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wondernus · 1 year

Text

˗ˋˏ a winter interlude ˎˊ˗

synopsis: maybe this is meant to be an interlude – an unforeseen passing moment in each other’s timelines. but with the stroke of a conductor’s baton, the symphony lands on the fermata hovering above the note. do we allow this interlude to become something longer than a short period in our lives, or do we end it after all of it is over?

pairing: wonwoo x coworker!reader

genre: romance, drama, light angst

tags: children's book illustrator wonwoo, publisher reader, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, food/drinks, work husband jeonghan cameo, small town dynamics, snowed in, scene where reader almost gets physically injured

wc: 11.3k

message from nu: waaaa first fic of the year. special special special thank you to my beloved madi (@heartkyeom) for being my beta reader well after midnight. I also wanna thank mars (@onlymingyus) for being mars c: I remember a while ago I answered an ask with a possible wonwoo work husband spinoff. this is it. this is wonwoo's work husband spinoff. this can be read as a standalone fic. happy winter and happy new year to all of you. I hope you all enjoy this svthub snowventeen collab fic - nu ♡

wondernus's masterlist / snowventeen collab 18+

one

“Don’t forget to wear you layers because it’s about to be chillier as the week passes by. For those trekking into the mountains, make sure you look out for weather updates from the signal tower and stay indoors because a large snowstorm is about to paint the mountains white. Stay safe, and have a great day. Now, onto Yoon Jeonghan with the traffic.”

“‘Trekking?’ What are you? A protein bar wrapper? Anyway, thank you Joshu-"

Never really understanding why other people say they often find themselves turning down the music while driving to see better, you find yourself doing the same – driving in silence as if the silence could create such a frictionless surface that would shoot and propel your car to your destination. A couple of hours late to your annual winter work retreat, a clear understatement defined by the speed at which you are driving, what was supposed to be a carpool event turned into you sitting in a pool of cars while stuck in traffic.

The Sun shines lightly, a gentle kiss against your skin, but not enough to hug everything it touches in warmth. With the heater on high, you sit in your front seat sweating and dreading the moment when you have to get out of your car, thighs peeling off the leather seats and leaving a pool of sweat where you were sitting. Perhaps it is not the Sun and the heater’s heat that causes you to sweat, but a psychological factor – an amalgamation of stress and anxiety that stemmed from the moment you realized you were late.

No longer can you allow yourself to forgive him that easily, yet you really did not want t blame him for giving you incorrect meeting minutes. But when the retreat itinerary clearly stated to meet in the morning at seven in front of the publishing house, you should have known better than to wholly trust your ditzy new intern to attend your office meeting while you traveled out of town to hunt down your author for her overdue speculative fiction novel draft. Instead of writing the correct time to meet, he incorrectly noted the arrival time.

This unprecedented-precedented blip is the catalyst for a series of chain reactions that would metaphorically send you pummeling down the steep side of a mountain in a snowy avalanche that you could have avoided. But you do not know it, nor do you know how it, whatever “it” is, ends.

Dark circles under your eyes and a forgotten paper-thin pimple patch a jolt over a speedbump away from falling off your oily skin, you keep telling yourself that everything will be okay once you get to the camping grounds. Hopefully, this sort of denial could make up for the fact that you spent all of last night kicking your feet under your covers while binge-watching the reality show that your favorite boy group filmed rather than packing for your trip. But there is only so much your heater turned on high can do for someone wearing an old flimsy university tee with a couple of cat teeth-made holes who forgot to put their contacts in last night. You are better off skipping the winter retreat, but you are already nearing the mountains. There is no turning back – especially on winding roads.

And the embarrassment. This feeling of creeping anxiety seemingly washed away the moment it stepped foot into your head even though you are utterly unprepared and inappropriate for being late to the paid work retreat. Because this sudden realization hits you mid-drive: the only person who you would be embarrassed to meet in your current situation is excused for the retreat. Reasons unknown. And not that you would let any man define you, but at your core, you are simply a person with an embarrassingly big fat crush on your co-worker (and seemingly everybody else you work with). This crush is so bad that if HR made every team create their own set of photocards, you would put his in a protective cover with tiny holographic hearts, and then in a sturdy toploader decorated with overpriced stickers. One glance at him would put you in a trance, daydreaming about what it would be like to wake up in his arms on a sunny day with birds chirping outside your window, and him with a soft smile on his face.

Except for one thing – he hates your guts, so you decided to hate his too.

They always say “try, try again,” but how many tries would it take before the attempts turn Sisyphean? Sure, Hades enchanted Sisyphus’s boulder so that it would roll away before Sisyphus reached the top, but what about you? Car tires struggling against the icy roads, you drive carefully so your car does not turn into a giant hockey puck or a curling stone on (what is essentially) a giant ice rink. But being careful does not help the fact that you are unprepared. And being unprepared means your car has absolutely no way for you to drive over any sized slopes, no matter how many times you try.

You only realize any further attempt of going over the slope or taking any other route is fruitless when your tires spin in place after digging themselves well enough into the road. And you slump against your steering wheel like an exasperated character in a movie – pounding your head against 12 o’clock a few times for good measure. So much for a fifteen-minute-saving de-tour through a small town you have never seen before. And so much for you trying to drive over a slope you could easily walk over. Trying sucks.

Still, the only thing that keeps you from abandoning your hand-me-down car to trek forty-five minutes to the campsite is the fact that it is freezing outside, and your cellphone Wi-Fi gets especially spotty when you are in areas of high altitudes. With one final sigh, you push yourself away from your steering wheel to sit upright, leaning the back of your head against your headrest. There is not much to do except to put your car in neutral and try to push your car out of the little hole it dug itself in.

The thing is, the texture of real snow is a lot different from the snow that giant portable snow machines shoot out of their gigantic cylindrical nozzles to cover the courtyard in front of the city hall whenever the local city has its annual winter festival. Real snow is also incomparable to the “snow” a child creates along the perimeter of an ice skating rink, hands holding onto the rails for support while they repeatedly scrape the inside of one of their blades towards the inside of their other shoe, creating soft ribbons of shaved ice before the navy blue Zamboni can create a clean slate before private lessons start.

Real snow is relentless toward anybody who does not come prepared to interact with it. So, no matter how much you try to dig and twist your sneaker sole into the snow, that tactile grip that you wish to create that supports your feet while you are pushing against the back of your car can seldom be created. You slump against your car’s bumper in defeat. The Sun still shining on your skin, a little bit stronger now, leaves you with the same warmth you felt against your skin, a bit tingly and upsetting, when you knew your skin would still burn no matter how nice the cordiality of the Sun felt on that one Spring day in the past.

Plus, there is a little more time to observe your surroundings when you have given up completely.

In the grassy median strip that denotes the entrance into the small town is a wooden welcome sign with the name in loopy golden lettering against a beautiful pine green: “Welcome to Interlude.” A few feet ahead of you, the mountainous road marries smooth concrete, and the sidewalks pave in a festival town-esque brick lining. And you conclude you must be on the outskirts of the town. Leftover snow fills the grooves between each brick and covers the dark-colored awnings in front of each shop along the town strip. Where flashy LED shop signs and brightly colored bulbs decorate sidewalk trees drawing visitors in from around the world, is surprisingly a lack of people. And you frown while thinking about how you would be able to push your car to the side of the road if another vehicle wants to enter the town.

Not a few moments later, a navy blue truck slowly climbs up the road, and you feel the littlest bit of hope surge into your body. Forcing yourself to stand up, you move out of the way and wave at the incoming car. But as your day could not have gotten any more unfortunate, your car starts rolling backwards towards the pickup truck. And you cannot help but see your entire life flash in front of you – a person dressed too lightly for the snow and the used car passing by like a celebrity on a parade float, all in a moment.

What is scarier than the fact that your car is now bumper-less and the pickup truck remains unscathed is the man who hops out of his truck. Looking like a snow-stage boss from a video game, the man who is large and menacingly looking enough to make his shiny dark green car look like a minivan next to him stalks over to you with his finger pointed directly at your face. The only thing missing from the scene is the army of ice ogres that are supposed to follow closely behind him.

However, the only thing you can register is the fact that he is yelling at you – face glowing bright red and spit flying out of his mouth. Your body is frozen in fear. There is a lack of capacity for you to be able to stand up for yourself while you are shocked and unable to recognize your surroundings while terrible words spill out of the man's mouth. And you cannot do anything except take in his expletives while teardrops well up, ready to spill out of your tear ducts.

But they do not. A figure puts himself between the man and you, and your view is too obstructed to see the other side.

“I called the insurance company. Give me your information and I’ll handle it,” the mysterious person says.

“And who are you?” You hear from the other side.

“I’m their husband.” He fishes for his wallet in his back pocket and takes out a business card, handing it to the man between two fingers. “Call me. Email me. Your choice. I’ll get it sorted. Sorry about the whole thing, I didn’t have time to drive my partner. Bad husband right?... So, I heard you’re the new fishing shop owner? I’ll drop by sometime.” He tries to switch subjects to lessen the tension while slipping his wallet back into his pocket.

The thing is, it works. The presence of the man who uses his body to shield you calms the angry pickup truck driver almost exponentially. And the man who yelled at you seemed to forget he was yelling at you just because he realized your marital status. The man calms down, and even falters in his speech.

“Ahh…I’m not a fishing shop owner. I guess it’s fine now that you’re here, but you know men. There aren’t bad husbands, only ba-”

“I’ll be at Town Hall if you need more information from me.” The man who calls himself your husband purposely and curtly cuts the other man off, knowing very well that he would be even more upset if he heard the man finish his sentence.

The man does not turn back to address you until he is done taking photos of both cars and waving the other man goodbye. And your piece of junk car stays in the same spot, bumper-less and bruised, while the pickup truck, clearly without any injury, smoothly makes its way into Interlude, disappearing from your sight.

“You’re just going to dumbly let that man say those things to you? About you? Do you have no respect for yourself?” He lectures you, his deep voice muffled by the black wool scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth.

You see him clearly this time, how his black locks fall in front of his face in neat curtain bangs, set in a defined “C” shape. The oversized fleece-lined collar jacket falls to the middle of his thighs, leaving little room for his cream-colored sweater to peep into view. And his stance, focusing his weight on his right heel while his left foot slightly protrudes forward, allows him to tap his foot against the snow while he waits for you to answer him.

But what is shocking to you is not the code-switching he uses when speaking to the driver versus when speaking to you. What is shocking, you realize, are the thin silver-framed glasses that sit on the bridge of the man’s nose and the familiar deep woody scent that clings onto him, touched with a hint of peach.

It couldn’t be.

A cold chill leaves your tongue dry and squeezes your stomach.

“Are you dumb? Did you not hear about the snowstorm coming?” He asks you, a voice without concern, all while pulling out his phone from one of his pockets.

He tugs his manicured thumbs out of his gloves to wake his phone and proceeds to reveal his face from under his scarf to unlock his phone. After a few loud keyboard taps, you hear your phone’s notification sound from your car. But all you can do is stare back at the man, stomach gurgling and queasy.

“Yn,” your co-worker sighs, clearly annoyed by your lack of response. “Why are you here?”

two

A backpack-wearing piglet who happily crosses the street. A fashionably dressed lumpy toad who rows across the pond in a wooden paddle boat. A shrew who picnics with a chipmunk in a grassy city park. Tiny children who sit between each of a stegosaurus’s scutes. An angry and scruffy-looking Siamese cat who wears a cone too big for it to see. The backside of each illustration states:

Jeon Wonwoo ILLUSTRATOR Same Dream Publishing House Work Email | Work Number | Personal Website

Nicely squared recycled textured card stock printed with soy ink, Jeon Wonwoo’s business cards can very well double as collector cards. And the owner of these cards himself, in your eyes, is the most beautiful man you have ever laid your eyes on. No fantasy writer, no Renaissance artist could ever truly depict how you see this man. Yet it makes you feel terrible, so entirely rotten on the inside, knowing that he would rather crawl up several flights of stairs made of tiny plastic building blocks than take a fifteen-second elevator ride with you.

If you could pinpoint the exact day Jeon Wonwoo started hating you, it would be the Monday after coming back from a previous work trip to the vacation home of a poet the two of you were assigned. The two of you were amicable with each other, even more so – close friends. A power couple in the children’s books and short stories field – a force to be reckoned with. And the hotel rooms adjacent to each other where the two of you decided to sit on opposite sides of your shared door and talk to each other with both your backs against the door. You remember the sound of his hair brushing against the wood and his soft chuckle when you accidentally bump your head against the door. The goodbye after the trip lingered for a little too long while the first hello back never came. And you can only watch from the back of the crowd during meet and greets and panels, sometimes only catching the tip of his tiny flyaway from far away.

It would hurt your feelings a lot less if he turned away whenever you walked near him, but he chooses to frown instead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make you like him any less. But you do not know what you are holding onto (or if there is anything to hold onto at this point).

Even now, there is a blatant emotional and physical distance between the two of you. He briskly walks at least a meter in front of you, never turning his head back to see if he left you behind or if you were following closely behind.

The thick uncomfortable shoulder strap keeps slipping from your shoulder, unable to find any traction against the smooth nylon of the puffer you put on earlier. And it is just a walk, a measly ten-minute walk to the police station where you can report the accident, but it is hard to walk while looking ahead when you are so close to crying. No matter how much you try to adjust your shoulder strap so it doesn’t stop falling, it finds a way to slip from your sore shoulder or frozen grip. Overwhelming emotions usurp any will to continue onwards and leave you feeling so annoyed, so dejected, and so frustrated with everything that happened today. And when your bag’s strap slips again, you let it slip from your shoulder, sending your entire duffle bag crumpling against the wet and icy brick pavement.

And so you crumple with it, sinking to your knees and wallowing in your unhappiness.

The winter boots that clop in front of you never stop. Jeon Wonwoo would never stop for you, never walk backwards to pick up your heavy duffle and offer you a hand. So it wracks your head trying to understand why he would help you out in the first place, leaving you in the snow once everything was settled, and threatening an IOU coupon for the future. Why he would be in this town in the first place.

The shop window lights of the tiny electronics store to the side of you flicker on. On display and pressed flat against the glass are a bunch of old television sets stacked on top of each other, creating a large screen if not separated by the thick plastic television frames. Golden tempera paint in a modern Serif font exhibits the store’s logo across the glass: “Stay For A While,” in a wide downward pointing arc.

Every single television screen livestreams the local news. According to the subtitles, a giant snowstorm is about to hit the local area. Residents are advised to seek shelter and stay home. The sunny weather is only a farce.

But you don’t notice the news. To you, the only thing in front of you is a lachrymose shadow of a blob trapped in a foreign town with nowhere to go. And your heart follows closely behind the man as if dragged by him on a leash – blindly bouncing, cobbling, and getting scratched by the various pebbles and dirt on the pavement.

The man never looks behind to check on the organ. He doesn’t even know it’s there.

“What do you mean you’re cat sitting? Jeonghan, you never volunteer to do things willingly…Oh, for the friends who are high school teachers? Then road trip with their cat and save your cousin who is stranded in the mountains.” You adjust your grip on your phone while mindlessly browsing through the several knickknacks for sale in the souvenir shop in the town’s only lodge.

Passing the wall of graphic tees and sweaters and passing through a shelf of souvenir mugs, you stop at a shelf of tiny woodcarvings. Your eye lands on a figurine of a whittled cat, hand-painted orange with a white belly. On the other end of your phone call, your cousin complains about the weather, but you don’t listen – clearly too entranced by the tiny cat.

“Of course I listened to the radio this morning,” you mutter while running the tip of your pointer finger against the cat’s ear, feeling the smooth sanded wood under your touch. “Okay, you got me. It was for background noise. Look, I’m not asking you to pick me up today. I somehow ended up booking a room after finding out cab services are down today. But if you’re not going to pick me up then I’m going to hang up and solve this myself. But if you don’t hear from me in three days, then call a search party. Okay?”

Except he hangs up before you can say goodbye, grumbling about how you never listen to him. Still, you’re unbothered by his action. The tiny cat, now in the palm of your hand, looks so content with life, unbothered by what goes on around it. Your mind wonders about its artist, how long they must have spent carving the cat from a single block of wood, the hours it must have taken to create something so tiny yet so fulfilling to own. And you wonder about the artist’s emotions, if they ever felt sadness after parting with their cat. If the cat was the artist’s friend, even for the brief moment, that juncture, in their individual timelines.

It would be best if you left the cat on the shelf, you think. Just in case the artist ever changes their mind about selling the cat. And the cat looks happier sitting on the shelf with its other animal friends, happier than what its painted lazy smile suggests.

And for the first time today, you feel a tiny bit of happiness – a halcyon moment surrounded by forest-themed trinkets and flashing keychains with generic names and soft 2010s pop music playing from the store speakers. That is until you see a familiar figure being escorted to the lobby of the lodge. Curiosity causes you to leave your spot in the souvenir store, edging closer to the creation of a new scene.

“I have a room.” You hear him try to reason with the security guard. “It’s not called loitering if I am a guest.”

You can’t hear the security guard, but it seems like Wonwoo’s bluntness is not a strong enough source of logos for the guard. And the guard stands in front of the illustrator, fully unconvinced that the man wearing a suit and holding his work briefcase would be any other out-of-town guest. And one look of pure panic on Jeon Wonwoo’s stupidly handsome-looking face sends you on autopilot, making your way to his side for no good reason.

“Babe.” You lie through your forced smile while looping your arm around his right arm. “Where were you?”

His arm jerks in the tiniest bit before it relaxes as if he hesitated for a moment before making his decision. Of course, another explanation could simply be because he experienced a negative bodily reaction to your mere presence. Flabbergasted, he would mutter. The nadir of today’s excitement. And you would hate him even more for using vocabulary without incorporating any malapropisms. He is as pretentious as the outfit he wears.

“Baby,” he grits through his teeth. “This gentleman seems to think I’m stalking the halls like some animal out to hunt its prey.”

“Sorry, Sir.” You pout at the security guard, hoping your natural pathos could appeal to the man. “My husband has a tendency to walk around whenever he’s bored. It’s been a while since we went on vacation, and he clearly has too many thoughts in his head. You see his outfit? It’s a bad habit.”

The security guard strokes his chin and nods, eying Wonwoo’s ineffable outfit. He wonders why the man in front of him would pack a business suit for a vacation in the mountains, but he doesn’t want to be the one too quick to judge. Rather, he agrees with the fact that the suit actually fits the man very well. If the man wasn’t stalking the hallways just a few moments ago, he would’ve asked him about which tailor he sees. “If he’s so bored, why don’t the two of you join couples night tonight? Winners get a free bedroom upgrade. And between you and me, I heard there’s a famous author who’s staying with us,” he whispers the last portion, a quick cheeky wink.

You don’t realize that you are still grabbing onto his arm until you dragged him into your room. And he shrugs you off, taking the extra step to smooth out his suit fabric while looking through your vanity mirror before turning to you.

“You have the grip of a snapping turtle,” he scoffs while looking around your room.

It is a standard room with a single queen-sized bed at the center of the room. If it were not for the carpeted floors, the entire room would look like a wooden box from its Western Red Cedar planks that make up the four walls to the wooden paneling that covers the ceiling, giant circular wooden beams that keep the ceiling steady by design. The rooms in this lodge are a termite’s dream feast and an art deco enthusiast’s nightmare. Even the bedframe is made of logs, cylindrical in every piece, and the bedsheets are of deep burgundy red bordered with silhouettes of black bears as if it came straight from the video game your cousin was so obsessed with a few Summers ago.

What catches his eye is not the fact that your duffle bag is thrown across your bed, nor the fact that the lamps in your rooms may as well be oil lamps. Rather, he stares at the door to the right of your mounted television, the divider between your room and your neighbor’s. And you can’t help but wonder what is going on in that head of his.

“You are insufferable, you know that?”

“How long did it take for you to think of that comeback?” His attention is drawn away from the door and aimed toward you. “Just because I compared you to a turtle didn’t mean you had to act like one.”

Your jaw drops and becomes your turn to scoff at him, loudly. You cannot believe what you are hearing, and your breathing becomes shallower as you glare at him. “Are you kidding me? Me helping you literally saved you from being pathetically kicked out by the security guard. You should be happy I didn’t record it and post it online.”

“Like you would have enough followers for it to go viral,” he sneers while taking a step toward you. “And I never asked you for help.”

“Loitering in the hallways? Wearing a business suit when you’re supposed to be at the retreat?” Now there is almost no space between the two of you. And you reach over to his chest, grabbing the plastic nametag that dangles from his neck, and holding it up to his face. The item feels as cold as the person who wears it. “Wearing your work badge? Fine, I’ll admit I have no idea why you’re here. But if you thought that walking around and waiting for some author to come out of their room and have some preplanned accidental meet cute could work, then you’re so wrong. And I’m not going to let you defame our company just because you have no social skills whatsoever.” You let go of the item you’re holding, letting it drop against his chest.

“Okay, I’ll be the bigger man and admit that I was waiting for the author my team wants to work with to show up. But talking about defaming the company? You want me to care about what you say when all of that was coming from someone who would rather let some random man verbally degrade their worth than to stand up for themselves? You’re all bite and no tongue. Just like a snapping turtle,” he says, his face entirely without emotion.

“SNAPPING TURTLES HAVE TONGUES. DUMBASS,” you snap at him.

“That’s exactly what a snapping turtle would say,” he challenges you.

The thing is, Jeon Wonwoo likes to keep things short even though he is not as quick-tempered as you are. He prefers to relay everything he wants to say at once, saving anybody from asking for clarification. Yet, you can feel that Wonwoo only seeks to maim you with his words. Even at your most imperturbable composure with your intern, you cannot stand being alone in a room with Wonwoo once he starts opening his mouth to speak. And stupidly and repeatedly you let his elementary quips affect you like rubbing salt on an open wound. The laceration in your heart.

“You’re so rude Jeon Wonwoo. No wonder I hate you more and more every single day. You’re the single-most worst person in the entire world, and I hate how I once considered us friends.”

He looks like he has something to say to you but mentally drops the notion. Instead, he sighs and makes his way to the door beside your television, unlocking the knob and opening the door. He doesn’t make some offhanded comment about being your neighbor and only quietly closes the door behind him, making sure it’s locked with a tiny click.

three

It is a tiny office breakroom, the kind with a beige refrigerator whose motor is a little too loud, a low-watt microwave, and light green walls decorated with random pen marks from the lodge workers signing up for holiday potlucks. The late afternoon sunlight shines in an ethereal orange glow through the window, casting what could be the day’s last warm ray across the round wooden table in the middle of the room. Central heating runs throughout the building, and the lodge manager sits in the hot seat, his hands folded in front of him while he stares at you and your “husband.”

“Darling?” A nice elderly receptionist on break holds up a bag of mini marshmallows, the tri-colored kinds you can only find in baking stores, and points to it with her manicured finger. “Marshmallow?” she asks you from her place near the kitchen cabinets.

“No thank you,” you reply, your hands wrapped around a warm disposable cup filled with generic brand instant hot chocolate. Gratis, courtesy of the elderly receptionist before the manager arrived to talk to the two of you.

You bring the sugary drink to your lips, blowing softly and watching the steam disappear into the air. The drink itself, velvet chocolate that coats your tongue, is a warm invitation to this little town in the middle of nowhere. However, you cannot help but feel the only thing – or person – that unwelcomes you is the man who tries to angle his body away from you and the manager if the two of you ever cause trouble for your neighbors. Again.

