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#back at it again with some article recs!
robertcapajpg · 2 years
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some articles i enjoyed recently (faves are bolded) 
the genesis of blame, london review of books
the narcissism of queer influencer activists, gawker
there’s no moral imperative to be miserable, james greig
the cult of the imperfect, umberto eco
susanna clarke’s world of interiors, the new yorker
your camera roll contains a masterpiece, the new yorker
are you a baby? a litmus test, haley nahman on substack
prestige television and the moral life, article & podcast ep
how tv became respectable without getting better, current affairs
the cultural revisionism history, gawker
have we forgotten how to read critically?, dame magazine
found images, real life mag
nostalgia for nostalgia, real life mag
on internet & technology
google search is dying, dkb on substack
what lies beneath, real life mag
how the tiktok algorithm figures out your deepest desires, the wall street journal
the great offline, real life mag
nameless feeling, real life mag
i’m not there, real life mag
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shibaraki · 5 months
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AN OBSERVER OF LONGING ┊ IWAIZUMI HAJIME
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synopsis: with a few days remaining, the five of you run from Tooru and Hajime's impending departure for a little longer—and tackle some unearthed feelings along the way.
tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, childhood best friends to lovers, romantic + sexual tension, mutual pining, a lot of casual physical affection, sharing a bed, angst + fluff, masturbation, festivals, alcohol consumption (everyone) + smoking (makki), yay love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (reader rec.)
wc: 18K
↳ written in three days while in my feels and on new medication: for the komorebi collab hosted by yours truly lmao ↰
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Like most impulsive plans it stemmed from a tipsy throwaway comment. Ruddy cheeks, the warm, honey tinge of whiskey on his breath, Hajime’s lips came loose. 
“We should go somewhere together,” he’d said, ensconced by the booth cushions. Your gaze met meaningfully across the table, half lidded and dopey. Even as Issei’s arm wrestled its way around his neck and jostled him, wrangled him closer with the promise of teasing, Hajime had not looked away from you. 
“Oh! Let’s rent a little bus, like in the movies. That’s a cute idea,” Tooru enthused, inflection slurred by the warmth of his liquor. “Hajime, who knew you could be so cute?”
“Hajime has always been cute,” Issei drawled, eyes gleaming as his knuckles successfully rub back and forth over Hajime’s skull, even as the man squirms against it. “But you’re both leaving again soon. We can’t go far, or for long”.
It had been pure luck that Tooru and Hajime managed to synchronise their brief visit home in the first place. You think that they might’ve even conspired to match their flight times as close as humanly possible, just so they could find one another in the airport upon arrival. 
“Now look. Poor ‘kawa,” Takahiro strummed his finger over Tooru’s puckered bottom lip, pink and plush as it bounces back. “Quick. Tell him he’s cuter before he starts crying”. 
And the drink-addled idea passed. You, however, let the thought marinate in the morning that followed. Knowing that it was Hajime who suggested it felt significant. He’s the quiet sentimental type. With both his and Tooru’s upcoming departures you had fully expected to be inundated with their company—savouring the remaining time you had left, never quite touching on the topic, still too tender for the three of you. It surprised you. A trip felt final. Another last hurrah. The tying of loose ends, to separate on a good note. 
Ultimately you decided to forward a link to an article detailing different overnight itineraries and festivals to the group chat with hopes of bringing it to fruition. Now you found yourself standing beside Hajime’s car under an early eventide in a pair of old sweatpants too long at the ankle and listening to them bicker, wondering why you ever got the ball rolling. 
Phone, check. Keys, check. ID, check. Wallet, check. Overnight bag—
You glare down at the offending object propped on the ground beside your feet. A good twenty minutes of your frantic afternoon had been spent trying to zip the thing shut. Check.
“But Hajime, the otter cafe!”
Tooru yelps, and you glance up in time to watch as Iwaizumi jostles and loosens his grip, “No. We don’t have time. We’re sticking to the plan".
“Are those even ethical?” Issei wonders under his breath, bending at your side to lift the case and ignoring your weak protests. It’s handed off to Hajime with ease, and you allow yourself a brief appreciative glimpse of the muscle flexing under his fitted shirt. 
You shake your head, full of mirth as you call to him, “Tooru”.
The sinking sun is crowning his head in a dewy flare. Tooru looks up from Hajime’s back and the halo slips, highlighting the hidden wispy strands of ginger by his temples. Balmed lips pouted, his brow arched in question.
“Stop fussing and sit with me”. 
The curiosity smooths out and he looks increasingly pleased at the request. It lasts a few sweet moments, broken by the smug uptick of his mouth. Tooru grins, “Of course you want to sit next to me. I’m your favourite after all”. 
Years of repetitive back and forth taught you that arguing that point was futile. With a fond eye roll, you reach across in his approach to pinch at his bicep. “Just get in the car before I change my mind,” you say. 
You duck in to sit beside Tooru as he scrambles for the window seat. Hajime is angled toward you while he fiddles with the centre console, a muscled arm wrapped around the headrest, deliberately waiting for you to meet his gaze. When you do, he mouths the words, “Thank you”. 
From the minute you met there’d always been something there. Maybe it was pheromonic, the way you know something is right the instant you find it; or maybe it was the chubby, six year old hands that plucked the cicada shell from your hair one summer morning. Presque vu, years spent waiting on the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t escape you that this might be the last chance to do anything about it. 
You’re shaken from your reverie when the car rocks on its axles. Issei throws himself into the far right passenger seat beside you with a heavy sigh. Broad shoulders push you closer into Tooru, thighs pressed together and feet parted awkwardly on either side of the rear suspension. 
Takahiro excitedly clambers in the front with an energy drink in hand, uncapped, earning an indignant shout from Hajime when he slams the door with too much force. 
“Oi—!” 
You grin as he struggles to dodge Hajime’s successive smacks. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry, be nice!” 
“I told you already, it's my dad’s car. That means no tracking dirt, no spilling anything, and no smoking inside. Capiche?”
“Aye-aye,” Issei drones, knuckles grazing your hip where he fastens his seatbelt. There is little space, yet it is oddly comforting. Tooru snorts, slumping until a head of unkempt brown hair rests heavily against your shoulder, tilting briefly to nuzzle your jaw. 
The radio switches on automatically as the engine starts, an initial splutter tapering off into a gentle hum. You reciprocate Tooru’s affection and rub your cheek over his crown, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut milk shampoo. He takes your weight without complaint, and when Issei leans forward to receive a sip of Takahiro’s energy drink, your knees knock together. 
Hakone was the chosen destination, thanks to a local festival taking place tomorrow. Of the five of you, Hajime is the best driver in terms of navigation and road knowledge. Issei is a close second. Both Tooru and Takahiro got their licences for the sake of convenience, but you doubt they could make their way around a clockwise roundabout without crying. 
Takahiro whoops, his hand thudding in line with the beat on the car roof, “Road trip, baby!” 
The scenery becomes less and less familiar, turning onto streets you do not recognise. Heading west out of Tokyo toward the Chuo Expressway, it isn’t until a passenger window is opened and a gust billows into the car that you shake the final dregs of sleep. Tooru’s hair is whipping in the wind as Hajime reaches for the radio and switches channels, bass vibrating through the speakers. 
Reality sets in like a slow simmer and excitement buzzes under your skin as the giddiness swells. You lean forward, cheek squashed unflatteringly to the back of the driver's seat, and paw at Hajime’s arm. 
“Turn it up, Haji”. 
Above the road ahead is a large blue sign detailing directions to Lake Kawaguchi—a purposeful detour, for the sake of acting like tourists. There’s a spot with a perfect view of Mount Fuji. Despite having lived only a forty minute ride from Tokyo, you can’t say you’d ever thought to look at it outside of a postcard. 
It’s nice to step into the shoes of another. View the country through a less acclimated lense. You’re taken through winding roads that thread between verdant mountains; entrenched by nature, only to be thrown out into the open as the foliage breaks. 
Lake Kawaguchi greets you brightly, the sunset surface glittering across a vast horizon. You are yelling harmoniously with Takahiro as it comes into view. Issei’s phone is already pressed against the window, scenery rolling across the camera screen as he repeatedly taps his thumb to recalibrate the focus. 
“I can hear you laughing at me,” he casts a suspicious look over his shoulder. 
You grin, “You’re such an old man”. 
“We’ll park just up here. There’s a good spot for pictures down by the bank,” Hajime says, the heel of his hand flat to the wheel as it turns left. “Not too far to walk. Pretty sure there’s a cafe just nearby, too”. 
You watch his reflection in the rear view mirror, admiring the soft crinkles by his eyes. His mouth isn’t visible but you know he’s smiling. Issei bumps his knee into yours—again. Simultaneously, Tooru bends make quiet kissing noises against your ear. Swatting them isn’t justice enough, and threatening to throw them out of the moving vehicle only makes them snicker. 
The car park is entirely deserted and unmonitored, surrounded by brush. No line markings or need for payment, just a part of the ground carved out and filled with gravel that crunches beneath the tires as it displaces. Cruising toward the far end of the lot, Hajime chooses the spot right by an old staircase that appears to lead down the bank. 
He pulls the handbrake with a resounding click and shuts off the engine. Comfortable silence befalls you as the radio cuts out. Soft, muted chirps rippled throughout the treeline, and as Issei popped open his car door, those first few notes bloomed into many more.
You climb out and step onto the uneven ground, the crisp air pinching the tips of your ears. You reach up and rub at them, running your palms over your cheeks in hopes of warmth. It isn’t cold—just refreshing. Cool enough to feel it in your sinuses when you breathe. 
“Come on,” Tooru whines. He’s already stood by the railing, weight shifting restlessly between his feet. You smile at the bounce of his hair, frame outlined in darkening sunlight, breaking through the curls like a canopy. 
An arm snakes loosely around your back and Hajime pulls you into his embrace. You fall in line with him, his pace purposefully slowed to remain at your side. He guides you forward, and once you’re close enough, the others begin to descend the staircase. 
You hear Issei whistle. Glancing up from the final step, you’re met with a watercolour come to life. Open skies, there lay smudges of orange, red and pink. No telling up from down. The surface of the lake is completely still, reflecting a perfect mirror view of Mount Fuji. 
“Wow,” you murmur, breathless. Hajime hums in agreement, awe bleeding into the sound. Tooru is crouched near the water, struck with wonder, idly swirling his fingertips over the surface as Takahiro and Issei station either side of him, the pair deep in thought. 
Dragging your eyes from the picturesque view, you take in the emotion on Hajime’s face. People always claimed him to be intimidating—he could be, without question. But to you, Hajime was made up entirely of soft lines, deliberate kindness and telegraphed movements, as though he were a gentle giant, despite being the shortest of the four players. 
He still carries some chub in his cheeks. You know, because you’re often inundated with the urge to pinch at it. This is your Hajime, the one you’ve always known; only now there’s stubble lining his jaw. 
“It’s grown back again already,” you comment sotto voce, careful not to disturb the pensive atmosphere that has settled by the lakes edge. “You really are a big boy now”.  
“It’s annoying”. 
“Looks good though,” you muse. “Kinda rugged. I like it”. 
His throat flexes as he swallows, hand coming up to itch his jawline, and you try not to stare. It’s always so easy to turn him pink. “You do?” 
Too much, you think, poking the swell of his cheek in lieu of a response. It yields under the pressure, and as he smiles it takes on the appearance of a dimple. 
Casual affection was second nature, now. You found yourself thankful for the excuse to touch, and knowing that he’ll be leaving soon has emboldened you somewhat. All those years ago you’d preemptively decided that crossing the threshold would lead to rejection, but the initial borders defining your relationship have long since blurred, and it’s hard not to wonder where you truly stand. If you got it right.
“Guys,” Takahiro demands your attention, hand cupped by his mouth with a lit cigarette held precariously between his fingers. The other is in the air waving his phone back and forth. “We’re here to marvel at the miracles of mother nature, not each other!”
You step out of Hajime’s embrace, disguising your reluctance. 
Joining their lanky huddle rewards you with a chorus of cheers as Tooru latches on to your back and props his chin atop your shoulder. He flashes an effortless peace sign. The others attempt to fit themselves into the frame mirrored on Hanamaki’s phone screen, an iridescent crack running from one corner to the other, Mount Fuji’s blushing snowy peaks crowning your heads. 
“You really gotta get that fixed,” you hear someone say. Their voice is muffled, as if they’d been talking with their lips closed, and one glimpse finds Issei trying resolutely to keep his posed smirk in place. Your own mouth flattens into a thin line to keep yourself from laughing. 
The camera shutters.
You groan, “I wasn’t ready for that one”. 
A few more are taken and sent to the group chat, eyes on you while you set a particularly sweet one as your wallpaper. Crowing with delight, you find yourself surrounded by bodies and squeezed in a firm group hug. 
“Alright, alright,” you huff. The discomfort stems more from the insistent, cramping sensation in your stomach. Your smaller hands meet a hard, muscled abdomen, pushing fruitlessly. Neither man budges. If anything, your resistance only encourages them to coil tighter. “You’re all too heavy. Get off!” 
They relent, but only at the sound of your gut rumbling. “Hungry?” Hajime asks. The sheathing sun reflects in his irises, burning bright, verdant green, as though he were part of spring itself; soft in apology.
“Food is that way,” Issei points out. “Looks like it’s open. Maybe”. 
There’s a stout, cosy structure further along, tucked atop the edge of a hill and half hidden by a cradle of Japanese maple. If you squint you could make out the moving silhouettes inside. 
Tooru cranes his neck, lips comically pursed as he looks toward the cafe. “It’s pretty romantic. If we have Hajime get on one knee out here for a picture, think they’ll give us a free meal?” 
Hajime shoves him half heartedly and clicks his tongue, “Why me? Do it yourself”. 
You watch as they share a long, unspoken moment, conversing without words. Tooru offers him a scathing look, one of total incredulity and that alone is enough to break the suspension. Hajime juts his chin in the opposite direction and turns his back, beginning a stiff march toward the cafe. 
“What was that all about?” 
“He’s so bullheaded,” Tooru muses, knuckles rapping gently to your skull as he passes. When you are offered nothing but a fond laugh in the face of your confusion, you stalk off after them. 
Petulance has you speeding ahead of the group, further picking up the pace at the sound of hurried feet. The natural instinct to run nips at your heels. As the earth begins to incline upward and your strides broaden, there’s a burn in the back of your thighs that Takahiro seems to have no issue with, if his sudden sprint ahead has anything to say about it. 
“Last one there has to pay!” 
“Bastard,” Issei hollers from the back, refusing to run and carried by his heavy gait. “Just because you’re unemployed!” 
Your lungs are burning with the exertion, laughter coming in short bursts. Issei remains in last, Tooru second, Hajime fourth. From the terrace, Takahiro pieces his thumb and forefinger together into the shape of a heart, nowhere close to apologetic. “Buy me something and I’ll give you a big wet kiss,” he returned in a singsong voice.
Issei lumbers through the gate, movements broad and slow. His brow arches, Takahiro immediately losing bravado. “You’d do that for free”. 
“Get me out of here,” Hajime mutters. “Kill me”.
You take pity on him and herd them all through the doors, “Less flirting and more pastries, please”. 
Inside is painted in rich deep browns. The fresh air weaves well with the aroma of freshly baked goods. You breathe it in, your hands dancing over shelves sparsely stocked with baskets of flatbread, loaves and cakes. While quaint, the ceilings are high, held up by large beams on which decorative lights and plants are carefully draped. 
You feel slightly awkward and out of place in your shabby old sweatpants. A calming melody is playing overhead. Soft spoken voices belonging to the few employees and fewer patrons encourage you to lower your own into a whisper. 
Hajime subtly leans down to listen as you say, “I think we should get our food to go”. 
He hides his amusement against your shoulder and you accept the brief weight with a grin. Then you feel him nod in agreement. 
Issei holds his hand out when you reach the counter. There are already multiple paper bags tucked under his arm. “Give me the goods before I change my mind,” he says, exasperation set plain on his face. 
“Thank you Issei,” you recite like a child, pressing two sweet rolls shaped like a cornet into his palm. Hajime chooses comfort—curry bread. Shared on countless late night walks home; the memories stir something melancholic deep within your chest that you’d rather not examine right now. 
Your initial concern about being out of place were not entirely unfounded. The employee behind the register greets your group kindly enough, and her smile is genuine, but you cannot ignore how her eyes seem to flicker back and forth to the disgruntled customers seated by the terrace. 
If you had to guess, they were regulars. Retired elders that lived nearby and had the privilege to spend their evenings here. Though irritating, you are honest enough to admit that your gaggle of idiots would certainly fracture this place’s peaceful ambiance. So Issei pays, feigning nonchalance at the long, wet kiss Takahiro leaves on his cheek, and you trudge back to the car with food in hand.
Tooru ambles around to the front passenger seat, hip checking Takahiro toward the back where he previously sat. You knew he might do this at some point during the trip. Eating before a car ride made him prone to nausea, and since he was young he’d claimed sitting in the front helped. Anpan held between his teeth, Tooru peers at you through the headrests and smiles with his eyes, entirely too pleased. 
Takahiro nudges your side as he clambers in. Lifting your hips, he buckles the seatbelt, and soon after you are half-draped over his lap to allow Issei to do the same. You glare at him as he wiggles his eyebrows, stopping short when he flashes you his phone. There’s a picture, this time of you and Hajime at the lake curled into each other; you’re cradled by his arms, and he by the mountainside, entirely in your own world. 
You relent, “Send me it”. 
“As I thought,” he mutters smugly. 
The lake is rarely out of view. Heading south to Hakone, the road hugs the water for most of the journey. Tooru connects his carefully curated road trip playlist to the speakers and the car swells with an old city jpop song. You pick at your sweet rolls, barely humming along; choking on feelings left to fester in your throat, unacknowledged and unspoken. 
You remember the day they told you their goals for the future. Plans to leave. Together, across from you, hands wrung in their laps. Grief filled your body like lead, and you recall thinking to yourself, half-hysterically, ‘How can I do this alone?’
That was a time in your life you couldn’t imagine a world without Tooru or Hajime in it. Day in, day out, seasons passed side by side. Three small stars converging on the same path. It never needed to be clarified—all plans were made with the tacit promise of being together. The unwillingness to part pulled even your families along and you were hard pressed to recall a first New Year shrine visit without their relatives present. Until they decided to leave. 
It’s loneliness tinged with a smidgen of guilt. You’re not truly alone. Issei and Takahiro are some of your best friends, and they weren’t going anywhere far anytime soon. Still, you can’t help but brace for the ways your orbit will further unfurl in Hajime and Tooru’s absence when they return to their lives.
Hakone is a town tucked away in the shadow of Fuji-Hakone-Izu national park. Long, mountainous roads lead you toward an expanding vista. Faces sun drenched in varying hues of red maple, pink blossom and youthful green. The next hour and a half passes in the blink of an eye and the destination closes in. You angle your head, stretching across Takahiro’s lap and squinting up to make out the shape of ropeways cutting across the burgeoning sky. Tiny, far off carriers glide along the cables. 
Something about it compels everyone to stop and take a breath. You lapse into pleasant silence. The car slows to cruise through the busy streets, music lowered into a faint buzz. It is larger than life. 
While advertised as a quaint getaway from the chaotic, fast paced lifestyle of Tokyo, in actuality Hakone is made up of seven separate villages, each with its own distinct history. Lush hills crowned with cumulus clouds of smoke from the hot springs; young families standing beneath grand, crimson painted torii gates; vendors sheltered from the sun by conical straw hats tied beneath their chins with silk. 
To get to Gora, you must first cut through Yumoto—a lively, compact area lined with shops and restaurants that have attracted an uncomfortable amount of foot traffic. Hajime drives with his body strung tight, knuckles losing colour as yet another tourist almost walks out in front of his car. 
“Almost there, man,” Issei offers sympathetically.
Hajime grunts, “Don’t talk to me”. 
Tooru is too preoccupied with taking pictures to notice his best friend's struggles. The small noises of awe only seem to push Hajime’s shoulders higher. You have to duck away from the rear view mirror and bite your inner cheek so as not to laugh.   
