𐀔 RED STRINGS OF REWIND | N. Riki
𐀔 RED STRINGS OF REWIND | n. riki
PRECIS. you and riki meet again, and again, and again, before you run away from him, only for fate to intertwine your paths, and start from zero, all over again. ( 6.75k )
GENRE. vampire ! riki, mystery, thriller, angst
WARNINGS. mentions of blood, hospitals, murder & deaths, depiction of potentially obsessive behaviour, multiple semi-graphic to graphic descriptions of self-harm, reader is kinda sick in the head both literally and metaphorically, riki is psychotic & he isn't actually a vampire or could be one tbh it depends upon your interpretation, transitions from past to present
NOTE. my cue to dip for next few weeks yawl <3 BTW IM SO PROUD OF THE HEADER BUT TUMBLR RUINED IT AND IT LOOKS WEIRD ON PHONE </3 big thanks to sai ( @jungwonize ) for helping me figure out the characteristics of a vampire pls that legit solved half my issues with this fic and also beta-ing this fr he's so <3 if you don't understand what's happening, i recommend you to read the whole thing because that's the only way for this to make sense. see y'all in a few weeks, happy reading <3
the first time you ran away from riki was when you were five. it was a pleasant day and you were enjoying your evening in the playground downstreet, playing catch with other kids around. an escape wasn’t necessary but you had accidently hurt riki while helping him speed up on the swings. that was the first time you had seen the boy shed tears. ultimately, being the last ones remaining, you saw the sun disappear behind the horizon as his sobs increased, the sand turning red due to blood. at that moment, all you could think of was to run; and so you did.
consequently, you started avoiding him at school. despite being just a kindergarten student, you had a keen eye, always looking out for things that could affect you negatively. perhaps, riki made it to that list, and you found yourself noting his every move. you had your eyes on every breath he took, every action, every word. you sat at the bench farthest from his seat in class, yet still your eyes didn’t leave his sight even for a second. you started lying whenever his mother called your mom, saying she was sleeping or simply, not home. you lied about the parents-teacher meeting being cancelled in case your teacher brings up the events from what happened at the park a few days ago.
the same went on for days, weeks even. you saw the everlasting friendship between riki’s and your mom turn shallow, hanging by a thread, on the verge of breaking. you didn’t mean it. the damage, you didn’t want this to turn into something big. your mom has known his mother since her college. being the top students and the best friends they were, they decided to live in the neighbourhood after the death of their husbands. your father died in a car accident. as for riki, from what you recall, his father never existed in the first place.
maybe the gods were on your side because soon after, your mother was fired from her job and luckily enough, your uncle helped her secure a job in the capital. it was nice, living two thousand one hundred and fifty two kilometres away from him, in tokyo, it felt good. you could finally breathe in relief. maybe, you feel bad for your mom since she had to leave her friends. perhaps, a part of you is upset since you had to leave your friends; though, if you had the chance, you would do it all over again.
you wanted to live peacefully. you don’t want people to blame for what happened. you didn't want to be the reason behind the dark blood stained patch on the sand that made the kids shake in fear in the dead of the night.
the second time you ran away from riki was in highschool. it was unbelievable, having him this close to you. you thought you left him behind, in okinawa, however on the first day of highschool, you had him standing in front of you, and you felt your heart sink into a never ending pit of horror. an escape wasn't planned but it was the only way left when he tried to strike a conversation with you. you both were alone in the dance room, a smile plastered on his face as he recalled the events you buried in the past. you felt your heartbeat accelerate, and your first instinct was to run; and so you did.
you spent that day in the cubicle, crying and fighting your anxiety attack. a couple few knocks on the door made their way to you but you didn't respond, knowing you're better off alone.
it felt horrifying to have your past come back to you. having riki standing in front of you was like a nightmare come true. you had noticed the scar of his forehead; reminding you of everything you buried deep, making sure no one would know about it. you wouldn't say you never expected to see him again. your grandparents live on okinawa and every time you visit them, a part of you anticipated seeing the boy somewhere around. it wasn't scary, really, for you don't live in okinawa and riki doesn't know where you live.
things were perfect, better than you had planned initially, since never once did you come across riki in okinawa. you even visited his house, asking neighbours about him and his family. someone said his father came and the family moved to germany with him. however, you knew that was a lie. your mother might've said that his father passed away when he was three, but you know he never had a father in the first place.
so, eleven years later, seeing him all the way in tokyo, attending the same school as you, it was like seeing death on your door. as if the reaper is at your doorstep, asking for your soul. however, your perfect highschool life turned into a pit of hell when the incident you've been hiding resurfaced again and this time, on a public stage.
‘how did you get your scar?’ a student had asked him, and you froze in your seat. the greater gods weren’t on your side since in the second half of second year, riki transferred to your class. you don’t know how that happened— or if it’s even allowed— he just did, and sat right behind you as you felt the situation grip out of your hands day by day. you expected him to disclose the intels to everyone the way he stared into your back. your heart skipped beats whenever his hand brushed past your back, or when he randomly grew a habit to play with your hair in the middle of science lessons. you didn’t think riki had any intentions of ruining things for you; that is, until that question was brought up during self study class.
you heard him shift his eyes on you as he smiled at the question. ‘ah, it’s a long story.’ he had responded. your grip around the pen in your hand tightened. suddenly, geometry was long forgotten and all you could focus on were the words leaving his mouth. ‘i was playing in a park with a friend,’ he continued, and you gripped the measuring compass, pressing its needle into the desk as your pulse surged up. ‘and got injured. the friend, however,’ you felt his gaze settling on your back once again, goosebumps rising at the sudden eerie change in the air. you lifted the divider off the desk, your right hand fisted up so tightly that you felt your nails leave marks on your palm. ‘what about the friend?’ the student asks, and oh how you wished you could wipe them off their curiosity forever.
sitting and letting him continue would be a mistake, like digging your own grave and waiting for someone to bury you. you couldn’t tell him to stop because that’d be no better than showing up at death’s door. ‘the friend, well,’ you felt him digging holes on your back by the way he’s staring at you. you felt him smirking through his words and sitting would be a mistake, so you took the measuring device and pierced through your wrist, making a deep wound that stained your shirt red, the same way riki’s blood stained the sand.
the students gasped, teachers rushed in, you were escorted to the infirmary. no one questioned about the injury, why or how it happened. their questions concerned your wellbeing and nothing else. their eyes were on you while yours were on riki, who waved at you with a smile before turning his attention towards the blood splatter on your desk like a moondrunk monster. that was the third time you ran from riki. an escape was vital and your first instinct was to get away from him; and so you did.
you didn't attend school after that.
the first few days were off as an excuse for your injury. you deliberately went for your dominant hand, knowing it would offer greater impact than any other part. it was a sporadic decision, yet proven to be worth the pain. you had your friends drop notes at your house, occasionally checking up on you as well. but as your hand got better, the reasons to stay home narrowed to a few numbers, ones that you can count on your fingers. so, burdened by the need of the hour, you prepared another plan.
attending school after three weeks would've been amazing if your brother hadn't called the local suicide hotline. it was six-thirty in the morning, you were in your room while your mom had sent your brother to call you for breakfast, only for him to find on your bathroom tiles, all red and pale from the blood loss from your previously injured wrist. you hated him for calling the suicide hotline. it was a wasted move, but you couldn't blame him when he made things easier for you.
news spreads fast, and gossip spreads faster. the details about you were headlines, if anything. while your teachers worried about you for taking such destructive measures, a few of your friends started suspecting that you had gone crazy. one of them saw you stab your own wrist, other heard you mumbling to yourself. you were also spotted staring at riki with your gaze bearing daggers against his neck. an anonymous post from a kindergarten classmate claimed you to be 'obsessive,' briefing about how you used to stare at riki all day, like a predator eyes their prey.
in just two months, the tables turned and you became the 'creepy' one amongst them. soon after, you stopped having visitors. while you declined some of their visits, others stopped caring about you, as if you would come for them next. your days started feeling longer than usual as your stay at the hospital increased. from psychic ward to er and from er to psychic ward, those were your only two destinations for the next few months. bottles of pills and syrups awaited for you thrice a day as the excessive test procedures became your only companion in the house of dead.
you had spent nights laughing and crying about your poor condition. you didn't think you would ever end up this way, between machines and syringes, taking pills as if they constituted a major part of your meals. it was pathetic, almost shameful. you were tired of running. you changed cities to escape riki. now, you're holding death's hand to save yourself from the same boy you thought you had left behind. you had considered quitting altogether at some point. you remember cutting your wrist right above a major artery, making it deep enough to drench the sleeves of your white hospital gown. you expected it to be the last time you would see your mother. however, you woke up amongst tubes and bandages the next morning, feeling weaker than ever.
your eyes fell upon your mother's pale figure, noticing how thin she had gotten since the last time you saw her. a nurse informed you that you had woken up after four days and your mother didn't even drink enough water during that period. that day, for the very first time in years, you wondered about how this might be affecting her.
suddenly, this game about life and death made no sense. running from riki seemed illogical. staying in the four walls of your hospital room started making you feel suffocated. watching your mother fight for your life day and night made you question your ways for the very first time. for the first time, you wondered if what you had been doing was right. you were ready to quit your act, deciding to change your ways, just for your mother, but that was until riki's name showed up on your mother's phone one night. a look at the call log signified that she had been in touch with riki all along, taking almost every day, texting even.
it felt unreal, like a betrayal. sure, your mother doesn’t know a thing about what you had been planning for years, but riki, of all people, it felt like living with a knife up your throat, and you realised that staying with your mother would be an open invitation to let riki into your life again. so, you decided to run again.
2 : 49 am — you had it planned. you left your room eleven minutes before three in the morning, knowing damn well that your mother would have the best sleep of her life with those five pills of temazepam you had managed to get your hands on after the doctor prescribed her a stronger medication for insomnia. somewhere inside, maybe, you felt guilty for deceiving your mother; or more like, overdosing her with sedatives to execute your escape plan. but none of it seemed to stagger you when the thoughts about your mother keeping in touch with riki flooded your mind.
echoing footsteps with moonlight illuminating the empty corridors, it was too late before you realised that you ran in all the wrong directions, trying not to bump into any hospital staff. you had seen it in the movies, but mortuaries always felt creepier than they make it to be in fictions. there’s an eerie glow in the air, one you can’t see but feel as fear crawls up your skin. you ran your fingers over the ice cold walls, strolling through the empty floor, finding your way out. despite the sinister flow in the air, your heart felt at ease, unlike your thoughts running at a thousand miles per second.
you drag yourself towards the elevator, legs almost giving up from the fatigue stacking up inside of you, the lack of food finally surfacing as your blood adorned fingers leave their imprints on the white walls. you were so busy escaping that you didn’t realise when the dressing on your wrist loosened, consequently making the blood drip down your hands everywhere you go. the elevator chimed, marking someone’s arrival, and before you could process the situation, his name fell off your lips.
‘riki—’ you had whispered in fear, stepping away from him as his feet ascended towards you. there was a smile on his face. not that you could see it, for he was looking at the floor, but you heard his faint chuckle spin into the air. ‘you shouldn’t leave any hints if you’re trying to escape,’ he had answered, wiping off a speckle of blood from his lips as his vision sharpened at the sight of the blood streaming down your hand. his antics were beyond your comprehension. maybe, he was the crazier one between the two of you. he called your name, voice pitched low as your breath hitched. another step towards you and you were running away with tears brimming your eyes.
the escape was impromptu, but equally necessary. your sense of direction dissipated as tears blurred your vision, heartbeat pacing up as you heard his footsteps echoing closely behind you. at that moment, you wondered if running away from him for the first time was the right choice. you could’ve helped him reach his home— which was just a few blocks away from yours— maybe, could have explained the whole situation to his mother and owned up to your mistakes. at that moment, the seventeen-year-old you pitied the five year old yn for the direction your life would proceed in after that innocent incident. and again, you could’ve helped him— could’ve— but you chose not to, for the five year old you were petrified at the sight of the boy looking at his own blood lusciously.
a striking pain surged up your ankles, and you found yourself rolling down the stairs; and if you recall correctly, you had screamed. it was more of a shriek, or a shout for help, one that alerted the couple few staff monitoring the mortuary. their muffled voices reached your ears as the pain emerging from your head seemed to nullify all your senses. you don’t remember a lot from that day, except him, or the way he stared at you with a frown sitting on his face as the nurses put you on the stretcher, a frown that morphed into a menacing smile soon before as your mind gave up on keeping you conscious.
which leads to the present day— in nagoya, where you’re living with your mother— surprisingly — doing quite well at twenty-seven, working as a lawyer at a local law firm. there are days when you look in the mirror, letting your eyes fall over all the scars you have given yourself. you let your mind trace over all the dreaded memories from the past, wondering how you made it out. it was quite funny, actually, resorting to death to escape it.
you haven't heard from riki in the past ten years. not that you want to, but he didn't try to contact your mother like he used to. he's just a sweet little kid in your mother's heart who stopped calling her one day. he's just a figment of her memory, or like a wild nightmare for you. you had heard from your mother that riki's mom passed away a few months after he started attending highschool, and that she sent him money every month to support him.
she's upset, but you're glad he's gone. you're thankful to the deities for finally putting him out of your life. your life feels easier. the incident from your childhood no longer sends chills down your spine. your mother looks healthier, you don't walk on eggshells anymore. occasionally, you wake up in the middle of the night, hyperventilating, whenever an incident from the past slips into your mind as a dream, but it’s fine. you have medications for them. you take medicines for anxiety attacks, for migraines, insomnia, and a lot more, honestly. your problems haven’t disappeared. they’re still there, actively being the reason for the tear stains on your pillow. they are still here, inside your mind, or beside you, walking hand in hand to remind you that you aren’t perfect— you never were. despite your perfect grades and physique, you struggle to remember things. you take antidepressants to continue with your profession. it was a fight, a war, maybe; it still is, and will continue to be one, but it feels nice to live this way, as if the universe has offered you a second chance at life. maybe, it was all worth the risk, worth enough for you to do it all over again.
“you’re zoning out again,” a familiar voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and it belongs to jay. his soft laughter spins into the air, mixing with the fragrant vanilla and cinnamon filling the cafe’s atmosphere with its magic. it feels nice to live this way because you have jay.
you had met him in college when you got lost on the campus. it was your second day, after all, and the locked rooms along with the lack of lighting on the deranged floor reminded you of the hospital. you were close to breaking down when you heard footsteps approaching you, accompanied with a concerned voice. that day, he didn’t leave your side even after classes, making sure to drop you home before continuing on the way to his’.
jay is a nice guy. yeah, he teases you a lot, points out your horrible sense of direction in front of your other colleagues, makes fun of the way you whine every time you have to work past the destined working hours, but it’s fine. he helps you whenever possible, has reserved his weekends for you unless work stacks up his desks. he feels like the highschool friend you wanted to have, like the person you would’ve had a crush on in school if he helped you with your assignments. in short, jay is nice, and even being twenty-seven year old with several never-ending issues didn’t stop you from falling for him.
“ah, by the way,” he speaks up again, gaining each and every ounce of your attention. “i won’t be able to drive you home today.”
“it’s fine. i can go by myself." those are the words you tell, however, a part of you feels upset since you planned on asking him for dinner. "honestly, i don’t know why you drive me home when i live just fifteen minutes away.”
“maybe because your directional sense is basically non-existent?” he mocks and you both step out of the cafe, your steps following him to his car. “still, take care. you know that killer is still out there, right?”
“of course,” a pause. you wonder if jay has something to say— and you swear you're not letting your hopes escalate higher than they already are. over the years, you have learnt to wish for the best and that's all you're trying to do right now.
“do you also think he's a vampire?” he asks, referring to the person the team had indicted this morning.
the question leaves you astonished. one wouldn't expect him to bring up a case that isn't his. jay has his habits— a fixed schedule, appointment limits, minding his own business— there are more. so, having him strike a conversation about something that didn't concern him was new. "what?”
“i don’t believe in vampires and all, but have you seen the fang imprints on the victims’ neck? it seems plausible, no matter how much i try to overlook it.” no, really, as an attorney, you could only think of how obscene this all sounds. you have heard about the rumours, they say the culprit is actually a vampire so hunts every wednesday, sucking people off their blood and leaving them to die, thus earning the notorious name; the vampire killer.
at the age of four, riki told you about vampires. he asked you if you knew what they were, and you responded with the classic definition that any other four year-old would've given. 'bad people who drink blood and are scared of the sun' with an uninterested grimace. your brows furrowed as you saw a sour expression settle in his face. that's when he told you another fact about vampires— they have a set target, and they chase it until it's theirs, no matter how long it takes.
you don't recall if he added anything else, not that you understand his words either, but the smirk on his face told you that riki liked vampires, probably a lot more than anyone else did.
“even if he is, they can’t say that in court,” and to be very honest, you don't want to involve yourself in a case that isn't yours either. it simply isn't worth the time. sure, the rumours going around may fuel everyone's curiosity, but not yours.
he sighs, getting into his car before rolling down the windows. “see you tomorrow. let me know if you get lost on your way home,”
“i will,” you affirm with a laugh, watching him drive away as you proceed to your walk back home.
the last time you represented a murder case was ten months ago, never again. you had a hard time dealing with everything. every mention of dead bodies reminded you of him. but you knew it was all your imagination, for riki was never a serial killer. he was just a boy, though with unusual habits, but still just a boy you had known long ago.
yet you still had your suspicion. you spent days wondering if he's schizophrenic or something along those lines, or if psychosis got the best of him. a clearer look into his condition led you to haemophilia— obsession with blood— which is fine, really, not everyone is the same. people are born different, with distinct characteristics. riki happened to be one of the very few; and honestly, he was never the one to fit the crowd.
you halt in the middle of the streets, interrupted by a call that displays 'prosecutor jung' on your phone screen. “hello?”
"attorney yn, you're required to report at the prosecution office urgently."
"right now?" you ask, confused by the sudden request and that too, two hours after your shift is over. "i'm almost home."