“Look, we’re not going to kick you out. It would be inhumane to kick someone out during a snowstorm. And also we’re all kinda snowed in…actually, we’re super snowed in so nobody is coming in or out at this point. Funny how it was sunny earlier, right? Anyway, word has it that the two of you are married. So why don’t you two take some time to work things out, yeah? I’m no relationship counselor, but this is a small lodge in a small town so word gets out fast. So, seeing how far the two of you are sitting apart from each other, maybe channel that pent up anger into some competitive spirit during couple’s night because we can’t have you two being loud and arguing elsewhere. And I hate to be the bad guy here, but no more calls from your neighbors complaining about the two of you arguing or else we will contact authorities. Alright? Just keep it down and work it out, would ya?”

The manager’s lengthy spiel is immediately followed by silence, although not awkward, but one that provokes thought. And when you sense Wonwoo, being the smartass he is, open his mouth to counter his marriage status, and you immediately kick him in the shin with the heel of your tennis shoe. And he folds like his latest pop-up book, glaring at you while trying not to wheeze in pain. A fake smile and a solemn pledge to not bother the other patrons for the rest of the night are enough for the two of you to be excused from the conversation with the manager.

But not from each other.

How you ended up blindfolded and dizzy with a bat in your hands while Wonwoo angrily yells at you from the sidelines is beyond you. For the time being is what the two of you agreed with, albeit this one is far from Ruth Ozeki’s version. It’s a small promise to try to prove the two of you are more than amicable: attend a few games and activities together with the other couples, attempt to act like a married couple, and dip after an hour.

After twelve elephant spins with your forehead against the baseball bat, you and the other blindfolded contestants try to cross to the other side of the banquet hall in order to smash one of the many squashes on the large blue-colored plastic tarp laid across the floor. And Wonwoo, along with the other separated pairs, barks into the open air in the direction he wants you to move.

The funny thing is, you would expect to hear him call your actual name out of all of the pet names being thrown around, but Wonwoo cannot yell for the life of him, so much to shout your name in public. So even though you hear a bunch of people getting confused with the various forms of “honey” and “baby” being called out, you struggle to find his voice amidst the cacophony of shouts. Once the physical dizziness from spinning around evaporated, you feel a new kind of dizziness from being agitated as an aftereffect of trying to find Wonwoo’s voice in the middle of the crowd. By the time you decide on giving up, the shrill sound of a whistle signaling the end of the game fills the air. Shrugging the blindfold off your face, you look around to see the aftermath. While the other pairs are on the other side of the room surrounded by broken pieces of squash, there is only one man standing in front of you alone and separated from the others.

Your breathing hitches when you realize he’s walking towards you – long, even strides like the romantic lead in a movie. By the time he places himself in front of you, your baseball bat is in his hand while your cheek is in his other.

“It was hard, wasn’t it?” he whispers while looking into your eye.

Except you can’t help but train your eyes elsewhere, unable to look him in his eyes while it feels like your heart is beating erratically. And even though you know very well how he is faking everything, you can’t help but regress to the same you, the same you who is so helplessly in love with the man you hate. The same you who spends every day wondering how did the two of you end up that way.

“You only took the bat from me because you’re scared I might whack you with it. And not going to lie, I was contemplating it,” you mumble.

“It’s okay babe.” He tries to cheer you up, a slight undertone of insincerity in his voice. He continues to ignore your statement. “You did your best. Snapping turtles are slow, but they still manage to survive.”

Ignoring the fact that Wonwoo’s hand is warm because he has warm packs in each of his loungewear jacket pockets (and the fact that he refused to share one with you), someone catches your eye in the distance. Where workers are cleaning up the aftermath of the squash game, a familiar-looking man stands to the side where some lodge patrons flock around him with rectangular objects in their hands. Once you see him turn his head your way, your entire body freezes – Wonwoo’s touch suddenly begins to feel cold against your skin. And Wonwoo, who was expecting you to get mad at him for calling you a turtle, can’t help but notice your state of panic. And he not so subtly turns around to see who could be causing you so much fear.

“Oh my,” he mutters, coming to his realization.

“I can’t believe –” you begin before Wonwoo interrupts your train of thought.

“I hope he rots in hell before he can get his next book deal,” he almost spits at the man from several feet away. He drops his hand from your cheek and takes a tiny step back before taking a deep breath as if he is about to ask you something that he would regret, “Do you mind staying a little longer? I want to make sure chauvinists never win book upgrades.”

“Room upgrade,” you correct him while glaring at the other man from afar.

“What?”

“You misspoke.” You guide your attention back to the man who is, for what you think is the first time, looking at you attentively and without malice. And the fact that he is looking at you amicably makes your brain go haywire, but you subdue your thoughts and continue the conversation. “It’s the ‘room’ upgrade that we’re trying to stop him from winning.”

“Book upgrade or room upgrade, it’s the same thing.” He frowns while tapping the end of the bat against the ground. “It turns out your pickup truck man is the author my team is after. But I’d rather be jobless than to work with someone like him.”

So he works with you, absolutely demolishing the competition during the Dinner and Paint section and loudly cheering for you while you stacked plastic cups. And the way he smiles at you, lovingly and with the glimmer reflected from the ceiling lights contrasted against the cocky attitude he surrounds himself with when one of you wins a game – it almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to hate him. How easily he wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly against his embrace so much that his cologne lingers on your clothes, leaves you feeling hopeless. Because the only time Jeon Wonwoo could ever approach you without visibly withering in repulsion is when he acts like he is in love with you.

Outside the cozy lodge, the Sun sets its rays on the heavy layers of snow. While the Earth turns to face the other way, the rays wash the pillowy white crystals in a warm and deep burgundy orange – a warm embrace, a promise to return, before parting for the night. As you clean Wonwoo’s smudged glasses with the hem of your shirt, he sneaks his right arm around your waist while he leans further into his seat as the Couple’s Night host announces the next game. You feel something warm enter the pocket of your jacket and look down to see Wonwoo’s hand back on your waist. The untouched hand warmer gradually feels hotter in your pocket when you gently place your fake husband’s glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He whispers a small “thank you,” and you can only smile back at him with a heaviness in your heart that only you can carry.

The hand warmer feels like it would burn through your clothes at any second.

four

“Team Snowball, what did your partner answer for the question: ‘What is your partner picky about eating?’” The emcee points at the woman sitting next to you who gladly flips her sketchbook around for the other half of the room to see. She squints her eyes, trying to read the woman’s squiggly writing, and smiles when she realizes it’s a match. “Soft grapes? It’s a match. Point to Team Snowball.”

Despite everything going around you, you can’t help but fidget in your seat, the sketchbook’s pages starting to feel damp in your sweaty palms. Wonwoo sits with the separated pairs across from you. He crosses his legs, and his sketchbook lays comfortably across his lap so he can twirl his black marker in his hand. Even when you know you wrote the correct answer to Wonwoo’s food preferences, the two of you are still several points behind the other teams. Your stomach cannot help but feel queasy every time you embarrassingly flip your sketchbook for others to see. Because every single wrong answer about your “husband” whom you love very much feels like a punch in your gut every time you hear snickers from the others around you.

Seafood is your answer; you’re the last to answer this round’s question. You earn a small cheer from the woman reading your answer and a small smile from Wonwoo. He sneaks you a tiny thumbs up, the tip of his thumb poking out of his sweater.

“Next question,” dictates the emcee. “When did you know they were the one?”

It’s an abstract question – one that doesn’t necessarily need matching answers from both sides. Still, you look across to look at Wonwoo, uncertain whether or not he would put much thought into an answer he would have to pull out of thin air. Uncapping his marker with his mouth, he pulls the sketchbook closer to him to scribble down whatever comes to his mind. The action leaves your mouth feeling dry: one, obviously, because he uncapped the marker with his mouth; and two, he was the first to start writing.

Some answers are simple. Some answers are meaningful. Some answers are like yours – “love at first sight.”

Corny, overused, and unusual, your answer is the safest route you knew you could take. And despite how clichéd your answer is – its timelessness, its Hallmark-ability – still garners a series of awws from everybody around you. Technically, there is some truth to your answer. You developed a tiny crush the first time you saw him at the office. Who wouldn’t? He surrounds himself with illustrations of anthropomorphic animals and has a laugh that bellows and fills any room with joy. He made your days brighter by simply existing.

Now, the brightness struggles to navigate its way through the thick fog. And you’re left alone in the cold, the fog’s misty droplets clinging onto your skin.

It’s weird how in this life, time moves linearly, but moments and experiences with others exist in intervals – interludes that we can relive over and over again through memories. Sometimes we experience interludes of happiness, interludes of pain, and interludes where it only seems like there are only two people in this world. But nobody can determine how long these interludes can last and for how long you can try to hold on to these moments before letting go.

“Let’s see if Team Turtle can earn a point. Please show us your answer.”

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” he softly chuckles, voice more sonorous than ever, while standing his sketchbook on his knee.

9 pm is his answer. You, and the rest of the people sitting beside you, cannot help but gaze at his answer in confusion.

It is only when he sees you staring at him he finally clarifies, “When we were sitting in my car eating donuts while the waves crash on the shores in front of us. You smiled at me with pieces of maple donut glaze stuck to your upper lip.”

You. He speaks in the second person and looks directly at you with a soft gaze. It couldn’t be, you think. But it is true, you recognize his diction as true. He’s speaking to you.

And you remember that shared moment in the front seats of his car, the night of the work trip. The donuts were for the poet, but the two of you had the door slammed in your faces before being able to hold a full conversation with the poet. And after an entire day of confusion and apologies, the two of you were finally able to fulfill your portions for the work trip. Who knew that the tiny suggestion of walking along the pier after dinner would turn out disastrous – frigid ocean winds strong enough to blow people away? The clothes the two of you packed were not meant to sustain harsh winds but harsh sunlight – after all, the work trip’s destination is a beach town. So the two of you sat in his car, eating donuts, people-watching, and sharing anecdotes to get to know each other better. It was the type of conversation that you would do anything to prolong its duration, the type of conversation with the right type of person.

“You were so happy,” he finishes.

You were so happy, it echoes in your head.

Are you happy now?

“How about you?” The emcee turns to you for clarification. “Your partner gave us such a beautiful explanation. So, you have to explain your ‘love at first sight.’ Tell us about it.”

“Ohh,” Wonwoo begins awkwardly while giving an equally awkward chuckle. “You don’t have to if you do-”

“I was having a really bad morning.” You smile into your lap and look up at your supposed husband. You don’t know why or how the full day with unease bubbling inside of you dispersed so quickly after Wonwoo’s particular answer. But you launch into your story, letting the words flow out of your mouth like melted snow on a grassy hill under the bright Sun. “A really bad morning. I ended up working overtime and accidentally missed my morning alarm. I had to chase the bus while my hot coffee poured out of its opening and onto my skin. My entire day at the office was a mess because I kept messing up. I felt awful and exhausted. So I worked overtime for the second day in a row to clean up my errors. Someone places hot green tea in front of me, the free ones at the office. There is a doodle of a stingray with the dumbest-looking smile on its face. It looked so pathetic that it made me feel a little better about myself. He says that he accidentally boiled too much hot water and thought to make a cup for me. And then he holds his own up in front of his face. There’s a picture of a cat wearing glasses. ‘You can do it,’ he tells me in a squeaky voice. And he leaves. We don’t meet again for about a month, but his kind gesture pieced me back together. And I held onto his kindness for days.”

He stares at you, a few strands of his hair out of place and in front of his eyes. He doesn’t care to move them back in place. There’s that smile on his face, the exact one you imagined to be on his face that time he sat on the other side of your shared door. Soft coral lips relaxed, but the cupid’s bow is slightly perked as the corners of the lips turn upward. He tries to hide the fact that he is smiling, keeping his happiness hidden and only to himself.

So you smile at him. An honest, genuine smile where the cheeks kiss the lower lashes. And his lips stretch thinly so that his brilliant white teeth shyly make their way into the open. He smiles back at you.

Musicians know that an interlude, in music, is an interrupting or intervening passage that connects different parts of a song. An interlude can also be a song in an album. In other words, there are different ways for musical interludes as well as temporal interludes to exist. Now, there is a new interlude in your timeline, this shared moment where two timelines from two completely different lives collide and converge. Anybody can tell that this shared moment is filled with happiness and understanding…perhaps, even longing.

But what do you call it when these two timelines have converged in the past? If two timelines that once converged reconverge at a further point on the timeline, did that initial interlude ever truly end? Are interludes simply short periods in our lives if these interludes stay in our timelines forever, even when the moments they denote end?

Nevertheless, at this moment, you know you’re happy. And you can only hope the man who sits across from you, the one who looks at you with a reminiscent expression you once experienced so long ago, is feeling the same way.

“Okay. We’re in third place. If we win this one, then we’ll be a point ahead of them.”

“I tied it pretty tightly. Is the tightness okay with you?” Wonwoo frowns from below you, seemingly exploring a different problem at hand. He inspects the rope he tied around your leg, poking and prodding at different sections. “It’s a three-legged race, but I don’t want you getting hurt from an accidental rope burn because I tied it too tightly.”

“Wonwoo, it’s fine.” You pat his left shoulder, letting him know he doesn’t have to worry.

He grabs your stretched hand, and you help hoist him upwards. But there is an apparent frown on his face.

“Why do you still call me Wonwoo,” he mumbles while wrapping your arm around his back and on his waist. There is a tiny pout on his face pointed downwards as he naturally loops his arm around your shoulders like he had done it a thousand times. “Are you not comfortable with calling me ‘babe?’ Any other name also works.”

Deep down, or not even deep down, you know he is right. You are uncomfortable with the idea of casually calling him by these pet names over and over again. Calling him by fake pet names, not counting the many idealistic scenarios that once played in your head, in this case, feels very wrong. His sudden change in attitude towards you as well as his overall demeanor after the last game left you in shock. A plot twist in a season finale would be less shocking than what you feel at this very moment. Like every other hypothetical person in your situation, you choose to ignore your problems by focusing on your other problems at hand. Because you know very well, allowing yourself to fully play into this fake husband rouse, even in times when you’re truly happy, would only hurt you in the end. And you’ve been hurt by him before, not really sure if you ever fully healed.

But you can’t deny he looks and seems nothing like the literal he-devil he was this morning. In fact, he seems to be the opposite. Even without being physically tied to you, he trails behind you like a lost puppy and clings onto your sleeve like a cat who kneads dough on your arm, nails hooked onto the fabric of your clothing. And you let him hold you close to him so much that he leans his chin on your shoulder while listening to others talk. And you let his hair tickle your scalp and would let him melt into you if he asked.

Getting hurt by the same man twice does not make a right. Succinctly, it only makes you dumb. So, to protect yourself, you use the image of the screaming man from the morning to remind yourself that everything is a rouse no matter how much you enjoy each moment with the illustrator.

The three-legged race’s course starts in the banquet hall, passes through the hallway and into the lobby, takes several twists and turns throughout the sitting area, and finishes in the banquet hall. Wonwoo takes the lead, firmly holding you against him while he chants “in, out, in, out” to direct how the two of you should speed-walk. But the excitement of the games and the promise of the upgraded room must have gone over the heads of several of the teams, causing each team to speed walk into a sprint once they left the banquet hall.

Wonwoo and you are also victims of wanting to win, or at least of wanting to beat the author. But in this incredibly small lodge, there are only so many paces you can take before having to try to squeeze past another team. And Wonwoo practically hoists you onto his foot without notice, penguin-walking you to make it past another team to navigate through the sectioned seating area.

Startled by his sudden lack of communication, you demand he set you down. “Let me go,” you grunt after being jostled against one of the round wooden tables. You are absolutely sure your hip would bruise in the morning if he bumped you into one more object. “It’d be easier if one of us walks ahead of the other.”

Does it look like I care?” His ego slips from his tongue, completely coating the sweet words that came out of his mouth before the game started. His sudden change in tone catches you by surprise. “I’ll buy a sled from the gift shop if it means I get to drag you instead of hauling you around.”

“It’s just a game.” You try to push yourself off of him, annoyed that he’s suddenly being uncooperative with you. In the meantime, the team behind the two of you catches up and pulls ahead. “Let me go before one of us gets hurt.”

Wonwoo’s eyes aren’t trained on you. Instead, he stretches his head to look at the few teams in front of the two of you. Surprisingly, the two of you make it out of the seating area without any trouble. Before the two of you can make a sprint back toward the banquet hall, you pull yourself away from Wonwoo, yanking his arm off of your shoulder.

“Babe, come on.” He holds out his hand for you to grab onto. “We’re going to end up being last.”

But your hand never reaches out to meet his.

“Babe? Are you serious? Are you kidding me? Are you really calling me ‘babe’ right now?” You almost shriek at him if it weren’t for the fact that the two of you are standing in proximity to the reception desk. But you are exasperated, your voice wobbles as you voice what is bothering you. “I’ve had it with you, Wonwoo. I tried communicating with you. I tried voicing my fears. But your head is so far up your ass that you couldn’t even think about the safety of the person right beside you. Am I sad and mad about what happened this morning? Yeah, I still am. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, but nobody deserves to be ignored. I don’t care about winning anymore. I feel humiliated, utterly and devastatingly humiliated by you and by myself. To think I let myself have fun around you. To think I believed for a second that you truly did care about me. At one point, I thought we were friends. At one point, I really did like you for who you were. But I guess I can’t expect people to stay the same, can I?” More words and sentences pour out of your mouth – like a small tornado that grows larger in size after picking up all of the things you left unsaid, the words that threatened to slip from your tongue all picked up and twirled into the tornado, you ended up saying more than what you meant to say.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” he begins, but he can only hopelessly stare at you squatting in place to untie the rope that binds the two of you.

“There.” You bitterly drop the rope in his free hand. “You’re free from me now. You can go back to hating me all you want.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

“I’m done, Wonwoo. I’m done with being confused so I’m just going to give up and wallow in my room until Jeonghan picks me up once the snow clears.”

five

“No offense, but I would never spend that much time or energy on a guy…especially a guy who treats you like that. He even stopped pounding on your front door so that obviously means that he’s the type to stop trying after a while,” your cousin rants from the other side of your phone screen. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose while the cat he is looking after purrs contently on his lap. “So what are you? A masochist? You like men who treat you poorly and then reward you with like an hour of happiness? That’s literally like if professors gave you the hardest final you’ve ever taken in your life and told you to grab a free cookie after you turned in the final. What are you even holding onto at this point?”

“I don’t know,” you wail at the older man, crumpling your used tissue in the palm of your hand. It quickly joins the growing pile of snot-riddled balls of tissue at the edge of your bed. When you recline into your initial position, the shifted blanket knocks Wonwoo’s hand warmer onto the floor.

“Eww stop holding your phone so close to your face,” Jeonghan complains, “Vernon says I kinda look like you, and I can’t help imagining that’s how I look when I cry.”

“I don’t know why I still like him,” you mumble to your cousin. You honestly still don’t understand why you like him despite every single recent negative encounter with him. To be honest, your heart doesn’t flutter as it does with the characters in the novels you read. Nothing cliched happens when you see him, like how the world stops and he is the only one who walks in slow motion. Quite frankly, your days pass by whether you see him or not, but it doesn’t mean that the thought of him crosses your mind every once in a while.

“Maybe you just like the idea of him,” he offers with a sigh. There isn’t much that he could do for you in the middle of a snowstorm except to be on a video call with you and hope that the can solve whatever you have going on before his bedtime.

“I make up scenarios of him in my mind but I still prefer the real him,” you admit with a twinge of embarrassment. You can only sink deeper under your covers, pulling the cabin-themed sheets closer to your chest. Maybe you’re still holding onto the Wonwoo who existed during the work trip, and maybe, you think, he still exists somewhere.

“Hypothetically, do you maybe think that the reason why he’s so bad at everything is because he spends most of his time with children and draws instead of writing so his communication skill is basically hindered? Like how you’re good with feelings and ideas because that’s the bulk of the media you surround yourself with daily so you have more exposure to that area. So you have man-child versus person with skewed expectations on love and relationships. But then you literally have people like me…perfect in every aspect.”

“Shut up. You talk about traffic every morning but you can’t even name the model of your car. You were also tricked by a catfish.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“I’m sorry,” you beg him. “Please don’t.”

“My point is.” He places his phone down on the sleeping cat to use as a temporary phone stand while he gathers his thoughts. “The two of you seem like total opposites. And the only time the two of you seem to work well together is when you meet in the middle. So, have you ever tried communicating with him? Ever pulled him to the side to ask him why he’s such an ass?”

Yoon Jeonghan’s simple solution to your problem causes your brain to briefly short-circuit. Silence fills your lonely cabin room as your mouth slightly hangs open while your cousin silently judges you from the other end of the phone. It took a simple suggestion to make you realize that you have been hanging onto Wonwoo’s personality change to even think to consider the idea of confronting him about it. And Jeonghan’s hypothesis may not be wrong at all – life isn’t a fictional novel where everything can be magically solved in the incoming chapters.

“No?” Your answer is meek. You don’t know what to feel after this revelation. Anger? Despair? Peacefulness?

“And is he still knocking on your door? Trying to talk to you?” His tone is gentle for once.

“Yeah?” You look to the right side of your room where the door stands between his room and yours. Slips of lodge notebook paper often found in the nightstand drawers slowly shove themselves through the tiny crack under the door. “I think he’s pushing slips of paper under our shared door.”

“Then go talk to him. But throw away your snot pile and fix your appearance before you do. Yeah?”

“What would I do without you?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Bye.”

Sitting on the floor with your back leaned against the door, you shuffle the sheets of paper in your hands. There are a couple of sorry notes partnered with sad and apologetic-looking animal doodles. There are a few slips where he asks you to forgive him. Then there are these series of slips – a mini cartoon of his morning, this morning – that somehow cause a small upwards curl to form on your lips.

Blue ballpoint pen ink depicts a series of panels starting with a text he received this morning. This comic is void of cute tiny animals and can only be drawn with the sincerity of a children’s book illustrator. He draws himself staring at his phone screen in confusion – you’re missing, and the rest of the work group chat has no idea where you are. And he’s worried. Everybody is worried, but nobody is worried enough to send search parties for you. Blue-figured Wonwoo rushes out of his room, completely abandoning his presentation for the author, to rush to the entrance of Interlude. Because he knows that your team always passes through Interlude, but you’re known to arrive at the campsite while rubbing your eyes, hair frizzing from the static built from your head rubbing against the headrest while you were sleeping on the way there. But the scene he stumbles upon makes him angry despite how relieved he is to know that you are okay.

The few pages that you hold in your hand are smudged with blue ink, and the ending is unfinished. Wonwoo softly rasps his knuckles against the shared door, calling out your name. When you don’t reply, he sighs and sits down with his back against the door. You feel a tiny jolt with his added pressure against the door. Still, you can’t bring yourself to confront him. At least not yet.

“I’m childish and I let myself get caught up in moments. And you were right, if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself for hurting you. At one point, I really did forget that the reason why we agreed to work together was because we didn’t want him to win. I ended up wanting us to win, or at least for you to win so you could have the upgrade. I’m really sorry for not communicating well with you, and for how I acted.”

The sound of his hair leaving the door lets you know that he probably dropped his head toward his lap.

