#I’d like to see how it goes without trimming the edges

[nerdierholler]

Probably going to print out my text block today. Here’s some comparisons to the first one I bound. The first time I was intentionally trying to make it as short as possible with little text and small margins so I was dealing with fewer signatures. This is over 100 pages longer (150 ish -> 280 ish) but (I think) looks more similar to a “real” hardcover typeset.

Debating just printing it on regular printer paper because I can’t find letter sized paper in the right color and weight that won’t require trimming and I’m not sure I’m ready to drop $50 on the right paper. Though for 1000 sheets it’s not a bad price for specialty paper.

[phefics]

congrats my darling!! you deserve it 🥺

🍪 could i request a nsfw alphabet with robin? 💖

𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝟏𝐤 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 // omg tysm love, of course u can!!! i have answered a few of these questions about her so i just copy-n-pasted my previous answers for some xoxo

a: aftercare (what they’re like after sex) very cuddly, rambles a lot about how much fun it was and how hot you are, giggles at the messy sheets, and probably wants to stay up talking after.

b: body part (their favourite body part of theirs/their partner’s) to quote steve harrington, "you like boobies" ... robin likes boobies but also thighs.

c: cum (anything to do with cum basically) robin gets really wet, which she initially thought was a bad thing until you assure her that it's a really good thing.

d: dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs) the obvious answer would just be her liking girls but if you’re fucking her, you already know that, sooo i’d say its maybe her inexperience - robin prides herself on her intelligence and ability to get shit done regardless of her nerves, but admitting that she has never even kissed anyone is something she would be embarrassed to do, especially if she’s trying to impress you

e: experience (how experienced are they?) she is completely inexperienced, like, has never even kissed a girl before you!

f: favorite position (this goes without saying) robin likes to have you sit on her face, or to just lay between your thighs. if a strap is involved, she likes to fuck with whoever's being penetrated on top.

g: goofy (are they more serious/humorous?) tries to be serious but ends up giggling and being silly

h: hair (how well groomed are they are, etc.) robin isn't big on shaving but she does definitely keep herself trimmed.

i: intimacy (how they are during the moment) robin is giggly, talkative, and completely lovestruck.

j: jack off (masturbation headcanons) robin really doesn't masturbate?? she's inexperienced and a little behind when it comes to sexual awakenings - she figured out she was a lesbian like two years ago, ok?? and she doesn't really understand...how...and would probably need to read it in a book or have it demonstrated on her.

k: kink (one or more of their kinks) personally, i don’t see robin as super kinky, or at least, she’s not super experienced/informed and therefore wouldn’t know much about what she’s into. however, i can see her being into dom/sub dynamics (i think she’s more of a sub) and some of the more common things like edging and praise. i also think she has a tickle kink but that is just me projecting ajdkdjkdf...

l: location (favorite places to do it) robin would never risk getting caught in public, for many reasons, so her favorite place to do it is in bed - classic, comfortable, intimate, and safe from prying eyes

m: motivation (what turns them on, gets them going?) robin is turned on by just about everything you do, but she is motivated by the idea of pleasuring you, like, getting down on her knees to go down on you like a woman starved. she has a people-pleasing tendancy that definitely extends to the bedroom.

n: no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) robin doesn't like behind restrained or hurt in the bedroom, mostly because of the whole russian spy thing, but even without the added trauma, it just really isn't her thing.

o: oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) robin loves oral sex from both ends. she prefers it to fingering and before getting more sexually involved, i feel like she didn't really consider that straps were a thing and assumed oral was the best-case scenario.

p: pace (are they fast and rough/slow and sensual?) robin likes to take things slow. when she's nervous, her instinct is to be frenzied, so she prefers to calm herself and do everything slow to savor it.

q: quickie (their opinions on quickies) robin prefers to just have sex in a more typical, vanilla way. in bed, take things slow, lots of kisses...so nah, quickies aren't her thing.

r: risk (are they game to experiment?) robin is down to experiment with most things, but she prefers to stay in her comfort zone most of the time, since sex is still new and intimdating for her.

s: stamina (how many rounds can they go for/long do they last?) robin is able to go for a long time, and can have multiple orgasms like most vagina-owners can - she can keep at it for a while.

t: toy (do they own toys/use them? on a partner/themselves?) robin is rlly into toys!! she loves strap-ons, whether that’s being fucked by one or fucking someone else. vibrators are also great, she has a tiny one of her own that she masturbates with, but using it with a partner would unlock a whole new world of fun!!

u: unfair (how much they like to tease) robin isn't good at trying to be a tease, because she will likely give in before her partner, lol.

v: volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make) robin is loud and talks a lot, she can’t help it - it’s sometimes nervous rambling and sometimes mindless babbling from pleasure

w: wild card (a random headcanon) self-indulgent one here, apologies - robin is super ticklish and often will accidentally laugh and twitch during sex when you touch her too gently or in a senstive spot. luckily, that isn't a turn-off for her, it just flusters her, so if you didn't mind, it could be something fun to play with...

x: x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants) robin has a pretty bush, it's dark and doesn't match the curtains yknow?? her pussy is a dark pink and gets wet so easily, she's almost always glistening by the time her pants are off and you can spread her lips...

y: yearning (how high is their sex drive?) robin has been yearning for a relationship for so long, when she finally has it, she wants to fuck whenever humanly possible. it's not even that her sex drive is high, it's more like trying to make up for lost time.

z: zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) robin is pretty hyper and struggles to sleep most nights anyway, and sex doesn't really tire her out as much as it probably should, so she'll be down to stay up and hang out afterwards.

[mistysimpingandspam]

dwayne (the lost boys) NSFW alphabet

minors DNI

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

the ceo of aftercare. dwayne is already such a selfless lover, you bet he’s selfless as hell with aftercare. it doesn’t matter whether you’ve turned or not, dwayne treats you like royalty. he’ll fetch whatever you desire, cuddle with you, rub your back or feet, talk with you, kiss sore spots, read to you, and just overall pamper you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

dwayne adores the curve of your hips. his hands seem to always be on them when in public, and he gets much more grabby in private.

with a body like his, dwayne is really proud of his chest and abs. i mean, he’s a toned, good looking guy who’s shirtless 24/7, how can he not be confident about his physique?

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

i read a headcanon somewhere that male vampires become infertile when they turn, so this means that dwayne’s breeding kink comes out majorly. sure, he can’t get you pregnant, but he’ll still use you as an absolute cum dumpster. he loves the idea of filling you up and making you his.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

dwayne likes the aftercare almost more than the sex itself. he just loves taking care of his significant other and adores you when you’re all subby and out of it as he cleans you up

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

just like david, dwayne has had many years of experience. looking the way he does for hundreds of years is definitely an advantage for picking up girls.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

mating press. dwayne loves folding his s/o in half as he pounds them, all while looking deep into their eyes. he gets off on the faces you make, so he likes to keep closer to your face so he can watch. he loves making his s/o feel smaller than him by folding them so easily. if you aren’t as flexible, missionary is fun for him too. when he’s feeling more primal, he’ll take you from behind.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he’ll roll his eyes playfully at your jokes, but that’s it. he isn’t much of a talker during sex other than praise, so you won’t really hear anything from him.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

carpet matches the drapes, and he keeps it neat and trimmed.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

one of the most intimate partners you can have. always caressing you, looking deep into your eyes, whispering sweet things to you and calling you a good girl.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

dwayne has enough control to not have to get off daily, so i’d say twice or three times a week. he has a high libido, but when he’s horny, he’ll just go to you, so what’s the point of jacking off?

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

breeding kink and primal play (see my primal headcanons here. i go much more into detail with these).

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

dwayne loves the comfort of his room (i headcanon the boys having rooms from the collapsed hotel). he isn’t big on public sex. he also likes your room and the couch in the cave.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

he gets turned on by you in lingerie. simple as that. he loves seeing you decked out in lace or leather or silk.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything involving pain. dwayne much prefers to torture you with pleasure (ie overstimulation or edging), he hates the idea of spanking you too hard or pulling your hair with too much force.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

this man eats cooter y’all. and boy is he fucking good at it. he loves when you sit on his face so he can look up at you from below with those piercing eyes of his. he can and will go down on you for hours, and he won’t stop until you’re practically begging him.

dwayne doesn’t usually expect head in return, but if you like giving it, he won’t turn it down. he’s huge, so he lets you be in control of how much you take in his mouth and how fast your pace is. if you want him to fuck your face, you’re asking for a bruised throat, especially if you ask him to be rough.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

dwayne’s usual pace definitely sensual and medium speed; not too slow but not too much. he’ll slow down to have you feel all of him at once just so he can watch your eyes roll back.

when in a primal headspace, buckle up. he is relentless. quick brutal snaps of his hips from behind while his fingernails dig into your back and he growls into your ear. he likes grabbing you by the hips and just shaking you on his dick until you’re practically crying.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

nope. not a quickie fan. he likes to take his time to really please and worship you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

if you want him to be rougher, you’ll have to tell him yourself. he’ll want to sit you down and discuss primal play and how far he can go with it and how rough he can be during sex.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

as i mentioned in my primal headcanons, this man lasts a while, so you better prepare yourself. there are some occasions where he can go for an hour and not cum.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he doesn’t mind if you use them on yourself. he actually likes to watch you use them on yourself and make teasing comments that make you blush.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he isn’t much of a tease, but if he’s edging you, he can go a while before letting you cum. he’ll get you to the edge like five times and still tut and go “sorry princess, not this time” as he slows down his fingers or cock.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

dwayne is a praise man. he loves seeing your face go bright from the things he says, so he talks a good amount. besides that, he’s pretty much silent; he might let out a grunt when he cums but that’s pretty much it.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

dwayne goes crazy when you leave hickies on his chest. he already walks around shirtless, so why not show off what he and you get up to?

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

hung.

point blank.

i’m talking 8-8.5 inches, and thick. curves upward with a thick vein on the underside.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

he has a pretty high libido, but he keeps it in check. (paul could take a few notes).

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

nope. not until you’re taken care of. it doesn’t matter how exhausted he is, you are his top priority. he’ll eventually nod off once you fall asleep.

[sio-writes]

Sacrifice - Ch. 7

<<Chapter 6

<<<Chapter 1 (written in second POV)

This chapter got so long I had to split it into 2 parts! I'm mostly done with part 2 so that should be up soon :>

I don’t sleep next to Aurelius that night. Instead, I toss and turn in the short windowsill until the morning light begins to crest over the treeline. When I wake, there’s a stack of books on the floor by my head that I most definitely didn’t put there, and laying on top of them is a flat, circular pendant attached to a chain.

Inside the pendant is a ruby, about as wide as my littlest fingernail, cut and polished so it shines in the morning sun. The ruby alone could fetch enough coin for the year, and the gold chain is nothing to scoff at either, and it’s being presented to me…as a gift? An apology? Nothing in this world comes without a cost, a fact that churns my stomach as I think of the possible reasons Aurelius would leave this for me.

So I set the necklace back on the stack of books, and try to push it out of my mind. It’s time for the chores I don’t need to do. But anything is better than stewing in my own thoughts for longer than a moment.

Mortimer bleats happily when he sees me, or more accurately sees the bag of grain I’m carrying to the feeding trough, and he trots beside me as I pour it for the other goats, all used to my schedule by now and expecting me. They all bleat happily and gently butt my legs before burying themselves in the grain. There's a little one that I haven't seen before that's been added to the mix, trotting behind one of the adults like it's the goat's kid. I'm filled with a mixture of care and horror for how the kid made it here at all, a feeling that I push down as I watch it hop happily from one adult to the other. 

Mortimer continues at my side as I make my rounds and greet all the animals, and I’m curious to know if he’s picking up on my mood. I should probably start giving the rest of them names now that I can tell them all apart, but naming something feels like a huge undertaking here. Maybe another time.

After feeding the animals, I take the time to brush them out. They of course don’t need it, and nearly every stroke shoots golden dust into the air and makes me sneeze, but I need to do something. Anything. 

I’m walking in circles looking for things to do as the morning turns into afternoon. I sweep the barn, adjust the fence’s tilted beams, play with the dogs until I’m short of breath, and then check everything once again. I move hay into the stores for tomorrow’s feeding, haul sacks of grain back and forth for the goats, I even check the barn for seeds to plant. It’s not the right season, but that doesn’t seem to matter here.

It’s anything to distract my mind from last night. Keep me as far away from having to think about it as possible. I set to trimming hooves instead of returning to Dachaigh for luncheon. I’ve been out here so long that the animals are beginning to avoid me, but I’m fizzling with energy, and I don’t know where to put it, so it goes into chores. 

No thinking allowed.

I chase down the shaggy dark gray goat and sit her in front of me. I could run to the human cottage and back three times. In my mad scramble to burn this energy away, I had paused at the beginning of the path, right at the edge of the wood. I’d gone with full intentions to visit the cottage, but stepping onto the path had shot a cold chill down my spine. I knew if I stepped onto the path that I may never return

I clip at an angle and the goat beneath me jumps as golden ichor, shimmering like Aurelius’ black blood, spots the grass. I curse under my breath as she trots away.

“Sorry!” I call to her, and she doesn’t respond. Mortimer gently butts my leg with his horns and bleats, as he’s been doing all day to egg me on, and I feel my resolve break.

“Shut up!” I snap at him, and he stops, rearing back, and turns his head away. 

Regret, heavy and thick, replaces my stores of energy. I reach out to pet him, stopping halfway when he eyes me warily. My hand hovers above his head, and for a long moment everything stills, until he closes the distance and lets me run my fingers through his fur.

“I’m sorry, Mortimer,” I sigh, nose burning with the start of tears. “I just don’t know what to do.”

I continue to pet Mortiner as tears trace lines down my cheeks. I cry in frustration, in anguish, in pain. There's nowhere I can go that I won't be found, Aurelius made sure of that. I stupidly agreed to have a beacon printed into my skin for the rest of my days. Perhaps if I got far enough away, it would take him longer to reach me. He’s mentioned that there’s things even he can’t do, so would he still be able to track me halfway across this world?

I shake my head at myself. No, that’s stupid. He can teleport. So he’ll bring me back and likely chain me to the wall for a thousand years.

After wiping my eyes on my sleeves, I pull my knees into my chest and rest my chin over my folded arms. In the distance is the barn, empty save for the foodstuffs I give to the animals, never diminishing in quantity no matter how much I take out.

The animals have all gotten as far away from me as they can, save for Mortimer who remains at my side. I’ve exhausted the morning with menial tasks, and I have nothing left to do— I’m certainly not going back into Aurelius’ house—so I wander into the empty barn. 

I don’t come in here often, the animals prefer to graze and sleep outside, but the air inside is cool if a little stale, and the structure sturdy enough for me to climb up to the loft. The climb up reminds me of Aurelius’ room, with its huge stained glass window and the nest he sleeps in. It also reminds me of the first time I slept with him during that thunderstorm.

Pushed into the corners of the loft is hay, squared off and tied up, and I fall onto my back on the lowest bale to stare at the ceiling of the barn. There’s a circular window on the wall of the loft, and pale sunlight streams in and cuts through the damp air. Yellow light highlights every mote of dust that crosses its path, and I trace their lilting movements with my eyes as my thoughts spiral with them.

Aurelius told me he loved me last night, and part of me, a small yet impossible to ignore part, is overjoyed. I want this, I want him. I want him to shower me in affection instead of barely dolling it out, I want his gifts, conversation, his attention. I want to hold his hand and learn magic and sleep with him without being carried away the next morning. It feels like any chance I had for that life is ruined now. And I wonder, was that ever my fate in the first place?

I slam my fist back into the hay beneath me, where it sinks in and presses needle-like points into my skin. The flash of pain works to center my mind, calm the raging storm within me, and I trace more dust motes with my eyes as I pass the rest of the morning doing nothing.

***

I wander out of the barn and to the edge of the woods. The canopy is so thick I can barely see past the treeline. The branches sway in the breeze, offering me glimpses through the leaves of the forest beyond, and I see healthy underbrush and smaller trees trying to make their way to the sky, movement that suggests there's small animals flitting between the bushes and new growth.

It's quiet and inviting, like I could lose myself in my wanderings, like the forest is beckoning to me. I want to step inside and explore. As if on its own, my legs move me forward, towards the darkness and the unknown, until something else catches my attention. It's the smell of cooking food, meats and oil, pepper and onion and garlic mixed in too. The smell pulls me from the edge of the woods, away from the dark and back towards the barn, getting stronger as I wrap around the side that faces Aurelius' home.

I round the corner and stop, seeing a massive nest dug into the ground, the grass gathered and pushed to the sides of a dug-out hole large enough for me to walk in. It's a rabbit's burrow, the largest I've ever seen, and also the source of the smell. I would be a fool to walk inside without knowing who lives in here, but another waft of that delicious meal hits my nose and my stomach urges me to seek it out. It’s nearly lunchtime, and in my hurry to remove myself from Aurelius’ line of sight, I’d skipped breakfast.

I take a few steps down before I realize what I'm doing. This could be a trap, with a fae waiting to eat me up. This burrow just appeared out of thin air, there could be anyone down there, and it would be a massively stupid move to just wander in expecting food.

I'm halfway out of the hole once more when a woman's voice calls from the darkness, "Well, come on, dear! Soup won't eat itself!"

I recognize that voice, it sounds like the rabbit that Aurelius was speaking with the other day. I can't remember her name, but I remember the two were friendly, and she called him by another name. She seemed very open, matronly, she didn't disregard me or brush me off. Maybe she can help me.

The burrow is tall enough I can walk upright, made of tightly packed dirt with the occasional root sticking through. This must be the rabbit’s home, and as I wander further down and lose track of where I may be in relation to the surface, I wonder how I'd never noticed this before. This burrow is massive, surely I couldn’t have just overlooked it. 

I come to a split in the path, two equally branching tunnels, the left leading to darkness, the right with a warm light pouring from a bend in the path. Taking the path to the right leads me into a large room, split in half by a supporting beam into a kitchen and a dining room, and beyond the dining room is a small living room with a connecting hallway. Sitting at the dining table are three rabbits the size of a human child, all varying colors. The closest to me is white with black spots, the middle is the color of hay, and the third is purple with yellow splotches. They're huddled together, noses nearly touching, speaking in hushed tones, and the moment I walk in they all sit up to stare at me, ears raised.

Movement in the kitchen catches my eye, and from the pantry, out steps that same giant rabbit fae from several days ago, still the same creamy tan with that white belly. Her enormous black eyes are fixed on the spice jar in her hands as she walks to the biggest pot of soup I’ve ever seen simmering on the stove. I can feel the heat of it from across the room, along with the smell of meat and vegetables. My mouth waters as another waft of the brew hits my face, and I take a measured inhale through my nose just to keep the scent lingering. I haven’t had any meat in probably a year. The animals on the farm back home were too old and sick, and Dachaigh only provides me with fruits and the occasional basket of eggs. Not chicken eggs though, they’re smaller, colored a pale orange and covered in odd bumps. Aurelius hasn’t been around long enough for me to ask about them, so I’ve yet to attempt cooking any. The sensate memory of eating my mother’s perfectly cooked roast on All Saint’s Day hits me like a strong wind, making my stomach growl.

One of the rabbit’s large ears flicks, turning in my direction, but she doesn’t turn from the pot as she tips the spice jar over the soup and flourishes it like a garnish. “Well go on, sit down.”

I step over to the dining table, where the three little rabbits have continued their conversation, now peppered with occasional glances towards me. I can hear them just fine, but they’re speaking in a tongue I don’t know, and I tense with the tug of anxiety at my chest. It’s very rude to barge in on a family meal, I’d be taking away from what she prepared for her…children? But something drew me here, something told me to come. So I step into the dining room and sit on an empty chair, across from the smaller but still huge rabbit children.

The children continue talking in that hushed, foreign language, and I do my best not to stare at them as we all wait for their mother to finish the stew. Upon closer inspection, I see that each tablecloth, all the drink coasters and the cushions of every chair are hand-stitched, hand crocheted, each of them a labor of love that must've taken hours. I run my fingers over the edge of the closest place setting, counting the stitches as I go, one-two-three, not a missed loop among them. They're decorated with motifs from the forest - mushrooms and ferns, trees of all size and shape, squirrels and birds and even several tiny rabbits. On the edge I see a cottage that looks like the changeling cottage, and even a wide, squat tree in the distance that resembles Aurelius' home.

I wish I had the patience for such crafts. The only version of this I enjoy is sewing, but even then my mind is limited in what it pays attention to. Embroidery has always been a chore, and lacework puts me to sleep. I need more immediate fruits of my labor, which makes me appreciate the craftmanship of this home even more.

It's a short moment before the large rabbit steps out of the kitchen with her huge pot. It's almost as big as she is and I stand to offer help, until I see that she's not carrying the pot at all. It's hovering off the floor, carried by magic that spills golden dust onto the carpet. It lifts itself onto the large table and following it are several bowls and spoons that float in front of myself and each of the rabbit children.

I fiddle with my hands in my lap as the large rabbit serves us, slapping my hand away when I attempt to serve myself, and the children dig in without a second thought. The stew smells heavenly, the base is a rich red from the tomatoes used to make it, with chunks of potato and carrot and meat coming to the surface as she stirs.

“So what brings you out here?” she asks, and I notice that like Aurelius, her mouth doesn't move as she talks, hers only generally opens and closes like she's slowly chewing something. 

"You told me to come in," I mutter, rubbing my arm. I don't mean to speak back to her like this, but I'm only relaying the truth. She takes it in good faith, though, as I see her shoulders shake on a chuckle.

“I only go where I’m needed,” she says, brandishing her spoon at me. “And you need me. Now, what’s your name?”

“Kaitlyn," I say on instinct, and she scoffs. 

“Not that scribble you use with the other humans. Your name, and I won’t be asking again.”

“Kyla. Kyla Bateman.”

“Much better. You can call me Eodine or Mama, sweetheart.” she says. 

"Eodine," I say, testing the name on my tongue. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she nods once. She reminds me of my mother's sister, my aunt, who would visit from the next town over. She was a well-off woman, and always brought my brother and me gifts. She was a harsh woman, but always had kind things to say alongside it.

The spices that brought me in here are more prominent than ever, and when I take a tentative sip from a spoon too large for my mouth, I close my eyes and think of home. I miss the variety of dishes my mother served that changed with the seasons, I miss my family all crowded around a single table like this one. I miss my brother's incessant humming when he would clean the vegetables.

I wonder if I'd be able to cook something like this with Aurelius, if I could fetch the meat from the market or even catch it myself. But the memory of the market makes me frown into my meal-- he definitely won't allow me back there anytime soon.

I have a lot of questions-- namely how Eodine found us, and how she knew I was outside, but also how she knows Aurelius, and what my purpose in finding him was. I doubt she could answer all the questions bumping around in my head, and I don't want to seem rude by asking so many, but I'm bursting at the seams.

The stew is filling and leaves my stomach pushing against my dress, and I have to refuse when Eodine pushes a third bowl in my direction. The children leave the table and scamper down the hallway, leaving me alone with Eodine.

“Now,” she says. “What trouble has Atya gotten you into?” She pauses and leans forward to sniff at me. “You’re not pregnant. So what has Atya done, hm?”

“Why can you look at him too?” I blurt out, and she laughs.

“I’m a god, sweet child, a fertility god before you ask. I’m almost as old as Atya, though you never ask a lady her age.” She winks one large black eye at me, and the move is so human it makes me smile.

“So when the other fair folk look at you…”

"A god's aura is too heavy for them to stand."

I nod, reminded of the rumors from home, of what I thought Aurelius was when we first met. I'd always thought that it was a matter of respect, but hearing of humans frightened beyond repair or even stuck dead by daring to glance at the keepers of our world, things suddenly make sense.

“What makes me different?”

Eodine waves me off. "Bah! There’s so many humans as is, it’s hard enough to keep track of offerings nowadays, let alone every human who can look at us." She dips another spice into the pot and stirs before continuing. "The important thing is that you mean something to Atya, who is my dear friend.”

“Have you known each other long?” I ask, resting my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand before one of the children whispers a sour note at me. I flush, letting my hands fall to my lap.

She puffs her chest out, proud. “Since the sun began to rise.”

I sigh heavily, falling back into the chair. “Has he always been so rude?”

Eodine pauses, and for a moment I fear that I’ve offended her, until she laughs out loud, mouth pulled back to expose her long teeth. "He can be rather curt!" she grins, pearly white rabbit's teeth catching the firelight. "Enough about Atya, though. Why did my burrow find you, dear? I follow those in need, pairs that need, well, repair."

I tear my gaze away from her and towards the living area, the shame of speaking of my own woes welling up like water. This place feels more like home than Aurelius' dwelling, and I've been here for less than an hour. I don't want to return to him, to whatever mess we've made of each other. “I suppose…”

She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. She has paws, oversized and furry, but still warm. “Are you unhappy?”

The question rings against my heart like a chime, rippling through the careful mask of calm I'd built up and exposing the feelings underneath. Am I happy? My past actions say no, I don't think so. I was at one point, excited even, to see this new world and all it offered. But I'm not unhappy, either. I don't hate where I live, I don't hate Aurelius, no matter how annoying he can be. I must be somewhere in between, like floating on the surface of a river, partially submerged. But in the deep, another question surfaces and threatens to swallow me whole: Am I happier than I was before coming here? Was the farm truly so desolate that my only choice was to run? That's a question I'm afraid of the answer to. Because what if I'm not, what if there was something for me back home, but here and now is all that's left for me? 

I blink back tears, but they come anyway. I wipe them away with my dirtied hand, and try to speak. “I don’t want to be.” 

Eodine clucks her tongue and pulls me towards her. “Of course you don’t, honey." She pats my hand with her paw. "Is it Atya? Is he treating you poorly? Because if he is—“

“No! No. He’s wonderful," I say, waving my free hand. I can't believe I spoke ill of Aurelius to his friend. "I'm the problem.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” she replies immediately. Her tone is serious, and she can clearly pick up when I'm lying.  As much as it pains me to state it out loud, it's what needs to be said.

“I…I don’t think we’re a good fit. I thought we were at the beginning, but now…” I sniff loudly. “I want things to work, but I don’t think they’re going to.”

Eodine nods, humming sympathetically. “You know, you could always leave.”

“I can’t.” I stand and turn, pulling my dress aside to show Eodine the sigil that Aurelius left as part of his tracking spell. She chuffs, and I flush.

“That's powerful magic. But I do know something it wouldn’t stand a chance against." At my expression of confusion, she continues. "The Forest of Souls, the one outside your home. It calls to the weary and protects those who wander. You can become lost in there until the end of time, if you desire it. No one would ever bother you again.”

Sitting down once again, I mull the words over in my mind. “I’d become…lost?”

She nods. “Forever. Now mind you, that means you’ll be alone forever as well. No more visits to Atya, or me, or to your friends down the river.”

I nod, but say nothing as Eodine clears our places and sets our dishes in the sink. I stand to help, but a pointed look over her shoulder has me sitting back down. It leaves me more than enough space to consider her words once more. Lost forever, unable to see anyone again. I'd be away from Aurelius, forever, and the idea drops a stone in my heart even now. I'd be leaving my friends as well, and we just started getting along.

Eodine shuffles us from the dining room into the living room. We sit on the couch, also layered in more hand-made blankets and doilies, and I see bookshelves set into the walls surrounding the fireplace. But instead of the books I'm used to, they're filled with small knick-knacks-- animals carved from wood and stone, jars of sanded down broken glass and string and tiny metal objects. I do see a few books, well-worn with pages sticking out of the spines.

"Gifts from my children," she says, and her voice carries a smile with it. "Every single piece."

There must be hundreds of odds and ends on those shelves. I blink at the number of children Eodine implies to have had, and when she sees my expression, she laughs. "That's just one shelf, dear! You should see the rest."

Well, she is a fertility goddess. I shrug at my own reasoning and make myself comfortable on the couch. I keep my feet on the floor since I'm still wearing my shoes, but Eodine curls up fully, legs pulled into her torso as she looks at me with those massive eyes.

“Tell me, what drew you to Atya in the first place?”

I chew on my nail. “He—he offered me a home. He saved my life. He was so kind.”

“And has that gone away?”

I shake my head. “He leaves me gifts, and lets me sleep with him.”

“Has he been cruel to you? Hurt you?”

“No! Never.” The very idea of Aurelius actually harming me-- even having the intention to do so-- makes me blanch. He works so hard to make sure I'm not afraid of him, does so much to make me comfortable around him, he'd never hurt me.

Eodine folds her arms and cooly regards me. A familiar chill would run up my spine when my mother would lecture me. “Then it sounds like you just want to run because things got tough!” She wags a finger at me. "And the both of you deserve better than silence!"

I scoff before I can cover it up. “That’s so selfish!”

Eodine opens her mouth to speak, thinks better of it and snaps her jaw shut, and then runs a paw over one ear like she's smoothing down hair. “I suppose I can't blame you. You’re under a lot of stress, darling, in a strange place with a strange creature. It’s only natural to want to return to what you once had. You haven't been here very long, and you're already trying to go!”

“I don’t think he’d listen to me.”

“Then you make him listen.”

That stern tone is back, and I know she's serious. I nod, already thinking of methods to force Aurelius to listen to me, and Eodine settles back into the couch to relax. 

We spend the rest of the afternoon speaking of menial things-- the weather, our favorite meals, the various crafts we partake in. She leads me out and back to the farm, handing me no less than a week's worth of stew. I have to shield my eyes from the sun, and when I turn back to thank her, both Eodine and the burrow are gone.

[dont-go-into-the-woods]

Avery’s NSFW Alphabet

Of course I’d write the smutty stuff before anything else lmao. 

Here y’all go and MINORS GET OUT OF HERE IF YOU SEE THIS

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Even Softer with you than he, usually is. Will drag you to the bathroom to clean up, and maybe, if not to exhausted, will cook something up. He just wants to make sure you’re alright.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part would be his hands, he enjoys the reactions he can pull out of you, whether through simple touches, or fingering you / jerking you off. His favorite part of you would have to be the thighs, he loves squishing his fingers into them, gripping them whether he’s pounding into you or riding your dick/strap.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Loves filling, being filled, swallowing, being covered in, covering you in it. He’s a little nasty lmao.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He certainly has a lot going on under the surface. He’s a little nervous about showing what else he’s capable of.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He has some experience, via a few past relationships, but is always down to learn more if it means pleasing you. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He willing to try a lot, but he enjoy’s the classics the most, or positions where you’re seated in his lap. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

On the more serious end, but he’s willing to laugh if something goes wrong. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Trimmed, dark, a little curly. He also has a prominent happy trail.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Ranges from shear softness, to absolutely feral. He desires, taking care of you deeply. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Maybe a few times a week before he met you. He still does on occasion if you are not available, or if you’re not in a relationship. Yet.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Mutual Masturbation, Marking, Edging, Vouyerism, Gagging, Roleplay.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom, Shower, Kitchen, Woods, His truck. Just nothing extremely public.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing you stretch, showing off your tummy. Any glimpse of thigh. Neck kisses. Being aggressive with him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything dealing with ageplay, piss, scat, dd/lg are big turn offs. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He prefers to give, but love’s to receive as well, especially if you gag on him a little. Pretty good as well, even better when his fingers get involved.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

For someone that’s relatively quiet, he certainly enjoy’s a faster pace. He will still however, cater to you needs. You decide you want him to let lose however, RIP.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Doesn’t mind them, but prefers to have a longer time with you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Is fine with semi-public, as long as he know he has control of the space. If anyone even looks at you in that state, well, bye bye to them.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Great stamina, almost to much. Huh, that’s a little strange.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Has a few, but doesn’t often use them. Is willing to add more if you ask.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Enjoy’s edging, both you and himself, if you get the chance to be on his thigh, just be prepared.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Can get loud at times, but if you want him to keep it down, he’s fine with either you shoving him fingers in his mouth or biting you. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When you learn his dirty little secret, he’ll be more willing to- REDACTED INFO

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

7.5 Inches/19.05cm hard, 5.5 inches/13.97cm flaccid, decently thick. Uncircumsized, with a slight upward curve. A little lighter than his normal skintone, pinkish red tip. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty tame for the most part since he does still have to earn his masters, but if you ask, he’s almost always down. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After you’ve been taken care of, he’ll usually stay up a little longer, take care of anything he’s neglected. Maybe take a quick stroll through the woods.

[wytfut]

6

This an adventure that just happened a few weeks ago. 

I have this old friend from hi school days back in 1970. We didn’t hang out at all back then, but as an upper classman, he treated me with respect, and we ran together in Xcountry. He also attended the same Church as my family so I’d see him there time to time.