"we have, uh, a few things to discuss about the vampire killer case with you. please report as soon as possible."
and the next second, you hear silence devouring the other side of the line. you sigh, texting your mom that you'd be late so she doesn't have to stay up. call it overthinking or parental care, but even at twenty-seven, your mom looks after you like a five year old. you've had your aunts tell you to move out but honestly, you're having a good time living with your mother. it's better than living alone, given your health conditions.
resultantly, you make your way back to the law firm. this time, with a butter face. the extra working hours don't affect you anymore. you've done that a lot and it's a part of job responsibilities at this point. what's has your attention is the topic of concern, the vampire killer, a case you aren't associated with in any way. you haven't even read all the articles they had published regarding the case, and even if you had, you aren't sure if you would change your mind about the case being an utter idiocy.
you arrive at the firm, taking the elevator to the main prosecution office situated on the fourth floor. the building feels lonelier at night, especially with just a few people working in their cabins as even the quietest of sounds fills in the eerie silence. lifts and hallways always remind of the hospital and everything that had happened there. your skin runs cold whenever you find yourself in an alone hallway at night as the urge to run away tries to conquer your mind.
you have learnt to pay it no mind, though, just like now, as you walk up the empty halls while humming a song to put your mind at ease finally arriving at the designed venue.
"attorney yn," she shoots you an exhausted smile, the fatigue evident on her face. "thank you for coming."
you didn’t want to, actually; she forced you to come. and her being your senior, you had to follow her orders no matter how much you loathe it. "it's alright. what did you want to talk about?"
"yes," she turns around to grab a few documents off her desk before turning back to you. "we've been trying to question our prime suspect. however, he refuses to say anything without a lawyer. here are the files—"
"wait," you interject her words, cutting her off mid sentence. "why me? i mean, i'm not a criminal lawyer."
"we'll, you were requested by the suspect." she explains, her words making you freeze in your stance. "he claims to know you and wouldn't accept any other attorney."
you don't ask further questions, or rather, are not allowed to as mrs. jung and her team escorts you to the questioning room. she assures you that you only have to ask a few questions and after that, their lawyer would take over, but honestly, that's none of your concerns at the moment.
you don’t even know the name of the person indicted. they prefer not disclosing it. you haven’t even seen him because of your sheer indifference towards the case. you don’t know anything except that, his victims die of anaemia. you’ve had your suspicion— it’s him— and you’d be lying if you say you didn’t sleep for days when the news broke out. the truth is, you never recovered from the trauma. you claim to have forgotten the boy you used to play for hours with. you say his name doesn’t affect you anymore. however, the mere news about the blood-thirsty killer in the neighbourhood was a spark to your fears, gradually igniting it, and now it burns like a forest.
amidst all, you find yourself standing before the questioning room, ready to go in, and you have your one thing clear : this isn’t about riki. but that’s just something you’re convincing yourself to believe in for your sake.
you open the door, stepping in, eyes wide open at the sight of complete emptiness in the room, except one police official standing in a corner. you sigh in relief, taking a seat, maybe you weren’t just ready to face the suspect; or perhaps, you simply didn’t want to. the officer informs you that the person you’re about to would be back shortly, for he has gone to the washroom. in the meantime, you decide to look through the intels regarding the case, provided in a file handed over by the prosecutor in charge. there’s no picture— or maybe they didn’t add one— which is odd. there are blank spaces all over the pages with very few details written along the lines : suspect is in his late twenties, unemployed, lives alone, is conjectured to be suffering from renfield’s syndrome— those words leave a bitter taste on your tongue.
you don’t know much about that term. actually, scratch that, you don’t know anything about it at all. you don’t think the team handling the case does either, for there’s only scarce information present in the documents given to—
“it’s been a while, yn.” your breath hitches, heart skipping a few beats before beating restlessly. shivers shoot down your spine as your grip around the papers tightens, crumbling their corners. “we meet again.”
it’s him, you know it, it is him, nishimura riki— you know. he hasn’t changed much. riki still has his devilish eyes beholding a sinister glow. the menacing smirk still adorns his face like diamond jewellery. it has been ten years but the way your name rolls off his tongue still makes your skin crawl, giving you chills as all those memories flood back inside your mind. there’s a pen in your pocket, and you wonder if running away is still an option. you bite the inside of your bottom lips, tapping your foot nervously on the granite floor as the taste of iron conquers your mouth. a part of you wonders how riki would react to that. you look at the officer, and then contemplate doing exactly what you did in highschool.
“you can’t run away now.” riki chuckles. it’s more of a taunting laughter, one that reminds you of all the olden times. it’s infuriating and at the same time, is inducing fear inside your veins. you can’t look him in the eyes— you won’t— it’s the same as losing a game at the cost of your life. you take a sharp breath, digging nails into the palm of your hands once again, before his next words manage to seize your attention. “why have you been running from me, yn?”
it’s an innocent question, really, you wonder if the cameras in the room make you seem like a socially incapable person at the moment. “i’m in a hurry so let’s make this quick—”
“tell him to go out.” you flinch at his words, you always do. there’s nothing in the world that makes you shake in fear as much as riki’s presence. you look at the officer, and then at riki— his lips, because you don’t want to look into his eyes ever again. his words ring inside your head while you consider his request. “you’re taking a lot of time for someone who’s in a hurry, yn.”
you want him to stop calling your name. it’s not appropriate, quite literally, because you’re no longer friends. you’re his attorney and he’s your client, you want to create a line between, though, you dare not to. you look at the officer, gesturing to him to leave as he hesitates for a brief second before stepping out of the room. your instincts are telling you that it was a wrong move, for being alone with riki is equivalent to standing at gunpoint where the trigger pulls when the timer goes off.
“alright, let’s star— let me just—”
“my god, yn, you’re shaking.” he cuts you off, making your fingers wince at his voice. your gaze falls upon the floor, blinking nervously as you bite the inside of your cheeks, making your blood hold the only taste in your mouth. your eyes follow his actions as he stands up from his seat, the metal chair sliding against the floor, making you wince again, taking a sharp breath as he crouches in front of you. “are you scared?”
his voice is no louder than a whisper, but it resonates like a loud thud against your ears. as if someone is screaming in your ears. irritability surges inside of you as you start pricking the skin alongside your nails obsessively, glancing into the camera, waiting for someone to arrive and help you get out of this. the silence in the room trails on your skin, eating you out, before you decide to take the matter in your own hands.
you stand up, pushing your chair away from him with your legs as you exhale heavily. “please, go back to your seat.” you don’t look at him, actively avoiding his sight by running your gaze all over the room anxiously, but you feel his eyes on you like a burden on your shoulders. there’s a sudden shift in the air as he stands up, dragging his chair just next to yours before taking a seat and waiting for you to continue.
“is this okay?” it’s not, and you hate how you feel as if you’ve lost your ability to speak and counter his actions, simply nodding as you sit apprehensively on your chair. you pick one of the files, frantically going through the pages instead of reading it with proper attention. at this point, the case is the last thing you care about. with a heart pacing unbelievably fast, you feel like you’re going to have a heart attack, while your mind is reciting nothing but chants and prayers for the prosecution team to come inside.
riki’s eyes follow your gaze, watching you as you flip though the documents, sweat covering your forehead. his irises settle upon your hand, the one you had injured deliberately in highschool, and then the scars on your fingers and wrist that you had acquired over the years, finally residing upon a certain word on one of the papers that makes him chortle. “do you know about renfield’s syndrome?”
it’s a question that leaves you perplexed, making you freeze in your stance. “yes— i mean, no, i don’t.”
“it’s clinical vampirism, obsession with drinking blood.” there’s slight amusement in his voice as he inches towards you, whispering those words with a straight face. that’s the first time in years you look into his dreadful eyes. a pause, silence fills in the air between the two of you before he claps abruptly, startling you with his maniacal laughter. "it's crazy, right? people don't want to accept that vampires exist so they make it a medical condition."
your blood runs cold at the sound of his laughter. riki was arrested as the prime suspect for one of the most gruesome cases, yet no remorse has been evident on his face ever since you stepped inside the room. you pay his words no mind— try to—because indulging into his thought process would do more to you than you want done, and is, if anything, unnecessarily time consuming. "what were you doing this thursday?"
you inquire, waiting for his response, but not a word comes out of his mouth. he leans against the chair, playing with the ring on his index finger with a stoic face. your breath fastens again, nervousness creeping in as the silence drowns you inside of it. you're scared of riki's words, but you fear his silence even more. it's like a thousand screams lay unveiled behind his silence, and he looks at you as if you're going to be one of them soon.
"why do you always run away from me, yn?" there's sadness dripping off his words along with unknown beads of guilt. "from the playground, then school. you had always run away from me." he removes his ring, placing it on the table before looking at you with a luscious glint in his eyes, the one you saw that day, in the playground. "it makes me want to chase you even more."
another series of villainous laughter spins in the air as you stand up, rushing towards the door to call for help, only for him to make you trip on the calloused floor with his legs. you think you’re finally connecting the dots. however, you don’t want to accept it. his questions hold no meaning to you since he knows exactly what happened. riki knows you didn’t run away from the playground. you told him to stay while you called someone for help, but you turned around when his sobs stopped, only to see him devouring on his bleeding knee succulently. running away was the only escape for the five year old you, who had witnessed her only friend turn out to be a devillious monster.
you fist up your hands again, wanting the nails to pierce through the skin of your palms. you find yourself in the same situations you used to run from in the past, except, there are no escapes with time. your vision blurs as a single tear rolls down your cheeks while you attempt to stand up again.
"there, there; let me help you," the only sound you're able to perceive is his footsteps approaching you as he locks the door, sliding the key back inside his pocket before crouching in front of you once again. “c’mon yn, stop running away. don’t you think we should catch up after all these years?”
strings of no’s fall off your lips along with the tears streaming down your face as you drag yourself away from him, against the cold floor. you look towards the cctv, praying that someone would report soon. truthfully, they should’ve been outside, checking up on the situation since it has taken so much time. you hear riki sigh before shooting you a pitiful gaze. “you know, the cctv isn’t working.”
and just like that, the last strands of hope you’ve been holding onto breaks as you look into the eyes of the person you’ve been running from all your life. it feels as if the world has stopped with your breath caught up inside your throat. you watch his lips curl into a smirk as he inches closer to you, halting a few inches before your ears, whispering, "no one will come." and before you could react, you felt his fangs pierce through your neck as you feel all your senses died down.
perhaps, your biggest mistake is that you saw a friend in a monster. you had known it all along, his habits, the way you saw his mother drink down his father's blood— all of it; and yet, you wanted to believe riki was different. the truth is that everyone is the same under their varied skin. their true colour surfaces according to the need, making them someone the world never assumes them to be, like the innocent boy you once knew became your worst nightmare. and now, all you could do is wait to die as the excruciating pain makes it harder for you to breathe with every passing second.
and hour flies by, and the door finally unlocks, revealing a gruesome scene mrs. jung— blood splatters on the floor and on the wall, scratches on riki's faces, signifying that you had tried to fight, although ending up losing terribly. your pale blue body catches her attention, especially your lifeless eyes that still stare at with disappointment and shock. riki stands up in a daze, handing her his blood-drenched handkerchief. "her mother is next."
taglist in the rbs.
More Posts from Rikidaze and Others
THE MAN YOU ARE SUNGHOON!!!!
sorry, i’m an anti-romantic — a park sunghoon x reader social media au (completed)
#summary: after years of casual dating and never committing to relationships, your friends challenge you to fall in love. which is why you seek out park sunghoon, the campus heartbreaker, to pretend to break your heart. little do you know: his reputation is a complete lie.
#pairing: park sunghoon x reader (she/her pronouns)
#genre: social media au, college au, fake dating au, strangers to lovers, humour, romance
#warnings: swearing (not excessive but just a warning in case that bothers you), mentions of alcohol consumption, jokes about death/suicide (“i want to kill you,” “i want to kill myself,” etc), jokes such as “i’m going crazy,” mentions of sex/one night stands (nothing explicit), very mild sexual jokes (very pg-13 i promise it’s nothing bad)
#start: december 8th 2021
#end: may 20th 2022
#status: completed
#update schedule: every four days at 3:00pm pst
#tag list: closed! please read this before asking; requests to be added will be (lovingly) ignored because they happen so often. you can check if you’re on my tag list at the bottom of this post or here
#disclaimer: i’m not going to be using any pictures of thin korean girls as the reader so you can picture yourself as you are!
Lees verder
OMGG LOVED THIS!!!
ROCK YOUR BODY
SYNOPSIS ⤏ a failed attempt at an old tiktok trend results in a very awkward encounter with a fellow idol.
PARING ⤏ idol!san x idol!femreader
GENRE ⤏ smau, romcom, idol au, strangers to friends to lovers, oblivious pining, literally one written chapter that's less than 600 words
FEATURING ⤏ ateez, boynextdoor, yunjin from lsf, keeho from p1h, heeseung and jay from enha, y/n from my empires smau (named yoona for less confusion 🩷)
FACECLAIM ⤏ faceclaim for y/n purely for picture purposes!! (@ s0meii0 on ig)
WARNINGS ⤏ swearing, sexual and kys/kms jokes, pls ignore timestamps 💔, a bunch of tiktoks, more to come
PLAYLIST ⤏ rock your body, justin timberlake | diva, beyonce | sticky, tyler, the creator | america has problem, beyonce | bad girls like you, tobii | jump, tyla | i'm yours, isabel larosa | because i liked a boy, sabrina carpenter | talk to me, cavetown | can't get over you, joji
STARTED ⤏ 11.22.2024
STATUS ⤏ complete ♡
PROFILES & CHAPTERS
hiraeth | ateez | others
prologue. WHO IS THIS DIVA
001. fine ass man
002. chronically online
003. what a gentleman 😍😍
004. i say ICONNN
005. i could be a good mother 😔
006. I'M BACK BABY
007. i'm surrounded by idiots
008. IS THAT FUCKING BIG BANG
009. meet u there :)
010. i love the shopping scandal 😍😍
011. y/n world domination
012. joongieeeeee
013. we're just friends
014. YEOSANG
015. ramen time 😏😏
016. pedro pascal
017. IT'S A VALID CONCERN
018. that should be me
019. good night
020. in love with this loser
021. i'm kinda scared
022. i love you (562 wc)
BONUS
bonus 1. cutie patootie
bonus 2. most iconic idol couples
bonus 3. YOU WILL NEVER BE KAI
☆©peacheeeliz, 2024
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ taglist is open!
`· . 𓈒 ᭢༘۠ ⸻ 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝓌𝒾𝒸𝑒 | n.rk smau [REVAMPED]
"of course your ex crush wouldnt believe you if you told him that his girlfriend was cheating on him."
or in which :: nishimura riki calls bullshit to your warnings and karma bites him right in the ass.
𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: enemy!riki x fem!reader
𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: smau, e2l, fluff, angst
𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: riki, enhypen, natty of kiof, yves, keeho of p1h, ningning of aespa, hanni of nwjns, and more
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: profanity, mentions of cheating, very poor attempt at humour, terrible rizz…
s𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙨: ongoing
𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 : send an ask to be added! since im revamping it, im making a new taglist so please ask to be added again
𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: helloooo i am back with the intention of revamping this smau so pls look forward to it!!
﹒ ⠀ ➣ PROFILES
PROLOGUE
i. POOPURIN BRACELET
ii. LADY PRINCESS DAYS
AAHHH I’M IN LOVE 🫶🎀
NOONA — p. sunghoon smau
PAIRING younger!sunghoon x older!fmr
SYNOPSIS park sunghoon experienced love at first sight when he first laid eyes on his friends older sister. a series of sunghoon desperately trying to do anything in his power to get the girl and yang jungwon cockblocking him for funsies.
GENRE smau, fluff, highschool/college au, crack, sunghoon having no shame
FEATURING ( enha ) all, ( aespa ) karina + winter, ( txt ) beomgyu + soobin, ( loona ) olivia hye
WARNINGS swearing, kys/kms jokes, friendly bullying, dick/sex jokes, sunghoon crying every other chapter ( more will be added if necessary )
STATUS complete
TAGLIST (CLOSED)
S. NOTE adding this note here to remind everyone to not spam like! it shadowbans my posts and lessens my engagement, enjoy <3
PROFILES loser lamo wannabe | WOMEN IN STEM (and man) | privs
CHAPTERS
01 | BLONDE JAKE HATE PAGE
02 | surprise shawty!
03 | what’s her name, quickly
04 | why’s he kinda…
05 | not a virgin anymore
06 | all da virgins mad😹
07 | do it for noona
08 | he’s out of line. let’s kill him.
09 | we both crode (+written 0.5k)
10 | you are scaring the hoes
11 | not living not laughing not loving
12 | she won’t me
13 | sounds sus…
14 | hey dweeb
15 | me n her are like this🤞🏼
16 | you wanna kiss me so bad
17 | i’m bathed in his blood
↳ extra: can you fight
18 | never beating them delusions
19 | what the actual fuck dawg
20 | you scare me sometimes
21 | what did you just call me
22 | hoes be mad
23 | gotta make mommy proud
24 | HES SO!:&:@2’d
25 | no comment
26 | the sexy six (+heeseung)
27 | y’all
28 | messy girls
29 | a little birdie told me
30 | i’m better than her
31 | BRING HER BACK🗣️
32 | heart brocken
↳ extra: ask me if i care
33 | i’ll understand
34 | I WAS A LITTLE EMOSH
35 | is it cause i’m too swaggie
36 | imma dawg imma freak
37 | y’all hear sumn😰
38 | ruh oh
39 | liverboy
40 | what if i was suicidal
41 | omg hes fucking french
42 | girl what
↳ extra: i can fix her❤️
43 | virgin with a capital P (+written 0.4k)
44 | in big 20 23
45 | kill you’reself
46 | i hate virgins
47 | we’re breaking up.
48 | the ‘park’ date (+written 0.4k)
49 | YOU CANNY TRICK MEH
50 | i’m gonna eat him
51 | not you lying on my name
52 | back up missy
↳ extra: deez nuts
53 | WELL THATS TOO DAMN BAD
54 | shut up 5’9
55 | /sad
56 | have some shame
57 | elimination
58 | do it No balls.