Taking a shallow breath, he mutters into his hands, “And I wasn’t lying when I talked about us at the beach. I really did like you then. I still like you.”

“Then why ignore me? Why act like you hate me? What did I do to deserve how you treated me?” The questions leave your mouth in a flare of anger.

“I started ignoring you because I was hiding from you. I couldn’t confront you because I knew I would make it obvious that I liked you. But I guess I hid from you for too long because you thought I hated you.” His voice muffled from being on the other side of the door.

“So all of this happened because of some big misunderstanding? Just because we couldn’t confront each other?”

So it really was a simple problem with a simple solution. The revelation feels like a sore punch in the gut, one that’s so surprising that all you can do is laugh.

“I’m sorry, Yn. I really am.”

“I’m also sorry.” You feel really guilty now that you know that you were wrong to believe that he hated you. “I should’ve confronted you about this earlier.”

“Does it still hurt?” His voice sounds clearer as if he shifted his body so he sits facing the door.

“Oh, from the race? Actually nothing happened.”

“From when you fell from heaven,” he finishes with his voice trailing in diminuendo, almost as if he is slightly embarrassed from using the overused pick-up line.

“It actually hurt a lot,” you joke. “But I’m glad it was you who found me in the middle of the road.”

“Then can I stay by your side? Not separated by doors, but by your side?”

So you push yourself away from the door, turning around to unlock the brassy knob. The door slowly swings open to Wonwoo, who is still sitting on the floor, now facing you. And you awkwardly sit in front of him, not really able to meet his eyes.

“I think I have a lot to learn.” He fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I’ll start by being more communicative about my feelings,” he promises with a soft smile. “Because I really do like you.”

“I like you too.”

There is a magnetic pull that slowly draws the two of you closer together, a comforting sort of sensation that offers a moment of solace created from two extremes. The outside world is dark. The snowstorm has long gone. The surfaces where the sunlight once touched are replaced with the soft yellow glow of several lamps around both of your rooms. Kaleidoscopic remnants of shards of light scatter around every surface. But the two of you, seemingly in the very corners of your shared world exert a different type of glow - one that can only be created in a collision like the break of dawn after a devastating snowstorm.

“I really like you too,” you can’t help but reaffirm.

“It’s actually ‘I also like you.’” He can’t help but playfully correct you. “You’re the publisher. You shouldn’t be making these errors.” He teases.

“And you’re the illustrator, so shouldn’t you stay quiet so I can kiss you?”

one month later

At the base of a computer monitor, a tiny wooden whittled cat naps lazily next to its turtle counterpart. Two people sit side-by-side in the breakroom a few rooms away, the metal seats practically stuck to each other. While their lunches heat up in the microwave, the two happily discuss the upcoming young adult novel they are finally working on together. Under the table, their pinkies naturally interlock. The man who scrolls through art ideas on his tablet can’t help but let his eyes linger on his partner for a little too long while they scroll enthusiastically through the several concept art slides he created. When the microwave sounds, he quickly leaves a soft and brief kiss on the side of his partner’s temple before getting up to remove their heated lunches. And the partner smiles while turning back to look at him, a smile brighter than the soft sunlight that wraps the room in a warm afternoon glow.

There’s a new interlude in their timelines. In this interlude, the two opposites are taking it slow, learning to meet in the middle.

dedicated to ellie (@flowershu/@eliphant). just wanted to thank you for supporting wondernus for all these years. happy new year <33

#svthub #svthub.collab #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo au #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x yn #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #wonwoo scenarios

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wrongplacerighttime · 4 months

Text

agent!harry x agent!fmc

the one where grace meets someone, harry gets jealous (again), and something unexpected is confessed. // little bunny part 4

write this and i don’t really like it but it’s set up for the next part so WHATEVER IDC 😭🤣 if it doesn’t make sense just…ignore it please 😭 i know it’s almost midnight and that means this probably won’t get seen but it’s HERE NOW.

little bunny masterlist

wc: 3.4k

tw: jealous!harry (briefly), phone sex, masturbation. (think that’s all.)

halley’s comet

To Grace, her worst personality trait was that she’s always been afraid of love. In middle school, a boy she couldn’t even remember the name of confessed his crush on her as she sat alone in the lunch room with her nose in a book, and a spark of hope twinkled in her eyes and her 13-year-old mind going haywire as she watched the blonde haired boy smile at her. Then he turned his head to look back at his friends, her eyes followed his and they were laughing. She never forgot the feeling of the stain of embarrassment marking her cheeks, or the single tear that fell onto the page she was reading when he turned and walked away.

Then, in high school, she had her first “real” boyfriend, Jake. For some reason or other, he had been pining after her and she couldn’t make sense of why the captain of the boys basketball team wanted anything to do with the quiet and reserved girl who only took advanced classes and spent her free time with her nose in the pages of a good book. He followed her like a lost puppy after one tutoring session with her, driving her around in his truck on backroads through the little town in Tennessee where they resided. She gave him everything, in every sense, and after he got it he left her high and dry. She still remembers the way the stars shined in the sky that night. It was just a blip in Jake’s timeline, but felt like a goddamned gorge in hers. As a girl, you never forget your first time…and he played her up so nicely. Being gentle with her, brushing the strands of hair from her lips, the kisses he left just behind her ear when she turned her head to the side. She didn’t leave her bed for weeks. She swore off love after that. It was real to her, even if it wasn’t to him.

Then came Harry, and to her, he was just like the rest of them, and she refused to let him get to her…keeping him at arms length even though she was insanely drawn to him. Then one day, she didn’t look at him like the rest of them. She knew in the back of her mind that sleeping with him would fuck with her head. They didn’t get along unless they’re fucking, and that can’t be healthy. Was it because they really didn’t like each other, or some other reason? She’s too selfish to give him up though, even if he might not want her that way, a relationship might be too much commitment for him but they didn’t talk about it. She had a feeling they never would. She pulls her coat tighter around her, snowflakes falling around her and her breath clouds in front of her. Her mind spins and she doesn’t pay attention as she looks towards the ground, running right into someone walking out of the building she was heading into.

“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry.” She looks up to a man she’s never seen around before, his eyes an icy blue that contrasts the green she’s been seeing in her daydreams.

“Not a problem. I wasn’t paying attention…entirely my fault. Apologies.” He smiles at her softly, an expression she mirrors back to him.

“No…I wasn’t either, it’s okay.” She blows a breath, a cloud forming in the cold air between them, and his smile widens. “Sorry, I haven’t seen you around before…I’m Grace Weston. I work on the sixth floor.”

“James Seeley. I’m in organized crime.” He pauses and smirks. “If you’re on the sixth floor that must mean…” He trails off and Grace nods, already knowing what he was going to say.

“You caught me. I’m a profiler.” She holds her hands up, pretending to surrender and he smiles at her. He looks across the street, pausing for a moment and looking back at her

“Can I get your number?” He asks, and her eyes widen. “I’m sorry! Was that too forward? I just think it would be nice to have a contact in the BAU…you know, for any future cases.” He rubs the back of his neck, a sign of his nervousness, and she pulls her lips in to prevent a smile from breaking at his nervousness. “I also think you’re pretty, and I’d like to get to know you better.” He rambles, and she nods. Maybe this would be good for her? He hands her his phone and she types her number into the designated spot, adding her name to the contact and hands it back to him. He briefly looks down at his wrist to check his watch and his brows pull together in the center.

“Sorry to be rude, but I’ve to get to a meeting downtown…and you know how traffic can be.” He says, jutting a thumb towards the direction he’s heading and she nods quickly.

“Oh, gosh! No, yeah! Again, so sorry for bumping into you.” She looks at him for a beat before looking towards the ground.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Glad it happened. See you around?” He asks and she nods again, making her way around him into the foyer through the sliding glass doors.

The rest of the team had made their way onto the jet and to Florida in the early hours of the morning, before the sun rose. Grace had sent Aaron a message privately before and asked if he cared if she stayed behind for this one. She was willing to consult from her position here and that was enough for him. A shiver travels down her spine and she thinks about the warmth of the Floridian sun and almost regrets her decision. She needed time away from Harry, she had convinced herself that much. She told herself if she kept her distance the feelings would go away. She wouldn’t feel this way if she stayed away from him, right? Love never came easy for her, and she was sure he wouldn’t make it easier either. She feels silly, falling for a person who was very much “no strings attached”. She can’t get him out of her head, her dreams filled with him, of a life with him…

She makes her way to her desk, shrugging her coat off and getting to work.

———

The day drags slowly and Grace is on the phone consulting with the team when the sound of the glass doors of the office open and tear her attention away from the video call. She looks up and sees the man from earlier this morning, James, walking over to her desk carrying what looks to be a bag of take out food. She grins over to him and he mirrors it back to her. He had sent her a message earlier after his meeting and asked if she wanted him to drop off lunch to her and she didn’t hesitate to say yes. He walks behind her, into the view of the camera before disappearing again and he perches himself on the edge of her desk. She silently thanks him as to not interrupt whatever Aaron was saying and her eyes flick to Harry on the screen. She can barely see the way the pixels of the video call catch the shift in his posture and the tick of his jaw, but she decides to ignore it.

She mutes her microphone as she listens to Aaron’s monotone voice through the speakers. Occasionally Harry or Kelly will add their input but for the most part it’s just Aaron. He’s throwing out ideas left and right trying to figure out where to start with the case. Grace can see all the files spread out in the table, the same ones that Grace has open on her other screen, and she scrolls. A crime scene photo catches James’ eye and he puts his hand up to halt her. He leans closer, pointing to a small symbol etched into the tree above the body, it's barely visible, blending into the seams on the bark. She turns her mic back on.

“Hey…guys? Did you see the symbol in the picture of our latest victim?” Her eyebrows furrow and she leans in closer to the screen. “Could it be satanic? Was there anything similar at the other scenes?” She asks and Aaron flips through the pictures to look for what she’s seeing.

“It’s not Satanic.” Harry mutters in a tone of voice that makes her eyes narrow, holding the picture closer to his face. He types in quick succession on his laptop, performing a quick google search. “It’s Egyptian.” He screen-shares a symbol that looks almost similar, more intricate than the one haphazardly carved into the tree.

“We need to have this picture blown up, it’s hard to identify from this distance. Good catch, Grace.” Aaron praises, looking down at the picture still.

“Oh it wasn’t me, it was James. We met earlier, he works upstairs in OC, we were eating lunch together and he caught it.” Grace replies, redirecting the praise to James while turning her camera towards him. He puts his hand up in a small gesture and Aaron nods, walking out of view of the camera. The screen goes black, the video call ending abruptly. Maybe the connection was bad? She pulls out her phone to text Harry.

Grace: “keep me posted.”

Harry: “k.”

His short reply makes her roll her eyes, and she almost puts her phone away when another message pops up.

Harry: “wanna start a group chat with lover boy so he can give me all his opinions directly?”

Grace: “i’m not doing this. he’s just a friend. and you’re being annoying.”

Harry: “just a friend my ass. friends that just met don’t bring each other lunch. he’s got a hard on for you.”

Grace: “so what? we definitely aren’t exclusive so it’s none of your business anyway. drop it. move on.”

She drops her phone down on her desk, shaking her head and scoffing.

He doesn’t reply.

———

A few days pass with no word from Harry, the case causing a build up of stress to fall on Grace’s shoulders. The Egyptian symbol was present at every scene in some form or other, and it had them stumped. James had asked her out on a date and she declined, really just wanting to go home and go to bed. She regrets staying behind, she feels out of the loop and she feels guilty she’s not there helping catch their suspect. Long distance while being an FBI agent doesn’t work, especially when her specialty is geographical profiling. It’s hard to create a profile for an area she’s unfamiliar with.

She showers. A long, hot, shower. The muscles in her shoulders relax with the steam blurring her vision. She just stands under the heat, washing away her stress…and she thinks of Harry. His words…his hands on her body…his lips on her neck, her tits…his teeth pulling her clit between them…Her breath catches and her legs feel weak at the thought of him. The way her body reacts to him, knowing he has this sort of control over her, she could never be with anyone else. She quickly finishes her shower, wrapping her hair in a towel and moving to her bed, not bothering with clothes because she has only one thing on her mind. She needs to cum.

Her hand dips down past her navel, running a finger through her folds before bringing them back up to her clit, rubbing gentle circles while tweaking her nipple between her fingers with her other hand, pinching and pulling, trying to replicate the way he does it. She replays every time they’ve been together over in her brain, remembering the way his breath fanned over her neck as he grunted in her ear, whispering words into her ear, words no one else has ever said to her. Words she didn’t even know she liked to hear.

The shrill ring of her phone pulls her from her thoughts, a groan of aggravation escaping her throat, so close to her release and she sighs, looking at the caller ID. Harry.

“Finally deciding to talk to me?” Grace answers out of breath, frustrated she didn’t get to finish. She tries to slow down her heartbeat, her breath left heavy in her lungs.

“I’m sorry, okay? I was being childish. I let my anger get the best of me, and I’m sorry. I know I have no right to be that way towards you. You’re allowed to see other people, you’re right. We aren’t exclusive.” He pauses. “Happy now?” He grumbles. She sighs,

“Are you okay?” His voice drawls through the speaker and she gulps nervously.

“Just peachy.” She answers sarcastically, trying to sound like she wasn’t just trying to get herself off less than five minutes ago. She gnaws on the inside of her lip. “Did you need something, is something going on with the case?” She turns over onto her side, waiting. He hums, choosing to ignore her response before diving into an update about the case as he paces around his hotel room.

Grace drowns out his voice involuntarily with her daydreams. She goes back to what she thought about to make herself get worked up in the first place, and then she imagines it…really imagines it. And it wouldn’t be so bad right? She lets her mind wander to the image of him curled around her in bed every morning, his hands gripping her waist as she stands at the kitchen sink, or her swollen belly in the mirror as she gets dressed for work for the day. A life with him.

“Earth to Grace?” His voice through the speaker pulls her from her thoughts and she blinks once to clear her head.

“I’m sorry, Harry. What did you say?” She’s breathless, feeling the arousal pool at her aching, empty hole. A smirk plays on his lips, one she can’t see, and now he knows exactly what she was doing before he called her. He knows her, knows how she sounds when she’s fucked out…when she’s needy. He knows just how to push her to the edge.

“Don’t worry about it, bunny.” He purrs and she whimpers into the microphone before covering her mouth and her thighs squeeze together almost on their own volition. “S’the matter sweet girl?” He coos and the drop in octave in his voice makes her squirm.

“N-nothing.” She stutters, lying straight through her teeth, feeling the flame igniting in her belly once again and she can’t help that he just does this to her. Her body reacts to him on its own despite the way her brain fights the feeling every single time.

“See, I know when you’re lying. I don’t like when you lie to me, Grace.” His voice is gravelly and he clicks his tongue as she pulls her lip between her teeth. “Let me help you make it better.” He mumbles and she whimpers out an agreement.

“What were you thinking about to make you all riled up like this?” He asks in a sweet voice and she stays quiet. She hears his breathing on the other end of the phone, silent. “Hmm?”

“You. Was thinking about you.” She admits and her cheeks heat with a little bit of embarrassment, but mostly with desire.

“Is that right? Well don’t let me interrupt, go on then.” He can feel himself hardening beneath his sweats at her honesty, but he refrains from touching himself. For now. He doesn’t hear any rustling on her end of the phone and his brow furrows. “What’s wrong? Need me to tell you what to do?” He jokes and she mewls.

“Y-yes. Please.” She whines and the tone of her voice tells him all he needs to know.

“Mm, okay.” He pauses, thinking. “What were you thinking about? Tell me, bunny. I’m curious.”

“Thinking about the last time…in the supply room.” Her voice is breathless and he smiles at the memory.

“Want you to pull your bottoms down for me, sweet girl.” He instructs her and hears rustling on the other end, her eagerness making his heart lurch in his chest and he feels all the blood in his body rush southward. “Have ‘em off?” He asks and she confirms that she does. “Good girl. Want you to touch your thighs, just drag your fingers over your skin, like I would do.” She follows his direction, the light touch of her fingers creating goosebumps in their wake.

“Want you to touch yourself, too.” She mumbles into the phone and he groans on the other end, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Want you to tell me how wet you are first, are you dripping? Want you to put a finger in and tell me how soaked you are at the thought of me fucking you against that wall.” His words come through gritted teeth and he shifts his hips, pushing his sweats down and he leans against the wall, palming himself through his boxers and biting the inside of his lip. She trails a finger through her folds, her arousal pooling on her finger before she pushes into her aching hole, feels herself clench around her own finger as she moans at the intrusion.

“Harry—” His name falls from her lips in a breathless whisper.

“Tell me.” He demands, jaw clenched and hand squeezed into a fist and he can hear the way her finger is pumping in and out, the sound of her arousal evident through her end of the phone and he could almost cum right then, without even touching himself.

“S-so wet. Wasn’t entirely from the sex, though.” She admits and he raises his eyebrow in an expression still unseen to her. “From what you said.” He combs through the memory, her pushed against the wall with his hand around her wrists, slamming into her again and again. He pries his mind and the memory of what he said to her comes flooding back. Gonna fill your pretty little pussy up, get you all full of my cum…bet you’d like if I got you pregnant too, huh? Wanna see that cute little belly swollen, let everyone know who you belong to.

“Little minx…likes being full of me, doesn’t she? Likes feeling me dripping out of her.” He can’t help himself now, the memory playing over and over in his head like his own personal porno. He pushes the rest of the barrier away and spits into his hand before wrapping it around the base of his hardened cock and pumping himself with a soft grunt falling from his lips.

“Yes, Harry.” She whines, feeling herself come closer to her release as she flicks her thumb over her clit and pulses her fingers in and out. “Want you to…need you to, Har. Just wanna feel you.”

“I know, sweet girl. Wanna have my babies in your cute little belly? Know you’re carrying around part of me and that I’ve claimed you?” He grits and she nods even though he can’t see her, his hand working himself at his own pace, his tip leaking and dripping onto his own hand as he grunts and groans at the frictions he’s creating. “Gonna fill you up, let your thighs be a sticky mess of me? Cum for me, bunny. Wanna hear you.” He encourages her and she squeezes her eyes shut and her toes curl, pleasure taking over every one of her senses. One flick of her thumb against her sensitive bundle of nerves again and she’s gone, moaning and crying out his name between them. He follows not long after her, his own release painting his hand and he leans against the wall to catch his breath, coming down from his high. Grace sighs into the phone, feeling a little hazy, not in the proper state of mind to continue a normal conversation with him.

“I love you.” She whispers, her eyes flutter closed, the pulses of pleasure still buzzing through her brain, clouding her better judgment. She doesn’t even realize the words have slipped past the barrier of her lips. He’s silent for a moment, mouth dropping open to speak but closing again.

“W-What?” He stutters, heartbeat quickening and nervous sweat forming on his brow. Her eyes fly open and her heart drops to the floor. Did she really just say that…out loud? “Grace…” He trails off, his vision blurring, his head feeling dizzy and he doesn’t know what to say.

The line goes dead, and he’s alone.

taglist: @indierockgirrl @hermionelove @storyschanging

if your tag is red it didn’t work :(

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry #styles #harry styles x fmc #harry fic #harry styles smut #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry smut #harry edward styles #harry styles x oc #harry styles au #agent!harry #agent!fmc #little bunny #fic #jealous!harry

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genevawren38 · 3 months

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There's...a lot to unpack in this next bit.

First of all. The yelling at Tallulah? That is the first time I have ever heard him raise his voice in anger at his children.

Second. She can tell Phil, that something isn't right. She knows her Dad, though emotionally distant in a lot of respects, would never ever turn his rage upon her. And the fact he has been gone so regularly on this quest for lining their pockets, completely unlike how he used to be. At the beginning all he wanted to do was build a house and spend time with his eggs.

Now he is often gone the moment he wakes up to loot or find more treasures, away more often than home. His want for earthly goods has begun to outweigh the value of familial love, so wrapped up in this desire to protect his family and gathering more shinies.

She knows his heart. And she knows his intentions have begun to warp to unhealthy levels.

She knows her Papa as one with a joyful laugh, kind words, gentle hands and a willingness, above all else, to help others.

This stranger wearing the blonde's face is not her father.

She was the one to widen the gap in Phil's armour after Fit broke the initial hole. She knows how to speak to his emotions, to find his soul and try to revive it as it decays.

Then....this.

I think this is the moment it hit how serious she was.

I never quite clocked the fact she held that accidently swing against Philza from months ago now...she's just a kid. How often did she think or worry about the possibility of it happening again?

I think the worst part for Phil is he realises she isn't upset with him. She's scared of him. And that's so much worse.

Another thing I also just remembered; she hates having things withheld from her knowledge, its a breach of trust.

This is terrifying for her. To watch the steadiest thing she has ever known to shatter and break apart. To fall into the clutches of endless needs over what truly matters.

Spending time with those you love.

It doesn't matter if you own the most expensive things in the world, some happiness is only found eternally in the souls of those you came to grow close too in this small blip on a forever timeline.

Tallulah's only thing she can hold in a storm is her family. To see the head of it become hostile and deliberately ignore his own descent....goddess she must feel so hopeless.

#qsmp #wrenrambles #qsmp tallulah #qsmp philza #philza minecraft you are paying for my therapy bill posthaste #cause what the fuck what the fuck

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6rookie-writer0110 · 6 months

Text

Same love

Peter Parker x Male Reader

Request: Tom Peter Parker x male Kryptonian reader, them reuniting with a kiss in the final battle then fighting together (in the endgame battle)

Peter managed to get the Gauntlet, now Thanos is trying to get it back. Peter is trying to get to Tony, but Thanos is going after Peter. Some of Thanos’ army start to chase Peter. Valkyrie, Carol, and Drax stepped in to fight the enemies then Wanda started to use her magic. Carol grabbed the gauntlet and she helped Peter stand up.

“Are you okay?” Carol asked.

“Yeah, I'm okay. I'm Spiderman” Peter smiled.

“You can call me, Carol,” Carol said.

She starts to help Peter and she uses he powers to fight the enemies. They managed to give the gauntlet to Tony. Then Tony snapped his fingers and everyone watched a portal open. Everyone starts to come out of the portal and Thanos is angry.

You come out of the portal. You don't remember what happened but you see everyone fighting a huge purple guy.

“Peter,” You said to yourself.

You use flight and you start to look for Peter. While looking for him, you used your lasers to kill the enemies.

“Y/n!” Peter yelled.

You see him and you fly towards him. Then he puts his hands on your face and he can't stop smiling.

“You are back! I missed you so much” Peter smiled.

He kissed you on the lips and he hugged you tight. You wrap your arms around him and you are happy to see him.

“I don't remember what happened. What is going on” You said.

“I will tell you later, Y/n. We have to stop the purple guy named Thanos” Peter said.

“Okay,” You said.

You are Kryptonian and you got caught in the snap. Peter is your boyfriend and you always knew that he is Spiderman and wants to be a part of the Avengers. And you know how much Peter cares about Tony Stark.

You help Peter fight the aliens. Drax tries to fight you but Peter tells him that you are the good guy.

“Blades can't hurt me,” You said.

“Next time, we will find out if it's true,” Drax said.

“Ummm, okay?” You said.

You and Drax start to fight alongside killing the enemies. He starts to off then he tells you how strong he is.

“I do have a name,” You said.

“Yes, I know. That's why I call you, laser boy” Drax said.

“It’s Y/n,” You said.