Eventually, the place you’ll be staying at comes into view. You all release a collective sigh of relief. The modernised ryokan is much larger than most family run facilities. It sits conspicuously on the end of a private road, concealed by forest and threadbare canopy that casts shadows across the windshield as the car pulls in, sliding effortlessly into one of the empty spaces. 
Four staff members adorning pastel yukata’s greet you by the wide genkan with a deep bow. The woman standing behind the reception desk mirrors them when she meets your eye. You’re offered a pair of new grey slippers and gently ushered out into the lobby with your outdoor shoes in hand while Hajime heads to check in. 
When he rejoins the group his expression is distinctly uncomfortable and pinched in a way you recognise as embarrassment.
“There’s been a mix up with the room—suite, I guess,” Hajime admits. Hesitant, his gaze drags up from the floor to where you’re standing beside him. “I showed her the booking but no dice. We’re stuck with a tatami room and bathroom, but she promised there’d be enough futons to roll out”. 
While it was last minute they’d all designated tasks to each other, and his task had been booking accommodations. Having expressed that he would make the effort to get you your own room for the sake of privacy and comfortability, despite your protests, you understood his immediate reaction. Letting people down—at least, his own arbitrary idea of it—never sat right with Hajime. 
“Let me go talk to her, Iwa-chan. I might even charm her into giving us some extra amenities,” Tooru grins wolfishly, already fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater. Faint freckles scattered along his forearms, some newer from the summer months. Tendons flexing with determination, he takes the proffered print out and saunters toward the counter. 
“I can be charming,” Hajime mutters childishly, shucking the cross bag higher up his shoulder. He frowns you. “Am I charming?” 
You pat his cheek. His pride always rears over the most obscure things. “In your own way”.
Takahiro voices his amusement with a heavy clap to Hajime’s back. “Yeah, man. You appeal to people’s baser instincts. Makes me wanna get knocked up in a cave and nap while you’re out hunting for boar, or something”. 
“Shut up, idiot”. 
Tooru leaned his body against the counter, closed the distance and tilted his head, a coy sequence you’ve paid witness to a thousand times. You can imagine how he’s holding the receptionist's attention, speaking in low, dulcet tones that slide through her like warm butter. 
“What a bastard,” Issei sighs. Hajime grunts his agreement, and you realise that the four of you are lined up, watching them unashamedly as if it were a piece of theatre. 
“Alright, weirdos. Move it,” you prod insistently at Takahiro’s waist, snickering when he flinches away from your fingers. “Stop staring and get your bags together so we’re ready”. 
“You sure are confident in him,” Issei smirks, picking up his luggage nonetheless. There’s a loud click as you extend your suitcase handle, pulling with force when it jams halfway. 
“You’re not? It’s Tooru—” your voice abruptly halts at the heat of another, their hand encompassing your own. Hajime relinquishes your grip and readjusts the handle without fanfare. Flustered, you clear your throat, “He always pulls through for us. Though I still think this is all a bit unnecessary”. 
“I, for one, am glad he’s with us and not against us,” Takahiro snorts, eyes flitting between the two as Tooru tips his head and laughs. The sound is trim, practised and forced to your own ears, yet manages to make the employee blush. “Kinda scary, isn’t he?” 
Unfettered affection pulls at the corner of your mouth. You smile, turning away from them before they can see and tease you for it. Without a doubt, you had missed being with them more than you realised, and the giddiness was hard to temper. 
When Tooru returns, it is with a self satisfied grin, a new set of keys and a slip of paper. “That her number?”
“Yep,” his lips pop as he flips it over between his fingers, flashing the numerical digits scrawled on the back before flippantly sticking it in his jacket pocket. “We now have a modern double, a tatami room and a private onsen. Don’t all thank me too quickly, now”. 
Hajime accepts the keys with a begrudged sigh. “You should worry about texting and thanking her before we leave”.
“Stop trying to make me a better person,” Tooru sniffed, allowing himself to be herded toward the cramped lift. You trail closely behind, shaking your head. 
The room is bigger than expected. Family sized, you’d say. Traditional with a modernised touch; the main tatami room that flowers in the moonlight as it floods in through the sliding lattice doors. Behind it comes the promising sound of running water and after setting all your shoes in the modest genkan—pointed outwards—Takahiro rushes to discover the private onsen.  
Hung in a recessed alcove is a silk scroll inscribed with calligraphy. Staggered wall shelves frame a small flatscreen TV, neatly decorated with painted vases and incense. Tucked away in the corner is a closet full of freshly aired futons. The rice straw flooring yields softly under your feet as you explore. 
Two other rooms are cordoned off, a smaller tatami room for the futons and one largely taken up by a double bed featuring a western style ensuite bathroom. Tourists must love this place, you think. It offers a palatable amount of Japanese culture, while simultaneously providing them with the simplistic comforts of their own. 
Issei makes work of the futons, nudging the low table and cushions into a corner and dragging the blankets over to the other room. Lip worried between your teeth, you find yourself hovering uselessly with no task to attend to aside from unpacking, which you thought to be just as useless. 
A hand snakes around your arm. Tooru’s, you soon recognise; impressively soft given his choice of career, lithe, and slightly balmy from a fruity smelling moisturiser his sister gifted him from her travels in South Korea. “Come on,” he insists without explanation, a dramatic weariness about him.
You are guided into the modern room and handed a travel sized torch identical to his own. You flinch away from the bright light as it abruptly begins to blink, but catch on quickly. ”Look everywhere you can think of”. 
“What’re you guys doin’ in here?”
Ignoring Takahiro’s question, you bend to flash the torchlight into the plug sockets. As Tooru peeks into the vents—giving the theatrical whisper of “all clear” with every check—you circumvent around the bed, looking under the frame and the nearby closet. 
“Makki, stop hovering like a ghost and check the bathroom for cameras. Actually, I’ll do it,” Tooru waves him off dismissively, sleuthing precariously into the small bathroom. “Gotta check the shower head. Can’t have my darling friends showing up on some dark web auction…”
Once Tooru is mollified that there are no hidden cameras the group allow themselves to settle. You are set up in the double room. It is the only door with a lock and a private bathroom, and you suspect that is why it was foisted onto you. 
Still you are conscious about the proximity, or lack thereof. Listening to them bicker and scuffle through the walls, their footfalls and voices passing beneath the crack in the bathroom doorway. Your fingers lingered on the turning lock for too long and in the end, you’d left it horizontal. The intense anticipation in your belly culminated into what you recognised as yearning—longing. 
The shower can only be described as a transparent box. Aside from a few shallow shelves left to house the complementary body wash, you’re surrounded only by clear, frameless glass panels that do nothing to obscure the view of your naked body. Anyone could walk in at any time. Standing under the warm spray, pressure just right against your shoulders, even as the dense steam fogs up the glass your gaze still falls back to the door handle. 
You run a washcloth over your skin and ignore the muted arousal that flares between your thighs. Sounds can be heard over the white noise, muffled by hollow mortar yet still clear enough that the sounds are coalesced into words. 
“Get your shoes off my futon,” Hajime demands. Hand braced against wet tile as though to touch the baritone of his voice, the other passes innocently over your sex, and you shudder. Thoughts wander. 
Tentative, you slide your fingers through your folds. Massage wet, loose circles around your clit. Eyes fall closed and you dip into your imagination. There’s a firm body behind you, cock grinding tantalisingly slow against your ass. Shaped around your back as though you were an extension of him. Your rhythm stutters when Hajime nuzzles below your ear. Tender kisses forge a path to your shoulder while his hands smooth across a resting stomach toward your chest.
Curtained by hot water as it patters away at the tension in your muscles, droplets slip into the seam of your lips and they part for breath. You lean on the tiled wall, seeking cool relief where the steam starts to overwhelm you, and slip abruptly on the condensation. With an undignified yelp, you quickly find your footing—though not without first knocking over the travel sized bottles of body wash. 
Deafening silence follows. You inhale deeply, exhaling to steady your breathing. A hesitant knock to the door gives you pause. The handle remains mournfully upright. 
“…You alive in there?” 
Your face twists into a grimace as you attempt to recompose yourself. You clear your throat. “I’m fine, Hajime. Sorry. The only thing I’m dying of is embarrassment”. 
His short laughter is warm and uninhibited. It rings true in your ears long after he’s gone. Turning away from the spray, your head tips forwards until it thumps against the glass. Shame prickling behind your eyes, you groan, “What the fuck is wrong with me”. 
Surprisingly there are no teasing comments awaiting you when you leave the privacy of your room, dried and redressed. All the screen doors have been pulled open, connecting the main room to the spare tatami room where they’ve rolled out all the futons to create one large bed. Five, together. You smile but don’t mention it. Issei greets you with a lazy wave from his place amongst the blankets. 
“Makki’s just havin’ a smoke,” his thumb points to the door leading out toward the private onsen. Through the lattice you can make out a blurred silhouette standing on the small veranda. 
“The other two?”
“Headed downstairs to ask about the festival tomorrow, and dinner”. 
“Are you looking forward to it?” you perk up, kneeling to sit cross legged on one of the beds. 
Issei smirks at your enthusiasm and hums an affirmative. Your eyes are drawn to the subtle movements of his hands where they fiddle with the inseam of his jeans. “Yeah. Heard they’re lighting some bonfires”. 
Your mouth parts with a sound of recognition. “On the mountainside, right?” 
“That's the one,” he nods and bows forward to rest an elbow on his thigh. You straighten up as he pins you under an intense stare. “I can slip away with the guys, if you want. Tomorrow. It would be a good time for you to talk to him”. 
Heat prickles over your face. Your pinch your cheek between your teeth, eyes instinctively darting to the hallway. You’re not sure whether it’s his consideration of you or your own piteous transparency that makes you want to cry. It has been this way for years; a tentative dance that never seemed to end. They all know. You wished you could still be ignorant of that. 
“Do you…” you clear your throat as your voice cracks. Issei’s gaze softens and you feel naked. “Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?”
After a short, pensive silence, Issei exhales a long breath and lays his hands flat on the futon. He leans into the heel and pushes onto his knees to drop his body heavily beside yours. 
You struggle against his weight as he slumps, flinging both arms around your waist. “Issei—!” an aborted yelp falls from your mouth when he hooks his chin over your shoulder and locks his jaw, pressing it into your back. 
“Stop! That hurts, bastard!” you squawked, pushing down against the forearm cinched across your middle like a belt. They flex under your hands, not moving an inch. You can feel his cheeks lifting as he grins. 
“Sure. When you stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he offers slyly, tightening his grip. You fall slack as the fight bleeds from your body. There’s a familiar burn behind your eyes, closely followed by a swell in your throat that the words can’t quite seem to get around. “And for the record, I do think it’s a good idea”. 
“It’s a terrible idea,” you intone flatly, smile fraying at the edges. “He’s leaving again after this, Issei”.
Issei must hear the clear defeat in your voice because he gathers you against his chest to hug you properly. “I know,” he murmurs. You breathe in the light notes of amber lingering on his skin, his big hand splayed between your shoulders.
Then you feel the unmistakable press of a kiss to your crown. “You’re a coward,” your brows knit together as you glare up at him. It's just like Issei to make it sound like you’re fussing over nothing after you’ve spent years building it up in your head. His grin widens, crooked. “But you’re our coward, and we want to see you happy”. 
You feel your irritation melt away at his sincerity. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth. The sweet atmosphere is swiftly soured as he adds, “So hurry up and fuck already”. 
Takahiro’s return is poorly timed. Shutting the lattice door behind him, he strolls in with scent of tobacco following close behind, “Who’s fucking?”
A wave of embarrassment washes over you. It makes you go hot and cold in quick succession. Issei surrenders and rolls onto his back, cushioned by the futon as you push him away, loud cackles bouncing off the walls. 
“Nobody is. Be quiet, the pair of you”.
“Is it about Hajime?” he continues, crouched before you with eyebrows wiggling suggestively. Takahiro jumps backwards with a snicker when you angle your hips to kick at him. The bitter smoky smell is much stronger around his fingers. He grabs your ankle to keep you still but Takahiro’s smug air dissipates in an instant, mouth falling open as you drag him down. “Hey—!”
Issei stays quiet with his arms tucked behind his head, happy to no longer be the target of your ire. 
That is the scene Tooru and Hajime returned to only a minute later. Having rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, Makki had accidentally pushed you down into Issei, the three of you tumbling backwards in fits of laughter. 
Spurred by the need to be included, Tooru took it upon himself to flop unceremoniously into the pile. Your pained yelp had caused quite a stir, the image of Hajime’s face twisted in worry playing on a loop in your mind. 
You inhale deeply and grimace in discomfort. The air is humid here. You can feel it sticky in your lungs, right beneath the fresh bruise blooming across your rib. Tooru’s eyes flicker, caught in the movement as you rub at your sternum. The corners of his lips downturn. 
“Sorry again,” he mumbles over the sound of gentle, trickling water from the nearby spring, knocking your elbows together. You’ve strayed toward the back of the group alongside him, his stride slowed to keep pace as you wandered around the low lit gardens to kill time before dinner. Flowers are few, evergreens abundant, stone lanterns guide you forward. 
With a forgiving sigh you link your arms to keep him close. Tooru’s rigid posture relaxes as you nuzzle against his bicep. “Nobody died. It’s fine,” you laugh quietly. 
“If it were up to Iwa-chan I might’ve”.
You roll your eyes. “I can handle a bit of roughhousing. Grew up with you, didn’t I?” 
Tooru’s face is thrown into stark relief as moonlight filters through the canopy, and you watch his small smile scrunch up into a moue. “With my sister you mean,” he says, with a fondness betraying his expression. “What a beast”.
You have vague memories. Downy brunette hair fisted in a small hand. Eyes swollen with tears. A young boy sent to the corner to think about his actions. Tooru always started those fights, not that he would ever admit it. But you knew he was fighting for his older sister’s attention more than anything else at the time. 
“Liar. She spoiled you all the time,” you tell him. “And you were as bad as each other”.
Tooru hums, the way he often does when he doesn’t believe you. Your paths converge, misstepping as he sways and you throw his too-innocent act a look of suspicion. “So,” he starts a beat later. 
It’s apparent in his eyes. That gleam of curiosity, and hesitance. Bingo. Tooru barely moves as you return your weight to his side and almost veer him onto the grass in protest. “No,” you reply. 
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
“No? Well if it’s not about me confessing to Hajime then please, do carry on”. 
Tooru makes a petulant, frustrated noise. There’s an indent in his cheek where the inner flesh is pinched between his teeth. You roll your eyes, scuffing your shoe to the stone path. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to confess now,” you tell him quietly. 
“You’re just scared,” Tooru returns under his breath. His expression is solemn now, as is his tone.
“And what if I am?” Your voice raises a bit, rousing the attention of the men up ahead. When they look back you muster a smile and give a reassuring wave. Your attention momentarily drawn to the huddle behind them by the bamboo gate. A small family shuffled by, heads bobbing with gratitude as the boys made room, when their toddler took notice of Takahiro and became appropriately delighted by him. 
While the mother spilled panicked apologies and took her daughter's hand, the girl stood on the very tips of her purple jelly sandals and Takahiro bent to let her pat him on the head before departing. Tooru drops the topic with an offended hum as you abandon him to rejoin the group, examining the trim of his nails to feign disinterest, “She only liked you because your hair is pink”. 
“Actually it’s strawberry blond,” Takahiro snarks, equally affronted and amused. “Just heavier on the strawberry”.
Their movements coalesce, blindly shuffling after one another back into the hotel lobby. “Should probably head back soon,” Hajime mutters as an afterthought, his gaze trailing wall to wall before landing on the clock hung above the main desk. “Should we buy some drinks and stuff for tonight?” 
“I can get it,” you volunteer at the same time that Tooru interjects with, “We’ll go get it”. 
You glare at him.
Hajime disapproves. At the very least he’s worried. It’s in the flex of his fingers, the set of his jaw, the earthen eyes narrowed at the pair of you. “Will you be okay together?” 
“Yes, Iwa-chan. This isn’t an episode of ‘My First Errand’,” he reaffirms his grip on your arm, giving it a decisive squeeze. “It’s no problem, right? Right”. 
“Right,” you say, the decision clearly made for you. You turn your attention from Tooru’s pointed smile back to Hajime and the others. “We’re good. Text us what you want and we’ll bring it up to the room”.
Murmured acquiescence ripples through the group, and Tooru ambles you out through the main entrance as you part ways. Your entwined shadows elongate, the wall mounted sconces leading a path to the small sundry nestled in the east side of the hotel. 
“You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“No”.
“Not even if I say please?”
“No,” Tooru chimes again, tugging you through the automatic doors. The cashier acknowledges your arrival with a quick smile and continues to restock the empty shelf in front of them. 
The temperature drops as you turn onto the drinks aisle and Tooru opens the closest fridge while refusing to let go of you. “I just don’t understand why you’re not taking the chance,” he continues, frowning at the bottle labels. When he plucks the umeshu from the rack you know it’s for him. “I don’t want you to regret it”.
“They’re asking for beer and shochu,” you read tiredly from the phone in your free hand. The text chat bumps as another message comes through. “Uh… Issei wants dried calamari. We should get seaweed tempura, too”.
“Stop changing the subject”.
Annoyance sparks in your chest. “This is what we’re here to do,” you grumble, shoving your phone into your pocket and opening the adjacent fridge door with more force than necessary. You shiver at the gust of cool air. 
An indolent sigh seeps from him. “C’mon. You have to know,” Tooru murmurs, moving closer to hook his chin over your shoulder. He softly knocks your heads together. “The chances of you being rejected are less than zero”. 
“No, I don’t know that. And—even if that’s true, what then?” you shake your head, chewing your lip. “Like I told the others, it’s not a good idea”. 
“Okay,” Tooru replies, standing upright and turning to saunter away. He draws out the word as he does whenever he concedes an argument he still thinks he has won. You stare at his retreating back with a bereft sense of defeat, now cold where your arms had been linked. 
“Tooru,” you say. He makes an inquisitive noise, his nose wrinkled as he rummages through the deep fried snacks. “Being rejected and watching you two leave again—I can’t do both”. 
Your voice cracks. That strikes a chord square in his chest; the sudden crestfallen expression is evidence enough. Tooru abandons the tempura shelf and tucks the bottles of liquor under his armpit while tucking you under the other. You're a mess, a cacophony of emotion threatening to spill out through your tightly closed eyes. 
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to push you”.
“I mean. You did,” you laugh thickly, and Tooru has the decency to appear sheepish. He rubs his hand down your side. “But it’s okay. I know you mean well, you all do”.
It’s enough to see that it comes from a place of love. The extent of your yearning has affected him just as much as anyone. Tooru watched consistently over the years while you stood in place and dug, and dug, and dug, for somewhere to put your feelings. That along the line it became a crater you couldn’t climb out from. That while you were desperate to make it hospitable, desirable, to be a person Hajime could want, he had managed to blindly pivot around it his whole life. 
The electrical buzz emanating from the fridges is abnormally loud as Tooru, for a precious second, actually stalls to gather his next words. “Look. I’ve been thinking,” he says with a rather rehearsed air. 
“That’s not good”.
“Don’t be mean. Hear me out,” he grins. “It was weird for Hajime to suggest a trip so last minute, don’t you think?” 
You purse your lips thin with a contemplative hum, grabbing the snacks and shuffling along the aisle while he talks. You had thought it significant, that being the main reason you encouraged Hajime’s idea in the first place. “See, he’s a straightforward, honest guy. And he’s earnest. That’s why you think if he returned your feelings he would’ve said something, isn’t it?”
The cashier furtively looks you over as you wander closer to the counter and set them down. You offer a strained smile. “Hi, that’s everything. Tooru—what’s your point?”
Tooru pulls out his wallet and emphatically states, “My point is you’re wrong!” He hands over the money, “Oh, here. Keep the change. Thank you”. You take the carrier bag, wincing when the glass bottles clink together. “Anyway,” Tooru exhales a heavy breath, visible as he steps into the night air, “You’re underestimating his cowardice”. 
Coward was not a descriptor you’d ever ascribe to Hajime. Yourself, sure. You shoot Tooru a sidelong glance, and he smiles at your clear scepticism. “Iwa-chan is bad at being selfish. He feels a certain responsibility toward the people he cares about. Did on our old team, and with the guys, and especially with you,” Tooru continues, a warmth to his tone. “He’s probably not thinking about his own feelings. He’s mostly worried about you, and yours”.
