#is it terrible? yes. did I laugh? ALSO yes.

[zigrethsnotebook]

3 times Stan fake-proposed to you and 1 time he didn’t

Stan x Reader

words: 4,123

tags: sfw, toothrotting fluff

a/n: was allowed to borrow the idea from @stanpineskisser <3

1. Stan and you had been dating for a couple of months now. The town was slowly warming up to the idea of Mister Mystery dating someone so... 'out of his league' as you'd once heard it. You knew they just thought you were a gold-digger but you also did not care. You loved Stan. And even though he had a hard time saying it out loud, you knew he loved you, too.

Stan didn’t need to tell you how he felt, because he showed you through little gestures and gifts he'd get you. (But to call you a gold-digger because of that? He stole most of the stuff anyway!) Like today, when you two went on a date to Greasy's Diner.

It wasn't supposed to be anything fancy, just a normal dinner date with Stan. But as things so often are with this man, it ended up being anything but normal.

When you two entered the Diner one thing immediately caught your eye. A new little machine stood next to the coat rack at the door. It was one of those things where you'd put a coin in, turn the handle a couple of times and a little plastic ball filled with some cheap toy would fall out. You loved these when you were a kid! The toys were always terrible but something about it always made you get something whenever you saw one of these.

Your excitement and nostalgia got the better of you. So while Stan put both of your coats away, you went and got yourself something from the machine. Grinning from ear to ear you followed Stan to an empty booth. You waited until after you had ordered your drinks to open the plastic ball.

"Where'd you get that?" Stan asked as you struggled to tear the two halves apart. "The machine at the door." You didn't even look up to answer him, you knew he wouldn't like it, call it a waste of money. He'd be right, of course, but you didn’t need to hear it.

While Stan was looking for the machine you finally managed to pull the ball apart, sending the contents flying across the table, one of the things rolling off of it. You quickly gathered them all in one spot in front of you while Stan stood up. "I gotcha."

When he spotted the little dark blue plastic ring in front of the table, he bent down on one knee, picked it up and presented it to you. You were about to take it from him when Lazy Susan appeared behind him, holding your drinks. She gasped before saying: "Oh my, Mr. Pines! Are you proposing already?" Stan looked at her quizzically for a second when you saw an opening for a free meal.

"Oh my god, Stan! I never would have thought! This is so sudden...!" You put on a real show and Stan was quick to follow your lead. "What can I say? These past few months have been the best of my life and I never want them to end! Please... marry me?"

The words were right but both of you spoke them like you were the leads in a cheap soap-opera. It didn’t matter though. Everyone cheered when you said 'yes' and fell into his arms. Stan pushed the ring onto your finger and you kissed him as dramatically as you could.

Once you two had settled back into your seats, now holding hands and making heart-eyes at each other, Lazy Susan put your drinks on your table. "Well, I think it goes without saying that you two are getting the special today. On the house! Aren't you just adorable!" You both thanked her and grinned at each other as she turned around.

After dinner, on your way back to the shack, Stan couldn't help but laugh. "Nice stunt you pulled there. Quick thinking - I like that." You smirked at him. "I learned from the best."

He shifted in his seat a little, the words he was about to say making him slightly nervous. "You do realize we'll have to pretend to be engaged now, right?" You chuckled before answering sarcastically. "Oh no, what a nightmare!"

Stan joined you with a chuckle of his own. However, he couldn't shake the warm, fuzzy feeling that was blooming in his chest at the thought of being engaged to you.

2. About two weeks later Stan asked you out to dinner again. "And put on something nice. We're going to a fancy restaurant today. Because I'm planning to propose to you!" You were about to question him when he showed you a little blue box. When he opened it you recognised the little blue plastic ring from the Diner and smiled a crooked smile.

"And here I was, thinking you were going to propose to me for real," you sighed dramatically, "but I suppose a scam for a free dinner will do." You smirked at Stan as he put the box into his jacket. "I'll be back in five." You kissed his cheek and turned on your heels to put on some nicer clothes.

As you walked away you had to calm your racing heart with a few steadying breaths. What happened at Greasy's was dumb luck, but the fact that Stan wanted to pull the same scam again, on purpose this time, left you feeling giddy.

You lived for the excitement Stan brought into your life. Scamming, shoplifting, pug smuggling or robbing his rival of a clown painting - Nothing beat the adrenalin rush of doing something illegal, running away hand in hand and then sinking into each other, laughing hysterically.

This scam in particular though? It felt a little different. You knew that this would only work if the people at the restaurant believed that you two were so in love that you'd want to marry each other. Not that it was very difficult for you. You two had been dating a good while and you really loved him. But the topic of marriage had never even crossed your mind before.

Then again, this was only a scam. He wasn't actually proposing to you. After all, you had roped him into this at Greasy's and now he was just taking advantage of a good situation.

Still, as you looked in the mirror, all dressed up in your fanciest dark red suit, you decided that you'd put on an even better show than last time.

When you met Stan again in the living room he eyed you up and down before stepping towards you and grabbing your waist, pulling you closer to him. His voice was low. "You look gorgeous, doll."

Your hands found his chest and traced his skin in the part of his shirt he'd left unbuttoned. "You clean up nice yourself, handsome." You all but purred at him. Stan chuckled, a smirk on his face. "Don't tempt me, sweetcheeks. Let's get dinner first."

You both chuckled and pulled apart so Stan could lead you to the front door. He kept one of your hands in his up until he opened the car door for you, allowing you to climb inside, before he shut the door. He walked over to the driver's side and you two drove off.

Stan had picked a restaurant a good 40 minute drive from the shack so by the time you arrived you were starting to get really hungry. Stan had put in a reservation beforehand which meant you were quickly seated and presented with a nice red wine Stan had ordered for the both of you.

He promised you he'd only drink one glass and then switch to soda and you believed him. Stan had assured you time and time again that nothing was more important to him than your safety.

You held his hands on top of the table and you both stared into each other's eyes, really going all out on the lovey-dovey stuff. Normally, Stan would roll his eyes and groan at people who behaved like this, but when he could use it to scam someone? He was not holding back.

He softly spoke sweet nothings over the table, quiet enough to be believable, loud enough to make sure the staff heard him. He peppered your hands in soft kisses and smiled at you like you were the light of his life.

Hell, if you didn’t plan for this to be a scam then you would have believed him. You couldn't help the way a gentle blush crept onto your cheeks at the sight of Stan picking up your hand and placing a soft kiss to your knuckles without breaking eye contact with you.

Just as Stan saw the waiter approaching again out of the corner of his eyes, he put on the real show. He stood up, his chair screeching backwards slightly and declared: "I can't wait any longer." Stan pulled the blue box from one of his pockets and got down on one knee in front of you as he addressed you by name.

"You are by far the best thing that's ever happened to me. Your smile is what lets me get up in the morning and I would be honored if you would allow me to see your smile every day for the rest of our lifes. Please. Will you marry me?"

You watched him, real shock and surprise making its way to your face with every word he spoke. You had to manually remind yourself that this was just a scam and Not a real proposal. Without your permission your voice went shaky as you breathed out a "Yes, of course!" and went in for a kiss.

You sighed into the kiss, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Why was this having such a strong effect on you? You knew this was coming, you should have been prepared for this!

It didn’t matter because you didn’t have much time to dwell on it. When you parted the kiss you tuned back into the real world and heard the other customers applauding. The waiter had now reached the both of you and declared that for true love like yours your meal would be on the house. The customers applauded again as you both settled back into your seats.

You admired the dark blue ring Stan had slipped onto your finger and Stan quickly covered it with his own hand when the waiter brought out your plates, knowing full well that with one closer look every idiot would see that the ring is just plastic.

The rest of the dinner went smoothly. Two couples congratulated you both on their way out and you thanked them accordingly.

After you were done and back on the road Stan was first to speak up. "You were real convincing today. Almost made me think you thought it was a real proposal." He kept his eyes on the road but the smirk on his lips was still very clear.

You chuckled. "Yeah, right. To be fair, you weren't half bad yourself. 'Your smile is what lets me get up in the morning'? Now that's some true romantic stuff. Did you learn that from The Duchess Approves?" You tried to play it cool by teasing him. It seemed to do the trick.

"Hey! I can be romantic!" You chuckled fondly. "Yes, I know, love." Stan's expression softened at the nickname. He wanted to tell you just how much he loved you, too, but he just couldn't get the words out so instead, he just put his right arm over the backrest of your seat and pulled you towards him slightly as he continued to drive home.

You leaned into his touch and held up your left hand to look at the ring again. "Hm... How about I give this back to you, in case we want to do this again sometime?" You smiled as you pulled the ring off your finger and dropped it into the chest pocket of Stan's shirt.

3. It was late spring as you and Stan decided to go to a fair, one town over. You two walked along the many different attractions together, your arm lazily around his torso, his hand gently resting on your hip. Your pace was very slow, because at every other stall he squeezed your hip lightly to pull you closer and whispered in your ear how exactly they were scamming the customers. Every time he'd get a chuckle or a gentle swat to his chest from you.

As you two were passing by a Tin Can Alley, you spotted a gorgeous bear plushie that was just one fez short of looking like Stan. Just as you were about to ask him to play a round with him he pulled you closer again. "Ah, the Tin Can Alley. Did you know that they put a bit of double sided tape under the cans so they're harder to knock over?"

You swatted him lightly again and he chuckled. "No! Stan! Don't tell me that! I wanted to play a round with you. That bear looks so much like you, I wanted to win one." He looked a little puzzled at you, then at the bear, and back at you again. "I don't see it."

Even though he hated hearing you say it, he was plain adorable at times. A fond smile graced your lips even though you sighed in disappointment. "It's okay, let's go." You went to take a step forward but Stan stopped you. "Nah, let's play anyway." "But-" He cut you off and stepped towards the stall. "Come on! My treat." Stan flashed his teeth and winked at you. Was he planning something?

You were the only people at the stall so the man in charge of it noticed you two immediately. Stan squinted at him. "What do we need to do to get that bear?" He pointed at the plushie dangling above your heads.

The man smiled at him. "Good choice, sir. For that one you should only need three balls." He placed three balls on the counter between the men. "There is a catch though. You see these stacks?" He pointed at the three pyramids of stacked cans behind him. "You'll need to clear all three of them completely. Care to try? It's only three dollars."

Stan pulled three dollars out of his pocket and placed them on the counter, then gently nudged you closer to it. "Give it your best shot, doll." You smiled at Stan and took the first ball as the man behind the counter put the money away.

You positioned yourself in front of the first stack, took a deep breath and threw the ball. It hit the second of three rows, knocking four out of six cans to the ground. "Hoho! Good one! But not quite good enough for the bear I'm afraid." You frowned, disappointment filling your chest again.

"Yeah, not an option, pal. How about you just keep 'em coming, huh?" The man smiled at Stan again, although this time it looked a little more like a smirk. "Gladly, sir! Every extra ball is an extra dollar." As he said this he put one extra ball on the counter. Stan grumbled quietly and pulled another dollar out of his pocket while the man restacked the cans.

When the man was done and took the dollar, Stan looked at you, encouraging you to try again. This time you actually managed to clear the first stack. You threw your arms up in triumph and Stan huffed but the look in his eyes was of pure adoration. The second stack was less easy though, you only knocked off three cans this time. You needed an extra ball.

This went on until Stan had spent exactly eleven dollars. You had counted along. After that, when you hadn't cleared the cans again and looked at Stan expectantly, he put on his saddest face and pulled his pockets inside out, proving that he had 'no money left' and you couldn't continue.

Stan sighed sadly, shook his head and turned to you again. "I'm so sorry... I wanted to make this the best day ever but..." He looked wistfully up at the plushie and then back to you. "I suppose it doesn't matter that much." Stan rummaged through the inside of his jacket and pulled out the tiny box you'd come to recognize. You let your eyes widen in fake surprise.

He bent down on one knee, opened the box and presented it to you. You gasped as you saw the ring again. "Will you marry me?" You looked between Stan and the ring a couple times, pretending to be shocked at this scenario, before you nodded vigorously and stepped forward, hugging your boyfriend and repeating the word 'yes' a couple of times.

Some passersby 'aw'-ed and applauded as you pulled back slightly to press a loving kiss to Stan's lips. You'd never get tired of this. As Stan pushed you back just enough to slip the ring onto your finger, you could hear the man at the stall quietly sigh in annoyance. You went in for another kiss to Stan's lips, really selling the proposal.

When you broke the kiss again, you two were presented with the bear plushie, sitting for you on the counter. "If this is what it will take to make this the best day ever for two lovers, who am I to stand in your way?" The man said as he slid the bear over to you.

You gladly took it, hugging it tightly and throwing a couple 'Thank you!'-s at the man while Stan grabbed him by the shoulder and told him: "Thanks, man. I knew you were a true romantic at heart."

With that, you two left the fair. You had everything you needed. Back in the car, you slipped the ring off your finger and handed it back to Stan before nuzzling your face into your new favorite plushie, which you lovingly and creatively named Stan two or Stan the second.

You didn’t see it, but Stan's expression softened as you did that. He adored you so much. The way you were able to pull off these scams with him so effortlessly. The way your genuine joy for life made him actually want to spend money on silly things like this. You had changed his life for the better and didn’t even know it.

In that very moment Stan started planning exactly how and where the next time he'd propose to you would happen.

1. You and Stan sat in Greasy's Diner, sipping on some soda. Stan had asked you out to dinner and you had assumed he was planning to fake-propose to you again, but as he pulled up to the Diner you realized that that wasn't the plan. He couldn't pull the same thing here again, they thought you were already engaged!

Even so, Stan had put on one of his nicer outfits. A red shirt with the top few buttons unbuttoned to show off his gold-chain and a decent amount of chest hair. His tan jacket was thrown over the backrest as you sat down at a booth. You had also worn something nice, not too fancy, but nice enough for the kind of restaurant you thought he'd take you to.

Stan clearly enjoyed your outfit, it showed off all the right curves while not giving too much away... he couldn't keep his eyes off of you. It made you chuckle as Lazy Susan stood in front of your table and Stan seemingly hadn't even noticed her. "Hey! Earth to Stan!" You called out to him and he snapped out of it. "What would you like to eat?" You grinned at him as he ordered.

When Lazy Susan walked back to the kitchen you spoke up again with a chuckle. "I know I look good in this, but you're overdoing it a little." Stan just rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Haha... yeah. Sorry." You furrowed your brows at him. You had expected him to have some witty, suggestive comeback but instead he apologized? Something was off.

You watched him fidget with his hands in front of him, his eyes darting around the room and the table, anywhere but your eyes really. It was starting to worry you. "Stan? Are you alright?" Concern laced your voice and made Stan finally face you. His cheeks immediately went bright red.

"Th-There's nothing for you to worry about, doll, I promise." Your eyebrows stayed knitted together as you nodded slowly. He was clearly lying and also very nervous about it, but you knew better than to push him. He'd tell you eventually. He always does.

After a few minutes in silence, with Stan going back to fidgeting and not looking at you, Lazy Susan brought you both your meals. You thanked her and dug in. Meanwhile Stan quietly sighed in disappointment before starting to eat as well.

You were about halfway through your meal when Stan got up. You didn’t pay much attention to it and just assumed he had to use the restrooms. When you looked up and saw his plate though, you halted. The fork in your hand landed back on your plate as you wondered why Stan had barely eaten anything.

Someone cleared their throat beside you and when you turned to look it was Stan in front of you on one knee, holding a tiny red box. You quickly swallowed the food that was still in your mouth as Stan addressed you with your full legal name. He was blushing a deep red and you could feel your cheeks trying to match his.

"I know I've said this before but I want you to know that I truly mean it this time." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "These past few months with you have been the best of my life and I would spend all the money in the world to keep your smile in my life forever."

Your eyes welled up with tears as you realized what was happening. "I have become a better man and I blame you for that entirely." A wet chuckle escaped your lips. "I guess what I really want to say is..." Stan took another deep breath, then looked into your eyes. "I love you."

A few tears were flowing freely now as Stan opened the box in his hands to present you the most gorgeous silver ring you had ever seen. It held a little red gemstone between silver swirls that reflected the light from the Diner like a sunset over the ocean. "Will you marry me?"

You lept out of your seat into Stan's arms, knocking him backwards onto the floor. "Yes! Yes! A million times yes!" Stan could feel your tears staining his shirt but he couldn't care less. A massive weight lifted off his shoulders knowing that he could now call you his fiancé without having to lie about it.

With some difficulty he managed to sit you both back up so he could take your hand and place the real ring onto your finger. Admiring the sight he pressed a kiss to it, as if sealing it there.

You pressed your forehead to Stan's, holding the hand with the ring between you. "I love you, Stan." He sighed, finally content. "I love you, too."

After a few moments on the floor like that, Lazy Susan came up next to you. "Didn’t you propose two months ago?" Stan let out a gruff laugh, the one that always made you smile. "No, I didn’t. Just faked it to get a free meal." He beamed at her but Lazy Susan frowned.

She turned around and while Stan helped you up and into your seat again she came back with a broom in her hands. She smacked him with it from behind. Once, twice. Stan stammered out some halfhearted apologies as she kicked him out of the Diner.

You laughed all the way and when she came back to your table you apologized sincerely, asked her nicely to pack both of your meals up to go and told her that you'd pay for both these meals, and the ones you had two months ago.

She agreed happily, and when you stepped outside with your food, you found Stan next to his car, rubbing his ass. You laughed and told him that you'd finish your dinner at home, just the two of you.

That seemed to lift Stan's spirits again. He almost sprinted around the car to open the door for you and when you both got home you celebrated your real engagement appropriately.

[regallibellbright]

Happy Valentine’s Day SPECIFICALLY to the poor bastard who Mimic the Octopus has repeatedly catfished and ghosted on this day for the last decade.

[clover-the-awesomest]

HEY HEY HEY GUYS GUYS LOOK LOOK AT THIS I MADE SOMETHING FOR MY AU I DID IT I MADE SOMETHING LOOK LOOK LOOK

(Click for better quality I think)

YES!!! THAT’S RIGHT EVERYONE, I’M MAKING AN ASK BLOG FOR MY ROTTMNT NEW HOME AU!!!!!!! I honestly have no idea how this will go, and I still have to make the art for the blog customizations, BUT THE BLOG WILL BE UP SOON AND YOU WILL BE ABLE TO ASK QUESTIONS WHEN THAT HAPPENS!! Before then, if you already have questions, please do not be afraid to ask in my own askbox! I’ll try to get to as many as I can.

Now please keep in mind, I do not expect ANYONE to see this. Like. At all. I don’t expect to get questions or anything either, so for promotional reasons, I’ll have real people ask me real life questions about the au to get things going.

Also keep in mind that this is my first ever big project that I plan to stay dedicated to. If I receive asks that I end up not getting to for a while, please be patient! I’m doing my best right now.

Anywhizzle, thank you thank you THANK YOU VERY VERY MUCH FOR READING THIS AND CHECKING OUT THIS LITTLE COMIC STRIP I DID!!! Bro I swear my back has gotta be broken by now lmao

Here’s to hoping this experiment works! Thanks for the questions if you do end up asking any! They all mean a ton to me!

And with that, I’ll let you do whatever it is you were already doing. Your time is very much appreciated!

[gatun-gatunesco]

...

[staraxiaa]

+ extra lines bc i ran out of tag space .

If you cross the river (will the fighting end?)

Contrary to what granny once said, Kita thinks he won't ever truly know who you are. You are the one who waits by the river, watching as he scrubs dirt from fresh carrots and dirty shovels. You are the one whose presence lingers like mist over his skin when you part. You are the one whose eyes he always feels, at every moment—the eyes granny reminds him of when they wipe the floor or prepare a meal together.

You are the one who knows that it does not matter, that he would still perform his rituals and hold unwavering conviction even if you were not there. Because he is Kita; he is Shin-chan—repetition, perseverance, and diligence is how he lives...because it simply feels good.

You are the same, committed to your duty to watch him from the moment you were pulled from the glory of a summit. And he is committed to being watched by you.

shinsuke kita x GN reader character study for shin, reader is a river/rain spirit, themes of disaster, mentions of dying/minor character death, fluff and angst, slow burn (i think), slight spoilers for haikyuu!! timeskip 20.4k words | oneshot, complete

notes: This fic is set around the premise that Kita's gran lives in the mountains of eastern Hyogo, just above Osaka. I have his parents living in the city while Kita is cared for by granny until it's time for him to start school, around 6 years old. He goes to Osaka during the school year and no longer spends time in the mtns. Since canon doesn't offer a whole lot of information, I took liberties with the setting and backstory to fit the plot of my fic. I hope this can help negate any potential confusion! + (It's another fic spanning childhood to adulthood. With a magical reader. I am unfortunately not able to escape my own tropes.) + shoutout to this fic for inspiration

ao3 option

One moment you are a carefree being, gleefully running along a series of falls wedged along the mountain summit. The sun is setting and you are soaking in the glory of the day: with swaying leaves and shimmering droplets, and the last bit of light streaming through pockets of trees.

The next you are falling, rolling, bumping your way through the water. A current sweeps you away without warning, your vision goes dark, and you have left your place above the sun to land in the depths of a looming valley. You have to carry onwards, knowing there is no going back, so you search for the one who brought you here.

There is a dim light beyond the bank. It seeps from the open screen of a traditional-style house, illuminating the wooden beams and eaves from behind. It's a bedroom, with a small boy dutifully putting his futon down for the night, smoothing out the bumps and lining the base to be in its exact spot. He has salt and pepper hair and you think he is the youngest old person you will ever see. He never looks your way, but you sense that he knows you are watching.

So you watch, now that you're here.

"Granny, who's that?"

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, a thin arm clutching him tightly against her hip. Her eyes slowly move from his face to his finger pointing towards the water. She can't see what he sees: another child, waist deep in the gentle rapids, mysteriously faded—like a mist lingering instead of wafting to the sky. She smiles gently when she understands, bringing a hand to pat his hair softly.

"You'll learn when the time is right, Shin-chan."

She knows how this story will go.

Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.

Kita's life is built upon the small things he does everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.

Someone is watching over you.

Rain streams down the mountain gullies and pools in the river at the center of the valley.

The sun rises. Over and over and over again.

Childhood

The morning light streams through open screens, crawling up the veranda and into the adjacent interior. It’s the beginning of June—cleaning day, the tatami mats moved aside for inspection and rotation while Kita and granny scrub the wooden floors together. Foam bubbles from the rag when he wrings it out, excess water trickling into the bucket. He wipes it across the floor of their living room, watching carefully as the wood darkens slightly, but not too much, leaving shiny streaks and stray bubbles behind. He smiles to himself gently.

A grin tugs at granny as she watches from the opposite side of the room. It was Shin-chan’s own decision to clean with her today. He gave her no reason as he simply said, “I’ll help,” when she grabbed her bucket and rags. He already started pulling the mats aside, then struggled to move the table in the center by himself. Granny chuckles to herself at the recollection before returning her attention to the floor, her section a little lighter than Kita's.

He looks to her side and the faintest crease appears between his brows, a slight purse of his lips. When he wrings out his towel again, he pulls the ends a little tighter before bringing it back to the floor with a new gentleness. The result brings the twitch of a smile to his mouth. It makes him feel good.

From outside, he hears the rustling of leaves, creaking as bamboo sways in a light breeze, and the scrapes of shrubs against the house. The morning is cool, bringing in air that will hopefully linger as the day drags on. The only chatter comes from the birds, quick raps of storks in the river and singing sparrows in the trees. Kita feels a warmth, one from inside, as he listens. Focuses.

He thinks it could be praise, from the spirits that are watching.

It’s still morning when they finish, the mats brushed and switched with the ones in the closet. After they return the table to the center of the room, granny quietly thanks Kita for his help. He only nods in return. Quiet Shin-chan. He thinks he’ll read until lunch, or maybe help some more if granny plans to work in the garden.

She interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s go for a walk, to Fujiwara-san’s.”