As he graduated, we completely lost track of each other. Then facebook happened way back in 2011. And by chance we hooked up. I actually stumbled onto his facebook page, thinking he was somebody completely different.

Interestingly enough, He became a Dr. of Oncology. Gained some fame and owned his own clinic.

He and I hang out at the Euro bike night in downtown Lincoln monthly with some other “upper classmen”.

Retired Dr. Mark Hutchins. Very proud to know him, and he claims me as a friend. .... who knew.

Out of the blue a few weeks ago,  when I had just finished working out, Mark called, from a very noisy environment. “you want to ride in my brothers old MG?”

I knew about this vehicle but had never seen it. .... 1949 MG TD.   “yes sir I do!″

“I’ll be there in 5 minutes....”        huh? what? .... wait? 

“Mark, I need to get dressed and stuff, just got done working out”...     “ok, just hurry”

And Mark shows up in this beauty that you see in the pictures.(I have several wonderful videos, that at this moment I can’t figure out how to load them on here) 

back ground Story goes.... Mark’s Brother Joel, who lives in Ponca, just added onto his shop. He didn’t want 2 of his cars to be in jeopardy of construction, so Mark kept them at his place. 

Shop is done, so we were delivering the first of 2 cars. 

It was about 2.5 hour ride, as the little beast felt the most comfortable between 50-60 mph.

What a gas it was. Top was down, cool morning with no sun..... and driving thru the curves north and west of Omaha, all in fall colors.

I know they aren’t a ford, but I’ve always thought these were a very unique and cool looking animal. Elegant even. Never thought in my life time I’d ever get the opportunity to ride in one.  

I most likely looked like a circus bear in a clown car, as my head was way over the top of the windshield.... but I didn’t care. The wind hit me square in the middle of my forehead. Had to ride without a hat (very rare occasion). I could lean over the door edge and touch the ground. 

The actual ride was very comfortable....  Road nice even with leaf springs at all 4 corners. I was good in the seat. And it wasn’t as loud as I thought it would be. But most definitely had that European sound to it. I was no worse for wear on arrival at his brothers. 

Lots of shiny bits (like my nephew Devin likes to say). The bright red. Factory knock off wire wheels. All wood dash..  Tons of beautiful chrome scattered about in full trim. Fender mounted mirrors. Inline 4 cylinder, dual carbs, and a whopping 54HP. Yes downshifting hills is required. First and second gear not synchro’d.

His brother Joel has owned this car for at least 30 years from what I understood, and he hasn’t been shy about traveling with it. Its been driven all over the country. 

Thanx Mark... that was a blast I’ll never forget.

[sheliesshattered]

The first two pieces of the underdress have been traced onto the black silk organza!

I mentioned in my last post that I’d had a falling-asleep thought about how I might able to better keep the very wiggly organza on grain while tracing the pieces, and here it is. I put down a layer of tightly-woven white cotton muslin (the same stuff I used for my mock-up -- thankfully I ended up with more than I needed, even after recutting all four front panels during the course of the fitting). The muslin gives something for the organza to grab onto just a bit, making it a little less slippery than when it’s just against either the cutting mat or the tabletop. It also provides a really fantastic contrast with the sheer black fabric, which makes it way easier to get all the warp and weft grainlines lined up neat and square. 

It takes several minutes of smoothing and adjusting to get everything looking right, but then the cotton held the silk nice and stable while I put my pattern pieces (side panel on the right, sleeve on the left, looking slightly narrower at the top than it actually is, because of the angle I took the picture at) onto the fabric, lined up all the grainline markings, weighted them down with my pattern weights, and traced around all the edges with a fine-tip chalk mechanical pencil.

Having already tried tracing one piece without the help of the cotton, I can say that it’s much easier this way -- but I also found out just how easily the chalk lines wipe off the fabric, when I decided to scrap that first round of tracing. The plan from here is to staystitch in the seam allowance before I cut everything out, just to help keep the silk from fraying during construction. My intention had been to trace out everything and then run them through the sewing machine one after another. 

But now I’m worried that the chalk marks for these first two won’t survive all the shifting and smoothing and shaking the fabric around that’ll be needed for the other ten pieces still to be traced. Hmm. Trying to wrangle each piece through the sewing machine as I trace it miiight work, but it would also mean moving everything to set up the machine, then take it down to trace the next piece, rinse and repeat a dozen or so times. And most of the silk is rolled up on a big tube (left over from Christmas wrapping paper, saved specifically for this) to keep it from getting wrinkled after I ironed it. Which is working great, but might make getting the fabric under the sewing machine that much harder. Hmm. I suppose I could try it and see how it goes?

OTOH, I’m wondering if perhaps I should staystitch by hand, so I can do it without worrying about all the bother of the sewing machine. I need to take a break after tracing those two pieces (/spoonie problems) anyway, so maybe I’ll do a little research online while I rest up.

In other RRD project news, the itty bitty garnet beads I’ll be adding to the neckline trim arrived and they are soooo pretty and sparkly. There’s ~150 2mm beads on the strand I ordered, but looking at it I’m wondering if I’ll end up needing more. They’re from a local Etsy seller tho so they got here really fast, and if I do need more I can order them without having to wait long. The dragon claw charms I’m using for the decorative front lacing also arrived, and it looks like the grommets for the (non-decorative) back lacing are out for delivery today. 

I also ordered the wig, which should arrive pretty quick I think, and will give me something to focus on when I need a break from sewing. So that means my shopping list for this project is down to just the rings, earrings, and whatever flat beads/buttons/whatsit I end up putting at the end of the sleeves. But I’ve got a long way to go before I need to worry about any of those bits, so for now I’m going to try to focus on actually getting this thing assembled.

Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that the sleeve piece traced out here won’t actually be part of the underdress, since the sleeves lace on and the bare shoulder is a very noticeable design detail. Unlike the body of the dress, the sleeves will be getting an actual lining out of this organza fabric, mostly for strength, since the sleeve has to support grommets and trim and beads and little hooks and eyes to close it from the forearm to the wrist. The underdress will provide the body of the dress with a similar level of opacity as in the lined sleeve, while being free-standing to let the skirt of the red silk drape better. I’ll also be able to wash the underdress (this organza has already gone through the washing machine and everything!) whereas the overdress will only ever be hand-washed very carefully.

I also traced out a 3cm strip right along the very clean selvage edge of the organza fabric -- I’m going to keep all my underdress pieces outside of that 3cm edge strip, and then use that to bind and reinforce the seams of the red silk overdress. I use a 1cm seam allowance everywhere, so it’ll actually fold over and encase the red fabric’s seams, to provide them strength and keep them from fraying (I can’t explain it well not, but I’ll take pictures when we get to that point). It’s a narrow enough strip that it shouldn’t have any trouble going around curves, but being on-grain with the extra strong selvage edge will help strengthen the overdress fabric without changing the drape much.

Hokay. Off to refresh my memory on hand-sewn staystitching techniques. And maybe nap. Oof, I hadn’t expected it to take this much out of me.

[three--rings]

Electric Sanding Book Edges

For a long time I didn’t trim my book edges at all, because I’d tried using a box cutter and that sucked and I tried a chisel and that tore my book up and so I decided it’s fine, I’ll live with rough edges rather than imperfectly trimmed ones.

But then a fellow @renegadepublishing​ person at Havencon told me they used an electric sander and showed me the amazing results.  (Forgive me because I cannot remember your handle...)

I keep telling people about this so thought I’d make a post with all the info to point at.  So here is how I sand my edges. 

SAFETY WARNINGS:

Wear a mask while sanding to keep from inhaling paper dust. And you probably want to wear eye protection as well.  Keep your hands away from the sanding surface while in use (cause finger on electric sander doesn’t feel good I can attest.)  These pictures are taken indoors in a crafting space because it was raining but its best to do this in the open air due to dust, although the sander does capture a lot of it. 

After you’ve sewn your textblock and glued your spine (or before if you want to trim the foreedge before rounding), you need to clamp the textblock in place.  For this example I have already rounded the spine and glued it because I like the look of the uneven foreedge for antique style bindings (and also I forgot and went ahead and rounded it.)

So I’m just sanding top and bottom edges.  So I’m using a 12″ wooden hand clamp from the hardware store.  This is pretty much the perfect size for the top and bottom.  (I intend to modify this clamp into a better approximation of a finishing press but haven’t yet.)  But you can also just use two boards and some clamps, which works great. 

Clamp the text block as tightly as you can.  Here I have some spare book board on either side, but I ended up taking that out because the text block was slipping inside the boards and without the board it stayed in place better.  And since this textblock has waste papers on the outside I’m not worried about marking it. 

Here’s my sander.  You can see all the fine paper dust in the filter.  You will need an assortment of sandpaper grits to fit your model.  I recommend something around 100 grit, and something around 600 grit.  You can also do a third stage of 220 grit in the middle if you want but honestly I find it’s not that important and I’m lazy so I stopped doing that.

In case you don’t know sanders, lower number is rougher and will take off more material.  So you start with the low number paper and sand the edge until most of what you want to take off is gone and the edges are even. 

I have this narrow cardboard box (that a pillow came in) that I rest this clamp on that leaves room for the book.  If you’re using boards and clamps hopefully there’s room for your book to hang down or you’ll have to prop them up on bricks or something. 

After a pass with the rough paper, switch it out for the finer stuff.  The 600 grit is really just a final polish so if you have more to take off stick with the larger grit. 

And here’s the final result.  All my books have some imperfection in the surface as a result of uneven stitching or rounding, and because I haven’t ever tried to take off a huge amount of the edge by sanding.  These files I’m using right now weren’t made with a large margin for trimming.  But overall the level of professional polish goes up SO FAR by sanding.  It doesn’t look nearly as handmade now. 

[tobesoalive]

Josh Kiszka NSFW Alphabet (Smut Headcanons)

ok....so I've been wanting to do one of these for a while and I may have gotten a little carried away. This is by far the smuttiest thing I've ever written, please forgive me. let me know if you guys wanna see more stuff like this, maybe with the other boys? idk anyways enjoy!!

Warnings: Everything....

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Josh likes to stay inside you for a minute after he finishes, either burying his head in the crook of your neck or pressing his forehead to yours. Once you are both ready to part, he immediately goes to get you a glass of water and a warm washcloth to clean you up, making sure you’re doing okay. Sometimes one of you will suggest to clean off in the shower or soak in the bath for a little bit, and the entire time he’ll hold you close and press kisses to your temple, cooing words of praise and telling you how much he loves you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Josh loves his mouth, how it can give you passionate kisses and whisper praises, but also bring you to an orgasm so easily. He loves your hands, the feeling of them roaming the expanse of his skin, how they look wrapped around his cock, and the tingle he gets when you tug his hair and claw his back.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

There is nothing Josh loves more than being buried deep inside you when he cums. He loves the feeling of your walls clenching around him, loves to see his seed leak out of you when he’s pulled out, using his fingers to fuck it back into you. As far as your release goes, what he loves most is feeling you fall apart on his tongue, tasting your release turns him on more than anything.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Every once and a while the thought of you dominating him crosses Josh’s mind, specifically pegging. He had kept his longing a secret for the first year of your relationship but accidentally let it slip one night, but you informed him you’d try it out if he really wanted to. It became an activity you two revisit every couple of months.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

The man has some experience under his belt - I mean he is a famous musician - but nothing too crazy. He had about five or six partners before you, but most of his experience he gained with you. Both of you had vastly improved your game over the course of the relationship, and you knew each other’s bodies like they were your own.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Every position quite honestly, but he especially loves when you ride him. It allows him to gaze up at you and get the perfect view of his length going in and out of you, the sight often causing him to throw back his head and let out a throaty moan. Truly Josh loves any position, but especially the ones that allow him to see your face and the expressions you make. He still likes to have you on all fours every so often and also spoon you while lazily pumping in and out of you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It really depends on the day, but most of the time sex with Josh is light and playful. Giggling is a common occurrence from the both of you during the act, and you will catch Josh with a smile on his face quite often.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Josh prefers to keep it natural down there, only trimming every once in a while if things get really out of hand. He has a dark happy trail leading down from his belly button to a lighter patch of brown curls on his pubic bone that surrounds his length. In addition I think Joshua doesn’t really care what his partner decides to do for their grooming, actually I believe he finds it extremely hot if they keep it natural down there because he thinks you were made perfectly.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Most of the time he is extremely intimate, only being taken out of the moment if there’s a lot of other stuff on his mind, or if he is particularly stressed, but he is a very romantic and attentive partner for the most part.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Let’s be honest, Josh has a very high sex drive, and that can be a bit of a problem when he’s on tour or when you’re not around. He takes care of himself by thinking of you, porn isn’t really his thing, if he’s gonna have some sort of visual aid it is going to be photos/videos of you, his favorites being intimate polaroids he’s taken of you that he keeps hidden away.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Whooo boy, there are a lot of things this man is into. I’d love to go more into detail on each one of these, so maybe one day I’ll write a piece on these. To name a few, Josh is into hair pulling, light choking, period sex, squirting, mutual masturbation, praise, edging, domination, i really could go on forever.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Your shared bedroom is always the top choice, but you guys like to get creative, you’ve done it in the shower, bath, car, backyard, restaurant bathroom, empty field at night, secluded hiking trails, his childhood home, and when you guys are very impatient he’ll bend you over the kitchen counter or prop you up on the arm of the couch.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It doesn’t take much to turn this man on, he’s so insanely in love with you that everything you do gets him going. Sometimes on stage he’ll spot you in the crowd, seeing you dancing and singing every word, that’s something that really gets to him, and it takes everything within him to not run off stage and fuck you right then.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Josh wouldn’t wanna do anything that puts you in pain, he hates seeing you suffer and would never want to do anything that hurt you, no matter if it would feel good for him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

There is nothing more beautiful than the face Josh makes when you take him in your mouth. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, grinning with his perfect teeth and sticking just the tip of his tongue out. His moans and words of praise are angelic as well, and the way his soft eyes gaze at you as you swallow his release. As much as he loves your mouth, he prefers to have his on your core. God that man eats your pussy like it’s last meal. Lapping and sucking at your clit, alternating between dipping his fingers and tongue into your tight cunt. He could-and has- cum from just eating you out, it brings him just as much pleasure, and his mouth waters thinking about how good you taste.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s all of it. It depends on what mood you’re in but this man will make slow, passionate love to you in the morning, fuck you fast and rough in the evening and everything in between.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Josh doesn’t mind a good quickie every once in a while. If you have somewhere to be 10 minutes after he gets home from the studio, no problem. Man can make you cum in less than five minutes, and he does not hesitate to demonstrate.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yassss Joshy boy loves to take risks, as long as you’re comfortable. If you propose an idea and it intrigues him, you’ll be trying it within the next five minutes. That’s part of what makes your sex life with Josh so satisfying, you two aren’t afraid to switch things up.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Usually two is where Josh taps out, but sometimes you two decide to stay up all night smoking, talking, cuddling and fucking. Times like those he can go about 4 or 5 rounds. When you two are both home he fucks you at least twice throughout the day.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You own a few toys that you both use, together or alone. After he left for tour once Josh bought you a vibrator so you wouldn’t miss him too much. Sometimes he’d pull it out while fucking you, just to hold it on your clit. That usually ended with you making a big mess and Josh being extremely satisfied.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Josh likes to tease you a little bit, but he actually enjoys it more when you’re the one teasing him. He likes still being a little submissive.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Much like on stage, Josh is loud in the bedroom as well. Between his throaty moans and grunts, he also is constantly talking to you. He responds to your sounds by saying “Yeah, you like that?” and “tell me how good it feels” and so much other dirty talk because he’s a cocky little shit. He’s also big into praise, whether that be praising you or getting praise himself.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

If there’s one thing that makes Josh feel totally elated, it’s making you squirt. The first time he did it was totally unintentional, he was just eating you out like usual, but his fingers curved a certain way and you bursted. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and he became obsessed with making you do it over, and over, and over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

This man has a beautiful dick. It’s about 7 ½ - 8 inches long with some nice girth to it. It leans a little to the left and has a nice curve to it, and it has some veins that rub your walls deliciously. He used to be self conscious of his dick but you assured him it was perfect and it never failed to please you.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Have you seen how hyper this man is? You briefly mention something or even say the word “sex” in a sentence and his clothes are off.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Depends on the day, but for the most part he likes staying up for a little while to talk with his arms around you, eventually quietly thinking about how lucky he is before drifting off.

[shotorozu]

you like their hands

character(s) : shinsou hitoshi, kirishima eijirou, monoma neito (2/?)

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns, quirk left unmentioned

post type : headcanons + small scenario [fluff, the mildest of spice] not even nsfw

note(s) : i was gonna put denki in this but i had a hard time thinking about what kinda hands he’d have, so i’m putting him in the next post

»»————-　♡　————-««

shinsou hitoshi

his hands are big, and his fingers are quite thick.

really likes wearing rings and bracelets, but he usually doesn’t wear them when he’s working (i’d say that bc wearing jewelry while doing physical activity HURTS)

regarding texture, his hands were initially soft— but due to transferring in the hero course, they roughened up over time

he’ll use hand cream if you want, but he doesn’t go the extra mile. and his nails are trimmed at all times. painting his nails a black color would be great once in a while.

lol i forgot to mention nails in the last post

he notices right away that you like his hands when he catches you staring at them when he’s cracking his knuckles

like.. people have said that his hands are nice, but he doesn’t really say much about them bc they’re not you

scenario

a crack sound is briefly heard in the rather silent room. the scrolling on your phone halts, and your eyes follow the sound of the crack.

ah, he’s cracking his knuckles. you think to yourself, and you’re left just simply admiring the way he applies pressure on a knuckle. who knew that his rather— large hand would look appealing, even while cracking his knuckles.

you snap out of your observation, but instead of just simply going back to whatever you were doing, you’re met with lilac eyes. “you were staring again.”

your cheeks heat up, and you opt to just turn your head to the opposite direction. “sorry,” you apologize. however— that’s not what hitoshi was looking for apparantly.

“if you like my hands alot,” he scoots next to you, hands sliding up and down your arms— his firm grip practically making the pre existing butterflies in your stomach act up again. “then you should’ve said so, kitty.”

is he conscious of his actions? hm. you could say that

he’ll purposely play with his capture tool right in front of you— the material wrapping around his hand. and he can only laugh when you immediately get absorbed into it

the back of his hand will brush against your cheek. then, when he comes in to kiss you, he’ll cup your cheek— kissing you with his other hand resting at your nape

under the table, his hand will start to slide against yours, interlocking hands with you. he’ll act like nothing is happening, but on the inside— he’s taking in your reaction

a little spicy, but when he wants you to look at him— he’ll do that thing where his thumb brushed against your bottom lip, as it almost dips right into your mouth

if he feels a little extra, his hand will also be tugging on your hair (if you’re fine with that. otherwise, he’s sticking to the one above)

oh and he also does that thing where he rests his hand on your neck, thick fingers squeezing your throat lightly.

overall— THIS MAN omg, he’ll entertain your interest in his hand nicely, just for you. and every single thing he does is memorable

kirishima eijirou

his hands are quite normal regarding size, they are almost always veiny, a lot more than bakugou’s actually. i think at some point he was concerned about them

his hands are rather flushed in color, but that’s because of his quirk. his fingers have a few tiny scars here and there,

he occasionally has pen marks on his wrists due to bad penmanship, and his nails.. don’t look the best, but they’re not the worst it’s bc of his quirk

the palms of his hands are ridden with callouses. but he wears them with pride because it’s the pure evidence of his hard work with his training.

but he starts to get worried about them when he goes to hold your hand.

you always had a thing for kirishima’s hands, but you just never had the chance to tell him that. i guess asking you did it for him

scenario

did you even realize how hard you were staring at his hands right now? it happened every single time he enlaced his arms around you, his hands resting at the sides of your arms

at first, he thought it might’ve been because his hands are too rough, or you might’ve been in discomfort— because maybe, just maybe, he accidentally activated his quirk?

the fact that he can’t exactly tell what it is worried him, maybe he should just ask you.

but his worry washed off when you told him upfront that you ‘liked his hands’

“wait so.. you’re staring at my hands because you like them?” kirishima wants to confirm your words, and— so casually, by the way— nod in agreement.

tracing the veins on his hands, you elaborate “your hands are really nice, i can tell how hard you must’ve worked.” pressing your smaller hand against his, you smile.

eijirou takes a moment to process it, but it’s surprisingly quick. “oh t-thanks!” he sheepishly took the compliment, a small blush sporting on his cheeks. “i’m glad it wasn’t because you thought they were weird.”

kirishima unintentionally feeds your interest with his hands. like sometimes.. he’s just not aware of it, but yes— he is feeding your interest well

will always make you compare hand sizes with him, chuckling softly at the dazed look on your face when your palms touch

if you allow him, he’ll fix your hair for you. doesn’t matter what hair type you have, he’ll do LOTS of research to know how to style it

those hands are magical

if you get a papercut, or a wound from cooking— he’ll patch you up, then he’ll press a kiss on the bandaid.

he’ll do this thing where he’ll squeeze your sides when you pull in for a hug. but if you’re not okay with that, he’ll opt to just rubbing your back with his hand— rocking you softly as he hugs you

a little spicy, but his hands do wander a lot. you might need to even hold them in place to make sure they don’t go too wild

in addition to that, he’ll just SLIGHTLY, activate his quirk to make sure you’re conscious of his touch. his finger tips gliding against your back, sending shivers down your spine.

but of course, he’s careful. he doesn’t activate it to the point it causes scratch marks, nor will his actions draw blood. he doesn’t wanna do that

in short— kirishima’s a little clueless at first. he wouldn’t really tease you in public, but he’s surprisingly attentive to your interest.

monoma neito

his hands are on the tipping edge of slightly above average. he doesn’t have a lot of veins on his hands, but they do pop out depending on what quirk he’s using

monoma’s hands are pretty spotless of any scars (from cuts, abrasions, etc.) because he gets REALLY annoyed with wounds pretty easily

to the point he’d want to attend to the wound immediately, he doesn’t let them sit— it’s just a personal preference

his nails are at the perfect length. not too long and not too short to the point it hurts, you don’t know how he does it.

wears watches on his wrists, and not the digital type— he sorta acts like he can read it easily, but it takes him a few seconds to even get to know the time

you know this because kendo snitched on him and told you LOL

you secretly hate yourself for this, but you really like his hands because of how he takes care of them. you’d never tell monoma even though you’re dating him

scenario

you’re unsure of yourself on how your boyfriend— monoma, found out about your fascination with his hands. it was supposed to be a secret for the rest of your life, and you only remember talking about it once out loud

which you assumed was a close call, considering that you thought he didn’t hear it at all— but he did.

“so i heard you like my hands, huh Y/N?” monoma’s teasing tone does not aid the situation. your cheeks heat up with embarassment, and you can’t get yourself to answer his question— without sounding like a fool anyway.

you fake annoyance, “where’d that come from?” you ask, and monoma doesn’t seem to want to switch the topic

“i’m asking you a question, dear Y/N— i heard you like my hands,” his tone would’ve sounded condescending to any other person, but you can tell that he’s either genuinely curious

or just teasing you, because that’s how he is.

to aid his question, he brushes his fingers along your neck— near your pulse. you jolt, stunned by the sudden action— heart beating rapidly against your chest.

“see,” monoma presses his hand against your chest, where your heart is palpitating, grinning in a way that’s teasing you “it’s true, isn’t it? sweet Y/N has a thing for my hands, hm?”

you furrow your eyebrows, and flick his forehead— and he hisses in reaction, “fine then, i do like your hands.” you finally give in, admitting final defeat.

ever since then, you haven’t heard the end of it

definitely that person that’ll just randomly bring it up to you, no matter what hour of the day it is.

“oh Y/N, you were totally fawning over my hands earlier—”

“i will castrate you.”

you know he means well most of the time, but sometimes he just loves teasing the heck out of you.

but that doesn’t mean he neglects your obvious interest in his hands.

he’ll compliment you, he’s a snarky person in general— but to you, he’s totally smooth with it.

slides his hand from your forearm to your hands, only to bring them up to his lips, pressing a kiss against your hand

squeezes your hand everytime he sees you, it’s kind of a nonverbal greeting at this point

similar to kirishima, he likes comparing hand sizes— teasing you about the size difference (even if it’s not even a big of a difference, he’ll take that chance.)

does this thing where he rubs his thumb against his palm. does it a lot when he’s concentrated about something, or just out of the blue

a little spicy, but he’ll make you tell him what you like about his hands, and what you like about the things he does with those hands of his. if that makes sense

he wants all of the details, doesn’t care if it’s mundane, or things he does when he’s feeling a certain way.

he wants to know, because as soon as you’re done with your spewl, he’ll do exactly what you like, teasing you while he’s at it. and so he can start incorporating those habits whenever he’s around you.

totally someone that’ll make you suck on those fingers. oh, but he’ll purposely get some dessert on them— asking you to suck them off

“good grief, i got some dessert on my fingers again. Y/N, come suck them off”

sometimes he’s serious, sometimes he’s just teasing.

overall— it’s pretty adventurous. he starts to act on it as soon as the revelation is revealed to him.

but i’d say he does just fine.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei. i only own the writing, and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, translate, repost, or use my work for audio readings without my consent :))

[generallybrontidefeelings]

Stressed

Rating: NC-17

A/N: Brought to you by this post. I'm tired and sleepy and don't want to make any decisions. The degree is an actual MS you can get from American University in DC. U of Tennessee’s anthropology dept. hosts what’s called a body farm. It's a lab for forensic pathology students. Do NOT I repeat DO NOT look up pictures.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader, Marcus Pike x you

Summary: Marcus Pike is an associate faculty member at your forensics college. You ask him to be your second reader for your thesis, even though you have a huge crush on him. Nothing is better than something, right? By the time you pass your exam, you're so pent up you could scream.

Warnings: cadaver talk, pining, age difference, some power dynamics?, annoying college talk, sex, dirty talk, a God awful metaphor curtesy of Blanche Devereaux, 39

“Take a deep breath.”

You huff in a small shallow breath. Then let it out, and take in a longer, fuller one.

“Now let it out.” You let your cheeks puff up as cool air streams past your lips. “You’ve made huge improvements, and you’ve studied hard. The paper exam will be easy, and the oral will be a cinch.”

You gulp. “I know. It’s just...pre-show jitters, you know?”

He gives you a full smile, and flips the document shut. You hand him the binder clip, accidentally brushing his fingers when you do.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

You swallow, fiddling with your paper edge. God you feel like a twelve year old. You're fucking twenty-seven and about to apply for the FBI, why are you such a sap? He’s not available. Not even remotely. He will be gone in a year, back to the Bureau. There is no reason to nurse a crush. And you curse yourself for asking a man you’re attracted to - you, idiot, idiot! - to spend more time with you. Even if it is reading your dull chapter.

"No, I have everything I need, thanks."

"Then scoot. I have to read like...thirty pages of Tanner's chapter before he gets here."

You pull your bag to your shoulder. "you're not going to get that far," you scoff. The tensing in your shoulders relaxes a little when you stand to leave.

"We'll see," he says. He opens the door of his office for you. You glance back once more, and he's still in the doorway watching you go. "See you tomorrow."

"See you." Your mind swirls back and forth between thoughts of Mr. Pike, your thesis, Pike, your oral defence, your paper exam in two days, Marcus crossing his ankles in his reading chair. And you walk. Straight ahead, not looking back. But when you get to the door handle you turn around. And he's still there. Watching.

You've never been so stressed in your life.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

You met Marcus Pike on a muggy afternoon in August deep in the heart of Tennessee. The air warped off the pavement as you drove together to the School of Anthropology to visit your cadaver lying relaxed and prostrate in the middle of a fenced field. The air is already warm, then lightning flashes in the clouds to your right, and plopping rain drops scatter across the lawn, and dampens A-0017’s second hand suit. His raisinette hands lie against the grass almost like he’s communing with the earth. You watched the water hit his face, and permanently closed eyelids, and shaved head.

You had no business being so fidgety while kneeling next to a cadaver. Agent Marcus Pike and the facility director chat a couple feet away, leaving you to your business with A-0017. Pike had never been to the school’s mysterious forensics lab, even though he had plenty of time to when he was earning his own masters. That’s what he said in his email to you three weeks earlier. He’d heard a first-year student was running a fibrous material experiment and asked to tag along. And you said yes. Why not? He was faculty. It wasn’t unheard of. His email was so polite too, letting you know if you weren’t comfortable he understood. Pike. The name rattled a memory somewhere. So you emailed him back, and the next morning he sent you his itinerary: he would meet you in Tennessee. He’d even pay for the rental car.

You sent your advisor a quick text to ask if he was ‘crazy.’ She’d sent back the laughing emoji. No, she said, Marcus Pike isn’t a crazy. You’ll like him.

You did like him. He was waiting for you at the Hertz desk, and heat licked up your skin when you realized - he was striking. He was the type of man you’d make eyes at in a bar without any hope of even getting a number. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and he had a softness brought on by a light scruff that didn’t hide his dimples. You barely registered that he was apologizing for not getting to introduce himself before flying out, but promised he was who he said he was. Even pulled out his credentials.

“Bureau?” you said to his badge. “I thought you were an associate professor?” You want to smack yourself.

Oh, “I am,” he replied. He dug in his wallet and pulled out a campus ID that matched yours. “I’m taking an interim year. I thought teaching would be a nice way to ease into DC life.”

Now he was here, sweating under the storm clouds while watching you unbutton A-0017’s shirt, and half listening to the director tell him all about how they kept the lawn looking green despite, ahem, fluids. You sternly told A-0017 to be on their best behavior while you pulled their shirt back to examine some fiber swatches stapled to his rubbery chest.

On the flight back Pike asked you all about your thesis plans. You stuttered as you began. He waited, patient. You were writing on how the FBI could contribute to cultural repatriation efforts internationally by returning art pieces. Do you know what it could do to boost scholarly opportunities? The doors it could open! Why put it in cold storage when it could revitalize movements? Art breathes, after all. You were exhausted by the time the plane landed. Both from answering questions, and from keeping a steadily building tension under wraps. You hoped he didn’t notice how you crossed your legs.

“I’d love to read it.” He handed your backpack down from the overhead bin.

“Maybe you should be my second reader.” You got serious when his face perked up. “I still need one.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

That was nine months ago.

Your exams are in a week, and instead of thinking about preparing, all you can think of is that once everything is turned in, you probably won’t see Marcus again. He’s been your anchor these last months, and you’ve gotten used to his solid presence and encouraging platitudes. You cup your hot cheeks because it’s a dirty thought.

He lets you work in his office for a couple hours a week every week. The crammed little space is tight quarters, but he makes room for your laptop anyway. Sometimes you worked together heads bent for full time. Sometimes he read pages from your thesis, and you help him grade some papers from his first-year art history course. And sometimes you drink three pm coffee together and don’t work at all. It’s your favorite time of the week. The glow his praise gives you is embarrassing. And he’s an easy companion - nope, colleague. Your heart beats and your mouth waters every time you’re fifteen feet from his office door. The cold door knob jolts you took. You harbor a secret. Keep it warm in your belly. It swirls hungrily deep in you.

But now it’s a problem. You’re so distracted. Every time you leave his office, you’re tense from want. Your body is already over-caffeinated and achy from sitting in hard library chairs so long. But you keep going. Every time an anxious heat lights up the alarms in your head your instinct is to ask him what to do. You have to rest your hands in your head and remind yourself: he isn’t your babysitter, he’s a grown man who doesn’t have boundless time to tell you what to do. You have to figure it out yourself. Even if you really just want him to tell you what this or that section needs, is the title here misleading, is it lunch time, do you think the tone here is condescending?

What do you think? What do you want it to look like?

You think you want to grab his dumb button down collars and bite his lip. You want it to look flushed and tousled and desperate. You want to ride him in his reading chair with the door locked. It just isn’t fair.

The night before your first exam you take z-quil, drink lavender tea, and read a chapter of your favorite book to relax. Your phone buzzes at nine. It’s Marcus: good luck! You’re going to do great! Well. Better take some more Z-quill now that your heart is palpitating.

You pass both tests in excellent standing - MS in International Relations: complete. Pike attends the oral exam. Your skin goes hot when he smiles at you when the committee declares you exceed expectations. He invites you for a celebratory drink in the next couple days, which means you have two days to sternly wrangle your crush back into the dirty corner she came from.