Your pace lags until you’ve come to a stop. Tooru does so a few steps ahead. “So he brought us here for what? To let me down gently?”
“Did you listen to a word I just said?” Tooru cocks his head, the moon crowning his head, light threading through his hair as his expression is shadowed. “I think he was always aware of what could change if he outright confessed. He needed to be sure, and he needed a reason, because his gorilla brain thinks it’ll ruin your whole relationship. That’s why we’re here,” you blink at his lithe fingers, waving in your face and wriggling. “It's an excuse. Because he wants to try!”
Eyes wide, caught in the place between awed disbelief and crippling anxiety, your fingers almost slip from under the bag handle. The trip being symbolic of Hajime’s resolve—could that make sense? You swallow against the lump in your throat. Memories of every recent there-and-gone-again touch and gentle look hold new meaning as they resurface. “He said that?” 
“Well, no”.
And the lump in your throat, presumably your heart, drops straight into your stomach. You march past Tooru into the hotel lobby with a bitter laugh. 
“Wait, would you—! You’re both so frustrating”.
“Me?” you whirl around to glare at him. People linger at the edge of your vision. Those prim, soft looking women that greeted you mere hours ago are gathered at the reception desk and pretending not to stare. Lowered into a broken rasp, you tell him, “What happened to not pushing? You aren’t being fair, Tooru”. 
“This isn’t about fairness. You said you're scared,” Tooru says. Your eyes dipped low to avoid the surety in his gaze. “And that’s fine. I just want you to consider that maybe you’re not the only one who’s scared”.
His words register gradually, and they make you ache; similar to that of a bruise, as the implications become clearer, and your reply comes quietly—not whispered, with a voice that carries no strength. “Fine,” you lift your head, ball your fist tighter and the plastic handles dig into your palm. The tension smooths in Tooru’s brow. His eyes soften, squinting at the corners, and you realise you’ve begun to smile too. “I’ll keep it in mind. You’ve said your piece. What now?”
“Oh. Now we go back to the room before Hajime sends a search party, eat as much as we want and drink until we fall asleep,” Tooru says, casting a quick glance to your surroundings. He drapes arm around your shoulders haughtily, “Then at the festival tomorrow I’ll conveniently slip away with Makki and Mattsun to leave you and Hajime alone. Do with that what you will”. 
You snort, feeling an unrestrained fondness for your friends, and will yourself not to cry. “You three already had this planned, didn’t you? Issei told me the same thing”. 
“Confess, don’t confess. Either way, I think it’ll be good for you to talk alone,” he says resolutely. Tooru’s one armed embrace has the steadiness of home. You return it, hooking around his lower back, and walk together. His strides that much longer, and you feel a smidgen braver.
Returning to the room you’re greeted by the sight of three men crowded in the genkan pushing to get their shoes back on. As Tooru anticipated they were preparing to go out looking for you both. The smile on your face only grew at Hajime’s admonishments now you're considering the love behind them, Tooru’s words relaying through your memory. 
If Takahiro and Issei exchange a look at the bounce in your step, well. You happily ignore it. 
Yukatas had been laid out neatly for each of you to wear for dinner. Once you’ve changed you putter into the main room and settle on your knees, resting back on your calves. The tatami is comfortable underneath your shins. Set on the table is a lavish spread of food brought up to you by the ryokan staff. 
The heat of another body radiates to your left. Hajime smiles when you look at him and your heart thunders. He’s unbearably handsome in his complimentary robe, a darker blue than your own, and he has it loose at the neck. You feel a headache coming on with the effort it takes not to ogle his chest. 
To your right Takahiro’s navy coloured garb is worn equally loose, somehow managing to look dishevelled rather than natural. As though he had pulled it on haphazardly in his excitement to get to the food. 
Tooru saunters into the room alongside Issei. His robe matches your own. It is drawn tight at the waist and closed at the collar, closely outlining his upper half. You are always startled by how broad Tooru truly is, given how lithe his movements are. He huffs when he notices the spots rather side of you are taken. 
“Ready to eat?” Issei rumbles, sitting opposite at the low table looking nonplussed as ever. You can’t help noticing his belt is barely holding tension and could fall open at any time, both sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
“Ready as I’ll ever be. It smells incredible,” you say. The dinner is beautiful, a healthy array of colour, covered in mouth watering glaze. Seasonal flowers and leaves and decoratively cut vegetables have been used as finishing touches on each dish, artistically expressing the end of the summer. Your stomach twists in hunger as both palms come together in synchrony, “Thank you for the food”. 
You take your chopsticks and reach for the dish closest. Limbs cross over the table top. A familiar, homely scent of saffron, garlic and onion fills your senses. The gloaming moon watches you eat in the relaxed atmosphere. Soft sounds of satisfaction, the clang of cutlery. “S’good,” Hajime says. He catches you staring and lifts his chopsticks toward you, free hand cupped beneath it. “Want to try?” 
It’s unnecessary in the best way. “Mmn,” you replied, leaning forward with an indulgent smile. You don’t trust yourself to speak, the spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to your body. 
Could Hajime really return your feelings? Tooru certainly thinks so. Issei and Takahiro. Seemingly everyone that has been within twenty feet of you. 
Tooru watches the interaction over his glass of umeshu, radiating a smugness that can only be interpreted as ‘I see you’. You don’t particularly enjoy being seen to the bottom of; it makes you want to shrink back. It’s the strange flicker of determination on Hajime’s face that keeps you from doing so. 
You’re not the only one afraid to say something, a voice insists in the back of your head. 
The food falls apart gently on your tongue. You give a pleasantly surprised hum, engrossed in the rich flavours, and you almost miss how Hajime preens. His mouth pulled into a small, boyish grin, unable to look you in the eye. 
“Hey man, give me some,” Takahiro bemoans, his amusement on the precipice of teasing. You recline to allow Hajime to pass the dish across and instinctively know what will come next. “I see how it is. Not gonna feed me too? Favouritism at its finest—” With a flat glare he scoops a large chunk of rice and shovels it into Takahiro’s mouth mid sentence, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. 
As the plates empty your imagination wanders. It’s a careful unravelling of doubt. You’ve navigated every one of your relationships with a certain level of trepidation, Hajime most of all. Taking a forward step only when certain it wouldn’t creak. Years of doing nothing, saying nothing, because it was the safe option. You had been prepared to spend your life in that unspoken purgatory if it meant keeping Hajime, and there had been comfort in that decision. 
But now you have permission to hope and you don’t know what to do with it. You’re quieter than usual, though nobody points it out. If anything they seem relieved. Three of the four, atleast. Hajime won’t stop sending you worried glances. You wonder if he’s overthinking his actions, and your reactions, the way you’ve always done. 
The main tatami room is fragrant with the remains of dinner. You’ve gathered some pillows, shared out the snacks and poured their drinks, five sups in and counting. The boys are bickering over which movie to watch. Sake heats you from the inside out, plucks you right from your entangled thoughts and back into the present with loose limbs and a looser tongue. 
You speak loudly over them, “How about a comedy?” It’s the first one you can think of. “Tampopo?”
Issei, Takahiro and Hajime pause to consider. Tooru groans, already knowing he has lost the majority vote. “I wanted to watch ‘Before we vanish’,” he whines. “Sci-fi is better than comedy!”
“We always watch sci-fi,” Hajime remarks as he works the remote, switching the movie category to comedy and searching for ‘Tampopo’. 
“There’s a drinking game for this one,” Takahiro adds. “I think you sip every time somebody says ‘ramen’”. 
“If you want to be put on a waitlist for a new liver go ahead,” Issei says. 
The room briefly fades to darkness, lighting up not a second layer as the studio logo spins onto the screen, emphasising the shadows of Hajime’s laughter lines. “We should drink every time there’s a weird food-porn montage instead,” he suggests, sinking back onto his elbows. Your traitorous mind immediately notes the few inches between your hands. 
“Well I’ll be drinking in protest,” Tooru turns his nose up though his eyes betray him, fixed on the screen with obvious interest. “And I’m not sure I want to hear the word ‘porn’ from your mouth ever again”. 
“Porn,” Hajime says. “Porn, porn, porn”. 
“Quiet,” you hiss, focus absorbed by the opening scene. An odd pair of lovers, one delicate woman and her white-suited gangster, enter a movie theatre. Their entourage scurries behind them with champagne and a wicker basket of food, setting up a small table as though in a restaurant. 
“Oh,” the dapper man’s voice bleeds through the speakers as he approaches the camera to break the fourth wall and harangue the viewer. “So you’re at a movie too. What are you eating?”
“Dried calamari,” Issei answers loftily. Takahiro snorts into his drink. 
Scene to scene, you drink when prompted and settle into uninhibited contentment. Feet tucked up under your thighs, propped on a plush pillow. The heat from Hajime’s hand grazes your skin. Closer and closer until the simple stretch of your fingers would see them entwined. 
The movie is funny. It is also unabashedly sensual and hedonistic, and heavy handed about its themes surrounding food. From oysters to noodles, including a scene involving the two lovers using their tongues to move an egg yolk between their mouths before it bursts, you're barraged with wet slurping sounds as the characters on screen eat, and eat, and eat. 
“Hot,” Takahiro slurred, while Tooru cried, “What the hell are we watching?”
You drank twice for that one. Too tipsy to parse whether the hot flashes through your body were embarrassment or arousal or an intermingling of both. You’re overly conscious of Hajime’s movements and his closeness, so much so that the plot passes through one ear and out the other. 
The dim lamplight from the ensuite room pools across the tatami, the door left ajar to luminate the spot where you’ve lined up the liquor bottles. You squint at the labels. Fuzzy. Laughter ripples through the group at the ongoing scene, an elderly woman being chased around a grocery store and hit with a fly swatter for seemingly—fingering the food? 
You smile at the sound as you lift Tooru’s umeshu bottle to the light to measure the remains before pouring some into your glass. A hand circles your ankle, shifting back and forth to fit the peak into the gaps between his knuckles. The soft evocation of your name. Hajime is holding out his own empty cup with a half lidded gaze, the left side of his face thrown into stark relief by the TV screen. 
Something hot flares through your chest, your perspective on his tactile habits shifted; the initial desire suffuses to the very tips of your fingers. Now you’re restless with it. He’s so handsome, you think. And he’s still looking at you. 
You fill his drink too, and hope the alcohol will not steal these warm moments come morning. 
Once the movie is over your sprawled out bodies eventually migrate toward the futons Issei prepared. You forgo the bed to crawl into the covers, to the surprise of no one, and let your eyes trail after Tooru. The flush across his nose has steadily deepened throughout the night. He flicks on the electric fan and kneels to roots through his luggage, pulling a compact from the front pocket with a triumphant noise. 
“Comfortable over there?” Tooru circles the pad of his pinky into the balm and brings it to his mouth. The faint strawberry scent is enticing, preferable over the heady, bitter smell of beer. His brow quirks when you don’t reply. 
“Want some?” he asks. Slowly, you nod, and he flashes a wry smile, setting down the pot before stretching to reach you. The motion draws you in, tipping your chin up. His fingers are soft on your cheek, splayed out and cradling your jaw. 
Tooru kisses you. Your heart maintains a steady rhythm. It’s a friendly, chaste press of lips; you rub your own together as he pulls away not a second later, finding them smoother. Sweeter. The hints of strawberry linger right beneath your nose. Caught in your own world you fail to notice the other two men staring.
“Oh no,” Issei drawls. Turns off the light as he saunters in. He drapes himself across a prone, drunk Takahiro, tilting his head in Tooru’s direction. “My lips are so dry”.  
The atmosphere sparks a little. Issei’s teasing, syrupy tone is like flint striking steel. A fond, syrupy sensation settles around your bones—or perhaps that was the alcohol easing the tension. Flirting came easily amongst the others because it was without expectation. The silly pet names and heavy handed affection; it’s all a playful toeing of the line. People found your group dynamic odd no matter how much you tried to articulate it to them. You think in the end, it boiled down to trust. To safety. They all loved you in their own, individual ways, as you loved them. Maybe that's how you'd managed to be so content with Hajime's friendship. It had been enough.
Tooru hums and sits cross legged on his futon. He settles back onto his hands, smiling hazily as Hajime kicks his foot in passing, “I’ve noticed”. 
You can’t help appreciating how genuinely coy it is. Patently different to the way he behaves with strangers—not so forced. With his friends flirting is more about working for Tooru’s permission; it’s more fun that way. 
Issei purses his lips expectantly. Tooru leans forward. 
“You okay?” 
You blink. Hajime lowers onto the futon beside yours. His yukata has fallen further open to display his firm chest. Not that you’re looking. You’ve been cordoned on the far end of the room together. Takahiro is too drunk to make any purposeful decision but it’s obvious—at least to you—that Tooru and Issei chose from the remaining futons to keep you and Hajime together. 
“Sleepy,” you say, the lull to your voice earning a gentle smirk in response. 
“Want any, Iwa-chan?” Hajime’s frowns at the interruption and looks over his shoulder, taking in the suggestive intermittent puckering of Tooru’s mouth. You think at this rate there’ll be no balm left. 
“No thanks,” he says. 
“Have it your way,” Tooru grumbles from his place beside Takahiro, right in the centre. Pale legs kick at his covers until they’re rumpled a certain way, apparently satisfying to him, and he wriggles down into the mattress. “Still think we should’ve watched ‘Before we vanish’. I’m going to have nightmares about oysters”.
Issei snorts. He turns on his side, laid at the furthest end from you. “But does ‘Before we vanish’ use an egg yolk to symbolise orgasm?” his hand makes a sweeping gesture in the shadows, “I don’t think so”.
“Tha’s cinema baby,” Takahiro slurs, mouth muffled against his pillow. A beat passes. You meet Hajime’s gaze. His lips are pressed thin, trembling. You hear a smothered wheezing sound coming from Tooru’s futon, and the stillness is abruptly broken by a unanimous fit of laughter. 
“Shit,” your cheeks ache, your stomach is in knots as you pull the covers up over your persistent grin. The collective glee tapers. “I’ve,” Hajime starts after a deep breath, rubbing at his eyelids, “missed you idiots”.
Tooru sniffles at that. “Don’t make me cry,” he says, clearing the emotion cloying in his throat. You feel a pang of sympathy, overcome with it yourself. “I’ll wake up with swollen eyes and I forgot to bring gel masks”.
“Use a cold damp cloth or something”. 
“Mattsun, you're so primitive”.
Eventually the murmuring between the boys settles into silence; the kind that makes the shadows in your room a little darker, dense branches spreading across the ceilings and walls into a daunting canopy. The electric fan and the cicadas hum a cohesive song into the night. 
Through the thick of it, you hear a new whisper. Hajime calls your name and there’s barely any voice behind it—uncharacteristically timid. Blinking away the haze, your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You can see an inviting, wide open embrace. The corner of a blanket pulled back to expose his torso. 
Intention clear, you first glance at the sleeping figures over his shoulder. Tooru curled into a cocoon with his bedsheets tucked under his feet. Takahiro laid out on his belly, open mouthed and drooling. Issei on his side, arm bent beneath the pillow, breathing so shallow you’re tempted to pinch him awake. 
Hajime waits while you think. Your vision has sharpened enough to make out the trepid smile on his face. Emboldened, you crawl out of the futon and into his. 
“Looked cold over there,” he reasons. 
You hum in agreement. Compared to his body heat, you’d say it had been freezing. Despite all the hard earned muscle over the years, Hajime is pliable when he’s relaxed, doughy, and he yields when you begin to adjust your shared position. You guide his arm down to cinch around your waist and nestle against his chest, legs overlapped. Made up of yourselves but also each other. 
“Better?” he murmurs, breath tickling your ear. A final shiver dances the length of your spine as your nerves settle and anticipation thaws. You can feel his heart beating like a wing beneath your palm. 
It reminds you of when you were kids. The jagged shape of a tall, lego Godzilla had forced you to find home between him and Tooru more times than you could count. Everything had been so much bigger. Scarier. Still, those watercolour memories don’t quite hold a candle to this. 
Hajime’s hand glides down your back in repetitive, methodical strokes. It makes you feel delicate, like something in you might fracture. You try to ease your breathing as he pulls you closer. The proximity isn’t anything new, but this is something else. Different. It always is, with him, only this time you don’t need to convince yourself otherwise. 
Fingers twisting into the thin cotton of his yukata, you mumble, “Thanks, Haji”. 
You feel his lips on your temple like hot wax. Your eyes flutter closed, and all at once you feel brave enough to say it, but the moment passes as his head drops against the pillow. 
From the recesses of your memory rose the rehearsed speeches, the recipes for honmei chocolate, the imagined cliche scenarios that you left dog-eared in highschool. All the ways to say ‘I love you’. 
Hajime has always expressed love in smaller ways. You’ve observed, over the years, his little habits. Easing small burdens. He’d take the clothes off his own back if it could make your journey smoother but wouldn’t ever dream of asking you to stray from it. That’s where you differed, and what you feared. 
If he got cold feet you would need to be the brave one. 
For all that you had doubted about the nature of Hajime’s feelings towards you over the years, you could have some faith in it now. The thought of him leaving again without hearing it from you—without knowing you were an option—doesn’t bear thinking about. 
Vague and half-formed, you succumb to sleep on the end of a drowsy self imposed promise. Tomorrow, you’ll tell him. 
Wading through a cottony haze, your consciousness sharpens in increments. Every physiological response in your body is shouting that it is far too soon to rise. You groan, tilt your head and let it loll against your arm; the other is flung outside of the covers, fingertips skimming the futon edge. 
You’ve turned on your side in the night. Slowly, you realise a firm body has conformed to your back, knees nudged up behind your own, bending them toward your chest. The way you melt into their warmth and nudge against the cradle of their hips is instinctive. Then the shallow, steady breaths brushing the nape of your neck stutter on a sharp inhale and your eyes fly open, remembering where you are. 
Hajime. 
After a few seconds endured with bated breath you release the tension in your muscles. He’s asleep. 
There’s stark relief. The initial terror in your chest ebbs. Careful as you go, you slip out from Hajime’s grip. A crease forms in his nose, frowning at your absence, and you stay to see how he reaches for you even subconsciously. 
A long yawn forces your jaw open, tongue sitting like cotton as the last dregs of sleep fade. A quick look around the room tells you Takahiro is the only one up. The latticed door to the onsen is cracked open. You pull your yukata tighter to your chest to shield against the slight draft. Blood rushes down to your toes as you walk, prickling white noise filling both legs. 
Bordering the onsen is a quaint patio area mimicking a traditional veranda. There’s a mosaic garden table and two matching folding chairs, one of which is occupied by a visibly hungover Takahiro. 
“Anyone would think you had a night out,” you murmur, closing the door behind you. The air is cool again. Morning birdsong carries over from the trees.  Takahiro peeks at you through his lashes, a permanent frown etched into his brow. A headache, if you had to guess. He’s slumped in the chair with long legs stretched outward, a cigarette nestled in the ‘V’ between his fingers, held up by a loose wrist like it alone was too heavy.
The tip glows red as he takes another drag and turns his head away to exhale the smoke into the dew laden air. “Never let me mix drinks again,” he rasps.
“You say that every time,” you cross your arms over your middle and sit down. The metal is cold under your thighs, felt through the thin fabric. “Sleep well, atleast?”
“Like the dead,” he flashes a conspicuous smile as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “You?”
A voice nonchalant in a way that betrays his interest. Subtle in his teasing. Despite already knowing he would’ve seen you and Hajime on his way to the veranda, the confirmation leaves you feeling hot.
“It was comfortable,” you reply stiffly, braced to defend yourself ad nauseam. Takahiro’s eyes softened in the rousing grey-blue daylight. 
“Good,” he says. 
“That’s all?”
“What, you want me to force the subject? Figured you've had enough of that already”. 
“No,” you sigh, sinking into your chair. “…Thanks, Makki”. 
Takahiro shrugs lightheartedly and stubs his cigarette out. There’s movement from inside the room. At that moment the door slides open, and Hajime pops his head through the narrow gap. 