Kita's brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods. Granny sometimes likes to visit the neighbors, though without any clear pattern or schedule. He thinks she might be doing it for him, so he can talk with other kids his age, especially with his sister always gone to a friend’s and his baby brother in the city. He would rather read, but agrees regardless since it’s granny asking.

They slip their feet into sandals and start down the path along the river, towards the right. Kita reaches for granny’s hand and she smiles down at the top of his hair. They walk slowly along pebbles and dirt, accompanied by the sound of water rushing next to them. Eventually they approach a bridge, granny having to grasp the railing as she walks up the steps. When she reaches the center of the river she pauses, a ritual, to watch the water run by.

“Fujiwara-san said he has exciting news,” granny offers in a delayed explanation. Kita doesn’t respond. 

Granny takes another minute to step down on the other end of the bridge and continue walking. They go left, towards the house that sits opposite of theirs. It takes slightly longer with the incline, but it’s quaint and Kita feels no hurry.

The house is open when they arrive, doors aside to let the last cool minutes waft through. There’s nobody home, however, and Kita looks up to granny curiously after they step onto the exterior veranda.

She only offers a smile as they wait a few moments. His attention is diverted when he hears the thumping of footsteps, small and quick, getting closer. They’re followed by Fujiwara’s muffled voice, worried. Kita's hand tightens in granny’s as he watches closely.

Out runs a child, his age, tracking dark footprints along the tatami mats from the back entrance. Not just with dirt, but smudges of mud, smearing on the woven grass. His chest tightens at the sight and he has the urge to scold, to clean the mess, but then he feels eyes on him and—

That watchful gaze he remembers clearly, despite only seeing it once, years ago. A gaze he still feels everyday, most intently at night. You are grown, but only as much as he is. And you’re…real. With a weight and embodiment, a person instead of a misty image on the river’s surface. You’re also brighter, both in appearance and spirit, as you put a small handful of grapes (fat and crisp and green) into your mouth (skin and seeds included) and chew quickly before swallowing and smiling widely at him. 

Again, Kita wants to protest the sight, tell you the skin is dirty and you can’t eat seeds, but the words are trapped. Something is tugging at his chest—something other than his apprehension, something that makes him want to physically step forward.

But then Fujiwara-san is rushing in, though not very quickly. He’s another old-timer in the village, with crinkly eyes and little hair remaining on his head, paired with a thin physique and hunch in his back. In one hand he carries a woven basket, filled with more bunches of grapes, shiny and wet. In the other is a wooden cane, pale with a reddish tint—Kita thinks maple. The old man never needed one before, and Kita wonders what’s changed.

He looks back to you, the one change he’s aware of.

“Shinsuke-kun,” his thoughts are interrupted by the call of his name. He hasn’t been listening, he realizes, and he turns his attention to the grandpa. “This is one of my grandchildren. My daughter has been busier with work lately.”

Kita, for a third time, wants to protest. He’s met all of Fujiwara-san’s grandchildren before, and if he hadn’t, granny would have certainly told him about another five year old. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t, and so he watches blankly. You are smiling at him the entire time, with a joy he doesn’t understand—at least, not entirely.

(There is a tightness in his chest at the sight of you, like it wants to expand beyond its capability. He’s not sure what that means.)

“Have some grapes!” you exclaim in a soft voice, thrusting the bunch towards him. Two fall from the force of your sharp movements, and he watches as they roll on the ground, leaving another stain. He doesn’t accept them, just continues to stare at the mess.

Granny fights a smile as she encourages him. “Let’s try some Shin-chan.”

He wants to say that he’s already had them before. He knows they will be delicious and crunchy and refreshing, especially now that the heat is rising with the sun. He knows that Fujiwara’s grapes are the best, and now two have been wasted and splattered on the tatami. Instead of reprimanding you, he reaches his arm out to take the bundle. Since granny asked.

His eyes widen when you then crouch to pick up the fallen fruit from the floor and eat them (skin and seeds included) without so much as wiping them off.

Who are you?

The faintest tug on his hand makes him turn to granny, who’s pulling one off the bundle he’s holding to give it a taste. “They’re delicious as always,” she says. “I’m surprised it’s such an early harvest.”

Fujiwara smiles, eyes crinkling further. “Snow came early this winter,” he reminds her.

She hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The weather has been quite unusual this year.”

Unusual, Kita wonders to himself. Because of you.

You smile at him again and that inexplicable tightness arises in his chest once more. He frowns, the first genuine frown of displeasure today. His mind tells him to ask granny if he can go home, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, to want and not want something at the same time. His frown deepens.

Kita thinks his time at Fujiwara-san’s is excruciating. Kita is also hesitant to leave when granny says it’s time to go. He misses a knowing smile that rests on her face as she tugs him gently, watching as he glances back during their walk home.

You are nosy. Kita was already aware, given he could feel you watching him at every moment, even when he can’t see you. But you are nosy when you are physically near him. And you are around him often now, nearly every day for the past week. Whether you simply show up at random or granny is pulling him along to Fujiwara’s, Kita learns that being around you is inescapable, inevitable. 

At the very least you aren’t noisy, just curious. At granny’s you quietly hover whenever Kita switches tasks or activities, a ghost floating over his shoulder. Once you’ve fulfilled whatever interest you have, you keep to yourself in your own part of the room. You’re helpful in the garden, for some reason, but you make him grimace when you pull a carrot directly from the ground and take a bite, dirt and all. You don’t help him wash the harvest, just crouch next to him by the river water and watch his hands diligently scrub.

You are, however, incredibly messy. It’s as if you don’t even register what a mess is, mud and leaves and water following you everywhere. Always. Trekking through the door with bare feet, smudges of grime trailing behind, sometimes with dripping hair—undried hair—that leaves dark circles and puddles on the mats and wood.

Every time it happens his chest flares with irritation, that urge to scold you. But granny is near, so he says nothing and instead looks at her intently. Granny only ever smiles back, sometimes handing him a towel and reminding him that he can help, if he wants. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why the adults haven’t explained it to you, surely Fujiwara-san can’t keep up with the cleaning he must have to do to house you. If Kita and granny always have to scrub your mess after you visit, Fujiwara must be mopping every hour. Sometimes they clean when you’re here, while you just sit and watch, only to dirty the floor again the following day.

After a week of this passes and you show up again, uninvited and with your bare feet leaving mud on the veranda, he caves.

“Don’ come around here if yer jus’ gonna make a mess,” he says firmly—but also quietly, wary of granny’s proximity. Why do you always enter through the veranda anyways—not the genkan, where the mess would be easier to contain?

You don’t appear deterred, smiling as you hold up a basket. “I brought you grapes, Shin-chan.”

He blinks. “That’s kind,” he admits, “but I don’ want ‘em.”

“Well I do,” Granny’s sweet voice says from behind him. Kita tenses when he hears it, turns to look at her guiltily. Her calm, smiling face makes him uneasy.

He starts to protest, those disagreements he felt a week ago, since the moment she wanted to go to Fujiwara’s, bubble up together. “But gran—”

“Shin-chan,” she cuts him off. Her voice is gentle and soft, but holds a different kind of firmness that Kita can’t deliver. One that makes him listen, because he has to.

“It’s okay,” you say, interrupting the conversation that would have followed. You’re still smiling, unfazed. It flames Kita's annoyance, while calming his nerves. Again, he doesn’t understand these feelings. “I’ll go home if Shin-chan wants me to.”

The boy’s eyes widen at that, heart plummeting as if he’s done something wrong. Why do I care? he immediately wonders. Maybe because granny is watching over his shoulder, or because Fujiwara-san seemed so happy to have his not-actually-grandkid (Kita is still certain) around his house. He doesn’t know what home you’re referring to, Fujiwara’s or the city or…somewhere else. Regardless, it would be easier if you went back and let them rest, granny especially, since she must be tired from the extra chores. He still hasn’t answered, caught between wanting to agree, waiting to disagree. He’s not sure which part of him wants what.

Instead of caving to his irritation for a second time today, he sighs and says, “It’s fine…jus’ wash yer feet.” He realizes he’s resolved to clean up after you so granny doesn’t have to. What is he doing?

“Okay,” you say easily, smiling. That relief fills him once again, and he can only stare at you, as if explanations for that feeling in his chest will surface if he looks hard enough. They don’t.

“Here are the grapes,” you assert, raising them in front of you. He hesitates, staring at them in accusation after he finally grasps the handle of the basket. Then you say: “Okay, bye now!” and run off the veranda, your bare feet landing in the dirt and carrying you along the trail and across the bridge.

Kita watches you with a pained face, and he realizes his free hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for you. He scowls and forces it down. Then he turns to granny. She’s smiling at him, he can sense it’s with amusement. He wants to ask why you left, if you really are going home, wherever that is. But he can’t, not when granny is giving him such a look.

“Stop cleanin’ up after others,” he tells her instead. Granny blinks, wondering why she’s being scolded now, too. “I’ll do it. Jus’…jus’ rest.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re a good kid, Shin-chan.”

Kita doesn’t think so. Not right now, with the way you ran away.

“Some people need time to learn the ways we live,” she continues vaguely. “Not everyone comes from the same place.”

He wonders why someone from the city would run around without shoes, through mud.

That inexplicable relief returns when you stand in the outdoor veranda the next day. He still doesn’t understand why he would want to see you, maybe for the confirmation that his words did not actually send you away—that granny and Fujiwara-san can continue to enjoy your presence. Regardless, he stares pointedly at your feet, the dirt clinging to them.

“Sorry,” you say, with the tact to at least look sheepish this time. “I washed them at Jii-chan’s, but they got dirty again.”

Kita is too stunned to react. Do people from the city not understand how shoes work? Or water? Dirt? He sighs, attempting to find his patience, as he tells you to stay put while he leaves. He grabs two pairs of sandals from the genkan and re-enters the veranda. He slips on one pair, then ushers you to follow him down the steps to the spigot.

“Rinse your feet,” he instructs. You do, poorly, but he supposes he can only ask for so much. He puts the second pair of sandals on the ground and tells you to step your feet in after you rinse. It’s an arduous process, but finally you are mostly clean and in the sandals. He then walks you to the entrance of the genkan and tells you, “Enter here. Wear those shoes when ya visit and put ‘em—” he points to a cubby, “there when ya come in.”

You are smiling, always smiling, when you reply. “Thanks Shin-chan!” Then you kick off your sandals and toss them into the cubby. Kita's chest flares again with displeasure at your haphazard treatment of his things. Suddenly you grab his hand and pull him inside, and all he can think is that your skin is cold. He can’t find it in himself to comment, heart racing as he stumbles and tries to slip off his slides before you tug him to the main room. He watches as your undried feet leave dark prints in the tatami in front of him—he thinks of the mold that has probably started growing under them since your first visit.

He passes granny as you pull him through the rooms. He gives her a wide-eyed look, one that tries to ask for help. She only smiles.

Kita feels a little bad for his outburst, once a few days pass and he understands that you aren’t intentionally helpless. You enter through the genkan, with relatively clean feet. You’re careful when you eat after he points out that you tend to make a mess. You help clean, when he asks you to. You still leave crumbs around and wet patches, you scrub too hard sometimes and other times not enough, but you try. And Kita finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

You just don’t know things.

The more he ruminates on your…unfamiliarity with the world, the less sense your story makes—the city story that Fujiwara-san told him and granny. It’s obviously not true, but it also has to be, if everyone believes it. Someone from the city wouldn’t look so surprised that their feet collect dirt. He recalls that evening a few years ago when he was only two, when he could see you in the river. He thinks about the never-ending feeling of being watched. You’re from here, from him.

It becomes apparent why you’re here, why you hang around him at home and linger in his presence. One night he wakes up hours before sunrise. He struggles to re-enter his slumber and curiously opens the screen facing the river, to gauge the time. The mountains loom behind the image of a small figure on Fujiwara’s veranda. You, offering a little wave.

He doesn’t react, just watches as you swing your feet. The moon sits high between you, illuminating the river below, the mist that lingers on its surface. He wonders if you’ve always been there, why he never saw you until a couple weeks ago.

The spirits are all around us, in every living thing. Granny’s voice calls from his memory.

As he watches you, the river, he wonders what defines a “living thing”— if it’s breath or blood or growth. Something else entirely. He thinks the river breathes; it absorbs the air when it bubbles over rocks. Its blood is the water itself. It grows in its own way, banks expanding and collapsing, body winding and pooling, collecting life, collecting stories and history. He’s curious about your story, why it’s part of his.

He closes the screen and goes back to bed.

Shinsuke is not the kind of person to ask unnecessary questions. Even as a child, he keeps those curiosities within, assuming they’ll be answered eventually. Like granny said, You’ll learn when the time is right.

So he doesn’t ask, instead infers. Analyzes and assumes. You aren’t the same. Throughout the summer, as you spend time together, you are always asking. Asking and smiling. Sometimes they’re necessary questions: how to properly wash a dish, or where to set a gift of vegetables. Most of the time they’re unnecessary, asking how Kita is feeling, what he thinks of the weather. Sometimes they’re downright invasive.

“Where are your parents?” you ask him one hot July day, laying in the main room. Kita is fanning himself and wondering why you aren’t sweating.

“Osaka,” he says curtly. He hasn’t seen them in a while, hasn’t thought about them either.

“Do you miss them?” You ask, nosiness unsatisfied.

He shakes his head, no unnecessary response. He likes it with granny, always misses her the few times he’s gone to the city.

You hum, like you heard his unspoken answer. He thinks that’ll be the end of it. It isn’t.

“Your hair must be a mix of theirs,” you say plainly. “Whose is grey?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.” They both have black hair, the same with his sister who’s never home and his baby brother in the city with a nanny.

You’re surprised. “Oh. Do you know whose it is?”

He shrugs, uncaring.

But you smile for some reason, with genuinely joyful eyes. “Maybe it’s your gran’s,” you say happily. It makes him blink in surprise, mystified. He inhales, chest lighter. “It’s cool how that sort of stuff happens.”

He can’t look away from you, your smile that pierces right through him.

That night after his bath, he looks at himself in the mirror, intense, searching in a way he’s never done before. He sees the traces of his mom in his eyes and his lips, his dad in his nose. Both of them at the tips of his hair, that lower section by his neck. He continues to stare, looking for granny. He sees the way she influenced the nose he got from dad. He sees the way she claimed his hair, cradling his head and framing his eyes and cheeks. He wonders what it means, to be chosen by the traits from a generation before.

When granny says goodnight, Kita puts his arms up for a hug. She’s warm, always is. His head nestles into her neck, his threads of grey and black hair tangling with her sea of silver. He doesn’t know what it means; he is a five year old without the vocabulary to articulate the tightness in his chest, something akin to longing and fear. He is a five year old incapable of grasping what it means to be alive.

Only a couple days later, Kita catches a new perspective of you. 

You are barefoot in the genkan and Kita is ready to scold you, this one he knows is deserved after all he’s taught you. Before he can, you speak.

“Come with me today.”

Your hand is outstretched and inviting, but Kita is apprehensive, not sure what you mean. Before he can ask, granny speaks from behind him. “Go on, Shin-chan.”

He frowns and looks at her. Neither of them know what you’re talking about, where you even want to go. But granny looks calm and assured, without a worry in the world.

You don’t wait for an answer, grasping his hand when he’s still turned away and giving it a tug. He feels that same chilliness on your skin, one that makes him think you might be sick. He manages to protest long enough to step into his slides before you pull him out the door. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs to the side, the heat of July not yet settled in the valley. The sky is a bright blue, populated with innocent fluffy clouds, white and rolling in the breeze. A group of sparrows sing in a shrub you two pass, and a toad leaps off the path to get out of your way. Kita inhales deeply, the air humid but clean.

“Where’r we goin’?” he manages to ask, quickening his pace to match yours. Your hand has loosened its grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“The forest!” you cheer easily.

His eyes widen. The forest? He’s been to the forest before, to pick bamboo shoots and tea leaves with granny, but he’s not supposed to go without an adult. Does granny know? Why would she let them go by themselves? These are necessary questions, he thinks, and yet he swallows them down and lets you take him without protest.

You are fast despite being barefoot, rocks and sticks seemingly unnoticed as you dart along the path. Kita follows along diligently, stumbling only a few times. He wishes he wore his athletic shoes instead of the sandals. He glances back to the house, studies the way it shrinks from the distance. The two of you are still on the southern side of the river, not yet crossed to the northern mountains, where granny takes him.

Kita decides that he likes running like this, despite the heat and his shoes. It’s a gentle jog, with a destination in mind, his hand in yours as you lead the way.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just follows you up and along the path until the two of you reach its end. It’s the first time Kita has seen it, the way it stops before a rock face that climbs up a mountain west from his house. He looks down the path, into the valley from the incline.

He looks back at you, waiting for an explanation for what to do next. You don’t offer one, walking to the bank of the river. To get in the river, he realizes, and for the first time since leaving granny’s he tries to pull away.

You turn back to him, smiling softly. “Trust me, Shin-chan,” you say.

He’s not sure why he should, why he did, to let you take him all the way out here in the first place. Because of granny’s encouragement, he thinks. Go on, she said. Did that mean all the way? To the ends of wherever you wanted him?

You have turned and continued down the bank. Kita does not try to escape your grasp, letting you pull him along.

The water of the river rushes over his feet, cool and surprising. It runs up his ankles, his shins, his knees, and finally his thighs. You are leading him forwards, upstream and past the rock face that marks the end of the trail. His toes bump rocks covered in algae, slipping and wavering as he wades slowly. You, however, are sturdy, never faltering with your sure steps.

You approach a pile of rocks, scrambling over them to bring yourself back onto land. You help hoist Kita after you. He pauses when he steps onto the forest floor, the softness catching him off guard. He looks down to see reddish-brown piles of pine needles coating the ground, dotted with lush bundles of ferns and patches of vibrant moss. The land rolls gently, small and soft hills of fallen pine covering rocks and dirt and life. A mist lingers from the proximity of the water, the sun pulling the moisture into the air. The scenery is dark, quiet from the hazy canopy above. Kita inhales deeply in attempt to regulate his exhausted panting, the essence of wood and mint taking over him. He is in awe, not used to being swaddled in pine. The forests here are mostly a mix of leafy trees, oaks and maples and chestnuts, with pockets of bamboo. Not secret havens of sweetness and tang.

You tug him along, bouncing through the fluff of the soft ground. He follows, eyes wide and soaking in the scenery, wanting to memorize every moment. You show him your enchanted forest, its mysterious darkness splattered with occasional sun that manages to seep through. He spots a white hare leaping away, watches birds flutter from the trees. At one point you guide him to cross the river on a fallen tree, green with moss and bundles of young sedge. Behind your skipping form he walks carefully, arms outstretched for balance.

His heart freezes when he steps down onto the other side, catching sight of a grey wolf waiting its turn. He clutches your hand as the creature steps forwards, two smaller ones following. They look at him blankly before leaping onto the natural bridge, continuing their own journey without looking back.

When he turns to you, you are smiling, and tug him forwards once more. The sun starts to stream in, brightening as pines transition to those oak and maple and chestnut trees. The ground is no longer soft, but firm dirt and clumps of rocks, leading to one larger slab of jagged earth that juts out from the mountain entirely.

You step out into the sun and he follows, taking in the view in front of him.

He is not at the peak of the mountain, maybe halfway there, but the outlook forces him to understand the vastness of the valley. He can see the large span of the mountains as they roll and crawl in the distance, his house a small square along others. The river is more apparent, winding intensely down the mountain and softening into a gentle curve next to the village. He can see crop fields and the road that has taken him to Osaka before.

You speak, the first time since bringing him into the water, “Some people climb mountains to look from above. I like when I still feel inside of it, can still see what’s happening.”

Kita thinks he understands, remembers the way the mountains from his house are like a promising wall, a guardian. How the depth of the valley cradles him. He thinks of the hare and the birds, the wolves, the journey here striking wonder and awe into his heart. He recalls that feeling of being watched, your gaze always near.

The sun approaches its peak in the sky, nearly noon. It illuminates the valley, brings light into the forest behind them. Kita watches it light up your face, already bright from your joyful expressions.

“Happy birthday, Shin-chan,” you tell him, taking him by surprise. He forgot, in the excitement of the past hours with you. Granny gave him some books this morning as a gift. You’re giving him the forest. His smile is small and reserved, but it’s the first time he offers one back to you.

He thinks he understands now: what you meant when you said home.

The sight of your back with a hand pulling him along defines the next year. After you show Kita the forest, he trusts you wholly, no doubt that you will look after him. He is happily tugged again and again into that realm of magic. He encounters more animals—badgers and pigs, bears and herons. In the winter he sees foxes and macaques. The river freezes and snow becomes the new carpet of the forest. You don’t shiver either, he learns.

You take him to the summit once, so he can see the view. The pine transitions to a highland, bald of trees and instead coated in grass and shrubs. It’s beautiful, a clear day when the entirety of the valley is visible and he can spot granny’s home, how it sits across from Fujiwara-san’s. When he looks up, there is only the blue of the sky, not a single speck of cloud coverage. They stay until dark and watch the Milky Way span across the blackness of night, its subtle hues of pinks and blues, the way meteors shower down in flashes.

He watches life rise from the ground when the weather warms once again, as seedlings sprout and newborn animals wander through the land. Flowers bloom, coating pockets of earth in the full spectrum of light. He is witness to deer learning to walk, stumbling awkwardly over roots and rocks. He sees the other clumsy ways animals go about the world, how a sparrow drops its worm, how a duck trips and rolls into the river behind its mother. He collects these moments in his memory, happy to observe, solely to understand.

And you observe him, because Kita knows that is what you are meant to do. He still doesn’t know who you are, or why him, but he feels your eyes constantly. He doesn’t admit it, but they are comforting.

On the days you two are not parading in the mountain, you are still usually in each other’s presence. Kita no longer reads while you look over his shoulder or sit on the other side of the room. He reads to you, the books granny rents him from the library. You like to lay on the veranda while he sits and swings his feet, paying close attention to pronouncing the words. He still cleans up after you, since you never fully get the hang of doing things yourself. It’s only crumbs and small puddles, untidy blankets or cushions, an untucked chair at the table after dinner. He finds himself volunteering to take granny’s extra harvest of leeks to Fujiwara-san’s, under the pretense that he wants her to rest.

He walks there briskly, and stays for an additional hour. You have a lot to say, your nosiness still strong even after nearly a year.

“Jii-chan told me you’re starting school soon,” you say, eating one of the leeks. He watches you chew the entirety of it, uncooked. Some water squeezes out and dribbles onto the floor.

“In April,” he replies. April is two weeks away. It’s when he’ll go to Osaka. He’s supposed to stay there for the week leading up to school to prepare. He gets the sense that you’re leaving too.

You don’t look sad, and his shoulders feel tense when he notices. He’s not sure why.

Kita doesn’t ever ask unnecessary questions, but right now he is compelled to ask you many things. Sometimes it seems like you understand what he’s thinking, but you never respond unless he says it outright. As a result, he never gets to know.

He surprises both himself and you when he asks, “Are ya goin’ to school, too?” He already knows you aren’t.

You shake your head. He wants to ask why, wants to ask if you’re going somewhere else. He wants to know if you’ll be here when he comes back during break. He wants to figure out why you came in the first place.

Another question: “Are ya goin’ home?”

You nod your head this time. He watches you, thinking you’ll return to the pine forest. You shake your head when he thinks it, and give him the reprieve of elaborating. “The river.”

He frowns, confused. The river? You were always in the forest, guiding him along its greenery. He thinks about how he has to wade upstream to enter the forest in the west. He recalls the memory from years ago, a child in the water watching him. 

“I came from the forest,” you try to explain, “but the water’s my home now.”

Kita is reminded that he was born in Osaka, but would always rather be at granny’s house in the northern mountains.