59 | past tense of see. seew
60 | CIC
↳ extra: random
EP1 | proof or it didn’t happen
EP2 | his ass is NOT studying
EP3 | #SNOWAPPDIE
copyright © hoonvrs 2023 all rights reserved
AAAAHHH THIS IS EVERYTHING!!!! I LOVE THIS SHIT!!!!! best friends to lovers?!?!? SIGN ME TF UP!!!!
JUST FRIENDS — n.rk
albeit the lines of your friendship were quite blurred, it still confused you as to why riki was suddenly adamant on having your hair tie on his wrist at all times. given, you know, that it would be basically telling the world that the two of you were dating.
GENRE— fluff, highschool au, friends to lovers
WARNINGS— lots of touching, jealousy, mutual pining but they are both oblivious idiots, cursing, toxicity (they are huge haters imo), kissing, slight making out (?), let me know if I missed any!
WORDCOUNT— 6.4k
NOTE— fluff is my biggest enemy, so this was quite the challenge for me. bnd ver posted here!
YOU AND RIKI WERE CLOSE. Too close, according to the rest of your friends.
You both had been best friends since kindergarten, the story of your meeting never failing to tear a chuckle out of anyone who heard it.
You were three years old, having arrived at kindergarten a few minutes ago. You were scared to go and talk to the other kids — what if they were mean? What if they laughed at your pretty bows? What if they didn't want to play with you?
You sat in one corner, away from the other kids, playing with a small doll. Amidst your playing, you saw little feet approach you. You looked up, noticing a boy of your age. He stared right back at you, before pointing at you. “You are going to be my best friend!”
The boy had later introduced himself to be Riki, and you both had truly become best friends. The two of you were together through thick and thin, never leaving each other's side. There were no secrets between the two of you, the thought itself incredulous. You both were best friends, why on earth would you both hide something from each other?
Your bond was unbreakable, something that left many writhing in envy. How come you both were so close, never able to leave each other's side?
With a good bond, comes judgement. Judgement by others, assumptions about your true relationship.
While you both were close, not everyone knew that you both were best friends, right? To any stranger, you both were the embodiment of 'siblings, or dating?'.
While you both bickered and were playful enough to be termed as siblings, the way you both acted with each other, often left people confused.
See, your love language was physical touch, while his was acts of service. After spending so much time with each other for all these years, you both were bound to rub off on each other, weren't you?
His hand was almost always on your waist, or your shoulders — didn't matter where you guys were, or what you were doing — it was always there. If somehow he forgot to put his hand around you, you would loop your arm around his, or intertwine your hands. It was cute, definitely very cute, but — the extreme couple energy that you both excluded was insane.
It didn't help that you were often touching him, skinship being basically your second nature. You were always fixing his hair, his clothes, touching him while you were speaking to him, while you were laughing with him — how could you both expect anyone to believe that you weren't dating each other?
Not only that, both of you would often be seen giving each other random gifts, without it being a special occasion. You were often seen giving Riki a chocolate at a random time of the day, while he was often delivering milk to you. If anyone asked, he always had the same excuse: “She doesn't drink enough water, she needs to stay hydrated”, while you always said “he likes chocolates, is it so wrong of me to give chocolates to a friend?” Needless to say, they always backed off after that.
It was only after a certain set of incidents that everyone finally had something to confirm that yes, you both were indeed more than friends.
IT WAS A QUARTER PAST SEVEN IN THE MORNING, fifteen minutes left for the start of the first period. You and Riki had arrived at school just five minutes ago, with his hand around your waist as usual. The two of you were giggling at some tea you were spilling regarding a relationship between a senior and a sophmore, since you were physically incapable of keeping things from him. Just as you were getting to the good part of the gossip, one of Riki’s friends from the football team ran up to the two of you. Jake.
“Hey lovebirds!” Jake cheerily waved to the both of you, his tone teasing. You simply rolled your eyes with a smile, having gotten used to the antics of his friends. “Riki, dude, I'm gonna need a favour — one of our frontiers is absent, and none of the subs are available. Please help us out for today's match — I promise I'll make it up to you, even if we don't win. You will even have a customized jersey for the match, which you can keep with yourself permanently–!”
Riki hesitated, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “I don't know, I was planning on leaving early with ___ today, to get ice cream and all…”
You immediately pinched his hand that was around your waist. “He means yes, we can always reschedule the hangout.”
Jake's eyes lit up. “Really?! Thank you so much, you have no idea how desperately we needed another player — I'll go tell the others now, you can come and practice with us during recess!”
Just before he could leave, you halted him, getting out of Riki's grasp. “Jake, wait–”
He stopped on the spot, looking at you with a confused gaze. “Something wrong?”
You stepped forward, brushing some hair out of his face gently, smoothing the slightly messy hair on top of head. You took a step back. “There you go, the mess was bothering me.”
He blinked, a faint red coating his cheeks and creeping up his neck. He was well aware of your touchy nature, but this was the first time he was on the receiving end of it, hence his flustered state. “O-Oh, thanks — I- I'll go now–”
He quickly turned on his heel and left, a light jog evident in his retreating figure. You turned back towards Riki, a smile on your face. “Let's go to class, or else we might be late.”
He nodded, his arm looping around your waist once more, guiding you around the busy halls, to class. You couldn't help but notice the slightly tighter grip he had on your waist, or the way his expression was different than his usual when you turned back towards him.
CLASS WAS BORING AS USUAL. The two of you sat at the back of class, messing around as usual instead of studying. Yet, there was something amiss.
Usually, Riki was a lot more playful, a lot more relaxed and free around you. Currently however, there seemed to be an air of hesitation, reluctance around him. His smile didn't exactly reach his eyes, his laughter feeling forced.
‘Maybe he just isn't feeling it today?’ was what you thought, so you didn't bother asking. You knew if something was seriously bothering him, he would have told you already.
Before long, the bell rang, signifying recess. You quickly held Riki's hand, pulling him out of his seat, and racing into the hall. You both had already eaten in class, — how you both never get caught, is a mystery you're both yet to solve — so he would have the entire recess to practice with the rest of the football team for the match that was going to take place later on.
You both quickly navigate your way to the football ground, spotting Jake and the rest of the team doing lazy stretches to warm up first. He spotted the two of you quickly enough, waving and rushing over to where you both were standing.
“Hey,” he began, a grin adorning his face. “I'm so glad you didn't change your mind — ___, you can sit on the benches and watch if you'd like, I'm sure the others won't mind! Also, coach got the customized jersey done already — no idea how he got it done so quickly — it's there in the locker rooms, so you can change into that right now if you'd like!”
You admired his ability to yap continually without stopping, making you smile a little. You nodded in his direction, nudging Riki to go and change already, before quickly walking over to the benches and taking a seat.
Soon enough, Riki was back, adorning the jersey, making your jaw drop. You couldn't take your eyes off him — you had never seen him in attire similar to that before, but damn, he sure did look amazing.
Your face flushed slightly, as you quickly tried to snap out of these thoughts. Nope, that's your best friend, you're not going to think of him in that sense.
You watched as they all played, Riki surprisingly being able to keep pace with them. You never watched him play before, the sight drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His concentration was — were you blushing?!
God, what was wrong with you? Had you been single for so long that the sight of your best friend simply practicing in the field had you all giddy?
The rest of the recess went on smoothly, with you trying not to concentrate on Riki too much, lest someone caught you with your cheeks on fire. God, you really needed to get yourself together.
Once practice was over, Riki quickly went to you, his usual smile back on face. You handed him a bottle of water, quickly wiping his sweat off him. He started babbling while you were doing so. “Did you see that? I did pretty good back there, right? Jake said that he was confident we would win the match today, and said I was better than the guy I'm subbing for! Isn't that great?”
You let out a hum, finishing wiping off his sweat. “Yea, you were amazing. C'mon now, we need to run, or else we will be late for history — you know how ma'am gets when someone is even two seconds late.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He didn't need to know that you weren't exactly watching much of what he was doing, or that you were only watching him.
AS SOON AS THE BELL FOR THE LAST PERIOD RANG, nearly the whole school raced to the grounds. All the players, including Riki, ran to the locker rooms to change, whereas the rest of the students quickly found the best seats possible.
You sat at the very front, a bottle of water and a towel already in your hands. You were a little tense for the match, since the opponent team seemed to be extremely well prepared. Still, you tried to not let your mind wander, focusing on Riki, as he came out of the locker rooms, into the field.
The match started. The opposing team was putting up a good defense, but Riki’s team was able to keep up. It was hard to watch, the many nearly-goals and nearly-fouls heightening your nerves. You tried to not let them get to your head, focusing instead on cheering for Riki.
Half time arrived soon enough, with both the teams having scored one goal each. Riki came straight to you, quickly taking the bottle from your hand, gulping it all down. He gave you a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I'm really nervous for the match. The opposing team is… starting to get angry. I don't think they expected us to keep up, so they were a little dumbfounded. But now they are simply pissed — they aren't exactly known for being the fairest when it comes to playing football, and winning.”
You bit your lip, wiping off his sweat with the towel. “But they can't use unfair means to win, can they? They will get a foul…”
Your words died down on your tongue once you noticed his grim expression. “If they somehow injured one of us, leaving us incapable of playing, what is one red card going to do? They have subs available, we don't. If one of us is out, the match would already be lost.”
You didn't know what to say in order to encourage or comfort him. You knew that the reputation of their opponents wasn't the best, but there was nothing anyone could do, other than to stay safe and try their best. So that's what you told him.
He gave you an amused smile. A teasing glint appeared in his eyes.“You sound worried. Are you scared that they might hurt me?”
You scowled at him. “This isn't a joke! They could actually injure you, can't you just give me your word that you will at least try to stay safe?”
He let out a small snicker, before giving you a mock salute. “Of course ma'am. Just do me a favour, will you?”
You tilted your head to the side. A favour? Now? You decided not to question it. “Sure I can. But it depends on what it is.”
He grinned at you, before pulling his jersey off him, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. That explained why he was sweating more than the others. Who even wears two layers to a football match?
He shoved it in your chest. “Wear it, and cheer for me.”
You gave him an incredulous look. “No way! It's literally drenched in your sweat.”
He pouted, giving you a pleading look. “Please? For me? It's only for an hour and a half, can't you do it? I'll feel a lot more motivated then. C'mon, just do it, please–”
You groaned at his incessant begging. “Fine! I'll wear it — just… ugh, help me out with it–”
The grin on his face grew, as he quickly helped slide the jersey onto you. He proudly made you twirl for him, with you hiding your face in your hands from the utter embarrassment of it — but complying nonetheless. Unbeknownst to you, a smug smirk adorned his face, as he locked eyes with Jake in the process, who quickly looked away, his ears turning red at having been caught looking.
The whistle sounded again, signifying the start of the second half. Riki quickly left, the hurried ‘good luck!’ that you threw at him bringing a smile to his face.
You watched as he advanced into the field with renowned vigour, the determined expression on his face soothing your nerves slightly. You made sure to cheer for him even louder than before, the grin that he threw your way making it worth the looks that were shot in your direction.
But the opposing team did not relent. Eager to match Riki's newfound enthusiasm, they changed their strategies. The brutality in every move that they made caused your anxiety to spike.
Riki's team, however, didn't let it deter them. Everyone was determined to win, to not succumb to the team that always tries to get their way through unfair means.
Speaking of unfair means, the attempts at making foul moves increased ten-fold. Many of the players in Riki's team were almost injured, but somehow they managed to avoid it at the last second. Why the referee wasn't giving any yellow cards, was beyond your imagination.
The clock was ticking down. Not a single goal had been made. The audience was starting to lose hope, the enthusiasm in their cheers starting to fade. You made sure to continue screaming, cheering them on as best as you could. In the midst of it all, Riki glanced at you. Upon seeing the expression on your face, he made it his personal mission to win. He had to, for you. He wasn't going to disappoint you, he swore to himself.
With a determined look, he surged forward, trying to get to the ball. Jake had the ball, and he locked eyes with him. Upon noticing the younger’s determined expression, he managed to pass the ball to him.
Riki caught the ball without any interceptions, quickly racing towards the goal. He skillfully avoided all the attempts to tackle him, running as fast as possible to the goal. The goalkeeper froze, upon noticing the expression on his face.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, he struck. With a sudden burst of strength, he kicked the ball, watching as it flew into the goalpost, the goalkeeper just narrowly missing it.
The sudden uproar that erupted was deafening to say the least. His teammates were hugging and whooping, patting him on the back. The exhilarating feeling that came from the win, made him feel lighter, as if he was on cloud nine.
His eyes searched for you, noticing you trying to get past the huge crowd towards him. He quickly navigated his way out of the crowd, making his way towards you. As soon as he was in front of you, he wrapped his arms around your waist, making you squeal, as he picked you up and spun you in the air. His grin was wide, your own grin almost as wide as his. “We won! We actually fucking won! Did you see my last goal? I looked cool right? I still can't believe I actually made the goal–”
In the midst of his yapping, one of your friends was wiping his sweat off for him. While you tried to not let it show, you couldn't help the jealousy that flared inside you at the intimate gesture. You were supposed to do it for him, not her. Riki didn't even seem to notice, too focused on telling you the details — as if you didn't witness it all by yourself.
Unable to bear the sight of her wiping off his sweat with a random towel, you grabbed his hand, pulling him away. You both set into a sprint, away from the people congratulating him.
As soon as you reached a somewhat secluded region of the school, you turned to him, your arms crossed over your chest. But before you could speak, he spoke first, his breathing coming in short pants. “Goddamn woman, I just won a match, you're already making me run again? Cut me some slack, will you?”
You rolled your eyes, ignoring his outburst. “Why did you let her do it?”
He looked at you, confused. “Huh? Let who do what…?”
You gave him an incredulous look. “Her. You let her wipe off your sweat for you — don't tell me that you didn't notice it at all?!”
He still looked confused. “Huh? Someone did that? I didn't even realise — I was talking to you, so I was distracted, I guess. But why does it matter?”
You gave him a pointed look, frustration evident in your eyes. Why wasn't he getting it?! “‘Why does it matter?’ Because I'm your best friend! I always do it for you, so why would you let her do it as well? If I'm your best friend, then shouldn't I get treated as such? Shouldn't I be treated differently from the rest of our friends? Why are you letting her do something that only I do to you?”
His eyes widened, before he frowned. “I didn't even notice her doing it… but if I should treat you differently from the rest of our friends, shouldn't you do the same to me as well? Why should this be a one-sided arrangement?”
Now it was your time to frown. “One-sided? How is this one-sided?! I always treat you differently, how have I ever treated you similar to the rest of our friends?”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don't know, maybe yesterday? When you fixed Jake's hair for him? Since when did you start fixing people's hair other than mine?”
You were at a loss for words. You simply opened and closed your mouth several times, like a fish out of water.
Riki spoke again. “How about this: I pay more attention to my surroundings, while you keep your hands to yourself? Don't go around touching other people's hair, that should be reserved for me only. Do we have a deal?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “Fine. We have a deal.”
You usually didn't back down from fights that easily. But everything seemed to be different when it involved Riki.
TRUE TO YOUR DEAL, the two of you didn't treat others even remotely similar to how you treated each other anymore. Both of you grew much closer than before. People could easily pick up on the change in the air around the two of you, the shippers going slightly insane. When were the two of you going to announce your relationship officially?
Neither of you paid much attention to those silly rumours, always dismissing the teasing. Friends were allowed to be possessive of each other, were they not? Was it a crime to want some things to be just between you guys, and not for everyone else to know and judge?
Days went by the same, the teasing never stopped. But it was always there from the very beginning of your friendship, not just from classmates, but outsiders and family members as well. Both of you had grown used to it.
Recently, both you and Riki had noticed the trend of wearing hair ties on wrists. While it wasn't an uncommon sight for girls, it certainly was for boys. What do they need a hair tie for, when their hair is so short?
It was quickly discovered that the hair ties were actually of their girlfriends’, them wearing it on their wrists being a sign of commitment — and the general fact that they had a girlfriend.
Of course, it flared jealousy among those who weren't in a relationship — including you and Riki. Both of you glared in resentment at anyone who had a hair tie on their wrist, always greeting them with a bitchy eye roll. Both of you, like every other single person, loved to hate on couples, betting on when they would break up, if they were cheating on their partner, and whatnot. You both were always met with the same responses: ‘Just wait till you get into a relationship.’
Your responses were the same too. The same eye roll, paired with a pissed off comment, either mocking them, or talking about how neither of you would ever bother with dating anyone. Everytime, you both were met with an exchange of amused glances. Neither of you ever understood that they meant when you both would get together.
It started to get unbearable after a while, with almost everyone wearing a hair tie on their wrist. It was frankly starting to annoy Riki a lot, to the point that he snapped at his friends, which was uncharacteristic of him. It was only then that the guys gave him the obvious solution: to wear a hair tie as well.
Wearing a hair tie on his wrist was easier said than done. For Christ’s sake, he didn't have a girlfriend! Why would he wear a hair tie on his wrist, when he didn't have someone's to wear?
But then a crazy thought struck him. He may not have a girlfriend, but he definitely had a girl best friend. You. He could wear your hair tie on his wrist, right?
Turns out, you didn't share the same views as him.
“ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY NOT. Where did you even get this crazy idea from?!”
Riki bit his lip, rubbing his nape sheepishly. “Well — the guys keep teasing me, so I got desperate, and… uhm…”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes, and sighing. “Riki, you're aware that only couples wear hair ties on their wrists, right? We,” You gestured between the two of you. “are not a couple. You wearing my hair tie on your wrist would be indicating that I'm your girlfriend. Which I'm clearly not. Let's not give everyone another incentive to tease us, yea?”
He let out a groan. “Oh, c’mon, who cares what others think? We can just — make an excuse — tell them that I'm wearing it because you keep losing your hair ties, so I'm basically your hair tie holder. How does that sound?”
