surely a bullet to the head would still be enough to kill him or be enough to restrain him.

It's hard to decide which is more disheartening: the ceaseless anticipation and longing for even the slightest indication of Robert's return to save you, despite the passing months, or Feitan's relentless assurance that nobody will come to your aid.

There is still a cuff on your ankle, a reminder of the chain in the basement from many moons ago. It took a lot of work, but you finally got out of there after earning yourself a stool to sit on, warm microwaved dinners instead of frozen ones, and once even a book. Stephen King's Misery, the irony not lost to you, the pages slightly wet when it was first given to you, as well as the signature on the front of the cover.

Anastasia Tayegg, it said, though the ink was bleeding out and making the white as snow page a burnt silver. The book, the air, everything, is thick with the stench of decay and sewage, it lingers in your nose and clings to your throat. The foul odor is acrid, sharp, and overpowering, overwhelming all other senses. It creates a thick atmosphere in the air, something that is almost tangible in its potency. It is a sickening smell that clings to the nostrils and coats the throat in a foul film. The smell is rancid and vile, something that causes an instant reaction of disgust and revulsion. 

*~*~*~*

It is dark and dingy, with only the faintest gleam of light that seeps in through the tiny little cracks of the shattered glass lantern attached to the ceiling. The walls are thick and damp, and the stone that composes them is cold and damp to the touch. The room is filled with a musty scent of mold and rot, a combination of dampness and decay. The air is stagnant and the place feels very claustrophobic. The air seems to shimmer from the moisture that hands in it and it seems like a very quiet and very dead place.

At least it would have been very quiet and very dead, if not for the rotting corpses in the chairs, the blood that stained the walls and floor, and your quickened, panicked breaths, cries, and talks you have with yourself. The talks are about anything; your former life, Robert, water… you would talk about anything if it meant you weren’t alone with your thoughts and your mind.

The once shiny links of the chains on your wrists have now lost their brilliance and luster and are coated with a thick layer of rust which has seeped through between the metal links, causing them to grow stiff and rigid. They no longer move freely across the flesh that holds them captive, and they dig into the flesh, causing the pain to radiate deep into the body. The chains are heavy and the rust acts like sandpaper and chafes at your wrists.

Your hands have been bound and have been trapped for what feels like ages and the skin around the wrists has turned red and inflamed. The air is damp and heavy, a thick layer of stagnant moisture that has settled around you; your throat is dry, and your stomach is hollow. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in what feels like forever. You are alone and in pain, your hands bound and the cold metal cuffs digging into your wrists, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly into the dark around you and just hope and pray that Robert will come back for you.

As you stare blankly into the dark, a single tear slides down your cheek. You can’t help but let the fear and desperation flow through you. With every passing second, you grow more and more afraid for yourself and for Robert, desperately wishing he would come back for you.

As the moments stretch to hours, you begin to fret over the idea that something may have happened to Robert, desperately praying that he returns, and soon. He is the only thing keeping your spirits alive and the reason for you to keep going. It is hard to stay hopeful, but you don’t give up on Robert, his strength and bravery are what keep you going. Despite your leg being infected and all the pain you are going through, you are praying and hoping he returns and comes to save you.

You know that he will do anything and everything he can to get you out of this place, out of this hell.

You trust him, you know that he can and will do it. You just need to hold on a little while longer, just a little bit more patience, and he will come for you. The only reason he didn’t bring you with him is just because of your leg, right?

You hear someone coming down the stairs, slowly, growing louder with each step. They seem impossibly loud and echoey in the cold damp air, and the rustling sound of clothing scraping along the walls seems to amplify the sound tenfold. 

It seems like the footsteps are taking forever, and that they are just getting louder and closer, as if whoever or whatever is coming is dragging their feet with every step, making it that much more intense. But you know who is coming down, the only one you ever see alive anymore, down here, in the dark. You are not scared of being alone, not anymore, you are scared of having unwanted company.