It’s hard for him to leave granny’s, more than any time before. When the driver comes to get him and he squeezes in the back with granny, he looks out the window towards Fujiwara’s house. You sit on the veranda, waving while your legs swing. This time the sun is high in the sky and the river releases a blinding reflection. When the car drives away and he can no longer see you, his chest hurts.

Osaka does not make it easier. His mother coos at how big he’s grown while his father watches disinterested. Kita is shown his baby brother, now a toddler awkwardly walking around and speaking. Kita doesn’t know how to talk to him, but he tries. He says hello to his sister—who he hasn’t seen since she decided to stay in the city—when she finally makes an appearance at dinner. Granny stays for the meal and the night, and then leaves in the morning.

That night, the second one in Osaka, he cries while laying in bed. He isn’t sure why, the feelings simply overwhelming and in need of release. The squishy mattress in a raised bed frame doesn’t comfort him. He thinks about you, about granny. The mountains and the forest. The river. When he looks outside his window—a square of glass punched through plaster walls—he only sees pavement and blocks of concrete. Other homes, maybe with other children crying for reasons they can’t explain. There is no mountain in the distance or river running along the ground. The sky is hazy, no stars in sight. The only twinkling comes from his own eyes, his teary squinting blurring streetlights and windows with every blink. Each time his eyes close, for a moment he thinks he can see you.

If Shinsuke is one thing, he is malleable. He can fit himself into environments, his adherence to routine giving him a means of finding comfort no matter where he is placed. Responsibility grounds him, distracts him. He can redirect his energy to doing well in school, looking after his brother. These things feel good to him, to simply do them well.

Even though you are not with him, he can feel your eyes at all times. He is reminded of being at granny’s, her washing the floor as she tells him that the spirits are everywhere, always watching. He finds himself cleaning up after his brother, thinking of you. He wonders what you think, if you’re reminded of the same.

School is as alien as Osaka, with its concrete exterior and plastered walls. They are painted white and lined with large sheets of glass. They slide open, but only for students to shout at their friends outside, not to let the morning air in. 

In class, he sits quietly at his desk and listens to the teacher. He doesn't talk with other students or pass notes under the desk. He doesn’t even wonder about you, the feeling of your eyes always on him. He watches the teacher closely, diligently records the lessons. He watches other students, gathering first impressions and additional observations. He notices the way some of them doze off or scribble in their books. He sees the meaningful glances some make to each other, usually girls as they eye each other and specific boys in the class.

When he studies for his first exam, he thinks that he can feel you in the room with him. First looking over his shoulder—a cool breeze wafting from behind him, and then laying on his bed—the sheets oddly chilly when he goes to sleep. He remembers how you sat by him while he read aloud just a few weeks ago. He murmurs to himself as he reviews information, wondering if you can hear him.

Kita scores at the top of his class. He doesn’t feel anything when teachers congratulate him and other students whine. There is no pride in his chest or sense of satisfaction at the results. He thinks back to his nights studying, your presence lingering over him. It just feels good, he thinks, to do things well. The process of trying and dedicating himself to something.

He makes a routine out of it, delegating time after school to review material. It falls easily into his schedule, after dinner and before he readies for bed. He still has time to play with his brother, usually reading or offering him toys. His sister is always gone, either busy with club activities or friends. His parents get home late too, but they usually manage to have a full family dinner.

They’re eating quietly, having debriefed their days as they reach the end of their meal. Kita glances at his family, realizing that they’re different from the people at school. He’s known them for his whole life, people without first impressions and instead ingrained understandings. He looks at them intently, notices the way they eat, listens to the way they speak. He knows them intuitively, no running list in his mind to keep track of information. He is reminded of the time you asked about his hair, and he stares at his mom, then his dad. His mom’s hair is long and brown, artificially lightened from its original dark color. His dad’s is black with a sprinkling of silver from age. Kita wonders if his will do the opposite when he grows old.

There’s another exam the following week, this one for his science class. Kita is the first one in the classroom, watching students filter in. The boy who sits next to him—Daiki, tall and skinny—plops down with a sigh just a few minutes before the teacher is supposed to arrive.

“Gahh, I’m so nervous,” he says to Kita, laying his head on the desk. When Kita doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you?”

Kita shakes his head at that, not sure why he would be. He studied. 

When the results come back after a few days Daiki whines that Kita is a goody-goody, trying his hardest to get the teacher’s attention. Kita looks at his full marks and once again feels nothing. He thinks it is the natural result of his efforts. He wonders what you would say, if he could talk to you. He thinks you would ask nosey questions about his siblings. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Some kids try to be his friend, or at least try to talk to him. But he’s quiet, not very eloquent or forgiving with his words, and so they eventually leave him alone. He thinks about how you diligently stood by him, how you smiled when he scolded you.

When he gets home and returns to his room, it is exactly as he left it. There are no crumbs to sweep or puddles to wipe. His brother is out with the nanny, but he feels restless, the need to do something. He thinks he can get started on his homework early, pulling out his notebooks and folders. He can’t focus on the words, eyes skimming the pages without understanding. He knows that studying now is futile, and decides to continue later. He settles on bathing early instead.

His bath draws on, longer than usual. He finds himself pausing, getting lost in thought—though more lost in feeling, since his mind drifts blankly. He’s still restless by the time he finishes, but slightly relaxed. He stands to wrap himself with the towel and steps carefully onto the bath rug. Once he’s dried and his towel is secure around his waist, he leans over to pull the plug and let the water drain. Just as he grasps it, there’s a lurch of water that spills out and onto the floor. His eyes widen in disbelief and his chest flares with annoyance knowing he will have to clean the mess. He looks at the floor incredulously before turning back to the bath and—

His eyes widen further, mouth opening slightly at the sight of you—a misty figure over the water. You’re wearing a sheepish expression as you lean over the edge to assess the mess.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. Kita's disbelief increases at the sound of your voice. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

Kita slams the plug back down and stands to face you clearly. He feels the water pooled at his feet, but all irritation has fled his body. Instead he is filled with a warmth, a contrast to the coolness wafting from you.

“You made a mess,” he tells you, unnecessarily. You know that already.

“Yeah,” you say. You apologize again.

“Don’ do it again,” he tries to scold. His body wants to step forward, to reach you. He’s not sure why, and he frowns with skepticism.

You nod, then lift your leg experimentally. When it’s pulled above the water, there are no droplets falling. Instead, you appear airy, like the water sits around your body. You step out and onto the bathroom floor, successfully avoiding increasing the mess. You smile brightly at your success. Kita continues to watch, wondering if you’ll disappear, evaporate at any moment. You look at the water on the floor and then meet his eyes, smile turning sheepish again.

“I should mop,” you tell him, breaking him from his quiet spell.

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately. “Jus’...jus’ don’ go anywhere.”

You nod.

Mopping helps him calm down, perhaps needing a task to manage his agitation. You watch, and then follow him to his room once he’s finished. He dresses while you distractedly rummage through his things, then walks over to you at his desk. He feels a wetness under his foot and looks down, seeing footprints scattered along the floor. They’re light and clearly yours, and he ignores them, continuing over to you.

“You can go back to studying,” you tell him.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He’s not sure why, chest tight with anticipation.

There’s a knock at the door, mom’s sign that dinner is ready. The noise startles you and there is a poof, the sound of you evaporating into mist, wafting up to the ceiling. Gone. The only traces of you are those faint, damp footprints and few misplaced items on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, Kita feels a sinking disappointment.

Adolescence

Contrary to what he expected, Kita doesn’t leave Osaka during break. His parents think it would be good for him to have a consistent lifestyle. Kita doesn’t protest, but he can feel a heaviness in his stomach. He asks about granny, if he’ll see her soon. They tell him she will visit some time, and she does, though rarely. He thinks about the forest and the mountains, when he’ll see them again.

On the first day of fourth grade, Kita wakes up on time. He uses the toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes his clothes at his usual pace. As he splashes cool water along his forehead and cheeks, he is reminded of your touch and wonders if he will see you this morning. He often finds himself waiting, without realizing until a significant amount of time has already passed. You are irregular and unpredictable. It puts him on edge, that you might disrupt his perfectly crafted routine.

He is the first to sit down for breakfast and the first one to finish, everyone else but his mother just having started. He stands to put his dishes away and gather his school things when she rushes into the room. She’s fumbling with her shoe, trying to get it in place while collecting her things to fill her purse. Her face brightens when she sees him and asks about his first day, if he’s excited or nervous.

Kita shakes his head, neither. He’s been going to school nearly everyday for years now, what reason would he have to be nervous? What’s to be excited for?

He turns to leave, but she calls for him. She asks if he’s planning to join a club.

He shakes his head again, not sure why he should.

But his mother protests, “I think it’d be good for you to do a sport. You don’t exercise much, with all the studying.”

His father hums in agreement from the table and his sister stands to excuse herself. His brother knocks his bowl over, spoon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, Kita walks over to return it.

“Just try one, okay?” his mom asks. Kita nods in response before finally leaving. 

In his room, he gathers his books and school supplies into his backpack, double checking that everything is there. He slips it over his shoulders and then turns to the window. It’s translucent with a sheen of moisture from inside. He wipes it away and glances at the sky. It’ll probably rain, he gauges. As he steps away from the window to leave, he catches a glimpse of you in the reflection.

His first day of school is like any other, spent seated at his desk near the center of the room, watching the teacher, observing his classmates. He diligently helps clean at the end of the day: sweeping duty, not missing a single spot. Once finished, he changes his shoes and makes for the exit. Some students say goodbye, and he nods in return. He can hear the soft pattering of rain as he approaches the door, and pops open his umbrella before stepping outside.

The walk home is quiet, with occasional groups of students chattering by. Kita walks at his typical pace, unrushed. He hears his shoes tap against the pavement with each step, the plopping of raindrops above his head. The occasional car rushes by, veering aside to avoid splashing him. He runs through a mental list of what he needs to do for school, but it’s short given it being the first day.

When he’s only a few minutes from home, he hears splashing behind him, as if someone is running through a puddle. You, calling his name.

He doesn’t turn to look, but his steps slow while his heart speeds, giving you time to catch up. Within a few seconds you are by his side, your now-usual misty and translucent figure at his side. You smile when he glances at you, but he appears unfazed. You’re unbothered as you walk with him, light on your feet.

When he reaches the door of his home and unlocks it, you let yourself in first. He closes his umbrella and gives it a shake before setting it on the rack. While he removes his shoes in the genkan, he eyes the light trail of footprints you left on your way to his room. He leaves them, knowing they’ll evaporate before anyone else comes home. He stops by the kitchen, dumping a bag of carrots onto a small plate, and then he briskly enters his room and closes the door behind him.

He sees you laying on his bed and he feels an itch of annoyance, knowing the sheets will be damp. But he doesn’t say anything, instead setting the plate on his desk and sliding his bag onto the floor. You smile and ask how his day was.

This has become part of Kita's routine, your irregular visits. He walks through life with an anxious anticipation, waiting for you to come. He is relieved when you appear, but he is never entirely pleased. There’s a warmth in his chest regardless, one that reminds him of granny.

He wonders if maybe that’s why he accepts the interruption so easily, because it momentarily brings him home, his life in the mountains, granny’s voice telling him that someone is watching over him. He knows that someone is you. He wonders if granny knows about your visits, if you ever tell her about him.

His answers are short, per usual. But he talks about his classes, his classmates, how mom wants him to join a club. He knows that you know all this, but he says it anyways, gives into you.

“Do you know what club you’ll join?” you ask.

He shrugs. “A sport, since I should exercise.”

You nod at that, “It’s too bad the forest is so far away. Exploring is good exercise.”

Kita thinks about the forest often, seeping into his spare time when he’s not caught up in classes or the growing responsibilities of life. He’s heard from mom about wildfires in Hyogo, ones that spring at random in the dryness of summertime. Luckily nothing near home, but still within the province. He recounts those memories of rabbits and monkeys, remembers the flowers that are blooming right about now. He's curious if it’s raining, how visible the stars are tonight. These questions bring a pain to his chest, one he can’t explain, one that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he calls granny and the pain goes away. Sometimes it gets worse.

When you’re in his room with him like this, he thinks it’s a different pain entirely.

Eventually your questions lull and Kita knows that this is his queue to start his schoolwork. He doesn’t have much to do, though. Instead he wants to ask a question of his own. You can tell, and you wait.

He doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he never asks. As a result, you never answer.

A week later the school allows them to pick clubs. Kita looks at the other hopeful kids as they play rock-paper-scissors for a spot for the popular sports: basketball, football, baseball. He eyes the groups that are smaller, have less interest. The running club looks crowded, so he makes his way over. He still has to do a round of rock-paper-scissors, and he’s one of the three who have to find another option. To his right is another small group, and he asks to join without knowing what they are. Volleyball, apparently. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good, but he figures it’s only for the year and he can try something different in fifth grade.

Volleyball, it turns out, is difficult. He learns how to receive a ball, but it flies in the opposite direction of where he wants it to go. He watches the other players, trying to understand how to improve himself.

Volleyball, it turns out, is technical and requires a lot of practice to sharpen his skills. He diligently attends practice, two days a week for fourth-graders. The coaches appreciate his efforts, how he runs his full laps and takes every suggestion seriously. Kita finds that he just enjoys the process of training, improving his abilities and caring for his body. His legs feel tired at the end of the day and it reminds him of running through the forest. It reminds him of his efforts, makes him feel good.

Volleyball, it turns out, is the perfect distraction. From you.

It becomes part of his routine, filling in the gaps of time that he normally finds himself waffling in, waiting for you. He learns to walk through everyday as if it’s the same, just himself, but allows it to shuffle when you make an appearance. 

Volleyball helps as he enters middle school and your visits lose frequency. Your lack of presence, however, makes the feeling of your gaze on him even stronger. He feels it every time he’s on the court—though he only ever plays games in practice. He in turn watches his teammates, their ticks and habits. He watches his opponents, offers notes to his team about patterns and flaws in their styles. He’s not a powerhouse like the standout players, doesn’t have any exceptional talent, and so despite his hard work and consistent practice, he doesn’t play a single game, doesn’t even receive a jersey.

You ask him about it one evening, on break before high school starts.

“Are you going to join the volleyball club?” you ask, to which he nods. It makes you hum as you sit on his bed. He can see the wall behind you, how it darkens slightly from the moisture of your form leaning against it. 

“I hope you get the chance to play more,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t know why they don’t let you.”

But it means nothing to him, that sort of attention and recognition. He just plays to play the game, do the drills, learn the mechanics—to take care of himself. You know this, but you like watching him, the way he watches the game, moves with it, into it.

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing that you know what he thinks.

Instead of pushing further, you change the subject. “I’m not going to be able to visit very often,” you tell him. You sound regretful, and his chest is agitated. He thinks of the fires, happening at random across the country.

“I know,” he tells you. He could sense it, recognized the increasing infrequency of your presence. He wants to ask why, but he can’t get the words out, for whatever reason.

You look at him closely and say, “I’ll be around though.”

He nods at that. He knows.

Inarizaki is a prestigious school, known for academics and athletics alike. Kita makes it in easily with his grades, and joins the volleyball club despite knowing he will likely never play in a match. The coaches note that Kita is inexperienced in competition, but they know an asset when they see one. His skills are too sturdy, too well-practiced for Inarizaki to not take advantage of him.

During his first year, he hardly plays. Even so, he is the first at practice, one of the last ones to leave, and the most diligent athlete on the team. He runs the entire length of the track, finishes every rep during weight training, and completes every drill and penalty without complaint. The coaches find that he does not have star power—he is unassuming and ordinary—but he is exceptional in his efforts, and his efforts meet returns when it counts, when they need him on the court as his usual Kita-san.

Some of the older players tease him for his diligence, others admire him because of it. Everyone realizes that he pays no mind to what they think, only ever doing what he wants, what fits his values. He respects his elders even when he disagrees with them, but he is blunt with his fellow first years, unafraid to call out their behavior, especially if it contradicts something they’ve said before. Some say it’s rich coming from him, someone who only warms the bench.

Aran is the one who talks to him, one day in the locker room. A tense conversation between Michinari and Shinsuke unraveled earlier when Kita commented on how the libero attempted too many unpracticed receives in-game, that he should have stuck to underhand until he perfected his overhand off the court. Michi has a temper, and his frustration was pushed by the spiker’s comment. He shouted that Kita wouldn’t understand, that he hasn’t been put in a game, hasn’t had the opportunity to feel the pressures of expectation.

Aran lingered when the others filed out of the locker room—partially to make sure Kita was okay, and partially to suggest he cool it with the critique.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he offers. “Akagi-san gets bad nerves. He knows what he needs to do.”

“I don’t understand the point of being nervous,” Kita responds.

A machine, Aran thinks. This guy is a machine. He says as much, and thinks there’s truth to Michi’s comments, that Kita must not understand because he’s never played in a match that counted.

But Kita explains—that it doesn’t make sense if you’ve practiced the skills and know your capabilities. That it’s the same with eating, shitting even. He thinks Michi’s underhand receives are enough, that they have saved the ball from Inarizaki’s own powerhouses in practice. Why would he need to try anything else?

Aran’s eyes widen as Kita speaks, starting to understand his perspective. It becomes apparent that his criticism towards Michi was more of a poorly delivered compliment: that their first-year libero is enough as he is, that he could save them with the tools he knows—he doesn’t need miracles. This glimpse into Kita puts Aran’s teammate in a new light, recontextualizes his diligent attitude towards their training and the criticism he gives his peers. He trusts the process, knows that the results will follow suit.

Aran begins to notice how Kita fades to the back, his presence unassuming on its own. Kita does not play for recognition or adulation, he simply does what needs to be done. His diligence to get every ball in the air goes unnoticed when the flashy ace pulls an impressive cross against three blockers—a move that would not have been possible without Kita, committed behind him. But Kita doesn’t care, doesn’t ask for attention. 

Aran already held immense respect for his teammate, for his repetition, diligence, and perseverance. But now he feels a special type of awe when he watches him more closely.

Kita does not make a fuss of convincing others of his praiseworthy traits, but Aran takes it upon himself to point them out to his team, to give new context to Kita's seemingly harsh words. Slowly but surely, they will understand, too.

What Aran doesn’t know is that Kita feels like he has already been noticed and recognized, always has been and always will be, at every moment—by you.

(Your eyes continue to bore into him no matter where he is. They feel stronger the longer he goes without seeing you. Your visits are few and far between, but he has his routine, knows to follow it independently and let it shape around your irregularity.)

The following season, a handful of talented first years join, including a freakishly synchronized twin duo and a sly middle blocker. They fight with each other. Some of them cut corners. One particularly troublesome one likes to work himself through illness, inspiring misguided awe in other first years. Kita as a second year has no qualms scolding his teammates, now sometimes including his upperclassmen. The underclassmen pout and grumble while the elders know the intent resting behind his abrasion. 

You only visit him twice during the school year, both times at the hotel for nationals. The first is during the Interhigh National Tournament; he is sitting in the tub at the end of the day, running through his observations of other teams he saw, considering what would be useful to share with the others, to exploit. His head is resting on the ledge of the tub, staring at the blank ceiling as a canvas for him to visualize what he saw: bad crosses, a fragile ego, delayed timing for a back attack. He thinks about the team they’re playing tomorrow, the most imperative information to note. He thinks he should finish bathing so he can write it down.

When he straightens his head to look forward, he jolts in surprise, water splashing out and onto the bathroom floor.

You’re there, sitting on the other end of the bath in your misty form. Your eyes are wide, head turning to look at the puddles on the tile. Kita can’t even consider the mess, body tense at your proximity. He’s never been flustered around you before, never felt strange about his nakedness if you appeared after a bath. It’s been a long time since you’ve come from a bath. And this—this is a closeness and intimacy he has never imagined. You, sharing the water, right beside him. He is frozen when your eyes move back to his face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, and he recalls another variable to add to the situation: Aran, likely still in their shared room.

Kita shakes his head, not knowing what to say. “You—” he stutters, unlike him. “What’re ya doin’.” Ever since middle school you only appeared in the rain. He didn’t know bathtubs were even still a…vessel of transportation.

You smile. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Kita blinks, torn between the urge to scold you, the urge to reach for you, and the urge to make you leave before Aran learns of your presence. He finds it exhausting, the way you pit these conflicting pieces of him against each other.

Instead he tells you, “I probably won’ play.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re doing it right now.” The analysis of his opponents, you mean.

A sound at the door makes you jolt, the water softly rippling around you. It’s Aran, asking if things are okay. He doesn’t comment further, but he swears he hears the murmuring of voices.

Kita calls back that he’s fine, just about to get out and be done for the night. He gives you a look afterwards, a sign that you can’t stay. He wishes you could.

You surprise him by leaning forwards, reaching for him. He is suddenly swept into your chilly embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His body is tense, on edge from the intimacy, but he only feels your body above the water, arms and chest and head as it settles into his neck. Despite your cold temperature, Kita's body heats at the contact.

“I’ll see you,” you say, and then you are mist, dispersing into the air.

When Kita exits the bathroom, Aran thinks for the first time that he looks amused—a mirth settled in his eyes and his lips slightly quirked.

A few months later during the Spring High Nationals, you appear in his room, again shared with Aran. Luckily the spiker is out for the moment, allowing Kita the freedom to speak with you. He’s getting dressed from the bath while you flop onto his bed. When he finishes he stands over you, inquiring why you came.

“To wish you luck again.”

Where you’re laying on the bed, his hand hangs by his hip only inches from your face. He is called to reach for it, hold it gently. He’s not sure why but this visit makes him uneasy, like it could be the last. He wonders if these are nerves.

The sound of the key opening the door interrupts his thinking. You have already faded into the air by the time Aran enters, followed by the twins barreling their way past him.

Atsumu (the obnoxious) immediately makes for Kita's bed. He flops down onto it, not unlike how you did minutes before, but immediately tenses and shrieks. He rolls himself off, pushing Kita back from where he was standing, all while shouting, “Kitaaa! Why’s it wet—”

Kita thinks he should thank you, next time you visit.

You don’t visit again.

Rather, Kita goes home to you. He decides to leave for break instead of sticking around for club practice, a choice he’s never made since he started volleyball. Something in him calls to visit granny. So at the end of March he boards the train headed towards the north station, and then hails a ride to the village. Granny is home when he arrives, and she marvels at how tall he is, not having seen him since she visited in middle school.

He towers over her small figure, awkwardly hunching in a hug. Granny says that he’ll be a big help with his height, and over the next day she sets him to dust the high shelves and put away dishes. She comments that he can move the table in the main room all on his own, no longer small, five year old Shin-chan.

The ease Kita feels in himself when he is here, with granny in the mountains, is undeniably because this is his home. He is malleable, shapeable to the life he’s lived in Osaka, but this is where he should be. He knows that when he enters this final year of high school, he will be given a sheet that asks for his three career plans. With his grades and diligent work ethic, he knows that he can put himself on any path and make it work. But in this moment, in granny’s embrace, the warmth of a home lined with screens and tatami, Kita knows that he wants to be here, no matter what.

That night he lays out his futon, smoothing out the creases and carefully lining it to be perpendicular with the wall. He smiles, this routine of preparing his bed one of many things he missed in the city. Before he lays down, he is overcome by the feeling of being watched. He turns to the screens that lead outside, towards the river. He walks over and opens them, looking into the darkness of the night.

The moon hangs low in the sky—a crescent, a smile. It shines softly on the water, Fujiwara-san’s house behind it, and the form of the mountains beyond. You aren’t there, but the river is misty, a bluish haze settling thickly on its surface.

In the morning he decides to go for a run, an attempt to maintain conditioning while he’s gone from practice. He goes left—west—towards your mountain.

The jog is peaceful, with March air cool and crisp against his skin. He is calmed by the sound of the water rushing next to him, running the opposite way. There are birds singing when he passes and a small hare jets by his feet. Running feels like a trip through his memory, recounting the times he tried to keep up with your pace, the adventures you went on together. He is running through the blue of wanderlust, along the breathing water and between the distant mountains, under the bright sky above him. He is running through the green of nostalgia, the lush vegetation, stalks of bamboo and solid trees, mostly oak and maple and chestnut, but occasionally the mysterious pine.