Peter couldn't help to laugh.

✬ ✬ ✬ ✬

After the battle, you and Peter are alone in his bedroom.

“What do you remember?” Peter asked.

“I just remember waiting for you at the movie theater for our date,” You said.

“Y/n, that happened five years ago. That day, I was in space when it happened” Peter said.

“No, way. What?” You said.

“Okay, Thanos got the gauntlet then he snapped his fingers. You got caught in the snap and half of the world went away. But some people call it the ‘blip’ and yes I was in space with Tony Stark” Peter said.

“This is a lot to process,” You said.

Peter starts to explain what happened and how he went to space. You are still speechless and you have so many questions.

—-—

You and Peter are home and he is being really affectionate with you. You and Peter are on the couch, and instead of watching the movie you and Peter start to kiss each other. He starts to kiss your neck then you start to kiss him on the lips again.

“I’m happy that you are back” Peter smiled.

“Me too. Feels strange that everyone is on a different timeline than me” You said.

“It will take a while to get used to, Y/n. How about we go out and have fun?” Peter said.

“I like that idea” You smiled.

It started to snow while you and Peter, were outside. You and Peter start to play in the snow, then start to throw snowballs at each other.

“You can't use your speed, Y/n” Peter laughed.

“You are just jealous, that I have speed” You laughed.

Peter’s spidey sense went up.

“There’s trouble,” Peter said.

“Alright, let's go,” You said.

You and Peter went into a dark alley. You changed clothes and he did the same. You picked up Peter in a bridal style and used flight to get to the crime scene faster.

“I missed you doing this to me and don't tell anyone,” Peter said.

“I won't tell anyone” You giggle.

Arriving at the crime scene, you let go of Peter. He jumped down and kicked the robber in the chest, then you used your lasers to destroy the wheels on their van. They have guns and you use yourself as a shield to protect Peter. Then Peter used his webs to tie up the robbers and the police arrived.

After that, you and Peter go home. You and Peter moved in together not that long ago.

“Tonight, I'm going to cook for you,” Peter said.

“Making sandwiches for dinner is not cooking,” You said.

“Y/n, I'm still going to cook and you will love it” Peter smirked.

“Okay, I'm ready for dinner,” You said.

You watched Peter start cooking. You did help cut the vegetables and you used your speed, to cut the tomatoes fast.

“Show off,” Peter said.

You just laughed then you watched him grill the chicken. When he finished, you tried the food

“Wow, this is good,” You said.

“See, I just proved you wrong” Peter smiled.

Then he kissed you on the cheek. You and Peter eat together and he tells what else he learned to cook.

#peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker x male reader #x male reader #male!reader #male reader #peter parker fluff #marvel x male reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman x male reader #spiderman x reader

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akingdomscrypt · 2 months

Text

War is Over (and what have we done?)

Part Four

Pairing; Graves x m!reader (slow burn)

WC; 2.9k

Summary; Graves is tired of being ignored.

Warnings; not really any? Not yet at least. Minor flashback stuff where it's implied he's trapped in the tank when it caught fire, mentions of death/pondering

A/n; probably my shortest chapter yet. I spilt what was originally one part into two because it just felt??? Off?? To put them together as one thing?? Idk but I felt like it called for more than just a few paragraph breaks

(also thanks to @/rousseau-vargas and @/embry-garrick who are my biggest motivators rn, next half of part will be out soon)

(idk how to explain it, but I love how his mouth moves..)

---"more than he bargained for"---

Phillip was bored out of his goddamn mind and a prisoner in his own fucking base. Which, to be fair, he had definitely anticipated would happen when he came back.

He had known he’d fucked up; he knew you would be angry. It had been a long time, Phil had been gone for nearly an entire year. Him suddenly appearing again after being presumed dead? That was sure to stir up some unsavory feelings; he had expected a bit of rage, some lashing out here and there.

He, for some unknown reason, hadn't predicted this.

You, trapping him in his own goddamn base.

Phil doesn't know how long he's been stuck within these same four walls—thankfully he'd been detained in one of the spare rooms, one with a small bathroom, and not where the temporary prisoners were usually kept—, but he does know that, especially if he stays here any longer, he's about to lose his damn mind.

He thought he knew you. Figured you'd eventually calm down—like you always did—and come back to collect him. Maybe chew him out a bit more, which would be well deserved, but then let him go. Reconcile. That's what usually happened when you two had a minor scuffle.

But this wasn't just a small mishap, some little blip on the timeline because Phil had gone a bit too far once again. Been a bit too snappy; had said the wrong thing. Was it?

With every day that passed, every second that dragged on, Phil was starting to believe he didn't know you as well as he had thought he did.

It's hot. It's so fucking hot. Phillip should have known better than to actually be in the damn tank when all this started, you, his dear co-founder, had warned him against it. But what was Phil to do? He'd rather face this heat a thousand times over, relive it again and again as much as it took, than have one of his own soldiers trapped in this chunk of metal.

Did he really think he would win? Well.. maybe. Phil had his doubts before this, you had your doubts, but he had insisted. And now he was going to pay for it stuck in this gradually melting, scalding hot box.

Another few raps of his knuckles on the wall, and still no answer.

Phil was really starting to get annoyed at this point. He was more than tired of being ignored, which only manifested in an uptick of his provocative behavior.

The hallway is on the other side and you, his dear Phantom, wouldn't leave him unguarded, would you?

Definitely not. So, again, he follows his obnoxious knocking with a shout of, “V! For Christ’s sake, I know you're out there!”

And he did, who better to have stand guard outside his door than your most trusted soldier?

He may not know you like he used to, and you may never admit it, but Phil could pride himself in the fact that you were at least a little predictable. And you had always been fond of their dearest Venn.

But, as had been the norm of how ever fucking long Phil had been trapped in here, there is no reply.

Phil had warned them. He had tried his damnedest to get those damn 141 boys to stand down, his orders hadn't been against them. Not originally. Not until they, as per usual, stuck their fucking noses into shit they don't belong in.

Was this what hell was like? Was this him paying for the horrid massacre he had commanded?

Phil could have gone against orders. He could've told Shepard where to shove it and be on his merry way—with his family Shadows alive. No one had to die. No one but Hassan and his goons had to meet their end.

But, goddammit, so many had. So many innocent lives were wasted.

Phil had been doing this shit for years, doing the dirty work no one else would, the kind the average military couldn't.

That didn't make it any easier.

He often put on a front; he had to. For his family's soldiers sakes’. If he was afraid, if he shied away from the blood and the gore, the screams and the terror, then he wouldn't be the strong, unmovable rock his soldiers relied on. Now would he?

He should have said no. Or maybe made some sort of compromise. But he hadn't, and there was no point in ruminating over what had been done. He was going to die here—it is what he deserved—, stuck and helpless.

Just like the innocent people whose lives he had stolen.

He knew you were just being stubborn. You would come around eventually- right?

Phil had never doubted you before. Having started this damn company together, just two wayward souls searching for something to call their own, tired of being tied down with yards upon yards or red tape—oh, the irony of that sentiment. You two had never been free.

Even when he pushed you away. When he left you the morning after—every damn time—to wake in his bed alone and cold. Not a trace of the warmth from the night before left behind.

Even when he refused to admit what you truly meant to him.

Phil had always assured himself that it didn't matter, he could say and do whatever he pleased, because you would always come crawling back to him. And you always had. No matter what.

Until right now.

Until you didn't.

“V! Goddammit, open the door!”

It was so fucking hot. He could barely move, mind fuzzy and breaths coming out in short, labored gasps.

What little movements Phil could make were sluggish and weak. The latch didn't work, and subsequently that meant the door didn't either. He was well and truly stuck.

Phil thought he was starting to make peace with that. Dying. It had been a long time coming, hadn't it?

After all the bloodshed. After all the things he had done in his life—all the blood and gore, the purposeful ignorance and choice to look the other way. To pretend not to care.

He deserved this, right? He was getting what had been coming for him. Finally.

It should have come sooner. He had lived plenty; he had done enough harm in his time.

Phil's tactic at this point was simply to be as obnoxious as he could possibly be, and annoy Venn into inevitably opening that damn door.

And after a few more harsh pounds of his fist against the wall, and several more calls of her name, Phil gets his wish.

In the form of a frustrated shout and the door slamming against the wall so hard it's a surprise the poor thing stays on its hinges, but he gets his way nonetheless.

“What.” Venn spits when she finally gets inside, arms crossed over her chest and one boot tapping furiously against the floor.

“That's no way to speak to your Commander, V.” Phil sing-songs, all upbeat and shit, against his own better judgment.

Ah, yes. Let's piss off the one direct line you have to Phantom more than you already have.

That's sure to get him his way.

“You're not-” Venn cuts herself off, sighing heavily and starting over. “What do you want, sir?”

She says the word with none of the respect she used to and, honestly, that was fair.

“Better.” Phil still hums. Because he's an asshole. And because he can't seem to stop himself, apparently, the snark seems to be hardwired into his brain or some shit.

“What. Do. You. Want.”

“You know what I want, V.” She makes a face at the nickname, and Phil pretends not to feel that little twinge in his chest. It's not like he doesn't deserve it. They used to be close. All of them.

“Not going to happen.” Venn snaps immediately. Defensive. Predictably.

“You know I'm not going to stop asking.”

“And you know it's never going to happen.”

“Fucking hell, V, why not?” Because he doesn't deserve the right of seeing you. Because he already fucked this up before it had the chance to be great.

“Because he doesn't want to see you.”

She's told him that before, several times over, to be honest, but Phil still can't hide the slight grimace that pulls at his features when Venn says it again. Says it with so much confidence, so much conviction, like it's an obvious fact everyone else has been made aware of and he's just been too stupid to pick up on it.

Phil has already been made well aware plenty of times. He just didn't want to believe it.

But what about you?

Would you be okay without him? Would the others? Phil knows you have never been the most.. well put together. But after you two got out of that wretched regimen, when you two banded together and created this little pretend family, things had been better.

Phil had been able to get you to open up more. To get you to behave more as yourself, and not like the shell of a man who he’d met when you two were still green.

You talked to him more. Got a bit better at talking with your fellow Shadows. Let him touch without flinching first, let him get to know the person beneath the aloof exterior.

Even though he had given nothing in return.

Would you make it out if this? And if you did, would you forgive him?

When you dug up those pieces of metal from the wreckage, those little markers of his identity, no doubt having melted to be nearly incomprehensible, would you bury them with his singed corpse? Or would you keep them safe? Tucked into a pocket of your vest, above your heart?

Would you tell his grave the stories of your future when the ashes settled? Would you bring flowers, or would you spat over the very earth he rested beneath?

Would you leave the stone unmarked, or with those few precious words you two had agreed upon all those years ago?

When he was gone, would you mourn? Would you miss the warmth of him above and beside yourself? Those whispered confessions spoken under that blanket, amidst the cover of night, would you forget them?

Would you forget him too?

“And he told you this?”

Venn goes silent then. One thing about her; though her moral compass was just as fucked as the rest of theirs, though her hands were bathed in the same amount of blood, Venn was a pretty shit liar.

“He doesn't even know you're in here, does he?”

More silence.

“Oh, you poor thing. First lying and now going against your Lieutenant's direct orders? What has become of you, V?”

“I don't need him to say it to know it's true!” Venn huffs, sending Phil a scathing glare.

“So you're making assumptions now? Dearest, Venn, you know what they say about people who assume..”

“The same way you assume he'll want to see you?”

Phil opens his mouth to protest, say something, but he draws blanks. What if she's right? What if you really didn't want to see him? Hell, did he even cross your mind anymore? Did you even remember you'd put him here?

Phil clamps his mouth shut and there's an audible clack of his teeth snapping together.

He hasn't seen you since that fateful day when, like the absolute dumbass he is, he had sent you storming out. Taunting and prodding, as Phil usually did, but you truly had been acting differently that day.

Or maybe it wasn't just that day. Maybe you had really changed, and Phil didn't know that man beneath the shell anymore.

He should've seen it more clearly when you walked in dressed head to toe, even that pretty face of yours masked. You didn't like shit like that. Always used to complain to Phil how much you hated them, being so covered up, made you feel claustrophobic or whatever.

But these days you wear it like a second skin.

“I deserve to see him.”

You had always been so calm, and he would often compare you to the soothing waves of the ocean washing over the cool sand of a beach after midnight.

But even calm waters can turn deadly in the blink of an eye.

“Deserve? You think, after what you did, you deserve anything?” Venn isn't masked, so the disbelieving look she gives him is quite obvious. Paired with a humorless, and honestly a little off-putting, laugh. “You don't deserve shit, Graves. And you definitely don't have the right to seeing him, not when-”

She cuts herself off then, and, if Phil had been thinking clearly, he would've asked for clarification. For her to continue because maybe, maybe he wasn't the only one privy to see that you weren't the same man you used to be.

But he doesn't look deeper, doesn't dip below the surface of that pretty ocean blue.

He never does.

“You can't keep him from me forever-”

“I'm not keeping anything! He hasn't even come down this way all week-”

“But he has come down here-?”

“Yeah- but not for you-”

“Just get his ass over here, V-”

“No! Why are you so stubborn? He doesn't want you!”

Ouch. But he's heard worse. From you—to be completely fair, Phil had usually said his own scathing handful of words beforehand. “You don't know that!”

“I understand you two started this shit together, so you assume you've got some weird, cryptic claim over him-”

“-that's not what this is about-”

“But he is his own person, Phillip! You two may have been friends before, but things have changed. You don't own him-”

“It's not like that-!”

“Oh, really? It's not like that?” She's up close and personal now, face to face, mere centimeters away. Huh, Phil never noticed the few inches she had on him. “How is it not? All you talk about is how you deserve to see him-”

“I do!”

“That's not a good enough reason! You can't just say “I do” and expect me to drag him down here. He's a very busy man!”

“You don't understand, V-”

“Then tell me! Help me understand what could possibly earn you the right to deserve seeing the man!”

“Because I fucking love him!” He shouts. “and I deserve to see my fucking boyfriend, for Christ's sake!”

Phil doesn't realize the words that had accidentally tumbled out of his mouth until Venn is pulling back, brown eyes widened in shock.

Oh. Oh shit. Ohhhhh shit.

You were going to kill him.

Seriously this time. Phil was a dead man.

“You-” she stutters. “Him- what. I- huh??”

“Shit- V-” Phil rushes closer, hands fidgety and hovering awkwardly around Venn as if wanting to grasp hold of her shoulders. He backs off and opts to pace the same nine foot strip of carpet instead, hands fisting into his hair. Tugging a bit here and there until he manages to settle enough to cross his arms instead.

Still pacing, pulse jumping.

“You can't tell him I let it slip, alright?”

One dark eyebrow raised, she asks, “Why not?” and rightfully so. Phil probably looked like he was losing his damn mind right now.

“Because-” because he had never said it before. Had never had the courage to admit it. To name what he had with you. What he wanted with you.

Because despite that so clearly being what you wanted from him, written so openly on your face when you looked at him. The most obvious you ever had been, about anything—and it was him who caused that.

Still, he had never put a label to it.

“Because he doesn't need to know.”

“Bullshit.” Venn scoffs, curiosity now flipped back to protective anger.

“It's not that big of a deal-”

“If it weren't, you wouldn't be acting like this. Would you?”

Ah. She had him there.

“Listen, Venn,” he says, voice low, tired. “You don't know Phantom like I do. This won't blow over well if you tell him.”

“I think I know him plenty well...” She says, more so like that of a stubborn child.

“If I get him-” Venn starts, hesitating. For a moment Phil thinks she's going to give him some big speech about not doing anything, blah blah blah, or she'll send him to an early grave or whatever. She exhales deeply through her nose, shutting her eyes briefly before looking at Phil again.

He doesn't think he's ever seen her look so damn exhausted. Suddenly seeming much more like the grown woman she is, and not the rambunctious teen they usually tease her for behaving like—all in good fun, of course.

“Just..” she trails again, as if weighing her options on whether to tell him or not. “Be.. gentle.. with him. He's not–not the man you used to know. He's.. changed.”

He had figured that much, but Phil surprises even himself when he utters an, almost soft, “okay.”

Venn gives him the barest hint of a smile before dropping the expression entirely, a far away look in those dark brown hues.

After a moment of silence, she turns to walk away. Appearing unable to even gather the energy to speak a goodbye, the door shutting inaudibly behind her; Phil can't even blame her for that one. Seems he wasn't the only one to pick up on your odd behavior, and he had only spoken to you once since his return.

He wonders what you had been all this time with no one to report to, under zero supervision—then he considers that he may not want the answer.

Masterpost | One | Two | Three | Next

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm @mello-life69 @unkn0wnd3ad @tayaisback @starre-eyes @gabbvr-dog @suhmie @lazyrel @spiritsofthedead @yeonpm @its-ares @k1ssesofdeath @ravagerdogz @embry-garrick

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#call of duty #cod x male reader #male reader #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x reader #reader insert #gay #phillip graves x male reader #graves x male reader #phillip graves

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fernandopiastri28 · 21 days

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give me purpose ~ LN4 X OP81 (pt1)

(part 1), (part 2), (part 3)

Hanahaki disease (花吐き病) . In which the victim of an unrequited (one-sided) love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flower. The plant grows in their lungs and can and will grow large enough to make the process of breathing impossible if it is left untreated.

There are three ways that Hanahaki can be cured. Firstly, surgical. Through the removal of the plants' roots, this operation subsequently removes the patient's capacity for romantic love. It may also erase the patient's feelings for and memories of the enamoured.

Secondly, reciprocation. The victim will stop suffering the disease if and when their enamoured begins to requite the same feelings for them in return. These feelings cannot be feelings of friendship, but true genuine love.

Third, death. The most tragic ending. If left untreated, the plant will cause a blockage in the lungs and cut off the ability to breathe. They will die a slow, painful death.

But nothing about any decision made will be easy. Surgery always has its risks, and it is possible for the victim to die on the table, or just days after the surgery if the illness is left untreated for so long. The disease causes severe degradation to one’s body, leaving them in a weakened state.

Forcing someone to love you in return is a difficult task, and something that cannot be forced. If the ‘love’ spouts as a by-product or coercion, it will not work as a cure. Unless the feelings spout from a place of genuinity, the victim will continue to suffer.

Death is awful, no matter how it is shaped or portrayed. It is also final, and leaves room for change. Maybe things may have been different, had they lived slightly longer.

Isn’t it strange how just one conversation can seemingly change everything? A few simple words exchanged, a half assed effort to get to know someone, and suddenly the world flips on its axis and the trajectory of the world is ever so slightly altered, a blip in the timeline. For Lando, that was meeting Oscar, and vice versa.

WARNINGS: death, depression, homophobia (mainly internalised). overall, just very sad with dark thoughts of self perception

The two boys happening to meet and become friends was a multitude of strikes of fate. Having both moved to the same small-town England on the very same flight was the first. They’d first met while waiting to collect their bags from baggage claims, exchanging smiles when they saw they both had on Marvel merch- Lando an iron man hoodie, Oscar a spiderman shirt.

The second was being in all the same classes with assigned seats and lockers right next to each other. The pair were thick as thieves in the blink of an eye, a known fact by everyone in their year. Where there was Oscar- there was Lando.

The only thing to have ever brought disturbance to their tight knit friendship was that there had been a handful of people who had questioned the two boys on if they were dating. It always seemed to trigger something within Lando. In his eyes, he wasn’t able to spend time with his best friend without people having to make it weird. Oppositely, Oscar always handled the assumptions with poise and politeness.

Just that was something that Lando envied about Oscar, in a deep down, twisted and bitter way. He was simply jealous of how unaffected he was by everything. Lando was the furthest from the calm and uncaring persona Oscar carried in public, often reactive and hotheaded.

At the least his reactions often got a laugh out of the younger boy, joking around and teasing Lando each time he would get overly offended by the question, "I'm offended you're so upset by the concept of us dating!” It often brought Lando back to being level headed again, realising how unnecessarily dramatic he could be.

Yet, he wasn’t even offended it was Oscar. In terms of boys, Oscar was about as good as it got, pale skin littered with perfectly scattered beauty spots, charmingly crooked bunny teeth, a swoop of chocolate brown hair that never had a strand out of place (even though Oscar swore to the ends of the earth that he hadn't ever used a comb). A natural charm and genuinity, he oozed positivity.

So despite his awareness of Oscar’s attractiveness, he definitely wasn’t gay. There wasn’t a single reality where he could possibly ever want to date or kiss him. He could appreciate when a guy was attractive- like Ryan Gosling or Brad Pitt- but that didn't mean he would ever want to kiss them or anything. He felt that even less towards females.

He didn’t like the bright waxy spread of lipstick, or the bush of black curls that framed their eyes in movies. It seemed all phoney, a facade to draw in the attention of men. Maybe he’d feel different one day, but he’d thought that in his early years of elementary school when he’d been told that girls wouldn’t have cooties for much longer. That soon, he’d begin seeing girls that made butterflies swarm his stomach.

He was still waiting for that feeling,

If not just for his dry humour and natural ability to get a laugh out of Lando, it was probably Oscar’s talent and ambition that drew the older boy towards being his friend. His sport, unlike the majority of the boys in their school who played soccer or cricket, Oscar karted. It had even been the reason he’d moved to the U.K. so he could drive in Formula 4.

Now in Formula 3, he was at school less and travelling almost twice the amount. School became somehow even lonelier. It seemed each day that he would drag himself to class, sit there and take the most baseline notes, then beg his parents to let him come home earlier. Once his absences from school began looking a 1:1 ratio of when he actually was there, his parents put their foot down and he wasn’t allowed to miss another day.

Having Oscar away so often and being left alone gave Lando a whole lot of time for self reflection. He reflected on firstly his relationship with him, with Oscar, and lastly and most of all, with other people, or his lack of any. He had other friends to be fair- Carlos and Daniel who he played soccer with, and George in his business class.

The problem lay in the fact that none of them were Oscar, and no one was even close.

Arguably one of the best aspects of the two’s friendship was that unlike every other one of their other friends, neither of them had ever had a girlfriend, or even made out with a girl at a party which seemed a recurring action for everyone else. For Lando, it was a lack of interest, and while that was a factor for Oscar, in reality he just didn’t have the time for it.

Being so busy with constant training, racing, travel, family life, and school left him too exhausted by the end of it to even attempt to date. It put Oscar and Lando on a similar inexperienced playing field, even though Lando was relatively sure Oscar at least had had a crush before.

But he’s not getting any younger, and time seems to be slipping further from his grip and speeding up infinitely. At 17, his relationship with sexuality steadily becomes more of constant sour taste on his tongue. It surrounds each of his waking moments, a dull buzz in the forefront of his mind. Wondering when, wondering who, wondering how. So many questions, so little experience, so much disgust towards the thought.

He wants to be normal, he wants to look at a girl and feel as if his heart is about to thrum out of his chest, but his brain just goes silent each time. Not the silence that comes with your world pulling to a halt, being so enamoured with someone, but the silence of when the beat of your heart seems quieter and slow, a realisation that absolutely nothing is there. It can’t be forced, and it can’t be faked.

It was a lonely situation, feeling like such an outcast for being that way. He found his sole solace in Oscar, the one person close to him he could rely on that made him feel like maybe there wasn’t something completely wrong with him. Life was more than girls who wore perfumes that buried itselfs into the fabric of your shirt and lingered like a bad headache, more than giving into shallow wants in desperate hours, more than signing yourself up for constant arguments and demanded attention.