You gave him an incredulous look. “No one will ever buy that shitty excuse.”
He scowled at you. “Oh, like you could come up with something better.”
You nodded enthusiastically, although it was completely sarcastic. “Of course I can! We forget this conversation! Because we both know what the hair tie would indicate. Not just to others, but between us too.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “I don't care. I'm going to wear one.”
You rolled your eyes. But before you could open your mouth to retort, Riki grabbed the hair tie that you used to meticulously tie your hair into a ponytail and pulled.
You watched in shock, as your hair came undone, your hair tie now in his hand. With a smug smirk, he wore it on his wrist, showing it to you proudly, before going off to his class. “Bye ___! See you after this period!”
Oh, he was definitely going to see you. Maybe two of you or even more, depending on how hard you punch him.
JUST AS EXPECTED, you both were on the receiving end of everyone’s teasing, becoming the new hot topic of your school. No matter how much you both tried to ignore it, it just didn’t work.
Questions about whether you both were secretly dating or not followed you both left and right, comments assuming the status of your relationship were thrown about casually — it was simply too much. None of your friends believed you either, their cheeky smiles and teasing comments following you both everywhere.
All because of Riki’s obsession with wanting to wear your hair tie.
At some point you both got sick of trying to clear up the accusations, just letting people think what they wanted to. After all, their assumptions and comments weren’t going to magically come true, just because they think a certain way.
Right?
THE TEASING HAD GOTTEN TO A POINT WHERE NEITHER OF YOU COULD STAND IT ANYMORE, causing you both to avoid people as much as possible. Did no one understand the concept of personal space anymore? Or did they forget that minding their own damn business would always be more fruitful than trying to gather tea about other people’s love lives, or lack thereof?
Most of the time, you both hung out in the library or rooftop, sometimes even resorting to taking refuge in the janitor’s closet, that’s how much you both were affected by the constant teasing. How come everyone was so damn invested in the love life of you both, when it didn’t even concern them in the slightest?
Today was no different. From the morning, all you both could hear were comments like ‘So when are you guys planning on making it official?’, ‘When will you both drop the bomb?’, ‘Don’t bother lying, it’s too obvious that you both are super into each other.’, etc., etc. Your fist was clenched tightly by your side, Riki’s grip on your waist also tighter than usual. The urge to punch them in the faces was extremely high. When were they going to get bored of teasing you both?
In order to escape them, Woohak steered you through the crowd, escaping into the stairway. The two of you quickly climbed up the stairs, going to the rooftop. You pushed the door to the terrace open, the cold wind whipping in your faces. Riki slammed the door shut behind him using his foot, his hand never leaving your waist.
You went towards the railing, leaning on top of it. Riki finally let go of your waist, leaning on the railing beside you. Neither of you spoke, simply enjoying the feeling of the cool breeze, and the majestic view of the cityscape beneath. The cars and people looked quite tiny from up there, like ants, which was to be expected, given that your school building was eight stories tall.
Suddenly, Riki cleared his throat. He spoke up, his voice low, eyes facing his front. “Do the rumours and the constant teasing bother you too much?”
You snapped your head towards him, your eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “Where is this coming from?”
He looked at you. “You know, the constant questions and comments that are thrown in our way? It just — it got me thinking: ‘What if it all bothered you too much? What if our friendship isn’t worth all the comments and excessive teasing we face?’ Just stuff like that.”
Your eyes widened in shock. “Oh my god — don’t you ever think like that, you hear me? Just because some people like to be annoying and poke their big ass nose in our goddamn business, doesn’t mean our friendship isn’t worth the trouble. Do you really care about other people’s opinions enough to end our friendship? Just like that?”
He quickly shook his head. “No no no, absolutely not — I just thought… actually, nevermind. I thought the rumours were making you uncomfortable, I’m glad I was wrong.”
A hint of a smile crept up your face, as you looked in front of you again. “A few silly comments can never make me break my friendship with you. You’re my best friend, aren’t you? Best friends are supposed to stick together, no matter what. Through thick and thin, all of our ups and downs Riki.”
He looked in front of him again, letting out a scoff, which was supposed to be an amused one, but it came out more bitter than intended. “Yea, best friends… that’s all we'll ever be…”
The last part was quiet, but you still heard it. The tips of your ears burned, a flush creeping up your neck. You quickly tried to change the subject. “L-Let’s try something.”
He furrowed his brows, looking at you again. “Try what?”
You bit your lip, quickly trying to think of something. “Uhm — let’s climb the railing and sit on it! Sounds fun, right?”
He raised a brow. “Absolutely not. That’s the stupidest, and most dangerous idea you’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”
You pouted. “Come on, it’s not that bad — the railings are sturdy, we won’t fall.”
Riki firmly shook his head. “Nope. You want to climb it? Be my guest. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when you fall off and possibly break your leg. Or an arm. Or crack open your skull. Either way, I will say ‘I told you so’.”
You rolled your eyes, beginning to climb it up. “Oh shut up — I’m sure you would love to goad about it, if I fell off. You revel in my misery after all, don’t you–?”
You got cut off by a yelp of your own, your hand slipping. Riki immediately came to your rescue, pulling you off the railing. In complete and utter fear of the sudden momentary lapse of judgement that almost caused you to fall off the roof, you turned around, hugging him tightly.
He held you close, wrapping his own arms around your waist. He could feel your heart beating erratically in your chest, matching his own. He couldn’t believe how stupid and unaware of your surroundings you were.
He glared down at how you buried your head in his chest, in disbelief of your previous actions. You were shaking slightly in his hands, but he didn’t care. “Are you fucking insane?! You knew that was dangerous, why on earth would you still try to climb the damned railings? For the love of god, you could have fallen off and died!”
You meekly raised your head, preparing to retort, before freezing. He was so, so close. You could make out every single detail on his face, every freckle, every pore, every single blemish. Yet, he was so… mesmerizing.
Riki’s heart skipped a beat as he looked down at you. His voice took a softer edge, a gentle note evident in it. “Promise me that you will never…”
Too lost in his eyes, you didn’t hear him. His voice and every other noise faded to the background, your sole focus being on his eyes. They were pulling you in, drowning you in them. Like a siren luring an unsuspecting victim.
Your lips parted slightly, as you kept staring at him, his warm breath fanning your face. He swallowed hard, realizing exactly how close you were. The adrenaline pumping in his veins was fucking with his head, thoughts of what your lips would feel like against his filling his mind. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, the urge growing, before they quickly darted back up to your eyes, meeting your gaze once again. “Promise me.”
The words seemed to be stuck in your throat, which suddenly felt parched. “I…”
His breath hitched, eyes fixed on your parted lips once again. His heart was still racing, the world seeming to narrow down to just the two of you, standing flush together on the roof. “You…” He whispered, leaning just a fraction closer without realizing it. “You what?” It came out softer than intended, just a barely audible murmur.
You swiped your tongue over your bottom lip, wetting it with your saliva. The words tumbled out of your mouth, without you even realizing it. “God, you’re so pretty…”
Riki’s world seemed to stop, his mind going blank. His grip on your waist tightened slightly. “What did you say?” He whisper-hissed, leaning just a tad bit closer. His gaze flickered down to your lips again. The shift in the atmosphere around the two of you was becoming impossible to ignore, becoming electric with unsaid words and unacted-upon impulses.
You blinked, biting down on your lip. There was no going back now. “You’re pretty…”
His heart skipped a beat, then another, then another. He could barely believe what he was hearing — no one had ever called him ‘pretty’ before. Sure, he had heard other words: handsome, attractive, stunning, eye-catching — but ‘pretty’? Never did he hear that one before. But damn, he would be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart race — probably more than the other praises ever did. It was a word typically reserved for women, but hearing it from you directed towards him? It made his brain short-circuit.
He asked you again, just to confirm. “Pretty?”
You nodded, no longer scared of his reaction. “Very much so.”
He felt his cheeks flush again at the unusual comment. He was blushing, and he never blushed. But everything seemed to be different when he was around you.
His mind was reeling, as he tried to process this new information. You, his best friend, thought he was pretty. He leaned even closer, his lips just a hair breath away from yours now. “You really think I’m pretty?” He whispered, his voice just barely audible.
You gulped, nodding. “Yea — yea, I do.”
His heart started pounding rapidly in his chest, his breathing shallow. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, the closeness of your lips, the way you were looking up at him. It was starting to all fade out into white noise, the sound of his rapidly beating heart in his ears. His eyes zeroed in on your parted lips, and something in him snapped.
Throwing all rational thought out of the window, he closed the barely there gap between your both, softly pressing his lips to yours. Your lips were as soft as a cloud, feeling pillowy against his. The kiss was brief, barely more than a whisper. It was nothing more than a peck, but it was enough to make his heart jump out of his chest, into his throat. When he pulled back, his eyes were as wide as saucers, surprised by his own boldness. “I–”
You didn’t let him complete his sentence. You grabbed his face, cupping it with both hands, pulling his face towards yours again. You kissed him again, with a lot more vigour, pouring out your pent up feelings into the kiss.
He was caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the kiss, but he melted into it. His hands pulled you even closer, as if trying to meld your body into his. He parted his lips, deepening the kiss, as he felt your arms wrap around his neck, pulling you even closer.
One of his hands came up to your face, cupping it, tilting his own to further deepen the kiss. The lack of air was starting to hurt, despite how addicting your lips were. He pulled back slowly, not before gently biting down on your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, before letting go of it with a pop.
You felt a little dazed, but still smiled up at him, your eyes slightly hazy and unfocused. He chuckled at your state, planting a kiss on top of your head. “Pretty, huh?”
Your cheeks grew warmer at the teasing undertone in his voice. “Shut up. I meant it, you know.”
His grin grew wider, as he kissed your cheek. “I know. I hope this is a good time to say that I like you? Like, I really fucking like you, I was just scared to confess because of the recent situation… with the excessive teasing and all… and, well, the fear of rejection.”
You hit his arm. “You silly goose — if I didn’t like you back, do you think I would behave the way I do with you? Absolutely not. You’re lucky I put up with your antics, you know.”
He rolled his eyes, although there was a smile on his face, one which he didn’t bother hiding. “You know, the hair tie was just a ploy? I just wanted any potential suitors to back off of you, but I didn’t expect people to react like… that.”
You let out a giggle. “I figured. It was honestly a really cute, albeit smart move on your part. Certainly made everyone back off… only to approach us with a different reason.”
He smiled down at you, his expression utterly lovesick. His eyes were practically resembling hearts. “D’you think if we announced it officially they would finally stop?”
You shrugged. “Probably not. Hopefully yes. But — in order to make it official, you need to ask me first, you know? Learn to be a gentleman, Riki.” The last bit was just you teasing him, something that he caught on to pretty quickly.
He playfully rolled his eyes, before speaking theatrically. “Fine — would you like to do the honour of becoming my girlfriend, ___? Wait no, scratch that — would you make me the happiest man alive by letting me take the position of your boyfriend?”
You scoffed in amusement at his dramatics, before pretending to think. “Take me out on a date first, then I will think of it.”
He gave you a smug grin, a determined glint in his eyes. “Deal.”
PERMANENT TAGLIST— @senascoooop
AS HE SHOULD BE!!
— dating down bad!park sunghoon
✰ summary — series of social media posts based on dating an astronomically down bad park sunghoon.
✰ genre — smau, humor, fluff.
✰ warnings — swearing, suggestiveness (minors dni)
✰ a/n — this one was again so hard to come up with ideas with girl 💀 anyways special thanks to @hoondrop for helping me come up with his handle lol
── .✦ THE RIGHT THING (y jw)
PAIRING: idol! jungwon x idol fem! reader
SYNOPSIS: as the only female soloist under belift lab you get paired for a collaboration stage with your trainee days’ best friend—enhypen’s leader yang jungwon. your once close friendship brutally ended after misunderstandings and unspoken truths. now, will being forced to work together help you and jungwon rebuild your connection? or will your complicated past and the pressure of the industry break you apart forever?
GENRE: smau + written parts , best friends to (one sided) enemies to lovers , second chance , forced proximity , he fell first and harder , idol au , angst , fluff — FEATURING: enhypen (all members) , lesserafim (kazuha as face claim) , ive (wonyoung, liz, rei) , nmixx (sullyoon) — TW: profanity , kms/kys jokes , alcohol and being drunk , mental health issues , typos , + individual tw in each chapter , english is not my first language ! , this is a work of fiction and doesn’t reflect the idols in real life ! — library! — perm taglist open !
TAGLIST: open
STATUS: ongoing (started: 2025/02/01 — ended: ?)
a/n: okay so i’m warning you the first half of the chapters will probably be very angsty but i swear it will get better let’s trust the process!!! 🫵🏻 ++ the updates will probably be slow for now because i have literally no motivation i’m stuck but we’ll see how it goes 🥲
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prologue
chapter 1: nothing much
chapter 2: 04 liners from sm
chapter 3: nice to see you again (wc: 0.6k)
chapter 4: acting like this (wc: 0.5k)
chapter 5: wasted
chapter 6: I DID WHAT
chapter 7: hangover (wc: 1.1k)
chapter 8: stiff asf
chapter 9: wonyn
chapter 10: he looks like shit
chapter 11: 🆘 leader nim
chapter 12: breathe (wc: 1.3k)
chapter 13: still talks about you
more coming soon !
────
likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated !
🏷️ perm taglist: @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @who-tf-soddhi @bacons-thighs @athenaisonlinee @st4rryst4r @jellyluv4eva @delirioastral @vvenusoncasual @jiiyen @firstclassjaylee @claumbeju @manaah02
© 2025 all rights reserved to user whjluv
A PLACE YOU CAN RETURN TO ┊ MIYA OSAMU
synopsis: now back in the place you grew up you’re quickly drawn to an old flame and those you would always call family. with careful hands you work to repair the ties that you’d cut, and maybe end up creating something new.
tags: AFAB reader, childhood sweethearts to exes / exes to lovers, lost connections, returning home, single dad osamu, original child character (miya mamoru), minor character death (oc), mention of pregnancy complications (preeclampsia; death by haemorrhaging), dealing with grief + guilt, alcohol (but no one is drunk), food to communicate love (reader does eat fish; osamu watches you eat), angst + fluff, family feels, no power dynamics, emotional + protected vaginal sex, vaginal oral (reader receiving), multiple orgasms, shower sex, hand jobs
wc: 15.5k
Despite being the capital city of the Hyōgo prefecture, Kōbe was like a black hole slowly pulling your body apart. You feel a growing, malignant dissonance as you stand silent in the centre of your new apartment, the disturbing sensation that time had passed and yet nothing had changed. Nothing but you.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with Kōbe. The city held all your childhood memories, your first steps and first friends, your first words and your first love, but through your adolescence you’d slowly begun to fear that you’d unwittingly shackled yourself to one place. You wanted something more, something bigger. There was grief, too. The loss of what, of who, you’d left behind had followed you all over the country. Even though you’d left, this place held onto a part of your soul with a white-knuckle grip that you never did shake.
Now you are back where it all started, your home so familiar yet so foreign. The apartment is a little bigger than your last, surprisingly seen as the rent was the same, and the walls housed full length windows that allowed light to flood into the space. An ache spreads along your arms, tissue deep, strained from a long weekend of moving heavy furniture and placating neighbours. Your stomach twists with hunger, and you grimace at the thought of your empty fridge.
Food it is.
An atmosphere of melancholy settles around you like a weighted blanket as your feet carry you further into the city, the collar of your coat popped and shielding your neck. Memories linger like a ghost, eyes drawn to all the places you would go when you were younger. Voracious laughter, running home against the harsh fall winds, the hesitant brush of fingers, sharing food under the shelter of the bus stop and the patter of rain, dry lips pressed clumsily to yours.
The smell of freshly made food fills your senses as a stranger steps out in front of you, warmth kissing your cheeks as the heat from the restaurant momentarily blows out onto the street before the door swings back shut.
Loose strands of hair irritate your eyes as you look up, the breeze sharp as she passes. Anxiety and disbelief chip away at you as you register what the sign says. It must be fate playing a bad joke, you think.
Onigiri Miya.
The curiosity is a little too strong for you to ignore. There’s a small queue at the counter and you take your place at the back, shifting the weight of your body between your feet as you wait nervously. You are the only one that appears so tightly strung, the other customers all at ease, the low tones of their voices carrying throughout the restaurant above the sound of cutlery and moving chairs.
His voice, though, is unmistakable. Something expands in your chest, a swell of longing filling a space you weren’t aware of until now. Osamu had always been handsome, a different flavour of charming than his brother. He carries himself in a manner that sets you at ease, just the same as you remember, but his shoulders were wider, arms somehow thicker with muscle yet softened with time and faint lines by his eyes as he grins.
You approach the counter and he lifts his head from the money he’s counting in his hands, mouth parting to greet you with a rehearsed script before he truly registers who you are.
He says your name with a lilt of disbelief, but happily nonetheless, and the pressure seeps from your chest.
“S’that really you?” he breathes.
“The one and only,” you laugh dryly, pressing your clenched fists further into your pockets and fighting the urge to hide in the collar of your coat. He pulls his cap from the crown of his head and runs a hand through his hair messily until it is pointed in various directions, a nervous habit of his you remember quite well.
“How long s’it been, six years?” he grins, “ya’ look good!”
“So do you!” you cannot keep the sincerity out of your voice, the teasing tone that comes so naturally when talking with him, and his grin softens into an alluring smirk.
Like everything else in Kōbe, your feelings for Osamu had stood still.
“Wait, before we get caught up,” he slips the cap back over his hair—now his natural colour, the dull silver painted over—and nods his head toward the menu taped to the counter surface.
“What can I get’cha?”
The menu is vast, but you had expected it to be. Osamu lived to cook, he loved to bring joy to others with food and the dedication to his craft showed. There were the traditional ingredients such as salmon, umeboshi, and tsukudani, but he made sure to include a variety of other options, such as tuna, shrimp, scrambled egg, chicken, tarako fish roe, and mentaiko fish roe.