He is running to you.

It isn’t apparent until he reaches the end of the path, to that rock face at the foot of the mountain, and you are there—in the flesh—waiting in the river. The water is cold during spring, and yet you smile warmly, unfazed by the temperature. When he takes your hand to let you guide him through the water, through soft pine and hazy light, your touch is cool and refreshing against his—hot from exertion.His heart lurches at the contact, an inexplicable mix of tightness and lightness blooming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hollowing him out or overfilling him. It feels like hello and farewell all at once. There is a knot in his stomach, one that feels like nerves. It is exhilarating, magnetizing, like falling into you completely. He lets himself. He has no other option.

You come back with him to granny’s and have breakfast together. She doesn’t say anything, only calls you “dear” and thanks you for your help cleaning up. She does not mention Fujiwara and neither do you. Kita feels whole, sitting on the floor at this table.

At night you sit and watch as he prepares his futon. He looks at you and asks, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t sleep.”

He nods before getting up to turn off the light. He opens the soft blanket and lays down. He turns to you, hesitating. He wants to know if you’re staying, if you’ll be here all night. Part of him wants to invite you to lay next to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you curiously.

You are smiling over him, as always. One of your hands reaches to smooth back his hair and he softens. Even with your skin always cold, his body will forever warm at your touch.

These days continue and Kita feels light, enjoying time with you, as a person. His questions fade after he succumbs to focusing on soaking in your presence. It feels good, not unlike the satisfaction of completing his daily rituals.

He looks at you closely, the way you’ve grown with him. You are still smiling, still diligent in ways that he initially failed to see as a five year old. Watchful, joyful. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face, a small one that granny notices. You are smiling too, as you take dishes he’s finished washing and run a rag across their surface. You miss some spots, little droplets sticking to the ceramic. Some fly off and land on the floor and counter.

Kita is entirely at ease. It is quaint, quiet, content.

After a few moments, you suddenly pause your drying and turn thoughtfully, towards the river. Kita watches as the faintest furrow appears between your brows, your face both pensive and concerned. You drop the rag on the counter and step away. He stares curiously, still scrubbing a plate.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you say. Nothing else, no unnecessary information. 

Fear germinates in his chest, his heartbeat picking up speed. Granny smiles at him, reassured. He wonders how she retains her calm demeanor.

When nearly ten minutes pass and you don't return, Kita tells granny he’s going to check on you. She nods in understanding as he slips on his sandals and exits through the genkan. He spots you immediately, standing between the house and the river. You’re facing the northern mountains with a frown on your face. Kita realizes this is the first time he’s seen you anything but joyful.

You answer his silent question when he stands beside you, “There’s something wrong.”

“In the forest?” he clarifies. You nod, looking onwards. He watches you for a silent minute, the way you study the sky over the ridge. 

“I think…” you start. Pause. “You should leave, with your gran. And everyone else.”

Kita's brow furrows as he looks at you skeptically. You turn to him, eyes unwavering. You never look this serious. Always nosy, unnecessary questions. Lighthearted. Messes on the floor.

“Shinsuke,” you say firmly. He startles at the sound of his full name. “Tell everyone there’s a fire—in the northern mountains. I’ll try to keep it at bay, but it’s spreading. By the time they see it, it’ll be too late. If you can evacuate the houses on the other side of the river before it’s visible, things should be okay.”

He feels a strike in his lungs, like he’s gasping for breath. He wants to ask for details, but you’ve made it clear there’s no time. You are grabbing him, your cool hand holding his wrist, as you start towards the bridge in a run. He is momentarily brought back to his sixth birthday, running behind you as you guide him along the path to the base of a mountain—your mountain. He remembers thinking that running behind you was fun.

This time you are serious, almost panicked, bringing him across the river and pointing at the houses, which ones he should evacuate first. The ones with the oldest people. Fujiwara-san is one of them. You let go of his hand and run, sprint towards the base of the mountain. He feels panicked, wondering how long it’ll take for you to come back. What it means for you to keep the fire at bay. You fade away, the blue of distance settling between you two, mistiness.

The next moments are a blur. He knocks on doors and is greeted by elders he hasn’t seen in years, ready to exclaim at how he’s grown. Their coos are interrupted by his apologies, an explanation that he got news of a wildfire and wants to make sure people have time to evacuate. He suggests that they get into their cars and head east near the highway, and to wait for official advice for next steps. He says the words, but they don’t fully register when his mind is still occupied with the memory of you sprinting to the danger. The families look at him skeptically, but they get a move on when they remember this is Shin-chan, the quiet and good-natured village boy.

He makes his way down the homes to relay the news. He asks neighbors to tell the others, and to call emergency services. There are 26 homes on this side of the river, and by the time he knocks on half the doors, smoke hangs over the mountains. No fire is in sight, but the signs are there. It makes the next conversations much quicker, and he is relieved as he watches cars pile out towards the highway.

Suddenly an alarm starts blaring. The emergency intercoms spaced along the neighborhood release a sharp and repeating warning sound. A deep voice calls out between the noise, commanding evacuation. Kita's breath is labored from the exertion of running between houses, but his chest feels lighter knowing that his responsibility has been lifted.

By the time he crosses the bridge back to granny’s home, the sky has darkened significantly, black smog blowing along and spewing upwards. There’s the slight lick of a flame creeping over the ridge and he feels his heart begin to gallop. His stomach clenches roughly when his mind flashes with images of the western mountain forest, deer and wolves and rabbits and birds. Flowers and pine and ferns. He glances that way and sees that it’s still untouched, for now.

He runs inside granny’s, calling for her to get in a neighbor’s car, since she doesn’t own one herself. She stands slowly, at her elderly pace, and Kita is restless as he helps her exit the house as quickly as she can. He takes another glance at the mountains and his heart plummets at the sight. The fire has crept over the ridge, and he can hear the distant crackling as it runs forward. Kita's eyes trail down to a figure by the bank on the opposite end of the river and recognizes you. His chest constricts with relief and concern at the sight. He tells granny to walk down to the next door neighbor, to see if she can evacuate with them. He has to lower his head to her ear so he can be heard over the sounds of the sirens and the voice on the intercom.

He starts jogging towards the bridge, to cross it, but you yell his name. It’s loud and fierce, a demand to stay put. It has a firmness that forces him to listen.

His feet stop, now directly across from you. He can see your face, the intensity in your glare. You’ve never looked at him this way.

“Don’t come!” you yell, voice almost lost over the commotion.

Kita is frowning, brow furrowed and mouth open in disbelief. He doesn’t have time to yell back before you continue.

“You have to go, Shin!” You shout. Kitas chest is heavy, and his shoulders are rigid. The flames are growing closer, rolling down the mountain. There’s a gust of wind and it blows the smoke towards the village. He can feel the heat of the burning forest.

Suddenly there are popping sounds, loud like fireworks squealing and shooting through the air. He doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, what they mean. They don’t stop, ringing through the valley and compounding with the blaring alarms, the warning voice on the speakers.

Kita doesn’t want to leave. When he looks at you, the despaired expression on your face and the many layers of hurt—layers he doesn’t understand, has never understood because he never asked—he knows that he can’t leave you. He has to do something, he is restless, like a child waiting for something that has no regular pattern, no rhyme or reason to be there in the first place. You, visiting him in Osaka.

But you won’t have any of it. “GO, SHIN!” you yell, voice booming—akin to a clap of thunder. The popping and splintering noises grow louder, and it strikes him that they are from the bamboo at the base of the mountain, the moisture in their chambers expanding enough to turn into deadly explosives. He sees a flock of birds lift from the forest behind you and fly east.

He tastes salt—tears, rolling down his cheeks and through his open lips. His voice is choked as he yells back in a desperate attempt for you to leave with him.

“I’m yer burden,” he reminds you, face scrunched in pain. His voice isn’t as loud as it should be, for you to hear him across the river. But he knows you can anyways, knows that you know he means don’t leave me, I’m the one you’re supposed to look after.

You smile sadly. He can’t tell if you’re crying too, but he can feel the same pain on your end. Your voice is equally too quiet to be heard when you respond, but it rings clearly in his mind.

“But I’m not yours.”

Your gaze is looking behind him, beyond him. He turns and his eyes widen, spotting granny slowly making her way down the path. His stomach churns—she didn’t catch the neighbor driving away. She’s coughing, unable to walk at the same time. With the smoke blowing over and granny’s old lungs, she can’t carry onwards alone. Kita hears himself curse and he rushes to her side, no hesitation as he lifts her frail body against his chest. Her head lands against his neck—her hair soft against his—and she coughs another long fit. He knows he has to leave. 

He takes one last glance at you, then at the fire crawling towards the now-emptied homes on your side of the river. The heat is increasing, blowing towards him with more smoke and ash. Five deer appear from the woods behind you and run across the bridge. You are staring at him, urging him to follow their example. He knows that he has to take care of granny, but he thinks this is the most pain he’s ever felt, buried deep in his chest. It’s the kind of pain that comes from hollowness, recognition that something vital is missing and yet somehow life is forcing him onwards regardless. He doesn’t know why this tension is there, when there’s a clear job for him to do, to do well. His face pinches, another round of tears welling before he blinks and turns to run down the path.

In this moment, he summons that unwavering confidence he has in himself. Not one of arrogance, but from the knowledge of what he is capable of, what he does everyday without failure. He runs east along the river, clutching his grandmother close. He tells himself this is any normal day of training, running to improve his endurance for volleyball. He is running besides Suna-san, who’s looking for a shortcut. He is running behind you, on your way to explore the enchanted section of pine in the mountain.

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, seeing a mysterious child his age standing in the water. He asks who it is, pointing to a figure that granny can’t see. She tells him that he’ll learn one day, when the time is right.

He is sprinting down the same path, through smoke billowing over the valley erupting from a fire to his left, separated only by a river. Separated by you.

The honk of a car sounds behind him, a noise he barely catches with the sirens and the voices and the explosions pounding around him. He turns and sees the car of another neighbor, ushering him to get in. He veers to his left, letting the vehicle pull up beside him, and he yanks the door open, climbing inside with granny still against his chest. They lurch forwards as the driver steps on the gas and Kita guides granny to the seat beside him, reaching over to buckle her in. The interior blasts cool air and Kita is handed a water bottle.

“The fire department’s tellin’ people to evacuate to the next city,” the neighbor says. Kita nods numbly in response, unscrewing the bottle and helping granny take a few sips. She still coughs, but they’re smaller, less frequent.

With granny somewhat stable, Kita looks out the window to his left, facing the burning mountains. The car nears the ramp to the highway, starting up a mountain east of the fire. It gives him a clear view of homes being swallowed, Fujiwara-san’s one of the first.

Kita is breathless at the sight, reminded of everything these people will lose. He recalls what is already lost: the forest, the animals, the delicate combination of life that dwells in this valley. He thinks your mountain will be lost too, watching as the fire creeps west.

The popping sounds are dwindling, with the fire moving past the burnt bamboo sections and the car speeding away from the scene of destruction. But it is not quiet. There is a sudden clap of thunder that rumbles, long and gritty and deep. Kita watches as winds blow ferociously. Untouched trees sway while burning ones topple from the force. The sky is dark, a mix of smoke and storm clouds, though Kita isn’t sure when the storm began to form. He can see the water falling from the sky, blown at a sharp angle from the strength of the wind. It pelts over the mess of heat, releasing bouts of swirling steam into the air, to condense back into rain clouds.

As the car climbs higher up the mountain and the road, Kita watches the battle unfold before him. The power of rain as it fights the flames of red and gold eating the landscape. He watches the mist rising at the contact between elements, the water evaporating on impact.

He sees you in his room, that first time in Osaka when you were startled by a knock on the door. The way you went poof and disappeared.

They house granny in Osaka, taking over Kita's sister's room since she's at university in Tokyo. Kita is the one who looks after granny most carefully. It reminds him of caring for his brother when he first came to the city. He learns that granny’s house wasn’t caught in the fire. The river was an effective barrier and the rain came in time to manage any embers that had gotten blown over. The reports on the event stated that it was a miraculous storm, one that came from nowhere, completely unpredicted. It was an eventual downpour, enough to contain the fire within minutes and smother it completely in less than a half-hour. Footage from a helicopter shows the water rushing down the gullies and pouring into the river. With it carried embers, soot, ash, all piling together and flowing downstream. The next town down the river reported black water filled with sediment. A truck came in to deliver hundreds of cases of bottled water.

Aerial images reveal that nearly every house on the northern bank was claimed, only a few saved towards the east. He sees photos of the destruction. Your forest didn’t manage to escape in time, the fire stealing your enchanted pine. He wonders if you could have saved it if you didn’t prioritize his home.

There was one death: a backpacker, the person everyone believes is responsible for the disaster. Her body was completely charred, things almost entirely unidentifiable. Emergency services only picked out the metal of a stove—the decided perpetrator.

Kita has no time to grieve, with only a week before school starts again. After he helping granny get situated in the house, he immediately went to practice as a distraction. His teammates are appalled at the news, offering pats on the back and words of condolences, sighs of relief that he was lucky to leave in time.

But they don’t know what he lost. Not just the forest and the mountains, or the ability to visit his real home for months at the earliest. Even with the fire out there may be coals smoldering underground, or dangerous air wafting in the sky. The mountains won’t be green for at least a year, needing time for seeds to take root and sprout, needing seasons to accumulate rich dirt again. There’s no telling how long it will take for animals to return, birds to nestle back into shrubs or rodents to burrow again. The wolves and the deer are surely gone, evacuated to the next viable plot of land.

These aren’t the worst of his losses. What grasps his heart tightly, enough that sometimes he struggles to breathe, is the sight of you running into that smothering roll of flames. The loss of your eyes watching over him.

He dreams of fire, of heat and searing pain. His mind flashes with streaks of red and orange, billowing greys behind it. He hears the crackling of a burning forest and the popping of erupting bamboo. He wakes up panicked some nights, coated in sweat from the searing sensations he conjures in his sleep. In these moments he thinks it would help if he could be with you, your body always cool and damp, the sort of comfort that eases him, that could put out the fires of fear that grasp him.

A week later during practice, coach hands out jerseys. Kita is called first, given the number 1—captain. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to go to Aran. Nonetheless he takes the jersey and the title, and sits on the gym floor. He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he sees the teardrops fall onto the fabric, little spots of grey appearing where it was originally white.

He can hear Suna’s comment about the unfeeling robot showing emotion. He doesn’t care. He sniffles. There is a warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt the past two weeks. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, why this of all things brings him comfort.

He tries to explain while walking home with Aran.

“I tend to agree with the adults…that the journey is more important than the destination.” His words remind him of granny at home, the way her hair skipped over his dad and went straight to him. The ace turns to him curiously, not sure what he’s getting at.

“I am built upon the small things I do everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.”

He’s not good enough to go pro or make a living off volleyball. He just does what needs to be done, what fits into his routine—taking care of his body, cleaning up after himself, being courteous, and…volleyball. He holds up this jersey, looks at how it’s branded with 1, the captain’s number.

“Maybe this is just another result of the things I do.”

Aran blinks, stutters for a moment when he realizes what Kita is implying. “Don’t just—don’t sweat the small stuff! You don’t have to have some sort of logic behind your feelings!! If you’re happy, then you’re happy…that’s it!”

They hold eye contact after Aran’s outburst, and then Kita erupts into laughter. The ace watches his captain skeptically, not intending for his heartfelt advice to be amusing. His shoulders slump when he realizes this is the hardest he’s seen Kita laugh, ever.

Kita is reminded of all those times he couldn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was being drawn to do something he knew he logically didn’t want. All the moments he saw you and felt skeptical of the questions he wanted to ask, the embrace he wanted to pull you in, the warmth he felt in your presence—the way his brain and his logic denied him something he wanted, because there was no explicable reason for it. He thinks of the way you left, the way it hurt like no injury he’s ever lived through. He thinks of the lack of your gaze following him since just two weeks ago, the way he misses it but refuses to admit to it.

“You’re right,” he tells Aran.

By the time school is ending and he plays his final match, you are still not watching him. He feels the eyes of his granny and the eyes of his school on his back. The brooding eyes of Karasuno are on him when he is subbed for Aran in the second set. But yours are still missing.

He, however, has his eyes on his team the entire game, picking out their mistakes and what he knows is the misguided thinking behind them: Gin’s impatience, Atsumu and Osamu’s carelessness, Suna’s laziness. He stands behind them, the defense specialist who will receive the ball, and the one who’s eyes linger on their backs. He is watching them. He is like the lingering mist that wafts behind them, telling them that someone will see, whether they work hard until the very end, or let themselves succumb to their impulses. 

Kita has lived his entire life under your careful gaze. To cope with its absence, he has learned to become the omnipresent eyes backing up his team.

Adulthood

Granny always told him that someone was watching, and your gaze was proof. But at some point he realized that he wasn’t doing it for the spirits, that it didn’t matter either way. His work ethic would be the same even if you never saw him. This realization holds more weight when it is carried out in practice, Kita living his life with the same repetition, perseverance, and diligence in your absence. It makes him feel good, eases the emptiness. So he does it well, and he does it everyday.

He graduates at the top of his class, with grades that could get him into any university, launch him into any career he could imagine. And yet when the year passes and granny says she wants to return to the valley, Kita knows where he will go.

When he pulls into the neighborhood, his eyes are glued to the mountain. There are still trees and bamboo standing, though they are charred corpses. Debris of coals and fallen leaves litter the ground, coating the forest in brown and black. A light layer of green sits atop the earthy tones, sprigs of saplings and shrubs breaking the surface. Kita’s chest expands at the sight, a glimmer of hope.

There are only a few other neighbors who have returned, most still with family in the city. Kita speaks with some of them and gathers that they figure it’s a sign to leave the countryside—to better opportunities and a more convenient life. He wonders what will happen to this village if everyone decides to flee, who will take the land. Maybe the government will turn it into a Hyogo heritage site, a place people will flock to as a sort of pilgrimage. To see the brittle remains of homes and the earth’s attempt at recovery.

Kita knows that he wants to stay here, that granny does too. He’s not sure how it’ll work, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. His parents are skeptical, figuring that he’ll make an attempt only to eventually fold for a city job, but they forget that one of Kita’s life pillars is perseverance. He will find a way.

The way opens itself to him the following day. The April air is cool when he goes for a midday walk, crossing the bridge to the burned edge of the river. He trails along the slight incline towards the skeleton of Fujiwara’s home. There is only the charred foundation and a couple ragged beams standing upright, the rest collapsed into rubble. For a moment he can imagine you, running from the back door and into the front room with a bundle of grapes. He hears the distant whispers of Fujiwara’s protests as he follows slowly.

Kita walks to the once-veranda, experimentally standing on the elevated foundation. The charred wood creaks beneath him, but feels sturdy enough to hold. He carefully ambles along the collapsed room, scanning the damage. He manages to cross the house and reach the back exit, and he pauses at the sight.

The ground outside is similarly littered with earthy debris, patchy with occasional new grasses and saplings. Fujiwara’s garden is gone, no more grape trellises or rows of starches. But there is a small square, less than a tsubo, dug into the dirt. Kita knows what this sort of sunken patch means, has seen them in some of the neighbors’ backyards growing up, flooded and filled with lines of grassy crop. He steps carefully from the foundation of the house and curiously stands over the square, imagining the rice that would be planted at the end of the month.

He hears footsteps from near the house and turns to see Mayumi-san, the one who drove Kita and granny out of the valley during the fire. She looks healthy despite being in her seventies, carrying a shovel and a hoe as she makes her way over.

“Ah, Shin-chan,” she greets him. “S’been a while, good to see ya again. What’re ya doin’ out here?”

He bows slightly as he greets her and explains that he was exploring the neighborhood, since he only just returned. He asks about the rice garden.

“I was testin’ to see how it’d grow, since the ash can help sometimes,” she explains. “I came back early after the fire, n’Fujiwara said I could use his yard since he’s probably stayin’ in the city with his daughter.”

An excitement sparks in Kita’s chest, like something clicked into place. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he presses her. “How’d it do?”

Mayumi smiles, one that looks devilish and would be frightening if he wasn’t accustomed to seeing it. “Shit’s the best yield I’ve ever had. M’gonna try to dig a few more plots, maybe sell ‘em at the city markets.”

This is his way, he realizes. He sees the shovel in her right hand and hoe in the left and speaks before he can register the words. “Y’want any help?”

The rest of April is spent preparing the land with Mayumi and pouring over books on agriculture. He soaks in his elder’s expertise on the subject, in the abstract and the field. When the end of the month rolls around and the two of them begin sowing seeds, Kita thinks that for the first time since your absence that he feels whole. He is here in the valley, between your two homes, dedicating himself to the land that you led him through as a child. He thinks he can feel your presence while working, your hands misting over his, transplanting seedlings with him. The rains that come in are well timed, bringing rushing water down the mountain to flood the few squares of crops.

The days pass with granny, some quick and others slow. She does well in the village, with other people her age, though the company is sparse. Kita can sense that it’s hard for her sometimes, but like himself she is malleable to her environment, can make do as long as she has her routines. Her lungs aren’t as strong as they used to be, but she enjoys her walks and can maintain the chores—the ones Kita lets her.

When September comes in, Kita and Mayumi spend one sunny day harvesting. Kita wields his scythe carefully, the movement unpracticed. He grasps the dry stalks and runs the blade across the taut stems, bundling them on the ground to be collected. They gather the clumps and carry them to the house next to Mayumi’s—another neighbor who hasn’t returned since evacuation. 

Mayumi prepares a sheet across the main room for them to work on. Then they thresh the harvest, grabbing the bundles and smacking them against the floor, pelts of rice springing off the stems. Kita is reminded of water, of rain splashing against the surface of the river. When all the stalks have been emptied, they spread the seeds of gold with their hands, like smoothing the creases of a futon. The day’s work is over, now waiting for the crop to dry. They exit, leaving a few of the screens open to let new waves of dry air flow through.

Kita finds these processes fulfilling, like his own daily routine. It’s another series of tasks that can be learned and done well. The result is his own sustenance, something he can live off of and share with others. It tastes better, he thinks, once he’s experienced the entire journey.

He tells his old teammates that he’ll be in Osaka next month for the markets. They only have a few dozen bags to sell, but he wants to get his friends’ opinions.

The markets are energetic and amiable. Kita shares with curious shoppers the story of the valley, how the burned houses and their backyards left ash that the rice took to. People find the narrative compelling, and they buy the rice despite the hefty price tag. Other vendors are interested, some make purchases to try in their food. Kita enjoys the atmosphere, the way these people and their businesses are connected. He and Mayumi manage to sell all the rice they brought. It’s hardly a profit, but it’s promising.

The next day Kita is in the Miya’s home with the additional company of Suna and Gin. They talk about life, preparation for nationals, what they’re thinking of doing when school ends. Atsumu is going pro, taking volleyball as far as he can. Osamu is ending it here, contemplating career options. He says he’s looking for restaurant jobs; he wants to be a chef.

“Yer gonna be a farmer, huh?” Atsumu asks, laying back on the couch. “It suits ya, that simple life.”

Kita nods. “Knew I needed to take care of granny, that I was gonna be in the valley anyways. One of the neighbors was growing some an’ I asked to help—wanted to see what it was like. S’gonna take time, but we’re gonna try to get the land from the neighbors, see if we can apply for subsidies ‘cause of the fire. Then we’ll try t’upscale. The market yesterday was good.”

Gin sighs, “Ever the considerate and diligent Shin-chan.”

“The rice is good,” Osamu interjects. “It’d be good for onigiri.”

It is, it turns out. After three years, Osamu decides to leave the restaurant he started working for out of highschool and open his own onigiri store. Kita is their main rice supplier, and a customer who never has to pay. They have classic flavors in the beginning: tuna mayo, pickled plum, ikura. When Kita comes with his next delivery, Osamu sits him in the dining room and has him try new options. The former captain takes his job as taste-tester seriously, his diligence appreciated by the former setter. They decide that the shrimp and beef flavors are ready to be sold, but the chicken needs reworking.

