#Happy Birthday Isaac | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoursinisforgiven · 25 days ago

Text

LINGER ──

pairing: issac x reader (pickle)

cw: allergic reaction(?), rough translation of japanese words, or none at all

you are responsible for your own media consumption

Who knew the manor could feel so ghostly with only you inside? You thought of Isaac—how truly isolating it must’ve been for him all those years alone. Your heart began to ache at the thought.

Isaac had left exactly two hours ago for business in Stockton—how ironic, considering it was there that he had first found you. He would be gone for a week, no more than two, he promised—his words sealed with a deep kiss, the kind that made your stomach flutter.

In the two hours since he’d left, you’d been surprisingly productive. You cleaned the kitchen after making Isaac a goodbye breakfast, though you hated calling it that. Goodbye always felt final.

You moved toward his study, the only room in the house you hadn’t had the chance to tidy up. The bookshelves behind his desk, in particular, had always been off-limits. Isaac always occupied his study—reading, writing, or working on some project—and you’d never feel comfortable disturbing him in this space, this private world of his. But now, with him gone, it felt strangely permissible.

You stepped closer to the bookshelf, bringing a cloth to cover your mouth and nose as you dusted. The air in the study was stale, the musty scent of old leather and paper filling your senses. Surely some of these books had belonged to Isaac’s grandfather, a man you’d always found fascinating.You wondered, as your fingers brushed across the spines, what kind of man his grandfather had been. Would the books he chose to read reflect his character? Were there any clues hidden in the choices of literature, like a map to the man himself?

As you continued to dust, your eyes caught the faintest glimmer of something odd on one of the leather-bound volumes. You squinted and stepped closer, trying to make out the title. The words were hard to decipher, but you could just about make out the first few letters: Crime and—or was it Grime and? The ‘C’ could just as easily have been a ‘G’. You tilted your head, stubborn curiosity igniting within you. You had never been one to shy away from mystery, and this book seemed to promise one.

You hesitated for a moment, then, with a brief glance toward the door, you decided to pull it from the shelf. What harm could there be? Isaac was away, after all. And it wasn’t as though you were reading it, merely inspecting the cover—right? Your fingers brushed the spine, feeling the smoothness of the worn leather beneath your touch, and you gently tugged it free from the row of books.

It was heavier than you expected, and the scent of aged paper seemed to leap out at you as you pulled it into the light. You turn the book cover up, though you have no time to inspect the title as swiftly another book had tumbled out of the bookshelf—causing you to jump letting out a small shriek.

The silence was loud as you took in the scene, almost immediately you put the book in your hand back on the self—it had fit perfectly, leaving no room for anything else. Shit! You had forgotten about the one that had fallen, you bent down to pick it up—when suddenly realization dawned on you.

There was no room for this book on the self, it had been purposely hidden.

You hesitate, of course. Should you leave it here for Isaac? Would Isaac be angry? He had always been so private about his study. Would he see this as an intrusion, or would he be indifferent? You weren’t doing anything wrong, not really… But you were stepping into a world of his that you’d never quite understood, and that, in itself, felt like a small betrayal.

Ultimately, you pick up the book. It was blank, no title, no other, nothing. Nothing except a string of words you couldn't understand—they weren't in english. You open the first page, thankfully it has been dated—no year though. You sat down at Issac’s desk as you began to read.

‘January 12th,

It is rare that I sit with my thoughts long enough to truly understand them. And yet tonight, they come unbidden, as if the fire itself has conjured them from the depths of my heart. Mitsu—the pull—insistent and quiet. It is as though I can hear the rhythm of time itself, as if each thought has been waiting to arrive at this very moment.

Isaac sleeps in his room, his breathing soft and steady. The house is still—yami—too still. The only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside, pressing against the walls like a reminder of everything beyond. The world outside feels distant, unfathomable, and I am left here alone in this vast manor. I am surrounded by nothing but kage��shadows that twist and stretch in the dim light. There is a certain ki to the stillness, a force that hangs in the air, thick with secrets that have no intention of being spoken.

Doko e ikou? Where am I to go, now?

The silence often feels like a presence. Sometimes, I wonder if it watches me. Waits for me to face it. The longer I remain in this place, the more I am haunted by the sense that it holds me here, unwilling to let me leave.

The world outside is moving forward, and yet, inside these walls, I feel as though I am suspended in time. The house, the memories, the mono no aware—the delicate awareness of impermanence that clings to everything here—it all weighs on me.