Your fingers twist hard around your obi. He looks sleep mussed where he’s sitting on the tatami, pushing the door further open to lean on the frame. There’s recognition and relief in his gaze as he glances from Takahiro to you. No indication he was awake before. 
“Hey,” Takahiro says. 
“Morning,” Hajime replies, sounding as though his throat is dry. A draft dances through and his face scrunches slightly at the nicotine smell. “I set an alarm for breakfast. They’ll be here in any minute”.
“The other two up?” you ask. 
“Mostly,” Hajime nods in their general direction. “Tooru’s getting in the shower and Issei’s on the phone to his little brother”.
Takahiro takes a deep inhale and pushes his centremost knuckle to his forehead. “I’ll go help put away the futons,” he states with a groan. Hajime tucks his legs in to allow him through and swats at the hand that scrubs over his hair in passing. 
He turns his attention to you. A crease from his pillow marks his cheek. “Have you been awake long?” 
“About ten minutes,” you reply, staring hard at the dense garden and dwindling into silence caught somewhere on the knife’s edge between awkward and companionable. Running water streams from the wooden spout into the onsen, making the surface ripple. You latch onto the sound. “Shame we didn’t use the onsen”.
“We’re still here another night,” Hajime says placatingly. “Use it when we’re back from the festival if you want”. 
You nod, adjusting your yukata without reason. The simple need for distraction. “Maybe,” your mind can’t help veering toward the worst case scenario. What would’ve changed by that time, tonight? What would you say, and how, if anything at all? The thought makes your stomach twist. You’re not sure you could recover if he reacted poorly. 
Blinking out of your reverie, you realise that Hajime had been talking. Heat prickles under your skin. “Sorry,” you grin awkwardly, and it feels brittle on your face. “Got lost in my thoughts”.
“About what?”
You wet your lips, like that could soften the blow. “I’m going to miss you,” you tell him. His expression falls. “Both of you,” you add hastily, which does little to reassure him. “When’s your flight again?” 
Hajime’s mouth thins, eyes dipping low. “Late tomorrow night. Or early I guess,” he answers. His shoulders shake and he laughs ruefully, “I’ll miss you too, y’know. Not sure you realise how much,” like it was a matter of fact. The earth would go around the sun and Hajime would miss you.
“Like a hole in my head,” you murmur, so quiet you’re not certain he heard you. Then, slightly louder, “Are you excited to get back to California?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m excited to leave. Got a lot of interesting stuff coming up this semester, though,” he perks up when you gesture, encouraging him to continue. Inwardly, selfishly, you only want to hear him speak a little longer. “One thing I’ve really wanted to do is biomechanical testing. We use it for detailed analysis of our players movement. So…”
The air stifles as the sun rises and drapes across the private veranda, warming the wood panels beneath your feed. Once breakfast has been laid out—and you’ve been bid an enthusiastic ‘good morning’ by the staff—you gravitate toward the same seating arrangement as the night prior. 
It’s nothing short of a buffet. A traditional Japanese-style breakfast, hot rice and miso soup, grilled fish, dried seaweed and shellfish boiled in soy sauce and sugar, all served across four hand-woven bamboo trays. There are western elements to the spread, including coffee and bread, which Tooru happily reaches for. 
“A person like you should really avoid stimulants,” Hajime muttered as he came to sit at the table. 
Tooru startled, hands poised over the steaming coffee pot. He pouted, “A person like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” 
“Paranoid, is what I mean”.
“If you're so concerned about my overactive limbic system maybe try being nicer to me!” 
The morning crawls onward with an atmosphere of trepidation. As if waiting for the other shoe to drop. You squirrel away in the ensuite bathroom again to get dressed, taking longer than necessary. Condensation from Tooru’s hot shower sticks to the tile and the mirror’s surface. The reflection is foggy, your figure like a smudge.  You regret not bringing a kimono for the festival—knowing you’ll be surrounded by all that beauty and colour and you worry you’ll look dull in comparison. 
Regardless, you smooth out any lingering creases in your outfit. Dull or otherwise it flatters your silhouette nicely. 
“Oh”.
You step out just as Takahiro angles his mouth to exhale. Smoke plumes out the open door in delicate wisps, swept away by a humid gust of wind. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, a little flustered as he scrambles to shield you from the smoke, eyes roving over your form. 
“You okay?” you ask, unsure if you should be amused or insecure. 
He stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray balanced on the side and wipes his hands on his jeans with such speed you worried it might create static. Then, suddenly, he’s across the room with his thumb sinking into the swell of your left cheek, tobacco fingertips framing the right; he pushes them together until your mouth is puckered. There’s nothing sweet about it. Rather, it looks like he wants to squeeze you like a clementine. 
“You’re all glowy. And determined,” the crease in his brow deepens, and he adds pressure to his fingers until you’re squirming, flustered. “And you look cute”. Issei emerges from the garden at that moment. Hand up his dark turtleneck shirt, scratching idly at the hair on his belly. 
A deep groan rumbles in his throat. “What are you two doing?”
“I think it’s finally happening”. 
Drawn to Hanamaki’s incredulous outburst, Issei stares at your confused, squashed face as it is turned in his direction. His mouth parts and he squints, as though he were searching for the right words. 
What the fuck, you think. 
“What the fuck,” he says, as if plucking the thought from the air. 
“Right?”
They sidle either side of you. Tall and looming, their overbearing presence has anticipation swooping in your belly. Issei smells it like blood in the water and hooks two fingers to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Well look at that,” he teases, bending forward until your eyes cross. “Wonder who you’re getting all dressed up for. Us?”
“Fuck off,” you grumble, though it comes out muffled and terribly nasal. Takahiro laughs, and his thumb skips over your rabbit-footed pulse as his hand slides down the column of your throat and away. 
“Oi. In all seriousness you do look good,” Issei smiles. His kind eyes squint with it. They’ve made a clear effort themselves. That’s part of the fun. 
A voice floats in from the genkan, “Who are we talking about?” Tooru looks up from his phone and he beams. “Oh! You look cute,” he says, tone light and pleasant. “Hajime will like it”.
“Your reactions are worrying me a bit,” you reply dryly in favour of ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Anyone would think I usually look awful”. 
“No,” their three voices overlap as they protest. “You never look awful,” Tooru says, shaking you gently by the shoulders. Then he stops to consider his words. “Well. Maybe that time we thought you had strep throat”.
“What Oikawa wants to say is,” Takahiro cuts in with a flat glare in the other’s direction, “We’re here to support you today, and stuff. That’s all”. 
“And stuff,” you repeat, a fond smile coming unbidden to your lips. The surge of affection has you trying to stretch your arms around three big bodies. “You’re being overbearing. But thank you”. 
Their arms come up to wrap around your lower back and reciprocate. You are corralled into a long, strong hug, compressed from every direction. They release you when Hajime returns. He is visibly stupefied at the scene, brow knit as he fiddles with the collar of his dark denim jacket. 
Your spine straightens, taking an unnecessarily deep breath. “Hi Hajime,” you say. It feels so different now, now there's all that premeditated intent behind it. Like ‘IloveyouHajime’ bunched into a single word. 
“Hi. You look…” Hajime's throat bobs. “Good. You look good”.
You glance at the boys and chew the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress your grin, “So I’ve heard”.
The sun is at its highest point when you leave the ryokan together. You are swallowed up by gold beneath the gingko trees flanking the road, a mosaic of dappled light filtering through the partial canopy and intermixed with the softly shaded ground. 
Foot traffic grew dense on the main street, teeming with life. “Stick close,” Hajime murmured next to your ear. You suppressed a shudder and took his arm so as not to stray far. The crowd herds your group closer to the heart of the festival. Sound assailed you from every direction. Thousands of lanterns have been strung up, forming a blushing canopy over the yagura, a makeshift stage housing performers and musicians, handsome taiko drummers setting the pace for participants to gather around it and dance along in circles.
There’s a sense of harmony, pigments blended into one another. Families are swathed in beautiful kimonos and silks, jinbei and traditionally woven hats. Your group stood out for their height alone—Mattsun especially, the tallest of the four men. People part to let you through, and children look skyward with awed eyes, jumping in place to see how high they could get. 
The current pushes you towards the stalls, where an amalgamation of savoury scents pervade the air. Sweet, crisp okonomiyaki sauce, intense pickled ginger, charcoal smoked meats. Hunger knots in your stomach. Hajime looks over the heads of people and spots some vendors. 
“Guys,” he raises his voice and drops his arm around your back with firm reassurance. The others pause, colliding with the moving bodies around them. “Food first. Then we can go to the games”.
You’re suitably satiated after takoyaki. The folded boat-shape container they’d handed over to you is warm in the already throbbing heat. It burns at the nape of your neck; the sun and the many stares of those around you. Takahiro, Issei and Tooru, too, keep flicking their eyes over, as if waiting for something to happen, or some kind of sign. 
Music plays over the din. A quick-tempo showy melody, like one would hear at a circus. Takahiro points at the ring toss stall. “Hey, ‘kawa. Win me something,” he says. 
“Win it yourself!”
“Don’t be like that babe,” Takahiro laments dramatically, his movements becoming languid and sloppy as he drapes himself around Tooru’s shoulders with his mouth curled into a smarmy grin. “You’re so much better at tossing than me”.
At your back, Hajime shakes with restrained amusement. Issei catches your eye and shakes his head while Tooru sniffs primly, attempting to scrunch his own smirk into a displeased pout, and relents. “Fine,” he says. “But one of you needs to win me a mask at the rifle-shooting game”.  
“I don’t need to do anything,” Issei replies dryly as they start toward the ring toss game with startling synchrony. You glance at Hajime’s face, at another tentative, uncertain beginning of a smile, and feel the limitless joy of being together ballooning inside you.
“Did you want anything?” he asks as you walk. 
Giddy, you cling closer. Part of your brain is stuck on the thought that anyone on the outside looking in would probably assume you were a couple. “If you’re feeling generous,” you exaggerate the flutter of your eyelashes, making Hajime snort. 
Hours slip through your fingers like sand. In no time at all the sky began to darken. There’s a bubbling anticipation in your chest the later it gets. You lift your head to be met with the ochre of evening, azure blending into vivid orange at the horizon. 
Issei tips his head back to take in the sky. “Fireworks are starting soon,” he announces. Tooru’s eyes flicker to you. The tangible sense of finality that had permeated the afternoon comes to a long awaited fulcrum. You’re tempted to linger amongst the stalls, simply to vy for extra time. 
“You two should go and find somewhere to sit,” Tooru insists, shaking his finger from Hajime to you, “We’ll go grab some more food and join you later”.
Hajime levels him with a flat look. “All three of you are needed for that?”
“Yes,” Tooru smiles back, an intensity to his expression. You shift your weight from left foot to right, waiting with bated breath.
After a moment of anticipatory silence, Hajime exhales his acquiescence and turns to you. “Come on then. Let’s find a spot”.
You’re pulled along with him, casting a lasting glance toward your friends and their encouraging gestures as you go. He leads two steps ahead, shoulders drawn to his ears, which are now notably pink. The fingers around your forearm are clammy and loose enough that you could break free. Instead, you overturn your wrist and slide up into his palm, aligning your hands to properly hold him. You squeeze three times, and the rigidity in his posture lessens.
Hajime leads you away from the crowded centre toward the river bank as the display starts in an explosive burst. Couples and families have dispersed there to watch the fireworks. When he manoeuvres himself to his knees you bend to sit beside him, the soft blades of grass flattened under your weight. 
The fireworks go on for close to half an hour, great pulsing strobes, fiery dandelions and starbursts of light brightening both the sky and the water. You hear nothing over the noise, not even your own breathing. A streak of gold shoots up, few becoming many, fizzling into pinpricks of light mimicking fireflies.
You wonder after it ends, "Are the Californian displays better?"
Hajime binks at you, registering the question. He makes a contemplative sound. "Bigger, yeah. Especially on the fourth of July," he brings your joined hands over his lap and you stare as he absentmindedly strokes the back of your knuckles. "Wouldn't say that makes it better. Better depends on the company".
You mumble your agreement, "Think the others missed it?"
"Would be pretty hard to miss," he smirks softly, falling into a comfortable silence. Childlike laughter chimes around you, sparklers of every colour glowing etching names and shapes into the darkness. “They’ll be around here somewhere”.
You lift your gaze, staring at his profile. Your eyes traced the line of his jaw up to the delicate shell of his ear. “Hey,” you mumble, drawing his attention away from the surroundings. Speckles of light reflect in his irises as he turns to face you, cheekbones burnished with a soft red afterglow. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something”.
His brow arches in lieu of a response. Every movement he made you mirrored without meaning to. Quieter than before, you start, “I…” and as fast as it comes your resolve withers. Stretches and thins into weak, fibrous threads.
“What’s wrong? Is it that bad?” he tries for a grin. Hajime puts on a brave face for you, he always does. But you can hear the genuine concern in this voice, and it spurs you on.
"Just don't want you to think I'm being selfish".
“You can be selfish sometimes," Hajime argues.
“Even with you?”
“Especially with me”.
You scrunch your eyes shut.
Hajime frowns and rushes to wipe the stray tear with his thumb, swiping right through it like spider silk. "Take your time," he murmurs, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Your heart beats, a desperate rattling behind your ribs. Trembling hands, damp skin. The swoop in your stomach that makes you feel as though your body is precariously balanced on a cliff's edge. This could be everything you’ve ever wanted. This is it.
A slow burn has to catch fire eventually.
So you reach inside and twist the spigot of your heart. A trickle becomes a flood fit to burst. It’s all encompassing, like love and heartbreak at the same time. You look at him and blurt, tremulously, “I’m in love with you,” then wince for having said it, as if you hadn’t really meant to.
“I have been for as long as I can remember. You’re my best friend and I was scared to say it and…” you continued, voice all in a rush, with the pained expression of someone who hadn’t meant to say that either, “I still am. Scared, that is. I'm sorry it took this long. My feelings for you were always at odds with my fear of losing you. And I’m sorry if it’s selfish. I know we don’t have much time left until you leave, and this could make everything weird, but you deserve to know that you're loved. That I love you. And—really, Hajime, if you could just stop me whenever you feel like it that would be great,” you snapped your mouth shut, white hot with embarrassment.
Hajime remained motionless, jaw slack and muscles wire-tight with tension for a long, sickening moment. The sting has you backing off, away, trying to think of something to explain, some excuse—
—Hajime surged forward and kissed you.
It is not like you imagined. There's nothing slow about it, no hesitance nor gentility. Hajime kissed as if trying to press the full weight of his want upon you. As if gravity were a mere suggestion. You suck in a sharp, surprised breath. Relaxing into it your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders to pull him impossibly close, drinking in his soft shudder when you brush the nape of his neck, making all the little hairs there stand endwise.
Hajime's lips are smoother than they look. His hands roam over your hips, kneading the soft parts of your body, and you give way to indulgence. You tilt to kiss his shallow cupid's bow, down to the corner of his mouth. Teeth nibble at your lower lip, the tip of his tongue hatching hundreds of butterflies in your stomach as he traces the seam with promise.
Another loud bang startles you out of the kiss. Laughter and whispers. You sharpen to the surroundings, noting the distant acrid smell of smoke. Rather than release you, Hajime wrapped his arms around your waist and tucked his nose into the hollow where your jaw and neck met. Faint stubble tickles your throat. Your heartbeat clamours in your ears, the blood in your body blush rushing to your head.
"Sorry," you hear him say. His lips drift across your skin as he speaks. The apology fills you with immediate dread. "Should've asked before I did that," he continued quietly.
"Fuck. Is that all?" you slump in his grip with a quiet, wet laugh. "You scared me".
Hajime rears back to look at you, enough room to share a shallow exhale. His palm, large and rough, rose to cradle your cheek. He leans his forehead against yours. You feel like you’ve eaten the sun, brimming with inexpressible tenderness.
"Sorry," he repeats, understanding washing over his expression and a sheepish, fond smile playing on his lips. Pinker than before, not cold bitten, but kiss bitten. "Waited to do that for a long time," his eyes soften in the shadows, half lidded as they flit across your features.
"You have?"
"Used to think you would be my first kiss. First everything, really," Hajime's smiles broadens at your uncertainty, awed and dumbfounded, as he maps out the curve of your jaw with his thumb. Light over your fluttering pulse point. His hand drops and the heat lingers on your neck. He swallows, a sobering moment. "I love you too. Not sure if there was ever a time that I didn’t," he pauses then, looking out toward the orange glow flickering through the treeline, expression unguarded and open. “I kept trying to find opportunities to tell you. I didn't know how. Thought it wouldn't be...”
"Fair?" you finish for him. Of course.
The bonfire has been lit. Cheers can be heard across the river. Your thoughts splinter, stuck in the present while wondering if the others found their way, or if they were hidden somewhere, watching it all unfold. The mental image of them crouched in a random bush together makes you snort, and Hajime's brow pinches.
"Just," you rush to explain, grasping his forearm. You're halfway into his lap. When had that happened? "I imagined the guys hiding somewhere trying to spy on us. S'stupid".
An impish grin graced Hajime's face, ducking his chin as though to hide it. "I wouldn't put it past them," he says. And it hits you that—Hajime has always looked at you like this. Has been saying he loved you, for a long time.
You dither, your skin suddenly cool, and your palms clammy. "Hajime," you say at the same time as he begins to speak.
"Oh—you can—"
"No, you".
"I was going to say we should head back," his voice is infused with fond exasperation, gaze dipping to your union. He clears his throat, "For some privacy. I can't touch you the way I want to, out here".
“Right, right,” you nod slowly through the rush of adrenaline. It prickles in your fingers, the skin on your arms pebbling as Hajime eases you to your feet and a strong arm snakes around your waist. His lips brush your cheek.
“This okay?” 
Melting into the crook of his elbow like it was a space carved just for you, you return a kiss to his jaw and tell him, “You don’t need to ask”. 
“Noted,” he says roughly. 
The walk to the ryokan is a blur. You hardly remember the faces of those you passed. The dancers had been bright in your periphery, their movements reduced to streaks of colour, and every beat of the taiko drum thundered in your chest. 
The quick text you sent to the group chat receives an overwhelming litany of winking emoticons and exclamation marks. Inwardly you hope Hajime doesn’t read them until after—whatever it is you’re heading back to do. Hajime notices. “What’re they saying?” 
“That, uh,” the phone screen dims as you lock it and shove it deep into your pocket. Your legs keep moving. “They promised not to be back for a while,” you shared a meaningful look and wet your lips at the ideas flitting through your mind. The taste of him lingers. Takoyaki, toothpaste and lip balm. 
Together you stumble through the lobby to your room. Hajime remains close at your heel; not once do his hands leave your waist, steadying your movements. You feel drunk. Exhilarated and swept up in the newness of it, as if in a free fall. The keycard almost slips from your trembling fingers as the door beeps open. You step into the shadowed genkan and swivel to take his face into your hands. Another beep as the door closes. You press yourself to Hajime’s front and kiss him. Natural as anything. 
Hajime leads you deeper into the room. The tatami yields under your feet. He sighs blissfully as your tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth, opening up for you and coaxing you in. It’s languid and without demand. The soft, wet sound makes your skin hot. You shudder as he sucks on your tongue, letting go to take the flesh of your bottom lip between his teeth.  
“Need you. On the bed,” you murmur, threading your fingers into his cropped hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Starting at the crown, you make your way down the back of his head to the nape of his neck where you found him to be sensitive. He shudders, goosebumps spreading over his skin, and arousal seeps through your core. 
“Anything you want,” he breathes. A frisson of anticipation zips up your spine when he steps forward to crowd you against the bedroom door, fumbling at the handle. It swings open and your stomach tightens at the abrupt inertia, stumbling onto the bed together with an oomph. 
Hajime rises onto his forearms, flicks on the lamplight before bracing either side of your head. His nose bumps yours, a warm puff of air against your mouth as he bends his knees, slotting your hips together. You kiss him again. It’s more of a press of mouths, because you can’t stop smiling, and neither can he. 
The outline of his cock is pressed hot against you. You hook your heels into his lower back and breathe his name into his mouth. Flint sparks in your belly as he instinctively ruts forward, rising frantically to meet him. Lips part above your own in a shaky groan, quivering as he deepens the kiss. 