Your eyes are drawn to the small text box in the corner of the paper, titled ‘the special’ in what appeared to be a child’s handwriting with the days ‘Tuesday and Thursdays only’ beneath it.
“Well, what about the special?” you murmur, pointer finger tapping against the paper. “It’s Tuesday today, right?”
His lips part in minute shock, as if he’d just remembered something important, and he coughs to clear his throat.
“That’s right. Today the special is katsuobushi, chef's choice,” he replies. There’s a hesitance in the air that wasn’t there before and it sets you on edge.
“Wouldn’t that be you?”
He grins, still unnaturally tight but fond, warmth returning to his eyes, “I have a helper on those days, he’s the one that chooses”.
“Pa?”
A small voice sounds from the doorway to the kitchens before you can speak. Osamu turns, and in doing so he reveals a little boy that can’t be any older than five or six. He’s pressed against the doorframe, half hidden, wide eyed and cautiously staring at you like waiting to be scolded for interrupting.
Osamu wipes a hand against his apron, crouching to the boy’s height and beckoning him out of the shadows. “Everythin’ alright, little man?” he says.
The boy steps forward, though still looking at you, and nods. He’s darling, you think. A cherub. It’s as if someone had taken a polaroid of Osamu when he was a child and pulled him from the image into this reality. His hair is a deep brown, the odd golden shine reflected under the lights of the restaurant, and brushed neatly aside from a stubborn little cowlick curl.
The swell of his cheeks are dusted in a youthful pink, nose wrinkling under his fathers nagging touches as Osamu begins to wipe stray seeds of rice from the boys mouth, and he wrings his hands into the material of his sweatshirt; one you recognise to be for Atsumu’s current professional team.
And pinned to his chest is a little name tag with ‘Mamoru’ written on it.
“Ya’ been snackin’ back there?” Osamu asks amusedly.
You try smiling at the boy to put him at ease, his steadfast and curious gaze still locked onto you over Osamu’s shoulder. You’re struck again by an aching sense of otherness, as if you were infringing upon something just by existing in that space in time. Osamu is a father. He has a son, and presumably a wife. You hadn’t seen a ring on his finger, but he could’ve simply taken it off while he worked for safe keeping.
It’s a little cruel, maybe. Like being presented with the image of what you could have had, and then doused with the knowledge that it would never be yours.
“A little,” the boy replies, “made ya some ‘giri, too”.
Endearment seeps through your chest at the enunciation of his words, his sweet little kansai twang, and the way his back straightens with obvious pride of what he’d done. Osamu shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, leaning forward to press an obnoxiously loud kiss to his son's forehead, causing the boy to laugh.
“Speaking of onigiri, my friend has an order for ya,” Osamu grins, glancing over his shoulder toward you, “think yer up for it?”
Unbeknownst to the boy, you could see how he’d appraised your expression, an anxiety behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. He was worried about your reaction.
His son follows his gaze back to you and the hesitance is gone. Mamoru steps into the role of a chef in the way only a child can and stands tall, as tall as is possible for him, while confidently nodding in affirmation.
“Comin’ right up!” he chirps, before scurrying into the back.
Osamu rises to his feet, wincing at the click of his knees, and returns to his place at the counter. You’re thankful in that moment that you’d stumbled across the place near closing hours, still the only remaining customer, giving you more time to speak to him.
“Will he be alright by himself?” you find yourself asking, instead of the obvious question. His shoulders relax.
“S’like I said, he helps out a lot, and I got some extra staff back there with him,” he replies in a fond, far off voice, as if remembering every time the boy had joined him in the kitchens.
“Yer okaka rice balls are in good hands”.
“I’ll trust your judgement,” you say, “how old is he?”
“Turned five in January,” he replies. He rests his forearms on the counter surface, bracing his weight against it and looking significantly more relaxed by the typical parent small-talk. You refrain from following his example, ignoring the incessant pull that would have you lean into his space. Five in January. Your mind latches on to the information, mentally counting backwards and feeling selfishly relieved that the child was conceived at least a year after you had left—like that would make the bruise any less tender.
“Looks like you had your hands full then, with…” you swallow back the tickle in your throat, awkwardly waving your hand around the restaurant, “...everything”.
He smiles, barely-there and knowingly. Osamu had always been able to see right through you, and no doubt he knew you were trying to drag out the conversation. Even after six years the need is there, the habitual urge to lace your hands together until your palms kiss, to play with his fingers aimlessly and watch his eyes brighten as he speaks.
The truth is, you do not know where the lines are anymore; not only was he your first love, he had been your best friend, he’d grown alongside you from being an infant and written himself into your blueprints. Irreversible. The typical boundaries that you might enforce with an ex cannot, and will never, be applicable to him.
So you simply talk—the only safe way you know to syphon his attention. Talking was innocent enough.
“I had a’lotta help, believe me I needed it,” he releases a shallow laugh, and it doesn’t sit right in the air. The ‘you weren’t here’ may not have even crossed his mind, but it crosses yours, and guilt sinks like lead into your stomach.
“In any case, I think you’ve done well for yourself,” you reply—purposefully gentle. An unspoken apology that he hears all the same.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, tucking his chin to his chest in an abashed manner to hide his smile from you. He wets his lower lip as he changes the subject, “What about y’self? Ya back for a visit?”
“M’back for good actually,” and his head lifts in momentary shock, a wide eyed expression adorns his face. It’s then that Mamoru returns holding a small cardboard tray, two oddly shaped onigiri seated inside it and wrapped in nori seaweed.
Children are perceptive, and you’re reminded of that fact by the way his eyes squint at the two of you, apprehensive about whether or not he should speak up. You give a small wave of encouragement and he makes the decision to toddle up beside his father.
Osamu takes notice, immediately reaching down to slide something out from beneath the counter, the sound of wood scraping along tile sharp in your ears. It must’ve been a stool, you think, as the little boy takes a careful step forward and grows 10 inches taller. With small, shaking hands, he slides the tray onto the counter for you to take.
He looks just as Osamu had before—quietly seeking out your approval. There are more grains of rice littering his cheeks, even more decorating his sticky hands, clear evidence of his hard work. You look to the onigiri and hum appreciatively, ensuring that he hears you as you lift one delicately between your fingers.
“That’ll be 500 yen!”
Without needing to be prompted, you hand the 500 yen over to Mamoru and he positively shines under the responsibility of handling the money. Osamu then accepts it with a proud grin, counting it and putting it into the register.
“These look delicious,” you say with sincerity, “I can’t wait to eat them. Thank you, Mamoru”.
The boy’s face flushes with colour, bouncing on his toes where he stands with ands clinging to the edge of the counter to balance himself. He leans into Osamu’s hip, beaming up at him excitedly.
You pull the cardboard tray to your chest, saliva pooling beneath your tongue and stomach cramping in hunger as the smell clouds your senses. You take a quick glance at the clock and Osamu appears to recognise that you’re going to take your leave, stuttering over your name as his hand falls to the small of Mamoru’s back to steady him on the stool.
“You said yer’ back for good, right?” he asks, a desperate lift to his tone. You nod your head, not trusting yourself to speak as hope balloons in your chest when he seems truly happy with your answer.
“If ya want to catch up, you’re welcome to join us for food this weekend,” he says, squeezing Mamoru’s shoulder with a smile. “We’re gonna cook for everyone, aren’t we?”.
The boy watches the exchange with curious eyes, curling his fingers into the material of his fathers apron in a half embrace.“If it’s really okay, then I’d be honoured to eat more of your cooking, Mamoru,” you reply directly to him, a small part of you also seeking out his approval. You wanted the boy to feel comfortable around you, and though Osamu had extended the invitation, you wouldn’t go if Mamoru didn’t want you there.
“What about his mother?” you wanted to ask, but you feared the answer.
“We’re makin’ yaki udon,” Mamoru mumbles shyly, “s’ma favourite… You can have some, if ya want”.
“Thank you,” you smile, and feeling the weight of Osamu’s stare you meet his eyes, half lidded and affectionate. Too familiar, overwhelmingly familiar.
“My number is the same if you still have it,” Osamu says and your grip tightens, the cardboard wrinkling slightly beneath your fingers. You hold the Onigiri to the breast of your coat, wanting to preserve the warmth, and exhale shakily.
“Yeah, I have it. Mine is too,” and wasn’t that painful. A thread left rotted and swaying, untouched for years. Two decades of connection dissolved into undelivered text messages, thumbs hovering over the call button and searching for an excuse, any reason to push it but finding none other than the need to hear his voice.
“I’ll text you then,” he replies with promise and you force your feet to move, eyes prickling once you step out into the cool evening air. You shield the onigiri with your hands as you near your apartment, relishing the soft tendrils of warmth against the skin of your palm, and try to process everything that’d just happened.
The place is just as you’d left it, unsurprisingly, though it feels much emptier now. You slide the tray onto the coffee table, weight falling back into the plush of your sofa and your coat bunching up around you. You inhale as you pick up one of the onigiri, moulded with inexperienced hands and yet perfect as they were. The rice is golden, likely a result of too many bonito flakes, as expected of a child with an affinity for savoury things.
It’s soft as you bite into it, the rice parting between your teeth and pillowy against your tongue. As you anticipated it’s a little saltier than it should be, and it fills your stomach in more ways than one.
You reach for the next, pressing the seaweed of the first into your mouth. Your cheeks swell as you chew, eyes catching on a small piece of paper tucked at the bottom of the tray, hidden beneath the rice balls.
You unfold the post-it, slowly revealing a stick figure with a big smile. The lines of the body are jittery, drawn in pen held by an unpractised hand, and Mamoru has given the figure a hairstyle similar to your own.
As silly as it might seem, you find yourself choked up at the sentiment, tracing the jagged lines with your finger. You’d have to put it on the fridge door, a new little piece of home.
Pulling your phone out of your coat pocket you snap a quick picture, scrolling through your open chats to the last time you’d spoken with Osamu. The messages you’d never been able to bring yourself to delete; his last texts.
I miss you. Left on read.
You send him the picture alongside a thank you. It was as good a conversation starter as any, and at least this way you wouldn’t have to spend the entire evening fretting over the right thing to say. He responds quickly, a short ‘he’s happy you liked it’ followed by ‘it was good to see you’.
The days leading up to Friday are long and spent settling into your new workplace. Your colleagues are friendly, welcoming and playfully teasing of how your accent had dulled during your time away. You hadn’t expected the sense of loss that came with that realisation.
Osamu texts everyday. Short, simple messages that would appear innocent to anyone. You replied in kind—toeing the line between teasing and flirting every so often, only to turn your phone off for the night once shame got a hold of you.
You’d missed him, and you had never been the type to drip-feed. When you wanted something you wanted all of it, wanted him, but the possibility of that happening was now slim to none. It was startling how much and how little he had changed, his quips and humour still never failing to make you laugh, his memory of the things that a normal friend wouldn’t see any importance in. Somehow Osamu had stepped back into your life as if you’d never left his, not a speck of dust on him.
It was unsettling, because you were both so clearly skirting around the topic of Mamoru’s mother.
Come Friday you’ve already pictured every possible worst-case scenario and resolved them. Tonight was about rekindling the friendships you left behind, nothing more and nothing less, a mantra you repeat again and again. With that thought in mind you walk toward the entryway to slip into your shoes, passing the open archway to the kitchen and catching sight of the little stick figure on the fridge. You linger there, dwelling on an idea and breathing through the push and pull of uncertainty. It couldn’t hurt to give Mamoru a proper thank you with a little sketch of your own, a miniscule way of showing your appreciation.
By the door sits the shoe cabinet, a small decorative bowl atop it holding your keys, some spare yen and a pen, with a post-it pad beside it. The pen is almost out of ink, resting heavily between your fingers as you draw out a quick rendition of Mamoru holding an onigiri and the characters for ‘delicious!’ (うまい ; umai).
Osamu had texted you his address a few hours ago. You recognised the street immediately as one only a few blocks from where his mother and grandma lived, and smiled freely in the privacy of your bedroom. He had always been a mama’s boy.
The drive is faster than you anticipate. You pull up to the curb to park and somehow the car seems smaller, one hand curled around the handbrake and the other gripping the wheel as the engine continues to hum quietly. Your pulse is incessant, loud in your ears while your eyes drift to the house in question. It’s a typical Japanese home, a little on the smaller side, two stories with a balcony on which a futon cover has been hung out to dry.
The atmosphere is shattered by a firm knock to the passenger side window. Your body flinches, a sharp inhale of fear as you push down the handbrake to stop the car from moving. Kita stands beside your car with a gentle expression, the same patience and understanding that he’d always worn but you knew that this time the reasons were much different.
He points his thumb over his shoulder toward the house, wordlessly questioning whether or not you were coming, and you answer with the turn of your keys. The engine cuts off and the car settles, the heat beneath your seat slowly dissipating, and you push open the door.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Kita smiles kindly, eyes following while you walk around the front of your car to greet him, opening his arms as you near him. He embraces you solidly against his chest, much broader and firmer than you last remembered, the gentle smell of fabric softener and ripening wheat swaddling you.
The warmth of his hand seeps through the material of your shirt. “S’good to see ya, Kita,” you mumble, voice muffled where you’re pressed into his shoulder, eyes falling shut for a short moment to blink away the stinging mist.
“Was surprised to hear from Osamu that you were comin’ over,” he says as you pull away from one another. You press your lips together into a tight smile, fighting off your grimace with a dry swallow.
“Well… I guess home was callin’,” you reply with awkward finality, the words sounding timid even to your own ears. Kita simply cradles the crown of your head in his calloused hand, patting your hair in an oddly paternal manner.
“And ya’ finally answered,” he murmurs, “we’re happy to have you back”.
You walk side by side to the door, the distant and distinct bickering of Atsumu flooding out into the front garden. It’s there again, the anxiety that you are invading something that was not meant for you—no matter the reassurance, you still felt as if you didn’t deserve to be welcomed back so kindly.
Kita, sensing your unease, opens the front door and pulls you gently with his fingers circled around your forearm. You’re greeted by an open space leading into a living room and dining area, brightly lit with walls littered in framed photographs. Atsumu is lounging on the sofa, arm stretched along the back and yelling to wherever Osamu is standing in the kitchen, his eyes drawn to the sudden intrusion.
You shy away from his stare, bending to place your shoes neatly in the corner of the entryway alongside Kita’s, and as you straighten back up you startle backwards at Atsumu’s sudden appearance.
“Damn, an’ here I thought ‘Moru was lying,” he beams, appraising you as he steps aside for Kita to get by him.
“I told you uncle ‘Tsumu!” Mamoru’s small, exasperated voice calls from the kitchen.
“Lying?” you ask, enunciated with nervous laughter.
Atsumu hums in contemplation before sweeping you into a hug of his own. Similarly as it had been with Kita, you notice that he has grown enormously as indicated by the firm press of his biceps around your waist. You give into the affection easily—Atsumu had always been tactile with his friends, and you felt relief that he still considered you as such.
“He said his pa had invited a ‘pretty friend’ to join our little get together,” Atsumu recites from where his chin rests atop your head, “didn’t believe him. ‘Samu doesn’t have any friends, nevermind pretty—”
“Shut yer trap!”
“— well, he didn’t. Hasn’t. Not for a while,” Atsumu continues speaking over his brother’s interruptions, pulling away with a crooked grin. “Wouldn’t‘a thought in a million years that it’d be you”.
You smile through your mess of confused thoughts, fizzling and incessant like white noise as you try to maintain composure. You didn’t want to make assumptions and yet, if you were to take Atsumu’s word at face value, it’d mean that Mamoru’s mother wasn’t in the picture.
You breathe in, deep and slow, your chest rising beneath your shirt. And you smile.
“S’nice to see you too, Atsumu,” you lean into his side as he begins to lead you further into the house, “I guess you finally got your hands on some toner while I was away”.
“I guess you finally got your hands on some toner while I was away,” he echoes mockingly with his voice a few octaves higher, Osamu’s contagious laugh echoing through the lower level of the house.
“Pa, what’s toner?” you hear Mamoru ask, and you tuck your chin to your chest in an effort to hide your grin.
Atsumu guides you to the dinner table, Kita already pulling a chair out for you before taking the seat opposite. There’s already glasses set out, a pitcher of water in the centre and an open bottle of sweet white wine that you recognise to be a personal favourite of his mother. Years ago you’d sneaked a taste of it with him while she was sleeping with breathless laughter, hushing one another every time the house creaked beneath your feet.
The soft, hurried footfalls of Mamoru rushed past you to the head of the table, climbing up by his knees into the spot adjacent to you. “Hi,” he chirps, squirming in place as he sits. “You’re really here!”
“I am,” you reply, entirely endeared by his excitement and the post-it note weighs heavy in your pocket, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world”.
Osamu walks out of the kitchen with two bowls in hand, one a little smaller than the other, meeting your gaze as he leans forward to set it in front of Mamoru. He looks… ambivalent. Happy, but conflicted, rushing back to the kitchen to plate up more of the food.
Mamoru stares at the yaki udon with hunger, his small hands pressed flat either side of the bowl as he waits politely for the adults to be served too.
Kita and Atsumu begin talking to one another but the conversation is muffled, like cotton has been stuffed into your ears. You’re distracted by the lines of crayon staining the wood of the table, the homemade placemats that Mamoru must’ve made at school, the toys strewn across the floor in an organised mess that screamed Osamu. He’d always hated if a room was too bare, it always needed a little bit of chaos. ‘A little personality’ he’d call it.
“What about you?” Atsumu drags you back into the conversation, his body curling over the table surface as he leans his cheek against his fist. He smirks amusedly, though not in malice, as you fumble over your answer.
“What about me?” you ask stiffly, embarrassed to have been caught snooping.
“We were talkin’ about what we got up to this week,” Kita fills in the blanks for you kindly, “Atsumu just got done explaining his new team’s roster. Ya didn’t miss anythin’”.
Atsumu releases a theatrical sound of offense, one that makes Mamoru burst into a fit of giggles, a clear and purposeful attempt at making the boy laugh judging by Atsumu’s then triumphant grin.