The man who locked you and Robert down here, after you two begged him for shelter from the rain, without even really using his strength. 

The man has a face reminiscent of a demon’s. His wide grin is filled with malice and cruelty, with sharp teeth that seem more like fangs. His narrow eyes are cold and predatory, always analyzing and always scanning his surroundings, you most of all, for your horrified facial expressions. He moves with a natural grace and an easy, casual manner, but under that exterior is a terrifying presence and a ruthless personality that is not afraid to kill or hurt someone without a second’s hesitation. The cuts and bruises all over your body are concrete proof of the latter.

“Perhaps there is still some use for you.” He steps closer, on the cracks of the floor below. “I don’t mind having an assistant.”

*~*~*~*

Ever since Feitan claimed you as his “assistant,” he imparted numerous teachings upon you. Among them, you discovered that the human body possesses an astonishing resilience, enduring unimaginable pain without succumbing to death. Even those who are deprived of limbs, eyes, and tongues persist, their existence marked by incessant torment, their pleas for respite falling on deaf ears. Regrettably, mercy is simply not within his repertoire. But something you have learned more than anything is that Feitan has made you a murderer.

Sometimes you were the one that did the finishing blow, with blood-soaked, shivering hands. Feitan seemed happy then, patting you on the head as a reward for a job well done. An act of fondness. Sometimes you told yourself it was for the better good, because to disobey Feitan meant a fate akin to a death sentence. Sometimes you told yourself that you had no choice and that your body may as well be a puppet on a string. 

Both things you told yourself were bad enough and simply brought worse things in you. You are just like him at the end of it all.

You almost like killing them. You almost like killing them because for the first time in months or years or however long you have been held captive in that basement, you feel the presence of power.

You are both repulsed by the reality of it and also thrilled by the sense of control it gives you. The feeling of power and control is intoxicating, an adrenaline rush that you never expected, and yet it seems to call to you all the same. It is a thrill to you like you have never known, akin to nothing you have ever experienced before. It is a twisted sense of pleasure and satisfaction you get by taking the life of someone else, and yet you cannot help but feel guilt for that same pleasure.

What would Robert think?

…

The dinner table is set up with the most care you think Feitan could ever show to an inanimate object that was not his knives or swords. Not that it was ever used in the first place, as you usually ate alone in your bare-bones room, the only place where you sometimes had any privacy. There were a few napkins and a water bottle in front of you, with Feitan’s side having the same. The difference was while you had plastic utensils, your captor had real, metal ones. If you didn’t know better by now, you would have been tempted to take his knife and stab it into his jugular. But you do know better now, so you don’t try to do such a foolish thing anymore. You would not get far anyway. In the end, maybe you would be the one who gets hurt. That is what usually happens anyway, whenever you act out of line. 

“Well? Does it look okay?” Feitan asks, his eyes gesturing towards something in the center of the table, something that looks like a larger rotisserie chicken in a bed of plastic and aluminum foil. Steam comes out of it along with the smell of cooked poultry. You wonder where Feitan got it from because he certainly does not know how to cook if the microwave dinners and chips you are always given mean anything. Not that you would say anything about it. You would rather not get on your captor’s bad side, his temper was already as explosive as it was. You were just happy to finally be eating something new for once.

“Yeah.”

“Which part do you want?” At his seemingly normal question, you point to the breast. You always liked that type of meat over thighs and drumsticks because they have much less fat. Much more delicious, in your opinion. “Hmm. Why?” 

Of course, you have to explain yourself. There is never a moment when you don’t have to. Whether that would be what your favorite vegetable is to why you dislike bugs. He once put a centipede on your forehead as you slept and you screamed as loud as the people Feitan tortured in the cellar. 

“Less fat and less likely to fall apart completely.” 