You fail miserably.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

“Look,” he says, setting his beer down on the glass bar counter. “I know it’s not my business, but you still look stressed out. Are your grades bothering you?”

The rim of your gin and tonic is wet with condensation from where your finger circles it. “No, they’re great.”

He bumps your shoulder with his. “Then what’s the damage? You’re jumpier than a…” he trails off thinking a good metaphor. He squints at you a little.

“A virgin at a prison rodeo?” you supply. He inhales sharply, eyes wide. “You can laugh.”

“I didn’t know you watched ‘The Golden Girls,” he says. His tone is admiring. “I was going to say jumpier than a graduate student giving their defense.” You purse your lips when he raises his eyebrows at you. “Can I help at all?”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he takes another sip of his beer. The soft orange lights in the bar spill around his jaw and throat, they flicker in his irises. His face in three quarter profile is august. You’re utterly exhausted from the polite ‘student mentor’ dance you’ve had to do for months while keeping your desire at bay. And more than that, you didn’t want to answer. You wanted to show him and let him decide. The sultry washboard and piano music give you that last boost.

You make sure he’s watching you, then you slowly reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist.

Then you wait.

Marcus pauses from lifting his beer bottle, eyes glued to your hand on his wrist. It’s petite against him. He stares at your baby blue fingernails pairing beautifully with his Stirling watch - and he feels himself harden.

All the skin on your body stands at attention when he meets your eyes. Everything in them tells you he wants you just as bad. There’s a hesitant curve above his eyebrow though. You get it. You were his student - he’s such a sweet man he wouldn’t even dream of using a power dynamic like that to get laid. Your breath comes in short heaves.

“The semester ended thirty-six minutes ago,” you say over the music. He takes a deep breath. You aren’t his student anymore. Not according to the school, anyway.

You want him to decide. If he doesn’t, you’ll go home and fall apart under your fingertips thinking about how hot it would have been to lift your dress and sit on his cock while wearing your thigh highs.

“Do you want to leave?” You nod, resisting the urge to bite your lip.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Marcus’s apartment is homey. Streetlights flood the floor of the living room through the street facing windows. You turn this way and that to inspect the dark areas that look like bookshelves while he hangs up your coat. You squeeze your hands at your sides, because this is happening. You’re in his house. The hardwood floor is cold under your stocking feet.

You jump when he puts his hands on your shoulders from behind you, holding you a mere inch from his body. You bite your lip when his nose bumps into the back of your head.

“Are you sure about this?”

“You already asked me that,” you reply, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. You want so badly to tell him to tell you what to do. That you don’t want to make any decisions. Brain is worn out. That you want to please him, and not think. Oh, to be a freshmen simply sponging up information.

“I know,” he slides his hands to your biceps and turns you around. “I can check in again, can’t I? He cups your face when you nod. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please,” you have to stop yourself from saying something incriminating, like mister Pike, or sir, or professor.

You clutch the front of his button down to anchor yourself when his lips brush yours. His mouth is soft. It coaxes you to open so he can dive into you, his tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you respond by pressing into him. You stay pliant under him, letting him lead. Your legs feel on the verge of collapse when you break away. You can’t stand it anymore.

“I want to suck your cock.”

Both of you freeze. For a second you wonder if you’ve given him a heart attack. But you watched his thighs on the car ride back and couldn’t stop thinking about kneeling between them. Your mouth waters. Marcus can’t breathe. He’s straining against his zipper. After your declaration he wants it too.

“Okay, honey,” he breathes. He brushes your ear with his thumb. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do that.”

He tries to draw you backward toward his room where he can turn on a lamp and properly pay tribute to your body, but you pull him back. You tug him to his mid-century armchair - he has the twin to it in his office. His mouth goes dry. You have to know. He looks into your face, and from the way you’ve averted your eyes, you know.

“Please?” you say. It sounds like a sob.

From this close you can smell the vanilla and bergamot of his soap. He sits, waiting for you. When you don’t move he holds his hand out for you to take.

“Come here, honey,” he draws you close. The top of your dress swings a little and he groans when he sees the break of your dress to what he thought were tights. Marcus studies your face in the second hand street light - your mouth parted, your eyes blown wide. Your hand in his is hot. “Hey, if this is overwhelming, or not what you want-”

“It is,” you correct him.

“Tell me what’s wrong then,” he requests. You feel pained. If you don’t say it now you never will.

“Tell me what to do.” Your head aches from the stress of carrying it for so long. “I’ve had to make my own decisions for months, and I don’t want to anymore. Just - for five minutes-” you bring your hands to your cheeks and press them against your hot skin. You watch as he realizes what you want. He nods in slow motion.

“Okay,” he says. “Kneel for me.” He gets even harder when you sink to your knees. Your hands rest in your lap. Waiting. He can’t believe this is happening. Thank goodness he’s going back to the Bureau in three months. He couldn’t face the other faculty - fuck, your advisor - after this. Leaning forward he cups your chin and kisses you. You squeeze your thighs together. He kisses your ear and says lowly, “take my cock out, honey. I want you to suck me off.”

When you take him in your mouth as far as you can, you look into his face. His mouth has fallen open. His ears have turned red from flushing. It’s indescribable. It makes your mouth water further around his hard length. It’s heavy on your tongue. You move up and down his shaft leisurely, trying to savor it. Letting saliva run down onto his skin as your tongue works the spongy head. You reach up to work the base with your hand when he tells you ‘no’.

“Just your mouth.” Fuck. You moan around him as a ripple pulls from deep in your core. The vibrations of you moaning make him jolt and heave. For a few moments he apologies while you breathe deeply, then resume. You take a mouthful of him. It’s feasting. It’s mindless.

His fingers brush the side of your face, and tenderly cups the back of your head. You want to make him understand this is what you want. So you slide down as far as you can comfortably, and wait. Swallowing thickly around his length

“Fuck, honey,” he groans. He gets it, taking both hands and moving your head the pace he wants. You can tell he hasn’t been asked for this often. Maybe ever. You close your eyes and just feel. His cock filling your mouth. Aches forming around your jaw. Tears leaking out of your eyes from your concentration. Your pussy wetting through your underwear. Marcus pulling your hair. You swallow hard, then he stops. And pushes you off.

You whine in protest.

“I hear you, honey,” he says softly. His voice is hoarse. “Another time. I want you to unwind right now.” Your pussy clenches.

He takes you back to his bedroom and helps you undress. He lifts your dress over your head, and kneels to help you out of your thigh highs. One day, if you’ll let him, he’ll fuck you with them on, but he likes to see all of a woman the first time he does anything to her. He kisses the bit of skin above the waistband of your panties before standing to kiss your lips. Your help him push them down your hips until they fall to your ankles. The soft gasp he lets out at the sight of your underwear and bare body is nothing short of gluttonous.

“Lay down.”

He strips while you watch. He does it without taking his eyes off of you. There’s hunger in them. This man has an appetite, you know it. The fabric rustles pleasantly between the sound of both of you breathing. Far away, ambulance sirens blare in another neighborhood, but here in his apartment the wet sound of cars passing in the rainy street are the closest accompaniment.

“I want to touch you here,” he tells you, palming your sex and making you squeak. It’s so forward.

“Do it,” you breathe, and part your legs further for him. He leans in and kisses your temple, murmuring ‘good girl’ and you swear you could black out.

You’re already so wet when his fingers part your folds to greet the new territory. “Did sucking my cock get you wet?” He sounds amazed. He tastes one fingertip before putting it back to tease your folds. “I wonder how wet you would be just holding it in your mouth while you read.”

“Oh-” a ripple works down your spine. He smirks. The tip of his finger brushes just inside your lips to tease your entrance.

“I’m going to put my fingers in you. You,” he pauses to kiss your cheek, “relax. You earned it.” He rubs his nose up and down yours, and you nudge him back just as he slips one long finger into you. You’re glad he’s being sweet like this. It’s the perfect blend of firmness and care. You want him to dominate you one someday, maybe, but right here and now, the combination of his low voice and steady fingers is ideal. Marcus kisses your cheek and mouth as he works his finger in and out of you. It’s thick and reaches further than you ever could. You spread your legs even further to tell him, more.

Without removing his hand he moves down your body to lick your clit. He sucks and flicks it as he coaxes more wetness out of your leaking cunt. Carefully he pulls the finger out and presses his wet hand to the inside of your thigh to keep you open. He laps into you, covering the muscles with lubricant because you’re going to need it. You see his face just as he decides you’re ready; it’s contemplative, like he’s concentrating. Then he slides two fingers deep into you.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so fucking good,” your voice crescendos. You reach for his shoulder as he comes up to lie beside you. His skin is warm under your palm. You buck your hips looking for something else, seeking, wanting-

“Stay still.” You still immediately. “Just feel it, baby. I want you to be ready for me.” You know what he means. His cock is thick and smearing against your hip. He was big in your mouth, he’s going to be big while pushing into you. His fingers keep moving while he kisses the tips of your nipples. When he takes one between his teeth and tugs you break. Your mouth opens, and your legs clamp reflexively around his wrist. Your pussy gushes around his fingers - you can feel it. You can feel how his movements change from a drag as a slide. He keeps pumping. He doesn’t give up until he’s sure you’ve felt every aftershock. He’d love to take his time and work a third in one day - if he can - but tonight, he wants to move on. After you swallowed his cock in his sitting room chair he’s been thinking of rewarding you.

You feel him slip his fingers out, and roll away to the nightstand. He looks back at you, and his eyes soften a little before he asks, “do you want me to use a condom?”

“No,” you say and reach for his bicep to pull him back toward you. He comes willingly. “I have an IUD. And I’m clean.” He smiles, flinging the packet over his shoulder. It makes you giggle, but it sounds hysterical to your ears. You watch him reach down and pump his cock with the hand that was just inside you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“Look at me,” he orders. Your eyes snap open. Marcus crashes his lips on yours. The hand not dripping from your cunt cups the back of your head. “I want to see your eyes while I fuck you.”

His blunt head breaks into you, you lose all thought. He sinks further in, until you’re squirming on his length because he’s stretching you. You suck air in and will your body will stay still like he suggested for his fingers. You look into Marcus’s eyes the whole time, trying to tell him how good he feels. You can’t make the words leave your throat. He pulls your head to him, kisses your mouth until you compose yourself and lie still. Then he gets to work. The breadth of him stills you anew. For the first time in months you fully relax, hardly making a sound as he thrusts steadily. You stare into Marcus’s eyes while your mouth falls open as he slides into you, and listen to the wet sounds of your pussy and the bed frame creaking.

Then he starts talking.

“Do you know how good you look in those blue trousers? I want to grab your ass every time you wear them,” he rumbles. His pace picks up a hair, and he feels harder in you somehow. He drops to his forearm. “I love watching it when you walk out of my office.” You knew it. “And that damn cardigan you never wear a shirt under? Those buttons slip right open, don’t they?” He punctuates it with a deep thrust that makes you squeak. “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Wear it over for dinner. I’ll bite your tits through it.”

He fucks into you harder, sending shivers up your spine with every thrust. It moves you up the bed until you have to reach a hand up and press back against the headboard. You clutch him with the other, looping around his shoulder to feel the muscles in his arms pull and tug as he moves in you, working you up to another release Soon enough, the coil in your belly tightens and he reaches to worry your clit with deft fingers. His eyes never leave you. You think this man could make the hardest fuck feel like making love.

“I need more,” you tell him. You’re too embarrassed to ask for what you want. A tear leaks out of your eye because his thickness is so good, but you want something else too. You always underestimate him. He grins because he knows - he’s a detective. He figured it out. He leans down to rest his forehead on your temple.

“You’re doing so well,” he says. You arch up into him, your breasts brush his chest. “Your wet pussy is so sweet. It’s taking me so well. Are you gonna be respectful? Gonna listen?” You have to hold your breath as your hips tense. “Be good and come on my cock.” Oh fuck. “Say it.”

Your voice is wet with joy. “Yes, sir.”

“Such a good girl.”

Sparks lick up your back and through your cunt, forcing Marcus deeper into when you lift your lips. He slows to let you enjoy all your release. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips. Then when he hears your content sigh, he buries his face in your neck and chases his own release. He comes with an accompanying rumble from deep in his chest. You moan in return and lift your lips to catch him as he slumps, barely holding his weight off of you.

Water runs in the washroom as you tug the sheets back. The light clicks off, and Marcus appears with a washcloth. His dimple appears when you lean back and let him clean your tender flesh. He sits on the edge of the bed next to your hips, running his knuckles on the soft side of your breast.

“Stay the night,” says. “I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“Hm,” you say, mock contemplative. You run your fingers down his chest. He preens under the affection. “I will. I feel really good.” Your cheeks tingle at the admission. He smiles wide and bright.

He comes back from putting the cloth in the hamper. You roll so he can run his hands the length of your side

“Thank you,” you murmur. He lifts his face from where he’s been peppering your waist with kisses. His brow is furrowed in amused confusion. “For being good to me. For caring about what happened to me.” You’ll tell him the horror stories your friends have from their college another time.

He sighs and cups your cheek. “I like doing it. You’re bright. Supporting you is a privilege. Especially when I know that brain is going to put us all to shame one day.” You could cry.

“I’ve liked you since the body farm,” you admit. He wrinkles his nose. “I know. Not very romantic.”

“I liked you since you thought my campus ID was more official than my FBI badge.”

“I didn’t think that!”

“Get some sleep,” he says. A wicked glint comes to his eye. “I am going to wear you out before lunch.” You wiggle to get comfortable in the sheets and he curls over your back to hold you to his chest.

Orange light peeks through the gap in his blackout drapes. You eye him over your shoulder then settle into the pillow. All the tension in your shoulders is gone.

part 2

[clubatsumu]

first love, late spring

oikawa tooru x reader 

21.6k

Oikawa Tooru’s eyes are still the same shade of honey brown, and you still fall in love the way you used to: hard, plummeting, like a burning comet making its way across the night sky.

ao3 | playlist 

You fell in love in the late spring of 2011.

There was a festival, you remember faintly, in Mikamine Park. You remember taking the train along the Namboku Line to see it. There was a skittish feeling in your bones you desperately tried to quell as you clutched the straps of your backpack with sweaty hands. You remember your hands vividly. Cold fingertips, clammy palms, knuckles wrought at the pressure of being clenched. Ears hot and heart racing, a smile tugging at your lips and refusing to stop.

You fell in love that day. You fell in love with petals that were soft to touch, fickle as they landed on your nose; you fell in love with the season, how it never lingered; and you fell in love with a boy who you wished would.

“I see something, dear. Tell me, is your heart open for love?”

You blink. The uranaishi is a middle-aged woman who holds her hair back in a scarf, keeping from the chill of her street-side stall with a leather jacket with fur trimmed linings. She takes the dice in her wrinkled hands. A cold breeze whips by. The woman moves her maneki-neko with hostility, holding down cards that are threatening to fly away. She goes back to flipping the dice and lining them up in front of you like nothing happened.

You pout, “Am I not supposed to be the one asking you that, obaa-san?”

“Insolent,” she whispers. You’ve learned that she is incapable of speaking without venom, but she is kind nonetheless. She wipes the mirth off her mouth. “Yes, it’s open. If you want it to be.”

The hanging trimmings rattle around her stall as the air whips relentlessly. You shiver closer to the table, digging a faded gold button from the pocket of your bag. “Funny. I found this under my bed this morning.”

She raises brow. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“A second button,” you announce defensively, touching its edges with a light finger, “from my first love. Fate must be working in my favor.”

“Are you insulting me?”

Fate works in no one’s favor. You stifle a laugh, tucking it back in your pocket. “Sorry. But I did find it on the floor this morning. It must have rolled out of the boxes. I haven’t seen it in about ten years.”

“The boy must have given you his button because you’re the only one who asked for it.”

“I’d have you know fifteen other girls asked for his button. This” –you lift it for emphasis– “is the war of love won.”

The old woman is going to go on a spiel, you guess. You guess right.

“I’ve told you this before. You can never place an accurate chronology on things that are as fickle as love and happiness.” She harps on, “Is your first love truly your first, or were you simply a foal exhilarated by its first run, thinking that was the fastest the world could ever spin?”

It’s her job to sound wizened, the same way it’s your job to resist with childish petulance. “I wasn’t a – it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a sham.”

He wasn’t. He wasn’t at that time, and he still isn’t now, thinking about it. He was wishing on fallen eyelashes, doodling under desks, passing paper messages around the seating arrangement. If you try to remember him, the first thing that comes to mind is the way your neck craned back in class – the way you couldn’t stop it from craning back just to see him smile and mouth pay attention. The afternoon sun when summer was ready to begin but school wasn’t quite finished yet. He was your crevices given, not taken, offered freely like a bird would give itself to gravity for the first time – how does it feel like to fall?

Like this, he said before he pressed his lips on yours, chapped and smelling faintly of vanilla. Yours must have tasted like strawberry. He had told you once, weeks before your first kiss, that he liked them. You bought strawberry chapstick that very same afternoon.

First love is almost never love, but you’re too fond of yours that you refuse to think about it differently.

“I saw him on television last year. He seems to be doing well, making a name for himself and everything. I’m proud of him.”

“But the question is,” she presses on, “if your heart is open for love. Not about whether your high school crush appeared on television.”

You shrug. “You said it was if I wanted it to be. And he was not my crush, he was my boyfriend.”

She ignores you like she always does. Old eyes peer at you, grey irises that fail to hide how her vision is getting cloudy. “You have to be open. Open to receive. Now go. I have other clients and you’re hogging my time.”

.

“A sports team is coming in from Argentina.”

“Oh?” you hum, looking up from your desk, paper upon paper full of highlights and footnotes written in the margins. “Do you want me to take it?”

An indie film is playing on your desktop, heroine drowning in the repercussions of deluded fantasies. Her monologue is tough to crack, full of metaphors that must have been hard for her to communicate, even harder for you to translate. This is the fifth full replay and your deadline is nearing. You take off an earbud.

“No one else can, really.”

Miwa hands you the file. Your eyes scan it quickly, flipping through the pages. It’s been a while since you interpreted for someone from Argentina. The specialization would have been better suited in Tokyo where gigs never ran out, foreigners streaming in abundance, but you like it here in Sendai. All gigs like this go directly to you, even if they only appear once in a blue moon.

You place the file atop the mess. You’ll read it later. After you finish this troublesome monologue.

Ito-san has several regulars, but you’re the one who visits her the most. Every week, bringing with you two orders of takoyaki and sitting in the plastic chair while she rolls her dice and reads your cards. After, you head back to the office, finishing up translations until the wee hours of the morning.

“Can you do it?” Miwa asks. “The hours are gnarly.”

Open your heart. Seize good things by the throat. You’d have to ask Ito-san the next time you visit what the heart has to do with a gig.

“The pay’s good though.” Miwa backtracks quickly, realizing if you back out, no one would be able to do it.

You smile at her reassuringly. “I can do it. It’s nice to have a break from” –you gesture to the pile in front of you, the paused indie film– “this.”

She sighs in relief.

.

You don’t know why you were incredibly sentimental about Tooru when your cards were being read. It’s not like you’ve been following him over the years, obsessively listing down all the steps he’s been taking. You knew he was meant to be great, meant to go far. You hear about exactly how far every now and then when your high school friends gossip.

Oikawa won an award.

Followed by, No, his volleyball team won an award. It’s not the same thing.

Ending with, Congratulations, Oikawa. Someone tell him congratulations.

And no one does.

You saw exactly how far when you saw him on television last year playing in the Olympics and refusing to give interviews after his game. You watched it at a friend’s house with drinks, blue and white striped flags painted on your cheeks courtesy of the face paint Hanamaki bought.

But that was last year, and you haven’t heard about him in that long, haven’t heard from him in a decade. Now, Matsukawa is looking at you from across the cabbage aisle. The steady rattle of your grocery cart halts.

“Okonomiyaki?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply.

He stalks towards you. Sendai is a big place, but people always gravitate towards the same spots, the same habits. You see him around a lot. All six feet of him towers over other people in the store, a curly mop of hair standing out.

Matsukawa digs through the pile. “Didn’t you have a cat back in school?”

“Her name was Touma.”

“What did you do if she didn’t eat?”

Hands at your back and observing him, your brows furrow. “That’s an odd question.”

“Ah,” Issei says, finding the perfect cabbage and handing it to you. He digs his phone from his pocket. “Look.”

He opens his gallery to reveal a picture of a little ginger cat so small it can fit in his hand. Granted, his hand is larger than average. The cat isn’t so small that it can’t eat yet. He explains, “I adopted her. Her brother’s with Makki in Tokyo.”

You hum as he scrolls through the album. Ginger and white, the former spread on her body like paint splotches. Touma had grey fur and was as large and as fat as any spoiled cat could possibly be. “It must be nice to live in Tokyo.”

He laughs. “The asshole’s thinking about moving back.”

You shuffle the cabbage in your hands. It is a good cabbage. You want to come across Matsukawa more often. “Touma refused to go anywhere near me when I first got her, but she came around sooner or later. They like eating what you eat.”

“Like… rice?”

“Yes, try that. They think they’re human.”

“That’s – I’ve never thought of that.”

You wave the cabbage, a green ball in your hand. “Tell me if it works. Thank you for the cabbage, Matsukawa-san.”

.

As it turns out, Miwa was right about the sports team, like she is right about almost everything in the world. Gnarly hours, a 20-page NDA, and hefty pay.

The coach is called Blanco – a name that’s painfully familiar, you just can’t pin where. It’s at the end of your tongue, where you know him. You go through all the other names, feeling faintly like you’re riding a shuttle to the answer. It’s at the tip of your tongue. For some odd reason, you think the Argentinian coach is related to Matsukawa.

It’s 1:34 A.M. when you finally land on it, written out in clear, printed letters. Ah.

Tooru Oikawa. 28. Setter.

.

Your mother used to tell you, back in the old house with the leaky roof and the warm walls, about the cards. She stayed sitting, one foot folded in half a lotus and her knee close to her chest. You knew what all of it meant, growing up around the deck, your mother’s hands shuffling, laying them down on the table. Lady justice is for righteousness, the flower of temperance is for patience, the joker is for misfortune.

She told you the cards are vessels. Your mother’s face had lines that made a smile without needing a smile, tricks of new wrinkles that pulled her lips upward. Fate does not hand you the cards, she said. This is what people get wrong. The cards are the forecast, not the fate.

“Strings,” she told you. “Are carefully crafted. When they separate, when they meet, when they are cut. This doesn’t change, the cards can’t change them, and no amount of will can either.”

“Resistance is futile?” you guessed.

She laughed, warm and twinkling. Sometimes, her laugh is what you missed the most. “Resistance is futile, dear.”

Strings that are cut before others.

Strings that pull apart, strings that meet again, strings that twine together.

.

You wear a nice skirt. Coach Blanco shakes your hand firmly. You have to crane your neck up just so you can look at his face while you talk.

Miwa texts you a little while after the meeting begins. How is it going?

They’re very tall, you text back. They speak with a clinical sort of detachment, one that comes with handling highly paid athletes. You’ve done this before. Actors and actresses, usually C-lists, but an occasional B-lister every two years appears. They tell you what they want from you, what they need, what they expect. In turn, you tell them you can be counted on. Blanco and the manager seemed eased after that.

Miwa, 6:32 PM:  Goodluck ^_^

“You should meet the players,” the team manager says. You know you should. You’re supposed to. Twenty strangers above six feet, you’re not afraid of meeting, but you know one of them from ten years ago, and that makes everything… it makes you wear a nicer skirt.

For all your talk about love and second buttons with Ito-san, Tooru is still very much a stranger. You don’t know why you feel like falling into the pit in your stomach. He wasn’t your friend, not enough for you to maintain contact when your lives moved on. He was special, but he held a different place in your heart, one that throbbed powerfully in quick bursts. It’s not healthy to keep that around.

The manager pulls open a sliding door to a living room suite big enough to fit a whole team. You glance around the room. You see men, all very tall, some standing up, some sitting down. They’re in sleepwear, looking like they’re having a meeting to cap the day. Some of them smile at you, the one who whistled especially, the pull of his lip to the right bigger than the pull of his lip to the left.

He’s not here.

The manager prattles on, “I’m sure you know everyone here. That’s Bruno at the back, he’ll help you out in case you need anything – Tooru, I was wondering where you were.”

Your mouth goes dry. It’s different that he’s this close, that if you decide to reach and touch him you won’t feel a static jolt on your fingertips or the mist-addled sight of a daydream.

“I took a piss,” he starts, before halting in his tracks once he sees you standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a complimentary bathrobe, his phone clutched in his right hand. He looks good, healthy. Older, since the last time you saw him. His eyes are blown wide. Unmistakable.

“Hello.” You decide to smile. “I’m your interpreter.”

The manager continues, oblivious, “Tooru was born in Japan – where was it again?”

“Sendai, actually,” Tooru replies, eyes never leaving your face. It flickers to the manager for a second, before landing back. “Here.”

“Fantastic,” the manager booms. “Just like you’re going home.”

You hear the dregs of a conversation somewhere underwater. The last one, or the first one in a series of lasts.

Tooru, will you come back?

Maybe. I don’t know.

A rustle of a textbook being shoved in a bag. Footsteps trying to catch up.

For me then?

We’ll see.

A lifetime ago, plaid skirts and white blazers. Seijoh was always warm even in the winter.

“Home.” He flips the word in his mouth. It is the same. Everything is the same. His lashes are long, looping down the corner of his eyes and curling back up in a curve so familiar, so isolated to an age, that you get transported back to being seventeen and hopelessly, helplessly in love. “Yeah, it’s… good to be home.”

.

The rest of the meeting isn’t that long. You get shuffled with the other managers, the tour staff, the people in charge of food, the people at the hotel in charge of accommodations. You check your phone as you head home to see a text from Miwa again. How is it going?

She can be such an old woman sometimes.

You, 7:43 PM: Is this a double send?

Miwa, 7:43 PM:  No. Update?

You, 7:44 PM: Just finished. It went well. I think.

You’re in the middle of typing out a cheery quip to alleviate her anxiety when you see a shadow beside you at the hotel entrance. Your fingers stop, hover, then you close your phone.

“Have you had dinner?”

Your mouth is halfway between some expression and the other, but your mind doesn’t catch up so the sound gets stuttered. “Hi. Yes. I have.”

“Earlier?” Oikawa Tooru asks, standing beside you, watching the valets go to and fro, guests arriving and guests leaving.

“Yes.” You clear your throat, and with a light tone you tease, “I thought you wouldn’t remember me, Tooru.”

He makes a sound, somewhere between choking in disbelief and huffing in defiance. “Do you still live in Natori?”

“I share an apartment with a friend in Wakabayashi.”

“I heard there’s a good ramen joint there.”

You look at him, a bit aghast at his proclivity to flirt. He really doesn’t pick. He’s still shameless.

You realize too late that you’re taking inventory. His eyes are darker outside with only the busy street to light them. They’re still the same color, you’re sure. You saw as much during the meeting. His nose is still tall, lips are still curved like he knows he’s better than everyone else in the room. His hair is cropped shorter, shoulders broader under the rumpled hoodie he’s wearing. Tooru, Tooru, Tooru. There was a time when everything started and ended with him, but now he’s no one but a familiar stranger.

You realize even later that he’s taking inventory too, the way his eyes move. Your lips first, then your hair, the earrings peeking from below your ear. You smile wryly, shaking your head. You wave a hand in goodbye before going down the steps and making your way home.

.

“Have I ever told you about Tooru?”

Miwa looks up from her spot on the kitchen counter, typing away on her laptop. You take off your shoes after shutting the door behind you, leaving your keys on the table and emptying the contents of your bag. “The one who disappeared to the other side of the world?”

She’s not wrong. She’s also not right. He didn’t disappear, he just… moved. “…Yes?”

“You mentioned him once or twice. Why?”

You take a deep breath. Miwa’s a friend you met back in university when all the high school stories were behind you. Same course, same grade bracket, same apartment building. You’ve told her everything, from zits to definitions you can’t seem to find. She helped you plan your mother’s funeral. You’ve only mentioned Tooru once or twice in the last ten years. Seventeen year-old you would’ve mentioned Tooru five times a day.

“He’s back.”

The sound of keyboard keys stop. “Back? What do you mean, back?”

“I mean,” you say as the gold button falls from your bag pocket. “He’s my client. In the sports team. He’s on the team.”

“The national team?” She’s interested now, standing up and stalking towards you.

“Yes,” you reply. “The national team. Not this national team but… you get it… their national team.”

Miwa raises a brow. You avert the topic, asking her about what she’s doing, tucking the button back in your bag.

.

Matsukawa messages you – you don’t remember why he has your number – that night. His little profile pops up, along with an attached picture of a cat sleeping peacefully on dark blue sheets.

Matsukawa Issei, 9:01 PM:  She’s eating. Thank youuuu.

You, 9:07 PM:  Anytime :)

You start typing.

You:  Hey… Did you know about –

You don’t send it. You delete it.

You:  I saw someone today –

You don’t send it. You delete it again. You give up and close your phone after that.

.

The role of a middle blocker is to attack, block, and defend. Middle blockers are usually the tallest ones on the team, the ones with hands as impenetrable as walls, judgement quick and decisive. Lopez is a middle blocker, the youngest on the team. He’s not a usual starter, but his confidence is impeccable. He’s the one who winked at you last night, and right now, the one who won’t stop lapping at your heels like a dog in heat.

You know the rules of volleyball, a strange mix between internet crash courses, the given materials by the team, and stored knowledge from dating a team captain way back.

“Where did you learn to speak the language?”

You almost jump in surprise, pen halting in the middle of writing down instructions for the hotel staff. He is the tallest one on the team, standing at two or so meters. His head is placed high enough that it covers the glare of the chandelier light in the lobby. You thought he wouldn’t follow you down after the team dinner.

“I started in high school to help a friend. I liked it enough to continue.”

“You’re kind, then,” he decides, and you wonder if things are supposed to be that easy. “To help your friend like that. You’re very beautiful too. Will you go on a date with me?”

You cough in surprise. Middle blockers are quick and decisive, but when he decided to have a crush on you this morning – stealing glances throughout the day, pulling out a chair for you, asking you about yourself – you thought he wouldn’t make a move the very same night.

You laugh. You feel bad for laughing, but it’s good he isn’t the type to be easily offended. “I’m a bit too old for you.”

“Seven years isn’t that bad,” he defends, sounding like a kid.

“No.” You crumple your nose. “Only slightly bad. Now please, go before you get in trouble.”

“Tell me more about yourself first.”

He’s incessant, and his grim determination is met with your placating answers while you continue to write down the long list of requests from every member of the team. Have you ever travelled? Yes, a few countries when you were younger, not so much now. Why not? Work is too busy. Why did you become an interpreter? You like languages. Do you have a husband? No. A boyfriend? No. Is it alright if he got your number? If he needs anything, he’s welcome to ask for it from the team manager. What do you think about men from Argentina?

You backtrack at the last one. It’s funny enough that you furrow your brows at the absurdity of his question.

“I’ll make you say yes before we leave,” he vows. That’s in six days. “I promise.”

You hand off the list to the receptionist, telling her it’s from the team checked in on the tenth floor. He stares at you while you do it. You laugh good naturedly. “It’s against my contract.”

“I can –” he starts.

“Is he bothering you?” Tooru asks, bounding out of nowhere, making sure his teammate can’t understand him. He claps Mateo at the back, drapes an arm across his shoulders, and smiles. Classic Tooru, with the cheek dimple and the end of his canines touching his lower lips. Mateo looks like his soul left his body.

“No, no,” you quickly promise. “We were just talking.”

“Good!” He claps his hands. “It’s getting late. Look at the time. Look at the sky.” He gestures to the ceiling. There is no sky. “Chico, our translator needs to rest.”

Mateo looks at Tooru. “Yes, sir.”

You bid them goodbye and slide out. You cross the lobby, about to leave, fully expecting both of them will stay inside. Tooru follows you out the doors of the hotel.

“You don’t have a coat,” you point out. It’s far too cold for what he has on. “Go back inside.”

“You know I run hot. I’ll be fine.”

You know lots of things about him. You know how conversations like this one go. Really, no one but Iwaizumi-san can make him do anything. Still, you try. “Will no one look for you?”

“Stop worrying.” He watches you wrap a scarf around your neck, an imperious look on his face. His adam’s apple bobs whenever he tries to be menacing. “Start walking before your suitor snaps out of his daze.”

“He idolizes you,” you observe lightly.

He snorts, “Who doesn’t?”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t work on your hubris while you were away?”

“You weren’t there to keep me in check.”