“My week wasn’t all that interesting. I got settled in the new office and I unpacked everything without trouble,” you recite, conscious of how boring your answer is and of Osamu now entering the room with another set of bowls, sinking back into your chair as he places it in front of you.
“Though Mamoru did make me some delicious okaka onigiri,” you add with the appropriate gravity, wanting to acknowledge him and include him in the conversation. Colour floods his face and you watch as he struggles to bite back a grin. When he fails to do so he tucks his chin to his chest to hide his pleasure.
An inherited gesture.
“So you really are stayin’,” Atsumu marvels, more of a comment to himself than a question. “Honestly thought we wouldn’t see ya again”.
You hum noncommittally, uncertain of what to say, because neither had you. And for all the wrong reasons.
Back then you spent weeks—months walking in circles around the possibility of leaving. The thoughts evolved into something parasitic, a dark cloud ruminating above you, so much so that neither leaving nor staying seemed like the right thing to do. And no matter who you asked, the answer had always remained the same.
‘Do what you think is right for you’.
And you had known as soon as you moved away that it’d been the wrong choice. But you couldn’t have known that until you’d left, and after making such a fuss about uprooting your life to chase your dreams you were far too embarrassed to turn back.
Osamu finally takes his place at the table to your left, and Atsumu shares a pointed look with him that is so lacking in subtlety it’s close to offensive. You can feel the heat of his body beside you, his shoulder brushing your own as he reaches for his drink, the contact brief but reverberating through your arm nonetheless.
He sighs, long and exasperated, lifting his glass up. Everyone follows his lead, including Mamoru with his hands clasped around a plastic cup of fruit juice, and glass collides softly beneath the joyous yell of ‘cheers!’
“Now tuck in before it gets cold,” he takes the chopsticks between his fingers and immediately twists the thick noodles around them. Mamoru does the same, though his chopsticks have two plastic loops for his fingers while he still learns how to use them.
“Thank you for the food,” you murmur before shovelling the food into your mouth, teeth sinking into the thickness of the noodles and savouring the tang of the umami sauce. You can practically taste the heart put into it, and it is heady.
A pleased, exaggerated hum builds in Mamoru’s throat as he eats, and Atsumu mirrors him playfully. Something in your chest releases, the tightness dissipates into foam and slowly you allow yourself to enjoy the atmosphere. It’s… loving. Cosy.
The conversation slows while the five of you dig in, mostly dominated by Mamoru whose voice is slowly gaining strength with each answer he gives, and you’re grateful the scrutiny is not on you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d shared a home cooked meal with someone, not in the years that you were away, and Osamu’s food reveals an obvious yearning that you’d kept locked away for a long time.
You eat and listen sedately as Mamoru tells you about how Osamu has started letting him make his own lunch for preschool, about the fish tank that his teacher keeps in the classroom, about the cool bugs he found in his grandmother's yard—he’d tripped over the words and Osamu had supplied that it was in fact a rhinoceros beetle—and that he’d named it Hanako.
“After mama,” he’d explained with a boyish grin that lifted the chub of his cheeks. “S’cause mama is everywhere!”
Decidedly, you do not touch that topic with a ten foot pole.
“Don’t talk with yer mouth full,” Osamu scolds him mildly in a stern yet loving tone—one only a parent could use. Mamoru obeys but does not cease to speak, instead he continues to tell you things between the dutiful chewing of his food, and you steal a glance at Osamu to enjoy the softness in his face as he entertains his son’s whims.
“That was wonderful as always, Osamu,” Kita speaks politely after he finishes, washing the food down with a sip of the white wine, “a meal always tastes better when eaten with family, don’t’cha think?”
“Yes!” Mamoru speaks after chewing his noodles, mouth and cheeks stained in golden brown sauce. “Pa says ya only need two things! All y’need is love in your life–”
“–and food in your belly,” you quietly recite alongside him, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re quick to smother the sting in your eyes, many a memory of Osamu embracing you and murmuring those exact words against your mouth, the shell of your ear, the curve of your neck.
“That’s right little man,” Osamu affirms as he stands and circles around the table to Mamoru, taking his chin between his fingers and tilting his head so he can wipe it clean. The boy makes a noise of complaint as his father then slides his hand up to squeeze his cheeks together, lips jutted into a misshapen pout.
“Ya did a good job of finishing it all,” he continues, biting back a smirk at his son's whining. “Now it’s time to wash up. Comin’?”
Mamoru pulls away, rubbing the heels of his hands against the pinkened fat of his cheeks, his eyes quickly glancing in your direction as he shakes his head. “Don’t wanna,” he says petulantly, and you’re honest enough to admit that pride rears in your chest.
Osamu notices his line of sight and huffs, ruffling his hand through Mamoru’s hair until it’s a directionless mess. “C’mon now, we’re the men of the house so we’ve gotta clear the table,” he reaches down to lift Mamoru with no exertion and settles him on his feet.
“Fine,” Mamoru grumbles and scurries a few feet ahead of his father to the kitchen while Osamu stacks the bowls on top of each other, his body curling over you as he reaches for yours.
Atsumu raises an eyebrow at you as Osamu leaves with the dishes, the lip of a glass of wine pressed to his smirk. “Interestin’,” he says before tipping his head back and downing the remaining dregs from the cup.
“Don’t start,” you warn tiredly, ignoring the giddiness thrumming through your body at Osamu’s actions.
“Alls am sayin’ is I didn’t get a weird hug from the back when he picked my bowl up,” he purses his lips in faux innocence as he shrugs and turns to Kita, “did you?”
“I did not,” Kita assents, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smirk that only seeks to encourage Atsumu’s teasing.
The twin cups a hand to his cheek to whisper conspiratorially across the table, “He’s single, if yer interested”.
“That’s—stop reading into things,” you reply evenly, taking a sip from your drink, fixing your eyes to the clean bottom of the glass and continuing once it’s finished. “That was a long time ago. It isn’t like that anymore”.
“It could be, if ya wanted it to,” Atsumu adds, giving the words weight, figuratively putting the decision into your hands. Kita must notice your discomfort, because his hand lands solid on Atsumu’s shoulder in warning.
“Stop tryin’ to orchestrate things,” he asserts, “let ‘em figure it out themselves”.
“There’s nothin’ to figure out,” you muttered under your breath. Atsumu bears his irritation plainly on his face.
“There is an’ you should!”
“Atsumu,” you say, louder this time, pleading, and his resolve crumbles easily as he sinks into the back of his chair in defeat. A pocket of silence encircles the table, tense and suffocating, accompanied by distant clashing of plates and murmurings from the kitchen.
“M’sorry,” he begins to awkwardly trace out the lines of crayon left behind on the table, “just want ya both to be happy, y’know? You’re like family to me”.
“I know,” you tell him.
Kita watches the scene unfold calmly, his gentle gaze drawn to the anxious movement of Atsumu’s fingers. “We missed ya’” he admits, smile pulled taut and thin. “It didn’t matter that you and ‘Samu broke up, ya still could’a called”.
“I know,” you lower your eyes, grimacing at how dismissive your repetitive answers sound, searching for the right thing to say and coming up short.
“I should’ve kept in touch. I wanted to but it hurt, Atsumu,” the words bloat egregiously in your throat, hoarse as they leave your quivering mouth and quiet for fear that Osamu would hear the conversation across the room. “I’m back now and I want to make up for it”.
Mamoru charges into the room excitedly, coming to a halt as he reaches the table, the enthusiasm soon sapped from his expression. His pupils are dilated, flitting from your forced smile to Atsumu, his little mouth twisting in displeasure.
“Right, all done!” Osamu claps his hands together as he re-enters the room, and like his son he appears to catch on quickly to the dampened atmosphere. He glares accusingly at his brother, knowing and frustrated, and the legs of your chair scrape against the floor as you get to your feet.
“Thank you both so much for inviting me over,” you say, directing the words to Mamoru to emphasise that he is included in your gratitude, “but I have an early start at work tomorrow, so I think I should call it a night”.
“Are ya sure?” Osamu asks, at the same time that Mamoru whines in protest. Their desire to have you stay lightens the weight on your chest remarkably; it would be a lie to say their little family had not already sunk their claws in your heart.
But you hadn’t lied, not entirely. You did need to be awake early, but you knew that no matter what time you left the Miya house you would not be able to sleep tonight.
“Do ya really haf’ta leave?” Mamoru mumbles, accent thickening with his sullen expression, and you step forward to crouch before him.
“I do, but I swear I’ll come back,” you promise earnestly to assuage his worry, reaching your hand into your pocket where the quickly drawn rendition of Mamoru sits. “Before I go I need to give you this”.
The look on his face when you present it to him is something that you memorise instantly.
“Oh,” he murmurs, chubby little fingers holding the edges of the paper like it is something precious. He examines it from all angles, colour blooming across his cheeks, before telling you with painful earnestness, “Thank you!”
“Just a small gift for you in return,” you say, stepping back from the boy. “Hardly as good as your drawing, but I hope you like it all the same”.
When you steal a look at Osamu you find his expression sweetening with a parent’s tenderness as he receives the second-hand joy of his son’s happiness.
Mamoru holds the sketch to his chest as if he were cradling it as turns to his father to ask, “Pa! Can we stick it on the fridge next to mine?”
Osamu runs his fingers through Mamoru’s curls and tells him yes. Privately you acknowledge the gravity of the moment, of having a small piece of yourself kept in the heart of the house. You feel yourself soften, like wax over a flame, fondness twisting into your ribs.
You bid them goodbye. Kita wraps his arm around your shoulders and rubs a rough hand down the length of your bicep with the promise of seeing you soon. Atsumu drags you into a hug, face pinched into a look of regret that you quietly try to quell against his shoulder. It was not his fault you were a coward.
Osamu walks you to the door, his presence heavily felt at your back while he watches you slip into your shoes. “Did’ya mean it? You’ll come back?” he asks.
Nineteen year old Osamu holds you impossibly close to his chest, the fabric of your hoodie slowly darkening beneath his free falling tears. “Promise yer gonna come back,” he begged.
“I meant it,” you reply quietly, to him and to the memory.
For the next week and a half, your days are spent like a bird in a designated flight path. You endeavour to keep your promise to Mamoru by going out of your way to stop by the restaurant after work on the days you know he’ll be there, and even on the days he isn’t. “Hard to stay away when the food is this good,” you’d tell him.
Osamu texted you infrequently at first, and Atsumu’s comments play on an incessant loop in your mind. Over time the messages grew in length and confidence as you became comfortable with one another once more, leaving you awash with a feeling of giddiness that has you clutching a pillow to your chest.
Maybe he had been right. Maybe there was still something worth salvaging. Something worth rebuilding.
On the Saturday night as you’re stepping out of your bathroom, you hear your phone buzzing loudly from the bedside table. The caller ID shows Osamu’s name in large white letters, and your thumb lingers cautiously over the accept button.
“‘Samu?” You say after picking up, the device pressed firmly against the shell of your ear as you lower yourself to sit on the edge of your bed.
You hear his long sigh of relief. “Sorry for callin’ ya so late but I couldn’t ask anyone else”.
“Is everything alright?” you nervously curl a hand into the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, picking at the frayed seams.
“Yeah s’nothing bad. I just got a call from the owner of the florists next door, y’know the one?”
“Yes…”
“She told me they’ve had a leak, an’ since we share the buildin’ she’s worried I might have some water damage in the kitchens'”.
“Shit. Would she be liable if there is any?”
“Nope, it wasn’t anticipated an’ it wasn’t a result of any carelessness,” you can hear the exhaustion in his voice as he explains, easily picturing him ruffling his hair in frustration. “I’ve gotta go take a look, make sure there’s no water near the electrics. But there’s no one available to watch Mamoru. Do ya think—?”
“I’d be happy to,” you offer, already getting to your feet and padding over to the chest of drawers to find something to wear. “I’ll be there in ten”.
“Yer a life saver,” he breathes through the line before ending the call.
You quickly pull on some leggings and a t-shirt, stumbling as you go. The cold air nips at your skin while you lock up and climb into your car, body still warm from the blissful heat of your home, and you pull out onto the road.
You approach the house with much less apprehension than the first time, breaking into a light jog as you near the front door. It opens without needing to be knocked, Osamu stands debauched in the entry already awaiting your arrival wearing a quickly-thrown-together outfit not unlike your own. He ushers you in with another quiet thank you, mumbling that he wouldn’t be long as he slips his arms into his coat.
“I love ya!” Osamu calls out once more over his shoulder, and with great embarrassment you have to restrain yourself from saying it back as Mamoru replies in kind. The sound of the door clicking shut snaps you from your stupor, noticing the laden atmosphere veiling the inside of the house.
You find Mamoru swaddled in a blush coloured blanket, thick and made of fleece, surrounded by a chaotic assortment of toys and pictures. He smiles up at you tiredly, his eyelids falling shut between breaths as he struggles to keep them open. Playing quietly in the background is a children's movie, one from your own childhood, the light of the screen casting a soft glow across the room.
“Hi sweetheart,” you greet him feebly, lowering yourself onto your knees and taking a seat on the floor beside him. He mumbles and gravitates towards you immediately, shuffling into your space.
He’s holding a small photograph between his chubby fingers, the edges awkwardly cut and clearly a few years old. In the picture is a woman, her head thrown back in laughter and familiar curls billowing in the wind. The background of the image is busy, a carnival of sorts, everything lit up with bright lights and colours and yet your eyes are always drawn back to her.
She’s beautiful.
“What’ve you got there?”
His grip tightens under your gaze, the pressure crinkling the edges of the paper, and he holds his hands a little further out from the protection of his blankets so you can see more clearly.
“It’s mama,” he tells you solemnly.
“She’s very pretty”.
Mamoru hums in agreement, his lips pressed together tightly as he stares down at the photograph. His nose scrunches as he sniffles, blinking away the beginnings of tears and turning further into your side to nestle there. You rub your hand down his back, the plush fabric velvety under your touch. He seems so much smaller now he’s tucked against you.
“Pa told me that she was kind an’ funny,” the words are barely audible and muffled, but you hear them, curling your body over his in an attempt at comfort, “an’ he said she loved me a whole bunch”.
“I’m sure she still does, Mamoru. It’s just like you said at dinner, she’s everywhere, always with you”.
You both fall into a comfortable silence, his attention now on the animated pictures playing on the screen that you can see moving in the reflection of his glassy eyes. As the movie comes to an end you look at the clock hung crooked on the wall and note that it’s almost 10pm.
“Shall we go to sleep?” you gently squeeze his arm through the quilt, and he nods. You lift him with barely any exertion, marvelling at how little he weighs, cradling him to your chest as he yawns.
You make your way up the stairs to the second floor, your uncertainty about navigating the house immediately erased as you find a bright coloured sign hanging on one of the doors with Mamoru’s name.
The door is easily pushed open with your foot and you approach the child sized bed, a gentle smile pulling at your lips at the bedding decorated with depictions of Anpanman.
Mamoru sinks into the mattress as you lie him down and pull the sheets up to his chin, tucking the edges in for him. He yawns again, a squeak tumbling from his open mouth while he stretches.
“Pa stays with me ‘til I sleep,” he mumbles and you surrender to his request, kneeling beside the bed with your arms folded atop the quilt.
“I can do that for ya,” you say and he grins, mischievous, like he knows something you don’t.
“What?”
“Ya sounded like me,” he whispers, squirming in happiness over a thing so innocuous, in the way only a child can, and you feel it too. The odd sensation of relief that your accent is returning to you.
“Can I ask a question?” he huffs, shuffling further up the bed to peek his face entirely over the top of the covers, “Pa said I shouldn’t be nosey without askin’”.
“Course ya can”.
“Do y’wanna kiss my pa?”
You inhale sharply in surprise, swallowing down the uncomfortable dryness forming in your throat and at a loss of words. Unsure of the right thing to say and not wanting to overstep any boundaries, you simply say:
“…I care about your dad very much”.
To your relief he accepts the answer with a sober nod, the seriousness in his expression highly endearing.
“He likes—” he pauses between words to yawn loudly, teeth bared like a small cub, “—he likes ya! Pa told me so”.
You hum in acknowledgement and he takes it as disbelief, eyes squinting in offense, bottom lip jutting into a pout. You attempt to placate him by threading your fingers through his hair, hoping to coax him into sleep, and you feel triumph when his eyes flutter shut.
You don’t know how long you sit at his bedside with your hand cradling his head, nor at what point you managed to fall asleep with him. You rest fitfully, your consciousness rising to the surface at every car that passes by, every creak of the house as it settles.
The front door opens and your body moves first to shield Mamoru, relaxing only upon the sound of Osamu’s voice calling out that he’s home.
You listen as he climbs the staircase and the fourth step up groans under his weight, the light flooding into Mamoru’s bedroom from the hallway soon shadowed by his silhouette.
He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, head tilting while he takes in the scene. You wonder what he’s thinking, willing your eyes to adjust to the darkness so you might see his face. Instead you get to your feet and follow him out into the hallway, grimacing with each step as blood rushes back through your legs like white static.
“Is everything ok?” you ask, keeping your voice low as you descend the stairs, still aware of Mamoru’s open door.
“S’all fine on my end, thank God,” he snorts humourlessly and makes a beeline for the kitchen with tension held in his shoulders. “I did get caught up helpin’ next door though. Sorry 'bout that”.
You linger close by, observing as he reaches into the fridge and pulls out the familiar bottle of white wine from the lower shelf. He motions it toward you tacitly, wordlessly inquiring if you’d like a glass, and you nod.
One would be fine. And you didn’t want to leave yet.
“Did he behave?” he asks,
“Better than you ever did,” and he laughs, satisfaction blooming in your chest at the stress visibly leaving his body. He fills a third of each glass with wine, handing one over to you as he passes through the threshold to sit on the couch and you move to join him.
You tuck your legs onto the sofa cushions, the rim of the glass cool against your bottom lip, and inhale the sweet scent of the wine while Osamu takes a first sip. His eyes fall to the photograph of Hanako still left out amongst the toys and reaches for it, smoothing out the creased corner with his thumb, resting his elbows on his knees where he sits.