Kita gets into his truck that evening and drives home. The sun sets by the time he enters the valley, winding through roads in the black darkness. When he arrives at granny’s and exits the car, he sees that the sky is beautifully clear. The Milky Way spreads itself over the northern mountains, where life is still recovering, slowly but surely. He takes in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet noise of the night—soft rushing water from the river, chirping insects, occasional wind.

He notices the blinking lights that cross the expanse of stars: planes and satellites. He sighs, remembering a time when he could sit on the top of the mountain and witness an unobscured view of the sky, taking up the entirety of his visual landscape.

Suddenly there is a shooting star, the most intense he’s ever seen. It’s a bright flash of light, he thinks for a moment white and orange and pink, that darts from the east and disappears as it curves west. Its trajectory gives the illusion that if it touched the ground, it would land on your mountain, that special enchanted forest.

After a few more minutes of watching, of relishing the awe, he makes his way inside. Granny is asleep, so he heads straight to bed.

When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in years—since that fire crawled along an entire mountain and you left to put an end to it—he feels the prickly sensation that he’s being watched.

Life doesn’t change with you watching him. Life didn’t change when you stopped. It’s something he knew, something you knew. He carries onwards, his routine of life, one that he does well and does everyday. He and Mayumi expand the fields again, creeping their business along the length of the river. Kita slowly takes on more farm responsibility, knowing enough to work independently when Mayumi needs to rest with increasing frequency. Granny is similar—she likes to help sometimes, with the easier work, but her lungs still struggle, never fully recovered.

It’s a beautiful morning, with cool air entering the house and light diffusing through the shoji. He can hear the birds and the rustling of leaves outside when he wakes, blinking away the lingering visions of orange and red from his dreamscape. He opens the screen towards the river while he puts away his futon and prepares for the day.

Granny isn’t in the main room as per usual. Kita pays it no mind, assuming she’ll be in soon. He makes breakfast and waits for her. She doesn’t come in on time. Kita stands to search, thinking she may have missed the time.

He enters her room and sees she’s still sleeping. He crouches over her to gently rock her awake, but there is no response. At that moment he realizes she is not breathing, not making a sound. He freezes, feels his heart plummet. He carefully lifts her hand from under the blankets—still warm—and checks to see if there’s a pulse. It’s quiet, flat.

He moves slowly, processing, sitting back on his heels next to her. His throat is tight and his chest—it’s hard to breathe. He shakily inhales through his nose and holds her hand in both of his. There’s a stinging behind his eyes and suddenly he is crying, weeping openly as he holds onto her. Death is the logical consequence of living, one of the only certainties of life; knowing this does not make Kita’s loss any less painful. While the hurt sits heavily in his chest, there is a growing spark of gratitude for her, that they were able to spend the beginning of his life and the end of her’s together.

Granny’s passing brings her closer to Kita, in a way. He feels that there are now two pairs of eyes on him, watching over him. When he looks in the mirror and sees his grey hair, granny’s hair, he thinks that he will always be a piece of her living on, that it’s his duty to live earnestly for her. He makes a shrine for her in one of the rooms of the house, placing her urn in the center. It is a beautiful grey clay, narrow and unglazed. A black thread ties the lid to the body.

She becomes another part of his routine, sitting before her remains and her images with his hands clasped and eyes closed.

Life goes on.

A month later he is in the field, tending to his crop. It’s late in the day, when the sun is near setting. The pink of the sky reflects onto the flooded beds, interrupted by sprigs of green. He inhales, appreciating the scenery, before exhaling and continuing his work. When he looks up a moment later, he is frozen by the sight.

There’s a wolf, large and grey, like the first one he saw as a child in the pine forest. He is not afraid, but in awe. A wolf returning means there’s prey: rabbits and deer. It means the forest is recovering, that creatures are finding their way back. He takes in the strong figure of the predator in front of him, sturdy and confident. A movement flashes in his peripheral, three pups catching up. Shin notices that one is nearly white, standing out from the others. He thinks of himself in Osaka, with his relatives.

When the pups catch up, the mother turns away and carries on.

Kita finishes his work before the sun fully sets. A light rain begins, clouds absorbing the vivid hues of sunfall, and he hurries to collect his tools before crossing the bridge home. The drizzling turns into solid pelting by the time he makes it to the empty house. He turns back briefly, squinting through the water collecting in his eyelashes, to see how long the downpour will last.

There’s a figure, at the other side, and his eyes widen in shock. He drops his tools and takes a few hurried steps closer, searching for confirmation.

Through the rain he can see you, standing at the other bank. You are smiling, he can tell, with your shoulders pulled upwards as if embarrassed. He thinks he is dreaming, that this is impossible. You, in flesh and bones, standing in front of the remnants of Fujiwara’s once home. He does not realize that he is smiling back, eyes crinkling and collecting water—his own tears as they spill—and grin spanning impossibly wide. His chest feels like it’s lifting, floating him in the air, to you on the other side.

Suddenly you are running forwards, not towards the bridge, but down the bank, to cross the water. Kita’s face flashes with concern and he starts down his own side, slipping through the mud. By the time he reaches the shore you have swum halfway across, long confident strokes despite the speed of the current. Kita marches forward, water touching his waist when he finally reaches you. He grabs your outstretched hand and tugs you into him, engulfing you in his chest and arms. You are as cold as the water surrounding him, but his body explodes with warmth at the contact, at finally being with you.

His heart races as he clutches you close, in an iron grip that refuses to relent. He thinks he hears you laugh against him, and he chokes out some strangled mixture of a laugh and sob. The water makes it hard for him to stand steady, so he brings one arm beneath you to lift you from the sediment and carry you to the bank. There he sets you down and grabs your waist firmly, staring at you with disbelief. You are smiling with all the glee in the world, eyes nearly closed by the force of it.

“I made it, Shin-chan.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks of the shooting star and the wolf, the rice fields filling easily without additional irrigation.

You lean forwards and wrap your arms over his shoulders, clutching him close. His arms come around your waist and he thinks he can recognize his feelings: relief and homecoming. There is a fullness, one that is close to painful, a pain he had been living with for years in your absence. He pulls you up the bank, to bring you into the house. He leaves his tools out, to be dealt with tomorrow, and goes straight for the genkan. 

You try to protest when he passes the spigot, “Shin, the mud—”

But he doesn’t care, kicking off his boots to be cleaned later. The mixture of river water and mud splatter on the tile of the genkan, leaving brown puddles and smears. Kita removes his socks and drops them behind him, letting his clean feet be the barrier between himself and the floor. He carries you to the bathroom, to deal with the mess together.

At night you are in his room, watching him set up the futon. He looks at you to ask, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s share.”

His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He nods quickly and pushes the blanket aside for the two of you. He clutches you close under the soft comforter, your head slotting snugly in the space of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, the chilliness, but it coats him in warmth. He can feel his heart still racing, never fully calmed since seeing you. He feels those questions and thoughts bubbling up, words he always found unnecessary to say. Something about this moment lets him release them, lets him be curious about you.

“Didn’t know if I’d ever see ya again,” he says quietly, into your hair.

You nestle your head further into his neck. He can feel your lips against his throat as you speak. “It took a lot from me, the fire. Always need time to recover.”

His hand comes up to cradle your head, smoothing through your hair.  The image of the rainstorm flashes before him, the way the clouds swarmed from a previously blue sky to pour everything it had—everything you had—to put out the fire. He remembers the awe he felt, the sublimity of the view from a car fleeing the scene.

He doesn’t dream that night, his mind like an empty gulley, letting the soothing rainwater rush through him.

He cleans up after himself in the morning, retrieving his tools and mopping the genkan. It takes a while, though, interrupting his work several times to check that you are still in his room. You haven’t risen by the time he finishes making breakfast. A panic sits in his chest as he enters to wake you. You are still asleep, and he relaxes when he sees the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers.

He sits on his knees beside you and gives your body a gentle rock. Your eyes peel open after a moment of stirring, and you are already smiling. Kita thinks it brightens the room more than the sun streaming in, that life is breathed into him from you.

You notice the granny’s shrine at breakfast. After assisting with cleanup, you ask if the small urn is all the ashes he has of her. He shakes his head and shows you the drawer in the display, where a box lays with the majority of her cremated remains.

“I wasn’ sure where t’put her,” he tells you.

You have an idea.

Only a few minutes later the two of you are exiting through the genkan, dressed for a day in the woods. Kita has a backpack on, the box from the shrine tucked safely inside. He lets you take the lead, turning left down the path and towards the western mountain. He is reminded of his sixth birthday, running to the end of the dirt road for the first time, panting to keep up with you. This time you are calmly walking hand in hand, in no hurry. Kita squeezes yours tightly, a necessary action to express the feeling in his heart.

You smile at him, and bring his hand to your mouth, kissing the back of it. Kita inhales in surprise and you watch his ears turn red, giggling at the sight.

When you two reach the end of the road, the rock face is still standing sturdy. He can see burned trees standing at the base, your mountain not untouched by the disaster. However, like the other forests, it is recovering, hope sprouting in the form of ferns and saplings. He sees a rabbit scurry away and a soft smile crosses his face.

You head first down the bank and into the water as usual, him following with his hand in yours. The cool water creeps up, only up to his knees now that he is grown. The water is easier to navigate in his adult body, and he effortlessly steps up the rocks to the forest floor, ones he used to scramble over on his hands and feet. The ground crunches beneath him. There is a patchy layer of pine needles—short ones—spreading along. The ground is not fluffy from decades of accumulation, but it’s a start. Small saplings bring bursts of fresh green, prickly when he brushes against them. The ferns hide beneath them, avoiding the scorching sun.

History repeats itself as you pull him forwards, along the river and through the early rebirth of the enchanted pine forest. The fallen tree that once served as a bridge is miraculously intact, though the top is scorched and he feels unsteady walking to the other side.

Wandering through the forest is another type of home. He hadn’t taken it upon himself to explore since returning, not wanting to disrupt the delicate healing of the ecosystem. He trusts you, though, and the path you’ll lead him to experience the land without damaging it further.

He notices that you are taking him to a section that he hasn’t been often, not a regular spot during your times together as kids. But it makes sense when you arrive at the small clearing and he sees the massive pine from his memory. It is thick with twisting branches, sturdy. Some of them are blackened from the fire, but others are coated in fresh needles, long and green, waving gently in the wind. He is surprised he hasn’t seen this miracle before, from the house. Maybe the distance obscured the view.

Kita walks slowly to the base of the tree and looks up towards its canopy. He can see the contrast of the charred and ashy sections of trunk against the rich brown of its healthy, resilient branches. The green shines brightly against the black and grey, proud of its revival.

He shrugs his backpack from his shoulders, understanding that this is where granny should be. He lowers to his knees before he unzips the bag and carefully removes the box. It’s a light wood, with tan streaks running along the grain. Pine, he thinks to himself in disbelief.

He slowly unlatches the box and sets it on the bed of brown needles near the trunk. There’s a plastic bag inside, tied with a simple overhand knot. He undoes it gently, slowly unfurling it to roll open and over the edge of the box. It’s the first time he’s looking at her remains, he realizes, and he notices that they are grey, grey ash with clumps of small black coals.

You watch as he moves slowly, cupping soft remains in his calloused hands.

“It’s like your hair,” you say.

He cries, letting out soft, ragged breaths between quick inhales. His weeping lasts the entirety of the time it takes him to spread the ashes at the base of the tree, where it meets the ground. When he finishes you crouch behind him and wrap your arms around his torso. He continues to cry. You feel it, his chest heaving with grief and mourn, love and gratitude. He brings his palms to his eyes to wipe the tears, but they continue to fall, splatter the earth beneath him with feeling.

You listen quietly as his sobs fill the space between rustling leaves and distant cooing birds. Eventually you take one hand from his torso to rub his back slowly, soothingly. 

His noises eventually lull, quieting to the occasional sniffle. He gently pushes the bag into the pine box and then slowly closes the lid and does the clasp. He returns it to the backpack with careful, practiced motions. Your arms release him when you sense he wants to stand. He turns around to face you, you and the valley below.

He watches you closely, runs his eyes over your face, eyes and nose and lips. He wants to memorize your soft smile, the way it warms him like the sun.

You bring your hands to his cheeks, their coolness refreshing after crying so heavily. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, soaking in the contradicting ways you make him feel—this tug between heat and cold. He feels you press a kiss on his temple, then the other. They’re smeared with the grey ash and black coals, transferring the dust onto your lips. He sighs, in peace, and brings his hands to cover yours. 

When he opens his eyes once more, he looks behind you through the space between the trees, to the valley below him, spanning wide. He is reminded of the thousands of years it took these mountains to form, the thousands of years it took for the forest to grow on top of it. He knows that the fire he witnessed was not the first to rage across the land, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes in the growth and change that has developed in the past few years, sparkles of hope in a collapse of despair. He recognizes that the destruction is an opportunity for something new, for him to be part of building the next beautiful forest that will rise.

He has lived for what feels like forever, and yet an entire life lays ahead of him. A life with the forest and the mountains and the river. A life with granny’s spirit watching over him, her hair and remains guiding him forwards. A life of working the land and growing something for himself, for others.

A life of unnecessary questions, ones he struggles to ask. A life of inexplicable feelings, ones he’s learning to let in.

A life with you. Here.

i know i said minor character death and then killed granny,, she's a minor character in haikyuu!! but she is a main character in my heart

anyways here's the afterword

[luveline]

YES to luna lovegood/dreamy!reader!!!!!!!!! Can we possibly get one with Spencer? <3

“It’s not as bad as you think.” 

Hotch appreciates the softness of your voice, as someone who also speaks in a very measured tone, but the sound of it has his brow furrowing. You’re a brilliant analyst, and a worse distraction whenever you’re in the main office. 

“It sounds terrible?” 

Hotch peers through the window to get a good look at the scene. You’re sitting in Spencer’s desk chair with your hands stretched out in front of you. Your outfit is very pink, considering the occasion, but it’s a non-abrasive light pink that flatters your skin. You have a clip in your hair, a small silver star with pink jewels embedded along the lines. 

Emily sips at a cup of coffee, leaning against the desk, her face to the side. Hotch can see her perturbed smile. 

“It’s fine! I’ve just been sleeping on the sofa.” 

“Well. That’s a call to pest control.” 

Spencer returns to his desk with a frown and two mugs. “Pest control?” he asks, the mug he places in front of you steaming. 

“There’s a raccoon living in her bedroom.” 

Spencer burns himself on his coffee, swearing as he puts it down hurriedly beside yours. “There’s a what?” Spencer asks. 

“He’s friendly. He came in through my vent.” 

“So friendly he’s stolen your bedroom?” 

You lean back in Spencer’s chair like it’s a La-Z-Boy, blowing at the hot surface of your drink with a similar lazy smile. “Imagine being that little and having such a big bed? When you usually sleep in the garbage?” You give a breathy laugh. “He must be having the time of his life.” 

“How are you getting ready in the mornings?” Spencer asks worriedly. 

“We’re cohabiting.” 

Spencer licks his lips. He likes you, and you seem aware of that fact, and that’s nerve-wracking for everyone involved. 

“Um, maybe we can make him a house? Like, outside? Raccoons are far happier in their natural habitat, and they’re also, you know, highly diseased and contagious compared to humans. I really don’t think you should let him inside.” 

“Spencer,” you say, giving him a dozy grin, “I didn’t let him in. He knows how to get in all by himself.” 

“I’ll call a repairman, too,” Emily says with a groan. 

She walks away, probably to find JJ and get her in on the repairs. Spencer looks at you for a long time, just drinking your tea, and Hotch mentally goads him into making a semblance of a move. Even if it’s just to fix your drooping hair clip. 

“You’re looking at me strangely again,” you say. 

Winces all around. “Am I?” Spencer asks. 

“Yes. Is this about Thursday?” 

“No.” Spencer swallows. “Yes. You didn’t answer my texts, after. I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

“What I’m thinking?” 

“Yeah. I thought about it a lot, so maybe you did too. Or maybe you didn’t, and it didn’t mean anything.” 

“Of course it meant something, Spencer.” You put down your mug, dusting your knees off before you stand. Spencer is not much taller than you where you’re standing in front of him, but you look up at him anyways. Your face tips ever so slightly to one side. “Would you want to do it again?” you ask softly. 

Spencer looks around the office. He neglects to check Hotch’s window, perhaps because the blinds are more often drawn than not, and so he doesn’t realise Hotch is watching as he draws you in for a kiss. 

You preen and lean back, hands fighting to cup his cheeks, a gauzy, practically gleaming aura around you as you smile into his mouth. Your fingertips tease his hair, and Spencer’s hand settles in place against the small of your back. You kiss back for only a few seconds before you’re laughing.

Spencer moves away quickly, taking your wrists into his hands to pull them away from his face. 

“You give up too fast,” you say. 

“I don’t think this is the place for it.” 

“Well, we can’t do it at my place. What if the raccoon sees?” 

“Good point. How about Marina’s, would that be better? We can get dinner at the same time.” 

Hotch feels oddly proud of Spencer’s suave suggestion, but he also has a migraine brewing between his brows. He really doesn’t need the extra paperwork. 

[mattsfavoritestar]

NEVER BE LIKE YOU, chris sturniolo

synopsis… (based on this ask ) or in which you used to treat chris terribly in highschool, now you’ve graduated and matured but you weren’t the only one who’s changed

warnings… mentions of bullying, rough sex, semi-public sex, degrading, edging, overstimulation, mean!chris, former bully!reader, creampie, perv!chris if you squint, unprotected p in v (WRAP IT B4 YOU TAP IT)

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

you used to tell yourself that you would never go for matt and nick’s little brother. yes, you know that they are triplets but chris always seem’d so childish and annoying in your eyes. he used to trail after you like a pet and make stupid flirty comments or compliments.

you thought that chris sturniolo was thee most aggravating person to walk the planet. yet here you were staring at him from across the room. you nudged your friend, “hey when did chris get so cute?” you whispered. your friend shot you a deadpanned expression then rolled her eyes. “after graduation, guess he decided to do the whole glow up thing” she responds.

chris used to be the scrawny kid with messy short hair. now his curls framed his face in a godly way and whenever he moved a certain way, his muscles and veins flexed. you also noticed that when you walked into the house, he didn’t even acknowledge you like he used to.

“why do you care?”

“hm?”

“i said why do you care anyways, didn’t you used to hate him or some shit?”

you shrugged your shoulders. no secret that you used to practically torture the poor boy as if he was some servant or lapdog. chris used to do literally anything if it ment you would reward him even if the gift was as small as allowing him to hold your hand for five seconds. it was laughable at the time the way he acting like a wounded puppy whenever you got mad at him for the slightest thing.

your heart started racing when he looked up and stared dead into your eyes. those blue eyes that you used to not care for now made your body feel heated and achy. you broke contact as you felt your thighs squeeze for some type of relief. “m’gonna go to the bathroom” you mumbled to your friend as you got up.

you looked over yourself in the mirror. you always took pride into your appearance, a habit that stuck since high school. you turned around and opened the door but was shocked when met with chris looking down on his phone.

“uhm, hey” you quietly say causing him to look up at you. a small smirk appeared on his face as he turned his phone off and leans onto the door frame. “hi” he replied. you tried going past him but was pushed back into the bathroom. chris closes the door behind him with the lock without breaking eye contact.

“what are you doing” you say cautiously ask as you look between him and the door. chris shrugs, “just thought i’d talk to you for a sec” he says. as chris walks closer to you, you walk backwards till your back brushes the sink. chris traps you with his hands on either side of you as he looks down with a mischievous smile.

“never thought i’d see that day where little miss royalty would get so nervous around me” he laughs. your breath started to pick up as he leans down closer and closer till your lips brush. you squealed in surprise when chris roughly turns you around so you were leaning on the sink with your back facing him.

you felt him breathing down your neck as his hands lightly trailed down your sides. you let out a sigh and let your head drop back onto his shoulder while your eyes closed. chris starts chuckling then removes his hands. “remember when you used to make me do your homework just so i could sit next to you?” he asks.

you opened you eyes and look at him with a sad expression. “m’sorry for treating you like that back then” you say in a small voice. chris roughly grabs your waist and pushes you off him. you gasped as you felt him bring your hips to meet his growing bulge. “i saw you staring at me earlier” he says, “didn’t know you let yourself go enough to want to fuck a loser” he sneered. you frowned to yourself at the memory.

“be serious for a second chris. i’d never fuck a loser like you” you laughed.

you couldn’t lie, you were a regina george back then. chris was such a sweet guy to you too, he always treated you like a princess even though you already had the royal status at school. you were his number one priority and you took advantage of that. you used him back then. now it was his turn to use you.

you bit your lip to hide the moan as chris grinded your lower half’s together. “chris everyone’s out there” you reminded him. chris laughs, “don’t be loud then. unless you want them to hear you act like a whore” he taunts. your dress was pushed up and your laced underwear was yanked down.

“who knew your clothes could get even more slutty after high school” chris grumbled. you always wore clothes that would be at the brink of the dress code. now that those bullshit rules can’t effect you, you wore even more revealing stuff whenever you didn’t have any important place to go to.

your breath hitched as you felt his thumb swipe the arousal from your folds. you looked up to the mirror infront of you as you saw chris suck his thumb off with a groan erupting from his throat. “waiting so long to taste you” he whispered. he brought his hand back down and inserted two fingers into your dripping cunt as he bit his lip.

you moaned as you locked eyes with him in the mirror then brought your hand up to cover your mouth. chris smiled as he worked his fingers in a rapid pace, not caring for how hard it was for you to keep your voice as low as possible. you rolled your eyes to the back of your head as you felt a knot forming in your stomach.

but chris saw your pleasured expression. he yanked his fingers out of you and slapped your ass. you whined at the lost feeling then whimpered as you felt chris get a tight hold on your hair, yanking your head back. “you don’t deserve to fucking cum” he grunted in your ear.

chris pulled his pants and boxers down, just enough to release his aching cock. a sigh of relief fell from his lips as he stroked himself slightly. he lined himself up to your wet hole then pushed in with slight aggression. a muffled moan left your mouth as you tightened the hand that covered it .

you heard chris breathing heavily and felt his fingers dig into your skin. he moved his hips slightly as if he was testing the waters meanwhile you were using his delay as time to try adjusting to his size. chris was definitely bigger than any other guy you fucked and you were starting to regret not taking his offer for a date two years ago.

as soon as chris decided that he was ready, he rocked his hips slowly then picked up the pace. his thrust were aggressive. harsh. needy. as if he wanted to fuck his anger into you. but also can’t get enough of you. you had one hand trying to balance yourself on the sink counter while the other still covered the moans and whimpers that fell from your lips.

“waiting so fucking long to stretch this pussy” he groans. somehow the aggression grew more rough and since chris was already a bit too big, it felt like he was abusing your cunt. you took your hand off your mouth then reached back to try to push him away. chris laughs as he roughly pins your hand onto the counter.

“are you trying to run from me? thought this is what you wanted” he snarled, “i always give you want you want, don’t i? fucking spoiled brat” his voice was laced with venom. you felt your eyes water but couldn’t tell if it was from pain, pleasure, or regret.

“mhm chris!” you squealed as you felt him brush your cervix. you caught a glimpse of his face, a smile as he bit his lip while watching you through the mirror. “‘member when you called me a whiny bitch? look at you now, crying on my dick” he laughs. you close your eyes as the vivid memory flashed into your brain.

“but you promised” he mumbled. you rolled your eyes, “don’t tell me you’re gonna cry you whiny bitch” you mocked.