You walk down the steps the same way you used to last night, but now he follows behind you. Three minutes later, he wraps his arms around himself. Five minutes later, he makes several failed attempts to hide that he’s shivering. Six minutes later, you decide enough is enough.

You buy him a boiled egg from a food stand. He offers his palms up to you. You place the hot egg in the middle to lessen his suffering. You cast him an unimpressed look, and he has the grace to look sheepish.

You arrive at your crossing. The same residential houses and apartments, the small street and small gardens. You’ve never realized how quaint everything is. You’re suddenly self-conscious with Tooru standing beside you. Tooru who is larger than life, Tooru with insatiable ambition, Tooru who aims higher and higher, walking the small, winding street you walk everyday.

“Oh,” he exclaims out of nowhere. “The ramen joint I was talking about.”

You fix your gaze to where he’s looking. “Ah. They do sell good ramen.”

“Is what you said true? Back at the hotel?”

Your brows furrow, and you tuck your hands into the pocket of your coat. It’s cold enough that his breath creates a mist whenever he talks. “What did I say?”

“That your contract doesn’t let you go out with your clients.”

You cringe, admitting, “I made that up.”

“Okay.” He nods once. You see a glint in his eye. It’s like reading an old favorite book, forgetting most of the words, but still knowing how the sentences end. You aren’t caught by surprise when he loops his arm around yours, body squeezing closer, his faint shivering making you move closer too. “Great,” he says through chattering teeth. “Let’s go. My treat.”

He rubs his hands together as you move to sit. He points to the table far back. You shoot him a look, but you follow anyway.

“You know,” he starts, smiling faintly as both of you settle into the booth. “I asked Iwa-chan if he still had your number.”

“Are you reconnecting with all of your exes – thank you,” you tell the girl who brings your bowls.

Oikawa smiles at her the same way, then he hands you your chopsticks. He steers the conversation back, then he starts peeling the boiled egg from earlier.

“Not all.”

“Just fifty percent?” you tease. It’s still fun, teasing him. “Itadakimasu.”

“Just you.”

You choke on your first spoon of the broth. You warn, “Oikawa-san.”

“Itadakimasu,” he says jovially. He must still find it fun too, the teasing. Then he schools a confused look on his face. “Who’s Oikawa-san?”

“Tooru,” you correct yourself. It’s always been Tooru. Tooru, the 28 strokes that make up his name. Tooru, the way you would write it at the back of your chemistry notebook beside little bubbling hearts. Tooru, the cheeky grin when he found out about your crush. Tooru, night and day and the corners behind school premises.

He finishes peeling the egg and drops it in his bowl. Just when you thought he’ll start eating, he slaps your hands away from your food. “There’s egg in this. You can’t eat eggs.”

“Hey,” you protest as he transfers it from your bowl to his own. You don’t know why he remembers your allergies. He’s just that way, you think. It’s what draws other people in, the way he makes everyone feel a different kind of special. There you are, egg-less, while he has three. It’s for the best.

“It’s been a while since I had proper food,” he grunts. “Thanks for the treat.”

You can’t help it when you let out a disbelieving noise. A laugh. He smiles in response, his head bent over the bowl, hair obstructing his face from your view.

.

“It’s six in the morning. I’m closed.” The uranaishi turns away from you.

“No, wait! Please!” you plead. “Just five minutes. I need to go to work in five minutes. Just a card.”

The cards are a comfort to you, if nothing else. You don’t care about what you get. You’re not nervous about what might come. What will come will come, whether you have your cards read or not. You just need this. To confirm. To breathe. Ito-san glares at you, but she shuffles the deck anyway, standing at her table. “Pick one.”

Your fingers hover.

You think about Tooru last night. He’s the one who paid for the meal, in the end, after a particularly nasty glare you sent his way. Then you pointed out your building from the front door of the ramen house and told him to head back, unfastening your scarf and wrapping it around his neck, straining to reach. One twine, then two, until his mouth was covered and all that was visible under his eyeline was his scrunched up nose. You whispered, awfully close, “Return this to me. Don’t freeze on your way back.”

You pick. She flips it.

The King, red and white, holding his sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Shit.”

.

There’s a very specific schedule the team follows. Their game is on the evening of day three. On day three, you go through everything with the managers, ask the players some questions, and get ready for the interviews post-game.

Your lunch break consists of sitting at a 7/11 nearby, nibbling on salmon onigiri, with the endless dinging of your phone.

The high school group chat with you and your friends consists of floating baby pictures; life updates; promotion celebrations; plans to meet up; the usual messages of I’m here, where are you; pictures of sake and beer; and sometimes, like today, game tickets.

Sakura, 12:22 PM: I got three. I heard Oikawa’s playing.

Ren, 12:25 PM:  Oikawa? Seijoh Oikawa?

Sakura, 12:25 PM: The very same.

You close it and eat your food. You’ve been awake for more than seven hours already. It would be fine if your body clock weren’t so broken, if you were used to waking up at four in the morning instead of sleeping at four in the morning, but it is. It dings again, loudly. You have been mentioned in a message!

You sigh and open it.

Sakura, 12:27 PM: Are you going? One ticket is reserved for you, ex-girlfriend rights.

Shiori, 12:27 PM:  NO FAIR?

You, 12:28 PM:  I have a ticket already. Sorryyyy.

Shiori, 12:28 PM:  Can I have yours then?

Sakura, 12:28 PM: Where’s your seat?

You, 12:29 PM:  @Shiori buy me dinner first.

You, 12:29 PM:  @Sakura I’m sitting with the rest of the team staff. Got a translator gig.

Shiori, 12:30 PM:  So you’ve seen him already? Bring Oikawa!! Please and thank you!!

Shiori, 12:30 PM:  Have Oikawa buy you dinner.

Shiori, 12:30 PM:  @Sakura please bring Kaori. I miss her.

Sakura, 12:30 PM:  No. You’ll pump her full of chocolate like you did last time.

You mostly follow the head manager for the rest of the day, making sure the interview goes smoothly, the chairs are all set up, the court is still where they said it would be. It’s an exhibition match, and in the spirit of exhibition matches, the players are paraded around more than usual.

“I’ve been convincing him to do an interview,” Garcia, the head manager, mutters, tapping away on his phone as the elevator lifts you both up to the tenth floor of the hotel that the team is occupying.

“Bruno?” you clarify, ready to jot it down in the schedule. Bruno and Tooru seem to be close. Their ages are near, and the younger ones look at them in some sort of cult-idolization, hanging onto their every word, their every action.

Third floor. “Tooru. It would be a nice headline.” He raises his arms up in his vision. “Sort of like, the prodigal son goes home. This is his hometown, and we could arrange a proper homecoming, all the media coverage, but he won’t do it.”

“Why won’t he?”

“In Argentina,” Garcia says, voice raspy, like his chest is made up of a million rough stones. “The volleyball players there are stars. Bruno Conte has a mansion and is constantly booked for television interviews, guestings. It’s very different from here.”

You laugh a bit at that.

Garcia continues. He likes going on tangents, you’ve learned, but he takes care of his team well. “Coach Blanco is known wherever he goes. Tooru too. Who would think, at first, but his face is made for pictures, and he has a way of speaking that makes the ladies go mad. Have you spoken to him yet? I’m sure you have, you know what I mean. His house is a wonderful mediterranean with a large swimming pool at the back. Don’t tell the others, but I like his house the most. San Juan signed that boy when he was nineteen, and the national team signed him when he was twenty-five. He’s never played for other countries, no matter how big the offer.”

“And there were? Offers, I mean?”

“Of course, yes. A player like him is rare. He makes his members shine, but he doesn’t have to dim down his own light to do it. Good for the game, and also good for publicity.” He leans closer to you. The elevator reaches the seventh floor. “I’ll tell you this in secret. Teams in Japan have offered him deals – so many, more than I can count already. He could be the highest paid volleyball athlete here, if he wanted to be.”

Last night: Tooru in the dim glow of the ramen shop, green onion on his cheek, the planes of his face softened by the dim light, making some bad joke about the guy two tables over, giggling uncontrollably. The reality is this: Oikawa Tooru, all the expletives imaginable. You are insanely, immensely proud, and your lack of wanting him to slow down or be more at reach bothers you. You nod. “But he won’t do it.”

Garcia shakes his head. “No. I’m guessing that’s why he doesn’t want to do interviews here either. Ah, but do you want him to play here? If you were a fan of the sport.”

The manager has thick eyebrows, thinning hair. He wears an impeccable suit everyday since they’ve arrived. You shrug. “You can’t force a man to play for a team he doesn’t want to play for.”

He laughs, big and booming. The elevator doors open. “Good answer.”

.

People are starting to mill out of the venue. The win was satisfying, especially because the last point was a dump shot made by the setter wearing thirteen on his back. Or maybe it’s first-love bias that lets you say that.

You watch them as they wipe their sweat by the benches. People are lining up for autographs, as is custom in an exhibition match. You can’t help but feel proud as Tooru signs a slip of paper held by a little boy with bright eyes. He says something to the boy that makes him beam. It’s nice, watching him like this. He played against Ushijima Wakatoshi today, along with Kageyama Tobio. The names that pulled him away are the same ones who are anchoring him straight back.

You head in first to prepare, and surprisingly, you see a familiar face. She waves, recognizing you as you recognize her, a young girl at her right pant leg, a boy at her left. “Have you seen my brother?”

“He’s still out there, Tamaki-san. Door to the left.”

You remember Tamaki. She always put too much salt in everything. Whenever she tried being a good sister to Tooru, she packed him a lunch box. He carried the thing around like it was about to explode.

“It’s been so long,” she says. You were always scared to run into her whenever Tooru brought you over to his house. She was older, endlessly sophisticated, and you were a high school girl madly in love with her brother. It didn’t help that she had a sharp mouth, and you can’t exactly talk back. “Takeru, say hello.”

Your eyes grow wide. “Takeru, you’re all grown up!”

“Onee-san,” he greets, voice deep. He must be eighteen now. “Are you and uncle back together?”

“Tooru-oji has a girlfriend?” the younger kid asks.

Tamaki has never been known to pick her words. Her brother has always been more gracious than she was, in that regard. That lucky trait must have passed on to her kids as well. You know for a fact that Takeru’s eight year old mouth was as sharp as a whip. She looks apologetic as you smile at the little girl. “I’m his interpreter.”

“Ah,” Tamaki says before her kids can interrogate any further. “We should leave you, then. We saw lots of reporters go inside. Door to the left, correct?”

“Yes, it’ll lead to a hallway, then their locker rooms. They should let you in easily enough.”

“Ba-bye,” the little girl says as her mother ushers her to go see her uncle. Her hair is in the smallest set of pigtails you have ever seen.

Garcia opens the door, pulling you inside for the press conference.

.

Shiori, 9:23 PM:  You look sexy on television. We saw the interview from the gym center. Like boys over flowers.

Ren, 9:23 PM:  One flower and fifty boys. I’m so jealous. Oikawa couldn’t stop looking, did you notice?

Sakura, 9:24 PM:  The other guy too. The tall one.

Ren, 9:25 PM:  All of them are tall.

Sakura, 9:25 PM:  The tallest one. With spiky hair.

Shiori, 9:27 PM:  Hahaha, true.

Live translations are a pain. Translating for one is already hard. Twenty people at the same conference, at the same time is plain torture. An hour and a half going back and forth about what they thought about a line call back in set two.

You tried to trample down a spark of irritation in your gut too, when a reporter asked Tooru why he wasn’t speaking his native tongue. Tooru just laughed it off, but you wanted to throw a stone at that reporter’s head. You massage your neck, reading the older ones from Miwa.

Miwa, 8:41 PM:  You’re on!

Miwa, 8:51 PM: Uwah, I know you’re good, but you’re really good.

Miwa, 8:52 PM: Oh, please get seaweed from the store on your way home. I’ll buy you drinks after this gig.

Miwa, 9:03 PM: Going to the office tonight. I’ve printed out your face from the interview. It’s on the dining table. DON’T THROW. WILL FRAME.

You’re the last one to leave the press room, the team and their staff having been shuffled away for more pictures right after. You make sure all the microphones are off, then you unclip the temporary ID they gave you from your blouse.

“Leaving already?”

You look up from your bag, shoving in your notebooks. “Tooru, I’ll get fired if you keep this up. Garcia will blame me for his setter wandering around.”

“Garcia has a soft spot for me.” He lounges spread eagled in one of the reporter chairs. “I told the bus to leave first. I’m visiting family tonight, see.”

You pick up a forgotten water bottle. “Is Tamaki-san still here?”

“Nah, I told her to go home.”

You stop. “Then?”

He smiles innocently. “Lie of omission?”

“No?” you whine. “Lie of fabrication? You’re making my neck hurt.”

He stands up, cackling at your outburst. Argentina colors are awfully close to Seijoh colors. You point it out, “It looks the same. Like in school.”

He glances down at his windbreaker. There are knockoffs of the uniform he’s wearing outside. In a sudden dawning, you realize he got bigger. You’ve been looking at his face – you know how his face changed, how his hair changed – but his body, his whole frame, is just now hitting you. Broader shoulders, bigger arms under the sleeves of his Federation jacket, still looking like it could pass for his old one at Seijoh. The muscles on his thighs stretch as he rocks forward, then upward.

You avert your eyes quickly, neck now both strained and hot. His eyebrows shoot up, catching you fumble with the water bottle. “Like what you see?”

You throw it at his head. He’s asking for it, at this point. He still picks it off the floor where you missed, empty plastic crumpling in his palm. You make your way out of the room and into the hallway. He follows, skipping to catch up.

“That reporter was rude earlier,” you say once he falls in step.

“Yeah,” he hums, fiddling with the zipper of his bag. “‘S alright.”

A spark of irritation passes again. “You always do this.”

“Do what?” The sound of a closing zipper.

“You act passive. You don’t like what’s happening but you still act like it’s okay.”

He treads, his tone gentle, the tone of a person who always gets what he wants, “Would you like it if I punched her in the eye?”

“Well, no.” You wince at why you can’t properly reason with him. “But you could have done something.”

“You always do this,” he retaliates. You don’t appreciate how amused he sounds.

“Do what?”

“Let your temper run.”

You pause midstep. You purse your lips, avoiding his eyes. It wasn’t nice what the reporter did, asking him if he forgot all about Japan. He shot it down quickly enough. A chuckle and a sweet sparkle in his eye he can summon on command, then some corny joke about getting hit in the head with a ball. He handled it well, but sometimes you want to tell him to stop pleasing other people so much. It’s hard, and it’s tiring, and it’s taxing. But then again, he’s Tooru. Under the ease he wears on his skin, there is a monster of ambition who knows what it is he has to do. It’s none of your business. The double doors of the gym open.

“Good job today.” He bumps your shoulder with his. You settle comfortably in the heart of things, a sweet spot: immune to his charisma, unfazed by how ugly things are inside. He’s neither of the two. You didn’t realize it before, in Seijoh. You thought he was both of those things combined, personality big and incomprehensible and magnetic. Maybe it’s age that has taught you that Tooru is none of those things at all, that he’s still lacking and still trying.

Another set of steps. Your neck is still aching, and you’re sure a migraine is about to come. Everything melts away. You bump him right back. “Congratulations, Tooru.”

.

You’re riding the Tozai Line, waiting for your stop, sitting beside Oikawa Tooru. He doesn’t have his own card. It hit you that he doesn’t live here anymore when you paid for his fare. His hands are shivering, held in front of his mouth.

“Do you ever feel,” he whispers slowly. “Constantly cold?”

“It’s not even winter yet,” you reply. Still, you move a bit closer to him on the off chance it might help. He didn’t change into warmer clothes, just went along with you, nothing but his gym bag and his thin jacket. You have no clue why he keeps going about like this. “Maybe you have tourist skin.”

Tooru shudders, “Foul.”

You place your bag on his lap. He blinks, confused. He looks at you in question. You peek around the train. When you see people minding their own business, sitting and staring into space, you drop your hand on his lap, the back of it landing on the fabric of his shorts, the hard muscle underneath it. He blinks again. You wiggle your fingers. “I’m warm.”

He places his hands on top of yours, tentatively at first, and once you don’t show any signs of changing your mind, he sandwiches it between two of his very cold ones. You hiss. He looks down and giggles – Tooru used to giggle, Tooru still giggles.

Your hands, clasped together behind the cover of your brown leather Diu.

Minutes pass, maybe hours. Your hands don’t get clammy around him anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says out of nowhere.

“Why?”

“Because I – maybe you thought I’d be back in a year, maybe four after university, but it ended up being…”

“Nine years?”

“Ten.”

Indulgently, “That long?” You stop to look at him, the face he has on. An old favorite book, eyebrows creased, the single line between them that spells worry. “It was… such an old thing, Tooru. We were so young. No one had a clue what they were doing when they were seventeen.”

“I could have handled it better–”

“No one handles things at that age. Guilt doesn’t look good on you. It makes you ugly.”

“I know you still find me handsome, don’t lie. And it – it’s not guilt,” he says. He leans back on the seat, staring up at the lights. “It’s, I don’t know, regret.”

“Regret for what?”

“You were… the kindest person in my life at that time. And I was… you know what I was. I regret that.”

“Kindest,” you repeat, mouth going over the sound. You weren’t kind for the sake of being kind. You were kind because… you loved him, whatever type of love it might have been in your mind.

“I knew why there were always power outages in the gym, why the teachers never got mad when I skipped school to talk to Blanco in the last few weeks.”

“Huh,” you whisper, surprised. You didn’t know that he knew. You forgot you did those things, even. “It was… it wasn’t a big deal–”

You pulled the plug on the lights when you heard Iwaizumi complain about no one able to get Tooru to stop after that last spring tournament match. He used to fold himself inwards, swimming in his shortcomings. It was his curse. A star that burns so bright also burns itself. The only way to get him to go home was to pull the power plug of the school gym. He couldn’t exactly practice in the dark. He might have practiced elsewhere, but at least he took a walk with himself before he reached another court. You gave the maintenance men gifts at the end of third year.

Then, before graduation, you went around lying to the teachers, covering his ass in attendance because he was off in places even Issei and the others didn’t know about, alternating between a list of easily cured illnesses and easily contracted viruses.

“It was,” he contends, “it is.”

“I didn’t resent you, Tooru,” you say honestly. “For leaving– for leaving that way. I knew what you were supposed to do, what you planned on doing. Why would I resent you for your ambition? That’s stupid. And it was so long ago. We were kids. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. I didn’t hate you. I still don’t hate you.”

Easy dismissal. A heart crushed under his shoe. He wasn’t at fault for that. You were the other half of the equation. You can’t offer something up and expect it not to get taken. Teenagers are so fond of dramatizations of romance, martyrdom for the sake of martyrdom, it’s almost funny. You thought that if you loved Tooru hard enough, he’d learn to take it easy. Anchoring someone like him to simple happiness is like asking the tide to flow upstream. Both equally tempting, both equally impossible.

Tooru looks at you now. “Even if I make your hand cold?”

You sigh. You place another hand on his lap. “Good thing I have two.” He clutches it with less hesitance. You swallow. “I heard you’re already a citizen… over there.”

He nods. “It’s nice there, you know. Warm during the summer.”

There. Where he has a card for the metro, if they have one; new friends; restaurants that know him; a garden that’s waiting to be watered; a refrigerator with yogurt that needs to be eaten before it expires; a life. His thumb doesn’t need to rub circles on your skin, but it does. Another station, another stop. Closer and closer to yours. Garcia said something about his house. A house at twenty-eight. Tooru really is a special kind of freak.

You snort. “Oh, evidently.”

“Foul.” He huffs in indignation. “I won the game point tonight, so I think that demands a bit of respect.”

“I’ve heard all about that game point.”

“Who knew that leaning into a microphone and saying ‘la bola de línea’ could be so sexy.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“No, really,” he laughs. “You did it so quickly.”

“It’s my job. You asked Iwaizumi-san for my number?” You look at your intertwined hands. The scar on his ring finger that’s been there since forever. He has pretty nails. Capable hands, cold because he refuses to wear a coat. “Is it because of guilt? Or regret?”

The lady sitting next to him stands up to leave. He stares at her back. “It’s because I missed you.”

He’s still a good liar. He’s an even better actor. You’ve seen him at it a million times. A hand scratching the back of his head, a bashful glance. All perfectly timed and perfectly executed, with just enough fumbling to give the impression he’s being honest.

You believe him, not because you want to, but because you know he’s telling the truth. Tooru smiles when he lies. He can’t look you in the eye now, and is instead glaring holes into the poor woman’s back.

You breathe deeply. “Boo, Tooru, you have so many lines. What did Iwaizumi-san say?”

“He hung up the phone on me.”

The doors open at Oroshimachi.

.

This is the farthest he’s gone. They make poems for moments like this: two people standing outside an apartment building, facing each other; the flicker of the streetlight; the sound of the television of the house five steps away.

What the poems forget to include is Tooru, jumping around restlessly to feel warm; you feeling embarrassed to be seen out with him; the threat of the 11 PM flashing on your watch coupled with the 6 AM calltime you have tomorrow.

“This is me. I’d let you in, but my roommate…”

“Let me in?” he gasps. “That’s forward of you.”

“I said I couldn’t!”

He wiggles his brows. You look around the street to make sure no one is here to see him make a fool of himself. He leans closer conspiratorially, “But you want to?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. More than he knows. More than the quiver of his smile can comprehend. “No.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll–” You gesture to the door. He nods, motioning his head for you to go in, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders bunching in the cold. You say, stern, “Run to the hotel before you turn into an icicle.”

He nods impatiently. You nod too, Okay. You turn away and open the door. Looking back at him one last time, just to check, “Good night.”

He’s walking away now, pedaling in reverse, still watching you, waiting for you to get inside the building. He mouths, jerking his head to the right, Go inside.

You wave. Once, twice. Then you go inside. It’s the usual steps. The usual sound of the door opening. The usual motion of taking off your shoes. Left first, then right.

“Miwa-chan, I’m home.”

No one answers. You check your phone. A million messages from Sakura and the others. A few from the hotel staff you already settled earlier.

Miwa, 9:03 PM: Going to the office tonight. I’ve printed out your face from the interview. It’s on the dining table. DON’T THROW. WILL FRAME.

Then you hear it. Rain splatters. Gentle for a few seconds, then suddenly violent. A downpour.

He couldn’t have gone far yet. You take your umbrella from your bag and run.

.

You find him under the roof of an empty garage. You squint. Your shoes are wet, and it’s digging close to your socks, but he looks worse for wear. His hair is damp and sticking to his forehead, rain stains on the stupid fucking jacket. You come closer. People write poems about this, you think again. Two poems in one night seem a bit excessive.

“You’re making my heart flutter,” he calls. Tooru runs to huddle under your pink umbrella. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

He puts his freezing hands on your cheeks. You jump away at the sudden jolt. He moves closer like nothing happened. You consider leaving him then and there.

It leads to this. Whatever this is.

.

“You could have warned me,” you groan, slumping on the same chair you saw four days ago. “You could have warned me.”

“I did,” Ito-san purses her lips. “I can’t give a warning to someone who knows what’s happening anyway. You’re an odd girl. You receive your fate properly, without fumbling hands.”

“And here I am, no better than if I fumbled.”

“What’s troubling you?”

You notice she doesn’t take out her dice, or her cards. She doesn’t ask you to give your palm either. She knows you don’t need it anyway. She knows, she must have seen it. She could have warned you. In hindsight, she’s right. She did.

Is your heart open for love?

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe a nice office worker you’ll meet at the grocery store. Maybe one of Miwa’s brothers. Maybe you’ll drop Sakura’s kid off at daycare and find a nice man bringing a kid there too. You didn’t expect second buttons, or suns, or the droplet of rain on Tooru’s cheek.

“Love,” you breathe bitterly, “is such a hateful thing. Like a leech. Vehement.”

She takes your takoyaki and opens the box without shame. “It is cruel to you, then?”

“Tooru’s here.”

“Who’s – Ah.” Understanding dawns on the uranaishi’s eyes. You don’t have to see the future to see this.

“But he’ll leave again in three days.”

“Will he come back?” She takes a ball and chews it with precise movements, sharp and quick like she always is. “After this nonsensical timeline the two of you have set?”

Will he come back?

Yes, your heart says. A heart that believes in him, believes love given is love reciprocated. But you know him too well for that, know yourself too well for that. You know he makes allowances now: for mistakes, for forgiveness, for other people. You know you weren’t as rash as you used to be, you don’t give as freely as you used to. Love given might be love reciprocated, but it doesn’t always mean love is all encompassing. His life is over there, across the ocean, miles away.

“I don’t know,” you start. But you do know. “You can’t clip a bird’s wings. It’ll resent you if you do.”

.

Strings that diverge. Strings that meet again. Strings that are not meant to stay together.

.

You don’t tell Sakura and the others. In the end, you don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Miwa. They have enough going on in their lives already.

You will approach this with even judgement, you promise yourself. Shiori would tell you to do something rash, Ren would shake her head, Sakura would nod her head, and Miwa would ask if she could meet him right away. You’re better off with your own advice.

You go through your contract, back and forth the hotel and a few locations the team wanted to see. After the game, there’s nothing much to do but stick around in case anyone needs anything. You interpret a solo interview with Bruno hosted by a volleyball magazine. You drink coffee with Garcia. You forward a file of the game with a transcript to Blanco.

In the middle of it all, funnily, you run across Iwaizumi Hajime in the tenth floor hallway of the hotel. He comes short of mowing you down and sending you toppling backwards on the fancy carpet. You only stumble a bit, thankfully. He apologizes profusely.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you begin. You think he doesn’t recognize you. You and Iwaizumi had lived in the same neighborhood since the first grade. “It’s me.”

A second passes, then realization lights up his face.

“I feel like a dick,” he laughs. “How are you? Issei told me you’re the one who made his cat eat.”

“I’m doing well. I heard Hanamaki-san has one too. Are you the only one without one?”

“Oikawa doesn’t have one. I don’t think he can scoop the shit up on his own.”

“He’ll cry a bit before,” you agree. You’ve always liked Iwaizumi. His mother used to make the best curry, and he always gave you the strawberry popsicles that came with the pack because he didn’t like how they tasted. “Are you here for him? I think he passed by earlier. He said he was going to wait for you downstairs.”

“He still can’t read. I saw you on television,” he says.

You shrug. He’s not the first person who has told you that. “I might become a bigger celebrity than Tooru at this point.”

.

They rent a bus to go around the sites. It’s good. A good cap to a good win to a good trip. They’re good too, generally. Most of them aren’t rude, and the ones who don’t have anything to say to you just don’t say anything at all. They’re one of the better types of clients, even if their hours are dreadful.

You settle comfortably on the bus seat, the itinerary tucked in your lap. A weight pounces on the seat beside you, and you look up in time to see Mateo Lopez greet you a good morning. He looks younger now that he’s not wearing the usual workout clothes or team uniform. A black hoodie that, though you know it’s not possible, makes the spikes of his hair stand more erect. He’s endearing, like a pet, or like Sakura’s kid. You haven’t seen Kaori in a while, come to think of it. Still, you move a bit closer to the window, just in case Garcia thinks you’re coming onto one of his players.

Which you are, but just… a different one.

You talk to him a bit, and you realize he has a little lisp. He’ll find some nice person back in Argentina, you’re sure, and you’ll be a memory he’ll soon forget. He’s in the middle of telling you about the places back home that he thinks you would like when someone calls his name and starts talking to him. You take it as a window to check your phone, rearrange the notes for the team.

Unknown number, 7:16 AM: What’s he talking to you about?

Unknown number, 7:17 AM: Did you know we’re going to Aobajo later?

Unknown number, 7:17 AM: Don’t ignore me TT_TT

You, 7:28 AM: Argentina. Yes. Okay. How did you get my number?

Unknown number, 7:28 AM: I tortured Iwa-chan.

Matsushima is a thirty minute ride from the city, and soon all of you are filtering out of the bus. Tooru emerges last, exchanging a few words with one of the assistant coaches, dressed like a veritable tourist. A complete get-up with the shades and the product on his hair. Thankfully, he’s wearing a coat. Thanklessly, your green scarf is wrapped around his neck. You shoot him a questioning glance, which he replies to with a texting motion. He points to your pocket, where your phone is.

Unknown number, 7:45 AM: You know this tour is a scam?

Unknown number, 7:45 AM: I don’t need to climb Toyama to see reikan.

You, 7:52 AM: You only need to look in the mirror? Ha ha ha

Unknown number, 7:52 AM: I only need to look at you.

Unknown number, 7:53 AM: PSSSSST don’t be mean.

Unknown number, 7:53 AM: Heyyy stop leaving me on read TT_TT

You roll your eyes and close your phone.

You double as a tour guide here, translating for the lady who introduced herself as Hayami as she leads your party across the coastline. When you reach an observation tower, she points at the islands, naming them all with proficiency. The men all stand and watch, forming a little clump, as they gaze out into the sea, the seagulls cawing overhead.

“There are 260 tiny islands,” she says. “Here, we are in Toyama, and what you are seeing is reikan.”

“It means ‘beautiful view’,” you explain. Tooru is smiling like a satisfied cat at the back of their cluster.

Hayami continues, “Next we will see sokan – magnificent view – over there in Otakamori. If you will follow me.”

When you reach another observation tower, the chilly whip of the air makes you tighten your coat around your body. You tell them to pose for a complete picture of the team, blue gray clouds at their back, smiles on their faces. You snap it from Gracia’s phone.

“Should I get you all lunch?” you ask Garcia as you make your way down and the hours are starting to pass. “I know a store nearby.”

“That’s alright, it’s…” he stops. He’s still wearing his suit. You wonder if his feet hurt in his shoes. “They do seem hungry, don’t they? Should I come with you?”

“No need.” You shake your head. “I know my way back. I’ll be quick.”

You walk the offshore coast, the cement sidewalks and the grass growing where the rocks crack. You used to go here with your friends during the weekends, but you forgot what for. A whole lot of nothing, if you had to guess. Going for the sake of going, laughing the whole train ride, then eating instant ramen in a convenience store with the most handsome cashier. You had to rush back before evening for cram school. Once, Shiori stole her older brother’s motorcycle. You, being reckless and endlessly stupid, rode passenger as she drove here, clutching her back and screaming in her ear.

“Issei and I fell asleep on a curb there.”

Oikawa falls into step beside you.

If you had a particular liking for metaphors: Oikawa from before always walked ahead, barrelled ahead. Sometimes he looked back, but most of the time, you pumped your legs to run and catch up. Oikawa now, falling into step beside you.

But you don’t like metaphors. “Shiori and I smoked our first cigarettes on the way here. An old woman caught us and asked us if our parents knew they raised – what was it… ah, thugs who will never be able to marry a nice man.”

Tooru’s laugh twinkles like a million stars, a million suns. “Are you? Married to a nice man, I mean?”

“Your teammate asked me the same thing. I’ll inform you both once I have the answer. Did you know Shiori’s getting married soon?”

“Really? Is it anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. She met him at work. I’ve only met him once.” “And?”

“He’s okay.” He raises his brows, the tip of his chin. You cave. “Well, she could do better. But maybe I’m only saying that because she’s my friend.”

He places a finger to his lips, a secret between you two. “I always thought Shiori would end up with an asshole. She had… a thing. Self-sacrificing. Not as bad as you, of course. But a self-sacrificing streak.”

You shudder at the thought. Self-sacrificing indeed. You grew out of that, but he isn’t wrong. “I’m surprised you thought about us at all.”

“I only thought about volleyball eighty percent of the time. The twenty percent was allotted for gossip. Besides, it was hard to ignore them when they were constantly threatening me with knives.”

“You were a terrible gossip,” you admit. “I don’t know how you knew everything about everyone.”

“I don’t know why they kept telling me, hell,” he laughs. “I didn’t care about what was happening in their lives, but you always seemed happy enough whenever I reported to you about it.”

“Hmm,” you hum. You tilt your head. There is the littlest jingle in the air made by the two beads of your earrings catching each other. “We had fun back then, didn’t we?”

“It feels… weird here. Familiar.” He tests the word on his tongue, as if making fun of himself for thinking it. “Nostalgic.”

“You are home.” You stop at the word home. Is he home? Or is home a different place for him now?

He doesn’t seem perturbed. He kicks a misplaced pebble. “Tadaima,” he murmurs absently.

“Okaeri, Tooru-kun.”

Sometime after this, you’ll look back and remember three words, and they are not about love, they are about home.