For Oscar, life was racing. It was karting, speeding, adrenaline, pushing the limits, defying odds. It was pure passion.

For Lando, life was Oscar.

So maybe both of their times would come, or maybe they’d follow through with their lives on their individual journeys, never stopping to look back at a life of monogamy or lust. Maybe they’d both be content, or maybe Lando would forever feel this way- empty and different from everyone around. Maybe he’d find a passion that enthralled him just as much as Oscar was with racing. He’d finally find an escape from the mental torture of relationships, and he could find a way to be his own person, not a tag along of his best friend.

Mindfuck. It’s pure mindfuck.

Lando stops sleeping, his eyes still get just as heavy, but there’s a stimulant burrowed deep within his senses, not allowing rest, not allowing a break. He stays up till the early hours of each morning, his bones aching from whatever desperate attempted position he tried to fall asleep in the night prior. Melatonin doesn’t work, sleeping pills don’t either, so he takes nothing, not wanting to add an addiction on top of all this.

Maybe he should talk about this with someone. Get his feels out into the open air. Maybe it wouldn’t help, he’d likely just continue to feel the same. Yet, if someone can sympathise with his feelings, maybe the isolation wouldn’t be quite as bad.

He caves and speaks to the person he holds closest to himself beyond Oscar. His brother Max. There’s a few years between the two, and definitely a gap in maturity. Max is all the things Lando isn’t. Polished, polite, smart, passionate, outgoing. Lando is rough around the edges, hollow on the inside, bitter in every aspect. But, that bitterness doesn’t reflect up to Max or Oscar, who just see Lando, not for all the things wrong with him, but for his humorous and determined inner core.

It’s now or never if he wants to speak to his brother on the topic as he’s currently home visiting from university. They share a room, just like old times, just like all the early years of Lando’s life when he’d modelled himself to be like his big brother, follow in his footsteps. Where that had all changed wasn’t clear, the determination to be better, to be ‘perfect’ had faded away as he realised it to be an impossible dream. Now, he simply didn’t try at all.

Their single beds are closely separated by a chest of drawers, yet, the distance seems far greater. “Max, when did you first have a crush on a girl?” His deep and sleepless voice cuts through the thick silence filling the room. There’s a moment where he debated whether the question actually managed to reach Max through the plush material of his duvet.

That is until there’s a rustle of fabric and a squeak of the bed frame. “Mmm,” A groan straight from his throat, “I reckon I was about seven or eight,” His voice is tired and groggy, clearly having previously been mid-sleep unlike the younger boy. “Why's that?”

He hadn’t really thought ahead to what his answers would be as the conversation progressed. Maybe he thought Max would whip out some motivational speech, tell him just exactly why he shouldn’t be ashamed of his feelings, or lack off, so it’s all improv now, speaking from the heart. His eyes focus on the dim outline of his fingers, twiddling them as a distraction to allow him to get out of his own head for long enough to answer. “I still haven’t had one,” He hacks up a cough, the type used to get something unstuck from his throat. “And.. yeah, I just feel weird, I’m pretty much the only guy my age who hasn’t liked someone yet,”

There’s a pause that lasts long enough for Lando to wonder if Max deemed the conversation as seriously boring and unimportant that he’d dozed off, until “You know that's alright, yeah?” His low voice reassures. “There’s no need to rush or force it,” That feels good to hear, verbatim for what he was hoping Max would say. Say that it’s okay, say he’s not weird. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl yet.” Then, a somehow even longer pause drawls out into his adding comment, “Or boy,”

A dirty feeling floods his body, a sensation comparable to nails on a chalkboard. His face crumples, his eyebrows twisting into the ugliest expression he’s sure he’s ever made. “I'm not gay,” It comes out harsher than anticipated, but it’s not just feelings of anger that power behind it, but all those feelings of doubt and confusion that make the comment strikes something vulnerable within him.

It’s harsh enough to pull back the awkward and palpable tension that had been previously resting between them. “I didn’t say you were,” He sighs at his brother’s defensiveness, “I'm just trying to be understanding of your situation.” He’s clearly trying to be careful with his words so as to not set off another explosive reaction from Lando.

“Right, sorry” The noise that comes out of his voice is unfamiliar to his ears, hardly even there, just a mumbled acceptance. He knows he needs to be less reactive, and needs to learn to take his time trying to be more collected. He’s been made to feel like too much his whole life from everyone except Oscar and Max, so now there’s only one.

The idea of disappointing his brother, his role model is a worse pain then any injury he’s had, any upset moment he’s endured. Where he’s trapped in between a heavy, weighted blanket and the top of his mattress feels like an oven, all the heat radiating off his irate body is trapped to cling to his skin. He pulls his shirt off and bundles it up, shoving it right down next to his left knee.

Without knowing if Max is still awake, he explains himself in an attempt to clear any awkwardness. “It’s just,” His lungs seem to completely empty themselves with his next exhale, “It's just that people at school are already always asking if im gay. Everyone thinks Oscar and I are together.” He tilts his head to his side, seeing a pair of brown eyes looking straight back at him under the dimly lit room. So he is still awake.

A lack of response from Max makes Lando regret even bringing it up in the first place. He’s never been one to judge, always sickeningly understanding. He knew Max wouldn’t have a poor reaction to this, but he did fear what would come out of his mouth. What if it did make him feel like there was seriously something wrong with himself.

“Does that offend you that it's Oscar people assume specifically?”

That isn’t one of the rare things he’d ever thought too far into in one of his many nights of hatred contemplation. Staring wistfully at the fuzzy outline of his brother’s face, he wallows in the question for a while. Maybe it isn’t the insinuation that he’s gay that bothers him. Maybe he wouldn’t have care that much if people asked if he was dating Alex or George. Maybe it‘s different because it’s Oscar.

But why is it different because it’s Oscar?

Someone who was clearly comfortable in his sexuality, someone who didn't care if people thought he was gay, unlike almost any other guy who would have taken great offence to it. That’s probably why it bugs him so much.

Because Oscar never denies it, he lets people think him and Lando were together. He’s not scared, but Lando is. Scared of letting people perceive him.

A cough bubbles in his throat, his eyes burning as he tries to hold it in. It’s not anything too out of the ordinary as ever since Oscar had left to go to Monza for the better half of a week for a grand prix, Lando’s chest has constantly felt tight and constricted. He was usually able to compress the need to cough, as each time he allows it, it only hurts far worse, painful spluttering that winds him to exhaustion.

He blames Oscar for that too. The fucker has probably given Lando a cold he’d picked up from the constant travel he did. He forgets about Max’s lingering question until their eyes meet in the dark again, “Maybe,” It’s slightly muffled from the covers that have crept up to cover half his face. It’s nice, not as warm anymore and it helps to mute the buzzing of the fan and the dull noise of traffic outside. “I think it's strange that… I don’t know, I guess I just wish he would think it's weird like I do. He just allows it, he lets people think we’re a couple”

“I think you’ll figure all of this out pretty soon Lando, everything is going to click one day.” It leaves them in a lighter silence than before the talk. Now, not only is Max able to, Lando is too, after what feels like endless restless nights stuck deep in careful consideration. His nose buries into the crook of his elbow as his forearm sprawls across his face. A single cough hits against his bicep, the exhaustion from it pulling him into a deep sleep.

He doesn’t see the sun gradually rise the next morning after what feels like forever of staring out the window, watching the sky gradually turn from a dusky grey to a warm collage of purples, pinks, and orange. Sunlight burns hot stripes across his face, the rays directed through a slit in the curtain. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, a wet hand.

The joints in his arms creak as he stretches out, the dry air from the oscillating fan makes his uncovered skin feel infinitely dry. Well, almost all of his exposed skin. The inner corner of his elbow feels wet, uncomfortably so. Blinking sleep out of his eyes and squinting, he sees the reminiscence of an eerie red liquid. There isn’t a cut below the gleaming splodge so there must’ve been a different source for where it’s spilling out of.

The most logical option is a spontaneous bloody nose occuring at some random point during the night, and he’s proven correct when he feels the skin just above his top lip and below his nostrils and there’s that same familiar trickle of warmth.

It stains his fingertips and just under his fingernails and no amount of dry tissues is going to get it fully off, so he lugs himself to the bathroom to scrub away the marks. As the covers of his bed are pulled back, they reveal a single striped carnation petal laying upon a smear of blood, completely unnoticed.

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yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt · 1 month

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Ok I don't talk nearly enough about Nimona angst or headcanons, but like. Can you imagine how quickly time passes for her? Like people (and even animals) experience time in relation to the length of their life. To a two year old a week is much longer than to a 65 year old.

Nimona is more than a thousand years old. She probably existed long before Gloreth, possibly before humans even existed. She could be tens of thousands of years old for all anyone knows. She could have been born with the creation of life itself millions of years ago.

Imagine how quickly time passes for her. Every day a millisecond, every year the blink of an eye, every lifetime or generation just a blip in her endless existence. It's no wonder she's always trying to get Ballister to act quickly, do things now, take down the institute, release the video, take her on as a sidekick, now now now. Because to her, he is on a very very tight timeline.

I don't think it would make her distant. I imagine her time with Ballister would be experienced more slowly because she'd be more present for it, rather than her thousand+ years alone. She would want to savor every moment of the short, short time she'd get to have with her friends and family. And it's so fucking sad, because she's still just a kid. She needs family and guidance and to be loved, and she'll lose anyone who provides that in an instant.

So, when she met Ballister, she didn't ask to be his sidekick for the rest of his life. She said "forever and ever, no take-backsies" so she'll still be his sidekick, and still feel loved, long after he's gone.

#im crying im crying #she doesn't deserve to outlive anyone she loves she doesn't deserve it HELP #nimona #ballister boldheart #nimona 2023

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holylulusworld · 2 months

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A fresh start (4) - Three men and a baker

Summary: The world is safe. Thanos is gone. What now?

Pairing: Post-Endgame!Steve Rogers x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, plus-sized reader, virgin reader, virgin Steve Rogers, fluff, falling in love

A/N: Please consider I don’t care about the timeline of Endgame.

Written for my 16.666 followers celebration. Requested by @elle14-blog1

A fresh start (3) - Where to Captain?

A fresh start masterlist

16.666 followers ‘16 days of requests’ celebration

Time passed so fast.

One night Steve told you about their plan to bring all the people the world lost in the blip back, and the next thing you remember is that he came to you to say goodbye before the final battle.

You spent your days worrying about Steve, his friends, and the fate of the world. What if Thanos did something even more horrible if he found out what Captain America and the remaining Avengers tried to do?

You had faith in Steve and his friends. Still, you were scared of losing Steve forever. Just like you lost your granny.

The world was a different place, and you could only hope that whatever happened after Steve and his friends defeated Thanos would make it a better place for everyone.

You barely slept, and only dragged yourself out of bed to support the support group. It was important for you to help them cope while Steve tried to bring their loved ones back.

One day, when you opened your granny’s bakery three men stepped inside. Steve Rogers was one of them. He smiled and wrapped his arms around you.

“Steve,” you sniffled. “You’re back.” You held tight onto Steve for dear life. It felt too good having him back with you. “I feared the worst. I thought I lost you forever.”

Steve pecked your forehead, cheek, and lastly your lips.

“Whoa, Cap,” Sam chuckled as you and Steve were all over each other. “Take it slow. We are still here with you.”

“Steve, don’t you want to introduce us to the pretty dame?” Bucky poked his friend’s back. “We are here to get to know her.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve reluctantly let go of you. He looked you all over before introducing you to his friends. “Doll, that’s Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.”

You gasped. “Your friends are back! You made it.” You wrapped Sam in a hug, sniffling as he was back. “Welcome back Sam.” You turned your attention toward Bucky. He huffed, but let you hug him too. “Bucky! Steve told me so much about you and Sam. His best friends.”

“Uh-it’s nice to meet you,” Bucky said. “Steve, I can’t believe you hid a pretty dame like Y/N from us for so long.”

“To be fair, you weren’t around when I met Y/N—” Steve dropped his gaze, suddenly aware of what he just said. “Sorry. That was…”

“Hey, we were only dust in the wind,” Sam joked while Bucky grumbled under his breath. “You brought us back, though.”

“He never gave up on you,” you hastily said. “Steve missed his friends so much and tried to find a way to defeat Thanos. And he did.” You wrapped Steve in a hug again. “I knew he’d make it. He’s my hero.”

Bucky and Sam shared a knowing look. “So…this is your bakery?” Sam said to break the awkward moment. “It’s very nice.”

“It was my granny’s bakery,” you explained. “She left it to me. Granny passed away shortly before the blip.”

“It smells great,” Bucky craned his neck to glance at the freshly baked pie on the counter. “It smells like plums.”

“Do you want a slice, Bucky?” You grabbed Bucky’s hand. “Sorry, is it okay that I call you Bucky?”

“Sure, doll,” you giggled when Bucky brought your hand to his lips to press a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“Buck,” Steve stepped closer to you. He possessively wrapped his arm around your shoulders and gave his friend a stern look. “How about we all have a slice of pie to celebrate our reunion.”

“Aw, he doesn’t like sharing,” Sam teased. He watched you lean into Steve’s touch. “I get it, man. She’s special.”

“Your girl is nice,” Bucky watched his friend check on his phone. “Y/N said you met at the support group meeting. How long is this going on between you two?”

“She’s…I mean…she took my breath away the moment I first laid my eyes on her,” Steve nervously shifted on his feet. “I like…no, I love her. She’s the one, Buck. I just don’t know if I’m the man she wants.”

Sam huffs. “Steve, she’s completely and hopelessly in love with you. Y/N didn’t even spare us a glance. She’s not impolite, that’s a fact. Y/N simply was distracted by your presence.”

“What he said.” Bucky nodded in agreement. “What’s the problem? You love her. She loves you. A perfect match.”

Steve's cheeks turned pink. He huffed and dropped his eyes to the ground, staring at his shoes.

“She’s perfect and I love her. Y/N is the one but,” he sighed deeply. “How can I tell her that I never was with a woman before?”

“Wait—what?” Sam looked at Bucky, furrowing his brows. “But man, you’re tall and all. Women should be all over you. How can you never…I mean…”

“Stevie waited for the right girl,” Bucky placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Right? You didn’t want your first time to be meaningless.”

“Something like that,” Steve murmured. “After I crashed into the ice and lost the chance to dance with Peggy, I have never met a woman making me feel the way Peggy made me feel. Y/N is different. She’s the one and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

Sam nodded and thought about a way to help his friend. He was honored that Steve felt comfortable enough around him to talk about such a sensitive topic.

“I need your help,” Steve suddenly said. “I want to make Y/N happy in any way. This includes physical love too.”

Bucky grinned. “Stevie, we’ve got this.” He looked at Sam. “Right? We are going to tell Steve how to make his pretty doll happy.”

“Do you think she’s ready to take the next step, Steve?” Sam asked. “You should both be on the same side.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want to hurry things with Y/N. All I want is to be ready to give her pleasure if she wants me to. I want her to feel safe and loved when she’s with me. I would never do anything she doesn’t want.”

“Relax, Steve,” Sam patted Steve’s shoulder. “We will help you. Y/N is special and I’m glad you found someone like her in your darkest hour…”

Part 5

Tags in reblog.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve x reader #steve rogers x female!reader #A fresh start (4) - Three men and a baker

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xaphrin · 4 months

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Anyway I just spent all morning plotting out my next long fic, and uh... wow that outline is something. Hope it doesn't suck? Have a taste?

(Actually trying to see how people feel about this)

When Trigon finally conquered Earth it felt like the world had become a strange, tilted reflection of itself. Warped like the mirror in a funhouse, but somehow still the same. On the surface things continued as normal, people went to their jobs, the public transit system continued, and the stock market miraculously stayed stable. The conquering felt less like an ending, and more like a blip in the timeline. Most people assumed that after a few months it would all clear itself up.

But, underneath that facade of normalcy, there was a wound festering.

Dissenters quietly disappeared overnight. World leaders vanished on their way to summits. Pacifists simply ceased to exist. Slowly, like a small leak in a boat, little bits of civilization disappeared, letting more and more horrors fill the space until the boat started to sink and there was nothing left but accept the inevitable truth:

There was no saving what Trigon had destroyed.

And here stood Raven, at the edge of it all. She wasn’t supposed to exist. After her body had been used as a portal for Trigon, she had been left to die and decompose into the earth. Even her soul wouldn’t have found rest anywhere, since it was welcome nowhere.

“You good?”

Raven turned and looked at Dick as he stood next to her. “Not sure yet.” She gave a one shouldered shrug and stared out into the skyline.

The city still looked inhabited, but there was a soft quiet that rumbled in and around the buildings. Look closer and you could see shattered windows and the rust-colored stains of long-dried blood. Everyone ignored it. If someone had died, they had it coming. Keep your head down. Don’t stir up trouble. Those were rules, and they were meant to be followed.

Dick sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I got a message from my brother.”

Raven lifted an eyebrow. “A Robin?”

He nodded. “The last one, actually. He was there the day Batman was…” Dick trailed off, unsure of what to call the death of the last man he considered a father.

“Taken,” Raven supplied. The word didn’t feel like an end. It felt like a book with the last pages ripped out, so you never really knew the ending. “I thought he disappeared. Your brother, I mean.”

“He went back to the League of Assassins.”

Raven lifted an eyebrow, surprised. They were the one group of people who had managed to resist all of Trigon’s control, walking a very fine line of neutrality. She huffed out a soft breath. “And what does he want?”

“To join the cause.”

#damirae #I've started plotting and outlining things which is weird #but found it's easier for me to get my 300 - 500 words a day in if I have an actual plot and not just a ~vibe~#So... uh... I guess expect chapter one in a few weeks?

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heich0e · 1 year

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taste test- poly vampire!matsuhana/f!reader (lil follow up to 'cutting teeth')

“Okay, try this.”

Hiro’s knees knock against yours, overeager and a little clumsy as he presses a glass into your waiting palms. He keeps his hands cupped around yours, lifting them in time with your own as you bring the drink up to your lips, his eyes watching you intently over the brim all the while.

“What is it?” you ask before you risk taking a sip, the cool edge of the cup resting against your bottom lip.

“It’s nothing bad,” he promises you.

“Takahiro, you’ve said that about everything else, too,” you complain, your eyes sweeping across the various items that litter the floor around you both—a selection of food items in bright plastic packaging and neon-coloured beverages discarded haplessly after you’d tasted them and voiced your dislike.

“Well, they weren’t bad either,” he says with a laugh, “you just didn’t like them.”

“They tasted awful,” you sniff, and the scent wafting up from whatever is in the cup Hiro’s waiting for you to sip from makes your stomach turn. You pull your face away from it and press the cup back into his hands. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Hiro whines. He takes a big sip from the cup. “It’s strawberry flavoured!”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Why would I want to drink that?” you pout a little as you say it. “None of this stuff tastes nice to me anymore.”

“Hiro—“

Your head snaps towards the doorway where you see Issei standing, quietly watching you both. You’re not sure when he arrived, but you suspect that was his intention. He approaches, crouching down behind you where you’re sitting on the floor in front of your pink-haired snack pusher.

“—If she doesn’t like it, don’t force her.”

“I know,” Hiro sing-songs in a disappointed key, pouting. “I was just trying to see if she got any of her taste back.”

You blink a little, peeking again at the treats that surround you. They’re all things that you had once enjoyed, things that you distantly remember craving and enjoying. Now a single taste or the mere smell is enough to make you feel nauseated.

There’s only one thing you like the taste of now.

“Will that happen?” you ask quietly, and Hiro’s red eyes flicker from Issei’s face to yours. He nods enthusiastically.

“Not like it was,” Issei is quick to temper Hiro’s enthusiasm. His large hands slip up your arms gently, squeezing when he reaches your shoulders. “But over time, food will become a little less unpalatable than it seems to you now.”

You tip your head back until it rests against his chest, peering up at him.

“Does any of this taste good to you?” you ask him.

Between the two, Hiro has a much greater fondness for food. It’s not unusual at all to see him snacking on or slurping some processed, deeply unhealthy bit of junk food. The kind that people are supposed to eat in moderation—if at all. Issei rarely consumes anything as far as you can tell, maybe a glass of wine here and there. A whiskey every so often. A bite of something Hiro offers him, if only just to please him because it always earns him a kiss.

Issei laughs a little at your question, brushing a piece of your hair back from your face. “Not particularly. My sense of taste is still muted, so I tend to prefer the things that humans find bitter since the flavour is sharp enough to come through. Coffee. Dark chocolate. Aged liquor. Cigarettes.”

You frown. “But you’re old.”

Hiro laughs gleefully. “If he’s old what does that make me?”

You tip your chin down again to look at Takahiro, who’s watching you warmly. He grins lopsidedly, propping his chin up in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. His mouth is stained pink from the drink in his hand.

“Ancient,” you supply wryly, smiling a little yourself.

It’s easy for you to say, not least of all because it’s true. The entirety of your existence in comparison to Takahiro’s is a mere blip on the timeline. A drop of water in the ocean’s depths. Even Issei has been around long enough that your short life would seem, well, inconsequential by comparison. But if in the hundred years since Takahiro had turned him Issei had still only developed a taste for the few foods that he had, your own newly-immortal lifespan in comparison would surely prevent you from deriving any pleasure from the things Hiro is trying to feed you at present.

“If you knew I wasn’t going to like any of this, why did you make me eat it,” you complain, batting at a bright red candy-bar wrapper resentfully.

“I’m trying to get you started early,” Hiro counters, like a parent might justify their decision to feed their child vegetables. He shakes his head ruefully. “The sooner we start the quicker you’ll get used to it. I spoiled Issei and look how he turned out.”

You tilt your head back again, slumping into Issei’s broad chest.

“I think he turned out just fine,” you say softly, and a small smile pulls at the corner’s of Issei’s mouth. He runs his fingers over your cheek, dipping down and kissing you softly with a hum.

By the time his lips part from yours, Hiro is right in front of you. He’s on his hands and knees, with his palms pressed to Issei’s thighs behind you, so close his nose brushes yours when you tilt your head back down. The speed that Hiro moves used to startle you sometimes, but you can follow it with your senses now. You laugh breathily at his proximity.

“That’s not fair,” Hiro says, but he’s not genuinely upset by the show of affection. He knows you care for him as much as you care for Issei. He cares for Issei as much as he cares for you, too.

You kiss him next to placate him, his mouth soft and warm and eager as it always is as he parts his lips against your own. He crowds closer until you’re properly pressed to Issei’s chest, and you feel Issei’s hands begin to wander as Hiro takes more and more of the ground you freely give him—sucking noisily against your tongue when your lips part in a quiet gasp at the feeling of Issei’s fingers creeping up under the hem of your dress and pressing against the front of your panties.

Hiro's kisses always make your head spin, always make you feel warm and flustered and inundated with a want so sticky-sweet you can almost taste him on your tongue. It's always been like this, ever since the beginning.

And as Issei's fingers loop under the waistband of your underwear, and Hiro helps to lift your hips so he can pull them down, you realize that you were wrong when you said there's only one thing you like the taste of now, because there are three—and two of them are crowding you in their embrace from either side.