“You aren’t going to ask?” he murmurs curiously. The lighting is still as low as you’d left it, the room dimly lit by the standing lamp in the corner and the TV screen now dark. Your eyes lift to meet his stare and you shake your head.
“That isn’t my place,” you reply after a few beats of contemplative silence. “Though I guess I am curious why you haven’t mentioned her yet”.
“Wouldn’t want ya to run off again,” he muses playfully, grin widening once you reach to swat his arm with your free hand.
“You didn’t scare me off!”
“No, s’pose not,” he exhales in exasperation, and before taking another sip of his wine he says, “but ‘Tsumu did”.
You hum a flat affirmative, embarrassed at how you’d fled so quickly after such a short confrontation. “Did he tell you…”
“What he said?” he finishes the question on your behalf as your voice loses some of its strength.
“Course he told me,” there’s a solemn shadow cast across his face, teetering on regretful, “would’a wrung his neck if he didn’t”.
“I’m sorry. I know I overreacted,” you say, eyes lowering to watch as your drink lap at the insides of the wine glass. Osamu exhales deeply across from you.
“Ya didn’t, it was a lot to take in an’ I know exactly how pushy ‘Tsumu can be,” Osamu exhales a short laugh, warm as he looks back to the picture, and for a moment you feel like you’re intruding upon something you shouldn’t be.
“She passed away soon after Mamoru was born,” he begins to explain, stroking the pad of his thumb over Hanako’s figure. “We weren’t really together, not exclusively. It was casual at first. Met her at a seminar when I was trying to start up ma’ business the year after you left”.
“She told me 'bout the pregnancy right away. Pretty soon the midwife started pickin’ up that her blood pressure was high, she started gettin’ headaches an’ problems with her vision. Her doctors said it was preeclampsia, recommended that she be monitored at the hospital with the baby”.
As he speaks you allow yourself to reach out to him, circling your hand around his wrist and squeezing. He leans into the support, resting his head atop yours, your cheek now pressed to his shoulder.
“I was scared shitless but she kept strong. Sometimes it felt like she was holdin’ me together, too,” his voice quivers and the words crack, catching in his throat, “eventually it got worse an’ after the birth she haemorrhaged. Happened so quick, and I couldn’t do anything”.
The words ‘I’m sorry’ sit uncomfortably thick on your tongue. How many apologies had this family received? Would yours make any notable difference?
“Mamoru is a wonderful little boy,” you say instead with a forlorn smile, blinking away a mist of your own. “You’ve done an incredible job, Osamu. I’m sure she’d be proud of you”.
“He got all the best parts of me,” he grins, crooked and fond, “she gave me my little boy an’ I’ll never be able to thank her enough”.
The wine is dry on your tongue, the warmth spreading throughout your belly as you drink. He sets the photo back amongst the mess of Mamoru’s toys so that the boy might find it again, and upturns his hand so your hands slip together, slowly filling the spaces between your fingers.
His hand feels much bigger than you remember, roughened with time and hard work. You tighten your grip until your palms kiss, willing away the beginnings of guilt crawling into your stomach. The silence is heavy, but it is comfortable.
He finishes his glass and wonders aloud if you want another. “I shouldn’t have anymore,” you sigh, stretching your legs out from beneath your body. “I’ll have to drive home”
“Y’can stay in the guestroom,” he offers as he looks over to check the time, “it’s late”.
That wasn’t a solid reason to stay and you both knew it. You lived only a quick seven minute drive from his house, the weather was clear and it wasn’t even nearing midnight. But you wanted to stay, to have all the time with him that you’d lost.
“If you’re sure,” you reply and his eyes brighten. After you wash down the last of your wine he guides you to the upstairs bathroom, oddly restless as he quietly shows you how to turn on the shower.
“Ya gotta let it warm up a bit first, s’always been a bit awkward like that,” he rambles as he wipes the sweat of his hands against his pants. “The body wash an’ everything is there. Feel free to use whatever”.
He places some of his spare pyjamas atop the laundry basket before throwing you a thumbs up. “Thank you,” you reply as he takes his leave, unable to keep yourself from smiling at his apparent nervousness.
As you wait for the water to heat up you rub the material of the pyjama top between your fingers, the feeling of it not unlike Mamoru’s blush coloured blanket. You cautiously lift it to your nose as if expecting to be caught and inhale, pleasantly surprised by the entangled scents of Osamu and lavender fabric softener.
You shower quickly, lathering yourself in Osamu’s body wash and preening at the simple idea of smelling like him for the rest of the night. Accompanied only by the harsh spray of the water you process everything you’d learnt, from both him and Mamoru, the child’s earnest words still ringing in your ears.
“He likes ya!”
As you leave the bathroom with hair still damp against the nape of your neck but otherwise dressed and dry, you are followed closely by tendrils of steam that plume into the hallway. Osamu appears in the door to his own bedroom in only his sweatpants, eyes appraising your figure and not at all shy about admiring how you look wearing his clothes. Your pulse stutters at the attention, in your chest and between your legs.
Bathed by the light of the bathroom he looks inviting, soft and sleep mussed. As he stares at you, you stare back at him, cataloguing all the ways in which his body changed in the years that have passed. He’s broader still, but not as lean as he was in high school, fine dark hair littering his chest and trailing from his belly button beneath the waistband of his pants.
You swallow audibly, swiping your tongue across your dry lower lip. “Night, ‘Samu,” you murmur.
“G’night,” he breathes, and you continue to feel the weight of his eyes on your back as you enter the guest room, gently shutting the door behind you.
Morning comes like a gift. You stir at the light's warm touch, laid in an unfamiliar bed, the memory of the night before trickling back into your mind with a slow drip. Still sunken into the pillows and wrapped up in the sheets you hear the door open, the handle clicking as it flicks back into place and announcing Mamoru’s arrival, his small bare feet padding noisily across the room.
For a few passing moments you pretend to be asleep, curious as to what the little boy would do. A small hand rests on your cheek, patting you gently, and you remember vividly how Osamu used to wake you the same way whenever you fell asleep in class.
You open your eyes gradually, blinking against the light from the windows where the sun had already shifted. Mamoru’s sweet face resting on the edge of the mattress, the youthful swell of his cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright as he grins, “You’re still here!”
“I am,” you mirror him with a smile of your own, the young boy's joy entirely contagious.
“Let’s eat breakfast together!”
He begins to jump on the spot as you kick back the covers, swinging your legs over the mattress and getting to your feet. He giggles, lifting his hand for you to take it, and you let him guide you to the kitchen. It smells delectable. Osamu stands in the sweatpants from the night before, an apron covering his bare chest.
“I’m makin’ omurice at little chef’s request, fancy some?” he asks as he turns slightly away from the stove top to look at you.
“Sure,” you reply as Mamoru pulls you over to the sink, a brightly coloured stool already waiting on the tiles for him, “it smells delicious”.
“Everythin’ Pa makes is delicious!” Mamoru exclaims, stretching his entire torso across the counter just so he could reach the taps and turn on the water.
“We gotta wash our hands ‘fore we eat,” he instructs you dutifully while mimicking his father’s voice.
With clean hands and unkempt hair, Mamoru takes a seat beside you at the table and inhales exaggeratedly once the food is placed before him. Breakfast is a quiet affair, the silences filled with the scratching of chopsticks against ceramic and the odd sound of Mamoru verbally enjoying his food. There isn’t much time to enjoy it, because soon after the plates are licked clean Osamu is herding Mamoru upstairs to get him ready to visit his grandmother, casting an apologetic smile toward you as he goes. By the time Mamoru is dressed and presentable you’ve already cleared the table, hands submerged in warm suds and scrubbing the remains of egg from a saucepan.
“Need help putting yer shoes on?” you hear Osamu ask followed by Mamoru loud protests that he’s a big boy and is fine doing it himself. Your eyes linger on the children’s chopsticks held between your fingers, pressing your thumb against the small plastic loops and remembering how small Mamoru’s hand had been in your own.
It strikes you how right it feels to be here with them in domestic bliss, wrapped in Osamu’s clothes with a full stomach, the familial chaos filling you with a sense of fulfilment that you’d never felt before.
“Ya didn’t have'ta do that,” Osamu’s voice sounds from behind you, the water rippling against the basin as you startle. He sidles up beside you and you quell the thoughts of disappointment at the sight of him fully clothed.
“You gave me a place to sleep and fed me, this is the least I could do,” you avoided meeting his eyes in fear that he’d see right through you, reaching for a kitchen towel to dry your hands, already slightly wrinkled and softened. He hums thoughtfully.
“Y’can keep those clothes for now,” he says. “Sorry to rush ya. If I don’t get him to mama’s by ten she’ll file a missin’ persons report”.
You laugh abruptly at the truth of his statement. Their mother raised the twins alone, fiercely and lovingly, she was adored by every child in the neighbourhood. But if there was one thing she’d never been lenient with, it was curfew.
“I won’t keep you then,” you smirk gently, tugging at the hem of your oversized shirt. “I’ll wash and return them to you another time”.
He watches the action, looking you over once more with unsatiated longing, the moment returning to him as his son yells impatiently from the entryway. In the rush you pull on your shoes, frowning as the heel tab folds inward awkwardly and rubs against your ankle.
You make it to your car, but not without first being accosted by Mamoru who demands that you see his new trainers, stomping forcefully against the pavement and grinning as he seeks your approval. The shoe lights up with various blinking colours, running patterns along the length of his soles, and you coo with the appropriate amount of awe.
With a sudden wet kiss to your cheek, Mamoru is rushing toward his father's car in joyous embarrassment. Osamu snorts fondly at his antics, spinning his keys around his index finger.
“The shop will be shut fer a few days while contractors are in to sort out the pipes, but we’d still like to see you,” he says, unlocking his car with the click of a button and observing as his son climbs into the seat with an exhausted huff. “Mamoru will miss you”.
Perhaps a little emboldened by their hospitality and affections, you laugh and dare to ask “Just Mamoru?”
“And me,” he adds without shame, “I’ll miss you”. The answer is unexpectedly honest, and your heart stutters in your chest like a hummingbird's wing.
You receive a text from him a few days later as you’re waking up, the sleep still in your eyes, asking if you’re free for dinner that night. You give a definitive yes, and the thought carries you throughout your workday, dragging the hours on insufferably.
You arrive five minutes later than intended, having spent a little too long fretting over your appearance despite the fact that Osamu had seen every side of you, and knock on the door weakly.
As he lets you in you realise the house is tidier than it had been during your last visit, strikingly so. The toys have all been put away, blankets and throws folded neatly atop their basket, framed pictures realigned and crayon marks scrubbed from the coffee table. Well, mostly.
It is also notably quiet, and the upper floors lights are all switched off, darkness permeating the hallway where the staircase sits. Only the living room and kitchen are lit, albeit dimly, the warm hue of the lamps adding a strange feeling of intimacy to the atmosphere.
“Is Mamoru not here?”
“…He isn’t,” Osamu replies awkwardly, apparently weary of your realisation that you are alone together.
“Then it’s just us,” you deduce, “is this a date?”
“If yer comfortable with it”.
“Why would I be uncomfortable?”
“It’s a possibility,” his shoulder lifts into a weak shrug then schooling his expression into something more cautious. “Feel like a’ kinda tricked ya by not clarifying”.
“You could’ve just asked me,” you say as you shuffle where you stand, toeing off your shoes and lining them up with your socked feet.
”Just didn’t want ya to think you needed to say yes out of obligation, ‘cause of our history,” his words are followed by the ruffle of his hand through his hair, the familiar mannerism making his own nervousness known again.
“I don’t do things I don’t want to do, ‘Samu,” you reply, to which he grins.
“Good, ‘cause I want you willing, or not at all,” he says evenly, dark eyes lingering. Blood rises to the surface of your skin, the heat sweltering beneath your cheeks and a swooping sensation passing through your stomach.
Subconsciously, you lick your lower lip, and his pupils dilate as they track the motion.
“So what’ve you made for us?”
You pause to look over the dining table in awe with arms wrapped around your front. He’d covered the surface in a thin white decorative cloth to hide the stains and make it presentable, one you recognise as belonging to his mother. The meal is set out for each of you, consisting of a small bowl of miso soup, two side dishes and ahi tuna steaks for the main meal.
“I thought somethin’ a little more traditional might be nice,” he reveals with uncertainty, and you feel the need to quickly reassure him.
“This is incredible ‘Samu,” you breathe. The clear time and effort he’d put in is… romantic, for lack of a better word.
He takes the chair opposite you and you begin to eat. The vegetables have been simmered in fish broth and seasoned with mirin and sake, the taste obvious on your tongue. You pair them with the steamed white rice, a pleased hum building in your chest at the fluffiness of it.
Osamu has barely touched his own food in favour of watching you eat, a tender dream-like expression on his face at the delighted sound you make once you bite into the crispy outside of the steak and meet the lush centre.
You drink between bites and the wine lends a sleepy weight to your arms, the muscles entirely relaxed, but your mind energised and inspired. “Are you trying to impress me?” you say, nearing breathless at the time and effort he’d clearly put into the meal. He grins, back straightening and preening like a stroked cat.
Something in the space between you shifts, narrows, a pull of magnetism between your bodies. “Depends. Is it workin’?”
You duck, chin to your chest, the corners of your mouth lifting into a pleased grin. When you raise your head you peer coyly through half lidded eyes and ask, “If I don’t say yes, will you keep trying?”
“Ya know I will,” he replies.
You finish your meal, the food laden where it sits in your stomach, yet you are not even close to satiated.
There comes a point when you both move over to the living room, sitting closer than needed on the same sofa, hands only a few centimetres from one another. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch him.
The conversation is directionless and natural, minutes to hours spent reliving old memories with hearty and contagious laughter. It’s easier, you think, to reminisce on the good now that you have hindsight.
It begs the question of why you ever left.
“Then a’ remember you fell flat on yer face in front of the Kobe green area—”
“Shut yer trap! Don’t bring that up,” you pinch the skin of his bicep between your fingers as you scold him and laugh unabashedly, freely, for the first time in weeks. As you quieten you realise he’s staring at you, though not out of shock, he appears to be taking a mental image of you in that moment.
“What?” you ask, conscious of the volume of your voice, of how many teeth you may have bared, of how your laughter lines had deepened through the years.
“Your accent came through a little just now,” he drawls earnestly. “It was cute, that’s all”.
“Mamoru said somethin’ like that, too,” you mumble feebly. There was some part of you that felt slightly vulnerable, flayed in front of him, and you wanted to hide your expression so he wouldn’t see the relief. Or the regret.
“He likes ya, y’know. A lot,” he tells you. The admission is dipped in fondness, and you refrain from sharing that Mamoru had told you the very same about him. A small part of you wanted to keep the boy's confidence, and it felt equally important that you don’t reveal his secret.
“He’s definitely an easy child to love, isn’t he?”
Osamu's grin widens, wine flushing his cheeks a sweet pink and the lids of his eyes hanging heavily.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says as he lifts his left arm and rests it along the back of the sofa, which also happens to be behind where you sit. In doing so he shifts closer, the force of your dipole strengthening as you feel crowded by him.
“Can I kiss ya?” he rasps, and your heart feels brittle. You meet his hopeful gaze, and for a few beats neither of you speak. His hand slips subtly down the back cushion, the warmth of his skin barely grazing the curve of your shoulder.
“Is that really ok?” You breathe, wringing your hands together tightly in your lap to disguise the tremor. “I feel like I don’t deserve… this. It’s as if I’ve stolen someone else’s place”.
“I see yer still in the habit of catastrophizing everythin’,” he murmurs, low and warm as fingertips ghost along your cheeks and he closes the remaining distance between you. His nose brushes against yours and your eyes instinctively fall shut, head tilting ever so slightly to accommodate him, lips parting with a shaken breath.
He kisses you tenderly. A sweet, chaste press of his mouth to yours before pulling back a breadth to speak.
“This?” he kisses you again, this time to your left cheek. “This is yours. This was always your place in my life”.
He kisses your right cheek.
“But what about…” your voice trembles, the words trailing off, unsure if it’s appropriate to ask. Unsure if it’s selfish.
“Hanako?” he finishes your question for you. “Hanako was a friend. I cared about her, an’ she cared about me. It just so happens that we didn’t take enough precautions and were blessed with a son”.
While he speaks you feel his fingers slip down the curve of your neck, curling around to your nape as if to keep you in place and bringing your foreheads together. “Even if she’d survived, we wouldn’t have been together. I know it’s frowned upon but it’s what we both wanted”.
“Look at me,” and you do. His eyes are shining, wet and desperate, but the solace woven into his features is stark. A combination of weight and understanding that tugged at your being. He’s relieved, maybe that you still cared, or that you respected Hanako’s importance in his life, you couldn’t be sure.
“I told her about ya, y’know,” his other hand falls to where yours are tightly woven together, gently prying them apart and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the crescent moons left by your nails.
“You did?”
“Had to,” he breathes a laugh through his nose, shifting his wrist so he is able to interlock your fingers. “You were still here. Everywhere. Not just in pictures—I hadn’t even washed the shirts ya used to wear”.
Aching. It had been the same for you. Hell, you’d been unable to change your phone background for an entire year and your co-workers had all thought you were already in a relationship.
“I regretted leaving almost immediately but… I think if I had the choice, I would still go,” you confess, eyes concentrated on the intertwined hands that now rest warmly against your thigh.
“I was a stranger to myself. I was so fixated on the idea of being somebody that I might’ve resented you if I stayed,” you continue, pausing to swallow. “I know it sounds arrogant but I wanted to be special”.
“You were already special t'me, dumbass,” his lips parted in a soft sigh. Your throat tightened, thick with apologies. It’s dry, uncomfortable, and you find yourself laughing, the sound much closer to a sob than anticipated.
“Well I know that now,” you reply wetly. “I should’ve appreciated that more”.
“S’alright,” he tilts his chin forward to kiss your forehead. “Now I get to learn about ya all over again”.