But not yet. Not while the sound of waves lapping at rocks fill your ears, the rustle of wind numbs your fingers, the unforgiving edges of the cliffside threaten to swallow you, the spiraling seagulls fly overhead. Not yet.

“Wah, I’m Tooru-kun now?” he teases, opening the door of the old convenience store that still has a poster from 2010 at its front door. “Are we time travelling? You should cut your bangs again–”

“You yap so much.”

You start piling packs of donburi oyakodon into a red basket you’re sure hasn’t been cleaned since 2010 either. Tooru goes to get bottles of juice for the others. You don’t want to get reminded about your bangs – the bangs Sakura talked you into when she thought she had a calling as a beautician. You’ve always trusted people easily.

“You don’t like listening to my voice?” He takes the basket from your hands. You don’t notice until you put an onigiri inside midair. “This is the voice that won–”

“The Sendai Middle School Singing Competition, I know.”

“Wrong,” he sighs, placing the basket at the checkout. “It was The Sendai Middle School Singing Competition for Gifted Artists.”

You look at him, really look, hoping to see an ounce of shame in his body. You don’t.

When you’re nearing the tourist spot, he heads on first. It’s unspoken, and you’re thankful that it is. You don’t want the others to think you’re doing anything unseemly with the players. At least if he goes first, he can make up some story about getting lost and watching the flowers, and you were never together.

Bruno helps you with the paper bags, and you hand out lunch once you get into the bus, heading back to the city.

The trees vanish, and soon they are replaced with buildings gradually getting taller and taller. It stops when the bus starts going up a hill of the scattered ruins. The walls loom upwards, menacing as ever. Soon enough, everyone scatters into little groups walking around the site, and, as expected, Mateo follows at your heels. You follow at the heels of the team manager.

You’ve seen Aobajo before, so the magic is diluted, but it’s nice to walk familiar footpaths. Aoba Johsai has always raised its students with a strong sense of school pride, so trips here are frequent and often. There are too few competitive private schools in Miyagi. Shiratorizawa is an older institution, but Aoba Johsai was named after a stronghold. The colors are better too. You’ve never known anyone to genuinely like purple.

You cross the east bailey, taking in the details of the gates. Garcia huffs a breath, “I should have worn different shoes.”

“There’s a bench a bit further down,” you suggest. You cross another bridge, the fish rippling the lake below. You point at where the hill curves. “There’s a school right around that hill.”

The bench comes into view, the oak tree blowing gently up above. The manager leans back and lets out a grateful breath once he sits down. “Did Tooru go to the school in this city?”

“That school, actually,” you tell him, nodding at the roof of Building C peeking from the hillcrest. “Aoba Johsai.”

He looks surprised. “Like where we are?”

“Yes, named after where we are.”

“Did he tell you?” he questions.

“We were classmates,” you admit.

It’s Mateo’s turn to look surprised. He perks up from something or the other on his phone, looking at you. “Were you close with him?”

“Um, not really,” you lie.

“But he played volleyball? Was he already a setter?”

You’ve seen this before. Kids who worship Tooru often ask about the how, but never the why. The how is easier to lie about. ‘How did Oikawa Tooru become that good?’ can be met with, ‘He practiced a lot’ because the alternative is, ‘He practiced too much than what can be considered sane.’ The why’s answer – although no one ever asks – is Oikawa knew what he wanted, and, as a rule of the universe and also perhaps a reward for his own unbendable will, he always got what he wanted.

Like he has a telepathic tie to all those who utter his name, Tooru appears at the bridge and calls out to your group.

“Talking about me, old man?” He flops himself beside the manager. “Behind my back too?”

.

“‘Not really’?” he whispers to you much later, when the sun is setting and some of his teammates have already settled back in the van to get some rest. “Shall I tell them?”

“Tell them what?” You raise your brows in question. You walk to admire the stacked stones of the walls, the flutter of tourists that hide you from plain sight.

“That we were close.” He points at the repurposed hall. “That I kissed you in there.”

You scrunch your nose, remembering. His tone is light and teasing, not like his tone at the train. “Not our classiest act, making out in a public restroom in a tourist spot.”

“We weren’t exactly classy kids.”

You divert the topic. You don’t like thinking about what you gave Tooru and what he gave you and the whole fumbling mess of giving and taking at the wrong places. You nod at his neck. “You should return my scarf soon.”

Mateo appears as you turn a corner. To you, with the earnestness of a marriage proposal, he says, “We should take a picture here.”

“You should!” Tooru agrees, looking endlessly amused. He takes Mateo’s phone. “Go on, both of you. I’ll take it.”

At least the kid has the sense to not put his arms around you. Tooru looks personally tickled. He snaps an unnecessary amount of photos, all with varying angles, going as far as to crouch to take it, and just when you think it would never end, “Kid, I think they’re calling you back on the bus.”

“He has a name,” you grumble. “You should learn it.”

“I do know his name,” he defends. “I know everyone’s names because I know everything. I know position switches don’t happen in volleyball, but he’s smart enough to play setter – in the game, game smart”–you snort, and he gives you a look–“he’s trained differently though, so it’s a shame.”

“He’s a good kid,” you say, looking at Mateo’s retreating back. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t be. He has a new girlfriend every two weeks or so. He’ll forget about you soon enough.”

You shove Tooru, hard. You glare. He sobers and catches himself.

“Wait, wait, stay there.” He takes out his phone, raising the camera up. A stripe of the sunset catches his cheek. It’s gone as quickly as it came. He makes a peace sign and bends his knees so his face is level with yours. You’ve taken a million pictures of other people today. He poses beside you, moving his head closer to yours. Oikawa opens his mouth and pulls his tongue out.

You move with a start, cupping his chin and his jaw, closing it. “Smile properly,” you snap.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be boring.”

He closes his mouth anyway. Your hands quickly fly off his face. You’ve held it before – you have, you have, you have – but, somehow, someway, cupping his face when you were seventeen is a world different from cupping his face when you are twenty-eight. If you were weaker, your hands would have stayed. Chalk it up to some law of magnets and magnetism and orbits and gravity that’s pulling, tugging at you, and they are impossible to resist. You sorely wish you were weaker.

“I don’t want to take a picture with a lunatic and the fly in his mouth,” you grumble, fixing your hair, stepping back.

He bares his teeth. “Smile, then, see? Come closer– now you’re the one who isn’t smiling–”

“I’m smiling!”

“Smile like you actually enjoy–”

.

You know only of one picture. He shows it to you, fingers pinching it closer to zoom. “Ah, look. So cute.” You peek. He’s zooming in on his face. You pinch his side and he yelps. He pockets his phone as the two of you make your way back to the bus.

You don’t know about the other one. The other one is you with your hand cupping his jaw, the other one at the back of his neck, a crease between your eyebrows and in the middle of a reprimand. He’s looking at you there. If you saw it, you could have guessed it for what it is: fondness, softening the corners of his eyes and the edges of his lips. Fondness tipping carelessly close to deeper waters, the familiar lull of the waves. He knows what the clouds look like, from down there.

Back at the sea.

He doesn’t show you that one. That one, he keeps to himself.

.

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM:  Iwa told me not to

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM:  Iwa told HIM not to*

Matsukawa Issei, 11:32 PM:  Iwa told me not to tell you**

Matsukawa Issei, 11:33 PM:  GAH

You, 11:45 PM:  Are you fine?

.

“Do you want to come with me?”

You cock your head to the side. “My neighbors might call the police because of noise disturbance.”

Oikawa stands in the middle of the empty street, clothes a bit rumpled and hair sticking up more than what he must intend. Matsukawa did try to warn you. You had an inkling this would happen. You saw his head from outside your kitchen window, pacing back and forth. A text came a minute later, asking you to come down.

“Do you want to come with me?” he tries again. This time it’s a whisper. You try not to laugh.

“To the hotel?”

“Bah, I’m not that tacky.” He waves a dismissive hand. You want to argue that he is that tacky. “To Seijoh.”

You cross your hands in front of your chest. You cast him an even look. “Are you drunk?”

He looks sheepish, the little wrinkle by the side of his nose betraying him. “A bit. Come with me?”

You look around the sleeping street. Uphill where the road forks. Downhill where the insects are flying around the lamplight. You can’t say no to him. You don’t want to say no to him. You remember Mikamine Park, the hanami in bloom, how he asked the very same question, and how you answered the very same thing. “Okay.”

A smile blooms on his lips.

Seijoh isn’t far from your apartment. The two of you stand in front of the back gate. It’s been there since before you graduated, and it’s nice to know they haven’t changed it since then. You shake your head, looking at the spiraling metal. It must be at least nine feet high. “I’m not going to climb that.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

“You can’t even stand straight.”

He stands straight, as if to disprove your point. “I have reflexes.”

“Everyone has reflexes, dumbass.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out is a stutter of a laugh. He snorts, loudly. You jump closer to cover his mouth with your hand. “Someone might hear you.”

“The school ghost?” he says, muffled through the skin of your palm. “D’you still believe in that?”

“School security.”

“School security doesn’t check the back gate.” He taps your wrist to make you loosen your grip. He walks to the gate and opens it by squeezing his arm in the space between the bars, then turning the lock from the inside. It clicks, then he pushes it back. “Told you I won’t let you fall.”

You plod along at his heels. The main building is now painted utilitarian white instead of cool blue, and there are benches that weren’t there before. You make your way across the trimmed lawn, gazing at the large windows of the third floor staircase. You used to sit there with Ren and the others, sipping on the free juice the History teacher gave out to students who won his quizbees, sun beating down on your faces and the chatter of the students below filling your ears.

“I miss this,” you say softly as you sit down on the bench beside the gym. The one with the faucets where he always left his bag for afternoon practice. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I miss the milk buns they used to sell.”

The milk buns were good. A Seijoh delicacy. You’re not sure if it’s legal to be here. You’re convinced this is breaking and entering, but Tooru being beside you makes you feel like you won’t get into trouble. He can talk his way out of anything. You’ve seen it enough times.

You used to wait for him to finish practice in the afternoons here, and he’d walk you to cram school after. You lost an earring here, a little pink heart you kept in your pocket so the teachers won’t see, only for it to fall out and into a sewer.

Both of you are silent, basking in the glow of nostalgia surging like a large wave. Last week he was a memory from another lifetime you locked in your heart but never touched. Now he’s here, so painfully close.

“You were my first love, you know.” Your voice treads quietly, and you almost think he doesn’t hear you.

He does. “You were mine too.”

He says it like there was never any doubt. Love given is love reciprocated.

“I found your second button. The one you gave me.”

“Huh,” he echoes. “I could’ve sworn I gave it to somebody else.”

“I killed them and stole it.”

He looks at you. People say that Tooru is made for the sun. His skin takes to it like gasoline to flame. When morning makes a halo around his head, it makes the brown of his hair even lighter than it is, shadows playing around his eyes, framing his long lashes. But Tooru and the moon are friends. Tooru and the moon are like a soothing balm for the aching heart. It almost hurts when you see only half of his cheek illuminated, the smile lines like threads of silver.

“Is this unwelcome, what I’m doing?” he asks, so softly it’s a whisper. You’ve never known him to be uncertain.

“What are you doing, Tooru?”

You know, but you want him to say it anyway. You like it when his mouth forms the words, when his statements become questions, when you catch him unguarded enough that he stutters. It spells out that this is for you, for you alone. The Tooru without the charm he puts on as armor, the Tooru that no one else knows.

You don’t want to fight for affection, let alone his. You’ve done plenty of things for it back in school, back in university. Now your pride has thickened over time, twining around the ends of your tongue and how freely you allow yourself to ask for things.

You wonder if the years have twined around his tongue too, creating a string that allows him to say what he’s truly feeling.

“I’m seducing you.”

You let out a surprised giggle. “Seducing?”

He winces. “That sounded better in my head.”

“Is the beer still buzzing around? Did you have fun with Matsukawa and the others?”

“No,” he grunts out. “Did you know Iwa-chan’s training the national team? No.”

“Okay,” you reply. You don’t ask. He looks like he had fun. He looks like they all made him the guest of honor, which, in his group of friends, doesn’t always mean good things. “Why?”

“Are you asking me why I didn’t have fun with them? Or why I’m seducing you?”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. You stare at Building A instead.

Your shoulders are touching. Close, but not close enough. No collision, no tangling, just the hum magnets make when they find each other’s orbits. He licks his lips. “Because when I saw you back at the hotel, I thought, wow, some things never change. You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh in his face, sudden and forceful, hiding how shy you suddenly feel. He blushes tomato red, like the moon at a lunar eclipse.

“Because you laugh like that. You laugh like you used to. You still laugh the same way, did you know? It sounds like flowers opening.”

You remind him, “Flowers opening don’t have a sound.”

“Because you’re still so fucking mean – I sound like a sap.”

You nod. “You do. But go on.” You tuck your head on your hand by the back of the bench, staring at him. “I like hearing you talk about me.”

He perks at the encouragement. He’s considerably flustered. Oikawa, still wanting to please, though and through. “You’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re the version of yourself you hoped you’d be, back when we were kids.”

It’s not a matter of conciliation between what he knows about you a decade ago and what is presented in front of him now. You understand that much. You understand because it’s the same for you. It’s not a simple then and now, a side by side comparison of frames. It’s finding a familiar comfort in a stranger. Beneath all the new layers, there exists one you’ve come across before.

He’s still Tooru. You’ll see your reflection if you look into his eyes. You’ll see how he sees you: mouth not as sharp as it used to be, but still cutting when you’re with him, still keeping him in line in all ways possible. Tooru wasn’t your friend back then, but you knew him like the back of your hand.

Tooru is your friend now. Tooru does not bring an avalanche of emotions anymore. Just one. Pure and simple and gentle like the way the moon curves beside his ear. Comfort.

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“You told me back then,” he replies. He ticks it off with his fingers. “‘I want to live honestly. I want to do something I love. I want to try to be a good person – but not too good, because that would be boring. I want to have a million cats.’ – I still remember what you said.”

You asked him his question right back, that day. His ambitions have always been more high-reaching. You asked him, but how about being happy, and he looked at you like you grew two heads.

“Impressive,” you admit. “But I don’t have a million cats now.”

“That’s easily treated, so it doesn’t count. Besides, Makki brought home his cat.” He shows you a scratch on his hand. You can see it if you squint, otherwise, it’s too small to properly locate. “It injured me.”

“Poor you.”

“You can kiss it better.”

You grin at him, shaking your head no. “I won’t.”

He rearranges himself on the seat in an act of displeasure.

“I’m scared,” you start, lashes fluttering down. “That what this is might just be us riding a wave of have-beens and could-bes. I know you well, and you know me well, and we have a lot to talk about, so it’s – maybe it’s…”

He hums, “You still worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

“Exactly why I’m seducing you. One cannot quarrel without an opponent.”

“I’m your opponent?”

“And my crush,” he laughs. He’s still no better than he was. Maybe time does not progress the way it should. Maybe progression leads to regression when the strings shape themselves into a circle. “What do you say?”

No matter how many loves Tooru has had, you were the first. You always will be. Your place is insurmountable. You might not be his longest, or the one who made him weak, or the one who swept him off his feet, but you were the first. Anyone can come along and show him how best to be loved, anyone can come along and be his new last, but you will remain his first.

Still, you want to be the one who’s loved him best. You want to be the one he’s loved the most.

The mirth in his eyes melts into something hopeful when you inch your face closer to his. You close the space. His lips are soft and moist and moving against yours without question. There are butterflies in your stomach, heat in your ears, numbness in your fingertips. It’s not difficult to see the boy that you fell in love with a decade ago for the man he is now. He’s changed – his tongue is more experienced, lips more considerate – but he’s still the same. He’s still Tooru, your first love.

Looking at him now, you don’t think he’s loved anyone this way either. Loved this fumblingly, pure and unpolished in the way that makes him lose his affinity for appropriate words.

There is no rush of strawberry mixing with vanilla anymore. There is no pounding, no throbbing, no nervous palms, no jittery apologies. He tastes like sake and you taste like your evening coffee. Just him, the slow spread of happiness from your gut, and how being with Tooru on the bench outside the gymnasium feels a lot like coming home.

.

Miwa emerges from a two-day stupor of deadlines. You know the feeling well. It’s a setback that comes with the job. You have your own time, so you’re sure to have a broken body clock. You haven’t heard from Miwa in two days, schedules not catching each other, but she did frame your face, and it’s now hung on the wall like you’re some sort of deity that watches over meals.

“Is the team home yet?” she asks, seeing you upside down on the sofa, head dangling off the edge and feet propped up.

You halt writing the email to the television station about the copy of Conte’s interview. “Two more days.”

You try not to think about it. Two days is too short. After the two days are up, you’re sure he’ll leave. You don’t want him to leave. You haven’t had dinner with him yet, haven’t asked him about his teammates, haven’t shown him pictures of Shiori’s fiancé. You want to have coffee with him, maybe buy him a hideous coat he’ll never be caught wearing. In the New Year, maybe you can come with him to Washikura and say your prayers together, and if time permits, stay long enough to get him to buy the two of you omikuji. You want lots of things. You want too many things, and if Ito-san could hear your list, she would call you an ungrateful brat.

“Did you get the seaweed?”

“It’s in the pantry.”

“Thank you,” she calls from the pantry, making the syllables long and appreciative. “I’m going to bed.”

It’s five in the morning, and she’ll probably sleep through the night too. You call out, “I’m thinking about getting my master’s.”

Miwa, who’s in the middle of getting hers, calls back, “Don’t do it.”

Her bedroom door slams closed.

.

You dream about him that night.

An old memory skewed by the faded, vague sides of the subconscious. A fifteen year old girl shyly confesses to a fifteen year old boy under the light of the afternoon sun, tendrils of dust of the empty hallway swirling around them. The boy is blushing, stammering. His eyes are brown. A shout. The boy gets called by someone out of view, but he glances back one last time as he makes his way out of the frame.

A beat, and the world is pink. Falling cherry blossoms and a backpack. He’s taller than you. He catches one, and he blows it to your face. You sputter in surprise and pinch the lobe of his ear in retaliation. The white blazer of Seijoh, the gray and blue plaid skirt, the pink of Tooru’s cheeks.

A boy standing outside the gate of your house. Your mother catches him, having just arrived home herself. You’re preoccupied with dinner. They exchange a few words, and you are none the wiser. You only catch on when two people enter the house, one of who you expected, the other you thought you would see tomorrow morning at first period, both of them chirping happily as you look at them in horror. Your mother shrugs and tells you Tooru-kun is cute.

A beat again. A conversation. “The world is going to end tomorrow.”

He looks at something far. “I heard.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Of course not. Are you scared?”

You shrug. “There’s a Math quiz tomorrow. I wish it was true.”

“Want me to teach you?” And it cuts just like that.

Tooru leaves, and he doesn’t say goodbye. You haven’t been talking in the days that led up to it. He leaves, and he is gone for a long time.

.

“Hiiiiiiii!”

Your hand comes up to cover the glare of the morning sun. You don’t have much on the schedule today, so the call time got moved to a more considerate hour. You wonder how athletes all do this. Wake up before dawn only to go on runs or to nourish their body, or whatever it is they do.

“What’s that?” You motion to the thing Tooru has in his hand. The people in the neighborhood must know him already as the incessant man who won’t stop visiting. You’re sure the older women gossip about how inappropriate everything is. Visiting at late hours of the night, visiting at early hours of the morning.

“Flowers.” He offers them to you. “For the prettiest girl in Sendai.”

A bouquet of pink camellias, hugged by brown paper and a simple twine.

You take it gingerly. “Just Sendai? And it isn’t spring, how’d you get this?”

You squint to look at him. Still, you can’t help but bring the flower to your nose, glowing like a sunflower with her sun. It’s a nice day.

“The prettiest girl in the world,” he declares confidently. You nod in agreement, offering him a thumbs up. You walk down the road together.

“Tell me where you got this.”

“I think you already know.”

“Know what?”

“I’m loaded,” he declares. “I can get you as many camellias you want, even in the winter.”

You gape at his arrogance. You stop in your tracks just to process what he said, and how he has no shame in saying it. Your jaw slackens without your permission. “You can’t just–!”

He laughs at you and moves your hand up, successfully shoving the bouquet up your nose. “Appreciate the flowers, now.”

“You–”

“So, I was thinking,” he continues. “Are you still terrified of Tamaki?”

“Yes,” you tell him without explanation. His sister talks like a speeding truck on the highway. She doesn’t have any of Tooru’s talent for conversation, but that doesn’t stop her from talking. Seeing her once at the exhibition match is already enough. Your eyes widen in realization. “Oh! So this is what the flowers are for. Don’t even start–”

Tooru puts his hands together and pouts. He can be such a pain. Manipulative and sly and cunning, knowing that nice flowers can make you bend easily. “Please? Dinner?”

“No,” you say firmly, walking away from him. “Isn’t it too early? Aren’t you presumptuous?”

A kid on a bicycle whips by, his school bag flopping behind him. The shop doors are starting to open, and ahead it smells like the ginger of okayu, its scent spreading down the street and into noses.

“They already know you. I’ve brought you over a hundred times.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t bring me over again,” you tell him, eyebrows drawn and voice whiny.

Tooru laughs at you, voice echoing in the waking street.

.

He still persuades you to go because he’s Oikawa, and he can talk a plant into becoming an antelope.

Tooru’s mother teaches Economics at the Tohoku university, his father teaches Molecular Physics. Both of them look surprised to see you standing in front of him, at the door of their house, holding a box of Wagashi you hurried to the store to buy earlier.

It surprises you even more when his mother claps her hands in glee.

You hand her the box. “It’s nothing special but –”

“Nonsense!” she says quickly, taking it and retreating back into the hall. “When Tooru said he was bringing someone over I thought the worst.”

“What’s the worst?” you mouth to him as the two of you are left alone at the genkan. His father trails along his mother’s back as they disappear into the living room.

Tamaki’s head pops up from the corner. “We all thought he knocked someone up in Argentina and he’s bringing home his ten year old son. It’s nice to see you again,” Tamaki says, motioning for you to take your coat off. She looks at Tooru and sees his face contorted in discomfort. She quickly cleans her tracks, “He didn’t. He doesn’t have a son. Don’t worry. It was just a bad guess. Someone doesn’t come home for ten years, what else would you think? It’s his fault mother is this bothersome now. Are you hungry?”

You nod and let yourself get dragged into some other place, shooting him one last look.

.

“I think it’s nice,” his mother says. You look up from the plates you’re drying to see that she’s looking at you, bubbling dishes momentarily forgotten. “That you and Tooru found each other again.”

“We should have told you earlier,” you reply. You’ve only talked about it the other night. It’s a little white lie so she can feel that you don’t disregard her blessing. His mother has always been nice and kind, terrifyingly smart. He gets his way with people from her.

“No, no, your business is yours. It’s just – he’s been lonely over there. He doesn’t tell us, but I know my son. It’s nice that he has someone to… well, someone like you.”

You always don’t know what to say whenever you talk to his mother. Maybe it’s because she always knows what to say when she talks to you. Once you’ve finished drying the plates, you excuse yourself to the restroom, and she nods and tells you that you already know where it is.

You bound up the steps and bump into Tooru’s chest once you reach the top flight of the stairs. Immediately, you pull the washcloth from your shoulder and whack him with it. He ducks like he’s expecting it. “How bad?”

“Better than I expected,” you admit. You don’t know why you expected hellfire and pires. You were seventeen the last time you saw them, and you don’t trust your seventeen year old self to not embarrass herself. “Your niece is cute.”

“Right?” he agrees. The little girl looks just like him. The same full smile and cheek dimple. She has a habit of sucking her bottom lip. “Tamaki’s ex is a piece of shit.”

“Where’s he now?”

You can’t believe you’re gossiping with him when his family is one floor down.

He shrugs. “No clue. Where all the pieces of shit go, probably.” He leads you to the door of the bathroom. “Tamaki won’t tell me.”

You move past his frame to get inside to start washing your hands. You don’t need to, but you had to get away for a while. “But do the kids see him?”

He doesn’t go when he sees you don’t plan on doing anything but stretching your legs. “No. She says they’re better off without him.”

The steady hiss of the faucet streams into the sink.

“Your mother misses you.” You swallow. “It’s not my place but –”

He cocks his head, looking at you like he shouldn’t be explaining it already. “You know why I can’t come home.”

Even if he didn’t tell you, you know why. You can read him like an open book, know what he’s about to do before he even does it. But he did tell you, all those years ago. He can’t come home until he’s proven himself, he said. He can’t come home until he’s sure he can beat anyone who’s ever beaten him. It’s the reason why he continues to refuse offers from the leagues here. It’s the reason why he doesn’t entertain Garcia’s pleas for press releases. For a country that did nothing but show him how lackluster he was, he’ll do the same right back.

Tooru has always put his pride first.

“I do,” you say. “But at some point, you have to realize the reason why you can’t come home isn’t because of some penal code that’s binding. The only reason you can’t come home at this point, Tooru, is because you don’t want to. Accept it for what it is, at least.”

You see the look in his face. You might have gone too far. You look away. “Sorry, Tooru. I know I –”

He kisses you. You pause mid sentence, a stammer forming and heat creeping to your cheeks.

He pushes you against the doorframe of the bathroom hard enough that it rattles the lone potted plant on the floor. You part your lips, and his teeth catch the bottom one, trapping you in both his arms.

“Tooru!” comes a call from downstairs.

You break away, breathing heavily. You move, ducking under his arm and into the hall. You’re kissing him in his mother’s house like some sort of hormone-addled teenager, you think to yourself in embarrassment.

“Stomach ache or headache?” he asks you.

“Stomach ache always works better.”

.

“Walk me home?” you float the request, wondering if he’ll take it. Tamaki closes the gate after you, her little girl waving bye and Takeru already back in his room, fiddling with the new videogame Tooru got him.

He snorts, taking it. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Hey, it wasn’t so bad.” Your stomach is full, and you feel particularly warmed after his father showed you his paper, then an email, asking you to proofread his correspondence. “I’d do it again next week.”

You would do it every week, because that would mean that he stayed.

He keeps quiet. The disbelieving look he sends you is response enough. He settles instead on whistling something that sounds like donguri korokoro. You turn left to the same winding street. You hear the sounds of the ramen restaurant, the hard orange glare of the light. He knows the way out of sheer repetition, and is the first to walk into the smaller road that leads to the clump of houses in your neighborhood.

“I feel like he knows you already.” You look at the man who is tinkering away in his clock repair shop. He nods his head in greeting, and you do the same.

Tooru notes, “As the fool smitten by the lady at 305.”

“My personal court jester,” you declare.

You reach your building.

“Come up?” you float the request again, wondering if he’ll take it.

He does.

“I’m starting to think you made Miwa up,” he says as you unlock your apartment door with the same combination code. It rings in the silent hallway.

“She’s a gremlin that pays half the rent and only shows up for feeding time.” You turn on the lights. “No, it’s because she works in the office at night. I usually go with her, depending on my gig.”

Tooru helps you out of your coat. He stands at your back as you shrug it off. “You’re used to staying up all night?”

“Mhmm, I am,” you smile, twisting to face him. This is the time to act coy, to flirt. You’ve learned as much through college boyfriends, trysts you started but never continued, people that you’ve been introduced to by mutual friends. But you don’t do it.

Tooru doesn’t either. He grins back. Both of you know, and maybe it’s why you can’t stop smiling.

.

Like this:

At some point, you stopped smiling. Your breath hitched when he kissed your neck, going down to the valley between your breasts. Clothes shedding. Kisses deepening. The pads of his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. Slow rocking that has you clenching too fast, too early.

.

Like this, the second time:

Some of your hair gets into his mouth. You giggle in his ear. He sputters it out then he brushes it away from your face.

“Shit — the hotel, did you tell them —”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he pants, and between his words he says is what he doesn’t say: Is this really your topic of conversation now?

“Still —”

“Shh, later.” He changes the pace. You shut up appreciatively. “Like that?”

You nod and close your eyes. “Like that.”

.

It’s starting to rain, a slow ringing outside the window – pat pat pat pat pat. You pull yourself to your feet to walk to close the glass.

“Come back,” he murmurs.

“Wait,” you mumble, locking the latch. “There.”

You stumble back to the bed, half asleep and comforted by the sound of the rain. He moves towards you like a worm and lays his head on your stomach. He presses a kiss there, arms winding around your body.

It’s three in the morning according to your bedside clock. Not too late. “You got better.”

He stirs. You count the seconds in your head, staring at the ceiling, tracing circles around his scalp.

One. Pat pat pat pat. Two. Pat pat pat pat. Three. Pat pat pat pat. Four. Pat pat pat pat.

He stirs again. “What do you mean ‘I got better’? Didn’t you like it the first time?”

The first time being ten years ago, in your childhood bedroom back at the house that’s now someone else’s. He never asked you to, but you wanted to give it to him anyway. You wanted him, plain and simple. You still remember how his adam’s apple bobbed when you asked if he’d like to try it with you. He was eager, and fumbling, and in that moment in time, he was yours.

Five seconds. You continue staring at the ceiling, a smirk pulling one side of your mouth up. You keep your voice light. “No, no.”

He’s sitting up now. “What do you mean, No, no — No, no I was good or no, no I wasn’t good?”

“You were a high school boy.” You continue, just for fun, “A virgin.”

“Oi,” he half-shouts. You swallow a laugh. He pulls you up to sit on the rumpled sheets. You start to protest that you want to lie down, but he keeps you sitting up. It’s only the light of the street casting in from the window that’s making you see in the dark. Dim as everything is, the distress painting his face can still be seen clearly. “Be serious.”

You laugh hard enough that tears spring from your eyes.

“Oi,” he whines again. You wind your arms around his neck and pull his head to your chest. You finally lie back down. His voice rumbles against your ribcage in a dejected mutter. “Stop it.”

You rub his back. “Hmm.”

He makes a noise — some crossbreed between a groan and a whine. He’s awake now, and you’re amused. He pulls himself up by his elbows to look at you. “Really?”

“No,” you laugh at him. “I’m messing with you. I liked it. I liked that you were my first. I liked it when you said sorry because you didn’t know how to use the condom.”

He buries his face in the curve of your neck. “Now you’re being mean.”

He apologized a lot, but it’s not like you knew what you were doing either. When it finally happened, it wasn’t the fireworks that Sakura’s novels promised, but it wasn’t the horror story Shiori’s older sister said it was either. It was uncomfortable, and painful, but it was also special, and gentle, and nice. You liked it.

You decide to let him rest. You’ve had your fill. You run a palm at his nape. “I liked it, don’t worry. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Pat pat pat pat pat pat–

He starts kissing your skin suddenly. You look at him in question, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What’s —?”

“Like,” he mutters, like it’s some sort of insult. His mouth, wet and hot and open, stopping on your hip bone, tantalizingly close to your core. “Just like? You sure?”

“Tooru—”

.

4:01. You might as well wait for sunrise.

He breaks the quiet. The rain stopped a while ago. “Can I tell you something honest?”

You nod. “Go on.”

“There’s a space in my house. Back in Argentina. I thought about building you a sunroom. If you’d like to visit.”

The house. You wonder if it’s as impressive as Garcia says it is. Knowing Tooru, it probably is. You muse, “A sunroom for a visit?”

“You could stay… for a while. If you want to. Enough time to sit in the sunroom.”

He traces the dips of your hand, the curves and the corners. The pads of his fingers press on your nails. You raise a brow, though he can’t see. “Plane tickets are expensive, you know that?”

“Not if it’s a one-way trip,” he tells you.

You stop. Cold rushes through your body, jolting your hand out of his. Wow.

“You want me to uproot my whole life here?” You add unnecessarily, harshly: “For you?”

He bristles. “Well when you put it like that –”

“I put it the way I see it, Tooru. I won’t ask you to stay, so don’t ask me to leave.”

You’re pissed off now. He’s still selfish, quick to ask. He’s smart, so you don’t understand why he doesn’t understand that while the you a decade ago would have considered it, the you now wouldn’t. Your life is here. Miwa, and Sakura, and Ito-san, your job, your friends. You’ve never asked him to leave his life there, so you don’t get why he’s asking you to leave yours.

“What do you want us to do? What do you want me to do?” he amends quickly. “Say it. I’ll do it.”

Some things change. Some things, no matter how much they change, will remain the same.

I want you to stay.

You don’t tell him that. You don’t think you ever will.

.

Like this, the third time:

Knowing it might be the last. His flight is in six hours.

You don’t cry. Not when he grips your waist. Not when he murmurs promises into your cheek. Not when your orgasm rips through you suddenly and you hold onto him like he is the only thing on earth. Not when it’s over.