I have often wondered if the path of business will eventually consume everything I hold dear. Will the endless pursuit of shigoto—work, duty—slowly grind away at the things I love most? There are days I feel as if all that I cherish will crumble like brittle leaves in the autumn wind, only to be carried away and forgotten.

My flowers are withering already, much sooner than I expected. The petals are wilting as though they sense my unease. Perhaps it is my neglect—perhaps I have not tended to them as I should. They are so fragile, so fleeting. It is as though they, too, understand the weight of time’s passing. Soon, even these bright bursts of color will fade, and all that will remain is the memory of what was. Sayonara.

Maybe tomorrow I will take Isaac to the flower shop, as I often do. The florist there, okaasan, adores him. He reminds her of her own children, though her hands are too frail now to chase after him. Isaac is always so full of life, so eager to learn. Perhaps it is time I teach him how to tie his shoes properly. Hissori—quietly, gently. One of these days, I will sit him down and guide his fingers to the knots.

It seems like such a small thing, such a simple task, but in moments like this, when the weight of the world feels so heavy, I find myself wondering if it is the little things that matter most. Chīsana koto, small things—perhaps they are what we hold onto when everything else slips away.

I find myself lost in the thought of Isaac, his small hands fumbling with the laces, his eyes so serious as he tries to master something so simple. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is learning something deeper with each knot. He is learning how to tie himself to this world, to the people who love him. One knot at a time.

But I wonder if it will be enough. Will the strings of his life remain tied, or will they fray as mine have? And in the end, what is it that we are really holding onto?

It is getting late now. The fire is dying, and soon, my thoughts will drift into sleep as well. But I cannot shake the feeling that something is waiting. Waiting for Isaac. Waiting for me.

Shinjiruyo—I believe it’s true, that we are all part of something larger than ourselves. But what if, in the end, it is the threads we cannot see that bind us most tightly? And what if those threads—kizuna—are the only thing that can save us?

I will teach him tomorrow. I will teach him to tie his shoes. But more than that, I will teach him how to hold onto the world when it feels like it is slipping away.

Ichizu ni. With a pure heart, with sincerity.

Perhaps that is enough.’

It was a journal. Not just anyone’s journal—His mothers. Your hands become sweaty and suddenly it feels as though the air around you thickens, as if the house itself is holding its breath. The words on the page blur in front of you, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus. You cannot—will not—tear your eyes away. This is not a coincidence.

You flip the page, trying not to hold your breath as you read.

‘January 15th,

I married a man of great resolve—stubborn, perhaps, to the point of mujo—impermanence. He never understood the quiet joys of the simple things in life. He saw them as meiwaku—a nuisance. The flutter of a butterfly’s wings, the fragrance of fresh rain on the earth, the feeling of sunlight on your face in the morning—it is all lost on him. He would never pause to look at a flower in bloom or hear the wind sing through the bamboo. And yet, he cannot see that it is kofu—true happiness—that he is missing.

I pray, Isaac, my precious son, that you may find meaning beyond your father’s world of work and duties. That you may find a way to balance the weight of purpose with the sweetness of living. You must learn to see what lies beyond the endless list of tasks your father is so consumed by.

Isaac asks me, often, why I seem so distant. Why I withdraw, why I am not as present as I once was. He cannot understand, wakarimasen. How could he? He is still so young, so full of wonder, so untouched by the complexities that I carry. He sees the world in ways I once did—everything is bright, everything is new, and every moment is a promise of something beautiful.

But still, I can feel the pull of it all. Every night, it calls to me, just beyond the edges of my sleep, like a whisper on the wind. It is not a dream. Kokoro—my heart, it knows this voice, this presence. The house itself seems to murmur in the quiet, as if waiting for me to listen, waiting for me to face what I have been avoiding. The creaking floorboards, the drafts that creep through the cracks—they are not just the sounds of an old house. They are a language, one that only the willing can hear. A language that I am afraid to understand.

I hear it every night. The house is speaking to me, calling me to mi no naka—to look within. And yet, I run. I turn away, but I cannot escape it. The silence is too deep, too heavy with meaning.

Today, I made Isaac a pie. It was a small thing, a simple thing. I had meant to make him smile. We were out of apples, so I decided to use blueberries instead. Ame ni mo—it’s good to try new things, to experiment. Life is fleeting, like a cherry blossom in the wind. It is good to savor what is before you, even if it is not exactly what you had planned.