Seemingly pleased with your answer, he grabs his knife and starts cutting, soon placing a large piece on your paper plate. He hated doing dishes, and so you always were forced to do them. As much as Feitan loves getting his hands dirty with organs and blood, soaked bread crumbs were too much for him. You kind of found it funny. Not that you would ever tell him, you don’t want to be hit in the head and called stupid again. 

“Enjoy your food.” It sounded sort of like a threat, like an order to enjoy this moment as much as you can. You would prefer anything to microwaved pudding mixed with dethawed that was reminiscent of a forbidden fifth state of matter, more unholy than plasma. 

So, you do.

“How is it?” Feitan is simply poking at his plate, it was ironic since whenever you refused to eat he called you ungrateful and threw you in the basement for an hour or two. 

“Good.” You don’t know if his smile widening was a good or bad thing.

“I got it from a friend.”

“That’s… nice.”

“He helped me hunt him down himself.”

He?

You accidentally drop your fork onto the floor, the sound making you jump slightly. You bend down to pick it up, as you do not want Feitan to throw your plate out for making a mess again. 

…It is best not to think about it too much. 

Nobody can write better than you do.

OMG THANK YOU!! i sure as hell still have a lot to work on when it comes to writing, but i am glad that you like my posts 😭 hopefully in the future i can improve, after all there is always something new to learn!

compliments always get me, whether in person or otherwise. there is just something so heartwarming about hearing or reading something about you (in a positive way of course), makes my heart do literal backflips for joy. thank you again! <333

Numb to the Feeling.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: Counting down the minutes until the new year starts with your captor is as fun as you expected.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, and some not SFW implications.

Word Count: 550.

*~*~*~*

“You should learn to indulge yourself every once in a while, dearest.”

“Perhaps you should learn to not do so very often.”

The devil incarnate simply puts down your still-full glass of wine on the table where it was originally placed by him an hour prior. Every time he tries to convince you to take a sip, you attempt to scurry off, but every successful attempt comes to an end when Chrollo either pats the seat beside him on the couch, you ask him a question, or he asks you. Most of the time it is the first or third possibility, but a few times tonight it was you who sparked conversations.

But each time the smirk on his face appears like a demon summoned from a bloody ritual, you reconsider ever opening your mouth.

“You only live once.”

“Is your life really a concern of mine?” You mutter. “I don’t care where you go. Hell, heaven, the Underworld, the bottom of the ocean, or an empty pit, it does not matter.”

“That was not what I meant.” Chrollo chuckles, putting one of his legs over the other.

“I don’t care. As long as I tell the truth, I should be rewarded and not scolded.”

You do not speak with him for about a minute, a new record of Chrollo being quiet for once. You begin to calm down when his voice grates your ears once more.

“If that is what you think, then shouldn’t I be rewarded for providing sweet nothings to you every morning? Even though they are not necessarily what you want to hear, they are indeed the truth, [First].” The anticipation of a partially peaceful night spent somewhat eagerly awaiting the dawn of a new year, fades away as his hand delicately rests upon the silky surface of one of your thighs, prompting an ungraceful squeal to escape your lips. “It would be horrible if you choose to be a hypocrite and not give me due compensation for all the time I spend with you.”

“Shut up, will you–”

Once more, a small sound escapes you as he tightens his grip on your thigh, this time with greater intensity. His gaze shifts to the television, where the countdown clock displays a mere sixty seconds until the dawn of the new year. The screen depicts a bustling crowd surrounding a towering structure, eagerly anticipating the descent of a ball accompanied by cascading confetti. Amidst this scene, you wonder: are your loved ones among those faces, or do they persist in their search for you, even after the passage of countless moments?

Although his smile, with its undeniable charm, is directed at you again, it lacks any trace of benevolence. “I want a kiss when the countdown reaches zero as a celebratory gift.”

With a piercing gaze, you await his response, yet he wastes no time in reminding you of his menacing promise.

As he inches closer, you instinctively retreat, yet the couch's armrest halts your further retreat.

“After all, I was so kind as to give you your television privileges back… perhaps if you give me more than a kiss, you can win back some others.”