#makki x reader #hanamaki takahiro x reader #mattsun x reader #matsukawa issei x reader #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

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shibaraki · 2 years

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LIFE IS THE TILLAGE ┊ KITA SHINSUKE

synopsis: with your mental health at an all time low, your old childhood friend welcomes you to recuperate on his humble plot of land. gradually you begin to rediscover the beauty of living — one rice paddy at a time.

tags: AFAB reader (called darling, love, sweetheart), childhood friends to lovers, reader deals with depression (NO mention or description of suicide/self harm), discussions of self worth, Japanese rice farming (probably inaccurate, but there are ducks and frogs!), food to communicate love, bed sharing, resolved romantic tension, eventual smut, no power dynamics, praise, vaginal oral sex + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), aftercare

wc: 15.4k

The covers on the train seats are threadbare, withered with age and itching uncomfortably against your skin. Your eyes wander across the empty carriage, a cacophony of steel meeting track and old wheels turning. Not many people from the city took this particular route unless they were already residents — it was a little further out into the countryside, so much so that most found it an inconvenient place to visit. As the journey progresses the colour palette evolves, the grey landscape of the city fading gently into green and golden hues, accented by the blushing evening sun.

In that moment the horizon appears seamless and unending; with barely a blemish of cloud the sky reminds you of a fresh bruise. Your throat becomes uncomfortably dry at the simple beauty of it and you find yourself looking away to the hands in your lap, tightly wrung and trembling. Somewhere out there, across timelines and universes, there may be a version of you that never got the chance to see this.

The thought ripples through your chest and sinks to the bottom of your stomach. Inside you there is a vast and deep cavern, the pit weathering more through every year that passes no matter how much sand you throw into it. Such a tangible absence, it was paraxdocially heavy, and you carried it everywhere you went. You’d ask yourself time and time again: how much longer until it all collapses, how much longer until the infrastructure inevitably breaks?

There came a point in which it’s too much to bear. It became obvious this was not something you could weather alone. I want to live, you’d decided. Though that ephemeral moment of strength hadn’t lasted very long at all.

I want to die, you think as you sink against the window, vibrations rattling through the thick glass into your temple. And then again — how much longer?

The station comes into view, a small blip in a sea of fields. There, on the only train platform in the village, Kita Shinsuke is awaiting your arrival. A childhood friend and the buoy you lost sight of years ago, his grandmother remained incredibly tight knit with your family even after they’d moved away following your graduation. It was that very nurtured connection which led to your being here; people do talk, after all.

“My Shinsuke is happy t’have you for as long as you need. He’s got plenty of room in that house of his”.

He’d made quite a life for himself in the time that had passed. Rice farming wasn’t anything close to extravagant but you felt the path was completely tailored to him; it fit well around his shoulders and stopped right at the cuff. Kita had always been a stickler for routine, often accumulating small actions that ended up serving a much larger purpose — sowing seeds and tilling fields to eventually bear crops and fill empty stomachs.

Though there is no fluffy white rice to fill your own, only shame and embarrassment. You spot him quickly through the muddied window, pale green overalls unbuttoned at the torso to be tied around his waist, hand raised and shielding his eyes from the sun to watch as the train crawls to a stop.

You quickly get to your feet, stumbling as the brakes jolt the carriage, and make your way through the automatic doors with suitcase in hand. The air is cool, a gentle caress paired well with the sun's stifling heat, and a shiver spreads along your back as Kita approaches.

He calls for you, your name sitting right at home in his mouth, having missed the thick accent more than you realised. It reminds you of a much simpler time, where the only thing you needed to worry about was homework or tallying the points for the boys volleyball team. But even then this thing had been gnawing away at you. A thing that would always follow no matter where you went, slowly descending upon you even if you managed to outrun it for a few days.

It would find you here, too.

A deep inhale to collect yourself, the oxygen fills your lungs until they bloat and your shoulders straighten up, forcing a grin across your face that strains each cheek. “Kita,” you move to greet him properly and hope he doesn’t see through your puppetry, “it’s good to see you again”.

Good is perhaps an understatement. He’d always been handsome but in your time apart he has grown, shoulders broader and arms much larger. His bangs hang over his eyes slightly, earth and amber reflecting back at you as the light bounces through them. His expression pinches minutely as he looks you over, searching for something you aren’t aware of, softening only when he meets your gaze. As he smiles at you, you find your own is a little less plastic.

“I don’t want any a’ that formality here,” he says as he extends an open hand, wordlessly asking to take your luggage, “doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I’m still your Shin, alright?”

His fingers brush along your palm as he grabs the handle and you release your grip, fist pressing to your chest and clenched to hold onto the warmth. “Alright,” you quietly assent, shrinking into yourself as his arm leans against the small of your back to guide you forward.

Your facade must be weaker than intended, you think, if he feels the need to linger so closely like this.

“I’m parked up just there,” you glance up to catch as he nods in the opposite direction, following his line of sight to an off-white truck decorated in spats of mud around the outer panels. As the distance lessens you can see a red-gold omamori hanging from the rear view mirror alongside a pale blue air freshener.

“Hop in,” he squeezes gently at your waist once before reaching across to open the door for you, “I’ll put yer things in the back”.

Curiosity piqued as you waited for him. You pinch the good luck charm between your thumb and forefinger, smiling at the soft scent of chamomile emanating from the hanging decorations. The truck was clearly an older model, a radio that only takes CDs in the centre console and handles on either passenger door to roll down the windows manually. But it seemed well loved, and Kita never complained about appearances as long as the job got done.

The car rocks on its axle as he climbs into the driver's seat, sending you another soft smile as he leans over to flip down your sun visor and jostles your belt buckle. “Ready?” he asks, tending to his own seatbelt.

You nod, swallowing the dry swell building in your throat. Somehow while being a young man that you now barely knew, he really was still your Shin, and you couldn’t comprehend how quickly he invited you back into his life. The levels of familiarity and comfort that you’d built all throughout your childhood and adolescence, it was all still there. Unchanged, waiting.

“It’s not far from here. Ya might have to endure some bumps though,” he continues to speak over the hum of the engine and wheels turning loudly against loose gravel. The back of the seat is hot through your clothes, having spent the day absorbing the sun.

“Yer quiet,” he comments, though not unkindly, and you grimace regardless.

“Sorry Ki— Shin. I guess I just feel a little awkward and… guilty, for imposin’ on you like this,” you tell him. Especially because you’d been a terrible friend after graduation, so caught up in your own turmoil and rationing out the small amount of energy you had between work, that maintaining long distance relationships became draining.

“You could never impose on me. I know it’s a slight ways’ out from where we grew up but my home is still yours an’ that hasn’t changed”. The memory of ten years old Shinsuke’s chubby little finger hooked around your own flashes through your thoughts, both sodden with rain as granny swaddled you in towels. You’d run away from home after an argument with your family, something childish and inconsequential, but so big to you at the time.

Shinsuke had found you in your shared hideout, patted the top of your head as you cried, and then dragged you back to his house in the middle of a storm. “When yer sad ya’ can always come sleep here,” he’d promised, “granny’s house is your house too”.

Quietly watching as Kita’s fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, palm pressing flat to turn it with each corner, a familiar sting spreads through your sinuses and you blink away the onset of tears. “Did… Do you know why I came out here?”

“All granny said is that you aren’t ya’self right now. And I’m not one to pry”.

You exhale with relief. “Thank you, Shin”.

He hums, low and content. The glass windows vibrate in their frames as he drives onto a dirt road, either side shaded by wild grass. “The city isn’t for everyone. Yer always welcome to stay when you need a break,” he replies.

The surroundings change, the hill faintly sloped, and as he pulls out onto another road you find yourself surrounded by a few acres of golden rice fields. At the end of the makeshift road is a two story wooden farmhouse, made up of heavy timber and uneven beams, covered by a traditional steep thatched roof. Across the landscape into the distance, you can see the silhouette of the Chugoku mountain chain.

“All this is yours?”

“Inherited all three hectares of it,” he breathes, voice tinted with faux exasperation and you feel yourself smile, “it’ll be time for harvest soon enough. Most of the ears are gold and beginning to bow”.

“I haven’t got a clue what that means but I’ll assume it’s positive,” you laugh. The truck pulls up in front of a moderately small outhouse, stalling right where the tracks end, and he pushes down the handbrake before cutting out the engine.

“When yer feeling up to it I’ll take you around the paddies and explain,” he sinks back into his seat for a moment, head turned to meet your gaze as he grins, “maybe I’ll even put ya’ to work”.

Something about the mirth in his eyes and the charming quirk of his mouth strums your centre of gravity, a gentle swoop through your belly. “As long as I don’t get in the way I’d love to help,” you reply.

Once again, for a split second you feel as if you’re being seen through, like your choice of words had given something away to him. “That seems to be a theme with you,” he observes, “don’t assume yer’ a burden to me. If you get somethin’ wrong I’ll simply correct ya, no harm done”.

“Okay,” is your quiet reply. He softens considerably, hand falling heavily atop the crown of your head to reassure you before he begins to climb out of the truck. Your eyes fall closed, remembering the weight and the sincerity in his expression before following closely behind.

Landing unceremoniously onto the soft soil, you begin to internally curse some of the clothing you’d brought along with you. Most were chosen for comfort, not for agricultural living, as proven by the awkward grip your soles have in the dirt. But Kita doesn’t comment, only offers an arm to assist you onto firmer ground, and the simple act is enough to wash away the exaggerated embarrassment.

You often forget that most don’t think twice about the things you do.

He insists on carrying your luggage and so you trail behind him in awe up to the house, taken by the beauty and craftsmanship woven into the structure. “This is beautiful Shinsuke,” you hear yourself say.

He glances back over his shoulder to you from the veranda, one that appears to encircle the entire front of the house. “I had it re-thatched a few months ago with a bamboo frame. I read that they were built like this in the Edo period to look like hands in prayer,” he smiles.

“It suits you”.

“Is that right?”

You step into the genkan, watching as he leans down to untie every lace of his boots, fingers hooked into the heel to pull them off gently and line them up neatly on the shoe rack. You feel somewhat sheepish for the rough manner in which you kick yours off in comparison, too lazy to undo any of the knots. He slips his socked feet into his house slippers and to your surprise, offers you a pair of your own.

They’re a pale grey and closed at the toe, just like his own, and your heel sinks pleasantly into the thick sole. “I thought they’d be preferable over open toed since we’re headin’ into the colder months,” he says.

“And the memory foam?”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle behind thinly veiled amusement. “You always were easy to please”.

Heat flushes to your face at the lighthearted teasing as he leads you further into the house. As expected it's big, meant to be occupied by a family of at least three generations, and decorated quite traditionally. To the left of the entrance is a pair of sliding doors leading to a tatami room with an unused irori in the centre, which connects further to a kitchen and dining area.

“This upstairs toilet is all yours, but ‘fraid there’s only one bath which we’ll be sharing,” he says. Kita’s bedroom is the largest room on the first floor along with an extra tatami room that leads out to the veranda, while on the second floor there are three smaller bedrooms for you to choose from.

“The one at the back of the house might be better if yer not wantin’ the sunrise to wake ya,” he offers kindly, noticing your deliberation. You take the one at the back and he carefully sets your luggage onto the mat beneath the window.

You breathe deeply and take in the space, embraced by the distinct scent of wet earth and rice straw. Kita watches in comfortable silence as you acclimate, the realisation that this would be home for a few weeks finally settling in. It was nothing like your old cramped apartment back in the city — the room was minimal, but so imbued with nature that you didn’t feel constricted at all.

His footfalls are light as he crosses the threshold to slide open the closet. “The futon is in here, I aired it for the better part of yesterday so it’s ready for you to use,” he says, “it’s gettin’ late so I’ll start on dinner. If ya like I can get the firewood goin’ outside so you can take a bath in the meantime?”

You should have expected, given the time period it was built, that this house would not have a regular bathroom. A fleeting sense of fondness flickers through you at the confirmation that Shinsuke, since the day of his birth, has lived in a manner beyond his years. He��d always held great appreciation for tradition, and you’re happy knowing that love permeated all avenues in his life.

“A bath would be nice,” your hands wringing together against your stomach, smothering any passing anxiety about burdening him. You wanted it to be just as it was, you wanted to be the person he remembered.

As promised, Kita had kindled the firewood at the back of the house and the water was warmed through the hot pipes, your body sitting deep in the basin as it laps at the curve of your neck. It’s a little funny finding his products lined along the shelves of a room trapped in time, the bright purple plastic of his body wash — again, chamomile — so out of place next to a todanaburo bath.

The rippling sounds echo as you move, ringing in your ears with each pass of cloth over skin. It would be lonely if not for the occasional clattering of pots and plates bleeding through the gap in the door from the kitchen.

You don’t soak for very long, conscious of the food going cold. The towels left folded atop the laundry basket are new, thick and soft between your fingers. His forethought makes you smile, as it always has, reminded of his earlier words. If you truly were easy to please, then you wondered why you felt burdened by your own needs.

Dressed in your pajamas, sleeves to your wrist and pant legs loose around your ankles, you join Kita in the tatami room by the kitchen with the ends of your hair still damp. He has set out a low table, cushions either side for you to sit on, and the inori has been covered. In the time you took to bathe he has changed into a muted grey jinbei jacket and light sweatpants,

“I was curious if you’d be usin’ that,” you motion to the square recess in the floor, voice announcing your arrival. He glances up at you, pausing as he sets out the small dishes in the centre, and hums amusedly.

“Hasn’t been used in decades. Decided to leave it there to keep the house's character,” he says, lining your chopsticks vertically exactly an inch from your plate, “but it’s good to feel close to yer ancestors too. I imagine they would’ve shared meals here often”.

You get to your knees, heels pressed either side of your thighs as you take your seat across from him. The sweet scent of teriyaki sauce floods your senses and you observe the meal set in front of you. Sautéed vegetables of red, gold and green are resting atop a serving of white fluffy rice, along with neatly cut blocks of tofu.

Your eyes meet as your hands simultaneously come together in prayer, and you say thanks for the food.

“Donburi?” you murmur appreciatively, chopsticks in hand as he motions for you to eat, Kita’s warmth lingering along the stem, “it smells amazing”.

“I prepped the tofu a few days ago an’ would’ve hated to waste it,” using deft fingers he takes a piece between his own chopsticks and dips it into the small sauce dish, “nothin’ special but I hope it’s to your liking”.

You cushion a small cube of tofu with some rice and bring it to your lips, hand cupped beneath to catch the runaway grains. The sauce is tangy along your tongue, soft hints of ginger and umami absorbed into the lightly crisped coating. It’s good, and you tell him as much.

There is no sense of awkwardness, no pressure to find your footing and engage in conversation. Kita had always been a quiet eater, preferring to show gratitude by savouring the food on his plate, and so the two of you eat together in familiar silence aside from the occasional passing of dishes. Somehow, everything tastes better in his company.

As the evening winds down Kita pours you each one small cup of sake to rinse your palate. Having finished your meal first you try not to watch as he tends to the last of his food, stomach not quite full. “Did you want to go over your day to day expectations now that I’m here?” you finally ask.

With his free hand he swipes the corner of his mouth and licks the stray sauce from his thumb, humming contemplatively.

“I get up every mornin’ around five. I like to catch the sun as it comes up and start working early,” as if reading your thoughts he pinches a piece of tofu between his chopsticks and leans forward to put it on your now empty plate, “so if ya wake up and I’m gone don’t panic”.

“Alright,” you murmur gratefully, lifting the golden cut cube to your mouth, “and when you’re not busy, will you show me the ropes?”

“Course I will darlin’,” he replies. The pet name falls so naturally from his lips you almost miss it, warm beneath your skin as it registers. “I’ll even introduce you to the ducks, if that’s what ya want”.

Unexpected, a grin curls at the corners of your mouth, excitement rousing in your chest. “Shin, you have ducks?”

Judging by the smile in his eyes, your delight is contagious. He reaches over to take your empty plate while you’re distracted and begins to stack them atop one another. “I do,” he says, “raising ‘em alongside the crop is good for keeping pests away. And they help with fertilisin’ the seedlings too”.

You make a small cooing noise, withholding the onslaught of endearment building in your chest that spreads restlessly to your crossed legs as your knees bounce slightly beneath the table.

The mental image of Shinsuke handling little bundles of yellow feathers, no bigger than his palm, brings you a monumental feeling of joy. Just as your eyes would be drawn to a small stroke of white across an otherwise black canvas, you are hesitantly lured in, and it happens so easily that your thoughts can barely catch up. Maybe the misery you carried had never been your fault — maybe you’d been in the wrong place all along. You yearned for a reason why things ended up as they were and you would accept any, naïve and juvenile as they might be, because you don’t think you could handle another just because.

Maybe this could be it.

After you have helped clear the table the two of you retire to your respective bedrooms, no artificial streetlight outside your window nor people passing by in the night to fill the empty air, and your fleeting happiness was swallowed up once again. It’s there that you remember; hope can be addictive, and the withdrawal is twice as cruel.

Morning comes between blinks. One moment you are memorising the marks in the ceiling and in the next you are bathed by intrusive beams of light. The sun had risen far above the mountain line, so the day would’ve already started for Shinsuke — that knowledge should be inconsequential, but you still felt heavy for having missed breakfast.

The sky, while bright, is slightly grey. You slip into something a little warmer, tugging thick work socks up over the cuffs of your sweatpants to hug your calves. He’d told you in passing that he had spare wellie boots that should fit you because your own shoes weren’t especially suited to wandering damp fields.

Alone with the freedom to look closer, the house is different at this hour. You notice personal touches here and there that you hadn’t seen the night before — framed family portraits, his highschool year book free of dust, polaroids of you both as children; some older trinkets that you remember, too. Things his grandmother must’ve passed down to him, as you can only recall them in her own cabinets.

Tucked beneath a touristic magnet of the sky tree is a new post-it note addressed to you. Shinsuke’s writing had been methodical and clear for as long as you’d known him. Penmanship was important, his family having taught him that traditions must be recorded and legible for future generations. In dark ink against teal-green, he instructs you to eat the food he left for you in the fridge.

And whether it’s today or next week, come join me when you’re ready.

The two onigiri awaiting you are wrapped with cling film and well shaped, assumedly made with the leftover rice. Your teeth sink into them, tender as the grains fall apart on your tongue, the same kindling of happiness settling in your stomach with each swallow. He made these with you in mind, perhaps he’d even woken up before his alarm to do so.

You savour it — both the faint saltiness and the effort — and then make your way to the genkan with the goal of finding him. As promised there are a pair of navy wellington boots lined up by your own shoes, only one size up, which doesn’t matter much with the thickness of your socks filling the space.

The breeze is a pleasant intermingling of warm and cool, billowing through your hair and guiding the darkening clouds further into town. The path leading to the fields is mostly flattened soil, soles scuffing on the occasional piece of gravel as you go. Thankfully Shinsuke isn’t too far from the house, having already made his way across a good two acres since day break, soaked to the knee with dirt.

Strenuous work had always looked good on him, better when surrounded by a canvas of dull gold. Charcoal tipped bangs clinging to his forehead once he wipes away the sweat, rolling his neck as he rolls his shoulders to relieve the tension, chest heaving to catch lost breath. He never complained, choosing to enjoy each brick in the journey as it was laid, and you can’t help but envy him for it.

He shuffles through the wet mud and bends every few steps to push a gloved hand into the drainage. You don’t call for him until the distance is shorter, gaze lingering for a while longer on the pink crawling up his throat with the effort.

“Mornin’ Shin!”

The sound of your voice doesn’t startle him. He stands upright and pulls off a glove with one hand to shield his eyes, looking over in your direction. Once noticed, his fingers lift in a subtle wave to beckon you, then he points them over his shoulder. “Got some guys I want’cha to meet,” he shouts.

Sure enough, a few metres behind him paddling in the shallow field, are some adult ducks. Eight that you can count, bobbing and weaving between the yield, nipping their beaks along the water's surface. Propelled by your own excitement, with a first step your boot sinks into the sopping mud, each one more exaggerated than the last as you struggle to unstick yourself.

Shinsuke merely pulls his remaining glove off and watches as you wade towards him, the levels only a few centimetres deep but still forcing exertion. When you’re near he offers his arm, mouth twitching into a soft smirk. “Good job,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” you huff petulantly between breaths, peering around him to see the flock between the stems of the crop. Any exhaustion is immediately forgotten

“They’re so cute,” eager to meet them, you don’t notice that he only has eyes for you, “do they have names?”

“Tried at the beginning but they’re easy to confuse with one another. I mostly stick t’numbers,” in your periphery you notice him reaching into his breast pocket, pulling out a small bottle of sun protection, “they’re here to work. They aren’t pets”.

He takes advantage of your distraction, pushing the hair from your face before smearing the suncream across the swell of your cheeks, and when your nose wrinkles in faint embarrassment he dots it onto the tip. Stammering, you ask: “why do I need to wear sun protection? It’s fall, and the sky is overcast—!”

“We could be out there for a while. Even if it isn’t summer anymore, ya gotta be careful,” he tells you. It feels almost as if he’s gently scolding a child for asking the obvious. A breeze dances through the crop and brushes pleasantly against your arms, patient while you allow him to massage the lotion in.

“I can do that myself, y’know,” you murmur. He hums, a hand lingering at the curve of your throat before he pulls away.

“I know. I just like takin’ care of you,” he replies. There’s no hesitance or forethought, he just says it as he does everything else — like he means it. Born from his need to do things a certain way and your younger self's sensitive disposition, he’d always had a penchant for doting on you. Even as you’d matured that habit never went away.

Something dark twists itself into your sternum like clockwork and you attempt to smother it. Maybe he just thinks you’re incapable, it suggests. This part of you — the one that cannot accept anything with good intention as true — is the thing you hate most about yourself.

“Sorry,” you rasp, looking to the space between your bodies and finding your rippling reflection beside muddied boots, staring right back.

“Why?” he waits patiently, but you don’t have an adequate answer. “Have you ever known me to do something I don’t want to do? To do something without purpose?”

You shake your head, peering up at him with squinted eyes as the clouds part, thinning to allow the sun through. The light swallows his frame, an outline of white gold as it hits his back. He’s beautiful and it’s familiar, because to you he has always been this bright.

“Then just say thank you,” the water shifts as he begins to turn, his arm held out to help you walk through the sludge, “you aren’t a nuisance to me”.

With his body no longer shielding the sun, warmth passes over you. His palm is soft as it kisses your own, left untouched by endless hours of hard work thanks to how religiously he moisturised his hands every day. You’re reminded again that small things do matter.

“Thank you,” you breathe.

Shinsuke guides you without complaint, adapting to your heavy gait while seamlessly making his way through the fields. He pauses every so often to lower himself and overturn the soil, right glove back on while the left is bare and intertwined with your fingers.

You take the time to appreciate your surroundings. Given how he leans more toward traditional practices you’d expect smaller, irregularly shaped paddies; but these ones are larger and rectangular in shape, much more fitting for machinery.

You pause as he regards you, “think ya can do me a favour now you’re out here?”

The questioning tilt of your head is an acceptable response. He smiles and takes an ear of yellow rice between his fingers, the younger spikelets still coloured green, prying away a tiny kernel and handing it over to you. It’s light in your palm, and you shield it from the oncoming gust of wind for fear it’d blow away. “Test this for me. Chew it carefully between yer teeth an’ let me know what’cha think”.

Cautious, you put it into your mouth and roll it over your tongue before catching it between your molars. You’re gentle as you squeeze it, feeling the furrow of your brow. He tilts his head as he waits, the field breathing around the two of you. It was mostly firm, but still a little soft, and you tell him as such.