Not even when the first rays of sun start to peek from the jagged horizon of Sendai.

.

You’ve already said your goodbyes to Garcia and the managerial staff yesterday, before the whole thing that was Tooru dragging you to his house.

“Lopez will miss you,” he said teasingly, brows still thick and suit still immaculate. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice, but the kid was about as subtle as an elephant.

“Hah,” you quipped. “It would be better if I didn’t say my goodbyes to him, then.”

He waved, then quickly went back to his phone, and you went out of the hotel to find something to give Tooru’s mother. It was the end of another job.

You are woken by unrhythmic thudding. You didn’t even notice you fell asleep. You raise your head from the pillow to come face to face with Tooru, fresh from the shower and buttoning the same clothes he had on yesterday. He sits beside you on your bed.

You wake with a start. “Your flight –?”

“It’s in three hours. I still need to go back to the hotel.”

“Oh,” you say, sitting up, squinting at how the room is too full of sun. You hoped he had missed it and it flew back without him.

“I cooked you breakfast. Will you talk to me?”

“We are talking,” you yawn.

“You have sleep in your eyes.”

You blink, wiping it off. “Oh.”

“I’ll wait for you outside.” Then he closes the door.

Maybe you can stall. Keep him here. Keep him distracted long enough that he misses his plane. It’s a selfish thought you entertain. You’re not selfish enough to follow through in action. You roll off the bed and find it in you to stand up.

You wear an old shirt and an old pair of shorts and trod out after him. You see him standing by the genkan looking as collected as he usually is. His jaw is still relaxed and his frame is still carefree. He looks like he got a full eight hours of sleep. You stand in front of him, a mess that was fucked good last night.

You walk towards him. You see the eyes of the you from the interview Miwa framed look at the scene. Or maybe she’s looking at him. He is nice to look at.

Tooru doesn’t need to ask you because he already knows the answer, but he does. You catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, there for a moment, then gone. “If I told you I wanted us to try, what would you say?”

“That it will be a disaster,” you reply, cutting straight to the heart. There’s no use in candying words for this. “Long distance from Tokyo and Kyoto is bad enough for some people, and they end up hating each other. I don’t want to hate you.”

He nods. “If I begged–”

“No,” you plead, cupping his jaw. It’s nice to know that he wants this as much as you do, but you won’t let him do that to himself. “Don’t, Tooru. There’s nothing to do. It’s just wrong timing, wrong place. There’s nothing to do.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That I can’t give you what you want.”

Tooru’s always taken more than he can give, and you’ve always given more than you can take. Fundamental differences get murky over time when two people learn to be together. He’s taught you how to take, and you’ve taught him how to give, and now both of you stand in the middle, not really a single person but a mix of odd pieces of each other. An impasse.

“It’s fine. I can’t give you what you want either, so we’re even.”

“Huh,” he huffs. He snorts, “Seduction.”

Two days. It was wishful thinking that was hoping for more. Still, still, still – is it better than nothing? Was it worth it? With him, you think naively, like a little girl in love for the first time all over again, it is. “Short-lived, but well-lived. Take care of yourself over there.”

“Don’t stay up all night,” he reminds you. “Eat well. Don’t–”

You nod, rolling your eyes. “Eat eggs, I know.”

He’s saying goodbye, you realize. When he leaves the second time, he won’t come back again. “You’ll keep scratching yourself, and your skin will be irritated. One egg isn’t worth all the blister marks.”

“Bye, Tooru.” You slap a smile on your face, but your voice wavers. You want to scream, and to cry, and to beg him to stay, and to tell him you’re willing to try. You don’t do it, in the end. Neither does he. If you two could joke about it, you’d tell each other you are the paragon of maturity.

“Bye.”

He walks down the hall, turns right, and then he’s gone.

You said goodbye to him too, ten years ago. You didn’t ask him to stay back then either, but you did ask him to come back. You were seventeen and in love with a boy that was already out of reach. You didn’t ask him to come back this time. You wonder if it’s better or worse that you didn’t. It doesn’t matter either way. You still had your heart broken, and he is still gone.

How stupid, that after the span of a decade and an ocean and a second try at the same set of crossroads, the outcome is still the same.

You close the door. Breakfast is laid out on the table: miso, mackerel, Miwa’s seaweed, and rice. You expected him to cook you pancakes, or whatever it is they ate, over there.

.

You sleep through it, their departure, catching up on all the hours that you lost and made up with through very strong coffee. You sleep a good 12 hours, dreamless and at peace.

He goes away and life comes back to its usual swing. You go to Sakura’s house, complete with her flowers, her husband, her dog, and her baby Kaori. Kaori isn’t a baby anymore though, as she takes quick, wobbly steps towards you and tells you to Up! Up!

“She doesn’t walk, she runs,” Sakura complains. “I swear, she fell on her face ten times this week.”

“Oh? Really?” you babble to the kid more than to her. You make a face and she laughs. “Maybe you’ll be a runner. An athlete. Mhmm? A trackstar. My little trackstar.”

She gurgles in glee. You tell Ren to come over, because Ren works at law and has her own time too. You send Shiori some pictures to make her jealous. She texts back a minute later.

Shiori, 11:33 AM:  How was I supposed to know 8 month old babies can’t eat chocolate! And she was fine! She was happy! Let me come overrrr.

The days bleed into each other, and as slowly as they passed while Tooru was here, life picks up pace again. You’re back to translating American movies, television shows, staying up with Miwa at the office. She buys you red wine that neither of you have the guts to open, so it stays untouched at the bottom of the refrigerator. It’s an impending headache disguised as celebration you’re not yet ready to go through.

Mateo Lopez requests to follow you on Instagram out of the blue. You accept it after three days of careful deliberation, and three days hoping he’ll retract it. He doesn’t, and it’s becoming rude to keep him waiting, so you click the little blue button that says accept and follow him back.

It’s mostly pictures of movies, the flowers at the local coffee shop, you and Miwa at the beach, and occasionally your face. If he’s diligent enough to scroll back to 2012, he’ll see one picture of you and Tooru taken with a rickety first generation phone. You’re wearing your old yukata with the dahlias, and he is wearing his with the white stripes. Your head is on his shoulder and his arm is around you, both of you grinning like fools under the stars of tanabata.

.

You receive your paycheck that night. It’s big enough that it buys you a pair of new shoes to replace the one that got wet because of the rain. You make your way to the uranaishi’s stall, hand coming up to your neck to tie your scarf. It’s pink tonight. He hasn’t returned your favorite one.

“How’s it looking?” you ask her.

She stares at you in surprise, “Hopeful, actually.”

You pout and she laughs, and winter creeps up on the trees. You see Issei at the grocery store again.

He waves a hand in hello from across the aisle with fresh fish. You wave back, and just as quickly, move your cart so you can pay for your things and leave. You don’t want to talk to Matsukawa Issei yet, or any of the people that remind you of Tooru, but it’s Hanamaki Takahiro’s face that greets you as you whip left.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says without preamble. “But the milk you got is expiring tomorrow.”

You blink. You read the lid. “Oh, thanks.”

“Oikawa’s been extra whiny lately,” he tells you conversationally. “Have you been talking?”

You remind yourself to put the milk back. “We haven’t been talking.”

“Maybe that’s why.” Hanamaki places his words in a carefully nonchalant tone, but you know they know, and whatever Tooru’s been telling them, it’s enough to cause worry on their part. You’re about to make some excuse about needing to head back quickly, but someone stops you.

Shiori sees you and walks closer, holding a can of mushrooms. “Oi! Pinky!”

“Still not letting that go?” he whines, and Shiori teases him again.

This is home. It’s like he wasn’t even here at all.

But that’s a lie. The walls of the city remind you of Tooru more and more. If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine he’s with you right now, pushing the cart and asking if he could put in a million unnecessary things. If you turn, he’ll slide his hand around your waist and show you a can of peanut butter only to ask if it’s too expensive, then Matsukawa will pull him over to where the fishes are and tell him the ugliest one looks like him. He’ll bring up how Hanamaki’s kitten scratched him, and Hanamaki wouldn’t listen, and they’d call Iwaizumi who’s at Tokyo, and you and Shiori would laugh while they do an unplanned skit like a bag of fools.

This is home, and if the edges of his smile are here, you wonder what he’s left with over there.

.

“Couldn’t you try long distance?” Shiori asks as you walk her to her in laws, cicadas chirping. There are still a few people on the street, and the two of you make way for an older lady.

“No, that’s tiring. Do you even know anyone who can make that work?”

She sounds apologetic, “No, they all broke up.”

Your hands, interlocked, swing back and forth. You shrug noncommittally. “Besides, long distance is… short term. When one of you will follow. No one’s following, and no one’s coming home.”

“I wish you told us,” she sighs.

“It’s not that important.”

Shiori’s getting married, and her mother in law’s a monster if the monster were ten times worse. Ren has work and is getting shuttled from one high profile case to another. Sakura can’t conceive again. She told you in that afternoon with Kaori. They’ve been trying, but they can’t. The doctors said there was something that went wrong after the first pregnancy, something jumbled up inside her and it’s been making her think that she somehow failed. She cried to you that afternoon, and you held her hand and stroked her hair because there’s nothing you could say that could make it better.

Your high school crush coming back and breaking your heart all over again seems to be the least important thing of all things in the universe.

She sighs like she’s read your mind. “But Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world.”

“You’re about to have a husband,” you remind her. You point at the scary-looking gate.

Shiori’s living with her in-laws, and their house is larger than most. You squint at the orchard that obstructs the front lawn from view. It looks like a house for snobs, and Shiori knows it.

“He’s inside.”

“So?”

You snort. Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world. Sakura said that back in first year after seeing him for the first time. He was something else. Smart, handsome, good at sports. It was like the heavens crafted the perfect boy and gave him to Seijoh as a gift. He was already charming back then, and soon enough a fanbase emerged, and girls wouldn’t stop sending him gifts, and the rest was history.

You scrunch your nose in tentative agreement. “He is, isn’t he? Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world.”

Oikawa Tooru came back again and brought a hurricane with him. Oikawa Tooru is the most important boy in the world, but he is still just a boy. You want him to come home, to stay, but not because of you.

You want him to stay because his friends are here. You want him to stay because he finally realizes he’s all alone over there. You want him to stay because he can be closer to his parents here, to his niece and nephew, spoil them as much as he wants. You want him to stay because he finally forgives himself for whatever he lacked in the past. You want him to stay because he finally realizes that it’s possible to not forsake happiness for dreams. You want him to stay because he finally admits that he misses home.

You can’t be the one to make him see that.

“Will Miwa be there when you get back?” she asks, footfalls stopping once you reach the gate. She’s been stalling. You give her a look that says if you want to run away, I’ll cover your tracks.

You nod. “Mhmm.”

She nods. “Tell her to take care of you.”

Shiori hugs you goodbye.

.

The years have colluded your sense of romance. There used to be a time when you thought it was romantic to be serenaded, or to be proposed to in public. Now, rose petals and intricate acts and public confessions seem watered down to you, a last ditch attempt to hide a failing relationship. Who cleans up the rose petals? Who has that much time to think about how to make a confession unique? What if the person being proposed to refuses?

You’ve seen a thousand films, and most of them are about love. You get surprised at how love can be written and rewritten and still come to the same ending, at how many forms it can take, how many stories it can tell.

In films, there are surprises. In winter, there is the never ending cold of the street. In the end, it’s about give and take, and pulling weight.

There is a singular message that pops up on your phone. Your back is slumped on the chair and the glare of your computer screen is starting to hurt your eyes. The office is quiet. Miwa headed home an hour ago. There’s a crumpled bottle of Monster energy on your desk. Another love story, and you can’t help but enjoy it better than the last.

Unknown number, 3:02 AM:  Are you still awake?

Unknown number, 3:02 AM:  If I asked you out to dinner next week, would you accept?

You, 3:02 AM:  Who’s this?

Unknown number, 3:03 AM:  Ouch. Ouchhhh. It’s the best you’ve ever had.

You, 3:03 AM:  I blocked my college boyfriend on my cell.

Unknown number, 3:03 AM:  GAHHHHH

Unknown number, 3:03 AM:  Can I call?

“Hello,” says the voice on the other line.

“Aren’t international calls expensive?” you say, but what you want to say, really is, I miss you, I love you, we can try, come home… come back to me. You look at the caller ID quickly, but it’s him, you know. Unmistakable.

“No, not if I get to talk to you,” he replies smoothly. You trample down a smile like some lovesick idiot. “Have you heard of Tachibana Red Falcons?”

You leave your pen and start twirling in the office chair. “Um, I guess. Not really.”

You hear him laugh a bit, then you hear him grunt like he’s flopped down a bed. “Yeah, so they offered me a contract a while back, and I’m thinking about taking it.”

“That’s… here?”

“That’s there,” he agrees. “I’ll play, maybe, four months a year? With conditioning and training time and everything. I don’t think they let players play for leagues in other countries but…”

“You’re special?” you suggest. Your heart is at your throat.

“My bargaining skills are fantastic. Then I’ll play the rest with San Juan and the Federation.”

“Oh,” you reply, not yet trusting yourself to form the right words.

“Maybe four months a year is better than nothing.”

Hesitance coats his voice, and the question goes unspoken. Is four months better than nothing? If I asked you out to dinner, would you accept? If I tried, would you let me?

“Oh,” you say again. You understand. You understand completely.

“Is this fine?” he asks from the other end of the call, from the other end of the world.

“Tooru, it’s –” you stammer. “If you don’t want to–”

“I miss you,” he admits. Like he did back at the train, and like you did back at the train, you believe him. “I miss home. I’ve been away for too long. I – I miss you.”

Your heart soars, you blink and a smile breaks from your lips, leaning back on the swivelling chair, nothing else but Tooru’s voice keeping you company in the empty office room. “Then hurry back.”

.

“Mama,” you start softly. “Remember when you told me to keep Tooru close? You were right.”

Your mother’s grave stares at you. Cracks are beginning to hug the stone, cracks that remind you an awful lot of her smile, the wrinkles on her face. Mama taught you about the strings, and the cards, and how fate deals people hands. Maybe she knew about him all along. You’ve never had her gift for it, but you like where it ends nonetheless.

Tooru appears from the corner of the old sakura tree, coat on and a sprinkle of white of snow sitting atop his head. He’s dressing warmly now. He doesn’t have the luxury of being not wrapped enough now that it’s winter. He lays down a small clump of white peonies and a box of zunda mochi in front of her, then he lights the incense candles without a word.

You look at him fondly. “Here he is now, at my beck and call.”

“Psh,” he huffs, but he doesn’t argue further. The string of smoke is starting to dance up.

You squat down beside him. “She always liked you, you know. Whenever we fought, she told me, ‘Go apologize to that poor boy. I’m sure it’s your fault because you have a sharp mouth and a bad temper.’”

“You did have a sharp mouth and a bad temper.”

“How ‘bout now?” you pout.

Tooru kisses your lips. Then he puts the back of his palm on your forehead. You blink. All around, Sendai is like a snow globe, a world suspended in cold. A snowflake lands on the tip of his nose. “Soft mouth, good temper.”

You smile, standing up. You wipe it away quickly with your thumb. “Let’s go?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

You look at him, the way he’s crouched by the headstone. “Don’t make my mother love you more than she loves me.”

He shoots you a grin. “I can’t help it.”

You walk the cemetery, the familiar curve of the pathway, the familiar beat of the graves. Some tombs are cleaned, while others are swallowed by a mix of snow and fallen leaves. You wrap your hands around yourself, hearing footfalls, then the crunch of grass under a shoe.

“Cold?” Tooru asks.

“A bit,” you admit, moving closer. He opens his arms so you can nuzzle the fuzz of his coat by the side. The irony of it isn’t lost on you. He was the one who was shivering and trembling not a year ago. He’s a fast learner, or maybe all that was a ploy so you’d let him hold your hand.

“Wait,” he mutters, pulling out your green scarf out of nowhere. Maybe a pocket. How big are his pockets? He wraps it around your neck. One twine, then two, then three. He pinches your nose. “There. Better?”

“All better.” You start hesitantly, “So I was thinking…”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and move closer. “I was thinking, since you’re going back tomorrow, and I did buy a ticket…”

He looks at you, chin down and eyes wide in surprise. He keeps his cool. He didn’t know you bought a ticket. “Mhmm?”

You suggest, Tooru’s arm around you, “You could show me my sunroom?”

At seventeen: You’ve given more than you could take, and he’d taken more than he could give. At twenty-eight: He taught you how to demand, and you taught him how to offer. At twenty-nine: love, at the heart of things, is the stupid exchange gift he insists on doing every Christmas. It’s mostly composed of useless coupons and fast food chain toys, but he laughs like an idiot and wears red like he’s some sort of town mascot.

You love him terribly, your first love, walking with you now on the snow.

.

fin

[thebadgerclan]

NSFW Alphabet: Cedric Diggory

Requested by Anonymous

Smut!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Regardless of if the sex was rough and kinky or slow and passionate, Cedric always takes care of you after sex.  He’ll run you a bath, heal any marks he left (if you want), get you something to drink/eat, hold you, anything you need

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Cedric likes your tummy, regardless of its size.  He loves using it as a pillow, he loves running his hands over it, pressing kisses to it before he eats you out.  He likes his hands, specifically his fingers.  How they can stretch you out and make you come, how they feel when holding your hand, how you sometimes like to suck on them

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Cedric won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, but he 100% prefers coming inside you rather than on your belly/thighs.  Of course, if you ask him not to, he won’t, but it just adds another element to sex

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Cedric likes to sniff your panties after you take them off, especially when you’re horny and wet for him

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s not the innocent Hufflepuff he seems to be, Cedric knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s had a fair few partners (both male and female)

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Cedric LOVES it when you ride him, it lets you control the pace, he can penetrate you deeper, and he gets to watch you fuck yourself.  That being said, he often grips your hips and thrusts up into you too

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Cedric is serious 98% of the time, he just doesn’t see the appeal of giggly sex

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Cedric has a thick patch of dense hair above the base of his cock, but he keeps it trimmed

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Cedric always tells you how beautiful/pretty/gorgeous you are and how much he loves you, regardless of if the sex is rough or not.  Even if he’s fucking you like a back alley whore, he’s going to tell you how much he loves you and how well you’re doing for him

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Far less than he did before he was with you, but Cedric still masturbates a fair amount.  After quidditch practice, in the showers, when there’s too much tension built up, and there’s no time to drag you into a dorm and fuck you senseless, he’ll indulge himself.  But he obviously prefers you to his hand

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Domination, edging, orgasm denial, bondage, teasing, praise

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

The prefect’s bathroom, his dorm (he has one to himself), the quidditch locker rooms.  All places where he can take his time with you and with a low risk of getting caught

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

When you bat your lashes at him, when you tease him or act innocent (bc he knows you’re nowhere near innocent), seeing you in his clothes

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Cedric does not share.  You’re his and his alone, no one else gets to see you naked and moaning for him.  In a poly relationship, this obviously doesn’t apply, as he’d be involved with the other person as well, but Cedric will not do a casual threesome

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This man LOVES eating you out. He’ll happily lie between your thighs for hours, licking and sucking at your cunt, making you come as many times as you physically can.  He’s talented too, knowing exactly where to lick to make you scream

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Ced can do both, but he’s more likely to fuck you hard and fast.  Sensual sex happens a lot too, but I’d day 60% of the time, it’s faster and rougher

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’s all for them.  Cedric isn’t afraid to pull you into a broom closet, hike up your skirt, push your panties aside, and have his way with you

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Cedric is willing to take risks, as long as he knows you’ll both be safe.  He’ll fuck you in empty classrooms, try out new kinks, but if you’re not into it, it’s not happening

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Cedric can last for 3 rounds, making you come at least twice per round.  I HC that he can come more than once without getting soft, and he definitely uses that to his advantage

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He has a vibrator, some restraint, and a flogger, but nothing more than that.  Toys, in Cedric’s opinion, are meant to enhance pleasure, not take a partner’s place

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Cedric can tease like nothing else. He’ll make you blush so fiercely in public that people think you’re sick, he’ll edge you for hours until you’re sobbing, he’ll make you beg for him to so much as look at you.  But it’s worth it for the pleasure he gives you in return

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Cedric moans rather loud, which is why there’s a permanent silencing charm on his dorm

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

The two of you once got caught by Percy, shagging in a classroom.  “I���” he stammered.  “I… No,” was all he said

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

A good 7-8 inches, thick and veiny

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Cedric will fuck you every night if you want him to.  He’s ready to go almost whenever

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He always makes sure you’re alright first, but usually it takes him 15ish minutes to fall asleep

[jenoismydad]

hii can request a nsfw a to z with chenle ??

NSFW A TO Z

Pairing: Chenle x Reader

Genre: Smut; Headcanon

Words: 1.67k

Warnings: 18+ content. Please read at your own discretion.

»»————-　➴　————-««

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

I feel like Chenle’s the type to really use up all his energy while having sex. So he’ll try his best to tend to your needs. But because he’s so exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep, it may not be the best aftercare ever. Like he won’t pamper you or anything, instead simply pull you into his side and go to sleep.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On your body I believe he likes your breasts and neck. Seeing the way the way your breasts bounce as he’s fucking you is a rather captivating sight. Basically he likes staring at your tits. As for your neck, I see him dipping or burying his face there when he’s really into the sex. So yeah, those are his favourite body parts of yours. One himself, i believe he’d like what you like. Meaning the place where you touch the most, if that’s his back then he likes his back. If its his neck then he likes his neck. So his favourite body part on himself depends on what you like the most.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Things are pretty simple when it comes to cumming. He won’t go through the hassle of having to pull out but instead, he’ll finish right inside of you. Again, I feel like Chenle’s really one to lose himself while having sex, get lost in the pleasure and what not. That being said, I don’t think he has enough control over himself to have a strong pull out game if that makes sense. Plus, I also feel like he’d be very keen on using protection so it probably won’t be that big of a problem.

D = Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of theirs)

I can’t really think of anything lmao i’m sorry (i’ve been writing this for three days)

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Little to none. I don’t think Chenle spent much of his adolescent years watching porn. He might have a generic understanding of sex and how to do things but I don’t think he was ever too invested in all of that stuff. Needs are needs after all and he can’t control whatever he feels so I believe that whatever experience he does have will come from spending time with you. He’ll learn about your body, your likes and dislikes and at the same time learn his own preferences as well.

F = Favourite Position (What positions you tend to use the most)

Missionary. Simple is the best after all and this way Chenle can really ‘adjust’ things are he desires. If he wants to speed up or go deeper he can easily do so. If you want him to slow down then he again can do it without a problem. He has good control in this position, plus, its equally satisfying for the both of you.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Everything starts out in a very light hearted mood. He’ll laugh and tease, totally not serious. But the more he invests himself in the sex, starts chasing both your highs, that’s when he’ll get more serious. 

H = Hair (How well groomed are they)

Sometimes it’ll all be there and sometimes there’ll be nothing to see. He doesn’t care about his pubes to be honest and he obviously does not mind how you chose to groom yourself. He might trim or shave it all off if he feels like it, but if he happens to not have done so, then he won’t shy away from you.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Sex doesn’t = love making to him. Like it won’t be too intimate but more on the light hearted and goofy side of things like I said before. He just wants to have fun at you. Its all about having a good time. 

J = Jack Off (How often do they tend to masturbate)

With you around, I’d say not a lot. I don’t see Chenle masturbating regularly to be honest. Only if he’s in a position where he’s super horny and he can’t be with you, he’d just go in the shower and try to relieve himself to the best of his abilities. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

There’s not much that I can think of as of now besides teasing and edgings. Again I think whatever kinks he has are pretty mild. 

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

The bed or the couch. He doesn’t wanna be in some cramped space. Sex should be comfortable and hence it must be done somewhere where you have enough space to move around. 

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Making out with you. For starters I think he’d get super carried away while making out with you, so it would always lead to more. Other than that I think it would be pretty random. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Roleplay is the biggest no no for him. Mostly because he’d just find it super cringey. Other than that he wouldn’t want to do anything too odd. 

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He most definitely loves receiving oral over giving it, simply because he believes his giving skills are still a bit lacking. Fingering you is fine but he feels like he’s super awkward when it comes to eating you out. Of course you’d beg to differ. He doesn’t mind giving you oral, he just doesn’t think he’s too good at it. 

P = Pace (How fast do they go)

He’s the type to mix it up. He’ll be going super slow one second and the next he’s just ramming into you. Sometimes the change of pace may seem a bit abrupt but he’s working on his stroke game so cut him some slack.

Q = Quickie (Do they prefer proper sex over quickies and how often does it happen)

I see him really enjoying quickies, especially because he gets to see how fast he can make you cum. Really fuels his self confidence. I feel like quickies would mostly be initiated by him and they could happen anytime anywhere. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

The riskiest thing I see him ever wanting to try out is like semi public sex. For example car sex or having sex in a restroom or a janitor’s closet. Basically some place where you guys are concealed but might get caught in. But that’s the farthest he’d be willing to go. As for experimenting, Chenle seems like the type of person who’d judge a book by its cover so if he doesn’t like the sound of something then he wouldn’t be inclined to try it out. 

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

It differs from time to time. Most of what goes into it is how much energy he has in himself before the sex. Still, I feel like he’ll always strive to go on longer than he thinks he can. Sometimes it can be two rounds and sometimes its only one. As for how long he lasts, that again, depends on how much he’s previously been stimulated. For example, if you give him head and then proceed to fuck him he wouldn’t last as long as compared to if you were to directly skip to fucking him. So from start to end I think an average of 15 minutes.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He most definitely does not own any toys and I don’t think he’d ever decide to use or buy one for himself. However if you’ve got a collection of toys that you use for yourself I think he’d definitely want to try them out on you out of complete curiosity of their workings. But this would only be a one time thing. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He definitely has fun teasing you. He thinks your desperate reactions to his touch are hilarious. At the same time it makes him feel like he has some type of dominance over you, and he likes that very much. This being said, I also believe that Chenle can get kinda impatient during sex so even if he does tease you, he won’t keep it going on for too long. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

While actually fucking you I don’t think he’d make many noises. Maybe an occasional grunt or groan, but nothing too loud. When he’s close to cumming however, I believe he lets out like these loud groans, kinda whiny but also a bit raspy. He also probably lets out a lot of jagged breaths which are more audible when you’re giving him head or something like that.

W = Wild Card (something random)

still can’t think of anything…sorry :(

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Why do I feel like he’s got a pretty average dick. Not too long and not too short, just the right size. He’ll be more on the slender side as opposed to being girthy. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

I feel like Chenle can keep it under control. Like he won’t get turned on unless he genuinely wants to. Still, I do believe that he’d have a reasonable yearning for sex. Maybe like three times in a month and only when he’s super duper horny. 

Z = ZZZ (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Almost immediately after. Again, as I said before, I think he’d really use up all of his energy while having sex. Once he finishes he’ll be completely drained and exhausted. So obviously, it won’t take him too long to fall asleep. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Tied With a Bow

A Holiday Drabble! I wrote this on my break so hope y’all enjoy it (please let me know what you think!)

Warnings: nonconsent/rape, kidnapping, mentions of stalking.

You open your eyes but the world remains black. You smell a fire and hear the crackle; the warmth waver against your bare legs. Your jeans are gone, the rest of your clothes too. All that hides your body is an unseen bra that tickles the front of your breasts and a thin, barely discernable thong.

You shiver. Your blindfold is thin and cool. A thick length of ribbon knotted at the back of your head. 

You remember slivers of what came before. Christmas Eve. You just finished up with your mother for the night. Your parents left the next morning for a Caribbean getaway and you were content at a quiet day to yourself. 

You never made it home. You recall that much. The footsteps just behind you and a glimpse back revealing nothing more than the snowy yard and your parents' glowing decorations.

It happened in the car. The engine rumbled and you drove off without haste. You remember a rustle behind you and suddenly a hand around your mouth. You lost control and it all went black.

Then you were here. You sit there for what feels like forever in the din of the fireplace flickering on the other side of your blindfold. You smelled pine and felt the nip of snow as it rattled the windows. 

Then voices. Deep, unfamiliar. You hold your breath and wriggle in the chair. Your hands are bound behind you and your ankles to the wide legs, you can do nothing but listen as the strangers come nearer.

"If you weren't do damn late," the words grow clearer and your veins sear with adrenaline, 

"Your present's just in there."

You're frantic as footsteps sound on the floor.

"Oh? You actually got me something this year?" A sardonic chuckle dies halfway as the steps stop. "Buck?" His tone turns to surprise.

"All yours," the other man responds, "a few scratches but she's in good shape."

"How--" he clears his throat, "wait..." suddenly the footsteps are marching towards you. You panic and struggle to free yourself. The chair rocks and is caught before it can fall over. A hand grabs your chin and stills you. "It's...her? You know?"

"All those solo missions. Always distracted. You usually catch on when I tail you but," the clap makes you flinch, "Surprising but I suppose you need something."

The hand falls away and you feel the stranger move past you. "And?"

"And what?"

"You don't think I'm crazy?"

"She's cute. Sweet. Hell, if I'd seen her first, I might have been the same way." A sniff between words. "How did you find her anyway?"

"Just... chance. I..." the man is hesitant. You're petrified. He's been watching you but you don't know who he is. "She has a family. They'll look for her."

"Let me worry about that," a snicker.

"I..." he's breathless as your heart is pounding. 

"Hear that," the other taunts, "go on and introduce yourself. Maybe she won't be so nervous."

There's a silence and you sense more movement. He's in front of you, you know it even though you can't see him. He says your name and you scrunch your nose to keep from crying. 

"Get away from me," you utter, "go!"

"Sweetie," he touches your knee and you try to shake him off. His hand grips you tighter. "I'm not going to hurt you." He sighs. "What did you do to her? You have to tie her up like this?"

"Got in a bit of a bender but she's fine," the other assures, "you can untie her but she's your problem then."

The man lets go of your knee and reaches around your head to untie the ribbon. He kneels before you as he looks you over, rubbing the ribbon between his fingers. You know him. You've seen him before, but never in person.

Steve Rogers is even bigger in real life. He smiles. Those blue eyes that always seem warm in pictures are startling.

"Please, let me go," you whine.

His brow twitches and he tilts his head; confused, pleading, you cannot tell. But you know from that look he won't oblige.

"You're scared?" He leans back on his heels. "You know who I am?" He watches you and all you can do is gape back at him. He holds out his hand. "I'm Steve."

He realises his mistake as you only blink at him and he drops his hand. He rubs his palms together and hesitates before he stands.

"I'm sorry about my friend," he looks to the doorway, "Buck, can you get her a blanket?"

The other man huffs but you hear him go. Steve turns to the fire and stoops to move a log from the metal basket onto the dwindling embers. He turns back and shifts his weight on his feet.

"I... I want to untie you but you can't run." He says carefully.

"If you think I'm going to run, why would you want me to stay?" You hiss.

"You can," the other man speaks as he enters. "One of us will catch you."

You glance over your shoulder as he nears and hands Steve the blanket. He watches and lets out a breath.

"I dress her up all nice for you and you’re coverin' her up?" he tuts.

You recognise him too. Captain America's ever loyal sidekick, Bucky Barnes. He grins as he meets your gaze and winks.

"Isn't she cute? Maybe I should have put her in white." Bucky sneers and smacks Steve's shoulder.

"You're scaring her," Steve smacks him with his knuckles, “sweetie," he turns back to you, "will you be good if I untie you?"

You look between him and Bucky. You squirm and blink away another wave of terror.

"Please," you whisper at first then repeat yourself louder.

Steve nods and rounds you. You feel him picking at your binds as Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Don't say I didn't try to help," Bucky grumbles and goes to the fireplace. "Any plans for her? I'm sure you've been thinking about it for a while."

"Enough, Buck," your hands fall loose and Steve comes back around to free your ankles. He looks up at you. "Please, don't listen to him."

You don't say anything. The whole situation is too confusing. Surreal. Your ankles come away from the chair legs and you slide forward. Steve stands and catches you by your shoulders before you can stand.

"You okay?" He plays with the fringe at the edge if the blanket as it rests over your shoulder. 

You sit back and shrug away his touch.

"I don't understand," you say, "I really don't."

"I didn't think it would be like this--" Steve is interrupted by a scoff and sends Bucky a sharp look. The latter raises his brows and strolls from the room with a sarcastic salute. 

Steve backs away and you watch as he passes the chair you sit in to sit on the long sofa. He pats the spot beside him.

"Can we talk?" He asks as if you could day no.

You rise and sweep the blanket around you before it can fall. You near him and sit as far from him as you can.