“m’sorry! m’so sorry!” you cried. your knuckles grew white as your grip on the counter tightened. the familiar knot in your stomach reappeared, this time even tighter than before. “ch-chris! gonna cum!” you warned. his cock didn’t stop ramming into your now puffy cunt. “yeah? gonna make a mess on me?” he muttered.

you nodded repeatedly as you felt your self at the brink of an orgasm. your vision went blurry with white splotches as you felt yourself release on chris’s cock. “t-to much..” you tried saying in shaken voice. you couldn’t even breathe properly, it felt like he was rearranging your guts. the overstimulation was overwhelming but fuck it felt so good.

it finally dawned on you that this wasn’t for your pleasure but his. chris was actively using you as a sleeve to wet his dick and to get back at you for all those years. you felt him pull you closer as if he was hugging you from the back. you felt his sweaty forehead touching the back of your neck.

“finally get to fill you up- fuck” he moaned as you found yourself coming to your second orgasm. with the rest of your strength, you slammed your hand onto the counter as you felt yourself somewhat peeing on him. you heard chris whimpering as he tightened his hold on you and tried pulling you closer.

a series of curses left his mouth as his load pumped into you with sloppy thrust. you couldn’t help letting out a loud moan as chris gives you one final harsh thrust before pulling out. you felt your knees buckle after chris removes himself from you. you watched through your wet lashes as he fixes his clothes and pockets your underwear.

as chris exits the bathroom, you tried lifting yourself up with the help of the counter. you felt the thick sticky mixture of your fluids and his load dripping out of you. through the crack of the door you heard matt telling chris that everyone else left to get food then asked why you both took so long to which chris replied by saying ‘you needed help in the bathroom’.

[fictionalmenxyn]

hi can you write please rafe x wife, happily married. Rafe being away for business trip. Texting and calling wife missing her, sending her flowers while hes away. maybe phone sex. Coming home after a week bearing giftsfor her and kids and then fucks her.

Of course I can!! Enjoy!!

❣︎𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐈’𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞❣︎

Pairing: dad!husband!rafe x mom!wife!reader

Your children: Cody (3), Morgan (1) and Toby (5 months).

Warnings: smut!, p in v, no mentions of protection (wrap it up!), Rafe being sweet and loving durning sex

•❣︎❣︎❣︎•

While Rafe was away, for the Cameron Development, he missed you. Terribly missed you… constant ‘I love you so much’ ‘gonna kiss you sm when I come back’ ‘miss having you on me’ ‘missing u and the kids so bad rn’ ‘can u ft real quick??’ Every day since he left.

But today was the day, he was coming home.

The boys helped you, or rather watched you, make a small welcome home sign for Rafe. The boys added their touches, of their scribbles. It read ‘Welcome home Daddy! We missed you!’ Thankfully your artsy skills showed. And the help of Pinterest of course.

So, when you heard the door open. You quickly whisper “Cody, hold the sign for daddy, quick.” Cody held up the sign with pride. You handed Morgan a box of chocolates for Rafe. You picked up Toby, holding him on your hip. You guided the two boys to the foyer. Where Rafe stood. He smirked and put his bags down “hey family!”

The boys ran over, completely dropping everything to go get lovings from their father. You laughed at their reactions. You walked over. Kissing Rafe on the cheek “hey, Rafey, how was work??” He sighed with a smile “exhausting, but worth it…”

Rafe picked up both of the boys, he playfully asked “you two behave for momma??.” They both nodded. He smirked “oh really?? So you did behave, hm?” Cody spoke “yes! We be good!” He smiled softly. He kissed both of the boys cheek. He set them back down on the floor. I turn to you, taking Toby out of your arms and holding him with his strong arm. His free hand placed on your hip, his thumb brushing your leggings. He moved his hand to your lower back and pulled you closer. Pecking your lips he moved “god, I’ve missed this…”

…

Once Rafe was settled back in. He had started to hand out his gifts to the boys. Of course you held Toby in your lap as he handed you Toby’s gifts. You smile, it was so sweet that Rafe would do this when he went away.

You looked to Cody and Morgan and spoke “what do you say to daddy for the gifts??” Both of the kids spoke “tank you!” Rafe chuckles, ruffling their hair “you’re welcome, kiddos…”

Rafe looked to you, “you have gifts too, babe…” you smiled “you didn’t have to, Rafe…” “oh but I wanted to, and I did, so here…” he placed a navy box on your lap. “It’s only a small something… you know I have another gift for you, later…”

You playfully rolled his eyes at the stubble innuendo. You open the box. Cody walked over and rested his head in your knee. Cody asked “what momma got?” You smiled at the gift. “Your dad got me a very pretty necklace, bud…” you looked to Rafe “thank you, baby…” he smiled “anything for you… I uh, also called Rose… she’s picking up the kids in an hour…”

…

Now… here you both are… completely naked to each other. Rafe already on top of you and in you.

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to him. He smiled as he sat up, sitting back on his knees. He placed a hand on your lower stomach. “God I’ve missed this… you and I, in our bed… my cock all the way in you… taking all of me so easily… fuck…” you moaned softly.

He slowly started to move in and out. Wanting to take his time, savouring the feeling of you both in this moment. He reached up and held you one hand. Gently squeezing your hand. “God you feel so good…” you moved your other arm around his shoulders. Wanting to be closer. Rafe let you pull him closer. Moving feeling in you, causing him to deeply groan. “Fuuuccckk..” you gasp softly. He kissed your cheek as he picked up the pace ever so slightly.

He looked into your eyes, “missed you, baby…” you looked into his eyes “missed… you too…” he gently pushed his lips into yours. Kissing you hungrily but softly. His tongue soon shoved into your mouth. Your tongues danced, he picked up his pace again. He groaned into the kiss. Causing you to moan into his lips.

He pulled back, his hands moving under your thighs and pushing them up. Your legs lifted into a V shape. Helping him move better and deeper. “Fuck, baby… feel so fucking good… missed this pussy so much…” you moaned.

His lips soon find your chest. Kissing you as he picks up the pace. Your head tilts back into the soft pillows. The wetness and gasps of breath fills the space of your master bedroom.

Rafe puts your one leg over his shoulder as the other flies around his hips. He held your waist as he tilts his head back and groans loudly. His eyes now half-lidded. He looks down at you “you look so good under me, baby, you’re unreal…” “ohhh fuck Rafe!” “That’s it… say my name…”

You gasped, tightening around him. He smirked “fuck, you close? I can feel you… you’re doing so good f’me… can you hold off for a little longer…? Wanna finish with you, baby…” you nod. He moans when he feels your nails drag on his shoulder. It wasn’t hard, but it hit a good nerve in him. Causing him to twitch in you. You moan…

He was close, “fuck, finish with me, yeah?” You nod rapidly “yesss, Rafey!” He moans “go ahead, baby, finish f’me…”

He goes a little harder, his thrusts fast and harder. Causing you to finish around him. That triggers his own release. Coming inside of you. He slowly his movements.

He drops in top of you, he would usually go for another round with you. But being gone for a week wore him out. He rests his forehead on yours, looking into your eyes. His breathing ragged, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. He speaks between breaths “you… good?… fuck… missed this..” he pecks you lips as you nod. “Yeah, I’m… okay…”

After that, he picks you up and starts to run a bath. The night wasn’t completely over. He still has to cuddle with you. Make up for the time he was away for business. And after having the most loving sex he just had. Movies and cuddles with his wife and mother of his kids sounded great. Loving her was great.

•❣︎❣︎❣︎•

[ellecdc]

oh my god. I love your slytherin reader x marauders!!!! your writing is amazing!!!! could you do like a part three I guess? but like of later in their relationship and the reader has this little first year friend (who she is forced to tutor but she actually likes him but won't admit it) and he reminds her of the boys and the boy just like brings her flowers and chocolates and stuff and the boys see it and James gets all jealous and Sirius is just like "nah just watch mate" and expect the reader to get all annoyed but she doesn't she just doesn't say anything (because she secretly finds the boy sweet and doesn't wanna be mean to the tiny marauder like man) so then they are all in disbelief and pouty

sorry that was very long

hehe...hehehe.....this request is from March 14th 🫢 thank youuuuu for the prompt and sorry for the huge wait..... [also, let this perhaps let people know that I do have old requests saved!]

poly!marauders x fiesty!reader who has an admirer [1.2k words]

p1 // p2 // p3

CW: fem!reader, reader is feisty, Sirius is upset she's not feistier

“I’m not sure if you boys were aware,” Marlene drawled as she plopped herself onto an empty wingback chair in the Gryffindor common room, “but there’s some ickle little first year making moves on your girl.”

Her comment was met by a snort from James, a bark of laughter from Sirius, and an eye roll from Remus. 

“Thoughts and prayers to the first year, then.” James commented, never looking up from the rubik’s cube he was fiddling with as his back rested against Sirius’ folded legs. 

“I don’t know.” Marlene sing-songed. “He seems pretty sweet on her.” 

“Please.” Sirius scoffed. “Our darling girl is the least approachable person in Hogwarts, I hardly believe there’s a wix bold enough to solicit her, let alone a puny little first year.”

“He didn’t have to solicit her, she’s tutoring him.” 

“Honestly, Marls, I’ve never been less concerned about anything in my entire life.” James admitted.

“Could be interesting to watch, yeah?” Sirius offered with a mischievous wink, nudging James with his knee. 

Remus rolled his eyes at his boyfriend, though he did close his book with a mischievous smirk. “Someone should be there to save him from our little viper.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!” Marlene laughed as she waved them off, not bothering to hide her devious grin. 

It didn’t take long for the boys to find you, seeing as you were haunting what you had early on in your schooling dubbed the ‘most superior table’ in the library. You’d told them what made it so, but James had been paying more attention to the way your lips were moving and less on the actual words that were leaving them. 

“Oh Merlin, the poor sod has no clue.” Sirius all but giggled as they crouched behind one of the aisles of books surrounding your table. 

“Not terrible.” They heard you say as you looked over his work, and based on the boy's beaming smile one would assume you’d given him high praise.  “But you’re getting ahead of yourself and not showing your work.”

“Does showing my work matter if the answers are right?” The kid asked, and James couldn’t blame the kid - he’d had many-a-conversations along the same lines over the years. 

You simply lifted his parchment and walloped him over the head for it. “Yes, showing your work matters; you will lose marks if you don’t.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to let you down.” The kid said solemnly, and James’ heart momentarily melted before he realised that was his darling angel that he was putting the moves on. 

He waited for you to groan and call him a rotten toerag, but you simply shook your head and instructed him to do the next question, making sure to show his work this time. 

“Get a load of this kid; she’s gotta be just about ready to hex him.” Sirius murmured. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t, honestly.” James replied, causing Remus to snicker.

“The two of you have been hexed for less.”

The three were interrupted when the kid let out a theatrical gasp and dropped his quill. “I can’t believe I almost forgot!” He screeched before ripping open his book bag.

After far too long spent searching the inside of his bookbag, the kid withdrew a slightly crumpled rose, letting out a disappointed groan when he saw the state of it. “My astronomy textbook must’ve crushed it.”

“Why do you have a rose in your bag?” You deadpanned, and the kid was right back to beaming again.

“I brought it for you, of course. I picked the prettiest one for the prettiest girl.”

This was it, this was the moment they were here for; Sirius watched eagerly as Remus grimaced, each equally anxious for your no doubt cantankerous response. 

But it never came.

You simply let out a sound bordering a breath, a sigh, and a laugh as you gingerly took the wilted rose between two fingers. 

“Very thoughtful. Please get back to your homework.” Was all you offered him, but the kid seemed no less pleased as he picked up his quill and dutifully returned to his work. 

“What in the buggering fuck?” Sirius hissed, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Remus, but it was too late.

“Can I help you boys?” You drawled, though you never actually looked behind you where your three boyfriends were still hiding. 

“Yes, you can help me.” Sirius barked, storming out from behind the stacks followed closely by James and less closely by Remus who had the grace to look a little shamefaced for his spying. “You can help me understand what the hells all this is!”

“This is called tutoring and studying, Sirius, if you spent any time in a library, it might be more familiar to you.” You offered simply, turning a glare in Remus’ direction when he snorted. 

“Okay, swot, what I mean is why are you hear letting this little dugbog-”

“Sirius!” You chided quickly.

“Oh my gods! And you’re defending him!” Sirius continued shrilly, earning him various shushings from surrounding students. 

James couldn’t help but notice you roll your eyes in exasperation, but he also noticed the faintest hints of a smile dancing on your lips. 

“You’ve done well, Cameron; keep practising, and for the love of Merlin make sure you show your work next time or so help me gods…”

“Yes ma’am!” Cameron replied as he packed up his bag. “See you next week?”

“Just as we always have.” You drawled in a bored tone, though you offered him a smirk as he hustled out of the library. 

“I can’t believe you!” Sirius huffed as he took Cameron’s now vacated seat. 

“Angel…what is the meaning of all this?” James asked earnestly, causing Remus to snort as he had the decency to press a kiss to your hair in greeting. 

“If we’d have known you were meeting with new suitors, dove, we would have insisted on accompanying you to your tutoring sessions.”

“Oh please.” You dismissed. “He’s just a kid.”

“Uhm, and?” Sirius pouted.

“Sweetheart, we’ve seen you jinx a kid for sneezing too closely to you.” Remus reminded you, and your face darkened.

“Germ infested little freaks.”

“There’s our girl.” Sirius exclaimed. “I can’t believe you let him get away with any of that!” 

“He’s harmless.”

“He’s a flirt.” Sirius corrected.

“He’s you.” You shot back, and the three boys all looked at you with various levels of bemusement. 

“I beg your pardon?” James finally asked, and you shook your head as you began packing up your own bag. 

“He’s like a miniature version of the three of you; following me around and being abhorrently affectionate.”

“Well, hey, I think we’re, like, an appropriate amount of affectionate.” James tried. 

“No, it's sort of abhorrent sometimes.” Remus quickly agreed. 

“Babe…” Sirius cooed, causing Remus and James to grimace. “Are you going soft on us!?” 

Your eyes immediately darkened as you glowered at him, and if Sirius’ sudden flinch and the following yelp proved anything, you aimed a tame stinging jinx at him. 

“On the kid? Maybe.” You responded primly. “On the three of you? Jury’s still out.”

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic!Danny Phantom- pt. 8

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been to the hospital in the past three years, I’d have enough money to buy a bag of skittles from Target. Most of it wasn’t for me though lol I’ll add this onto the list in a bit, but I tend to do that from my desktop but I’m still currently attached to an IV drip. I’ve also never been this hydrated in my life lmao

——

Danny poked a puffed up pufferfish. The poison floated through his ghost form and did nothing but give him a little zap. Danny chuckled, wiping away a bit of oil that had gotten onto the fish from a nearby oil spill. Jesus fuck. Danny knew that bald headed, easily drawn Vlad wannabe from across the river would do something terrible to Gotham’s waters (not that it needed help being atrocious to Danny’s clean water appreciation).

The puffer fish- Danny gave up on understanding Gotham’s water ecosystem, having realized that it was a cursed mix of saltwater and freshwater and swamp- gave a fearful little wiggle and Danny let it go, turning to the oil particles floating around.

Danny took out his phone.

“Danny? Why the hell are you calling at three in the morning?”

Danny raised a hand and blasted out some ice, gathering the oil up. “Hey Sam. If I got you into contact with Poison Ivy, do you think you could team up to get rid of Lex Luthor’s new holding company in Gotham?”

“Danny, are you asking me to commit an act of ecoterrorism?”

“That’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve ever asked you to do.” Danny placed a hand on the ice mass and flew it, the oil, and himself across the river to Metropolis.

“Deal.” Sam’s voice gets further away as she pulled her phone from her ear. “I’ll text Tucker, see if he could futz with Luthor’s taxes. I heard her doesn’t even give his workers a livable wage, and that’s so not gonna fly.”

“Perfect! Thanks! We could totally meet up and hang out with my new friends!”

“Hah! That Tim guy? The one that wanted you to introduce Phantom to him?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, goth girl.”

“Sure, dork. I’ll swing by Friday?”

“Sure! Want me to pick you up?” Danny phased through Lex Luthor’s frankly ridiculous amounts of security measures, still completely invisible and towing a giant mass of oil covered ice.

“Cool. Now hang up. I actually need sleep.”

“Ah, you must be dead tired. I get it.”

Sam hung up, and a second later, Danny got a pic of her holding up a middle finger with her signature purple nail polish.

Danny stared down at the sleeping billionaire. Gross. He let his face re enter the visible spectrum and lowered the temperature of the room drastically. Luthor groaned, waking up as he shivered like a hyped up chihuahua.

Danny bared his teeth, glowing green skin reflecting the black holes of the universe and imploding stars and burning planets as he leaned towards the frozen two bit villain.

“RESPECT THE PLANET,” Danny snarled. He unmelted the invisible ice as he simultaneously made the oil visible, the entirety of the oil spill coating every single inch of Luthor’s penthouse bedroom. Danny winked out, but not before snapping a quick picture of Lex Luthor’s absolutely covered in his company’s oil spill.

If Danny had made sure that there were fish droppings mixed in with the oil… that was his own damn business.

——

Danny floated over to a brooding Batman.

“Do you have two hundred dollars on you?” Danny asked in lieu of a greeting.

Batman grunted a yes.

“Two hundred dollars for a photo of Lex Luthor being hit with karma.”

Batman instantly handed over the cash and received a printed out photo of Lex Luthor (in his Lexcorp pjs) covered by fossil fuel.

"Is this..."

"The oil from his oil spill? Yes."

Batman stared at the picture.

"Why was this more expensive than ID'ing corpses?"

"Cause it's funnier. And dead people deserve more consideration than a egg looking ass polluting everything he touches."

Superman zoomed into the space in front of them, face eager.

"I heard you had something about Luthor?"

Danny figured that Batman probably contacted the hero, and confidently said, "$200 for personal use, $300 for commercial use."

Superman quickly got together three hundred dollars in cash and quickly forked it over. Danny gave him another physical copy of the photo and a usb drive with the photo in a digital format.

"I am so pinning this up." Superman muttered.

"Get out of my city." Batman said flatly. Superman waved a hand, beamed at Danny, and left.

"Did you know Gotham's waters is a mixture of freshwater, swamp, and saltwater habitats?"

Batman grunted.

"Also, please stop stalking Danny Fenton. It's odd."

Batman swiveled his head over. "What."

Danny stared him down. "Stop. Stalking. Innocent. Bystanders. Or else I will recreate the phrase "drowned rat" with you as the subject."

Batman stilled.

"I don't kill, by the way. I can, however, dunk you in the sea and lift you up like a goth version of Simba."

Batman relaxed minutely. "I can't."

"And why not?"

Batman gave him a despairing look. "Have you met my children?"

"... Point."

[queerstudiesnatural]

oh my writing is BAD bad jdhdjd

[sofiawritesstuff]

Platonic

part 1

summary: When Lando’s “playboy” image is setting a bad reputation for him. He’s turns to the person he trust most in this world for help.

pairing: landonorris x bestfriend!reader

warnings: none (i don’t think)

This is my first time writing, I hope you all enjoy and if there’s any advice you guys can give me to improve please do!!

“Please, please! You’re my best friend. I just need this one favour!” Lando begs following you around at a quick pace.

“Exactly Lando” you sigh before continuing “I’m your best friend and as much as I love you I just don’t think it would work or be realistic” you shrug, taking a bottle of cold water from his fridge

“Why? Why don’t you think it can be realistic! Fans accuse us of being together all the time because of how close we are! The only thing that would have to change would be not denying it…and maybe kissing” he whispers the last part

“Kissing!” you shout choking on the water “We’ve done it before!” he defends “Yeah when we were like 11!”

“And 14, and 17!”

“You’re not helping yourself Lando”

“Please, it would just have to be for a few months then we could say we were better off as friends. Please. I don’t want to be in a PR relationship with some random model who’s looking to gain attention for a brand” Lando sighs, visibly upset

“Can you give me time to sleep on it? You know I love you but I don’t want this to come between our friendship”

“We’re strong, think of everything and everyone that tried to separate us before we never let them come between us”

“Which is why I can’t risk loosing you, there a difference between a girlfriend not liking me that tries to separate us and faking a relationship Lando”

“I understand” he nods “I promise you, you will have an answer before the start of the race weekend. I’m gonna head to bed now okay. I love you” you hug him tightly before heading to the spare room in his apartment.

It wasn’t the first time you had turned down Lando, in fact he had asked you out every year from the age of 14 until you guys were 18 before he finally realised that you wouldn’t work.

It’s not thst you didn’t like Lando, you loved him and maybe you did have feelings for him. But the thought of loosing your friendship because of relationship scared you.

For most hours of the night you lay in the bed of Lando’s spare room at his apartment in Monaco, that was quickly known as your room, thinking about what Lando said.

You supported him before his career even started and Lando’s reputation with girls certainly wasn’t the best. The media painted him to be a “playboy” and “unloyal”, which in some senses he was. He had never cheated on his previous girlfriends but he did date his ex’s friends and colleagues.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a harm to pretend for a few months? But what if your feelings began to grow stronger and you may not be able to go back to the way you were with Lando?

Lando was the same just through the wall, his feelings for you never left him. All the girlfriends he had he never felt for them what he felt for you, which was terrible but also why he was now single. He wanted you to say yes, he wanted you to agree but he didn’t want his feelings to get in the way, especially when he didn’t know that you felt the same way.

The next morning, you woke up to the usual clatter of plates from the kitchen. Which never meant anything good.

“What are you attempting to make this morning Mr Norris?” you laugh watching him by the pan “French toast but it’s not going well” he answers not taking his eyes of the food

“Well for starters, you’ve completely burned the bread. Would you like some help?” you ask holding back a loud laugh “Please”

The two of you started over, putting the uneatable food in the correct bin. You focused on the food while Lando focused on the coffee.

“There you go Lan”

“Thank you, how’d you sleep last night?” he asks putting the food in his mouth “To be honest, not great i’ve been thinking about what you said”

“You have?” Lando asks dropping his food “I will help you, if you promise me that we will still be best friends at the end of everything”

“Pinky promise”

part 2

[btsvt-bar]

hurts so good

pairing ꩜ mean husband!mingyu x afab!reader

content/genre ꩜ haters to lovers, ceo/mean husband mingyu, smut (18+ mdni)

author's note ꩜ not proofread . comments are appreciated!

warnings under the cut!

warnings ꩜ smut, fingering, masturbation (m. receiving), alcohol consumption, angry sex, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, creampie, light degrading, dom-ish mingyu, dirty talk, spanking (he slaps her ass like 4 times), begging.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

You and Mingyu first met when you were kids. Coming from rich families, you went to the same private school. And to be honest, you really hated him back then.

When you were teenagers, Mingyu was really popular. He was good-looking and smart, being one of the top students of the school. All the girls had a crush on him, even if he was mean to them.

He had always been self absorbed and rude to everyone. Especially to you, and you had no clue why.

You were the quiet, nerdy type. You kept it to yourself, being too focused on your grades and on getting into a good university. Plus, you were basically the only one who didn’t think he was hot shit — but, of course, you’d never say it out loud.

Both of you got into Business School, so you never really got rid of him. His annoying personality only got worse, making you his personal laughing stock.

It worsened when your families merged companies. Coming from the food and beverage industry, and being good friends, it felt natural to merge companies and create an empire bigger than it was before. And, of course, that union had to be sealed with the marriage of the heirs.

When your parents told you, you had a nervous breakdown. They didn’t understand why, labeling you as dramatic. Of course they wouldn’t get it, Mingyu posed as polite and respectful in front of them. But you knew better.

That’s how you ended up getting married to the man you despised. Needless to say, it was the worst day of your life.

Now, three years later, you’re still trapped in a marriage that feels more like a prison. You sleep in separate rooms and on the daily basis, you and Mingyu never really talk, unless it’s a work matter.

Also, you have a terrible sex life. You can count on a hand the amount of times the two of you did it. Yes, you are physically attracted to Mingyu. He has great abs and a big dick, plus delicious big arms and a toned chest. The few times you fucked, you were both tipsy and had had a fight before going out to some company party. It was always angry sex, and you never talked about it the morning after.