There’s tension buzzing under your skin, the restless, pleasant kind that diffuses into every fibre of muscle and leaves you shaking. A soft hitch of breath. You rock your hips in search of relief, feeling his cock hard in the tight confines of his jeans. “More,” your voice dwindles into a weak moan.
“Slow down,” he calls to you, gentle and placating in a way that makes your eyes sting. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” and you wish that were true.
The rustle of fabric as you undress is inordinately loud in the intimate atmosphere he draws you into. Hajime’s eyes deign to stray from you as he shucks his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head. The blush on his chest looks like the aftershock of a shot of sake; colour that seeps through his body and stains his skin. He’s gorgeous in the warm dim light, emphasising the shadows of his pecs and the downy hair on his navel. You trace a finger through it and preen at how his abdomen clenches. 
A rough hand slips behind your knee, not quite prying them apart. Hajime thumb strokes the skin there. “Can I taste you?”
Desire tugs at the base of your spine, heart racing. You’re wet. You can feel the cool kiss of air between your thighs. With a surge of want they fall open to him. The quiet hitched breath doesn’t escape you as he looks at you. 
Palms smooth down the backs of your thighs. They ache and stretch to accommodate him. Hajime descends, forging a languorous path of wet kisses on his way. Your stomach twists in anticipation when he blows lightly over your pussy, bringing your legs up to straddle his head, kneading the soft flesh there. 
Hajime’s eyes can’t find a place to call home. Flitting from your sex to your chest to your face, mouth hovering just above where you want him. Even so you find yourself wanting to kiss him again. Wanting for more hands, more mouths, more time to learn him with. 
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps, pressing praise into the delicate skin there. It’s the expression on his face that makes you throb. The intense, unabashed want. You’ve never seen him look like that. “You’ll tell me what you like, yeah?”
You concede with a barely audible mumble, unable to trust your voice. The corner of Hajime’s mouth quirks into a smirk. Then his thumbs are tucking into the innermost creases of your thighs, gently spreading your folds. He presses a chaste kiss to your clit before licking a broad stroke through your folds. 
Forcing his eyes open, Hajime clutches at the fat around your hips. He laps at your pussy, alternating between slow and fast, firm and languid, finding a rhythm that plays your body until your hips are rolling against his face. You cling to the bedsheets, head dropping back into the pillows. “Like that. Hajime,” you gasp as flickers back and forth over your clit, breathlessness abated by the sudden rush of air to your lungs. “Fuck. Don’t stop—!”
You hear his deep inhale, and his eyes scrunch shut with a long groan as he keeps pace. It sends an echo of pleasure through you—makes you clench around nothing, an innate plea from your body. He kisses your pussy, open mouthed, sweet and precise. Heat gathers in your belly like a solar flare. The pressure has you bursting at the seams. 
“You’re gonna make me cum,” you say, voice caught in your throat. Your thighs wrap around his head, toes curling. He doesn’t push, or adjust his pace, or let his enthusiasm get the better of him. A broken moan spills from your lips, pelvis undulating with each wave. Hajime maintains the rhythm—exactly as you need it, right as your spine arches into the sheets, and your orgasm ripples through you. 
Your breathing begins to steady. Your legs fall slack, hung limp over Hajime’s shoulders. He hums, a satisfied little noise, and rests his cheek against your inner thigh as his tongue slides lazily through your folds. You take in the arousal and spit coating his cheeks, half lidded stare, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and feel a surge of affection. 
Your fingertips graze his temple. His eyes flutter at the tender touch, and Hajime tips into it, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Good?” he asks, smiling. 
“Good?” you repeat with disbelief. You grab at his shoulders to coax him back up, pleased when he goes willingly. You readjust as he buries his arms under you and gathers you close to his chest, kissing the corner of your lips. You turn and murmur into his mouth, “You’re a little too good at that”.
Hajime laughs, lolling his forehead to yours. “Just good at following instructions,” his voice goes tight at the pressure against his cock, your hips raised to feel him through his briefs. “Fuck”.
“If you want to,” you tease dazedly. He nips at your lip in retaliation. 
“Don’t feel like we have to,” Hajime reassures after a beat, hand coming to rest on your waist. He strokes up and down your flank. “I don’t have any condoms. And I know this has been pretty fast”. 
You consider him closely, love suffusing through you like a warm, pleasant fog. It spurs you to admit things you wouldn’t have otherwise. “I’m clean. We can stop if you want to,” you kiss his cheek, “But I’ve waited enough. I want you,” you kiss the bridge of his nose, “Wanna know what you feel like inside me,” you kiss his slack mouth, tasting yourself. “Want you to know what I feel like when I cum, so you can think about it when we’re apart—”
Hajime pins you to the bed like a butterfly, his jaw set tight. His eyes are dark, gone is the colour of nascent spring. You feel swallowed up by him. “Keep talking and you’re going to make me cum,” he rumbles, reaching to push down his briefs. 
“I don’t care if you cum as soon as you put it in,” you squirm, tucking your chin to watch the moment his cock slips free. He sits in his palm and wraps his fingers firmly around the base, leaning deeper into the cradle of your hips, legs splayed overtop his firm thighs.  
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hajime replies dryly, dipping to kiss you again. You’ve lost count of how many. He positions his arm above you by the headboard and the hot weight of his cock settles on your sex. You share a soft sigh as he guides the tip through your folds, the underside nudging against your clit. 
“You know what I mean,” your focus is torn between talking and angling your hips to take more of him. “Doesn’t have to be mind blowing I just—want to be with you,” you mumble, quiet like an admission, and Hajime’s concentration comes apart at the seams. 
The air is stolen from your lungs as the tip slips in. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, seeking—something. Leverage. A tether. Chest to chest, Hajime presses you deeper into the mattress as his cock sinks into you. Slow, attentive to your shifting expression while you adjust to the stretch. 
And when he bottoms out you feel full. He’s thick. it has a sense of contentment spreading throughout your body. Eventually, “You can move, big guy”. 
Hajime gives a gasping breath, groaning your name on the next. The rough timbre of his voice makes you pulse around him. The corded muscles in his arms flex as he shifts. There’s a dull sting while he pulls out, and a startling emptiness, immediately sated as he rocks his hips forward. You arch upward, angling your hips to take him deeper, and his eyes screw shut, lips parted in a silent moan.
Hajime fucks you with slow, deliberate thrusts, gradually building a rhythm, finding a pace that you respond to. You can hardly bear to look away from him. Flushed pink with exertion, the light lovingly kissing the left side of his face, mouth swollen and red. He’s murmuring little incantations of praise that you strain to hear over the sharp slap of skin, every thrust plucking another breathless sound from your throat. 
And he’s looking right back, almost reverential. A desperate pinch to his brow. You dig your heels in, nails biting at his back. It’s all you can do to hold on. His kisses grow clumsy as his attention wanes, reaching a spit-wet hand down to play with your clit as he pistons his hips. 
“M’close,” he grunts like it pains him to admit. 
Your ears are ringing. The sticky, wet echo reverberates around the room as Hajime fucks you. His strokes press impossibly deeper and you choke on a moan, feeling him in your throat. His fingers rub faster over your swollen clit. Pleasure spreads through your belly, blood rushing between your thighs. 
“Please,” you cradle his cheek, hot against your palm. He takes it in his free hand, interlocking your fingers against the bedsheets. The intimacy has your mind going numb. You’ve become a knot of a person. That new vulnerability, the love he’s immolating you with, is what knocks you toward the edge. “Hajime,” you cling to him desperately. “Hajime”.
“Fuck. I’m cumming, I’m—” Hajime buries his face into the crook of your neck, intermittently squeezing your hand. His thrusts are harder, sloppy. He shudders to a stop, his orgasm carving him straight down the middle with a drawn out moan. 
The tension seeps from him all at once. You laugh breathlessly at his collapse, the weight both comfortable and bruising. His pelvis is nestled perfectly against your clit, and every twitch creates another wave of pleasure. You undulate your hips to chase the friction. 
The only indication that Hajime notices is the smile curling against your throat. He lets his lips drift across your pulse, folding his arms around yours until the world and it’s axis are just that—Hajime. Without needing to ask, he stays close and circles his hips even as his cock softens inside you, tipping you over the precipice. 
Time is difficult to measure while swaddled in your intimate little bubble. You’re not sure how long you spend simply holding one another, commiting how the other feels to memory. Hajime kisses your forehead. “Love you,” he says.
“Love you,” you croak back unattractively. He flinches at the sound, and props himself up to search your face. 
Eyes wide and earnest he asks, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m alright. Just processing everything,” you reply, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. Hajime doesn’t look convinced. 
“Tell me,” he gently encourages. There’s an anxious edge to his tone that you want rid of. 
“Besides the fact that I had sex with the guy I’ve been in love with since middle school and everyone is going to know when they get back?” you laugh, making Hajime’s mouth curl as he carefully manoeuvres you both onto your sides. Better. “I’m just scared about what this means for us, I guess. Are we—you know, together now? Doing the long distance thing?” 
Giving a thoughtful hum, he hooks your knee over his hip. Whether it’s to put off the mess a little longer or keep you close, you’re not going to complain. “I want to be with you,” he says. 
“Even though we’ll be…” you squint as you think and reach inward for the specific number “…five thousand three hundred and fourteen miles apart?” 
“You looked that up?” Hajime’s smile widens, dopey and fond in a way that makes your heart ache. “But yeah. We’ll take it one step at a time”. 
“Then what’s the next step?” 
“Next?” he says. Another tender kiss to your temple, a deep, pensive inhale. “Next, we use the onsen”.
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You can’t be sure how long you stand there, sluggish and unblinking, fixated on the distant threads of grey cutting across an otherwise dark sky. It felt dissonant to the torrential downpour in your chest.
A warm body comes up behind you. Issei rests his chin on your crown, rubbing it back and forth as Takahiro knocks your elbows together, “Ready to go?”
No, you think. After a few beats of silence you phone buzzes in your hand and you scramble to check it. The background is the picture Takahiro took of you and Hajime by the lake, in a world of your own. A notification bar cuts across the screen. 
Hajime (03:34): I love you. I’ll call when I land. 
You swallow that thought and uproot yourself, “Yeah. Yeah I think so”.
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librarycards · 2 months
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do you have any favorite books/articles/etc. on asexuality and/or aromanticism?
this is great timing, anon! @stephen-deadalus and i just recently published an article/webtext rellated to ace/aro rhetorics in a neuroqueer/transMad context. below is a link to that + another piece of mine, and some other works you should check out
First and foremost: check out Carnival of Aces and Carnival of Aros. The former was one of my main sources of info back in the day when I ID'd as ace (starting in 2012ish) and they're still going. Carnival of Aros is more recent, and their posts have been really interesting to read so far.
for articles:
[sarah] Cavar, In praise of -less: transMad shouts from absent (pl)aces (hiiiiiii)
[sarah] Cavar & ulysses c. bougie, port-man-toes: the aroace - queercrip - transmad - neuroqueer erotics of digital collaboration (hiiiiii pt. deux) [also see our references in this piece for more cites]
C. Bougie, Composing Aromanticism
Carter Vance, Unwilling Consumers: A Historical Materialist Conception of Compulsory Sexuality (h/t @queertemporality)
M. Remi Yergeau, Cassandra Isn't Doing the Robot: On Risky Rhetorics and Contagious Autism (a chapter in Yergeau's first monograph, Authoring Autism, also attends to the prefix 'demi' in compelling ways, esp. for those interested in neuroqueerness)
for books:
Twoey Gray, Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder. See my review in Feral Feminisms here, and the whole Ace & Aro Reviews Issue here.
Milks & Ceranowski, eds. Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives (the og one is out, but the 10th anniversary ed. is forthcoming this year....with a chapter by Ulysses and I again!)
Ela Przybylo, Asexual Erotics: Intimate Readings of Compulsory Sexuality
I haven't read the Ace anthology yet, so I rec with grains of salt included. But reviewers I respect have commented favorably on it, so I'm putting it here.
This list is pretty short, mostly because I wanted to keep the citations to those actually accessible for free online (apart from books). It is also because the most radical, interesting, and generative discourse happening on ace/aro subjectivity and community, at this time, is happening on Tumblr and other blogs. Genuinely. I recommend searching the ace/aro/loveless/lovequeer tags to get a sense of what is currently happening; these are the spaces where I get a lot of my information and citations, including for the published articles above. hope this helps get you started!
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veryace-ficrecs · 4 months
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Do you have any zosan fic recs?
Of course I do! Here are some
Zosan Fic Recs
all the hidden love, beneath by Giosele - Rated M
His eyes flicker towards the more discernible scars, the deep ones with smooth taut skin. The ones his hands have traced hundreds of times. Then Sanji spots the fresh, poorly stitched wound dancing across Zoro’s flank. The shoddy quality screams Mosshead. “Moron.” Sanji crumples his cigarette and flattens it underfoot in one smooth motion. “Idiot. You stupid, reckless swordsman. Stay here, I’ll get Chopper.” -- The crew is a wreck after Enies' Lobby. Despite being a wreck himself, Sanji tries to take care of them all.
you got time, you're on the mend, babe by steeringwheeleater - Rated T
“He doesn't trust me, and he obviously doesn’t want the captain to know.” “He doesn’t want me to know, either.” “He knows that you know, Cook.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Sanji’s shoulders creep up again. “… Sorry.” Robin adjusts her stance from one leg to the other; her nearest analog to rolling her eyes. “You’ve been too gentle with him to be subtle, Cook. It’s like I said: you’ve been defending him to the others.”
Kept Down, Helped Up by Gay_as_fuck - Rated T
Zoro's near death in Wano strains the crew, the latest in a long line of risk taking. A very stressed Nami solves this problem by throwing Sanji at it.
In Tandem by lemon_drop48 - Rated M
"I wanted to make you laugh." The honest admission felt dumb the second it came out of his mouth. It's too breathy, he's still out of breath from a distinct lack of oxygen recently. And there's no way the cook understands - Sanji throws back his head in laughter. For a moment there isn't even fear that he's laughing at him. Sanji's laugh is beautiful, and seeing that huge smile spread across his cheeks in genuine mirth felt like it was priceless.
revelations by cloversome - Rated T
It's been three days since Zoro blacked out. When he finally awakens, he finds his spirit is detached from his still unconscious body.
Demon's Deception by Maik_Morrow - Rated T
Summary
Having read an article about the ‘Demon of the East’ years prior to joining the Strawhat crew, Sanji was confused. He didn't understand how the man he heard would be a ruthless monster could be so different. All he saw was a caring, kind and gentle man. Until he understood the reason some time later.
It’s In His Kiss by Hazel_Athena - Rated G
They reach the island of Bise early in the new year.
unintended consequence by itsmylifekay - Rated T
Imagine person A making person B a friendship bracelet, expecting person B to never wear it, but when it’s given to them person B puts it on and is rarely seen with it off. A group of marines charge, Zoro slices through them, and in that instant Sanji feels his own eyes grow wide. Because there, on the arm now outstretched towards him, steel glinting in hand, is the stupid bracelet he’d given Zoro. The bastard is actually wearing it.
Language of love by averybidisaster - Rated E
It irked Zoro that upon meeting him, a whirlwind of limbs, blue eyes and a cigarette dangling from his cocky smile, something in his gut flip-flopped, instead of the usual, clear feeling he usually got when he met men, like a natural yes/no answer. Obviously, the lovesick fool greatly admired women, ceaselessly shouting his love for them at any opportunity. But he had met many a man like that who still sought to warm his bed- and Sanji was... well, Sanji . His simple existence riles Zoro up like no other. And why does it matter to him what the shitty cook’s preferences are anyways? OR Zoro secretely learns French to understand Sanji. Because that’s obviously the easiest way to learn if the cook likes men.
Did You Know Marimo Came In Pink? by wiillowwriites - Rated T
After some some accidental tickling turns into something very intentional, Sanji’s the first of the two to notice that Zoro seems to be enjoying himself. Zoro isn’t quite sure what to do with the realization, but Sanji has an idea.
waiting by tinyjet7 - Rated G
zoro watches sanji hand out treats to everyone but him.
Ink by BleuReivers - Rated T
He’d gotten the first one for no reason other than he’d simply wanted it. Had ever since he’d first laid eyes on one of the cook’s ink during his Baratie days. It had taken him a while to actually get it and for a while he’d been convinced he never would. But, as the years went on and he crossed paths with more and more people who bore elaborate and, honestly, beautiful tattoos, the desire grew until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
ham and rice by hailure - Rated G
"I'll get that bastard gets all the food he wants and then more. You don't need to forfeit your protein serving for that." "Oh, now I get it." Zoro's face turned mischievious, his nose bridge tinted with red now that the alcohol was briefly kicking in. "You're worried about me." After their victory in Wano, Sanji is not amused that Zoro just can't seem to eat properly.
Here’s To Us by TextlessNovel - Rated T
In which sharing a drink can tear down walls in a way that Sanji and Zoro never expected.
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morallyinept · 6 months
Text
Writing For Ezra - An Overall Analysis Of Our Favourite Scoundrel’s Articulation.
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I often see writers mention in their blog/fics that they’re worried or concerned about writing for Ezra because of his loquacious nature. As a fanfic writer it can be daunting to translate an already loved character into your works, without trying to alter their main personality trait. In this case, it’s Ezra’s way of talking that is his standout mannerism and the reason why so many have a soft spot for him.
So, I got to thinking and put together this, somewhat, deep dive into him and his talkative ways. I hope it proves useful for anyone tackling him for the first time (myself included), or even for the experienced Ezra writers already here, who are already killin' it. 🖤
If this is beneficial to you in any way, please kindly re-blog, and also tag me in any Ezra works you write because of it. I’d love to read your work and feature it on my Ezra fic recs list for others to enjoy too.
⚠️This will contain spoilers for Prospect, so if you haven’t watched it yet, then you might want to save this for later. 
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Ezra’s accent is Southern.
Ezra’s accent has been likened to a Texan accent with a side of ham. Ham meaning someone who enjoys performing or behaving in an exaggerated style. Not the pig meat. 🐷 And his accent and voice certainly does have that hamminess about it. Back in the day, approximately around 1882, the term ‘ham-fatter’ was used referring to a poor person who overacted. It was then shortened to just ham. 
It was Pedro Pascal himself who gave this specific accent to Ezra. Although it is not confirmed in the film where exactly Ezra hails from, he is confirmed human. In the Prospect-verse there is no mention of Earth as we know it, but that’s not to say it doesn't exist or isn’t referred to by another name. The closest being Camrea or Lau in terms of similarities of planets with land and water. So there is a good chance that his accent stems as a direct result of his heritage from either Earth itself, or a planet just like it in The Fringe. 
In the deleted scene with Ezra and Cee, Ezra reveals he has a brother. This is the only personal information we get from Ezra - and it was deleted. 
Ezra says in the scene where he encounters Damon for the first time, "me and my partner feel we both deserve... satisfaction." 
If you didn’t know already, the term ‘deserve satisfaction’ stems from the 17th century where duels were mostly single combats fought with swords. But then in the 18th century, the swords were commonly replaced with pistols. You’ve heard of the term ‘pistols at dawn’ right? Well to demand satisfaction means to restore one’s honour by demonstrating a will to risk one’s own life for it. Again, this originates from the Southern states of America, during such times where duels were prevalent.
Damon and Number Two actually have a duel-type shootout, which is how Damon dies (aside from Ezra putting him out of his misery).
So yes, Ezra is, in fact, a Texan space cowboy of sorts. 🤠
Edit: Whilst I can only find one source that states Ezra has a "Texan" accent (and it's a film review article, so not based in fact), many argue that he sounds Louisianan more than Texan. Either way, he's definitely Southern, so you can make your own mind up on where he hails from originally, as it's never actually confirmed. 👇🏻
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Source of Article
Yes, Ezra is a rambler, but pay attention to the frequency of his actual rambling. 
It would be easy to overdo it on the flowery language when writing for Ezra.
The fact that Ezra throws in some words that are not commonly used in everyday conversation, doesn't mean that he does it ALL the time. Try not to fall into the habit of writing paragraphs of archaic and wordy language, when sometimes a simple sentence is sufficient for him to get his point across. 
Here are some examples where he speaks with simplicity in the film:
“How poetic.”