But little did I know, Isaac is allergic to blueberries.

When he took a bite, I saw it immediately. His face flushed a bright red, his cheeks puffing up like a fugu—a pufferfish. I couldn’t help but laugh, despite the worry I felt tightening in my chest. His skin stretched, itchy and swollen, and for a moment, he looked so ridiculous, so helpless. He reminded me of the delicate beauty of nature—how even the smallest change, the smallest thing, can alter everything.

And yet, his innocence—his vulnerability—was still beautiful. There was a strange kind of poetry in it. To see his face stretch with discomfort was to witness the fragility of life. I wanted to shield him from this, to protect him from anything that could harm him, even something as small as a blueberry. And yet, it was nothing. This little moment, this small misstep—it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Shinjirarenai—and yet, it was everything.

He looked at me with those wide eyes, confused, uncomfortable. I rushed to him, of course, comforting him the best I could. He will never understand why I am always so cautious, so quick to protect him. He will never understand why I am fuan—uneasy—about the small, simple things that make life what it is.

I wonder if one day he will. If one day, he will face what I have faced. Will he understand then? Will he too hear the whispers of the house, the pull of things he cannot see?

But for now, I will teach him. I will teach him to tie his shoes, to hold the world gently in his hands. I will teach him the quiet wisdom of the simple things. Because ichizu ni—with sincerity—perhaps that is enough. It must be enough, for now.

For one day, the shadows will come. The house will speak again. And I can only hope that Isaac will be ready.

I must be ready.’

You sit in Isaac’s chair, the journal still open in your hands, You stare as the recipe she had written. the words blurred by the sudden flood of emotions overwhelming you. Your fingers tremble as you turn the page back to the last entry, your eyes scanning the delicate prose, trying to absorb each word, each phrase, as though doing so could somehow unlock a deeper understanding of Isaac’s mother, of the woman who once stood where you now stand.

The air feels heavier, as though the house itself has shifted in the wake of her presence—her words—still echoing in the corners of your mind. The silence around you is suffocating, and yet, at the same time, it feels almost comforting, as if you’ve crossed some invisible threshold, stepping into a world that was never truly meant for you.

You picture Isaac as she must have, those wide, innocent eyes, his hands fumbling as he tried to tie his shoes, his small laugh ringing in the air. The image of him, so pure and untainted, makes your heart ache even more.

It’s then that you realize just how much you’ve come to care for him. How much you’ve seen of his mother in him, even though you never knew her face. The way his laughter fills the manor, brightening the silence, making the walls feel less oppressive. The way he seeks you out, his unspoken need for your presence, your comfort, in the same way she must have sought comfort in this very house. You wonder, for the first time, what it would’ve been like to have known her—to have been able to share this strange, unspoken bond with her.

—-

As the days passed, it felt as though you were falling in love with someone else entirely—someone who existed only in the pages of a journal. Through her words, you had laughed, cried, even felt anger—all emotions born from a life you had never lived, yet somehow felt intimately connected to. It was as though she were here with you, speaking to you across time, through the ink of her memories.

You can’t help but feel the weight of it all—the shared burden, the deep longing, the silent conversations between the lines of the journal. It’s as if you’ve been chosen to carry this weight, to understand the world she left behind. But now, in this quiet moment, it doesn’t feel like something heavy. Instead, it feels like a connection. Like you are linked to her in a way you cannot fully explain.

And then the realization hits you: You are a reflection of her.

All these years, Isaac has been a mirror of his father, a reflection of his quiet strength, his determination, his focus on duty. But you? You see now how much of Isaac’s mother is in you. Her gentleness, her quiet contemplation, the way she seemed to live in the moments between moments—this is the life you’ve carved out for yourself here. You didn’t realize it, not until now, but you’ve become a part of her, woven into the very fabric of this house, just as she once was.

A wave of guilt washes over you. How had you not seen it before? How had you never understood the depth of the woman you had only ever heard of in passing? You’ve stood in her shoes, taken her place in this manor, and perhaps, in some ways, even become her. Her longing for a connection with Isaac, her hope that he might live a life beyond the demands of work—these are your own longings now. These are your own hopes for him. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if she might have felt the same about you, if she could have seen you as more than just Isaac’s partner, but as a person who, like her, carried the weight of unspoken burdens, of quiet love.