With your 4th anniversary approaching, people started asking when are you going to have kids. You dreaded this moment, but it seemed like you couldn’t scape it anymore. It got you thinking about your “marriage”, about how you wished things would change and how you wished Mingyu was a good husband.

As you do your makeup for the company dinner you have tonight, you try to be mentally prepared to be questioned, once again, about your pregnancy plans.

"Hurry up, we’re going to be late" Mingyu says outside your room. You finish putting on lipstick and grab your purse.

You find him waiting on the couch, looking really handsome in his all black tuxedo. His eyes scan you head to toe. His face remains emotionless, but you notice his eyes lingering a bit too long on your wine colored lips and modest cleavage.

"Let’s go."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

The music is a bit loud, so you have to stay all the way across the room to chat properly with other people.

You are stuck talking to Mingyu’s friends’ wives. It’s not that you don’t like them, because you do, but the topic of the conversation is not something you want to discuss.

"Cheollie’s been so good to me since I told him I’m pregnant" Gwen says while smiling fondly at her husband, who's across the room. "I mean, he’s always been sweet, but now he’s so much more protective and loving…"

"Wonwoo was like that too" Claire comments. "And he’s just the perfect father. Always wanting to help me out. And he won’t admit, but he loves to prepare Yeji’s lunchbox." The other women coo, finding it adorable. But you feel your face twist into a sad expression.

You knew all of them were in an arranged marriage just like yours. How on earth you were the only one who got unlucky?

"What about you and Mingyu?" Mona, Jeonghan’s wife, asks you. "Are you planning to get pregnant soon?"

You take a sip of your gin and tonic, trying to come up with an answer. They all look at you expectantly, and you don’t have the guts to let them down.

"Oh, definitely! We’re trying" you lie. The other women cheer excitedly.

"You’re gonna have the cutest babies!" Claire says.

"Oh that’s for sure. And y/n will be the prettiest mamma ever!" Gwen gushes.

You start to feel bad about lying, so you finish your drink and walk away to grab another.

As you wait, you see Mingyu chatting and laughing with his friends. And it makes you kinda mad that he’s having fun, and you’re not. When you look back at where the other wives are, you see them caressing Gwen’s pregnant belly and you decide you’ve had enough. You walk over to Mingyu, his smile fading the second he spots you.

"What?" he asks in a harsh tone, left eyebrow raising.

"I wanna go home, I’m not feeling well" you say the first excuse that comes to mind.

"Are you for real?" Mingyu seems so annoyed. Seungcheol nudges him, letting out a quiet ‘bro’. Mingyu sighs. "Ok, whatever."

The ride home is tense. Mingyu was holding back so he wouldn’t make a scene in front of the driver, but as soon as you’re alone in your living room, he couldn’t hold his tongue anymore.

"Why do you always have to ruin the night? Honestly, Y/N, you’re so fucking annoying!" he spits out.

You roll your eyes, deciding not to take shit from him. "I was bored and wanted to come home. You could’ve stayed."

"No, I couldn’t. That would make me look bad."

Usually, you wouldn’t say what you wanted. You’d just ignore and go to your room. But today, after a few drinks, and having to hear for hours on end about how your friends’ husbands were amazing, you felt fed up with Mingyu’s bullshit.

"Maybe you should worry more about being a good husband than about faking it." you point out while taking off your heels.

"Excuse me?" his nostrils flare, signaling how angry he was.

You just shrug, not giving a fuck if he was mad. "It is what it is, Mingyu. You don’t even try to be nice to me, but you worry so damn much about how you’re perceived by others." By now, your purse was thrown on the nearest chair and you’re shouting at him. "I’m done trying to be nice, and I think we reached a point where we should get a divorce and move on. Our marriage is a sham and I’m so fucking done with you."

The man chuckles as his tongue pokes his inner cheek. He looks really annoyed. Mingyu sighs and empties his pockets, putting his stuff in a bowl on the small wooden counter.

You feel livid and his lack of response keeps your mouth running. "What’s so funny?"

"Nothing, just the fact that you think that this shitty situation is all on me." He rises his eyebrows. "Get over yourself, Y/N. None of us is willing to take the first step, that’s why our marriage is a shit show." Mingyu turns around and heads out to his room, but the next thing you say stops him dead in his tracks.

"Why aren't you willing to take the first step? What have I done that is so bad that you can't even be my friend?" A few tears escaped your eyes, but you were quick to wipe them away. "Does hurting me make you feel good or something?"

He had to give it to you. You are being really brave, questioning him and talking back.

The small bar cart catches his eyes and he decides that if you're finally having that conversation — one you should've had years ago —, he needs a drink to get through it. The room is filled with the sound of whiskey being poured. Mingyu takes a long sip, almost downing down the whole liquid, and refills his cup.

If he were to be completely honest, he would say he didn't even know why he hated you. He just did. Nowadays, he didn't mind your presence for the most part. However, when you hit his nerves, he wanted you gone. "Hating you is as natural as breathing for me. It's always been like this, why change it?"

"So we can, at least, coexist in peace? Have some fun, even? I'm not asking you to be husband of the year, but could try to be an ok one." You say with a tired tone, the whole situation already taking it's toll on you. Copying his actions, you poured some of the amber liquid for yourself. "You can get some tips from your friends. They're nice to their wives."

Mingyu snorts. "Yeah sure, if you're going to learn from your friends how to be a good wife…"

"I'm willing to try, Mingyu. But I'm not doing this on my own."

You both calmed down quickly, the heated beginning reduced to a low toned conversation. You’re impressed with how well things are going, considering the two of you usually shout and exchange offenses until someone walks away.

"We can try." His voice is quiet. Mingyu's staring at you, his eyes filled with undertones you don't comprehend yet. His moist lips are caught between his teeth. Shaking his head, he places the empty cup on the cart. "This is funny, you know."

"What?"

You can see he's conflicted between saying what's on his mind and keeping his mouth shut. "You can tell me, since we're being honest." You encourage him.

He looks you deeply in the eyes and says "We just called a truce like two minutes ago and now my mind keeps whispering that if we were a real couple, this would be the moment to kiss and make up."

Your mouth gapes in shock. The few times you had sex before, you hadn’t kissed. Mingyu would fuck you from behind, fast, hard and with a lot of pent up anger. And that was it. So you were caught off guard by his words. Seeing your expression, Mingyu quickly added: "The alcohol got to my head, pretend I never said anything."

Before he can try to leave again, you grab his bicep. "I hate to admit it, but you kind of have a point…"

Both of you start to feel this weird heat spreading under your skins. You sigh deeply. It’s weird you know precisely what’s underneath those black clothes. Mainly because you feel like you’re going to have sex him with for the first time.

"Want me to fuck you senseless until we spend all our anger and then we can start over?" He offers with a crooked smile you never saw before.

You feel slick pooling in your panties, your body already reacting to his filthy mouth. This flirty, sexy side of Mingyu is new to you, but you’re already loving it.

"Are you for real?"

Mingyu towers over you, making you step back until you reach the nearest wall. "Do I look like I'm messing around? Do I look like I won't fuck you until we both forget we hated each other in the first place?"

His serious eyes and deep voice make you sigh and bite your lower lip, fully invested in him. He reaches out and caresses your cheek before pulling you in for a kiss.

You both moan at the contact. His tongue dominates yours in a second, imposing a fast rhythm. Your core twists, tingling in a way that nearly hurts. Mingyu grunts when you close your arms around his neck and pulls gently at his hair.

The room temperature rises, leaving you both hot and bothered when you break the kiss. "Go to your room." Mingyu instructs and you comply. The walk is torturous, with shaky legs and your skimpy lacy panties sticking to your folds.

You’re shaking a little when you sit down on your bed. The night went from 0 to a 100 in minutes and you honestly don’t even want to think much about it for now.

"Can I come in?" Mingyu asks on the other side of the door, knocking lightly on the wood.

"Yeah, sure."

Mingyu took off his blazer and necktie, and the first buttons of his shirt are open, revealing his toned chest. Once again, you evaluate his beefy body proportions and purr quietly. Gosh, he’s hot!you think.

The hunky man looks around, analyzing the stuff you have in your room. You realize it’s the first time he enters it. "Do you want to keep going?"

Your eyes meet his and, for the first time ever, you see he’s actually worried about you. You limit yourself to nodding. "I’m gonna need you to say it, Y/N."

"Yes. Please get over here." You plea. Mingyu groans and crosses the room. His pants feel tight and uncomfortable, his cock pulsating with each step.

He gets on top of you, bunching your dress up on your waist. "Fuck…" he hisses when he sees your panties. You feel him caressing your clit over the lace and hold back a moan.

Mingyu moves the fabric to the side, easily sliding his fingers through your dripping cunt. "So fucking wet and I barely touched you. Do you get off on fighting with me?"

Your face grows hot, but you’re not sure if it’s because of his words or actions. He teases your hole, prodding a finger in your entrance. All air leaves your lungs. You let out a whimper, which makes Mingyu chuckle.

"So responsive." He removes his hand, his eyes searching for yours again. "If I knew you’re such a horny slut, I would’ve done this a long time ago."

"Shut up." You sass, your heart pounding in your chest. "Just shut up and actually do something."

"You better watch your fucking mouth." He manhandles you until you’re laying on your stomach. He moves you on his lap and uncovers your ass.

To your surprise, he slaps your right butt cheek. You yelp, feeling your blood pumping quickly through your body. He repeats his action, this time with more intensity.

"Cat got your tongue?" He mocks when you stay silent. Truth is, you’re clamping your lips together so you don’t moan. "You’re soaking through your panties… Is spanking one of your kinks?"

Mingyu gives you another sharp slap, but this time he massages your flash to soften the blow.

"One more." Your voice sounds croaky as you speak.

"As you wish." He complies to your request, giving you the sharpest spank so far. You whimper and Mingyu smiles, pleased with himself.

Taking advantage of your position, he slides your panties off and pulls down the zipper of your dress. With his help, you undress.

You’re laying naked on his lap and just the sight of your bare back and red ass makes the blood in Mingyu’s body flow directly to his cock. He sighs and separate your legs just enough to touch your naked pussy again.

"Mingyu please." You cry out loud, needing him to slip his fingers in your hole.

"Please what?" He plays dumb and you feel the smirk on his voice. "I don’t know what you want, you’re gonna have to say it."

You sob in frustration. "Did you really think I was going to make things easy for you?" Mingyu’s hand ghosts over your body, giving you goosebumps from the heat he irradiates. "I hate you, remember?"

This is absolute torture. Your body is boiling with desire and need, you skin nearly burning up. Mingyu traces your tights, his soft touch giving you goosebumps. "Finger me. Please, I really need it. Please please please." You beg and Mingyu chuckles again, amuzed by your desperate tone.

He parts your legs a bit as his big hands trail the path from the back of your tights to your folds. You feel one of his fingers tease your dripping hole and you clench around nothing.

You’re so wet that his two fingers slide easily into you. Your inner walls clamp down on his digits and he groans. "You’re so tight, Y/N. Can’t wait to feel you on my dick again."

Mingyu begins to finger fuck you with a lazy pace, pulling out completely just to push back in at once. Your head feels cottony, like your brain weights nothing. Out of instinct, you bite your own hand to keep your moans from falling off your lips. Your hips move with a mind of its own, pushing back to meet Mingyu’s movements. Soon enough he hits that gummy spot inside you that makes you shiver. He notices you’re close to your climax, so, out of spite, he stops his stimulation.

"Why?" you cry out, tears accumulating in your eyes. "I was so close!"

"Because it’s fun" he laughs while stroking your ass tenderly. "Be good, lay down and spread your legs for me so I can make you cum."

Your limbs feel like jelly when you scramble around to get on your back. Mingyu gets up and pushes his dress pants down along with his black boxers. His cock stand hard and proud, the red tip glossed with pre cum. You muster the strength to get on your knees and approach him, your hands grabbing his shirt to start unbuttoning it.

You work your way up his body, taking each button out of its house. When you take the last one out, your caress his big chest, feeling his strong muscles under your sweaty palms. You smooth your way up to his shoulders and push his shirt down. He’s finally naked in front of you, in all his glory.

You trail his arms and abs, all the way down to his rock hard cock. When you wrap your hands around him, Mingyu lets out a sigh of relief. You stroke him slowly while savoring his low, deep grunts in your ear. Soon enough, you quicken your pace. Meanwhile, all you can think about is his cock splitting you open and you feel yourself getting wetter.

"Tha-that’s enough." He reaches for your wrist to stop you after a couple minutes.

Surprisingly, he pulls you in for another kiss. This time, it’s a slow, passionate one. Without separating your lips, he leads you to lay down again. The new position makes Mingyu’s hips align with yours, and you start rutting each other like animals on heat.

"Seeing you between my legs is so hot." you confess when you part the kiss to breathe. "But it could be better."

"Yeah? How so?" Mingyu pokes his cheek with his tongue, his confidence unwavering.

You bite your lower lips for a second. "You’ll look hotter inside me, dear husband."

His smile falters, his eyes turning darker and darker with desire. You know you said just the right thing to spur him on.

"I’d hold onto something if I were you."

You decide to ground yourself by hugging him. Without hesitation, Mingyu pushes in in one quick, firm trust. He’s swallowed in by your warm, soft walls. You see when his eyes roll back in pleasure, and his reaction boosts your confidence through the roof. On the other hand, his big cock splitting you open twists and tightens the knot on your core even more. You know it won’t require much effort for you to cum.

"Please move" you whim and kiss his lips softly. "I need you to move."

Mingyu gives in and imposes a fast, rough pace. You sink your nails on his back, trying to keep yourself from moving too much. He slides in and out of you deliciously, reaching all the right places. You moan loudly on his ear, and he huffs and puffs on yours. The loud sounds of skin slapping, added with the wet noises coming from your wetness, teleport both of you to a world of your own. A world where the only thing that matters is Mingyu’s rough thrusts and the way your insides mold perfectly to accommodate his dick.

After what it feels like forever, Mingyu folds your legs to your chest, and the position makes him reach new places inside of you. It’s when he starts rubbing circles on your clit that you feel on the verge of frenzy. "I’m almost there." You announce.

His hips redouble efforts, and within a few seconds, and a chant of "cum for me, dear wife" your mind turns blank and your soul is lifted off of your body.

You nearly pass out, all the stimulation being too much for you. Seeing you so blissed out pushes Mingyu over the edge before he has the chance to pull out. He grunts as he covers your walls with his warm milk. Your arms fall limp on his back, and Mingyu’s strength also falters, making him drop his weight on top of you.

He rubs his nose on your neck in an affectionate gesture. You smooth your hands on his back in a retributive way. The two of you stay silent for a while, enjoying the proximity and giving yourselves time to come back down.

When Mingyu slips out of you, a stream of white floods out of your messed up hole.

"Fuck, I should’ve pulled out." Mingyu searches for your eyes, his brown orbs filled with worry. You smile softly at him.

"It’s ok, I don’t mind." You reassure him. "Just help me clean up, yeah?"

Mingyu gets up immediately and enters your en suite. He comes back a minute later with a wet cloth in hand.

"You ok?" He asks while cautiously rubbing it against your sensitive cunt.

"I’ll probably limp tomorrow, but I guess that’s the downside of fucking your hater, right?" You joke and he chuckles while shaking his head.

"Well, I guess we’re sort of friends now."

"Yes, definitely." You agree.

He discards the towel and lays back next to you. You’re under the sheets now, and your body feels completely spent. "You’re not going to sleep, are you?"

You nod, feeling your heavy lids take the best of you. "I sure am."

Mingyu gets on top of you again, and hold your chin to make you look at him. "I’ll give you 30 minutes to recover, dear wife." The stupid nickname rolls out of his tongue with an almost tender laugh.

"I thought you were fucking me until we spent all of our anger." you state, struggling to keep your eyes open. "I don’t feel angry anymore."

"I do." His eyes hold mysteries you’re yet to discover. "I’m not done hating you yet."

His low deep voice stirs your insides. You sigh, feeling your heartbeat increase again. "30 minutes and you can hate me all you want."

"Deal." He presses a kiss to your lips and goes back to the empty side of the bed.

You feel him scrambling around looking for the TV remote control. As you let your tiredness get the best of you, all you can think about is that you’re going to fight with everything that you have to make things work out between the two of you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

© btsvt-bar, 2024

m.list ♡

read the sequel: down bad

[mr-ribbit]

i have so many friends that already have little quirks about them like "everyone always thinks I must be really religious but I'm not" or "everyone always thinks I must be really good at math, but I'm not" or yes, even "everyone always thinks I must be gay but I'm not".

there's a million things people run into where they might have a minor misconception they have to correct about themselves here and there, and it's usually fine. pretending that the mere act of someone asking you if you might be trans is some terrible slight is JUST transphobic. every single cis person I know personally, who isn't already a transphobe, would just laugh a little and wonder what about them came off as trans. hell, some cis people LOVE to be told they look a little queer.

i think most people would be touched if you reached out to ask about their identity, give them a chance to talk about it, even if you were wrong. a lot of cis people I know love to be like "haha I'm not trans but you know, I've always kind of liked football, but my dad didn't let me play cuz I'm a girl. isn't that fucked up?" and then you get to have a nice conversation about what you have in common anyway.

but if you bring it up to your friend and they accuse you of "converting them" or "pressuring them" to be trans? those are literally dog whistles for their true fears and beliefs about trans people. trans people "making other trans people" through mere discussion is literally a fox news level bigotry callsign. it's what your transphobic relatives and peers are saying about YOU when you bring up your pronouns around them.

any sincere cis ally would not think a mere question from a friend is capable of spreading The Trans Contagion- they're getting that idea from something rooted deeper and I would be unsettled by it if I were you.

obviously if your friend told you kindly that they didn't like it when you asked if they would ever consider being trans, then you should respect their feelings. but if you're sitting out there right now with that straw man in hand, ready to argue with other trans people for the sake of your poor little cis friend, have you also considered why your friend is so offended at the idea? like, if you're trans and you're caping for a cis friend who gets mad if you say they have tgirl swag or whatever, have you considered that their anger might actually be kind of shitty and you don't need to defend it?

none of my friends would act like that, that's all I'm saying. and if they did I'd be uncomfortable.

[starlost97]

— prettiest.

summary: With Charles questionable dating history, you didn't want to risk getting into a relationship with someone with that reputation. He was, however, determined to change your mind. And when you did, he couldn't be happier.

tags: fluff, Charles Leclerc is a simp, f!reader.

characters: Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr. (mentioned).

warnings: swearing.

a/n: pathetic men begging for a chance? yes please. also love u charles but u would never see a glimpse of any of my female friends <3 anyways don't take it too seriously! enjoy :)

word count: 461.

requested?: yes! by a friend.

The world is a cruel place.

Charles, however, was the only one to blame in this situation.

He was also the only one that could fix it.

When you told him that despite your feelings for him, you wouldn’t date someone with such a questionable dating history, the driver was extremely sad. Everyone heard the jokes about how you can’t introduce your female friends to Charles, so why would you risk getting in a relationship with someone with that kind of reputation?

Well, the monegasque made sure to show you everything he had to offer.

Liking all your instagram photos, commenting on them — and making all their fans go wild in the process —, shamelessly staring at you — although that wasn’t really on purpose — when you appeared on screen. The world knew how obsessed he was with you.

He stopped going to parties. He only went to them when he knew you were there, and that was clear.

Charles didn't ask you out again for a long time, though. As if he had a plan to complete before allowing himself to bother you again.

But God, he was terrible at hiding how badly he wanted to take you out. To treat you just like you deserved. To turn all his adoration into worship.

He did last surprisingly long, however. It wasn't hard to exceed the expectations when they were that low. Even Carlos thought that he would last two days without telling you how much he loved you.

Well, he lasted four. And he was very proud of it.

“You're so beautiful.” He mumbled, staring adoringly at you. “Such a shame I didn't win you yet.”

“Yet?” You asked, smiling. “So full of confidence, aren't you?”

“How could I not be? I just made the prettiest girl in the world smile.” Charles said, stroking your cheek. “Come on, give me a chance. I'm starting to get desperate.”

“Sorry, starting?” You breathed out, starting to laugh.

“Alright, you got me. I'm desperate already. Hopelessly desperate.” Charles said, feeling butterflies only with your laugh.

You two stared at each other's eyes for some time, sharing adoration.

“You better not make me regret this, Leclerc.” You mumbled, getting up from the couch and walking away.

Charles was quick to grab your hand and pull you to himself. Your faces were now close to each other, and you could feel his quick heartbeat against your chest.

“I swear that you won't.” He said, closing the gap between you and kissing your lips, feeling as relief filled him. “Fuck, how can your kiss be so sweet?”

He stared at you in disbelief. He indeed just kissed perfection, didn't he?

“I might have to kiss you again and again to find out, pretty girl.”

[pucksandpower]

It Started With an Appendix

Carlos Sainz x nurse!Reader

Summary: in which an inflamed appendix turns out to be the ultimate matchmaker

Warnings: medical ethics are basically thrown out the window

“Y/N, the patient in room 312 is awake,” a voice calls from the hall outside the nurses’ station.

You make your way down the bright, sterile corridor toward the private room, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Taking a breath, you rap your knuckles lightly on the door before entering.

Carlos Sainz Jr. is propped up in the hospital bed, blinking slowly as the anesthesia wears off. His tousled hair and grogginess make him look adorably vulnerable.

“Hola, señorita,” he slurs with a lopsided grin as you approach. “Are you an angel? You must have fallen from heaven.”

You can’t help but giggle at his cheesy line, shaking your head in amusement. “No, Mr. Sainz, I’m your nurse. You just had your appendix removed.”

“Call me Carlos,” he insists, his Spanish accent thick and velvety. “And you’re definitely an angel to me.”

Suppressing another laugh, you check his vitals and make a note on his chart. “How are you feeling, Carlos? Any pain or nausea?”

“I feel ... floaty,” he murmurs, blinking slowly as he looks you up and down. “But you’re making me feel much better already.”

You bite your lip to contain your smile. This man is incorrigible, even fresh out of surgery. “That’s the pain medication talking, I’m afraid.”

“No, no ...” Carlos protests weakly. “You’re just ... muy bonita. So beautiful.”

His boldness makes warmth bloom in your cheeks. You clear your throat. “Why don’t you try to get some rest? The anesthesia can make people loopy for a while.”

“Don’t go,” he pouts, trying and failing to grab your hand from the bed. “Stay and keep me company, hermosa.”

You gently lay his hand back at his side. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything, okay?”

Carlos levels you with a look that could melt glaciers. “At least tell me your name, ángel?”

Holding his smoldering gaze, you reply softly, “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he echoes, savoring each syllable. “What a beautiful name. Maybe I’ll dream of you, Y/N ...”

With a flustered smile, you turn and exit the room, his flirtatious words still ringing in your ears. This man is going to be the death of you.

Over the next few hours, you check on Carlos periodically, each time greeted by a fresh cheesy line or thinly-veiled compliment. He’s relentless, but also strangely endearing in his drug-addled state.

“Did the sun come out or did you just smile at me?”

“Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

“I must be in a museum, because you truly are a work of art.”

You roll your eyes at each one, but can’t deny the little thrill it sends through you. Despite his grogginess, Carlos’ charisma still shines through effortlessly.

By the time your shift ends, you’re almost disappointed you won’t get to hear any more of his terrible pickup lines. You linger a moment in his doorway after bringing him his evening dose of medication.

“Feeling any better?” You ask kindly.

Carlos gives you a crooked smile. “I feel a lot better when you’re around, querida.”

You shake your head in playful exasperation. “Get some rest. I’m off for the night.”

His expression turns almost ... wistful? “Will I see you again?”

Something warm blooms in your chest at his hopeful tone. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” you assure him. “Same time.”

The bright grin that stretches across his face is worth a million cheesy lines. “Buenas noches, mi ángel.”