The relentless march toward zero in the countdown is reminiscent of the descent of a guillotine's blade.

The Other Side Of Paradise.

Makima x F Reader.

Synopsis: Makima has grown on you like a parasite, minus the grossness. You think you have grown on her too.

Warnings: Slightly unhealthy relationships because, uh, you know, Makima.

Word Count: 1.5k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lilith by Ellise

she calls me daddy by KiNG MALA

Strawberry Blond by Mitski

Butch 4 Butch by Rio Romeo

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

Everybody Loves Me by OneRepublic

How I’d Kill by Cowboy Malfoy

Kiss Of Fire by Georgia Gibbs

Sex with a Ghost by Teddy Hyde

Rule #4 - Fish in a Birdcage by Fish in a Birdcage

You don’t think she is the same as when you first met her.

You don’t think she is the same as when you first met her, because her body always faces you regardless of the situation. Whenever she visits you at your apartment, sitting on your couch while watching television, she is more often than not closer to you than she would perhaps admit. Her arms and legs are usually uncrossed too, though anyone could argue that she never does with anyone; co-worker or friend. 

You fidget when she gets lunch with you or some other activity that is supposed to be calming towards those involved. It’s embarrassing whenever you think back on it; thinking about how you shifted in your seat a bit too much that you fell over onto the grass, the shame burning into your memory whenever you try to go to sleep. 

You know you aren’t the same as when you first met her.

But has she? You hope so because you plan to confess to her today. It’s Valentine’s Day after all, and you think that there couldn’t be a better time to do so. The only thing you hate about Makima now is how difficult she is to read, especially in the workplace. It’s an improvement, you think, because you used to think much less of her. You most likely will never be able to tell if Makima found your once hateful feelings towards her amusing, pathetic, or didn’t even realize it at all. 

Maybe it is a good thing though, because ignorance is bliss.

This both fuels and puts out the flames of your fears of rejection, like water mixed with gasoline.

The sound of Makima’s phone ringing only gets louder with every step you take towards her office. “Tsk. Troublesome.”

You take note of her slightly frustrated expression as she puts her phone on silent and places it face-down on her desk. “Um, hi Miss Makima.”

“Hello, Miss [Last].” You used to say her name with such passive aggression, envious that you will never be a director of public safety yourself and can only be an assistant to one. She, however, says your last name as she always has; with a calm and neutral tone. “Happy Valentine’s Day. You look nice.”

“T-Thank you.”

Her eyes smile more than her lips do. “I mean it.”

“Really?”

Every time Makima nods her head with a for once readable expression, you could swear that your pulse rate shoots up. 

The proof is in how blood rushes to your cheeks, making you blush and turn away.

“Really. You are beautiful, Miss [First].”

You feel lightheaded, the amount of sanguine fluid moving to your head being heavy enough to almost make you fall forward and fall straight onto your face. “T-Thanks. You too.”

As you turn away from her and look at the gift piles next to Makima’s desk, so does she. There are at least ten bouquets and at least twenty small other presents. A large teddy bear too, is hidden beneath it all with only its face showing fully. Makima has never been short of admirers, another reason why you used to always be so jealous of her.

“Since it’s Valentine’s Day,” you mutter. “I just wanted to give you this.”

In your right hand is a gift bag with a few huskies on it. 

Makima had mentioned that that was her favorite kind of dog to you before, and you archived the memory for later reference.

She leans forward and her fingers wrap around the string handle, pulling it towards her gently. “Oh, thank you. I have something for you too.”

You don’t know how it is possible, but you can sense your cheeks getting even redder. Even though you aren’t looking at her, you can sense her amusement based on her humming alone. Inside the bag is a box of dark chocolate truffles of a brand you both like as well as a framed photo of you two together. It probably isn’t the most original gift she has gotten today though, and that makes your stomach aches worsen from the anxiety.