—-

Isaac returned home exactly on the seventh day, just as promised. You smiled the moment you saw him, standing there in the doorway, a familiar silhouette after a week of absence. Dusting the flour from your hands, you placed the fork you had been using to cut the pie down onto the counter. You had baked a feast—of sweets, of course, an offering of warmth and comfort for his return. The house had been too quiet without him, and now it was alive again with his presence.

Isaac returned your smile, his eyes lighting up as he set his briefcase on the small entry table and hung his coat. The brief, casual movements of his return, the small sounds of him settling into the home—it was a symphony you had missed.

He stepped toward you, and without a word, wrapped you in his embrace. The familiar weight of his arms around you made you feel both safe and cherished. You melted against him, feeling the warmth of his body sink into yours.

"I missed you," you whispered, the words soft and almost hesitant, as if you didn’t want even the gods to overhear. In that moment, you wanted everything between you two to feel sacred, a world all your own, untouched by anything outside these walls.

Isaac’s arms tightened slightly around you, and you felt his breath stir against the back of your neck as he placed a gentle kiss there. "I missed you more," he murmured, his voice rich with affection. His breath was warm against your skin, a comforting presence you had craved all week.

You felt his hand slip from your waist to the counter, reaching for the fork you had left beside the pie. His fingers brushed the handle, and just as he was about to lift the fork to his lips, you reached out and grabbed his wrist.

He paused, looking at you, surprised. "What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It’s blueberry," you said quickly, a tinge of concern in your voice. "You’re allergic."

Everything went still in that moment. The kitchen, the house, even time itself seemed to hold its breath. Isaac’s gaze flickered from the fork in his hand to your face, his expression unreadable.

"How do you know that?" His voice was softer now, laced with a note of curiosity and maybe a slither of suspicion.

You hesitated for a moment, then simply said, "Your mother told me."

—

author’s note: the original book reader had found was ‘Crime and Punishment’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #isaac rhoades #zsakuva isaac #happy birthday isaac

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ivystoryweaver · 10 months ago

Text

March the 9th

Marc Spector x gn!reader 1.4k words, angst, sex is implied, no smut, tw abuse, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Your skin tingles as you struggle you steady your breathing. Pacing the floor for an hour does nothing to calm that fuzzy feeling in the center of you.

He’ll be here soon.

You’ve memorized the pattern on the ceiling over your bed, because you stared at it the entire night, never once slipping into blissful slumber.

Your phone never rings. No emails, no letters, no messages.

But he always shows.

Bouncing on your toes, you smooth your hands down the lines of your body, checking your reflection, which lets you know you look the same as you did five minutes ago.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The first year...

Your family moved onto the Spectors’ street when you were nine years old. You quickly befriended the Spector boys, often playing with them after school and on weekends.

Then, one day, Randall was gone. You were supposed to play with them that day, but you had the flu.

Marc was never the same and you didn’t see much of him, except at school. The Spectors didn’t throw him a birthday party and he didn’t show up at yours either.

So you created a handmade birthday card for him, making a point to cross his path at school. He was absent.

The next year approached, and you realized the Spectors once again would not be throwing a party, so you gave Marc his birthday card on March 8th. He jerked it out of your hand, eyes downcast, muttering, “thanks,” before shuffling away.

You called his name, scampering after him, but he never looked back. The two of you were in middle school now and Marc didn’t seem to have many friends at all. Hopefully he would read the card, which invited him over to hang out.

He did.

On the night of March 9th, he crawled through your bedroom window for the first time. Tears streaked down his cheeks as his body trembled.

“Can I sleep on your floor?” He brokenly whispered.

You had a queen sized bed, so, of course you didn’t let your clearly devastated friend sleep on the hard floor.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured drowsily, once he slid beneath the covers. “Please, they’ll kill me.”

You didn’t understand and he wouldn’t explain. You were only twelve years old. You squeezed his hand and let him rest.

He talked to you after that, only sometimes.

The next March 9th, you gave him another card, with another invitation to come over. He did. Your fingers tangled with his.

Again at fourteen, when, after swiping the tears from his eyes, he kissed you. He kissed you for a long time and you thought you’d never felt anything so magical.

At fifteen, he kissed and touched you all night long. Your heart was his now.

Still, he kept to himself for most of the other 364 days a year.

At sixteen, he climbed into your bed and the two of you lost your virginity. Neither of you had a clue what you were doing - clumsy and wild and sweet. But he kissed you and held you and he tried. You loved him and you had never felt so close to anyone in your life.