You don’t bother holding back your smile this time. “Good night, Carlos.”

As you make your way home, his handsome face and melted chocolate voice keep popping into your mind unbidden.

You try to push thoughts of Carlos from your mind as you cook yourself dinner and get ready for bed. He’s just a patient — a ridiculously charming one, yes, but a patient all the same.

Still, as you drift off to sleep, his teasing grin and warm brown eyes seem seared into the back of your mind ...

The next morning, you arrive at the hospital with a new spring in your step. You can’t help but look forward to seeing Carlos again, newly appendix-less or no.

When you enter his room with his breakfast tray, the sleepy Spaniard perks up instantly at the sight of you. “Y/N! Buenos dias, hermosa!”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Good morning, Carlos. How are you feeling today?”

“Much better now that mi ángel has arrived,” he declares boldly.

As you check his vitals, he continues to bat those ridiculously long eyelashes at you. “You must be a hell of a thief, because you stole my heart from across the hospital room.”

You snort at the line, rolling your eyes in amusement. “You do realize those cheesy pick-up lines aren’t going to work on me, right?”

“Not cheesy ... poetic,” Carlos argues with an impish grin. “Poetry for a woman of your beauty.”

You raise an eyebrow in mock skepticism. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” he nods matter-of-factly. “Here, let me demonstrate ...”

Carlos clears his throat dramatically. “Your eyes shame the brilliance of the desert sun, while your lips put roses to shame with their beauty. A sculptor could study your face for a lifetime and never capture its perfection in marble.”

Despite yourself, you can feel heat rising to your cheeks at his earnest compliments. “I ... you can’t just-”

But he’s not done. “While bandits would slay and sack entire cities for even a glimpse of your splendor. Why, the gods themselves weep at being outdone by such a radiant vision of loveliness!”

By now, your face is burning scarlet as he gazes up at you, eyes sparkling impishly. “Th-that’s enough, Carlos,” you manage, turning away and busying yourself straightening his blankets to hide your flustered expression.

You can hear the grin in his voice. “Too much for you, hermosa? I haven’t even gotten to the part about your luscious ti-”

“Carlos!” You squeak, spinning back around with wide eyes.

His mischievous laughter fills the room, head thrown back in pure delight at your scandalized reaction. The melodic sound is utterly infectious — soon you find yourself giggling helplessly along despite your embarrassment.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” You admonish once you’ve caught your breath, trying and failing to look stern.

He winks unapologetically. “I’m just being honest, ángel.”

You shake your head in feigned exasperation, trying to ignore the little thrill his flirtations still send through you. “I should get going before you corrupt me further.”

As you turn to leave, Carlos calls after you. “Until later, mi amor! Don’t forget my poetry books for next time!”

His infectious laughter follows you into the hallway, that bright sound certain to play on a loop in your mind all day ...

Over the next few days, Carlos’ recovery progresses smoothly — maybe a little too smoothly, you think with a private smirk. His cheesy compliments and relentless flirting show no signs of letting up, much to your mingled embarrassment and secret delight.

“For you, hermosa, I would wrestle bulls and paint sunsets!”

“Mother Nature herself must be jealous of your radiant beauty.”

“Careful, or you’ll put the Arabian sun to shame with your smile!”

You somehow manage to roll your eyes and blush simultaneously each time he unleashes a new line. Part of you wishes he would just give it a rest already. But an even bigger part never wants this game you two have going to end.

On your third day caring for Carlos post-op, you arrive to find a small bouquet of red roses sitting on his bedside table. “These are for you, querida!” He announces happily when you enter.

You blink in surprise, taking in the brilliant flowers. “Carlos, you didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did,” he cuts you off dismissively. “An ángel as dazzling as you deserves all the flowers in the world.”

A pleased smile tugs at your lips despite yourself as you inhale their sweet fragrance. “They’re lovely, Carlos ... thank you.”

“Anything for you, mi amor,” he grins impishly. “Though it pains me to give a rose to one who outshines it so effortlessly.”

You shake your head, fighting a blush yet again. “Are you always this much of a shameless flirt?”

His eyes dance with impish delight. “Only to beautiful nurses who make my heart race faster than any lap around the fastest street circuit on the calendar.” Carlos pauses, expression turning serious. “Truthfully Y/N ... I know I’m a patient, but I feel a connection with you. Something deeper than just pretty words.”

You regard him carefully, caught off guard by his sudden earnestness. Part of you wants to laugh it off, dismiss his words like all the cheesy lines before. But something in his warm and open gaze gives you pause.

“I ... feel it too,” you admit quietly after a moment. “I don’t know why, it’s just ... a spark. Like we’ve known each other for years.”

Carlos’s face breaks into a brilliant smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Exactly, ángel! A connection of the soul — that is what it feels like to me.”

He holds out a hand in invitation, eyes soft yet intense. “Come over here? Let me get a closer look at mi amor’s beautiful face.”

You move toward the bed instinctively, taking his hand as he guides you to sit at the edge. His touch sends little electric tingles coursing through you that raise goosebumps along your arms. Even when you’re seated, Carlos has to look up slightly from where he’s reclining on a pile of pillows to meet your eyes, his thumb caressing your knuckles tenderly.

“So lovely,” he murmurs huskily, eyes tracing your features reverently. “A woman more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. And just as captivating ...”

Slowly, carefully, he lifts your joined hands to brush his lips along your knuckles in a feather-light kiss. The simple, intimate gesture steals the breath from your lungs.

“Carlos ...” you start breathlessly, hardly daring to move lest you break the hypnotic spell between you two.

He gives you that crooked, heart-melting grin. “Let me take you to dinner when I’m out of here, mi ángel? So I can woo you properly like you deserve.”

Despite the warm tingles his attention still sends through you, you nibble your lip uncertainly. “I ... I don’t think that would be appropriate. You’re my patient-”

“Just dinner,” he interjects smoothly. “As a thank you for taking such wonderful care of me. I insist on repaying you somehow.”

You search his face, wanting so badly to throw caution to the wind and say yes. He could charm the feathers off a bird, this man.

“Just dinner,” he reiterates in a low, sincere tone. “And if nothing else ... maybe we both make a new friend, yes?”

A slow smile spreads across your face, anticipation blooming in your chest. “Alright then. Just dinner.”

The boyish grin he gives you makes your breath catch. “Excellent! I’ll wine and dine you like a true gentleman, you’ll see.”

You roll your eyes, even as a giggle escapes you. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Carlos lifts it once more to brush his lips across your knuckles, holding your gaze intently.

“I cannot wait, mi amor.”

***

The luxurious restaurant that Carlos chose for your dinner date is dimly lit by ornate lanterns and alive with the sounds of traditional music. You can’t help but let your eyes linger on him as you’re shown to your private table tucked away in a secluded corner.

Even in a simple shirt and slacks, Carlos looks effortlessly dashing. His warm eyes crinkle at the corners when he catches you staring, rewarding you with that heart-melting smile.

“See something you like, querida?” He teases once you’re seated across from him.

You feel heat rush to your cheeks at being so brazenly caught out. Recovering quickly, you arch an eyebrow cooly. “You just look different out of that hospital gown, that’s all.”

Carlos throws back his head with a rich laugh. “Ah, so you prefer me in my natural state then? Bueno, no complaints here!”

You shake your head in amusement, trying not to smile too widely. “Is that ego really as big as they say?”

“What ego?” He asks innocently, shrugging broad shoulders. “This is merely healthy self-confidence, mi ángel.”

The banter comes so effortlessly between you two, like going back-and-forth with an old friend rather than a man you just met days ago. Carlos reaches across the table to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking your knuckles gently.

“Truthfully? I’m just thrilled you agreed to have dinner with me tonight,” he admits in a low tone. “I wasn’t sure if all my flirting was too much.”

You chuckle softly, gazing at him through the glow of the lantern between you. “It was definitely ... persistent. But also strangely charming, if I’m being honest.”

A pleased grin stretches across Carlos’ face, lighting up his handsome features. His thumb caresses your knuckles tenderly as he holds your eyes.

“I meant what I said, Y/N ... I felt an unexplainable connection with you from the moment I woke up in that hospital bed.” His expression turns almost wondering. “Despite my joking and terrible pick-up lines, there was something deeper drawing me to you. Like my soul recognized yours, si?”

You nod slowly, inexplicably understanding exactly what he means. That spark, that feeling of having known him for years — it’s indescribable and yet so real at the same time.

“I felt it too,” you murmur. “A pull, like I was meant to meet you.” You give a soft, self-conscious laugh. “It sounds silly saying it out loud.”

But Carlos shakes his head adamantly. “Not silly at all, cariño. Spiritual, cosmic, whatever you want to call it — I felt it too, and I don’t question these things anymore.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “Do you know what the nomadic Bedouin peoples of Arabia call that? Finding your namiah.”

You can’t help the way your heart flutters at the unfamiliar word and the enchanted look on his face. “What does it mean?” You breathe.

“It translates roughly to your twin soul,’" Carlos explains in a hushed tone. “Two souls destined to connect in this life. Bound together across lifetimes, finally reunited.”

He gives your hand a meaningful squeeze, utterly transfixed. “The Bedouins believe when you encounter your namiah, it’s sacred — a reunion that must be honored and embraced, regardless of what life may throw your way. Because you’ve been given a second chance with your twin soul.”

His words seem to reverberate somewhere deep within you, ringing with an ancient truth you can’t fully grasp but feel with your entire being. Impulsively, you lift Carlos’s hand to your cheek, holding it there as you bathe in his wonder-filled gaze.

For a long, charged moment, the whole world narrows to just the two of you sharing this cosmic revelation. Then the spell breaks as you let out a breathless laugh, eyes shining with amazed delight.

“You believe in destined soulmates? I never would have guessed,” you tease gently.

He chuckles warmly in return, leaning back but keeping your hand pressed tenderly against his cheek. “The universe works in mysterious ways, querida. I’ve learned not to question things my heart recognizes as true.”

A comfortable silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken understanding and newfound intimacy. He grazes his thumb along your cheekbone reverently.

“That’s why I couldn’t stop myself from flirting with you, you know,” Carlos muses in that rumbly tone. “You captivated me from the first moment I laid eyes on you. I knew I had to at least try winning your heart, mi ángel.”

You shake your head in fond exasperation, fighting a smile. “Carlos Sainz, actually a hopeless romantic? Who would have thought ...”

His playful grin is back in full force. “Only for you, hermosa.” Then his eyes take on a hint of hesitant hopefulness. “Speaking of ... there’s actually another reason I wanted to take you to dinner.”

You regard him curiously as the waiter arrives to fill your glasses with water. “Oh? Do tell.”

Carlos takes a fortifying sip before fixing you with those warm, earnest eyes again. “I would be honored if you came to Australia with me in a few weeks. As my guest for the race in Melbourne.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, mouth falling open slightly. “The ... the Grand Prix? In Australia?”

He nods eagerly. “It’s at the end of the month. I will arrange for your travel, put you up in the plushest hotel, everything. My treat.”

Carlos leans in closer, an impish gleam dancing in his eyes. “It would give me the perfect chance to keep wooing you properly, mi amor.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, barely able to wrap your mind around the unexpected invitation. “Carlos, I ... I can’t just fly across the world like that! I have work, responsibilities-”

“Ah, but you’d only need to take a week or so off,” he counters smoothly. “I’ll handle all the details. You just need to relax and be my honored guest for the weekend.”

He gives you that smoldering look that makes your heart skip a beat. “Let me spoil you, mi ángel. Just say the word and it’s yours.”

Part of you is tempted — so, so tempted by the enthralling prospect. A luxurious vacation with this enchanting man who is already well on his way to sweeping you off your feet? It sounds utterly magical.

But the practical part of you holds you back, brow furrowing with uncertainty. “I don’t know ... even taking time off for a trip like that would be difficult.”

Carlos regards you intently for a moment, reading your hesitation. Then he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, voice turning softer yet insistent.

“Y/N, when was the last time you took a real vacation? Away from the hospital, away from responsibility for a little while ... to just breathe and enjoy life?”

You open your mouth automatically, then pause. Truthfully, you can’t even remember. Life has become an endless cycle of work and sleep with little room for anything else.

“Exactly,” Carlos nods knowingly at your silence. “Everyone needs to get away sometimes, querida. To recharge their soul before the daily grind drains them completely. Even an ángel like you.”

He fixes you with those molten brown eyes again. “Let me give that to you, mi amor. A week to relax, to be spoiled and carefree in one of the most beautiful corners of your world.” One side of his mouth quirks up teasingly. “And with a ruggedly handsome Formula 1 driver to keep you company, of course ...”

You chuckle in spite of yourself, warmth blooming in your chest. He has a point — when was the last time you allowed yourself to have fun and truly unwind? You certainly can’t remember. And if there’s anyone who seems like the ideal travel companion ...

Carlos notices your resolve softening and presses his advantage. “I promise you, it will be an experience you’ll never forget. Put yourself in my hands for just one week — let me take care of everything so you don’t have to lift a finger. What do you say, hermosa?”

His gaze is so open and full of restrained yearning that your breath hitches. You search those bewitching eyes for one more long moment, feeling yourself teetering on the edge of a decision.

Then, with a breathless laugh, you give in to impulse.

“Okay! You win. I’m yours for a week in Australia. Show me what you have in store.”

The smile that slowly spreads across his face is brighter and more radiant than the high desert sun. Carlos lifts your hand to his lips to brush a lingering kiss across your knuckles, sending delicious sparks dancing along your skin.

“Your wish is my command, mi ángel,” he murmurs fervently against your fingers, holding your breathless gaze. “I’ll make sure it’s a trip you’ll never forget.”

***

The bright Australian sun feels glorious on your skin as you relax on the private rooftop terrace of Ferrari’s plush motorhome. Leaning back on the cushioned lounger, you close your eyes and inhale the first deep breath you’ve taken in ... well, you can’t remember how long.

For just this fleeting moment, all the stresses of everyday life as a hardworking nurse seem to melt away into the balmy afternoon air. You’re worlds away from the frenetic hospital routine, from the bright fluorescent lights and permeating smell of antiseptic. Here, surrounded by towering palms swaying lazily in the breeze, you can almost imagine you’re at a lavish resort rather than the Albert Park paddock.

Almost.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as the roar of engines echoes across the circuit. That unmistakable sound is your reminder of just how enchantingly surreal this entire experience has been.

When Carlos first invited you to be his guest at the race, you expected some form of VIP experience to watch the Formula 1 action up close. But you never could have imagined the level of extravagance and pampering he had planned.

From the moment you landed, you’ve been put up at a five-star hotel in the lap of luxury — a stunning penthouse suite, complete with a butler at your beck and call plus a private concierge team to arrange anything you may need. Not that you’ve had time to need anything, with Carlos’s personal assistant, Elena, catering to your every whim.

You had tried to object at first, insisting this level of opulence wasn’t necessary. But Carlos merely placed a finger over your lips with a mischievous grin.

“Ah ah ah, mi ángel — you agreed to let me spoil you for a week, remember?” He chided playfully. “No objections!”

Before you could protest further, he pulled you into his arms, warm and solid and smelling faintly of bergamot. “Just relax and enjoy la buena vida for once. That’s my only condition.”

Looking into those warm brown eyes, you found yourself getting deliciously lost as his breath fanned across your lips. What choice did you have but to nod breathlessly and let yourself be whisked away into his lavish wonderland?

And it has been nothing short of wondrous so far. After being settled into your palatial suite with its giant marble bathroom and wall-to-wall windows, Elena escorted you into the exclusive world of Formula 1.

The Grand Prix itself is certainly glamorous — the electric atmosphere, roar of the cars driving at breath-taking speeds, and prestigious crowds dripping in finery and jewels. But it’s the behind-the-scenes action in the paddock that truly left you dazzled.

Elena led you through a dizzying labyrinth of state-of-the-art motorhomes and garage bays with cutting-edge equipment full of personnel bustling about in a flurry of coordinated movements. She introduced you to a mind-boggling array of mechanics, aerodynamicists, race strategists, hospitality workers, and more.

The entire operation felt like the world’s most organized theatrical production playing out before your very eyes. And at the center of it all? A beacon in red drawing all eyes to where he’s leaning against a metal wall towards the side of the garage? None other than Carlos himself.

Seeing him in this element, commanding the hushed and reverent attention of dozens of crew members with an intense yet unhurried confidence ... there was something almost unbearably sexy about it. His typical warmth and charm were overshadowed by a blazing intensity and poise more potent than any poem he could compose under the haze of painkillers.

Between briefings and warm ups, you managed to steal a few stolen moments with Carlos. Whether brushing a clandestine kiss to the back of your hand or pulling you aside for a heated embrace out of view, he always reaffirmed this sublime fantasy was for you … and you alone.

“Having fun so far, mi ángel?” He would murmur, lips brushing your ear as his hands skimmed teasingly down your sides.

You shivered at the gravelly timbre of his voice, rendered speechless by the fire flickering in his eyes. How could anyone put the depths of your experience into words?

So you simply answered by pulling him into a searing kiss, fingers tangling in those sinfully tousled locks. By the time you parted, Carlos’ pupils were blown wide, chest rising and falling heavily against yours.

“Save some of that fire for after the race, cariño,” he’d say thickly with a wolfish grin. “You may just be the greatest distraction I’ve ever had to overcome.”

With one last smoldering look, he rejoined his crew, leaving you flustered yet utterly euphoric. Yes, Carlos Sainz had managed to spirit you away into an all-encompassing dream — one you never wanted to wake up from.

The sound of a nearby door opening brings you back to the present with a contented sigh. You let your eyes drift open again, blinking against the brilliant sunlight as a familiar figure emerges onto the terrace.

“There’s my hermosa,” Carlos greets you warmly, slipping off his cap to run a hand through his ridiculously perfect hair. The simple gesture makes your breath catch as always.

You feel a smile stretch across your face as he approaches. “Hi there, stranger. Taking a break?”

“Something like that,” he chuckles, dropping into the lounger beside you with a groan. “Just a quick respite from the crowd.”

Carlos turns toward you with poorly concealed mischief dancing in his eyes. “Though ... I may have also needed an excuse to see this beautiful sight again.”

You roll your eyes in exaggerated exasperation to hide your giddiness at his flattery. He’s been adorably smooth this entire trip. “Save your lines, Casanova. You already got me here, remember?”

“Ah, but a man can never compliment his lady enough,” Carlos objects smoothly, grasping your hand in his calloused one to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Starting with how radiant you look basking in the Australian sun, mi ángel. A lesser man would get jealous.”

You shake your head, even as tingles race across your skin from his gesture. “Is flattery how you butter up any pretty girl who catches your eye?”

“Just the especially gorgeous ones,” he winks unapologetically. “But there’s only one who’s made me want to be a hopeless romantic.”

With dizzying ease, he leverages himself across the narrow space between you, caging you in on all sides with his toned arms. Your breath catches at his sudden proximity, pulse quickening from the heated look in his eyes.

“Perhaps I should stop with pretty words ...” Carlos rumbles in that velvety accent, closing the remaining distance until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “And use actions instead.”

His mouth captures yours in a slow, smoldering kiss that has you melting bonelessly against the plush cushions. Large hands splay across the dip of your waist, firm yet intoxicatingly gentle. You melt into the unhurried caress of his lips, addicted to the way he sets your entire body deliciously alight.

When you finally part, you’re flushed and breathless, gazing up dazedly at his twinkling eyes. “You’re ... terribly persuasive, Mr. Sainz,” you manage.

He rewards you with a wolfish grin and another toe-curling kiss. “Only for you, mi amor,” he growls against your lips, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. “Only for you ...”

A tiny gasp of surprise parts your lips as Carlos suddenly freezes, mouth going taut. You tilt your head back slightly to meet his gaze questioningly.

“What’s wrong?”

He drops his darkened eyes down toward his palm sheepishly. It’s then you notice the tiny trickle of red seeping from a paper cut across his skin.

“Oh no, it seems our ... passion got a bit too rough,” Carlos grins cheekily. “Gave myself a battle wound.”

Rolling your eyes, you gingerly take his hand to inspect the miniscule wound. Just a thin cut that was reopened, likely from reviewing telemetry packets between briefings.

“It’s nothing serious,” you chide. “Though I suppose I could play nurse for you one more time.”

He gives you a devilish look from under his inky lashes. “Please do, mi ángel. I’ll need your ... very special care.”

You level an unimpressed glare at him, slipping off the lounger toward the rooftop bathroom to grab the first aid kit inside. By the time you return, Carlos has the audacity to be sitting patiently with his lightly bleeding palm extended in offering. Like a king awaiting tribute from his loyal subjects.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” you scoff, cracking open the kit and perching on the edge of his lounger. With the utmost care and tenderness, you gently apply antibacterial ointment and wrap the cut with an oversized adhesive bandage.

“There, all better, your Highness,” you announce with a solemn nod.

But rather than releasing your hand, Carlos envelops it fully in both of his. His warm eyes search yours impishly.

“Actually, hermosa ... there is one last thing that could help it heal even faster.”

You quirk a skeptical brow at him, already thoroughly endeared by whatever outrageous thing is about to come out of his mouth. “Oh? And what’s that?”

The corner of his lips twitches up in that rakish half-smirk you adore. “A magical, healing ... kiss.”

Of course. Of bloody course.

“You can’t be serious,” you laugh, trying in vain to tug your hand back. Carlos simply holds it fast, fervently earnest despite the devilish twinkle dancing in his eyes.

“Completely serious, mi amor! The power of a beautiful woman’s kiss has incredible healing properties.” He pulls your hand close. “Especially from an ángel like you ...”

Warmth blooms across your cheeks at his antics, head shaking in amusement. Even after weeks of witnessing Carlos’ particular brand of cheeky charisma up close, he can still catch you off-guard and leave you deliciously flustered.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” The reprimand lacks any bite as you can’t help but grin back at him, captivated as always.

His answering look is all playful innocence — one you know better than to trust for a single second. “Does that mean you won’t bless me with your magic?”

Brown eyes beg at you over your trapped knuckles, full lower lip jutting out in a pout far too enticing to resist. With a shaky laugh, you finally acquiesce and bend forward to press a slow, petal-soft kiss over the bandage.

A grin stretches across Carlos’ face once you pull back. “My hero!” He exclaims, catching your hand in both of his to nuzzle the inside of your wrist adoringly. “See, querida? Already I can feel the enchanted restorative properties working wonders.”

“You’re utterly shameless!” You let out another breathless laugh.

“Only because you make me crazy, mi ángel,” Carlos retorts with an exaggerated groan, tugging you closer until you half-cover his toned body.

You go easily, resting comfortably against the solid wall of his chest. Strong arms wrap around your waist, securing you in place as Carlos pillows his cheek atop your head with a contented sigh.

“You render me nonsensical and utterly bewitched. I’m powerless against your effortless magic.”

The words rumble through you in that low timbre you’ve become addicted to, spreading warmth from the crown of your head to the very tips of your toes. With a quiet hum of contentment, you tuck yourself tighter into his side and watch the swaying of the palms framed against the brilliant blue sky.

In this moment, the entire world seems to shrink away into insignificance — nothing but you and Carlos tangled in this serene haven apart from all space and time. Nothing but the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek, the cocooning circle of arms that sets you ablaze and soothes you in equal measure.

Just as you feel yourself being lulled into a state of blissful relaxation, Carlos presses a lingering kiss to your hair. His chest vibrates with quiet yet fervent words.

“Thank you, amor ... for giving me a chance to make you mine.”

Pure affection blooms golden in your chest at the reverent sincerity of his tone. You tilt your head up to find his warm brown eyes already trained on you. Filled with adoration yet still flickering with that insuppressible spark of mischief and zest you adore so much.

With an impulsive hand curling around the nape of his neck, you pull his mouth down toward yours. As you part, twin smiles linger on your swollen lips.

“And thank you,” you smile wryly. “For having an appendix that decided to take matters into its own hands so we could meet.”