“The starter, if you don't mind.”
“Funny, I don’t see any mercs. Where are they?”
“This is so exciting.”
“You friendly with these fellas?”
“You got a field kit?”
“It seems I must.”
“Keep it creamy and it’ll be fine.”
See? Short and snappy sentences.
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What’s in a name?
Names are important to Ezra; he uses names as a gentle threat. When he comes across Damon for the first time, he uses his name almost constantly: 
“Nice to meet you, Damon. I'm Ezra.”
“Where’re you from, Damon?” 
“Alright, Damon.” 
“Damon, it has truly been a pleasure, but pleasantries pass, it’s time to get candid…”
“So how did you get here, Damon?”
“The starter, if you don't mind. Where is it? Don't make me root for it, Damon.” 
“But Damon, if there is talk of the Queen’s lair, the excitement is momentary.”
“Damon, I have clearly underestimated you, I must stop doing that.”
“Damon… does this mean that the plan is off? You have me all hot and bothered up over the Queen’s lair, Damon.”
“It's a shame, Damon.” 
Ezra uses Damon’s name 11 times in just the first few minutes of meeting him and his untimely death. A name is important for Ezra to gain the upper hand and to subtly manipulate and appear menacing, more so than he probably is. It’s also done to grab the attention of Damon constantly; to ensure that Damon’s focus is directly on him by mentioning his name continuously.
Later, when Cee won’t give Ezra her name despite him asking for it repeatedly, you can see the frustration this causes within him. Because he has no way of gaining influence over her without it.
He refers to her instead as “little bird, birdie, girl & oi, number 3.”
When he does eventually learn her real name, he uses it only once. 
“Nice to meet you, Cee.”
He doesn’t use it again for the duration of the film as their relationship has evolved into an unspoken, mutual trust. Something he did not have with Damon and therefore used his name repeatedly as a way of asserting dominance over him. 
☝🏻So, if you’re writing Ezra, don’t forget to use names in abundance, like he does. Especially if he doesn’t trust or like them. 
Double Entendres.
Pay close attention to the possible hidden meanings inside Ezra’s words too. This might not be deliberate, but his face when he speaks and says certain things hints at a devilish playfulness about him.
A particular scene that stood out to me is when Ezra and Cee are at the Queen’s lair. 
 Ezra says, “somebody ought to give her a go… That's the price for a dry breach. My chem will calm the brine.” 
Now, if you’ve a dirty mind like me, (😜 ha!) A dry breach could be interpreted as ‘a dry pussy’ and his chem is ‘his semen’ that will calm it, or moisten it up as it were. 😏 I like that he can speak with a double meaning, if you're looking for it, but of course this is subjective.
So, dirty talk from Ezra doesn’t always have to be directly on the nose. 
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Some more subtle examples are:
“Hello, sweetheart.” 
“Hold it like you love it.”
“Slippery son of a bitch.” 
His tone also changes when he wants to emphasise a point. When the Saters give him and Cee the juice in their tent, Ezra can sense Cee’s reluctance to drink it. 
He knows it tastes bad, yet urges Cee to drink it, without insulting his hosts who he knows could be dangerous. His face changes; his features become sharper and serious as he says "it's good for you, cleanses the dust."
Only moments before he was smiling and jovial. 👇🏻
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Cussing.
Ezra never swears, in the conventional sense, for just the sake of it. I get the impression he would find that kind of language lazy. Cussing/swears are saved purely to express his frustration or fear in the situation.
“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh Shit. Oh Shit. Oh Shit.” - (Yes, 6 times he says it!) When he loses his arm. - Fear
“Slippery son of a bitch… No, no, no. Ah shit.” - When he's mining the Aurelac husks. - Frustration 
When mining for the Aurelac where he can’t separate the gem from the blister due to his physical impairment of only having one arm, Ezra mumbles a long string of unintelligible words in frustration.
Despite listening to the audio over and over, I can’t fully decipher it, but some words I pulled out were: “cob spitters(?)... can fuck more nuggets(?)... in this sleep for snatch(?)…”
Who knows exactly what he is saying here, (if you know, lemme know) but he rambles quickly and incoherently when he swears; especially when frustrated. 
He likes to fill the silence. 
When walking with Damon, he keeps conversation flowing by questioning Damon about the corporate expeditions, and with Cee, he tells her about the channel rats. He seemingly can’t abide silence.
And this is prevalent when he first meets Damon, he says “I can't tell you how refreshing it is… hoo… to encounter another talker.”
It’s safe to say Ezra likes to talk. If you’ve not already grasped that yet. So make that ramblin' man chatter away.
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Ezra's redemption shifts his language too.
Ezra fully admits he is not a good man to Cee. He does this first by blaming the way of life that they are thrust in. 
“Why should I trust you? You stole from us. We did nothing to you.”
“That's The Fringe, girl.”
Later he confirms coldly he is indeed a killer when Cee tells him so. 
“You’re a killer. 
“I am. But are you?”
As time goes on, Ezra realises he is at fault for the death of Cee’s father.
“Well you can't... you can't think like that. If you go down that path. It's not good. If you need someone to blame, you blame me.”
You can see the shift in his language from being blunt and to the point in the beginning, to more accepting and gentler later on. Full character transition.
He also refers to Cee as his partner, rather than his daughter, when he is impersonating Damon to the mercs later on. His choice of words here is interesting.
This indicates he thinks more highly of her than he lets on; that she is equal to him. He soon thinks less of the Aurelac - the sole reason why he is on the moon - and more so of getting off the moon intact with Cee beside him. A complete metamorphosis from when we first meet him, and he's stealing Aurelac from Damon. 
“You are not understanding me.”
 “I say the terms have changed.”
“You’ll find a way if you want that buried treasure.” 
“A ride for me and my partner on your handsome craft, or no deal.”
Actions speak louder than words.
Ezra’s movement is interesting, as too is the violence he engages in - it’s slick.
He slices the Achilles Heel first of the merc at the Queen's lair, thus rendering him unable to fight back or run for assistance from the others before ploughing him face first into the acidic hole.
Despite only having one arm, Ezra’s strength is still pretty impressive. He’s quick, experienced and brutal. And not opposed to fighting dirty to ensure his survival. 
Ezra also has excellent aim with the thrower; he kills another merc with only one shot, and in the dark too. That’s pretty kick-ass when you think about it. 
Describing not only his language, but also the way Ezra moves in your writing, will really make him leap off the page when you write him. Be that in an action sequence, or completely fucking you up between the sheets. 🫠
A man of few words in the end.
Ezra’s last words are for Cee:
“You grab the gun and you go. You can make it. Get outta here.” 
He’s fully aware of his impending fate at this point and has accepted it. He doesn’t say anything else, not even when she comes back for him, suggesting their bond now doesn’t need a spoken word to cement it. It’s transcended verbal communication. 
Even when in the safe confines of the pod ascending up to the sling back, Ezra doesn’t say anything, even though you can see he is awake. 
☝🏻In the end, words are not always needed. Sometimes it's the things he doesn't say that has the most impact.
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So there we have it, Prospectors. I hope this was helpful and insightful to you about writing for Ezra and how he talks.
He is my favourite Pedro Boy, and despite feeling that I know him pretty well as a character, the thought of writing him still brings me out in a cold sweat to some degree… 😬 So I can understand if you feel daunted by it too. 
There are so many wonderful works already out there that are written fantastically and really captures the essence and the personality of Ezra. And if you’re thinking about writing for Ezra for the first time, please don’t be put off by it - he’s such a great character who can be thrust into so many different scenarios, and of course, you can also mould him to be your own creation. 
That’s the great thing with fanfic and head canon - there are no rules. We all interpret characters differently. And that’s what makes reading about them so fun. 
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If you haven’t seen Prospect yet, I highly recommend it. Check out the Ezra deleted scene here too.
Also check out my Ezra specific fic rec list for further enjoyment of this dashing rogue from other writer’s points of view. 
Ezra Thesaurus:
Loquacious. Flowery. Tincture. Drawl. Husk. Gravel. Gabble. Wordy. Babbling. Long-winded. Effusive. Droning. Garrulous. Gibberish. Multiloquous. Yakking. Muttering. Mumbling. Voluble. Cadence. Trib. Rambling. Glib. Clucking. Gregarious. Windy. Verbose. Prolix. Articulate. Fluent. Mouthy. Vocal. Opinionated. Drole. Gassy. Eloquent. Stylised. Chatterer. Logorrhoea. Word Vomit. Incessant. Spit-balling. Bleating. Clacking. Blabbermouth. Windbag. Motormouth. Harping On. Overzealous. Enthused. Mirthed. Crude. All Around The Houses. Effulgent. Airy-Fairy. Prattling. Harpsichord. Waxing Lyrical. Recounting. Din. Tone. Note. Music.
🖤
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beskarandblasters · 28 days
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Was it all a dream?
Chapter Six: I'm gonna sleep because you live in my daydreams
Din Djarin x F!Reader
Series Masterlist | Series Playlist
Series summary: You’ve always had vivid dreams, an escape from your monotonous life. But one night, something appears in your dreams that keeps reoccurring; a pair of brown eyes. -Or- Two people, in completely different parts of the galaxy, find each other in their dreams and try to make sense of the strange connection they share.
Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), switches between Reader and Din’s POV, story takes place in the dream realm and the real world, takes place somewhere between the end of season two/Book of Boba Fett/beginning + middle of season three, eventual smut, line between reality and dreams gets blurred, use of Mando’a words and phrases, no use of y/n
Chapter summary: You further your escape plan off of Sullust. Din searches for you on Coruscant and ends up finding more than he bargained for. But once you two reunite in your dreams that night, everything starts to make sense.
Word count: 4.3k
Chapter warnings: Din has sex with someone else (but it's not technically infidelity IDK), sex work, angst, skinny dipping, fingering, oral sex (F receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praising, panty stealing
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs
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You
The first step of your plan is to slowly accumulate all the parts to craft a blaster at home. You can’t take all the parts at once, it’ll be too obvious. By the end of your shift, you want to grab at least two or three parts that you know will be useful. You’ll shove them deep in your pockets, hoping no one notices. Especially those pesky droids. 
As the day shift crew starts to thin out, you hang back, waiting until there are fewer eyes around. Hastily, you grab two parts and shove them into your pocket, not even looking to see what you took. 
Day one of stealing blaster parts is seemingly a success.
After you leave the factory, you take the shuttle home, making a plan in your head to drop the parts off at your place and head to the library again. You have to research the last two dream locations. The last one will be hard, all you saw were endless beige hallways and a field through a window. Nothing distinctive about that. You’ve been hoping he would recognize one of these places eventually, giving you some sort of clue as to where you can go after you escape. 
Once the blaster parts are safe in your home, you head to the library with your mind running wild. When you really think about it… you’ve only known Din for less than ten days. Is it crazy to go after a man you barely know? Sort of. But when your reality is as bleak as it is, you’d take any reason to flee. 
Reality doesn’t even feel like reality anymore. That thought doesn’t even make sense. To you, reality is when you’re with Din in a love that feels real, more real than anything you’ve experienced in your life. That’s why you keep going. Besides, you were born to explore the galaxy, not to be bound to a soulless corporate life. 
Finding a secluded spot in the corner of your library, you pour yourself over books and articles on the data-pad– a routine for you as of late. Just as you expected, searching for a “place with beige hallways” yields no results. And the other place, the field by the lake and the grove of trees, you can’t find it either. You need him to recognize a place or to dream of somewhere with a distinct landscape. But for you, that’s every place, everything is distinct and memorable compared to Sullust. 
You hope tonight’s dream takes up someplace different, someplace real. 
Din
Din spends his day doing what he does best; tracking someone down. But this time this someone is you. He’s going off of the fragmented bits of information he has. He knows you live underground somewhere. And while you don’t remember where you live in real life when you’re dreaming he does recall one place where he found you in a dream— the lower levels of Coruscant. 
Is it a long shot? Yes, but it’s also a lead. Besides, any disappointment he’ll face if he doesn’t find you is worth it on the off chance that he actually does. 
-
It’s raining when he lands on Coruscant and it makes him immediately think of you. How he wishes he could take off his armor and feel the train on his skin. But not when there are all these people around. He wants to feel the elements with you and only you at his side. 
And so he sets off on his mission, combing the lower levels of Coruscant. He searches in cantinas, nightclubs, motels, and even brothels. And every time he gets the same answer from people after he tells them your name and describes what you look like– never heard of her. 
He goes to leave the brothel, the third one he’s been to tonight, but before he can go one of the workers stops him. It’s a woman; tall, brown curly hair, deep blue eyes, and glimmering red robes. 
“Are you in need of a service tonight, sir?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him.
He shouldn’t. But this is different… right? This isn't sex with someone he loves. This is sex in the form of a service, with no emotions attached. And besides, you exist in the dream realm. The sex he had with you wasn't even real. But Maker, it felt so real. He’s in his own head, contemplating whether or not he’s dishonoring you, questioning whether or not you’re real. Are you out there somewhere in the galaxy yearning for his touch? Are you longing to escape whatever abysmal place you’re from? Are you seeking physical connections with others like he is right now? 
Do you only exist within his gaze? In the confines of his subconscious? 
“Sir?” the woman asks, stopping Din from spiraling further. 
“Yes,” he says awkwardly. 
“Follow me,” she says, turning with a sway of her hips and leading him down the hallway. 
She brings him to his chambers, closing the door behind him after he enters. 
“What are you in the mood for?” she asks, running a finger down his breastplate. 
Not this, he thinks to himself. But maybe for a fleeting moment, this can fill the void in his heart; a void in the shape of you. Perhaps he can close his eyes and pretend it’s you he’s burying his cock in. It won’t be the same and he knows that. With you he can be his true self, free of his armor and stripped of his real-world responsibilities. 
“I don’t have a preference,” he shrugs. 
She grabs him by the hand and leads him to the bed, coaxing him to sit. She begins to fall to her knees, brushing her hand over the bulge in his flight suit. He looks down at her, her eyes wide and searching his visor. But when he closes his eyes he’s transported back to the house with you, watching as you suck him off, your tongue swirling around his foreskin. You know just what to do to make him melt into a puddle, your touch reducing him down until he’s completely at your will. 
But this isn’t the same. And if he’s going to go through with this he needs to do it in a way less personal, without this woman’s eyes never leaving him. 
“On second thought,” he says, getting up from the bed, “Get on your hands and knees.”
This position takes him back to his early bounty-hunting days. He would spend countless nights railing prostitutes from behind, relieving his stress and frustrations, and getting off without having to worry about keeping up appearances afterward. 
He’s doing the same thing now. Except this time it feels different. There are feelings attached but not in the way he wants. The guilt he feels is indescribable. He’s wishing you were here, feeling your skin and hearing your moans. But that’ll just have to do for now. 
“Whatever you want, handsome,” she says, shedding her robes. 
Whatever you want, handsome. 
She doesn’t even know what he looks like. 
That shouldn’t make him laugh but it almost does. The stifled laughter comes out as a strange sound and he has to pass it off as clearing his throat. 
Handsome. 
Handsome. 
Handsome. 
Kriff, now he’s sad again. That word is forever associated with you and the cave illuminated by the fire. It feels wrong for someone else to call him that.
But he can’t be sad now. He needs to perform, to pretend he’s not feeling so terrible inside. 
The woman moves on the bed, resting on all fours and arching her back. It’s now or never. 
He gets on the bed, situating himself behind her on his knees. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and strokes it, spreading the pre-cum built up on his tip down his shaft. He looks to his left and sees a bottle of lube lying on the bed. 
Perfect, he thinks to himself. 
He grabs the bottle and squirts a dollop of lube onto his fingers, spreading it around the woman’s entrance, just enough so he can slip inside. He tosses the bottle aside and holds her hips, thrusting into her roughly. She moans, high-pitched and breathy. It almost seems like it’s played up like she’s putting on a show. It’s nothing like you. Your sweet moans are melodic, music to his ears. 
He feels awful. This poor woman is just doing her job, just making a living. And here he is, fucking her while he compares her to someone who might not even be real. He just wants to get this over with. 
If he’s learned one thing from his experience, it’s that sex in real life can’t even begin to compare to sex in the dream realm. 
He pulls out and cums all over her ass, not even feeling any relief. He’s not sure if she came either, too lost in his thoughts. She flops forward and rolls to her side, looking up at him as he puts his cock away and moves off the bed. 
“Hope you enjoyed yourself…” she says, not looking at him, “You can pay out front.”
He nods and leaves without saying a word. He needs to get out of there now.
Before he leaves he places a fistful of credits on the front counter, hoping it’s enough to cover his services. He’s exhausted, and in need of sleep in more ways than one. 
Once he’s back in the Razor Crest, he’s peeling off his armor and stripping down to just his flight suit. As soon as his head hits the pillow he’s out, searching for you, wherever you are. 
You
Blinding sunlight. Sand, so much sand. You look up, searching for any notable features. 
A binary sunset. 
That’s something you don’t see every day.
Sand is pooling in your shoes. Maker, this sucks. But at least you get to feel the sun on your face. 
But where’s Din?
“I hate this place,” you hear him say behind you.
You turn around to see him coming towards you, the harsh sunlight making him squint, resting a hand on his hip.
“We just got here.”
“I’ve been here before.”
He’s been here before.
“...In a dream?”
“No, in real life. I feel like I’m here quite often.”
“What’s this place called?”
“...I don’t remember.”
It doesn’t matter. You finally have a lead, a tie to a real location where you can possibly find him. 
“I like it here.”
“You won’t be saying that for long. You’re not used to the sun. We should try to find shelter, ner vercopa,” he says, grabbing you by the hand.
He leads you across the desert, searching for some form of haven away from the blazing suns. Although you’ve learned for so long to feel the sun on your skin, he was right. This is too much. He’s silent as he walks, too focused on you and getting you comfortable. 
In the distance, you spot looming rocky bluffs. Maybe there’s a spot in the shade there. But it’s like your eyes are playing tricks on you because beside the rocky bluffs is a body of water. There’s no way. It has to be a mirage, your mind is faking you out, giving you hope that there’s water nearby. 
“Is that real?” you ask, turning to look at him.
“It can’t be,” he says, meeting your gaze. His warm brown eyes are lit up by the sun, turning them into a beautiful shade of amber. “There are no places like that on this planet.”
You look at the mirage again, letting your primal urges take over. Real or not, you need to find out. You let go of his hand, trudging through the sand towards the oasis. 
“What are you doing?!” 
“We might as well see if it’s real or not,” you shrug.
He catches up to you, interlocking his hand with yours once again. 
“None of this is real. We’re in a dream,” he says.
“You know what I mean,” you respond, rolling your eyes, “Like whether or not this is an illusion.”
“...Right.” He still sounds uneasy.
As you get closer you notice more about the oasis– tall leafy trees, bushes full of ripe fruit you’ve never seen before, and blue shimmering water. All of it tucked into the side of a rock face.
“Looks pretty real to me,” you say, standing at the edge of the water.
You let go of his hand and crouch down. The surface of the water moves gently in the direction of the wind. You cup your hands and scoop up a handful of water, rising from the ground to show Din.
“Look. Real water,” you say, holding out your hands to him.
His eyes flicker from the water in your hands back to your face. The unsettled expression on his face is starting to dissipate, finally letting himself relax. You bring your hands to your mouth and take a sip of water– so crisp and refreshing. But it’s not enough. 
You pour the remaining water back into the spring and reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it off over your head.
“What are you-”
“Taking a dip,” you say, taking off your shoes and kicking off your underwear and pants in one go, “Are you joining me?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, slipping off his boots. 
You ease yourself into the water, expecting for the temperature to shock you but it’s the opposite. It’s…. inviting.
Din joins you in the water, his hands immediately gravitate to your waist, pulling you into him. It’s not that deep, only going up to the middle of his waist. 
“This is nice,” he says.
“This is nice… And real,” you tease.
“I’m not used to there being water here. Or swimming for that matter.”
“I’ve never been swimming before either.”
“See? What if you jumped in and immediately drowned?”
“I’d have you to save me, of course,” you playfully retort. You move to float on your back and continue, “Besides it’s not that deep.”
“I guess you’re right,” he says, floating on his back beside you. 
The two of you stay like that for a while, staring up at the sky. 