He flinched away from your touch several times, so you thought you must be doing something wrong.

It wasn’t until seventeen that you saw his well-hidden bruises and red welts by your bedside lamplight.

“Who did this to you?” Tears streamed down your face as your fingertips traced lovingly around anger and drunkenness unleashed on his beautiful body.

His eyes met yours and you knew. He came to your bed a lot more after that.

Then came eighteen. Three months before graduation. You asked him all the time where he wanted to go to college - where the two of you could go together, but nothing ever came of it. He only answered, “I have to get out.”

March the 9th of year eighteen was the last you saw of Marc Spector for a long time. He didn’t make it to graduation.

He sent you a letter in year nineteen.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all it said.

Year twenty passed. 21, 22, 23…

You graduated college and met someone. But every March the 9th, your fingers would trace his picture, so your "someone" didn't last.

More than a few March 9ths ago, you somehow wished him right back to you. He knocked on your door, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot, swallowing hard and expecting rejection.

You threw your arms around him. “Happy birthday,” you whispered against his cheek before his mouth found yours.

He took you to bed and you knew then that your heart would only ever be his.

It wasn’t enough though. He granted you a half-hearted explanation about danger and old debts and how he was so messed up - he could never bring it all into your life.

You had enough dignity to refrain from begging him.

The next March the 9th was the same. And the next, and the next.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

This year, you’re resolute. It will be the last. It has to be. You can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t love you - not the way you love him. You’ll wish him happy birthday, take him to your bed, but - never again. It hurts too much.

A sharp knock jolts you out of your reverie, sending all the air rushing out of you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you steady yourself, giving yourself one final moment to prepare for your last night with Marc.

You reach for the door and find him holding flowers. Irises.

“You like these…right?” Dark eyebrows shift hopefully.

You breathe his name, your heart flaming with adoration. You take the bouquet and wrap your arms around his neck like always, whispering, “Happy birthday,” against his cheek as his lips seek out your own. He tastes you slowly…sweetly, his breath mingling with yours.

You lose your grasp on the irises, forgetting to care as they spill to the floor. Strong arms wind around you as his hands spread across your back, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. The kiss goes on and on until you’re dizzy and breathless and hot tears wet your eyes at the thought of never tasting him again.

You fight them back as the two of you finally make it through the front door and he kicks it closed. He takes you to bed and you drown in the essence that is Marc - unearthed secrets, soul-crushing burdens, beautiful desperation and a kind of hungry tenderness. You bury your nose in the crook of his neck, comforted and tormented as you inhale the spicy, sun-kissed scent of him, your lips tasting, committing him to memory.

Saltiness seeps into your mouth and you’re not sure if it’s the slight sheen on his skin as he works his way into you, or the tears slipping down your cheeks.

Your fingers twist through his dark curls as you pull your body flush against his - the heat of your tongue - the twist of your body - the scrape of your fingernails desperately attempting to communicate your need for this man.

He’s been your birthday wish most of your life.

He holds you against him until the calendar turns to the 10th. The sun rises and you realize he’s never stayed this long.

Which will make the speech you’ve planned so much harder. You shuffle to the bathroom while he sleeps, steeling yourself for the heartbreak. As you stare into the mirror, tears burn your eyes and you wonder if you can go through with it. The thought of never seeing him again is crushing, but you can’t go on like this.

Finally, you straighten out your appearance and freshen up, fighting like hell to keep your composure.

Marc is awake, sitting on the edge of your bed in only his boxers. You expect him to be dressed and ready to walk out the door, but as his warm, coffee colored eyes find yours…

He gently smiles.

“Marc?” You whisper, slowly approaching him.

“Come here,” he softly instructs, reaching for you. You sink down beside him, your foreheads touching sweetly as he grips your arms.

“Could…do you think I could stay?”

Tears trickle down. Again. “I don’t know,” you whimper. “I-I can’t-"

“I know.,” he nods, pressing an urgent kiss to your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He’s off the bed and reaching for his clothes before you can blink, but you don’t let him get far. “Stay,” you urgently plead. “Stay with me.”

He freezes, eyes wide and hopeful. “F-for tonight, or…”

“Stay,” you repeat, pressing your palms to the heat of his bare chest. “Stay or go. Just decide.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next March the 9th…

“Happy birthday, baby,” you murmur against his lips as he rolls you underneath him.