“Will you be harvesting soon?” you ask.

“It is around that time,” he replies, “the flooding has been much smoother this year, so we can probably get to drainin’ soon”.

A little unsure of what he meant, you still find yourself nodding despite him not being able to see it. “I always make sure the levels are stable… like t’keep it around seven to eight centimetres this close to harvest,” he continues.

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

He releases a sound of acknowledgement, glancing up at you from where he’s crouched. “Partly. I’m also lookin’ for something,” he says, gathering a dark mass into his loose fist before getting to his feet. Curious, you lean forward to get a better look at it, and startle at the glassy pair of eyes blinking between his fingers.

“It’s… a toad?”

“A frog. His legs are too long to be a toad,” he kindly corrects, turning his wrist to smile at the creature, “we had a lot of tadpoles this season. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Risky maybe. What if they get hurt or stepped on?”. Heat flashes beneath your skin as you realise your hands are still interlinked, but you make no move to let go, instead using the other to gently stroke over the frog’s head. Faint laughter builds in your chest as it squirms. Shinsuke watches you grin with an air of fondness.

“They’re resilient an’ they try their best with what they have,” he murmurs after a quiet moment of contemplation, “it's not only that. The rice around us is sensitive to the slightest change and requires a lotta’ care. Would ya say I’m burdened because of that?”

Somehow, he has circled the conversation right back to the start, right back to the heart of it all. You level him with a withered glare, and he takes it in his stride, unperturbed as ever. Shinsuke can appear unassuming and plain, but you knew he could be skilled in forcing people to confront their own manner of thinking.

“That’s different. This is your job,” the words catch awkwardly in your throat, and you swallow down the swell. Legs kicking where they hang below his fist, the frog slips from Shinsuke’s grasp and jumps into the paddy with a resounding plop.

“The difference is I’m not burdened by my job, because I love doin’ it”. Light reflects through his irises, giving the amber hue a ethereal glow, and you notice just how much determination is behind them.

“Just try to remember the things ya don’t like about yourself aren’t just exclusive to you — they’re all around us in all manner a’ ways. Even if ya do think you’re awful because of them,” he says with a squeeze of your hand.

The impending afternoon heat sits heavy on your shoulders, conscious of your palms growing clammy. You’re overwhelmed, ears of rice grains blowing against your arm, feeling the imposing weight of his stare. “I don’t— I don’t know what to—” say, or do.

He exhales, tightens his grip on you despite the sweat, and smiles. “S’alright, no need. Just something for ya to think on”.

You nod, listening to the distant calls of his flock of ducks. They appear to be enjoying themselves, getting their fill of bugs and pests from between the paddies. Shinsuke follows your line of sight and encourages you with a soft tug.

“I suppose we should eat too,” he says, slowly directing you towards a narrow path leading back to the house, “let me fix up somethin’ for ya”.

An objection sits uselessly at the back of your throat, the sinking pull in your chest returning for a brief moment. You wanted to do something for him, too. You wanted to apologise again, so instead you say: “thank you, Shin”.

You recognise the pride in his expression, and buoyant once more, your footsteps are much lighter.

Eventually you cultivate a routine you’re content with, though you’re still terrible at waking up early you try to join him in the fields before lunch even when your mood protests. Shinsuke explains how to milk the rice, how he’ll drain the field and what’ll come after with the harvest, satisfaction bleeding through into his voice. There’s now a bone deep ache in your thighs and your arms, unused to taking on so much manual labour, but it feels good.

The first week comes to an end and the days unfold, each turn of the earth a stark and new beginning — no longer do they blur seamlessly into one another like before.

You’re less hesitant with each step. As the minor changes slowly accumulate, you begin to notice as the pressure releasing from your body, and Shinsuke does too. “Y’look relaxed this morning,” he’d comment with a smile, “it’s good to see ya settlin’ in”.

Though you’re happy with the changes, you don’t get comfortable with them, always bracing for another wave of loathing. You’re under no illusions. Nothing is better, but it is easier. After all, walking on a casted leg does not mean it isn’t injured, only that it is supported enough to bear weight.

The nights are the hardest. Silence in the country is far louder than you anticipated, and the only other thing you can hear is the voice in your own head. Tonight is a little worse. Something about the nothingness — the gaping maw behind your ribs, the way the warm air sits, the dense shadows surrounding the room — is overwhelming.

You kick off your quilt and leave it rumpled at the end of the futon as you struggle to sleep. You knew you’d need to hang it out again in the coming weeks. Maybe Shinsuke would be content with you cleaning the house while he was out, just to show your appreciation. To hold some purpose.

Restless, you get to your feet. The sliding door is quiet as you open it, a soft sandpaper sound, but you grimace at the creak of the floodboards when descending the steps. Through darkness your eyes adjust, finding familiar shapes and silhouettes around the house, meandering your way slowly towards the entrance. You’d always known Shinsuke to be a light sleeper, and only hoped that you hadn’t woken him.

You release a startled gasp once you reach the genkan, left unsteady by the sudden drop as you step down into the space, and wait with bated breath for any other movement from his bedroom. Nothing. Exhale. You slip your feet into the shoes you’d first arrived in and leave the laces loosely undone, unlocking the front door with a gradual turn of the key. A click echoes into the hall.

Noise floods your senses. The pitched whirring of the cicadas is much louder out in the open, almost likened to a distorted electrical current. Under the dim moonlight you observe the canvas of land, tip toeing along the veranda and seating yourself on the edge. Having absorbed the day's heat, the wood is still warm beneath your bare thighs.

A breeze passes through the thin fabric of your shirt, skin pebbling as you cross both arms over your chest. The rice crops barely feel it, standing slightly taller than the week before. Things grow according to their environments, and no two things have the same needs, that is what you’d learnt in the short time you’d spent here.

It's widely common knowledge, and yet it shakes the foundation of your own perspective when applied to yourself, pushing you to look inwards. A part of you felt angered by how uncomplicated it needed to be.

Would you hate someone for their struggles, for how their symptoms manifested? Would you hate someone for lashing out because of their own hurt, for protecting themselves? Would you judge and be unkind to someone for things out of their control?

Of course not — yet you had made that assumption about the people around you, and of Shinsuke. You ran from everyone that loved you and told yourself it was for their sake, when it was really because you were scared. Arrogant as it was, you made yourself an unlovable exception.

You have been so cruel to yourself.

The realisation stings, radiating through your sinuses and lining your eyes with tears. You blink to will them away, a few strays spill over to dampen your cheeks, but as if in a state of inertia you cannot seem to stop.

A wet breath catches in your throat, disrupted by the jump of your sternum, and a light flickers on in the room behind you. It’s then that you notice the sliding doors leading from Shinsuke’s bedroom to the veranda, a shadow moving behind the screen, gently tugging it open.

“Y’okay there sweetheart?” he murmurs, the sleep still thick in his voice as he lowers himself beside you, “what’re ya doin’ out here?”

He’s in loose pajama pants and a short sleeved shirt, the muscle of his thigh pressed comfortingly against your own as he mirrors your position. An orange glow from the lamp by his futon illuminates his expression, giving warmth to the concern there.

You swipe the back of your hand along your nose, smile brittle and eyes sore. “Sorry I woke you Shin,” you tell him, “I was just thinking”.

Forefinger hooked, he catches a tear that has fallen to your jawline, but doesn’t mention it. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

“Just… about why I came here. About how you let me stay, despite the fact that I never offered a good explanation”.

He hums, acknowledging that he heard you, and that he was still listening. Your hands wring together anxiously as you continue to speak. “Even so, you knew I’d been struggling, didn’t you?”

“You’ve always been too hard on yourself,” he returns quietly, “there’s no need to explain if ya can’t find the words. You don’t need ta’ justify anything to me”.

A knot in your sternum, inches thick and splintering with age, loosens with his gentle words. What, why, when. How much longer — explanations were all anyone had ever wanted from you. But Shinsuke held no such expectation, he respected your need for time and never pushed.

You wanted to try.

“It wasn’t so bad when we were younger. There was always– something, eating away at me. But it was duller,” as you speak it begins to weigh on you, and so you lean against his side for support. “Then I started to feel like I could never get anything right, and it leaked into every corner of my life. Soon enough I felt like I couldn’t even form relationships properly, that I embarrassed myself every time I spoke, and that everyone else could see it too”.

“So I isolated myself,” you admit through shame, “but the guilt that came with it was awful. I didn’t know what to do– I still don’t”. The words, slightly warbled and cloying, cause Shinsuke to press his lips together in a regretful thin line. For a moment you think he too might’ve finally seen the worst of you, his body shifting as he gets to his knees and moves away.

“Wait here,” he reaches to cradle the back of your head for a moment before beginning to stand, “I’ll be right back”.

As promised he returns to the veranda only a few minutes later and repositions himself at your side. Held in his careful grip is a photograph, slightly curled at the edges and well loved. In the centre is an old picture of you and Shinsuke as children, clearly candid judging by how preoccupied you both are with the sparklers in your hands. It had been taken on New Years Eve, each wearing traditional clothing that you faintly remember being far too tight.

Swallowing the swell in your throat, you look at Shinsuke questioningly. His facial expression, always a little bit softer around you, is kind. “I don’t know if you’ll remember, but after this was taken y’had a real big cryin’ fit because you couldn’t spell yer name with the sparkler like I could,” he says.

You laugh, but the sound is wet and nearer a sob. With his free hand, Shinsuke extends his arm and swipes away another stray tear sliding over your cheek, the touch lingering by your mouth. “While you were wailin’ like a newborn you said to me, ‘it’s not fair Shin, I’m never good at anything!” looking back to the printed memory, the warmth leaves your skin and returns to his lap.

“Granny told me once that we’re all whole people, but people can’t do a whole lot on their own,” he continues to speak and you watch as he gently traces his finger over your younger self, “sure, ya wasn’t good at everything. But y’had all the things I lacked, did a lot of the things I couldn’t — how else could I have cleaned our sliding door tracks, if not for your scrawny little hands?”

You breathe a huff of amusement and the exhale seems to deflate you, your eyes burning as you curl against his shoulder. He welcomes it and rests his head atop your own. “What’s your point, Shin?” you ask.

Being so close to his throat you can feel the faint vibration as he talks, drawn to the comforting heat thrumming through his skin. This was still friendly and you tell yourself it could be passed off as such, despite how he nuzzles into your hair.

“You’ve trouble fathoming yer worth because you measure it by your successes,” he says quietly, “bein’ in your own head too long like that can distort the truth. The point is that ya don’t see yourself the way I do, or how anyone else does for that matter”.

Shinsuke leans forward minutely, lips moving against your temple as he talks, mimicking a kiss with each word. “Don’t deprive yaself of livin’ just because you don’t think you’re doing it right”.

The moon is then overcast by cloud, and you’re left only with the intimate light of his bedroom flooding out through the sliding doors. “Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll try”.

He thanks you. It’s enough for him, it always is. All Shinsuke ever asks is that you try your best, because the outcome never more meaningful as the effort before it.

“Then, how about joinin’ me tomorrow?” you glance over to him as he tilts his head to meet your gaze, pulse poignant in your chest at the close proximity. Though you can barely see them, you’re sure there are faint freckles dusting his cheeks, kissed by the summer months.

You’d like to kiss him too, you realise.

“Tomorrow?”

He smiles. “I’m goin’ into town to drop something off at granny’s, and was planning to get some grub from Osamu on the way home”.

“I’d love to. I’ve missed her,” you reply. Shinsuke’s grandmother had been something of a matriarch on your street, watching multiple generations pass. She’d done more for you than you could ever thank her for, with both her kindness and her unending maternal love for you.

“Plus I haven’t had ‘Samu’s onigiri since graduation,” the memory of it was a fond one, and if you concentrate you can still taste the pickled plum, “it’d be nice to see him again”.

“I thought so too,” he nods, taking a final cursory glance across his land before eyes fall back to you, tongue subtly wetting his lower lip. He’s all warm toned — his face, his voice, his skin.

“D’ya think you’ll be able to get some kip now?”

His question plucks at the magnetism strung between the two of you. Deep in your gut you feel as if your answer might create a fork in the road, a before and an after.

“Probably not for a while,” — not yet, I want to stay with you a little longer — “you can head off, though”.

“Not without you,” he huffs, his larger hand encircling your wrist and encouraging you to your feet, “ya need to rest. If not in yer own bed, then in mine”.

Your mind briefly blanks, and he takes advantage of the long moment between your synapses connecting, guiding you into his bedroom. The futon is big, much bigger than your own, spread wide over the tatami flooring and headed by two thick pillows.

“In… in yours? Is that really okay?”

He slides the door closed, shutting the latch and giving one short tug to check it’s secure, glancing over his shoulder to where you are standing listlessly. The click echoes in your chest. “It’s fine with me,” he says, “is it fine with you?”

You observe as he places the childhood photograph back on one of the shelves with more care than necessary. It isn’t the bed sharing that concerns you, but the implication that it could mean something more.

“Alright,” you breathe, kneeling onto the covers and kneading the plush where your hand sits. It feels expensive, and was likely one of Shinsuke’s only selfish purchases.

Your head sinks into the pillow gently, laid on your side and turned inwards, watching him settle next to you. The lamp is still on, mellow toned light magnifying the intimacy as he faces you, only a few inches of distance between your bodies.

You swallow the urge to apologise. “Thank you, Shin”.

“Thank you,” he returns reverently. Confused, you hum in question and he shakes his head, hints of a fond smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve done more for me than ya realise”.

“Like helping with the farm?”

“Like makin’ me happy,” he says.

You weren’t sure what it was you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Reflexively you turn into the pillow, wanting to hide your smile and the truths written all over your face. The comfortability and yearning that oscillates inside of you when around Shinsuke only seems to spread, felt in the tips of your fingers as yours stretch to brush his in passing.

You realise that love, something your consciousness had agonised over and grieved, was always been woven into your muscle memory; as if straddling a bike for the first time since you were a child, in your descent of a steep hill, your body remembers.

You reposition your legs beneath the sheets and try to ignore how little you’re wearing. Influenced by the tension your voice is quiet as you reply: “I’m happier here too”.

After he stretches across you to turn off the lamp, lingering far longer than he needed to, you fall asleep surprisingly quickly. Alongside the muffled cicadas had been the whirring of a small fan in the corner of the room, filling it with white noise, and his shallow breathing lulled you into security. This was not the first time you’d spent a night with him, though you hadn’t had a sleepover in many years, and you aren’t sure this could be likened to one held between children.

You wake briefly a few hours later to the first glares of sunlight, squinting as you peer up at Shinsuke, still in the futon but sitting upright as he rubs the sand from his eyes. He notices your movement in his periphery and smiles, settling his hand atop the crown of your head to stroke your head, as if to soothe you. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, “we don’t have’ta leave ‘til this afternoon, so catch up on resting”.

In no position to object, already halfway there as his nails lightly scratch your scalp, you let yourself have a few more hours. The next time your eyes open he’s gone, his side of the bed made up – corners perfectly overlapping, not a crease in sight – and the pillow is cold. There’s disappointment, but also a sense of relief that you needn't confront your feelings just yet.

The air seems to have cooled further into the morning, no longer irritated by how your shirt clings to your skin. As you stand you notice a clock on one of his bookcase shelves, blinking digits back at you, informing you that it is almost lunch. Your gait is stilted as the circulation rushes through your legs, still sleep-mussed as you stumble through the lower floor rooms towards the kitchen in search for a glass of water.

“What’re ya lookin’ for?”

“Fuck, Shin—!”

You flinch at the sound of his voice, carrying through from the main tatami room leading to the kitchen where he stands quietly in the doorway, a steaming mug held between his hands. He’s already in casual clothes, a pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that clings nicely to his arms. He lifts it to his lips, hiding a smile as he drinks, and it’s unbearably attractive.

“I was just, uh. It was a warm night so, I was gonna drink some water and maybe try makin’ lunch before you got back, but…” your rambling trails off into silence, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

His eyes flicker to your bare legs for a moment. “If yer willing to get ready now we’ll head out an’ see granny earlier before we stop by Onigiri Miya,” he offers. Externally there is nothing out of place, yet there is still something tangibly different that you’re tempted to reach for.

“Okay,” you accept, shifting awkwardly between each foot, “I’ll— I’ll go get dressed then. Can you fill up a bottle of water for me?”

He nods once in agreement, and then again to the stairs, “I’ll be waitin’”.

So you rush each step, wincing at the weight of your footfalls as you go. You hadn’t packed much in the way of making a good impression, or with the thought that you might see anyone other than Shinsuke. In hindsight it had been naive to assume he’d let you isolate yourself all over again, but you’d truly forgotten just how close-by Osamu still was.

You get yourself ready with haste. Shinsuke stands by the genkan amusedly as he watches you flit from room to room in a cartoonish state, toothbrush in one hand and hairbrush in the other, the buttons of your shirt needing to be fixed more than once. “Alright,” you huff a deep breath, hooking a finger to fix the tongue of your shoe where it folds inwards, “let’s go!”

The journey into the residential part of town is only slightly longer than the first. You lean your head against the window as it rattles, enjoying the vibration through your temple as you observe the many people walking along the pavements. There are a few families that you recognise, even some old students that’d been three years your junior in highschool.

You suppose not everyone felt trapped here, like they had something to run from or prove by enduring the wider world. They all looked happy.

The vehicle begins to slow as it crawls up to the curb, a familiar house coming into view. Shinsuke’s grandmother Yumie is sitting beneath the shade in a cushioned bench, a chestnut coloured walking stick propped up beside her. Her carer must be somewhere in the house, you think. Apparently it had taken her a good few years to accept the help, often getting by with the assistance of her neighbours.

“What is it you were bringing for her again?”

“Some of the duck eggs,” he says, taking a moment to observe her wistfully through the windscreen before moving to unbuckle his seatbelt, “she likes ‘em soft boiled”.

Yumie looks up as she hears the sound of your passenger door falling shut, eyes narrowed into a squint as she struggles to see. Shinsuke approaches her with ease, hand lifted overhead in a wave while he calls out to her, and you watch her grin at his voice. “Shin-chan,” she croons.

He crouches in front of her and lowers his head to her knees, bowing in greeting. “It’s good to see ya in high spirits granny,” you hear him say. He smiles at her and takes her hands into his own, squeezing them affectionately before her eyes are naturally drawn to where you linger behind him. She visibly brightens.

“Hi again granny,” you move closer as she beckons you, “you’re lookin’ healthy as ever”.

“And you’re as bonny as the first day I saw ya,” she smiles, and the pink in her cheeks pay her back some of her youth. Shinsuke glances between you, his expression a clear mirror of hers.

“I’m gonna give the eggs to Murase while you two chat, how’s that?” he suggests, straightening his back as he stands, “we’re not stayin’ long today, so I won’t hog any of your extra time”.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth. “Are you sure that’s—”

“Thank you darlin’,” Yumie cuts in smoothly, “I appreciate it. So away with ya”.

Shinsuke follows her instruction dutifully, hand brushing your shoulder with intent as he passes, casting a final smile your way as if to say good luck. Yumie titters at the interaction and pats the space next to her.

“How’ve ya been faring over on the farm?” she inquires quietly, a playful air about her as if you were children sharing secrets, “has my Shin been good to you?”

“He’s always been good to me granny, you know that,” you murmur back, entertaining her whims, “I’ve enjoyed staying with him”. She hums, much in the same way Shinsuke does, indicating that she’s pleased.

“Ya sound a lot happier than when we last spoke,” — the phone call, her suggestion that you pack your things and come back home, you remember well — “had me worried, pet. You’re like another grandchild to me”.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe the words and lean to take her hand, smaller and wrinkled in your own. She has gotten a little shorter too, you can tell. “I’ve… It's been hard. But I want to be better”.

Her grip tightens, but it’s still weak. “You always were sensitive, had a heart like a bruised apple,” she says, crows feet deepening by her eyes, “wanted so badly to be like everyone else ya couldn’t see how wonderful you were as yourself”.

Overhead, the sun begins to dim, smothered by grey. If you concentrate you can see that they’re coasting along quite quickly, and the darker clouds are not far behind. “I always found something to be sad about,” you recall noncommittally as you glare up at the sky, “I thought I was doing everyone a favour by pulling away”.

In your peripheral Shinsuke comes out onto the front step, waiting beneath the door frame with no intention of interrupting. Yumie clicks her tongue, “nothing wrong with being sad, darlin’. It’s alright to ask for help — all wounds deserve healing”.

“Because whole people still can’t do a whole lot on their own, right?

“That’s right,” barely noticeable as it starts, rain droplets sparsely litter the pavement, “Shin-chan tell ya that one did he?”

Shin-chan is starting to look anxious, you think to yourself. You grow restless in your seat, wanting to move Yumie indoors before the weather worsens. “He did,” you murmur, glancing over at the man in question and wordlessly asking for his assistance, “we should go inside, granny. It’s startin' to spit”.

She squeezes your hand once more before reaching for her cane, and turns to you a final time, smiling as she lowers her voice. “You deserve love, too. He won’t let’cha forget that anytime soon”.

Shinsuke appears before you have the chance to reply discreetly, unperturbed by the secrecy of the moment and extending his arm for her to use as support as she pushes her weight against her cane, “time to head in, granny. I gave Murase yer duck eggs and he’s makin’ shoyu tamago”.

She vocalises her excitement, though rasped and tinny in her throat. Yumie had been an older woman for as long as you’d known her, so much so that you and the other neighbourhood children would gather to try and guess her age. But she’d still been spry, always keeping up alongside the other parents. There is melancholy in knowing her body was beginning to slow.

The words blur together slightly as you gradually walk toward the house, rainfall quickening into a chorus of pitter-patter, white noise overlaying their voices. The spray is thin and abundant, the kind that hurts your eyes and stings when wielded by wind. A young man, presumably Murase, meets Yumie at the door. He’s clean cut, hair buzzed neatly to his scalp and dressed in a collared polo shirt, a bow at the back of his neck where his apron is tied. He bows upon noticing you.

Shinsuke lingers with hands at her back as Yumie is helped into the entryway, his anxiety apparent despite trying to hide it out of respect. “Make sure you have enough time to stay when y’next visit,” she titters, turning to pat him gently on the cheek. He nods, and you do the same.

“After I’ve drained the fields an’ finished the harvest I’ll have all the time in the world for ya, granny,” he replies, eyes closing as he smiles.

“Good. Now you take proper care of each other”.

Shinsuke’s touch is warm against the small of your back as he curls around you, your heads ducked closely together and giggling as you rush to the car even though it shields none of the rain. By the time you’re seated in the truck the fabric of your shirt is clinging to your shoulders and droplets are whipping against the roof. The engine sputters as it starts, evolving into a smooth hum as Shin leans across the dashboard to turn the heating on, pointing the small fan in your direction to give you more of the hot air.

“Thank you,” you breathe, skin pebbling at the sudden change in temperature, “shit, that was fast. Didn’t think it looked like rain today at all”.

“It’ll pass quickly. See,” — he points across the skyline and you follow the line of sight, finding a clear span of blue in the distance where the darker clouds end — “we should be fine. D’ya still wanna call in at Osamu’s?”

“Yeah I want to. Does he know we’re coming?”

“I let him know before you woke up this mornin’”.

“Ok. It’s been a while since we last saw one another,” you say, pressure returning to your chest along with the guilt, “since I last saw… everyone, really”.