“Have you seen your son?” you absentmindedly ask. 
But then you wince in anticipation of his response. 
“No,” he admits. 
“I’m sorry. You must miss him.”
“I do… This is the only thing keeping me going.”
“What do you mean?” 
“This… Us.”
“Really?” you say, standing upright and looking down at him. His curls are wet and his eyes are closed, the sun hitting the high points of his face. 
“…Yes,” he says, still not looking at you. 
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you say, vaguely remembering your plan back home. You’re escaping but you don’t know where from. 
“What if we found each other? You know… in real life.”
“I’m trying, ner vercopa,” he says, grabbing your hand.
“You’re trying?”
“I searched through the lower levels of Coruscant.”
“That’s sweet, Din,” you respond, squeezing his hand, “But I’m not from there.”
“I know,” he sighs, “It was worth a shot.”
He lies there, floating so peacefully like he’s never had any real moments to rest until he’s visited the dream realm with you. 
“I’ll tear the galaxy apart to find you if I have to,” he says.
“You mean that?” you ask, his words tugging at your heart. 
“Yes…” he says. The inflection in his response was a little weird like he wanted to say more but quickly decided against it. 
“What is it?”
“…I have to tell you something,” he says, eyes still closed. 
“You can tell me anything.”
“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum,” he says, finally looking at you. 
“What does that mean, Din?”
“It’s my native language. It means I love you,” he says, eyes flickering away from you and staring up at the sky once again. 
You sink to his level, your head poking up from the water as you grab his chin, brushing your thumb along the hair on his jawline. You turn his head so he’s looking at you but instead, he shifts so he’s floating upright, face to face with you. 
“I love you, ner vercopa,” he says, looking you in the eye. 
“I love you, too, Din,” you respond. You don’t even have to think about it. 
He closes the gap between you two, going in for a kiss. But just as he leans in the sky above you changes from day to night with a sunset somewhere in between. In what feels like seconds the sky is an inky black tapestry peppered with stars shining down on the two of you. 
You look up admiring the star-filled sky, a sight you’ve never seen before. Din’s hands cup your face and you feel his eyes on you. He angles your face towards him, pressing his lips against yours. You wrap your arms around him and his hands slide from your face to your chest. And you stay there, hands roaming each other’s bodies, kissing like you’re the air the other person can’t live without. He feels so real under your touch– the warmth of his skin, the stubble on his face, his minty breath like he just brushed his teeth before bed; before coming to meet you here. 
But as the night settles in so does the chill in the air. Your fingertips go wrinkly, goosebumps prick your skin, and a shiver runs down your spine. Din runs a hand up your back before pulling away and telling you, “We should get out. You’re freezing.”
He’s right even though you’re worried if you get out of the water the dream will end. So begrudgingly you get out, crouching down to scoop up your clothes and wait for what’s to come next. You glance to your right, looking into the rock face where you spot a cave, just like where it all began.
“Look,” you say, pointing to the cave as he’s collecting his clothes, “A cave.”
He pokes his head up, squinting at where you’re pointing. 
“I’ll go make sure nothing’s in there,” he says, balled-up clothes in one arm and his blaster drawn. You pick up his boots, tiptoeing behind him as he inches closer to the cave. It’s a funny sight– Din fully nude, moving towards the mouth of the cave like a loth-cat on the prowl, holding a messy ball of clothes. 
He enters the cave and you wait with bated breath, hoping it’s not too deep and that nothing is lurking in there. But then you hear a muffled, “Ow…”
“You alright?”
“Walked right into the back wall of the cave…”
“Oh,” you say, stifling a laugh.
“It’s not funny!”
“It kind of is.”
“I normally have something that helps me see in the dark,” he sighs. 
You follow him inside, feeling around for him in the darkness until a hand finds your face.
“I’ve got you,” he says, softly.
He takes the clothes and boots you’re holding and presumably sets them down by his blaster and his clothes. 
“What do you think? Should we make a fire?” you ask.
“I don’t know. I like this,” he says, hands finding your face again. 
It’s almost entirely pitch black in the cave except for a sliver of moonlight trickling in. 
“Fine with me,” you say, sitting down on the cave floor, expecting to be met with the feeling of cool rock against your skin. But instead, you feel your clothes laid out underneath you. What a gentleman. 
He wastes no time, his hands pushing you by the shoulders so you’re lying down. You spread your legs for him, ready to have him inside you already. You’ll have to be patient, though, judging by the way his hand creeps up your leg slowly, starting at your inner ankle. A shiver of anticipation rattles through you, your body chilled by the nighttime desert air. His large hand palms the skin of your inner thigh, inching closer to your entrance ever so slowly. A small whimper thoughtlessly escapes your lips, prompting him to tease, “Patience, ner vercopa.”
You hear him shift to lie down in front of you, head resting against your thigh. His warm breath gently tickles you, triggering another shiver from you. He chuckles, his face sneaking closer to your cunt. His tongue licks one long, slow stripe up your cunt, moving in a way that can only be described as methodical and meticulous. He does it again, somehow moving even slower than before. He can’t do this, not when you’ve been aching for him for what feels like forever, even though you saw him the night prior.
“Din,” you whine.
“Shh,” he whispers, making all of your hair stand on its end, “What did I say?”
“...I have to be patient,” you say, softly sighing.
“That’s right,” he chuckles, hovering over your clit. He pauses for a moment, just to drive you crazy before whispering, “Good girl.”
That gets another whimper out of you but it turns into a choked-up moan as he sucks on your clit, tongue making circles around it over and over again. His arms wrap around your thighs and your back arches up off the floor of the cave. In no time, he pulls what is your first of many orgasms of the night. You just expect to have him inside you now that he’s made you cum but instead, he stays there, planted in between your thighs, licking up the remnants of your spend before trying for a second orgasm. And he does it again, faster than before since you’re so sensitive from the first one. 
For what feels like hours, Din stays there, arms hooked around your thighs and face buried in your cunt, making you shiver and whimper, making you squirt in this small cave under the star-filled sky. But once he finally feels like you’ve had enough, however many that orgasms was, he pulls back and rests on his elbows. 
“You ready for me, ner vercopa?”
“Yes, “ you say quickly.
“Someone’s eager,” he teases. 
“I’ve just… missed you,” you admit, spreading your legs farther apart to accommodate how broad he is. 
“I’ve missed you, too,” he chuckles, grabbing your thigh, “But not so fast. On your hands and knees, ner vercopa.”
Your cheeks heat up at his commands as you shift to rest on all fours, back arched and ass sticking up for him. One hand roams your body as the other strokes his cock, spreading his pre-cum down his shaft. His hands lock on your hips as he pushes into you slowly, buying himself down to the hilt and pausing to enjoy the feeling before pulling back and slamming into you. Deep and guttural moans force their way out your throat, coming out as choked-up sobs. 
“Kriff, you feel so good,” he moans, squeezing your hip harder. 
There’s not a coherent thought in your head, leaving you to respond in the form of a whimper. One of his hands moves from your hip to your shoulder, holding on to you for purchase as he rails you. Soon enough, the small cave is filled with the obscene sounds of skin colliding with skin and the wet, squelching sounds of his cock in your pussy. 
With one last thrust inside you, you cum around his cock, walls clenching and releasing him erratically. The sensation of your orgasm triggers his; his cock spilling his cum inside you. He fucks you through your release, the hand on your shoulder moving back to your hip and leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. 
He pulls out and you let yourself rest against the floor, thankful again for the clothes he laid out underneath you. He lies down beside you and you move to lay on his chest.
“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum… I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too,” you whisper back.
Din
You go stiff beside him, falling silent as well, assuming you’re falling asleep. Falling asleep in a dream…. How does that work?
The blinding light spilling into the opening of the cave interrupts his thoughts. The suns are rising again. Has that much time really passed here?
He rests his hand at his side, feeling a ball of fabric against his palm. Looking down he spots… your panties, gray and basic but with a noticeable wet spot in the center. 
Is it wrong to take a sniff? Maybe. Is it a little weird? Yes. 
But you’re sleeping so soundly against his chest. You won’t know. 
Slowly, he takes the fabric and brings it to his nose, ready to take a big inhale. 
And then he wakes up. Maybe it was the Maker punishing him for his perverted behavior. 
The dull ceiling greets his vision yet again. And as he stretches and yawns, he feels something in his hand.
No, it can’t be. 
He opens his hand to reveal the panties from the dream, gray with the same wet spot in the center. How in the galaxy did this happen? Something from a dream materialized in real life, right in the palm of his hand. 
First, the perverted thoughts have to take over before he thinks about what this means. He brings the panties to his nose and inhales deeply, his senses met with the same familiar scent– you. His cock twitches in his flight suit and flashbacks of the dream play in his mind. It makes him miss you even more, wishing he was dreaming again. 
But now that that’s out of the way he’s starting to realize that…. You’re real. If anything this just incentivizes his mission even further. He’ll turn the galaxy upside down if he has to. 
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greenerteacups · 2 months
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Hi! I am an ardent fan of your writing, and I hope to be as sorted and planned as you some day in my own writing journey.
My question is: you have a keen eye when it comes to planning character personality, dynamics, and such. I've also been wading through your ask replies, and your insights into how you write people and how you make them play off of each other is so wonderful to read. If it's not too personal a q, how did you learn how to write like this? Did you go to school for writing, does it come from years of observing people, do you have reading list recs for "how to write real people and real interactions"?
Thanks! This is a really flattering question. I'll try to answer it honestly, because I wish someone had been brutally honest about this with me when I was a young writer.
I didn't go to school for writing. I started doing it when I was about nine years old. It sucked very badly. I kept writing throughout high school, and it still mostly sucked, but some of it was occasionally interesting. ("Interesting" here does not mean "good," by the way.) I took a break in college, and then came back. I've been writing ever since. Sometimes, I feel good about it. A lot of the time, I don't!
I hate giving this advice, because I remember how it feels to get it, and it's the most uninspiring, boring-ass, dog shit advice you can get, but it's also the only advice that is 100% unequivocally true: you have to write, and specifically, you have to write things that suck.
I do not mean that you should make things that suck on purpose. I mean that you have to sit down and try your absolute hardest to make something good. You have to put in the hours, the elbow grease, the blood, sweat, and tears, and then you have to read it over and accept that it just totally sucks. There is no way around this, and you should be wary of people who tell you there is. There is no trick, no rule, no book you can buy or article you can read, that will make your writing not suck. The best someone else can do is tell you what good writing looks like, and chances are, you knew that anyway — after all, you love to read. You wouldn't be trying to do this if you didn't. And anyone who says they can teach you to write so good it doesn't suck at first is either lying to you, or they have forgotten how they learned to write in the first place.
So the trick is to sit there in the miserable doldrums of Suck, write a ton, and learn to like it. Because this is the phase of your path as an artist when you find what it is you love about writing, and it cannot be the chance to make "good writing." This will be the thing that bears you through and compels you to keep going when your writing is shit, i.e., the very thing that makes you a writer in the first place. So find that, and you've got a good start.
Some people know this, but assume that perseverance as a writer is about trying to get to the point where you don't suck anymore. This is not true, and it is an actively dangerous lie to tell young writers. You are not aiming to feel like your writing doesn't suck. You are aiming to write. You are aiming to have written. Everything else is dust and rust. And of course, you'll find things you like about your pieces, you'll find things you're proud of, you'll learn to love the things you've made. But that little itch of self-criticism, in the back of your brain — the one that cringes when you read a clunky line, or thinks of a better character beat right after it's far too late to change — that's never going away. That's the Writer part of you. Read Kafka, read Dickens, read Tolstoy, you will find diary entries where they lament how absolutely fucking atrocious their writing was, and how angry they are that they can't do better. A good writer hates their sentences because they can always imagine better ones. And the ability to imagine a better sentence is what's going to make you pick up the pen again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Which is what I mean, and probably what all those other annoying, preachy advice-givers mean, when we say: a good writer is just someone who writes every day. It's that easy, and that hard.
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sitp-recs · 7 months
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Do you know fics where Draco fights for Harry? Doesnt have to be entire fic I just notice usually around the climax of the fic its Harry that makes the grant gesture to get his man; i want Harry to be fought for 😭😭
Hi anon! I definitely have some recs for that one, hope you enjoy these 😊
Like Gold by @the-sinking-ship (E, 4k)
Draco runs away from home on the back of his boyfriend’s motorbike.
Be Still by @writcraft (E, 5k)
Harry’s back in England and Draco tries to fix things before he disappears again.
(The Piece) I was Missing All Along by lauren3210 (E, 30k)
Draco and Harry have been flatmates and best friends for years, and Draco thinks life is just perfect that way. But when something comes along and threatens to take all that away, Draco has to decide what it is he really wants, and just how hard he's going to work to get it.
Make Me a Headline (I Want to Be That Bold) by dicta_contrion (E, 31k)
Draco never expected to see Harry doing that again. Especially with someone else, in a grainy photograph that's landed on his desk one Monday morning.
All Roads by @korlaena (M, 36k)
Draco hates his job at the Prophet. He hates it even more when he’s assigned to write an article on Harry Potter, who left the country three years ago after their falling out. Draco doesn’t want to face the truth about himself, but he’s stuck between Harry and his duty, and he’s out of options.
In The Red by @bixgirl1 (E, 45k)
When Harry goes looking for a vampire at a Creature club, the second-to-last thing Harry expects is to find Malfoy working there. The last thing he expects is to fall in love with him.
Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship (E, 58k)
Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend.
Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop (E, 70k)
It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again. It's been nearly a year since the unpleasant business at Hogwarts, and Draco's getting on with his life quite nicely, thank you, until Harry sodding Potter steps in and ruins it all, just like always.
Among Ancient Pines by @graymatters (M, 74k)
Every day, Draco Malfoy tries. With every fiber of his being he tries. But he doesn’t much think about what he’s trying for. In his final term of Healer training, Draco is unfortunate enough to find himself on a plane, the only means of traveling to a small, magical town in rural Alaska. Years of hard work have culminated in an opportunity to work with an experimental wandmaker to study the intersection of Healing and wand theory. When Draco arrives, he doesn't find the wandmaker, but does find his apprentice, who happens to have ridiculously messy hair, a lightning bolt scar, and a definitely-not-charming smile.
I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)
Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography.
Dwelling on Dreams by @the-sinking-ship (E, 135k)
Draco thought he could avoid Potter for the duration of his brief return to England. He’d stick to his schedule and be back home in Paris, where he belonged, in a few short months. No trouble at all. He had plenty to occupy him, what with the opening of the London branch of his successful apothecary, his innovative research, drinks with Pansy, a backlog of unread potions periodicals.
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allwaswell16 · 6 months
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A fic rec of One Direction fics with a long distance relationship in an alternate universe as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!
—Louis/Harry—
✈️ Darling, so it goes by @disgruntledkittenface
(E, 195k, Grace Kelly au) Harry Styles is a world-famous actor at the height of his career but a personal low point when he meets His Serene Highness Prince Louis of Monaco by chance. 
✈️ Hold You Now by solvetheminourdreams / @cursethedaylight
(M, 131k, ex-fwb) When he accompanies his best friend to a family wedding across the Atlantic, he'll be forced to reopen old wounds and face his past—one that no one wants to hash out, but may just have to.
✈️ Heading for Limbo by @kingsofeverything
(E, 100k, friends to lovers) When Harry discovers some life-changing things about himself, Louis is there for him, however he needs. But it’s all temporary because Louis has plans that will move his life from New York all the way to L.A. and the distance isn’t the only thing between them.
✈️ Old Photographs & Times I'll Remember by @jaerie
(E, 54k, time travel) A camera, a suitcase, and a relationship forged through time.
✈️ Without you it's a season I ain't needing by @perfectdagger
(M, 38k, fashion designer Harry) A long distance relationship au in which Harry is away for a year and Louis is left to pick up the pieces.
✈️ Up On The Shore by wordsnnotes / @quelsentiment
(M, 33k, Eroda) Louis hides his feelings under sarcasm, Harry is too sweet for his own sake, everyone is a rebel, the mums are amazing, Harry's dad is a jerk
✈️ wait up, i'm coming home by @hattalove
(T, 28k, Italy) the one where louis finds harry, then loses him, then finds him again. a flawless performance from fate featuring some penguins, some celestial bodies, and a whole lot of tea.
✈️ some things fade (some never do) by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed
(T, 25k, magical tattoos) Three years after their break up, Harry calls.
✈️ Play (series) by @taggiecb
(E, 19k, famous/not famous) Right now he is working towards his before twenty five bucket list, and fate must have been smiling on him the day he won tickets for a show at Wembly, getting into one of the locker rooms is something he will have to think about later.
✈️ You're A Universe by Jiksa / @jiksax
(E, 15k, kid fic) Louis’s a stay-at-home dad in London and Harry’s a business expat in Qatar. Louis doesn’t know how much longer their marriage can survive the distance.
✈️ Paper Houses by @allwaswell16
(E, 11k, famous/famous au) When model Louis Tomlinson admits to having a celebrity crush on a very famous actor in an article in GQ magazine, he has no idea it will lead to anything.
✈️ Baby, I'm Right Here by @fallinglikethis
(E, 8k, drunken confessions) Harry and Louis are best friends who live on different continents and may or may not be in love with each other.
✈️ What Goes Up by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup
(NR, 5k, space) The six month program at the space station means a very long distance relationship and a very nervous Harry back on earth.
✈️ Talk the Night Through by @lululawrence
(NR, 4k, chat rooms) It's 1995 and a chat room is the last place Harry ever expects to find the love of his life.
✈️ With All My Surrendered Hearts by softandslow
(E, 4k, pwp) the one where they're long distance boyfriends, and Louis rides Harry while wearing his snapback.
✈️ Follow the sun by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry
(T, 3k, light angst) Louis feels like last night’s Skype call changed something though, even if the emotional distress is pretty common during their talks. 
✈️ It's All Mixed Up! by orphan_account
(G, 2k, deck officer Louis) 4 times Louis' crew mates get sick of hearing about his "girl" and the one time when they finally meet the mystery lover.
✈️ until you’re home by @nouies
(E, 1k, pwp) Louis lives in London, Harry lives in Tokyo. They make it work.
✈️ Looking for Life Out There by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird
(T, 1k, girl direction) Doctoral candidate Harry Styles moves to Boston to complete her Ph.D. leaving her professor girlfriend behind in London.
—Rare Pairs—
✈️ The New Posh and Becks by mistresscurvy
(E, 28k, Liam/Louis) 2016 is a big year for solo artist Liam Payne. After his amazing experience on X Factor, releasing his own album and touring with Little Mix seems like the height of success. Then he meets Arsenal midfielder Louis Tomlinson at a charity event, and suddenly everything else fades into the background.
✈️ Oceans and waves and wires between us by becka
(E, 8k, Niall/Zayn) Niall wants to meet his online girlfriend, Veronica, and enlists the help of MTV's Catfish to do it.
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bylersrise · 4 months
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I don't know what fics to read and maybe you don't either so here are some of my fic recs!
to love or to be loved (that is the question) by mogiah 10435 words
It all begins one Tuesday morning when Will finds a note and a gift in his locker.
or
the one where Will has a secret admirer and the party is adamant to find out who it is.
tried and true blue by delusionaltogether (Whyyyyy) 19942 words
In which Mike has a boyfriend who is not Will, and Will is totally, super, very much okay with this turn of events.
paint me with your galaxy hands by ginily 12081 words
fake dating byler style: where everything that can go wrong goes wrong.
a sad beautiful (tragic) love affair by mogiah 55940 words
Mike follows his sister to England to write articles about the celebration of the Silver Jubilee.
There, under the pale British sun, he meets Will.
my wishes came true (it would’ve been you) by afterglowsssss 8562 words
mike and will are best friends, but also unknowingly tumblr mutuals who talk to each other about their crushes…on each other…to each other. it goes exactly about how you would expect it to go.
Everything comes back to you by wasabi8000 120535 words
The world is ending, which means for the time being, Will is living at the Wheeler’s house with Mike and El. Which means his life is once again a third-wheeling roller rink nightmare, and he’s basically invisible to Mike.
Until Jonathan gives him $20 to go to an art sale, and he meets Tobias, a guy just as into art as he is.