"I didn't think he would... it's my fault. I just could never build up the to-- to--" he looks down bashfully and drags his nail along the faded denim along his thigh. "To say hello."

"How do you... know me?" You ask.

"MrsRogersTeddy?" He smiles as his eyes flick up. The username, almost forgotten,  has you pressing yourself against the arm. You shake your head at him in disbelief.

"I haven't posted in years," you murmur, "how..."

"Well, that's why I went looking. The blog was inactive but I love your stories. They're so good."

"They're trash. Sometimes you just get so bored that living in dumb fantasies is better than anything in the real world. They were just stupid fics. They didn't..." his face falls and you speak slower, realising you've said you much, "mean anything."

He frowns and sits back, deflated. His fingers tap on his jeans. “They mean something to me.” He says deliberately. Slowly, he turns. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know you,” you regret your words the moment they hang in the air before you.

“Then why would you write about me? Why?” The vein in his forehead sticks out and his jaw squares. “I don’t get it.” He grabs you before you can react and pulls you to him. The blanket slips between your bodies. “You wrote about us!”

“No, no, they were all made up. It wasn’t about--”

“Shhhh,” he hushes you as his hand stretches across your throat. He flexes his fingers as he pushes you onto your back and lowers himself with you. He crushes you beneath him as he frames your faces with his hand. “You love me.”

“No,” you murmur, “Steve…”

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh as you stare up into his eyes. His pupils dilate and he smashes his lips into yours.

You push against his chest, the blanket twists at your waist. The bra, a dark blue with white fur trim, threatens to reveal all. His hand brushes down your neck and arm as he traces the length of your body to your hips. He pulls your leg around him as he moves between your thighs.

A rush of panic rises within and you whimper into his mouth. Your head is spinning and you can’t breath. You can barely think. You’re trapped with a stranger. Smothered by THE Captain America. And for days, weeks, months, who knows, he’s been stalking you. You never knew. How could you? It was unthinkable.

He draws away and gazes down at you. “Say you want me,” he purrs.

Your lips part but you can’t speak. He doesn’t wait anyway as he kisses you again. He’s tugging at the thin string of the thong, exploring your body with his hands. He shoves his thumb beneath the cup of the bra and teases your nipple. He grinds against you like a puritan.

You gasp as you turn your head away. You gulp for breath as his lips continue to your throat. He’s ravenous, unstoppable. He’s kissing, nipping, and sucking your flesh. You grasp at his thick bicep and claw at his firm chest. He is immovable but you are not.

His hand slides along your pelvis. The thong is scrunched from the friction of your bodies. He hums as he grazes your cunt with his fingertips. He nuzzles your neck and fumbles with his fly.

“No,” you beg, “Steve, please…” you’re desperate. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I’m not,” he groans as he wriggles and pushes down the top of his jeans and rolls down the elastic of his briefs. He struggles for a moment and you refuse to look anywhere but the ceiling. “I’m not, I’m not…” he recites more to himself than you.

You kick your heels into his legs but he doesn’t even flinch. His hand is still moving between you. You feel him prod along your soft thigh. You writhe, you need him off of you. You’re sweating, stolid. You’ve never been so afraid. He drags his cock against your folds.

“Steve--”

He claps his hand over your mouth and enters you in a single thrust. You exclaim into his palm as he shakes and holds himself deep in you. His head hangs beside yours and his fingers curl as he muffles your distress.

He rocks his hips carefully. You squeeze him between your thighs unable to do much else. It hurts how full you are. Each time he tilts, he’s deeper inside you. Your walls cling to him and you close your eyes to the world. You want to forget where you are but you can’t as he brings you back each time he moves.

His tempo builds steadily. You ache; for him, because of him. Your body rebels as your mind shouts for rescue. There is no escape. You are caught in his embrace; in his scent.

He lifts himself and his hand falls away from your mouth. You bare your teeth as he pins your shoulders and holds himself over you. He slams his hips down and you yelp. Your lashes flutter open and you see a beast atop you. He is not the saviour painted across glossy magazines and inky newspapers. He is a man, base and bestial.

His flesh slaps loudly against yours. You peek down at the joining of your bodies, his shirt rides up on his firm stomach as the thong digs into your skin. Your tits are out as the bra slides further down your arms and torso. 

He growls and your eyes meet. He hums but not for long, instead grunting with each thrust. He licks his lips as his gaze ventures down. He sits back and holds your hips. You cover your face with your arm. You’re cumming. You don’t want to but you can’t stop the tide that swirls around you. You’re drowning. You’re lost. You cannot find your way back in the storm.

His voice is louder. His groans carnal. He raises your left leg to rest against his chest. He hugs it as your muscles strain. You’re quaking, the entire couch is trembling. He bites his knuckles to stifle a cry. He bucks wildly as he spills into you.

When he is still, you feel as if you are still moving. Your thighs tingle and your vision clouds. He drops your leg and bends over you as he catches his breath. He blindly cradles your face as his breath washes over your chest.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” a shadow appears behind him. You see Bucky watching you with a grin. “So… where’s my present?”

[jimlingss]

Maybe Baby Retreat

➜ Words: 12.7k

➜ Genres: 50% Fluff, 50% Smut

➜ Summary: In an attempt to conceive, Taehyung discovers a five day retreat dedicated to help with the impregnation process but you're fairly certain that the entire thing is a scam.

[Day One]   Taehyung should be fucking you.   It’s a bit crass to be grumbling that he’s not sticking his sperm in you, but your fertile window begins today and if he really wants a kid as much as he says he does, you wouldn’t be on a godforsaken bus.    The yellow school bus jumps and jolts as it goes down the jagged, unpaved road. Every bump is felt in the back by ten folds as you’re rocked from side to side on the seat and not on your husband’s dick. Said man is too busy singing along with the guide that’s living it up with a mic in hand and his voice on the intercom. He’s trying to bring up the morale, but you’re not having it.   Instead, you turn to the window and stare out at the empty countryside that stretches across the horizon. There’s not a car in sight and if you swear to god if you’re being shipped to a serial killer’s farmhouse, you’re dragging Taehyung down to hell with you.   “You’re frowning, sweetheart,” he says while leaning over to you, flashing a blazing grin much to your chagrin. “You know stress isn’t good for the baby.”   “It’s not like it matters. There is no baby.”   “Not yet.” Taehyung throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him as you scoff. You’re aware being a Debbie Downer isn’t going to help anyone but it’s hard to loosen up when you’re so on guard and skeptical about this whole thing. When you’re surrounded by noisy strangers who are all too overfamiliar.   You suppose it was your fault to begin with.   All those nights of staying up to read about tricks and tips of conceiving led Taehyung to discover the Baby Retreat. A five day sanctuary that ensures people will be able to conceive.    The moment you saw it, you were certain that the whole thing was a scam, but your sweet summer child husband was wholly convinced and no matter what you said, it wouldn’t change his mind.   “Who knows, it might actually work, right?! And if it doesn’t, then it looks fun anyway! When was the last time we had a vacation together?”   It’s also your fault for being so soft. You couldn’t shut Taehyung down when he was so enthusiastic, so here you are. You took off a week off work and on your fertile day, you’re shipped onto a school bus out into the middle of nowhere.   “Oh! Looks like we’re here, folks!” The vehicle slows as it turns into the gravel parking lot and the guide smiles as he peers out the windshield. “Welcome to the Baby Retreat! I hope you leave with a few buns in the oven! And if not, then don’t worry, you can still eat for two here!”   There’s a few snickers and once the bus parks, everyone gets up, slowly shuffling out and stretching their legs.   The air is sweltering hot and the sun beams down onto the back of your neck, making it uncomfortable to breathe. You’re panting with sweat built on your hairline as you drag your luggage through the grass. But no one seems bothered by it. Maybe because they’re excited that they’re here, they have the energy to fill the field with their chatter.    Even Taehyung is grinning and he’s a certified whiner when it comes to hot weather. The guy blasts the air conditioner during summer until it feels like it’s winter. Though you have an inkling it’s just a tactic so you can cuddle up to him for warmth before bed.   “Come on, slowpoke!” Taehyung breaks through your train of thought and then abandons you by running ahead like a hyperactive five year old.    “I’d be faster if you helped me!” Taehyung doesn’t hear you. You wonder if you married a child — but you suppose that’s why you called him the light of your life during your vows. Like Yoongi once said at the dinner reception, Taehyung’s excessive energy is indeed a double-edged sword.   You follow the stream of people to the center building, a modern wooden structure in the middle of the fifteen yurts that form a circle. It surprisingly looks alike to the advertisements, each with a porch and steps up to the door. The grass is verdant and pliant beneath your feet, the numerous trimmed trees around providing some nice shade and the flower beds give bright splashes of colour to the place. If this retreat wasn’t oddly centered around impregnation, you would’ve been convinced that it was a fancy camping resort.   “Welcome everyone! Welcome to the Baby Retreat! I hope the trip here wasn’t too bad!”   You finally join Taehyung’s side and look towards the stage in front of the main building. There’s a man with a half-moon smile and chubby cheeks in a loose tunic and taupe pants. He stands next to a woman in a baggy poncho holding a ukulele for reasons beyond you.   “I see some familiar faces here! To all those already familiar with the Baby Retreat, welcome home. I’ll try to keep this short and simple, so you’re not too bored.” He claps his hands together with a bright smile. You look around at the crowd to see elated expressions. “My name is Park Jimin and this is my girlfriend, Song Hyunjin. A little about us, we’ve been together for over ten years and yes, we have an open relationship with each other, but that does not mean we aren’t in love with each other.”   He draws her in, nuzzling into her without shame and she giggles. “To our new faces, trust me, you’ll find out soon enough.”   Jimin pulls away with an enormous grin. “We haven’t had any children ourselves, but don’t worry. We’re reproductive endocrinologists with proper training and medical degrees. But we started this retreat four years ago to take a more unconventional approach to reproduction. And for the next five days, we have the honour of hopefully helping you ladies conceive and you males impregnate your partner!”   There’s some exchanged smiles and Taehyung looks at you with hopeful eyes. It feels better to hear these people aren’t uneducated and talking out of their ass, but you’re still unsure how to feel.   Hyunjin laughs. “Not only that, our goal is to help you relax and truly deepen your relationship with your partner. While we can’t promise a hundred percent success rate, hopefully you’ll leave this place feeling more refreshed than you did before. With that being said, please feel free to come up and ask us any questions. We’re very open people who are more than happy to help you in your process of expanding your wonderful families. There is nothing more beautiful than pregnancy and birth.”   She jumps off the stage and grabs a wooden crate. With a smile, she begins passing out packs.   Jimin continues, “For the next five days, we’ll be helping everyone improve their diets and exercise habits while getting plenty of vitamin D. What my lovely Hyunjin is handing out now are your survival kits!”    “For men, fenugreek supplements are given to improve your sperm counts and for the ladies, there are prenatal vitamins and folic acid. There’s also a guide to the activities provided around here and a map, some sunscreen and other knick-knacks to remember your time here. Don’t worry, we won’t bombard you with any pregnancy pamphlets or information. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about that.”   It’s a bit refreshing to hear. You’ve been neck deep in research about conception that it’s been hard lately — another reason that you agreed to Taehyung’s whims.   “Are you the Kim family?” Hyunjin asks and when you confirm it, she hands both you and Taehyung cute pouches. You reluctantly take it, but when you thank her, she happily smiles. “Welcome to the Baby Retreat.”   The introduction drags on for a bit more before Hyunjin admits that it’s hot and that everyone’s probably tired, so the meeting ends and you open your pouch and find information on your yurt.   “Not too bad, right?”    Taehyung can tell by the look on your face as you gaze up at your white-tented yurt.   “We’ll see,” you mumble and he takes the luggage, following behind you. “I thought we were going to spend five days in an orange tent, so I guess this is better by default.”   “An orange tent?” He laughs. “But I showed you the commercial! Did you not pay attention?”   “People lie on advertisements all the time, Tae.”   But to your surprise, the interior of the yurt is even better than expected. It looks like a cozy cabin, wooden panel walls that separate the full kitchen from the full bathroom and provides some privacy to where the queen sized bed is. Light comes in from the top, filling the space with luminescence. There’s a mini-fridge filled with goods, plush towels set on the table with a personalized welcome card, down duvets that are soft to the touch.    And it’s wrecked the moment Taehyung jumps on the bed with his arms and legs wide open like a starfish. He rolls over and props his head up with his hand — in the position where he often asks you in a breathy voice to paint him like one of your french girls. And he uses the same voice on you now while wiggling his brows, “Wanna ruin the sheets with me?”   You burst out laughing, but it sounds all too tempting. He could probably dump a load in you within five minutes, though you’re not sure if anyone could hear you from the outside. “Didn’t they say there’s planned activities in an hour? What if we don’t show up.”   “It’s fine. People come here for one reason anyway.” There’s a pause. “To fuck.”   You roll your eyes, setting your suitcase next to the bed and you look at the nightstand to notice mineral oil lubricants. You’re mildly impressed at the details. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”   “They won’t miss us.” Taehyung’s own attention is taken to a wooden basket on a shelf of the irregular shaped bookshelf and he comes over, only to grin when he sees what’s inside. “Honey. I think we should have some fun tonight.”   You turn around, wondering what he’s up to now. But any snarky remarks die on your tongue when you find a leather whip in his left hand and a ten inch, neon pink dildo in his other hand.   “Is that...even sanitary?!”    You can’t imagine how many people have used it.   “We can find out.” Taehyung fiddles around with it, pushes a button and the dildo begins to rotate, making the both of you laugh. “Honey, we gotta give them five stars on Yelp! They have a communal sex toy bin for us to use! We can’t get this anywhere else.”   “Oh god. I’d rather not share my sex toys with anyone.” The two of you are interrupted by muffled folk music that begins to leak inside and it persuades you to go out. “C’mon, we should go check out what they have. If we have to spend five days here, we might as well meet some other people too and be social or whatever.”   Taehyung grins, tossing the dildo back into the basket and joining your side. “You’re liking this place, aren’t you?”   “No. I just think the yurt’s half-decent.”   Taehyung can see right through you, but it’s a bit too early for the ‘told you so’ spiel so he holds back and the both of you step outside of the yurt. There’s a few people hanging around and the weather is more bearable as the sun slowly begins moving and setting over the horizon. You meet friendly newlyweds who are surprisingly having their honeymoon here.   “We just can’t wait to have kids,” Rose, the young twenty three year old, says as she embraces her husband, Hoseok. They’re no strangers to publish displays of affection, openly kissing up on each other. It would make you a bit uncomfortable if not for how touchy Taehyung is as well.   When you first got together all those years ago, your friends teased you about it but it’s been years since. No one’s a stranger to how you plop yourself down on Taehyung’s lap or how he might kiss you and then steal your food right off of your own plate.   “When we saw that the retreat offered a honeymoon package, we just couldn’t resist,” Hoseok says, but you’re not sure if he’s talking to you and Taehyung or his wife with how much he gazes at her. It’s a sweet sight though. You remember that honeymoon period.   “Remember when we were that young?” you ask as you leave to the other side, giving the couple some much needed privacy. It was obvious they weren’t up for more conversation with the way they’re shifting and staring at one another.   “When you were still hot? Yeah. I do—” Taehyung bursts out laughing when you jab him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! You’re still hot, okay? The hottest chick here and you’d make the hottest MILF too.”   “Damn straight.”   The pair of you also run into another couple that’s older and appears a lot more comfortable with the place. “Oh, this is actually our second time here! The first time gave us the four year old troublemaker running amok back at home.”   You blink in surprise, suddenly more interested in the conversation. “This place...worked for you?”   “It sure did.” The woman, Dahyun, smiles. “Some people didn’t have as much luck as we did, but we had so much fun last time that we knew we just had to come back. We were actually staying in your yurt last time.”   She points and you swivel your head over, intrigued. “Huh.” Taehyung raises a brow, noticing how engaged you are and the corner of his mouth tugs.   Her husband, Seokjin, chuckles heartily. “We thought it was time to give our son a younger brother, so here we are! Tonight’s the welcome party and just a word of advice, I really recommend getting some of that grilled salmon. It’s absolutely delicious.”   “Just let them eat whatever they want, Jin,” his wife sighs in exasperation.   “I’m just saying! I would’ve liked to know last time — I would’ve gotten two plates before they ran out.”   “This is why the doctor told you to eat less of everything. You ate more than I did when I was pregnant with Youngjae.”   “I can’t help that I’m eating for three! For your information, I’m carrying the entire family on these broad, broad shoulders of mine. Soon, I’ll have to start eating for four.”   Dahyun turns to you and Taehyung who are amused at their bickering. “I’m sorry. Please ignore him.”   It’s not a bad place, at least not so far. You weren’t sure what you were anticipating, but on the entire way here, you were worried that it was a scam your poor husband fell for. Luckily though, it seemed like the accommodation is good and the people around are friendly and welcoming, coming from different kinds of backgrounds and walks of life. It makes you feel better about not having internet connection or being murdered in the middle of the night.   The welcoming party turns out to be fairly nice too, and like Seokjin said, the food is delicious.   It’s a buffet style with tables set out, full of what Jimin declares is antioxidant-rich foods. He and Hyunjin go on a tangent about the benefits, how soy and estrogen foods have been limited, how there’s an emphasis on fruits, vegetables, carbohydrates, proteins and folic acid, and you’re sorely impressed at the attention to detail they provide.   “Oh my god. The salmon is amazing and have you tried these beans, Tae?!”   Taehyung laughs as he watches you eat, eyes lifted to look at you across the rounded table. “I thought you hated beans.”   “I do. But try it.” You lift your fork and he happily leans over, taking a bite. He swallows it down and smiles at how you stuff your cheeks.   After dinner, the pair of you gather with the rest to watch a few performances held on the main stage. Jimin introduces other staff members who sing, dance and Hyunjin even does a number with her ukulele, belting out some indie songs while standing bare feet.   It’s bizarre and a bit surreal to be sitting back in a lawn chair and watching some chick with flowers in her hair jump around and try to entertain you, but it’s not completely unwelcome. If anything, you were sort of having fun. The sun had set, making the weather milder. The breeze was warm against your cheeks and the fairy lights strung above were twinkling.   The whole atmosphere lulled you and with your head leaning on Taehyung’s shoulder, every blink became heavier and heavier. “This is nice,” you mutter and he catches it.   Your husband turns his head with a tiny smile. “Yeah?”   “Mhmh...”    You feel a wet kiss being planted at the top of your head and you decide to indulge, closing your eyes for just a moment. But the next time they open, you realize that the crowd has thinned, they’ve put on music on the stereo and Taehyung’s windbreaker is draped on top of you as a makeshift blanket.   “Hey there, sleepy head.” He grins at you when he notices your lashes fluttering. “Want me to carry you back to the yurt?”   “I’m fine.” It takes a second to get up and you stretch your arms out before the both of you make your way back to the yurt. There were a few younger couples lingering around and still taking in the scenery, but the years were catching up to you quickly and all you wanted was to dive into the sheets and satiate the rest of your sleepiness. “How long was I out for?”   “About half an hour?”   Taehyung fishes for the key and opens the door. “I didn’t even realize I was so tired.” You manage to kick off your shoes and beeline to the bathroom to brush your teeth.   “Of course, you were tired. You didn’t even sleep on the bus and for the past few days you’ve been up late doing research.”   You mumble incoherently, not having enough energy to argue with Taehyung and he grins, nudging you aside so he can grab his own toothbrush.    In the next ten minutes, it’s lights out. You’re rolled onto the bed, tucked into the warm sheets like a burrito, and Taehyung’s settled in as well. You hear his exhale and you allow your muscles to relax in the comfortable darkness. The exhaustion that’s been built from the entire day washes over you. But before you can drift off, in the quietness of the room, you remember.   And you reach out, arm stretched, feeling for your husband.   Taehyung hums when you tap his shoulder. You feel him shift and mumble, “What’s wrong?”   “I’m fertile,” you mutter with your eyes closed. “You need to stick your dick in me.”   He bursts out laughing and his arm slings over your abdomen. “It’s okay if we don’t have sex tonight, you know.”   You sigh, too fatigued to get up and do the job yourself. “We’re gonna miss our opportunity, Tae.”   A soft kiss is pressed to your temple, and you feel yourself losing the fight to keep your consciousness. “We’ll have other chances. Relax.”   “Relaxing….isn't gonna give us a baby.”   “No, but it will keep my current baby sane.”   After being together for so many years, Taehyung knows how to make his words sound sweet and enticing. And before you can even damn him for always catering to you and babying you, you’ve fallen asleep in his arms.