You’re grateful that he doesn't immediately baby you; you left people behind who cared about you. There were plenty of reasons for it, no ill intent, but it still hurt. Them and you. Shinsuke had always been comforting because you knew he would always be honest, and you didn’t really want to be told it wasn’t your fault. He steers with both hands on the wheel, fingers dancing over the curve, each tap joining the cacophony of water against glass and tire against gravel. Hearing the hesitance in your voice, he says: “a sincere apology goes a long way. People are more forgivin’ than you realise”.

You nod silently, fiddling with a loose thread hung from the seam of your pants, and focus on the trails left behind by the rain running down the windscreen before they’re wiped away. “Remember when we used to bet on which droplet would reach the bottom first?”

Laughter rumbles in his chest, putting you at ease. “I remember ya always used to cheat by changing which raindrop you were followin’,” he replies.

“I have no recollection of that,” you mutter petulantly, lips jutting into a pout to conceal your smile. The downpour begins to clear up, followed by a potent air of petrichor, and you watch as people sheltered under doorways and bus stops flock back out onto the busier streets.

You notice the Onigiri Miya sign in the distance, fixed above the door and displaying his logo to the public. You knew it was just his first restaurant and he wanted to expand his business, but the pride you felt at the sight was insurmountable.

It’s moderately busy as you enter together. There’s a small line, so you join the end and use the time to survey the interior. Like Shinsuke, Osamu had always favoured things that were a little more traditional, and that was evident in his space. There’s a banner of the shop name written in japanese calligraphy, various artworks hung throughout the walls in appreciation of the local agriculture, and mahogany stained furniture that only adds to its character.

At first there is a younger woman waiting at the cashier but you pick up on the familiar ring of his voice from the kitchen, loudly carrying through as he ducks beneath the curtain hung across the doorway and trades places with her for the time being.

Osamu is broader than you remember him being; so clear in your mind is the image of him as a boyish second year, hair coloured grey in opposition to his brother's blonde. Now he stands tall, carrying himself with a natural air of confidence, looking as if he is right at home talking to his patrons from behind the counter. Shinsuke waits patiently beside you, shuffling further up in the line every few minutes, and you feel the prick of his stare as you observe your junior.

Eventually it is your turn to approach, and Osamu’s eyes meet yours in a double take, his expression opening up as he grins. The tension in your muscles unravels — he is happy to see you.

“Yo, ‘Samu,” the casual greeting falls from your lips before you can even think, still a habit even after all the years apart, “it’s good to see you again!”

“Yer a sight for sore eyes, that’s for certain,” he folds his arms atop the counter and leans forward to regard Shinsuke as he speaks, “Kita-san mentioned ya came back, but I thought he might’a finally started hallucinating after bein' alone over there for so long”.

Shinsuke huffs a breath of amusement, and you try not to react as he rests his hand by your hip. “Watch yourself. Stop makin’ me sound like a recluse, or I’ll stop giving you the family discount”.

The familiarity of being with them both swaddles you, and you feel yourself falling back into old shoes, surprised as how effortlessly the shadow fits. Osamu’s head falls for a moment in exasperation, hung between his shoulders as he snorts, before he takes off his cap to run a hand through his hair.

“It’s brown again,” you comment abruptly, and his movement stills.

“Ah,” his eyes brightened with understanding, “I forgot that you’d already left before I dyed it back. Whaddaya think?”

“It suits you well,” you swallow the lump of guilt forming in your throat, remembering Shinsuke’s words, “everything… all of this, it suits you ‘Samu. You should be proud, and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch”.

Like wax to a flame, his face softens into a knowing look. “Don’t worry about it, we’ve all got our own thing going on. Yer here now and that’s what counts so,” — as he ducks to grab something beneath the counter Shinsuke strokes his thumb against your back in soothing circles and heat flashes through your body — “all I ask is you enjoy the food I lovingly made ya”.

He settles a to-go bag on the surface top, and still warm between your palms when you pull it closer. “I’ll be sure to do that,” you return with muted happiness, then glancing up at Shinsuke, “we both will”.

There’s a stilted moment of silence that you immediately pick up on, Osamu’s gaze flickering between the two of you and measuring the lack of distance, a brow raised in obvious suspicion. “What?” you murmur defensively.

“Nothing’!” he hooks the cap back over his hair, tucking the stray hair behind his ear as he smirks, “just glad to finally see ya together after all that pining in highschool”.

“It’s— it’s not like that,” you stammer at the implications and attempt to move away from Shinsuke’s proximity only to be kept in place as his fingers squeeze your hip, attention drawn to him as you ask: “right, Shin?”

But Shinsuke says nothing to help, only looking at you from the corner of his eye, the slight squint an obvious giveaway that he’s trying not to appear amused. Flustered, you gently slap his chest and pull away with the food bag tight to your chest, “whatever, I’m leavin’ before this gets cold”.

Osamu covers his mouth as he laughs, calling out to you as you back away, “oi, make sure you come back again. ‘Tsumu is gonna be so mad he missed ya otherwise”.

“I will!” you promise. Shinsuke circles around you in your distraction to get the door while lifting a hand to bid Osamu goodbye, the breeze swelling and carrying the smell of rain into the restaurant. Thankfully he hadn’t parked too far from the entrance, and you hasten to walk ahead of him, avoiding his mirth.

The truck rocks slightly on its axis as you throw yourself into the passenger seat. Pulling the heavy door shut, you place the bag of food between your legs and keep your thighs together to keep the heat from escaping, glaring over at Shinsuke as he buckles his seatbelt. He remains nonplussed and announces “lets get ya home”.

You find that the drive back is always much quicker, overcome by a sense of déjà vu as you’re taken back down the flattened dirt road leading to the farm, welcomed once again by the Chugoku mountain-scape. By the outhouse you spot a few stray ducks adventuring along the path, wingspans spreading as they’re startled into flight by the oncoming vehicle.

He comes to a stop, pushing the handbrake down with a resounding click and muttering something under his breath about the wet mud. “Let me get out first an’ check you aren’t gonna sink in them shoes,” he says.

So you wait, watching in the rear view mirror as he walks around the back of the truck contemplatively, surveying how saturated the soil was after the rainfall. Gripping the handle of the to-go bag as he unlocks your door for you, he offers an arm to help you in getting down. “Doesn’t look too bad here but I’ll have’ta head out and look at the water levels in the paddies,” he continued.

“You should eat first,” you insist, finally breaking your silence with a thoughtful frown as he lets you down, “maybe we could get our wellies on and eat as we walk?”.

Shinsuke smiles down at you, black tipped bangs hung low over his eyes. He’d need a haircut soon, you think. “Really getting into the gist of livin’ here, aren’t ya?” there’s an affectionate intonation to his voice, and again you’re met with the urge to kiss him, “let’s do that then. I wonder what he whipped up for us”.

He leads you to the house unnecessarily with the flimsy excuse of not wanting you to slip, but you don’t want to let go of him either. Whatever has been kindling over the past week — over the many years you’d spent together — seemed to finally be coming to a head. At some point you’d need to confront it.

After wearing them down your boots no longer leave blisters, the skin of your feet finally used to the constant movement and friction that came with wading through the paddies. Minor things like that are what helps you realise just how big of a change you have made; even the muscles in your back feel stronger, your posture a little straighter, more confident in the way you navigate the land.

Osamu’s food is just as delicious as you knew it’d be. The rice is fluffy and warm in your mouth, the fillings tangy on your tongue, paired well with the crisp late afternoon air. Before coming here you don’t think you could’ve imagined ever feeling this at home again, not just in any place but inside of yourself.

Even though it is late into the month of fall, you feel ripened.

Fortunately, the water in the paddies are barely disturbed and unneeding of attention. You return to the veranda with mud caked around the soles of your boots, sitting along the edge to slip out of them, banging them together over the side to get rid of the excess.

Shinsuke does the same. “Y’can leave them by the steps. I’ll hose them down later,” he suggests, and you concede.

“Shin?” you softly call out to him, close at his back as you enter the genkan and gathering your courage, “why didn’t you say anything back there?”

“It’s nice seeing ya a little flustered,” he admits with an easy smile, watching as the back of his shoulders lift into a shrug, “besides, it’d make me a liar”.

He turns as he notices you have paused in the hallway. “Be clear what you mean by that,” you sound breathless, heart bloated with hope, “please”.

Anticipation heightens as he comes back to you, steps kept cautious as if he’s wary of your reaction, stopping only a few inches away from you. His adam’s apple bobs, swallowing before he speaks.

“I mean it’s exactly like that,” he emphasises the words, like he truly wants you to believe them, “I mean it feels as if I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you”.

Your body slacks with the next exhale, giddiness bubbling in your throat as you laugh, swaying forward into his chest. His arms embrace you, wrapping around your back to hold you upright, and with your ear by his breast you can hear his heartbeat. It’s fast.

“Even when I’m a mess?” you ask. He hums in affirmation, the vibration of it akin to a purr.

“Even then”.

You tilt your head and he meets your gaze, barely a hair between you, so close you could count each eyelash. You’re anxious to touch him but not out of fear, moreso a sense of restlessness, yet you're wary of overstepping; it feels good to see those same emotions reflected back at you.

“Me too,” you recite his confession back to him, “for as long as I’ve known you”. All the times you’d thought the worst of yourself, he had been there, and he had loved you.

“Can I kiss you?” his irises are slowly being swallowed by the pupil, tongue dipping to wet his lower lip. You nod with bated breath — there’s nothing you want more.

He leans forward, lingering as your noses brush awkwardly and he laughs, turning your mouths until they fit. There’s sanctity in the way he kisses you, palms to your cheeks, cradling you as if you really are something precious.

The first is relatively innocent. You part only to say his name, and it leads him right back to you, this time with lips agape to take you deeper. All the effort put into repressing your yearning over the years springs forward, like a band pulled taut and released. His tongue tentatively licks into your mouth, searching for any discomfort and finding none.

Your hands lift to grope along the length of his arms to his chest, allowing yourself to touch everything he’d give you. He smiles languidly against your mouth, breathing a laugh into the kiss, and arousal pools honey-thick in your belly. It continues like this — things like time and surroundings are held in suspension, content just to have and hold one another.

“Shin,” you sigh happily, the name still muffled by his mouth.

He pulls away, a soft wet sound as you separate, a hand still cupping your cheek while the other threads into your hair. “Why’d you stop?”

“We should talk about this,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the skin beneath your eye as he ignores your groan, “m’not going any further til we do”.

“Why do you have to be so reasonable?”

“Because I want to do right by ya”. Cat-like, you turn into his tender touch at the admission. You shouldn’t have expected anything less — it was Shinsuke after all.

“Where would we start?” you sag with assent, feeling his chest shake as he laughs.

“How about you tell me what’cha want?” lithe fingers curl to lightly scratch your scalp. The swell of his cheeks are blatantly pink, even under the low light of the sun flooding into the hallway. With enough time to collect your thoughts you manage to count twelve freckles; seven on the left and five on the right. His question is difficult to answer, not because you didn’t have one, but because you still weren’t sure you deserved it.

Sensing your reluctance, he ducks to kiss your temple and clarifies: “Let’s say just for tonight. Where do you want this to go?”

Thinking in terms of the present was much easier. What you wanted now… all your mind could conjure was him, him, him. You wanted to kiss him again, to see parts of him you’d only ever imagined, to see the tan lines around the thick of his thighs. Still, admitting that was the hard part.

“I want you,” he exhales an amused huff and you try not to pout, “don’t— you know I’m not good at asking for things”.

His voice is low, slightly rough where the words are thick in his mouth, a glimmer of hunger beneath half lidded eyes. “Sorry, darlin’. How about I tell you what I want too?”

You murmur agreeably, the nod of your head feeble. This was such uncharted territory for the both of you, you couldn’t understand how he was being so confident about it. “Tonight I want to make you feel good, an’ then tomorrow I want to wake up to your pretty face in the mornin’. That's it”.

It was so simple, so honest. The heat in your belly deepens. “Then take me to bed,” you say.

The futon is somehow softer than you remember, your body rolling back atop the sheets and ruining the perfectly lined edges as Shinsuke follows you to the head of the bed, mumbling sweet nothings into your ear as he goes. He moves the pillows to cushion your head, traversing a path of kisses from your cheek to the curve of your throat, giving no resistance when you pull him back to your mouth.

The seams gradually seep into one another until your senses are clouded. He’s all you can think about, all you can feel, his weight heavy above you as your bodies rock together in tandem. “You’re so beautiful,” he pants, gently nipping your lower lip between his teeth, “you're sure this is okay?”

“More than okay,” you moan into his mouth as his cock presses tight against your sex, the friction relieving some of the ache, “are you—?”

“Fuck,” he undulates his hips when he feels your thighs tighten. “Yeah. I wanna make you cum on my tongue, can I?”

You stutter out a plea and he moves, a little wide eyed and triumphant. “Let me know if y’need me to stop,” he says, carefully working the material of your pants down your legs and taking your underwear with them, “and make sure to tell me what ya like, right?”

He parts your knees and you throb at the feeling of his breath along your inner thighs, hooking them over his shoulders when he lowers further, hands squeezing appreciatively as he pauses to kiss every piece of you. Wanting to watch his expression, you support yourself on your elbows and see as he loosens his jaw to taste you.

You shudder at the first roll of his tongue through your folds, relaxed and smooth, followed by a chaste kiss to your clit. He repeats the motions, testing different patterns and pressures. “Got such a sweet pussy,” he breathes, meeting your eyes as he circles your entrance, pressing himself impossibly close and fucking you with his mouth. It sounds so wet, both his spit and your arousal on his chin as he takes his time coaxing you into bliss.

He’s purposely teasing you, observing your surface reactions and learning what you like just for the opportunity of giving you a little bit at a time. It’s unfairly good, hyper sensitive as your body coils tighter and tighter, yet never enough to crest. Your clit aches and the impatience is enough to set your embarrassment aside, so you reach to spread your folds for him. “Please Shin,” you whine.

You feel him grin, giddiness bright in his eyes, “don’t worry, I’ll let ya cum sweetheart”. He gently sucks your clit between his lips and your chest rises with your hips as you arch into him, fists curling into the sheets at the push of a finger at your entrance. He sinks into you until you’ve taken him to the knuckle, languid as he strokes them upwards and out, his other hand tightening around your thigh once you begin to squirm.

As you grow pliant, head tilting back into the pillow, his tongue grows tense and he massages tight circles around your clit with the tip. He finds the right rhythm and repeats it again and again until you’re teetering at the edge, waiting for the final push. His name catches in your throat, pitched and desperate, bearing down onto his wrist feverishly as you reach for it.

“M’gonna cum,” the warning falls short as you moan, “fuck— Shin, you’re gonna make me cum”.

He hums, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your clit. Your body seizes for a moment as your orgasm washes over you, back arched like the spine of a bow, and he doesn’t stop; tongue flickering back and forth unremittingly with fingers pumping in and out of your pussy as you pull him in. He keeps you ashore, gradually slowing his movements to guide you through each wave as it passes, until your muscles are completely pliant.

He lowers your legs back onto the futon, hand slipping beneath your shirt and pushing it up to fold below your breasts, appreciating the length of your stomach as he makes his way to you. “Incredible… looked so beautiful… did so well for me, love,” he kisses each individual praise into your skin until he comes into view, arms braced either side of your head.

“Still feel okay?” he kisses your lips briefly and you drag him back into another, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Yeah. I’m…” you exhale, laughing breathlessly into his mouth, “...you’re unfairly good at that”.

He joins you, the exhilaration contagious. This was your childhood best friend, and your arousal was on his cheeks. “I’ve had some practice,” he admits in amusement, though there is a faint pinch in his brow when a thought visibly crosses his mind, “you have too, right?”

“I have. Just not for a while,” you reach to smooth out the crease, sending him what you hope is a comforting smile, “my libido was… nonexistent, at some points”.

He shifts on his knees between your legs, cock hard and straining in his jeans, yet his expression is nothing but understanding as he nods. “We can stop now, if ya feel like you’ve had enough,” he says.

The statement almost makes you cry, overwhelmed not only because of the love that he bathes you in, but because something that should be common decency feels so monumental to you. “No,” you reply quietly, cradling his cheeks in both hands. You don’t think you could ever have enough of him.

“I want you to fuck me”.

“I don’t have any condoms,” he warns, “I wasn’t expectin’ this to happen now, so—”

“If you’re comfortable pulling out I’m fine with it,” you gingerly suggest.

While he sits back to take off his shirt you pull your own over your head, discarding it onto the floor beside the futon and crossing your arms across your chest as you wait. The musculature of his abdomen shifts as he bares himself, revealing fine curls of hair between his pecs, more leading from his navel into the waistband of his jeans.

The groan of relief as he undoes the top button spreads straight to your pussy, thighs squeezed together to smother the feeling only to begin reflexively rubbing them in search of friction. You knew from the clothes he wore that he wasn’t as lean as he’d been in highschool, having gained not only muscle but some fat, too. It made him look broader — thicker.

It’s hard to shut down that line of thought as it starts. You wonder if he sees you differently too; perhaps you aren’t what he’d pictured you to be, or what he wanted. But with the dulcet call of your name you meet his heated gaze, watching him palm at his cock while he drinks you in.

“Don’t hide yaself,” he moves to gently pry your arms away from your breasts, “look so beautiful laid out for me like this. Wanna see all of you”.

And with the reverence he directs at you, your insecurities are smothered. “You too Shin,” you wrap your fingers around his cock, still tucked in his briefs, and enjoy how he bucks into the touch. “Let me see all of you, too”.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and he nods as if he were heeding your instruction. Reaching between your bodies, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, dragging the fabric over his cock and down his thighs.

Saliva pools beneath your tongue at the sight of him. His dick springs back, hard and subtly curved to the left, the tip blushing rouge. The base is covered with neatly trimmed hair, dark rather than silver, and his stomach jumps as you run your finger through it from his stomach to his pelvis. “Even your cock is pretty,” you comment under your breath.

“I can hear ya,” he murmurs, crowding into your space until skin meets skin, shaping himself around you until he’s the only thing you see. You tilt up your chin wordlessly and he kisses you docile, hands trembling where they’re curled against his chest. His cock is hot against your thigh, and you roll your hips up to encourage him.

You cinch your legs either side of his waist, feet hooked lazily at his back as you slip your arms around his neck. “Make me feel good like you promised,” you grin.

Humming with fond amusement he repositions himself, his cock sliding smoothly through your arousal, plucking the soft gasp from your mouth as he bumps against your clit. “I’ve got ya sweetheart,” he lines the tip up and you feel yourself clench in anticipation.

Swaddled by the weight of his body and supported by the thick plush futon beneath, he sinks into you slowly as if he’s savouring it, just as he does with every meal. Patient as always, he waits a few moments for you to adjust, littering featherlight pecks along the curve of your neck. He feels girthier than he looks, but the stretch is more gratifying than it is painful — the drag of his cock as he pulls out even moreso.

“Fuck, baby,” your hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head as he begins to find pace. Your breasts shake with each thrust, nipples pebbling under his touch, attention attracted to the way they bounce. He looks mystified, his jaw relaxed to take each pant as it comes, a deep groan reverberating in the back of his throat.

You tighten around him and something in his eyes brightens wildly. Excitement, giddiness. He leans his forehead to yours, sharing your breath and swallowing your moans, pushing deeper until he finds the rhythm that has your fingers curling against his scalp. “There?” he mutters, the baritone of his voice echoing through you, “doing so well for me, love. Got no idea how good ya feel”.

The space between your mouths fills with murmured praises, disjointed curses, the call of his name over and over. He speaks low to you; erring on a whisper, as if they’re only for you to hear, and the intimacy of it settles warm in your chest.

“Please don’t stop. Keep— just like that,” you gasp as you feel the familiar pull through your centre, simultaneously pliant and coiled while you try to meet his pace. A hand falls heavily at your hip and he holds you still, unrelenting even when he begins to curl into himself, rasping that he’s close.

“Let me feel you cum on my cock,” he shudders as your thighs tremble at either side of him, nipples grazing the soft hair on his chest as you keen, digging your heels harshly into the small of his back once you feel yourself slip. Pleasure floods through your senses, brows pinched in awe and momentarily weightless as the second orgasm hits you.

“That’s it darlin’. Shit,” you can barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “need to pull out. Feels too— m’gonna cum”.

“Please,” you blink away the haze as you run your hands along his shoulders and back, relishing the clear desperation in his expression. Your feet unhook, limbless as all rigidity bleeds from your body, and with a final groan he’s able to push himself away from you.

You barely have time to miss him as he pulls out, left pulsing around emptiness as you ride out the minor aftershocks. Knelt between your legs with a hand fisted around his wet cock and his chin tucked to his sternum, Shinsuke leans over you in haste. After three rough strokes, he cums across your stomach.

His shoulders rise and fall with exertion, blush tinted with a golden hue from the late afternoon sun. He sags forward onto his clean hand to support his weight over you, and as the clarity returns to his eyes a boyish smile works its way onto his face. He looks smitten — happy. This must be what afterglow is supposed to feel like.

“That was…” he huffs a laugh, “...incredible”.

You brush the damp hair from his forehead tenderly, incognisant of the cum drying to your skin. Somehow, you think you want to cry again. “Better than you imagined?” you tease, exhaustion befalling you.

Perceptive as always, he notices. “Better than I ever imagined,” he repeats in agreement, turning to kiss the inside of your wrist where your hand has slipped to cradle his cheek, “you wait here nice an’ sweet and I’ll get’cha cleaned up”.

You don’t want him to go but you trust him to come back. And he does, swiftly moving through the house with a damp cloth while naked as the day he was born. He must’ve run it under lukewarm water, gentle as he wipes away the mess he made on you. “Feelin’ okay? Are you sore or anything?” he asks.

“No,” just satiated, you think. Your thoughts are quiet and your limbs are heavy.

“Yer all worn out,” once satisfied he slips the sheets out from underneath you and covers you up, cloth discarded to the side in favour of running his fingers through your hair, “get some rest, just an hour or so”.

Already halfway there, you surrender to the inevitable, opening your eyes to glance up at him as you reach for his hand. “Stay?” you mumble.

He rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles. “Couldn’t get rid of me if ya tried”.

His side of the futon is still warm when you wake, but he isn’t there, and the room is dark. You roll onto your back and wince, suddenly feeling some discomfort. Through the sliding doors you hear movement; the sounds of oil in a pan and ceramic cups being set at the table. It spurs you into consciousness and you push away the covers, glancing back to set them neatly by the corners just as he had done before, then make your way to the kitchen after getting dressed.

You’re met by a light western style dinner, something with egg, though you aren't sure. Still sleep mussed, you kneel and settle onto your cushion with the tatami soft beneath your shins, and as he places your food down he leans to kiss your cheek. The heat lingers there and crawls to the tips of your ears.

“How can… how can you just do that?”

You’d expected some kind of awkwardness or stumbling, as would be natural on the path from childhood friends to a romantic relationship. There were bends and forks that you no longer needed to be weary of — still, that didn’t mean you wouldn’t instinctively hesitate after all the years of ignoring them.

But Shinsuke only smiles, warm wrinkles of amusement at your flustered question. His eyes are bright as they meet yours, slightly squinted and sincere as he speaks.

“It’s easy,” he says, “because it’s you”.

#kita shinsuke x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kita x reader

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