“You didn’t have to give me anything, Miss Makima.” You smile only faintly. 

“Then why did you give me something?” She asks, her tone slightly teasing, and you want to scream into your pillow tonight as compensation for your awkwardness. As a response to her question, you start stuttering out excuses one word at a time before restarting, over and over again.

I just thought you’d like these, you wanted to say, but emotion is taking over your ability to speak.

She waltzes over to her desk like a slow dancer, her movements much more elegant than yours ever could, would, and will be.

As if your heart was a drum, it beats in an irregular rhythm. 

Bum bum, thump thump, dun dun.

She crouches down, curling her knees and putting a hand on her chin as her other hand opens the cabinet beside her desk. She takes three books out in total. Crime and Punishment. The Metamorphosis. I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream. All of these books you have mentioned to her before on one occasion or another, that now is leaving you genuinely touched by her present actions.

She leaves you feeling warm, a feeling you don’t think you have felt for anyone else.

“If I remember correctly, these were some of the books you have mentioned wanting to read in person, correct?” At the sight of your head bobbing up and down with pure and unfiltered delight with a mmhmm leaving your throat, she in turn finally allows her lips to move upward. No longer is the smile she wears cordial–instead it is bright like fireflies in summer, her eyes being the very sun itself.

It is a sight you will never forget, its beauty is too mesmerizing to be left out of your core memories. “I can’t believe you remembered that I wanted those.”

There is a chuckle that leaves her mouth that threatens to sweep you off your feet. 

Her fingers graze against yours as she hands you the novels. They are softer than yours, cleaner. 

“Well, believe it then.”

“I-I will.”

“Good,” She says, the praise only makes your face that much more hot. It feels like you are in a dream sweeter than cotton candy and just as soft as it. If this is a figment of your imagination, you would much rather stay in it for the rest of your life. “You’re quite adorable, blushing like that.”

She receives a gaze from you that can only be defined as being captivated by her stardom. “I-I gotta ask you something if you don’t mind.”

Her grin widens with each stumble of your speech.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you doing something after work tonight?”

For a brief moment, she rests her chin in her hand and lets out a thoughtful hum. Her gaze shifts towards the ceiling as she ponders whether any post-work plans are awaiting her today. After what feels like an eternity, she shakes her head. “I am not, why?”

“Oh, well…” You pause for a second, looking down to try to somewhat cover your embarrassment. When you finally work up the courage to speak again, you sound hopeful. “You know how it’s Valentine’s Day today?”

She nods in turn, acknowledging the obvious. “It is indeed.”

“Uh, I was wondering…” You pause again and try to focus on your shoes instead of your stuttering words. “Would you want to, you know, go out or something?” As you both lock eyes in silence, a surge of determination prompts you to expand your inquiry while assuming a more upright stance. “If you’re not doing anything, of course.”

Once more, her lips curl into a smile and she affirms with a subtle nod. “Sure. But Miss [Last], is this a romantic date?”

Your face flushes, betraying your hidden desire for this outing to be more than just a casual hangout. Despite your efforts to conceal it, deep down, you know she can sense your longing for it to be a date instead. 

“Er, yes,” you finally say, the ends of your shoes rubbing against one another as you fiddle with your fingers. You hate how awkward you can be, especially with Makima. “I was hoping it could be… a romantic date.”

Once more, her laughter echoes as you stumble over your words, and you brace yourself for the impending disaster. Anticipating her rejection, you find solace in the darkness behind closed eyelids, fully aware that this could lead to your demotion.

“Then it shall be. I’ll pick you up.”

You don’t process her words at first. You are still preparing for the carpet to be pulled from underneath your feet and for you to be ridiculed. But that never comes, because after a few more seconds of silence, you open your eyes to see that Makima’s cheeks are light pink, barely noticeable.

“R-Really?”

“I mean it.” 

You know that she does, and that makes your heart flutter like a bird.