Laughter bubbles true in your chest, breathless as you try to keep up with his loving touches. Your body arches towards him and he takes the initiative, wrapping an arm around your lower back and pulling you into his lap. You feel all the edges blur together until the only thing you can hear or feel is him, pliant and perching beautifully on his thighs while your bodies rock together.
This languid dance continues for what feels like hours, the simplicity of embracing each other, hands traversing each other’s bodies, hot breaths and wet kisses. He hums, the purr is deep and rough and pleased, and then he pulls away with reluctance; he smirks as you follow the path of his mouth, whining when he leans forward again only to merely brush your lips.
“Can I take ya to bed?” he pants, and you curl your fingers tightly into his hair as you say ‘please’.
As you fall back onto the king sized mattress your thoughts finally catch up with your body, and you ask, “Have you been with other people? After Hanako, I mean”.
“A few,” he replies distractedly as he works the tight material of your jeans over your thighs, pulling you halfway down the mattress in the process. You laugh, anticipation and giddiness quaking through you as you help him and kick them off with your feet.
“They all extend their thanks, by the way,” and the confused crease of your brow is enough to make him grin as he braces his body over yours. He clarifies between tender kisses along the line of your bare throat. “Y’know, since ya taught me how to eat pussy”.
White hot arousal pools into your lower stomach at the thought of him thinking of you during those encounters. Remembering you, what you’d liked, how you sounded.
“Lucky them,” you murmur, tilting your head back as he descends down your torso, feeling his warm huff of laughter over your stomach. He rolls the flat of his tongue through your folds as if he were still kissing you, languid and smooth, tensing the muscle only as he passes over your clit.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he mumbles to himself. You exhale deeply when you feel his fingers tease your entrance, lashes fluttering as he carefully sinks them into you alongside his tongue until you’ve taken him to the knuckle. He curls them upwards until your heels are kicking out along the bed, hips bearing down onto his wrist.
He holds you still with the press of a hand over your stomach, his strength evident as you writhe beneath him, the muscles of his arm tensing with the effort.
If there is one thing Osamu is good at, it's eating. Brazen as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue massaging tight circles against you while he fucks you on his fingers. He barely stops to take a breath, groaning against you like you’re sharing the touch, hunching his weight forward as your body begins to convulse.
“Osamu,” you gasp, pitched and warning. A wounded sob catches in your throat as your breath is stolen from you, hands fisting into his hair without any thought other than chasing your end, pressing him roughly to your pussy while your orgasm washes over you.
His ragged praises and encouragements are barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears, but you feel the soft path of kisses along your stomach he creates as he waits for you to come back to yourself.
Osamu comes into view, bracing himself over you with forearms either side of your head, and you pull him into a desperate kiss by the back of his neck. You tempt him into your mouth, his face obscenely wet and the taste of yourself lingering on his tongue.
“Yer so gorgeous like this,” he praises, alternating between chaste kisses and licking into you sinfully, mapping out the line of your teeth. It was all consuming, as if he were savouring you.
“I want you,” you whine restlessly, thighs bracketing his waist and squeezing with impatience. He grins sharply.
“What d’ya want, baby? Tell me”.
“Fuck me”.
With one last firm kiss he sits back on his heels to pull off his shirt, glaring in annoyance as the buttons slip between his fingers, before throwing the garment aside and standing to pull off his jeans.
“Condom,” you stutter between breaths and he reaches for the bedside table, tugging the drawer open awkwardly and taking a packet between his fingers.
“Ya don’t gotta tell me twice,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smirk and you laugh brightly. With a cheek turned into the plush of his pillows you watch as he rolls the condom over his cock and strokes himself to relieve the ache.
You shake as you reach for him and slide your hands across the expanse of his chest, the tremors of your orgasm still fluttering between your legs. The hair is fine and coarse against the pads of your fingers.
Your legs curl around his hips, feet suspended lazily in the air, and he ducks his face into the curve of your throat to nip at your skin. Osamu rolls his hips forward, his hard cock sliding through your wet folds, a hoarse gasp falling from his lips.
Threading one hand through his hair to cradle his head to your collar, you reach the other between your bodies to line him up with your entrance. His hips jump as you touch him, groaning at the kiss of your cunt to his tip.
He sinks himself into you until skin meets skin, the weight of his body swaddling yours. All rigidity bleeds from your limbs as he pulls out with a gratifying pace, the stretch of his cock inside you indelible. With each thrust of his hips your breasts shake and he leans forward to latch his lips around your nipple as he fucks his cock into you over and over again.
The rhythm is fervent, a hot coil in your body twisting tighter with each pump of his hips, the obscene wet slap of skin reverberating throughout the room. He moans, unabashed and bordering a whine, and the sound has your toes curling against the bed.
“Fuck, ‘Samu,” you whine between stuttered breaths, too far gone to be ashamed by the clumsy jerking of your own hips as you attempt to meet his timing, “more, need more”.
“I got you, sweetheart,” he rasps. The canting of his hips is incessant, he shifts his knees and encases you in his embrace until he overwhelms all your senses. He doesn’t speed up, instead pulling out until he’s barely inside of you and sliding into you completely, your body rocking up the mattress beneath the force. He fucks you hard, deep, every movement completely deliberate.
“That’s it,” he says as your thighs begin to seize, his voice thick with want, “feel so fuckin’ good”.
“Gonna cum,” you arch into his chest with a hiss, arms hooked beneath his and nails embedded into the soft skin of his shoulders.
“Cum for me,” he pants desperately. “That’s it baby. Cum on my cock”.
Pleasure sweeps through your lower stomach, blood rushing in your ears as your eyes squeeze shut, grip tightening around him in a feeble attempt to cling to reality as your orgasm hits you a second time.
As you resurface you feel his hips rock into you once more before they abruptly still, his large body quivering over you as he cums into the condom. His breath is hot against the underside of your jaw where he nuzzles into your pulse point, limbs still wrapped around him to keep him from getting up.
You don’t want to let go. He pushes up enough only to lean his forehead to yours, eyes held shut and relishing in the afterglow, your pussy still pulsing gently around his softening cock. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face, pushing into the swell of his red cheeks. He meets your stare.
“Shall we high five like we used to?”
“Oh my god,” your head drops back into the thick of his pillows in fond exasperation. “We aren’t eighteen anymore, ‘Samu”.
His grin only seems to get wider, taking his bottom lip between his teeth as he brushes his nose against yours in an intimate show of affection. “No, we aren’t. S’much better now, ain't it?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, blanketed in satiated bliss and love. He presses a light kiss to your cheek, then once more to your lips, shifting on his knees as his cock slips out of you.
“Gonna get rid of this an’ then we can sleep,” he murmurs against your mouth, and you hum tiredly in acknowledgement. As he makes his way to the bathroom you fight to keep your eyes from falling shut, a small seed of fear buried deep in your heart that maybe this really was just a dream and this was it’s conclusion.
But Osamu comes back. Still naked as the day he was born and smiling happily, crawling toward you with his too-big body and crowding you against his chest. He runs his hand along the length of your back.
“What d’ya want for breakfast?” he asks quietly.
“Onigiri,” you reply, the words slurring as sleep pulls at your body. The last thing you hear is his huff of laughter.
As consciousness returns to you, you begin registering your surroundings one thing at a time. You can hear the pitched song of birds outside, a distinct call that only occurs during the early hours of the morning. There’s an arm thrown over your naked waist, a hand resting against your stomach, and warm puffs of air ghosting the nape of your neck.
You pry your eyes open slowly, squinting against the morning light before turning in Osamu’s embrace to shield yourself. His body moulds around you seamlessly, accommodating the change of position even in sleep. You shuffle yourself closer and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, just below his eye, and you notice the twitch of his eyes behind their lids.
He stretches as he wakes, groaning with the movement before his arms soften back around your body like elastic returning to its original shape. “Mornin’ baby,” he mumbles, accent thicker with sleep. You return the greeting shyly, not wanting to break the intimacy of the moment.
“Sleep well?” he asks, shivering at the touch of your fingers against his chest. One side of his face is pink from how he’d slept, hair unruly and eyes a little puffy as he adjusts to the light. Your throat tightens with gratitude that you get to see him like this again.
“Best sleep I’ve had in a while,” you murmur honestly. “Someone must’ve tired me out”.
“Glad t’be of service,” he smirks, eyes falling closed again for a few moments with a rough sigh. “I hate to leave you in bed but Mamoru is s’posed to be home soon”.
“Ah. I can leave, if you need me to—”
He interrupts you quickly, squeezing your waist in reassurance, “Hey. S’not what I meant”.
“Okay,” you settle immediately, letting him pull you closer to his front. “Okay. We should probably shower before he gets back, then”.
It is with great resistance that the two of you finally get out of bed. Osamu suggests that you get the shower started while he grabs the towels, and when you lean across to turn the taps the cold water spits from the head furiously onto your bare shoulder. The soft hair on your arms raises at the sudden change in temperature, body still warm from Osamu’s embrace.
You step into the shower and reach for a cloth and the body wash you’d used last time, leaving the frosted glass door slightly ajar for him to join you. The pressure of the spray is a little higher than the one you have at your apartment, giving the sensation of a satisfying firm sting across your back, and you tilt your head to wet your hair as you lather your arms.
Osamu steps in, his eyes dragging over your figure from your feet to your lips. He closes the door behind him and steps forward, the space barely enough for the two of you, and he crowds you against the tiles.
“Give me that,” he smiles. Grabbing the washcloth from your grasp he pours a generous helping of body wash and holds his hand up, “Front or back?”
You turn around wordlessly and he starts at your neck. His soapy hands slide over your soft skin, from your neck to your waist. Fingers knead slowly at the middle of your spine, spreading outwards as if wanting to canvas more of you, and then further down to your ass.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re just tryin’ to be helpful,” you comment suspiciously, head dropping forward as your muscles start to relax. He snorts, tapping your bicep to have you turn. He starts up top again, cleaning your neck and shoulders, thumbs massaging firm circles into your skin. Hands descend to cup your breasts, giving them a light squeeze.
“Let me do you,” you beckon for the washcloth and he gives it over, raising a brow as you press your damp body to his front to let him pass. “Don’t get any ideas. Stand under the water”.
“Yer the boss,” he smirks, the spray splashing off the planes of his back, hair darkening and sticking against his forehead as it becomes saturated with water. You slide your fingers through the strands and push them away from his eyes, and his expression visibly gentles.
You repeat his actions, indulging yourself and groping at the soft muscles of his shoulders. He was so strong and yet so malleable, pecs twitching when you lather his chest in soap in much the same way he had done yours.
Instead of having him turn you reach around under his arms to scrub his back, skin to skin, the weight of his cock now obvious against your thigh.
“Need a little help?”
The moment is overwhelmingly intimate, plumes of steam enveloping you both in the small space. “Y’can ignore it,” he assures quietly, unconvincingly, his shaky exhale barley heard above the sound of water hitting tile.
You set the washcloth aside, hands traversing his body once more to rinse him of the suds before you gently encircle your fingers around his cock, your grip just on the right side of tight.
“What if I don’t want to?”
He bucks into your fist, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth and tucking his chin to his chest with relief.
“You’re so handsome, ‘Samu,” you tell him, hoping he can hear the heat in your voice, hoping he knows it to be true.
He lets out a unintelligible groan as you slide up and down his cock at an indulgent pace, alternating your grip and letting him clumsily thrust forward, fucking into your hand. Your eyes remain on his expression, wanting to watch his seams come undone.
You stroke him again while twisting your wrist, rubbing your palm over the head and enjoying his sharp whines. You hear your name fall from his lips and it sounds like a plea as the pad of your thumb circles against his frenulum.
He curses, the word drawn out and rough. His eyes flutter closed, brows drawn up and together, lips parted and jaw slacked. He cums with a breathless moan, hand slipping on the shower tiles. You work him through it, the movement of your fist slowing as Osamu’s release coats your fingers and paints white streaks over his navel, and watch as the water washes it away.
When he sweeps you into a fervent kiss he has barely caught back his breath, cradling your face between his hands. Before you’re able to reciprocate, the shrill sound of an alarm cuts through the spray of the shower.
“Shit,” he mutters against your lips, kissing you a final time before manoeuvring your bodies so he can climb out. You press your lips thin. He’s walking like a newborn foal. “I set an alarm just in case. He’s gonna be home in five minutes”.
“Take as long as ya need, alright?”
You’re charmed by how flustered he is, at how he’d anticipated that he would get carried away with you. Despite what he says you get out of the shower not long after he flees the bathroom, towel drying your hair and pulling on the fresh clothes left by the door.
When you step out into the hall you can hear a commotion downstairs at the front of the house. Mamoru must’ve just gotten home, you realise, and slowly make your way towards the stairs.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and so you lower yourself to sit on the top step. You stay hidden in the soft shadows at the crest of the staircase, listening to Atsumu’s voice carry into the house. It’s muffled but so clearly teasing, a pointed remark about the marks on Osamu’s neck and the flush of his cheeks. There is no reason to hide your smile here.
The sound of light sprinting feet echoes along the hallway below until Mamoru is standing at the first step of the stairs. His face brightens as he sees you, and you beckon him with a conspicuous wave of your hand.
“Are we hidin’?” he whispers excitedly.
“I’m hiding from yer uncle,” you tell him. “He’s gonna bully me if he knows m’still here”.
“I’ll protect you!” Mamoru crowds into your space, and you lift your arm so he can slot up against your side comfortably. He isn’t heavy, but the weight is pleasant. Alleviating.
“My hero,” you exclaim softly. He beams. The two of you startle at the sound of the front door closing, followed by the click of a lock. Osamu appears just as Mamoru had, his content expression warming into endearment when he catches sight of you.
“What’re you troublemakers schemin’ up there?”
The question flicks a switch in Mamoru, immediately abuzz with restless energy and excitement, and once Osamu takes a slow step forward with his body lowered you understand why.
“Run!” you gasp, and Mamoru squeals as he rushes across the landing toward his bedroom. You follow close behind, peels of laughter reverberating throughout the house. Osamu is hot on your heels, the thundering of his steps up the stairs only marginally louder than the beat of your heart.
You roll onto Mamoru’s bed alongside him, and he crawls into your lap for protection. Osamu stands by the door and holds his hands up in front of his chest, fingers hooked like claws.
“M’gonna getcha!”
He tackles the two of you on the bed. You can tell he’s being gentle and withholding his strength but it’s exciting to Mamoru all the same, his squeals and pitched giggles growing in volume. You play your part well, pretending to fight his father off and holding the boy to your chest.
Osamu meets your eyes over the top of Mamoru’s head, eyes alight with joy. You smile, and hope he can see the love in yours.
You were home.
TURNING YOU INTO A REAL CATCH!
꩜ .ᐟ in a hopeful attempt to show your ex of three years that you're moving on, you turn to sim jaeyun, aka hybe’s most popular jock, with expectations that he’ll boost your status in your school's social hierarchy. only problem is, jake's gone 18 years without dating, so how do you get him to up his game for his first real girlfriend? this certainly was not on your bucket list!
꩜ .ᐟ PAIR -› soccer player!sim jaeyun x fem!reader
꩜ .ᐟ GENRE -› fluff, banter ꩜ .ᐟ TROPES -› fake dating, strangers to lovers
꩜ .ᐟ WARNINGS -› cursing, kms/kys jokes, stereotypical hs culture bc i am writer
꩜ .ᐟ TAGLIST -› open! comment on this post or send an ask! LIBRARY
꩜ PROFILES .ᐟ 6ft eco-friendly feminists | ball toucherz
00. teaser!
01. business? yeah i stand on that
02. ghosted like a side chick
03. more to be added…
04. more to be added...
05. more to be added...
꩜ .ᐟ REN SAYS... i'm rlly excited to start this tbh also first non hoon smau like WHO CHEERED???? HELP??? i hope u likey and i actually have a fleshed out idea for this don't play..
꩜ .ᐟ TAGLIST (if you're tagged here you'll be tagged in future chapters!) -› @pinknjm @planetkiimchi @wonsdoll @dreamiestay @dismaldiary @duckling-niki @miszes @50-husbands @jakeyverse @heartheejake @t0asterexe @sirens-dreams @nshmurarki @i03jae @sol3chu @jiyeons-closet @thesassy-mia @tocupid @coqhee @riribelle @heartedmessages @haechsworld @breadlover01 @who-tf-soddhi @thing89 @r1kification @getoxo @augustloaf @pshwrldd @belovedsthings @pochakkeu @wonmyheart @heyniki @manuosorioh @xienoe
WISHING THIS HAD A PART 2 😔
fuck buddies, park sunghoon x reader
↳ pairing: sunghoon x fembodied!reader
↳ word count: 5,5k
↳ summary: park sunghoon never meant to fall in love with his fuckbuddy, yet he did. ↳ a/n: oh my the ending is so rushed I’M SORRY …..
↳ warnings: smut! minors dni, choking, dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, curse words, names such as slut etc (lemme know if there’s more i should add)
Stupid, stupid Park Sunghoon. He was stupid for violating the first rule of being fuck buddies, he was stupid for even thinking for a split second he would be able to maintain a relationship with you, a relationship where the two of you were nothing more than friends with benefits.
It was supposed to be simple, so why was Sunghoon struggling? All he had to do was follow one simple rule. No emotional attachment, one stupid rule, yet Sunghoon had trouble trying to find the will to even try following it. It was like his mind had already been made up the second you two agreed to become friends with benefits, almost like his mind was already set on the fact that he would not follow the only rule that came with being friends with benefits. Stupid fucking Park Sunghoon.
It wasn’t exactly like you made it easier for him either, even though you had no clue about the way he felt. If you knew the way his heart would skip a beat every time you snuggled closer to him after sex, resting your head on his bare chest; or the way he’d be impatiently waiting by his phone every Saturday night so he wouldn’t miss when you called, you’d definitely would not still be sleeping with him. Because of that one dumb rule, the one fuck buddy law Sunghoon had violated when he fell in love with you.
Lees verder
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