[Day Two]   Breakfast is as incredible as dinner was. There’s a full fruit platter that’s apparently all organic and a number of carbohydrates to fill yourself all the way to lunch. But you begin to regret eating so much with the scheduled activity that follows.   “Couples yoga is a way to build intimacy and trust with your partner.” Hyunjin and Jimin smile brilliantly and you wonder if they’re happy go lucky all the time. It must be fucking exhausting.   “Taehyung.” You nudge the man beside you who’s intently listening and he turns his head. “You know I’m not flexible at all.”   “Don’t worry.” He flashes a blazing grin. It’s way too early for this. “This is just for fun and I’ll catch you if anything.”   “No. Last time I tried doing yoga, I pulled a muscle in my thigh—”   “Oh look. They’re doing the first pose!” Your husband excitedly lugs you down and you’re forced to comply, crossing your legs and facing him.    It’s simple at first. There are basic poses with him leaning against you. Although it is hard to find a good balance considering how tall Taehyung is and even for being lanky, he’s quite a bit stronger than you are. But when Hyunjin and Jimin begin to twist themselves around and Jimin holds her up by the feet with a single hand, you know it’s impossible.   Unlike Taehyung, you never did cheerleading or any acrobatics.   “You’re going to drop me or I’m going to snap your spine, Tae!”   “Don’t you trust me?”   You look at your half-monkey, half-clown of a husband. “Do you really want to know the truth?”   The both of you collapse into a heaping mess before he can confirm or deny. He laughs and starts tickling you for not being able to listen until you’re begging him to stop before you look more like an idiot than you already do.   There’s a few couples who do a good job and you giggle when Taehyung mutters passive aggressive comments on how they’re teacher’s pets or that their form is awful. But there’s the fair share of other pairs who do as bad as you, namely Seokjin and Dahyun, the old couple from last night, bickering at being unable to do any poses.   You can’t say that couple’s yoga is particularly relaxing, but it’s silly and you find yourself having fun.   Hyunjin leads the cool down exercise and Taehyung nearly whacks you in the head with how he stretches. Your glare gains his exaggerated pout then cheesy smile. “Now as the very last cool down exercise, we’re going to take our partners by the hand.”   You mimic her and clasp Taehyung’s hands, awaiting further instructions.    “And we’re going to gaze into their eyes.” What? “Focus into the colour of their irises, how brown or blue or green they might be, or even the pattern of them. Sometimes we don’t truly look at one another like we should.”   “What are they even saying?” you mutter and the corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches. In spite of how bizarre it is, you follow and stare into Taehyung’s rounded eyes. They’re brown. Like they’ve always been.   But you must admit, when the morning sunlight catches his irises at particular angles, the colour is a lighter shade than usual. They’re quite bright too.   “They say if we gaze into the eyes of someone we love, our heartbeat synchronizes together.”   What? Your brows furrow skeptically and you’re about to turn away, but suddenly Taehyung grabs a hold of your chin. “Don’t look away,” he commands with an authoritative voice and you swallow hard.   “Okay.” You focus your eyes to enlarge and focus. “I’m looking.”   You wonder if this is a staring contest, but even with his wolfish smile and being married for so long, Taehyung’s intent stare starts to make you feel vulnerable. You wonder if he’s always looked at you so affectionately. More importantly, you realize that even with all his dumb antics — like deciding to paint the fence green and then stopping halfway or ripping out the cabinets in the kitchen and never replacing them like he intended — you still love this sweet and kind dummy.   “Alright. Everyone can relax now,” Jimin announces softly as he claps and you finally blink a few times, eyes stinging from how you forced them open. “That’s the end of this session. Thank you for joining everyone.”   Yet, Taehyung holds your gaze a moment longer. And before you can pipe up and tell him it’s over, the man leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips. He smiles when he pulls away. “As much as sweat is a good look on you, I think it’s time to shower, Mrs. Kim.”   You scoff and he holds your hand with an enormous grin, dragging you back to the yurt.   The two of you hop into the shower together, a habit that Taehyung insists is to save water for the good of the environment, but you swear half the time, you end up wasting more than if either of you do it separately. You’re sure that right now is one of those times.   “Hey.” You turn around as he’s lathering up his shampoo.   “Hey, yourself.” He smiles and shifts towards the stream of water before screaming at how hot it is. Taehyung quickly adjusts it, dissipating the fog on the glass. “Why do you like bathing in molten lava, woman?”   “You always make it too cold.” You scoff, but don’t dwell on the argument as you lean into his backside. “Listen, should we get a quickie in?”   Taehyung frees himself of the soap and looks at you. “If we do, we’ll miss lunch and then the hike.”   “We’re going on a hike?!”   “Yep, so hurry up cause if we don’t get lunch, we’re not gonna make it!” He gets out of the shower, leaving you to be bludgeoned by the ice, cold water. You sigh in exasperation.   The purpose of coming here is to conceive, not go on a hike. But with how enthused he is, you begrudgingly join.   Afternoons are the worst out here. The sun is sweltering and there isn’t an ounce of a breeze or a wind. As a result, the heat stifles and lingers without dissipating, causing sweat to dampen your clothing and stick to the back of your neck. The weather exhausts you and you feel your creamy lunch pasta up your throat again as you lug your legs up the steep, rocky incline.    No matter how much you try to keep up, you fall behind from the group.   Taehyung twirls around with a big grin, mouth perfectly symmetrically. “Are you okay?”   “W-What does it look like?” you pant. It’s unfair that Taehyung works out once a year and treats his body like a candy trashcan but is still more fit than you are.    “I can carry you if you want.”   “You’re going to snap in half carrying me.” You pass him as he laughs.    You hear him catch up, feet skipping along like he’s playing hopscotch. Then suddenly, you feel yourself being lifted off the ground and you shriek, arms looping around Taehyung’s neck. You’re scooped up in his arms like he’s about to kick down the door into the bedroom, but instead, he starts sprinting up the path like a maniac.   “Taehyung!” you squeal and he laughs again.   “Isn’t this better?”   “Aren’t you tired?”   “If I say yes, you’re gonna think I’m trying to tell you to lose weight, but for the record, I like how soft you are.”   You roll your eyes, embarrassed as you pass a few couples, but none of them seem to find it bizarre and they even smile warmly at you and Taehyung. Yet, he starts to slow down tremendously after a few minutes, panting and sweating profusely. You ask him if he’s going to put you down yet, but you underestimate just how stubborn your dear husband is. Taehyung refuses until you’re up at the top of the trail, making it to where Jimin and Hyunjin are by the waterfall.    There, you’re finally on set on your feet again.   You pass him your water bottle. “Drink it before I’m the one dragging you down.”   He grins and downs it.   Up here, it’s much more refreshing and easier to breathe. There’s a tiny waterfall coming from the higher mountains and there are trees around to provide shade. When you squint, you can see the campsite at a distance with all the yurts.   “We should take some pictures!” Taehyung declares when he steadies his breath and pulls out his selfie stick from the hideous fanny pack that you still won’t admit is pretty convenient.   “Your mom is gonna want a copy so don’t pull any ugly faces, Tae.”   “My face is never ugly.” He tugs you beside him and snaps a few shots before reviewing them carefully. Taehyung always had an eye for these kinds of things. “We didn’t get a good angle of the water.”   “I can take it for you.”   “What’s the point if we’re not together?” His thick brows are furrowed, lips lopsided, sighing.   A matronly and friendly voice pipes up next to you, “Do you need any help?”   Dahyun is smiling with Seokjin beside her and Taehyung appears relieved. “Yes, please.”   She takes his phone as he folds back his selfie stick and she stands off to the side, capturing you and Taehyung smiling with his arm around you. “One. Two. Three. I’ll take another one.”   Dahyun changes the angle a bit and Taehyung leans over to pull on your cheek while you feign a glare at him. The second picture is taken while the woman and her husband laugh, endeared. “There we go. You can check them to see if they’re good.”   The phone is handed back and by Taehyung’s expression, it seems acceptable. “You two are too cute. When did you get married?”   “Oh, I think three years ago? Yeah. Three.”    It’s much longer than it actually feels. It seemed like it was a week ago when you first met in class and thought he was annoying. Like yesterday, he was supposed to propose at a fancy restaurant but failed when you found the ring box the night before — how he screamed at you to stop, but it was too late and he ended up going with it. They’ve all become memories that you cherish.   “We met back in school and dated a while before getting married.”   Dahyun smiles. “Have you decided how many kids you want yet?”   You hitch a thumb to Taehyung. “He wants four, but I’m fine with two.”   “The bigger the family, the better, right?” he says, looking up from the screen of his phone.   “Wait until you have kids, you’ll end up wanting more,” Seokjin chuckles, “That or you’ll want to give them all away, but personally, I could raise a whole football team if she’d let me.”   His wife jabs him in the ribs. “Yeah, because you’re not the one who has to give birth to them.”   “And that’s why you’re the boss of the house.” He pouts at her while the corners of his mouth tickle up into a smile, and she relents.   “Let’s be honest, the real boss of the house is our little troublemaker. I swear he took after all your bad traits.”   Seokjin gasps. “Excuse me, Youngjae is my most masterful creation...even if he painted all over our leather seats and popped our car tire with his batman toy.”   She shakes her head with a light sigh, but it’s hard to hide her beaming expression. “I should’ve known he would give me trouble when he went past the due date for two weeks.”   “T-two weeks?” you sputter.   Dahyun nods, finally having the sympathy she was trying to fish out of her husband. “My stomach was as big as a watermelon and I was in labour for fourteen hours before I ended up getting an emergency c-section and he came out a whopping ten pounds.”   Your head is swirling as you try to imagine a ten pound baby in this petite woman.   It almost seems like a horror story that’s waiting to be picked up by Hollywood.   “But honestly, the hardest part wasn’t the whole pregnancy or birthing process. It was afterwards.” Her exhale is long and fatigued. “Suddenly there’s another human being you’re responsible for and you have to take care of them while you’re still in recovery. I remember when Youngjae couldn’t stop crying in the middle of the night. I always had an idea that having kids was a lot of work, but you really don’t have time for yourself once they’re born, and not to mention my bladder was completely done for after the whole thing.”   “Alright, alright.” Her husband pulls her close. “I already know you’re a woman warrior. I saw it with my own eyes.”   Dahyun smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes and she turns to him, deadpanning, “No, you didn’t. You passed out half-way.”   “I was there in spirit,” Seokjin insists humorously.   Dahyun scoffs while Taehyung grins at their back and forth that’s reminiscent of his own dynamic with you. “But were they worth it?”   “Oh, a thousand percent,” Dahyun responds without needing a second to consider, expression softening. “Enough that I would want to do it all over again.”   She doesn’t get a chance to say much else when Jimin’s voice pierces through the chatter and everyone gathers together with the last stragglers who have finally made it up. “Thank you, everyone, for coming all the way up here. This is Serenity Falls that was actually…”   But his voice drowns out.   You linger on what Dahyun said, about child rearing and birthing, and there’s nothing that can be done to the uneasy emotion swelling inside of you.   The walk back down is silent. Done without a single complaint from you about the hot weather or how your feet ache. Taehyung notices, glancing at you several times. He doesn’t say anything until you’re back at the yurt.    “What’s wrong?”   You look at him from across the room. “Nothing, why?”   “You’ve just been quiet.”   “I just….” You inhale and decide to divulge him. “I was just thinking about what Dahyun and Seokjin were saying. Do you think we’re cut out for this, Taehyung?”   His head quirks to one side. “Why wouldn’t we be?”   “You and I can barely take care of ourselves.”   “That’s not true.”   “We forget to buy food all the time.”   “That makes midnight snack runs fun.” He grins.   You exhale an unsteady breath and Taehyung approaches you. He doesn’t mind how sweaty you are and wraps his arms around your waist. “We’ll figure it out. You said it yourself, right? One step at a time.”   “But what if it’s too much and you decide you don’t want to do it anymore? Or that...you don’t want to be with me?” He opens his mouth, but you keep going before he can jump in. It’s not just about you being self-conscious or needing reassurance. You’re simply trying to imagine the worst case scenario as realistically as you can. “Like when I’m still bloated like a whale and in a bad mood and the baby’s crying and no one knows what to do.”   “I’ll still love you no matter the changes,” Taehyung murmurs earnestly, searching your expression. “Even if you’re bloated like a whale and in a bad mood and the baby’s crying and no one knows what to do. I’ll use google to figure it out and get the baby to calm down and I’ll get you some chocolate and I’ll rub your feet.”   You scoff lightly. “You make it sound so easy.”   “Maybe because it won’t be as hard as you think. I’m great with kids and we got killer teamwork, you know, plus this baby’ll be the best project we’ve ever done together.”   “A project that’s gonna last us eighteen years.” You smile.   Taehyung laughs, the sound mellifluous in the room. “Which isn’t that long considering how fast time moves.”   You hum and encircle your arms around his neck. Taehyung gets the hint and leans in to seal your lips against his, slotting them together to kiss you the way he knows you like it.   It’s slow, comforting, an opportunity to revel in the softness of his lips. Taehyung gives you courage — he always has and when you break apart, smiling against each other, you feel worlds better than before. “I’m gonna start a bubble bath. You can join me if you want.”   It’s less of a suggestion and more of a demand, one Taehyung fully recognizes and makes him smile in amusement as you saunter away. Taking advantage of the tub in the bathroom, you lower the stopper of the drain and dump in the soap they offer. The water gets filled three quarters way with a layer of bubbles and you strip. You sigh as you get comfortable in the tub.   “Is it warm?”   Your husband leans against the doorway, arms crossed and the corner of his mouth curled.   “Uh-huh.” You loll your head on the edge of the tub and lift up your foot, watching the way the water cascades off your skin. “Are you not going to get in?”   “Maybe later,” Taehyung surprisingly replies. He rarely rejects any chance at jumping your bones when you’re being this forward about it. There’s no hike or lunch to catch that’s preventing him from having fun with you either. But as your husband walks out, you catch him unceremoniously stealing the clothes you have prepared and the stack of towels by the sink.   “What are you doing?”   “There’s no point in covering yourself up if I’m gonna strip you anyway.” He flashes a mischievous grin and you sigh, relenting in his antics. You simply lay back to enjoy the water, muscles relaxing and your brain that’s constantly in overdrive empties.   After ten minutes, your skin begins to wrinkle, so you drain the water and get out. But the moment you stand up, the cool air conditioning slams into you and your body starts to shiver.   “Taehyung!” you shout and hear silence. “At least give me a towel!”   Fortunately for you, there’s a smaller one on the rack he missed so you swipe at it and wrap your shoulders to protect yourself. But you’re still dripping wet and in need of your clothes, so you stomp out to find your ridiculous partner who’s apparently five years old and—   “HA!” Said man you’re searching for bursts out of the closet and you scream, startled half to death, nearly falling to the ground. Taehyung starts to laugh like a maniac.   “Are you serious?!” You gawk at him. “How long did you even wait there for?”   “Like five minutes ago.” The bastard wolfishly grins. “Worth it though.”   You cock a brow at him, sighing. “So that’s why you didn’t join me in the bath?”   “No. I didn’t join you, so I could do this.” He yanks the towel where your breasts meet, leaving you nude. Goosebumps rise all over your skin and your nipples harden in the frigid air.   You screech, arms trying to cover yourself. “Taehyung, it’s cold!” “I can warm you up,” he says but then runs away when he reads the glare on your face, giggling boyishly. It’s completely childish. If anyone was watching, you’d be mortified, but it’s been a long time since there was any shame in your marriage, so you stomp after him while nude.    You hunt the man down while he tries to evade by rounding the coffee table. It’s no longer about grabbing clothes or covering yourself up, it’s time for revenge.   Luckily, the yurt isn’t big enough to have a game of tag. You manage to reach him and you steal the opportunity to yank his pants down. Taehyung, mid-laugh, trips on his feet and stumbles on the carpet. You burst out giggles, looking at his ass in the air and he giggles too from the infectious sound bubbling up your throat.   “Oh, you’re gonna get it now,” He mutters in a low voice with half-lidded eyes and you scramble away with another shriek.   “You started it!” You jump onto the bed and Taehyung kicks off his pants. You don’t ask why he’s skipped out on wearing boxers, but you notice he’s already half-hard and that only makes you laugh louder.   He chases after you as you duck and steal his own tactic of rounding the coffee table. But unfortunately for you, Taehyung has always been destined to win with his longer legs. He catches you within two strides and snatches you as you scream. You’re thrown over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes and he smirks. “Caught you.”   “Taehyung! People are gonna hear!” You laugh in spite of being the one who’s making most of the noise and he tosses you onto the bed. Usually, you hate to be manhandled, but your husband’s the only exception to the rule.   “Let them hear.”   He hovers over you and the laughter dies down. Taehyung stares earnestly into your eyes and your breathing becomes shallow. But you don’t like to lose and as his wife of three years, you know his one, true weakness.    Your fingers lift to Taehyung’s armpits and he seizes when you start tickling him. You laugh when he does and once he doubles over, there’s an opening to the left, a perfect escape route. You steal the opportunity while you still have it and start to climb off the bed, but he regains his breath and grabs your ankle, tugging you back to him in one swift motion without even needing to try.    Taehyung grins. “God, you’re such a brat sometimes.”    “Yeah, and I know you like it.”   He grabs your wrists before you can make another tickle attack and pins it above your head. You can tell that there’s no more time for jokes or any more playing around, not when you can feel his hard cock against your stomach.   “You smell good,” he sighs into your neck, inhaling deeply. “Cherry blossom? Peony?”   “Strawberries,” you answer. “You smell like sweat.”   “You’re gonna end up like me anyway.” Taehyung smiles and leans in to kiss you. It isn’t shy or chaste. His tongue licks into your mouth and you exhale, a strangled moan muffled against his lips as you melt against him. He finally has you where he wants and you let him take control.   The pair of you swap spit for a few minutes until he releases your hands, allowing you to curl your fingers into his shoulders as he caresses your waist.    Taehyung eventually breaks away with a playful glint in his eyes. “You wanna try the toys?”   You both look at the basket half across the room and he rolls off of you. You get to your feet to inspect it for yourself and discover an array of colourful gadgets, some that you’ve tried before and others that you’re sure needs to have an instruction manual with it.    “I’m not putting any of these dildos in me, Tae. I don’t know where they’ve been.”   “I know.” He lays with his head propped up by his hand and you eye something at the bottom of the basket. You pull out a leather whip and look at him. “Ooh, a classic pick there, sweetheart.”   A whip seems more sanitary considering it doesn’t have to go in anyone’s orifices.   “Is it?” You approach with a tiny smile, staring down the innocent man. “Roll over.”   “What?”   “I’ll whip you.” You grin and he blinks at you. More often than not, you’re the more submissive one in bed, but the idea of having Taehyung crying out and the idea of you cackling at his pain has him immediately rolling face down in intrigue and you stepping up on the bed.   He turns his face to the side. “Do you know how to do it?”   “How hard can it be?” There’s a pause. “But tell me if it hurts.”   “The point is to make it hurt, Y/N.”   “Yeah, but I don’t want to hurt you-hurt you.”   “I can handle it.” Taehyung smirks and you scoff.    Even in this position, he’s trying to maintain his dominance.   You grip it tightly and don’t count. Simply, with a flick your wrist, you slam the whip across his backside. It makes a loud cracking sound and you hear Taehyung sharply inhale. His teeth grit and you freeze, watching his expression carefully.   “How was it?”   “Is my back split open?” he asks, trying to look over his shoulder.   “No.”   “I think I might have to go to the ER.” He sits up completely, overdramatic in the way he fumbles around and his tone filled with some mischief. “I think there’s internal bleeding. Or my spine is broken. I wouldn’t be surprised.”   “It’s fine, Tae.” you laugh. So much for telling you to go for it. But you already had an inkling Taehyung wasn’t one for receiving pain. After all, he’s still your whiny baby who only eats vanilla yogurt. “Not your thing?”   “Not my thing.” He takes the whip from your hand and tosses it across the room. “I have a better toy in mind.”   You’re about to remind him you’re not gonna put any of those communal toys inside of you, but he instead walks over to his suitcase and starts tearing some clear packaging open with something pink inside. You read the label — it’s a remote control vibrating egg.   Your brows furrow. “When did you get that?”   “Two days before we left. Amazon prime, babe.”   “So that’s what you were looking at when you told me you were doing some online shopping?”   “Precisely.” Taehyung grins and you’re not sure if you should be pleasantly surprised or in dismay since the two of you have already made a pact not to buy anything else online. The treadmill bought on an impulse is still taking up half the space of the living room.   Before you can think too much, Taehyung gets it open and comes over. He nudges your thighs to open and you lay back, leaning against the headboard. You’re not that wet yet, if at all, but it doesn’t stay that way when his long fingers rub against your clit in circles.    With his other hand, he strokes against your slit and then sinks his index finger in knuckle deep. You throw back your head, moaning his name at the intrusion while he remains silent, intently watching your pink cunt squeeze. Taehyung curls his finger and swallows hard. The sloppy sounds of your cunt fill the room and he hums in satisfaction.   “Okay. Ready?”   “Uh-huh.”   The head of the cold egg meets your folds and it slowly enters. While the toy might not be big or long, the girth stretches against your warm walls and you keen. Taehyung makes a low noise, encouraging you to take it. When it’s in, he smiles brilliantly. “Good job, sweetheart. You did it.”   “Now what?”   “This, of course.” Taehyung dangles the remote in front of you and then like a psycho, he ramps it up to the highest possible setting. Intense vibrations are felt through your body instantaneously and you cry, head knocked back against the headboard as your velvet walls squeeze and tremble.   “T-Taehyung!”   “Good?”   “I-It’s too much!” You’re completely at his mercy and he takes advantage of it, drinking you in with a wolfish smile. You’re unable to muster a glare at him, reduced to a complete mess while your center leaks and drips onto the sheet. Still, you try to reach over to the remote.   He dodges when you lunge at him. “Nu-uh.”   Luckily, you get a hold of your husband and climb over to him. His arm is extended straight up, laughing as you try to snatch it from him. He waves it inches away to mock you while enjoying the sight of you quivering on top of him. “T-Tae!”   “Okay, okay.” He laughs and transfers it into his other hand, about to turn the setting down a notch. But right at the moment you’re about to snag it for yourself, the remote flies out of his hand. It falls through the gap between the wall and the headboard.   It clatters to the ground.   “Oh shit.”   “Taehyung!”   “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He rolls off the mattress and looks underneath the bed before abruptly standing. “I’m going to need a long stick or something.”   He starts to look around the room, searching for a tool to grab the remote that’s out of reach, and you don’t know if you should suffocate him with a pillow or facepalm yourself hard enough to get knocked out into a coma.   You can pull out the egg yourself, but the violent vibrations were beginning to thrum pleasure through you, so as your useless husband goes fishing for the remote, you finish the job. Your fingers play with your clit, rubbing the bud as your slick drips down your thighs and you come hard on the toy.   The same moment light flashes beneath your eyelids and your toes curl, Taehyung grabs the remote with the help of a rolled brochure and shuts it off. The both of you are winded for different reasons.   “You know, I'd say that was pretty hot if not for how stressful that actually was.”   “You’re an idiot.” You tug the toy out of you and bat him over lazily, feeling spent on how hard you came. “Now dump some sperm in me, idiot.”   Taehyung has a cheesy grin and climbs over you. Despite the struggles of grabbing the toy’s remote, he’s fully hard from the noises you were making. “I’d tell you to ask more nicely, but I’ll let it go.”   He aligns the head of his weeping cock to your swollen cunt and leans his weight into you. He starts to push in and you whine, gripping his forearms. As wet as you are, Taehyung is still well-endowed — less girthy than the toy, but there’s a considerable length to him.    When he bottoms out, you can feel him all the way to your throat.   He tucks sweaty strands of hair behind your ear and kisses you. “Sorry about earlier.”   “’t’s okay. It was fun,” you admit and he smiles, starting to work up a good rhythm. You feel hot in your face with the pressure of his body on top of yours, hardened nipples brushing against his chest. Your cunt pulses and squeezes around his length. It draws Taehyung’s groans into your neck.   “F-Fuck. You’re so tight.”   It feels good and you know he’s reveling in the pleasure too. His eyes are shut tight, the scrunch made between his brows and it entices you to reach up and kiss him to which he sweetly indulges you. Your tongues twine as you pant against each other and Taehyung starts to lose his pacing.   He bends your knee, hitting you at a deeper angle as his strokes become increasingly frantic and quick. You egg him on and he groans once more before he thrusts himself as deep as he can go and cums. Ropes of white paint your walls, the head of his cock against your cervix and filling your cunt and womb up. You can feel some of it dribbling out, seeping past your folds and when Taehyung’s about to withdraw, you quickly grab his forearm.   “Wait. Just stay put for a second. I have to keep it in.”   He nods and kisses your lips. “Okay.”   Taehyung nestles into you, nuzzling into your neck and you hope this is the one.

[Day Three]   There were lots of activities and amenities offered and advertised by Jimin during the introduction of the retreat, but you realize you might’ve missed over the most important one of all.   “How does that feel?” the massage therapist asks as she works a knot out of your shoulders and smooths your skin with the oil.   “Amazing,” you murmur from the corner of your mouth, melted against the table.    Couples massages were something you always scoffed at, but holy shit, it’s absolutely paradise. With the breeze blowing through the pitched tent and the glowing humidifier releasing a fresh scent, you’ve never been more relaxed as all the stiffness is worked out of you.   You open your eyes to see Taehyung enjoying it as well — though not as much as you are since he’s quite ticklish. Sometimes, he squirms a bit too much and his massage therapist is at a loss of what to do.   But when it’s all done, you feel like you’re in a new body. “Oh my god. I think I’m more flexible than before. Look, Tae!”   You stretch your leg and he giggles at how happy your mood is. “If I knew you liked it this much, I would’ve signed us up for one at the spy near the gym.”   Your eyes are wide, catching the sunlight. “Do you think they’re as good as this place?”   Taehyung grins. “Probably.”   “We should go when we get back then. Oh, do you wanna check out the library?”   “Sure.”   You grab his hand, lacing your fingers together and he smiles to himself.    It’s a free day without many planned activities, giving you both an opportunity to look around the retreat for yourselves and take it easy. And the pair of you take full advantage of the opportunity. Since morning, you were lazing around the yurt and after breakfast and the massages, you decide to lay in one of the hammocks by the trees while Taehyung naps with you.    Said man hasn't seen you this stress free in a while, so he happily indulges you in all your wishes. Even when night falls and you step away from the stage where Hyunjin is performing again to stargaze. It’s an odd activity for you since mosquitoes love to especially swarm around you when given the chance and on numerous occasions, you’ve been a moth landing spot.   But tonight, the breeze is soft and gentle, and you don't feel any tickles on your skin that isn’t Taehyung’s hand grazing against yours. The grass is pliant beneath your feet and the fairy lights twinkle far away enough that its luminescence doesn’t obstruct. You knock your heads back to view the horizon, allowing the darkness to engulf you and the stars to emerge.   “Remember Bali?”   “When you lost your passport?”   “When we went stargazing with the tour group,” Taehyung corrects. “It still wasn’t as beautiful as this.”   “You think everything in front of you is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen. You said that about the Eiffel and then Tokyo Tower.”   He laughs. “Hey, my mind doesn’t change that often. You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”   You scoff, looking away from the sky towards him with a pout. He always knows how to lay on the sappiness without needing to blink. Your dear husband has always been shameless in that aspect and you adore him for it. “So I’m a thing to you now?”   “You know that’s not what I mean.” He wraps his arms around your waist. The both of you stare up at the sky. “Is that the big dipper?”   You look at where he’s pointing to the large clusters of stars. “I can’t see it. Maybe that’s scorpio.”   “Nah, I don’t think so.” Taehyung tries guessing, “It might be taurus or gemini. Or libra.”   “Aren’t you just naming astrological signs now?”   “Maybe.” He grins. “I’m a capricorn.”   “Yes, I know.” You two of you clearly don’t know anything about constellations or how to find them, but it doesn’t make the moment any less enjoyable. Yet when your necks start to ache, he takes your hand and strolls down the path through the trees. “Taehyung. What if we get lost?”   None of you have your phones or any flashlights. There’s only the crescent moon giving off its light. “Don’t worry. I have a great sense of direction.”   “You and I both know that’s not true.”   “You have a great sense of direction, so we won’t get lost,” he says and you sigh without putting much of an argument up. Not when you knew he was headed to the lake you had peeked at earlier in the afternoon, and now it was shimmering with the moonlight, reflecting the starry horizon in its water.   There’s a certain kind of peacefulness, a serenity that you would never get back in the city or even the suburbs. Certainly not without light pollution or the occasional car whizzing past. Here, there is none of those noises, none of those distractions, just you and Taehyung savouring the view⁠—   “Hey.” But of course, your mischievous husband has to have ulterior motives for coming all the way here. And you know there are ulterior motives by that glint in his eye and the sly smile he has.   “What?”    “Wanna take a dip?”   Your brows shoot to your hairline. “Are you crazy? It’s probably freezing! What if we get hypothermia and die?”   “For the record, you’d make one beautiful angel. But I’ll warm you up before it gets to that point.” Taehyung grins and starts stripping, tugging his shirt right off his head. It’s always been like this — him proposing something out of your norm, you try to voice your concerns, and then you’re the one who’s diving head first into it without hesitation and end up having more fun than he does.   “God, it’s so cold!”    The moment the water touches your toes, you recoil. But you brace yourself and continue onward with your entire body shivering. It’s your first time skinny dipping ⁠— something normally reserved for rebellious teenagers and most certainly not for late twenty-some year olds. Yet neither of you have qualms, even if you’re shrieking and Taehyung is laughing and following behind you.   “It’s freezing, Taehyung!”   “Come here.” He pulls you to him so your backside is pressed to his front and you wonder how Taehyung can be so warm all the time. The pair of you get waist deep into it and you turn around to grip him. Your husband smiles and holds onto you, eventually going far enough that the water reaches your shoulders. “See? Isn’t this nice?”   You hum, gazing up at the stars and the moon, the sight reflected on the water and how you’re pressed to Taehyung. “Seems like the beginning of a horror movie.” He laughs and your feet try to reach down to find stability, but you realize you can’t touch the ground anymore and your grip on him tightens. “Walk back a bit, Tae.”   “Why?”   “You know I can’t swim.”   His mouth curls. “But I like how you’re holding onto me. I won’t let go,” he adds after a long pause, “if you beg me not to.”   Your arms immediately come to loop around his neck and your legs wrap around his waist, latching onto him in a vice grip like a koala does to a branch. “Taehyung! I’m not kidding.”   “Oh...oh!” The bastard pretends that he’s gonna let go of you and actually does for a split-second. He laughs at your panicked expression. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!”   You feign a pointed glare that turns out to be more of a pout. “You’re lucky I like you.”   “You only like me?”   “Yeah and if you keep going, I’m going to demote you from husband to friend.”   Taehyung makes a pained, sharp sound. “Can’t let that happen then.” He suddenly hoists you up higher, grip secure on your thighs and smiles brilliantly while you scoff.   You savour the view and the warmth of his body heat, but you’re slightly distracted. “Do you think anyone’s gonna steal our clothes, Tae?” You squint at the small pile near the shore.   “Who would?”   “I don’t know. What if a bear comes from the bushes and takes them? We’ll have to walk back naked.”   “I’m pretty sure there aren’t bears here, Y/N. Stop overthinking it.” Taehyung suddenly grabs a hold of your chin and turns your head for you to look only at him. Then, he kisses you in a soft and gentle way before the tip of his tongue meets the seam of your lips. You happily oblige, parting them and allowing him access to your tongue and giving him a taste of you.   The man hums in satisfaction as soft smacking noises fill the surroundings. You lean into his firm frame while Taehyung’s large hands slinks from your thigh to the curve of your ass. You feel his thumb probe against your folds.   “T-Taehyung.” His hard length is beneath you and you grind down on him, feeling empty. It draws a groan from his throat.   After a moment, you get his cock inside of you. The stretch soothes the itch you had, filling your cunt deliciously. But unlike the movies, it’s not enough for you. The water washes away the lubricant, each stroke rough and the glide slower than you’d like. So you beg him and the both of you are dragged up onto the shore again.   You turn on all fours. The pebbles uncomfortably dig into your knees, but it’s a distraction that blurs into the background when Taehyung pounds into you. You feel all of him, his body heat against yours, each thrusting movement flicking off the droplets of water from your skin. And when Taehyung turns your head to kiss you while rubbing at your clit, you cum around his cock.   He finishes as you beg for it and Taehyung’s sticky fluids leak down your thighs on the trek back.

[Day Four]   Taehyung blinks blearily, slowly coming to consciousness. He scratches his bed head and groans at how his muscles ache. But when he turns his head, the other side of the bed is cold and empty. His eyes widen in confusion and he feels more awake than before.   He checks the time and realizes he slept in, a total of ten hours, which isn’t a surprise considering how last night’s rendezvous continued and was more intense than usual. What is unusually, however, is that you’re gone.   But he soon finds you outside. Bathing in the sun. Laying in a hammock. Napping with a book next to you.   Your eyes flutter open as his shadow covers your figure. The corner of his mouth pulls.   “Morning.”   You sheepishly grin. “Morning.”    “What time did you get up?”   “Like an hour ago. The breeze was nice so I thought I’d do some reading, but I guess I accidentally fell asleep.”   “Looks like you’ve gotten comfortable.” Taehyung’s enormous smile aches his cheeks. You’ve fallen in love with this place more than he has, but he doesn’t mind whatsoever. He loves watching you have fun.   The two of you have breakfast, inhaling in the food, and then head to a meditation class on the grass led by Hyunjin. Typically, Taehyung has to convince you to take part in such a session and you’d usually wave it off as a waste of time. But there are no qualms or an ounce of hesitation in your expression when you head over.   “Now breathe in, and out, a steady stream of breath. Think about all that you are grateful for. Everything that has made your life amazing, and let that positive energy surround you as the negative energy releases.”   But while you’re eager, Taehyung, on the other hand, finds out that meditation is not cut out for him. He’s bored out of his mind from the lack of stimulation. Time feels like it’s dragging on slower, each second a minute and a minute is an hour. Somehow, meditating makes him feel even more exhausted than before and his mind ends up wandering.   Taehyung thinks about how he’s really craving some fatty burgers instead of the organic oatmeal and yogurt he had — how hot the weather is — how it’s hard to breathe — how sweat sticks to his skin.   “Hold your breath for three seconds and release for three seconds.”   He sighs and peels back an eye to see you with your hands pressed together, concentrated in following instructions. The corner of his mouth tickles into a smile.   As bored as he is, it’s worth seeing you happy.   //   The more excited you are about something, the more you run around from place to place and Taehyung’s resorted to looking for you. Luckily, the resort is small, so he finds you in front of the main building, chatting to a certain brunette with a half-moon smile and chubby cheeks.   “—heard that doggy actually works for some people, but for me, it doesn’t feel right...like…”   “The head of the cock isn’t right up against the cervix?” Jimin hums thoughtfully. “Have you tried angling your leg better? Sometimes you need to bend a bit and he needs to be leaning towards the side rather than just hovering straight on top.”   What.   Taehyung’s brows lift and he quickly approaches. Your face lights up when you see him. “Oh, hey.”   “I was looking for you.” Taehyung throws his arm over your shoulder and subtly tugs you into his chest. He looks at the other man, eyes narrowed in on him which he doesn’t seem to notice.   “Sorry, I was just caught up with Jimin.”   “What were you talking about?”   “What position is best for conception.” You blink innocently like it’s not a big deal you’re exploiting the details about your sex lives to another guy, and while he’s not embarrassed whatsoever, it was a bit too much information being shared for Taehyung’s liking. “Turns out elevating the hips might not help as much as we thought it does.”   “Huh.” Taehyung deadpans, “That’s interesting.”   “I know, right?” Your expression is bright, oblivious to his turmoil. At the same time, Hyunjin exits from the building in yet another flower crown and flowy skirt. She smiles at the both of you and joins Jimin’s side, planting a sweet kiss on his cheek and holding his hand.   “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important.”   You smile at her. “No, it’s okay.”   The woman nods and looks to her partner while her voice drops into a more private tone. “Just wanted to let you know that Taehoon and I are done.”   As if to validate her words, a timid yet tall man exits the building and they wave goodbye to one another before he walks off towards the parking lot. Jimin smiles. “Did you have fun?”   “Yeah. It was nice.”   Both you and Taehyung exchange expressions. He wonders if you’re thinking what he is or if he’s understanding the insinuations correctly.    As if they catch the inquisitive looks on your faces, they smile in a relaxed way. There’s no need to explain anything to either of you when you’re strangers, but they’re open enough and Hyunjin says, “Taehoon’s my second partner.”   “Second...partner?”    “Hyunjin and I are in an open relationship,” Jimin clarifies in a friendly manner. “It’s not really traditional, but it works well for us.”   “Oh.” Taehyung and you wordlessly bob your heads. He’s pretty sure they mentioned it during their introduction but it slipped his mind. They must get asked a lot of questions too since Hyunjin answers what he’s thinking, telling the both of you there’s not a lot of jealousy involved since they trust each other wholeheartedly and communicate a lot. And rather than finding it bizarre, you’re left intrigued. Taehyung notices as you walk away.   “Do you want an open relationship too?”   “You know it would never work for us.” You lean over, hugging his arm. “I’m too possessive for that.”   He laughs. “Then what about talking to Jimin about our sex positions?”   “He’s a professional.” You shrug. “I thought I could get helpful advice. Why?”   “Nothing, it’s just kind of weird.”    Jimin doesn’t look like a professional. He looks like just some dude in khaki shorts and a white shirt, obnoxiously bulging biceps, probably has rock hard abs, and he’s in an open relationship and clearly doesn’t mind chatting up you, aka Taehyung’s wife.   “Are you jealous?”   “What? No.” Taehyung scoffs, suddenly defensive and you give him that look like you know him better than that. “I just don’t think we don’t need to ask for help yet, and at least not about our positions. We’re gonna have a baby one way or another, Y/N. We just have to be patient.”   “Tell that to my dying eggs.” You walk off and Taehyung grins.   “My sperm’s strong enough that it’ll rescue your dying eggs.”   //   Evening eventually comes and you try to revel in the surrounding sights, the atmosphere of the entire place and the very cozy yurt you’ve grown to adore. It’s sad knowing that tomorrow you’ll have to depart from the resort. You regret not coming here with a more open mind. That way, you could’ve enjoyed and embraced this place much sooner.   “Actually, I’m kind of glad. I’m getting sick of them serving the same food.”   You’re shocked at your husband’s apathy. “But it’s antioxidant-rich—”   “I just want some fried chicken or a burger.”   You scoff. “That’s why the doctor told you to lower your blood sugar and you’re not even over forty yet.” But still, you’re taken aback that he’s not in love with the resort. “Out of everyone, I thought this would’ve been your haven. I was expecting you to beg me to build a cabin here or something to stay.”   Taehyung hums, leaning back into the chair. “I’m not saying the resort is bad. As long as I get to spend time with you, I like it. And I like that you like it.”   “Psh.” He always knows how to say the right thing, especially when he’s doing it absentmindedly and not trying to get something out of you. You lean over, hand lifting to squeeze his cheeks together and you turn his head to kiss him. Taehyung smiles at the soft and affectionate gesture. But you look at him with half-lidded eyes that mean more. “Wanna ditch?”   It’s the final celebration that Jimin and Hyunjin are happily hosting, but you don’t mind leaving for some more quality time with Taehyung, and he happily agrees.   The both of you sneak out of the crowd, stumbling back into the yurt, giggly and giddy like you’re still teenagers trying to be stealthy at midnight. Taehyung kisses you silly and soon, your back is hitting the mattress. He almost rips your dress with how hastily he tries to tear it off your head and you’re stuck for a moment until you manage to get it off.   But in spite of how childish your antics are or how Taehyung blows raspberries on your tummy, each one of his touches is intimate and loving. He holds your hips down and eats you out until you cum twice. Then you’re flipped onto your stomach with him on top of you — his cock is dug into your pussy, every draw and thrust delicious. Your walls pulse along his length and you moan his name and clutch the sheets with tight fists.   You relish in the pressure of his body pressed on top of yours as he pounds into you. It only takes a few minutes before he’s releasing into your womb, cumming hard enough that you feel it too.   He rolls off of you, spent, but you gather your energy and hold him down for a second round.   You’re a woman on a mission and you’re going to make sure you leave this resort with Kim Taehyung’s baby inside of you.

[Day Five]   The final day of the resort has arrived much to your dismay, and you feel sad enough to cry.   “Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”   “It’s our pleasure.” Hyunjin grins, her arms wrapped around Jimin’s. “We just hope you had a great time at our resort.”   “Yes, I really loved it.”   “Our doors are always open,” Jimin affirms. “If nothing’s stuck, you can always come back or if you’re ever looking for more siblings for the little one, you can come again too. We’re happy to welcome anyone that’s family back.”   You’re moved by their words and much to Taehyung’s dismay, you give a brief embrace to each of them. You also manage to see the newlywed couple, Hoseok and Rose, who are still smiling and somehow look even more in-love than when they arrived. Dahyun and Seokjin, as well, wish you luck on your adventures.    “We might be coming back real soon.” The woman sighs, hitching her thumb over her shoulder. “That husband of mine is planning to book another trip next month.”   “So soon?”   Dahyun nods with a long exhale. “I think he’s hoping I’m not pregnant so we can come here again.” Your laugh spurs on her own and you’re able to resonate with the hopelessness of husbands.   Everyone is boarding the same bus, but this is the last opportunity to gather when people are getting dropped off from different places. So you make sure to savour the moment, get your last goodbyes in, and Taehyung pulls out his phone to snap several pictures of you for keepsakes.   Then, the two of you board the bus with your luggage and settle in your seats.   “You know,” you pipe up and Taehyung turns to you. “Even if we didn’t conceive, it was still fun.”   He smiles while taking his hand. “Yeah? I’m glad.” Taehyung laces his fingers with yours and you lean your head on his shoulder as he, too, leans his head on top of yours.   The bus pulls out of the lot and onto the road. Jimin and Hyunjin wave with brilliant grins, and together, you and Taehyung watch the little resort become a particle in the distance.

[Epilogue]   This is terrible. Unexpected and spontaneous.   “I have bad news.” You’re leaning against the door frame of Taehyung’s office and at your tone of voice, your husband looks away from the computer screen with wide eyes.   “Are you divorcing me?”   “No.”   “Did you lose your job?”   “No.”   His entire body deflates in a sigh of relief and he leans back, hands grasping the armrests of his swivel chair. “Thank god because I just bought those new shake weights that were shown on TV.”   “Yea— wait. What?”   Taehyung’s bubbling laughter comes from his chest. “What is it?”   He doesn’t notice the stick in your hand, so you throw it at him. Luckily, Taehyung’s reflexes are still in good shape and he claps his hands together, catching the stick before it hits his head. But then his brows furrow in confusion.   “You’re probably going to need to wash your hands after that. I peed on it.”   He doesn’t answer. Your oblivious husband instead takes a long second to inspect the stick and his pupils dilate. He finally realizes what it is and looks carefully. In the meanwhile, you hitch your breath, feeling unsettled. But then the most enormous smile stretches into his cheeks.    It almost looks like his smile is about to break his face.   “You’re pregnant,” Taehyung murmurs.   “I sure am.”   He looks at you. And then the stick. Then he looks at you again. Taehyung searches your expression in alarm as your words echo back to him. “Why is this bad news? D-did you change your mind? Do you not want kids?”   You shake your head. “No. This is fantastic news. I just wanted an excuse to go to the retreat again.”   He laughs and exhales a long breath. Taehyung scoots his chair over using the heels of his feet and comes to you. He throws his arms around your torso in a secure embrace while his ear is pressed gently to the flat plane of your stomach that’ll soon swell in the coming months. “God, you’re going to be the death of me, woman.”   Taehyung’s brown eyes are lit with mirth and you ease into his hug as your fingers comb through his dark locks. Finally, you’re going to be parents. After waiting and hoping for so long, it was now on the horizon. There’s a sense of fear in you both, but you’re overwhelmed with euphoria and excitement.   “We can always go back for the next kid.”   “I haven’t even had this one yet and you’re already thinking of another.”   “I can’t help it.” Taehyung grins, looking up at you and you lean down to kiss his smile.   You have a feeling this baby’s going to be loved beyond belief.