Never have I ever met someone who writes such long chapters

It's a pain to read it all on one go but it's so worth it

literally me, just writing like i am writing out of time. 🫠 i write at light speed tbh, both on paper or on tech. my hands usually hurt when all of it is said and done, but my brain is way too energetic so i withstand the pain to clickity clack on my silly little fics. the many notebooks i have on my bookshelf/in my room is proof that i indeed never get writer’s block… for better or worse, i am a warrior.

New Dawn.

Scaramouche x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Kuni brews tea.

Word Count: 700.

inspired by this concept by @ddarker-dreams <3

*~*~*~*

“Hello? Teyvat to Kuni? I repeat, Teyvat to Kuni?” He keeps grimacing in the corner of the kitchen with his arms crossed. His scowl only deepens and he points to the crime. A bowl of sugarcubes beside your freshly brewed cup of tea.

You guess you’re a criminal now in his world.

“Teyvat to Kuni this, Teyvat to Kuni that, you know why I am mad at you, you little sh-”

“Hey, language. You know I like my drinks sweet.”

He jumped up from his wooden stool when you put a few cubes in like you had just set the table on fire, running to hide from the utterly horrifying scene.

“So?” He responds, stomping his foot down with a huff and puff. “This is an insult, [First]; an insult to me, the tea kettle, the water, the fire, the cultivators, the sellers-”

“So, sit down. You have to think about other people’s points of view sometimes.”

“No.”

“Kuni, you are acting like you are two years old. If you keep doing this I am going to make you drink it.”

“Over my dead body.” He mutters. “I’d shrivel up and die, come back as an undead, and tell the people who sold me the tea leaves that you are putting shame on their name.”

“You are so dramatic. Just because you like bitter drinks does not mean I have to too. Tell me, if this was reversed, would you be mad at me for drinking black tea and not putting a mountain of sugar in my cup?”

“N-No! Of course not.”

You smirk at his stutter.

“Correct. And why not?”

His expression sullens even more at this question. You got him; hook, line, and sinker.

“...Because… Archons, you are annoying. You can’t just swap our places like that. Argh. Sigh. Because… it’s wrong. Everyone has their own tastes. There, you happy? I said what you wanted me to.”

Your smile broadens, stretching from ear to ear.

“Very happy. Now sit down, your tea is getting cold. I know you have no care for cold things. That’s why you like me.”

In a fleeting instant, Kuni's hand instinctively shields his face, though you could've sworn you glimpsed your partner concealing a smitten grin. A noticeable crimson flush paints his cheeks, as he averts his gaze from you, searching the kitchen aimlessly. A faint rosy tint lingers on his ears, accompanied by a twinkle in his eye.

“Cute.”

“S-Shut up.” He says, his voice barely audible. “N-Not.” You can't help but smile as he stumbles over his words twice more. “Take that back this instant.”

“I don’t think I will.”

He stomps back to the table and sits down. You win.

“You’re pouting.” You yelp as his leg clashes with one of your defenseless ones. A kick, huh? Well, two can play that game.

“You’re so–Hey!”

While still hiding his face, he lets out a mocking laugh.

“Oh no you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t just do that.”

At your chuckle, he stands up once more and goes around the table to your side.

“Uh oh.”

In the blink of an eye, your back meets the ground. He is on top of you with eyes sharp enough to cut a rock in half. He’s not happy.

“Confess your sins,” He says, his face now sporting a smirk of his own. Though his blush is still there, and now visible because he cannot hide it as he pins you to the floor. “And I’ll let you drink your abomination of a beverage. Maybe.”

“Oh no,” You feign innocence as you shake your head. Kuni scoffs. Adorable. “Please, oh great and all-knowing Kunikuzushi, bless me for I have sinned by having functioning taste buds.”

One of his hands chops at your forehead, making you cry out bloody murder. “Archons, you are all bark and no bite.”

“So? The same can be said about you.”

“No.”

No?

…He does not plan to leave you here all day until you are actually sorry, does he?