It’s not long before him and Tobias start dating.
And then suddenly, Mike’s paying attention to him after all.
or
Will gets a boyfriend. Mike doesn’t like it.
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pride-with-prejudice · 4 months
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22.11.2023 – 100 days of productivity [21/100]
another busy day. i spent the morning and afternoon shopping because i'm gonna be baking brownies tomorrow for friendsgiving and i needed to buy some extra stuff. so yeah, i don't think i bought enough chocolate so i might go back tomorrow. when i got back back i continued the cr*tical r*view 🤢🤢 thank god i'm almost done, i never want to read a scientific article again.
song rec: 🎧 7 things – miley cyrus
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doobnnoob-tf2 · 7 months
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I made that fic request post forever ago and I feel so bad I'm just now getting to these but @fontodue I hope you enjoy
===
Sniper had been called away on a mission and would be gone for over a week. Heavy and Medic decided to go to a lodge a bit up north for the weekend. Engineer, Soldier, Demoman, and Pyro all took a roadtrip to go check out some sort of oddities shop that had opened the next town over and decided to make a weekend trip of it as well. The base was quiet.
"Yo, Spy!"
Mostly.
Spy and Scout were the only two left on the base. And while the calm, quiet, serene bliss of having a relatively empty base was almost heaven for Spy, it was torture - he discovered - for Scout. He'd come to find out that living with seven older brothers only to move to a base with 8 other mercenaries meant he didn't know what quiet really meant or how to appreciate it. But he'd been patient with Scout's annoyingly constant seeking him out. He knew it was only because he was lonely.
And so when he did it again while Spy was laying on the couch in the rec room, enjoying the silence with his eyes shut, he didn't even so much as let out a sigh. He simply moved his arm off his face to look up at him leaning over the back of the couch. "Yes?"
"Okay, good, you're awake. So, I had an idea. Since everyone else is kinda off doin' their thing.. I was thinkin.. ya know.. maybe you and I could head to town in that fancy car 'a yours and pick up chicks at the bar."
"Scout-"
"I know what you're thinkin', and I know. Regular bar chicks ain't your thing, you like fancy ladies. But, and hear me out, I've got a plan."
"Scout-"
"Spy, come on, just trust me with this, please! I'm tellin' you, this idea is foolproof!"
"I am fairly certain in order for a plan to not be foolproof, a fool could not have come up with it."
"Well thankfully there ain't one here today, so come on!" He grabbed Spy and pulled him up to his feet, leading him back to his room. "So here's my plan. We need to stand out, right? If we can get all eyes on us, then we have their attention and we can pick whoever we want at that point." He opened his bedroom door, leaving Spy standing outside it as he stepped in and talked loudly through it. "I went through everything I've got.. and maybe some'a everyone else's stuff, don't tell them. And I think I've put together the best outfit!"
Spy leaned back against the wall opposite to the door, staring at it with an eyebrow raised. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for whatever this horrible display was about to be. And upon its reveal, he..
..well, it took every atom in his body to not move a single muscle in his face, for starters.
Spy stood there, bewildered as his eyes roamed over him. He'd found one of Demoman's kilts. One of Sniper's hats. And what he can only assume is one of Medic's dressier shirts he wears when he and Heavy go out for their weekly dinner dates. None of it matched. Or fit, for that matter. But his eyes darted up to Scout's face and the hopeful look in his eye knocked him out of his stupor.
He cleared his throat and reached up to fix his own waistcoat as he moved away from the wall. "Well, ah.. it is something, I shall give it that. And I can tell you.. chose things wisely." He moved around to look in at the clothing pile on his bed. And then back at Scout again. And then at the clothes, thinking long and hard before turning to him once more with a smile. "How about we move all of this to the recreational room and.. go through it together? I can think of a few.. adjustments we could make to this, oui?"
There was a sparkle in Scout's eye as he ran in to gather all of it in his arms and rush out to head down the hall. Spy followed him, bending down to pick up each article of clothing that falls like a breadcrumb trail behind him.
...
Medic huffed as he opened the door, folding his arms and looking at Heavy. "I still can't believe it. Snowed in!"
"It was lodge, Doktor.. it should have snow."
"But we're in the middle of a desert, it was a desert lodge! How could it be snowed in?"
Heavy chuckled as he moved past him, stepping into the rec room and pausing at the sight. He felt Medic bump into his back before moving around him to see as well.
Scout and Spy sat on the floor, two bottles of wine - one clearly empty - and a mountain of clothes sitting beside them. Both dressed in mismatched outfits and laughing with each other. Spy was the one who noticed them finally when bringing his glass up to take a drink. He paused, looking at the mess and then back at them. "We.. were not expecting anyone to return so soon."
Medic only squinted. "..Spy, are you wearing my pants?"
Scout, already drunk, snickered and then leaned over to wrap his arm around Spy's shoulders. "Yeah, he's showin' me how to, uh.. what were we doin' with all this again?"
Spy looked over at him. "You tried wearing Demoman's kilt to a bar and I was not about to let you do that."
Scout pointed at Spy, looking to Medic. "Yeah, that!"
Medic only sighed, looking between the two. His question wasn't answered, and he only had even more questions now, but he was still too upset with not having a lodge for the weekend to care. Shaking his head, he turned to head to the bedrooms, Heavy following behind him. "You two are doing laundry for a week if you spill wine on anything."
Spy waited for them to leave before turning to Scout and grinning. "Do you think we should tell them we used his shirt to mop up the wine we spilled on the floor?"
"Well, in our defense, we didn't spill it ON his shirt."
The two laughed harder into the rest of the night, plans of going out to drink long since forgotten.
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tuesday again 1/23/2024
listen i got my last job through one of youse on here so weirder things have happened: i got fired bc the nonprofit wasn’t doing so hot. let me know if you have a weird data/database or market/tech research job. i promise my worksona is so so so nice and pleasant to work with. remote only, looking more in the $75k range but can be a bit flexible if it’s a cool enough job, i am in the central time zone of the USA and will not need sponsorship anywhere but DO need the cadillac of healthcare and dental plans. portfolio, publication list, and linkedin with my government name available on request!
listening
both of these are from my sister! this is another FULL ALBUM rec (good lord). The Offline’s album La couleur de la mer is a soundtrack to a movie that doesn’t exist, inspired by his long walks in the fog on the French Atlantic coast. a little spacey, a little soul, very sixties/seventies neonoir. i am quite fond of the very first track, Thème de la couleur de la mer.
she’s also sent me a bunch of tiktoks with Perfect (Exceeder) by Mason and Princess Superstar. hell of a goddamn music video for this thing. mid-aughts clubbing music at its finest. stopped me from dissolving into a puddle of emotions on the way to and from the vet today bc it’s too goddamn bouncy to be sad around
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reading
im reading a trilogy i want to discuss as a whole whenever the third one comes through as a library hold, and a book by a friend. i do not typically talk about books or fics by friends here bc none of them have ever asked for critique, and i dont want to play favorites or inadvertently miss someone’s work. so here’s a story about porn on Wikimedia, which is the kind of database drama and technical arguments that fascinate me.
given the number of articles from 404 Media i shout about here and elsewhere i really should sign up for their $5/mo subscription tier when i have a steady income again
watching
somehow missed Star Wars Visions 2, their second anthology of weird little shorts. i was not super impressed by the overall storytelling this time around, but it was fun to see them reach out to more global studios and see a wider range of styles. there’s some goddamn incredible stop motion in here.
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i particularly enjoyed Journey to the Dark Head, which not only has some interesting fringe Force believers and beliefs but has one of the sickest anime bullshit lightsaber fights in this season. this one is by Studio Mir, most known for the Legend of Korra.
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also really liked The Spy Dancer by Studio La Cachette, partly bc it’s incredibly beautiful and i like when Star Wars leans into art nouveau, and partly bc it felt the most like a complete short story. emotional arc and everything! strong beginning middle and end! this IS a really low bar, but a lot of the shorts this season did not have a coherent little story to tell or a strong emotional arc, or fumbled their arc partway through, and were just kind of vibes and animation showcases? nothing necessarily wrong with that, also how i felt about most of the last collection. my expectations are underground for any Star Wars media.
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playing
as is tradition i dithered about this section the most. this is more of a What’s Next? planning ramble.
the laptop gets shipped back to my old job today so i will no longer have a working modern computer. i have to dig the switch out and see what’s up. maybe start a whole new run in breath of the wild or whatever the last pokemon game was. i think i also have the sword boyfriend game everyone was up in arms about two years ago? and i think i am somehow part of a switch family plan that lets me have some older games?
this section may look very different in the next ??? amount of time until i get a company laptop again. or finally replace the motherboard on my personal desktop but that sat in my car for several weeks during the heat wave this summer while i did not have an apartment and i am really REALLY afraid to open that box.
oh the free epic game this week is a platformer, a genre i have historically not cared about. godspeed to those of you who do
making
soup bc aldi had alphabet pasta and that jolted me out of myself for long enough i was briefly convinced making alphabet pasta soup would fix me. so i found this recipe while in aldi. despite this not being a very good soup or a very good recipe, i feel a little triumphant bc i now know enough to brown the tomato paste before putting it in the soup. unfortunately i overcooked the pasta. there’s kind of a lot of texture happening here, and i wish i had chopped things finer, but i will probably steal my best friend’s blender tomorrow and blitz some of it down.
it’s edible. im going to eat it all. it will not be going in the rotation
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ask-a-jew · 4 months
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i want to start independent study into judaism but i have trouble where to begin. do you have any resources for a good kicking off point?
Hi Anon,
If you'll excuse the copypaste I have some resources from another ask. But this time I added some Film Recs.
Resources:
I have a bunch of links on this post here
My Jewish Learning is a good Resource for beginners (although they skew US American and Reform.)
18doors.org is a resource for interfaith families and couples (again primarily skewing US American and Reform.)
Chabad.org is the website for the Chabad Lubavitch Movement of Orthodox Judaism.
Jewish Virtual Library is an Online Encyclopedia of Jewish History.
Keshet is a US American organisation primarily working with LGBTQ+ Jews to make synagogues, schools and community centres more inclusive.
YIVO Encyclopedia has thousands of articles and records of Jewish History in Eastern Europe with a focus on Yiddish Language and Culture and the Holocaust.
Jewfaq.org has a lot of good information for beginners (I believe it is run by the Masorti movement in the UK)
Sefaria.org Online Database of Jewish Texts, includes the whole Tanakh, Talmud (Bavli and Jerusalem), Midrash, Liturgy, Commentary and Apocrypha.
@didyoumeanxianity and @thejewitches here on tumblr for much more in-depth informative posts than mine.
Further Reading:
Living a Jewish Life, by Anita Diamant
People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn
The Jewish Book of Why by Alfred J. Kolatch
To Be a Jew by Rabbi Hayim Halevy Donin
Basic Judaism by Milton Steinberg
Women and Jewish Law by Rachel Biale
Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life — in Judaism (2019) by Sarah Hurwitz
Essential Judaism: A Complete Guide to Beliefs, Customs and Rituals (Updated in 2016) by George Robinson
Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl
Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt
To Heal a Fractured World: The Ethics of Responsibility By Rabbi Jonathan Sacks
From Thessaloniki to Auschwitz and Back: Memories of a Survivor from Thessaloniki by Erika Kounio-Amarilio
Memoirs of a Fortunate Jew: An Italian Story by Dan Vittorio Segre
Film
The Dybbuk (1937)- One of the earliest surviving Yiddish language films. Copies may be hard to find as it used to be lost media.
The Fifth Horseman is Fear (1965) dir. Zbyněk Brynych.- a Czechoslovak expressionist film about the Holocaust, very moody but different in that it's not focused on the camps but social and legal antisemitism before then.
The Fixer (1968) dir. Bernard Malamud - Based on a real account of Blood Libel in Ukraine.
Lies My Father Told Me (1975) dir Ján Kadár. - Semi-biographical film about the life of an Orthodox Jewish boy in Canada.
Jacob the Liar (1975) dir. Frank Beyer - Set in Occupied Poland the title character makes up rumours that he heard from a radio to keep up the spirits of other Jews in the ghetto.
Yentl (1983) dir Barbra Streisand- Arguably one of the most iconic Jewish films, Barbra Streisand plays a young woman who dresses as a man to attend a Yeshiva. It's camp, it's a musical, it's very queer-coded. I love Yentl.
Schindler's List (1993) dir. Steven Spielberg - I mean only if you haven't seen it already. It has its oscarbaity moments but the score is great and it doesn't Boy-In-Striped-Pyjama-ise the Shoah. Really the only actual Holocaust film I recommend apart from maybe La Bella è Vita by Roberto Benigni.
Munich (2005) dir Spielberg - A drama based on the true events of Mossad Assassinations during Operation Bayonet after the Munich Massacre. Refreshingly not overly gung-ho or nationalistic for the topic covered and arguably the most sympathetic depiction of the PLO in a mainstream film, but then it's written by Tony Kushner who pulls no punches and I respect him for it. Obviously YMMV.
For Your Consideration (2006) dir. Christopher Guest - A very hammy comedy about the production of a Jewish Western film called "Home For Purim" that it becomes rumoured to have won an Academy Award. Eugene Levy is his most Jewish dad in this outside of Schitt's Creek
A Serious Man (2009) dir Coen Brothers - Uh, g-d how do I describe this, it's a Coen Brothers retelling of the Book of Job. If you know the Coen Brothers you'll know it's fairly inscrutable the first time you watch it but it's an excelent and very Jewish film.
To Dust (2018) dir Shawn Snyder - Wait Matthew Broderick was in this? I have no memory of that. It's a black comedy about a Haredi (iirc) man who becomes depressed after his wife dies, and he strikes up a friendship with a professor of biology.
The Red Sea Diving Resort (2019) dir. Gideon Raff - Spy thriller film based on true events of Operation Moses and Operation Joshua - bringing a large group of Ethiopian Jews to Israel. It really wasn't my kind of thing and it skips a lot of the socio-cultural issues around the real events but Chris Pine was in it at least.
Uncut Gems (2019) dir. Safdie Brothers- Uncut Gems is such a good movie, I feel like people don't shut up about it. It's a crime thriller about Jewish jewel thieves.
Minyan (2020) dir. Eric Steel - Gay Coming-of-age film set during the AIDS Crisis, the main character is a young Orthodox Jewish man coming to terms with his sexuality and dealing with a sometimes abusive family.
The Fabelmans (2022) dir. Steven Spielberg - Semi-autobiographical film based on Steven Spielberg's life.
You are So Not Invited to my Bat Mitzvah (2023) dir. Sammi Cohen- Teen coming-of-age dramedy about a teenage girl preparing for her Bat Mitzvah. It's on US Netflix, if you have that.
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flightfoot · 8 months
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So I have no idea how asks work, I hope o am doing the right thing.
Sooooo any miraculous fan fiction suggestion? Maybe something chloe focused? Because I am basically running out of fic about that on ao3,butaybe maybe maybe you can help me? Thank you!!!!!!!!!!(oh and thank you even if you don't aswer oh and sorry if I am disturbing you!!!!!)
Have a nice day :)
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I'm happy to help! I read a crapton of Miraculous fics so I can help. I'm glad you specified Chloe fics because well, I need something to go off of.
Oh yeah, it probably goes without saying if you know me at all, but none of these fics will demonize Alya, Adrien, the class, any of that sort. I don't tolerate those fics.
So first of all, @generalluxun really likes to write Chloe fics, so looking through his AO3 page is probably a good idea. I Won't Let You, which is a one-shot of Felix and Chloe talking at the Hawkmoth defeat party, empathizing with each other's circumstances, is a particular favorite of mine, if you want a taste.
Now onto the rest of the fic recs!
well somewhere along the way our words I must've gotten lost by @noirshitsuji
Beelya where Queen Bee visits the Césaire house after Alya writes an article about her fighting Mr. Pigeon alone. Normally Chloé would like the publicity but Alya had titled it ‘The Birds and the Bees’. After that she ends up coming back to complain about her mother. And her father. And about the fact that her oldest friend seems uncomfortable around her. Her visits becomes weekly, then almost nightly. (Don’t forget to include Chloé redemption (and some “Bee Movie” jokes).) * Alya isn’t quite sure how she ended up here, in a place where she isn’t even surprised Chloé would seek her out to talk about her dad, where she wouldn’t even mind her doing so, where she would expect it, where she would– (–thud. She might be in trouble.)
I loved seeing Alya's and Chloe's relationship grow and change through the years here, becoming closer and trusting each other more!
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Can't Sleep Either, Huh? by EmeraldButterfly
Chloe gets up late at night. Turns out she’s not the only one who’s worried about Pollen. (AU where former Miraculous holders have an empathetic link with their kwamis)
This one's really short, but I love Zoe and Chloe comforting each other, since they can both feel what Pollen's going through at Monarch's hands over the link.
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at our wedding by @anna-scribbles
“Chloé,” Adrien said slowly, “At our wedding, are we gonna have to…” “No!” Chloé shook her head firmly. “We don’t have to kiss. We can do whatever we want. It’s our wedding.” “Oh, good,” Adrien sighed. “You have to kiss at a wedding,” Félix argued. “I don’t have to do anything and you’re not the boss of me!” Chloé shouted. “Yeah!” Adrien grinned. He grabbed Chloé’s hand again. “Yeah, it’s our wedding.” // Adrien and Chloé, wedding planning through the years.
This one's great for seeing how Adrien's and Chloe's relationship in particular has changed over the years, though Felix is involved a lot as well.
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Restorative Justice by @kasienda
Chloé has never been a fan of Ms. Bustier’s community building activities. In fact, she detests them. She doesn’t want to learn about the drab boring lives of her peers. And she absolutely can’t stand it when their confessions make her feel things. Feelings that she doesn’t even have names for. But when Adrien unknowingly shares his struggles with his double life, Chloé vows she will do anything to get Ladybug to set things right. Even if it means pissing off the heroine. Chloé was already mad at her anyway.
I love this, everyone sits down in a circle and talks about their feelings and problems and work on making things BETTER, on healing and fixing things.
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This last one is a special treat, it's one of the best Miraculous fics I've ever read (and that is saying a LOT).
Hold Me By Both Hands by @angelofthequeers
“I know he said never to take you back,” Plagg mutters. “But he’d change his tune if he knew.” He looks Adrien straight in the eye and, more serious than Adrien’s ever seen him before, says, “There’s someone you gotta meet. He’s been looking for that book for ages.” How differently might the events of season 2 have gone if Adrien had also known of Master Fu from the start?
This is a rewrite of seasons 2 and 3, with Lila being active and sneakier, Adrien not being left in the dark, and everyone talking things out a lot more. I ADORE the interweaving plot threads of this fic, it's fairly episodic in nature and it packs a lot into its word count.
The single best plotline it has, and the one that shoots it up to the top of my list of best ML fics, is its Chloe Redemption plotline.
Basically, Adrien says he won't be friends with Chloe unless she starts treating people decently, and so, taking this to heart, she goes looking for help in learning how to do that because well, she doesn't want to lose Adrien. So naturally, she goes to Marinette.
Marinette helps, but there are no shortcuts here. If you've seen The Good Place, Chloe's character arc here is a lot like Eleanor's was there, with her not only needing to learn how to be nicer to people, but t find reasons to WANT to be a better person, outside of simply wanting to avoid a bad outcome. I literally wrote an essay about Chloe's character development in this fic, THAT'S how much I loved it.
Anyway, seriously, check this fic out!
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Whistle Down the Wind, Chapter Ten
Word Count: 4503
TW:  Idiots in love, angst, smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.
AN:  Part of a series.  The series masterlist here.
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You were late.  Again.
To be fair, though, it wasn’t your fault this time.  When your plane landed at LaGuardia, it ended up taxiing for forty minutes until it found an available gate, and then you had to sprint to baggage claim.  And then you had to find a taxi, and when you did, traffic was so bad that the driver shot into New Jersey and took I-95 to get to Staten Island.
It didn’t matter, as long as you got there eventually.  Sometimes you had to take the long way round.
********
It was a subdued Thanksgiving, which suited Sonny just fine.  Theresa’s daughters, since the divorce, had to split their holidays between their parents, so they were with their father.  Theresa herself had opted to stay in Connecticut and host her own wine-based, solo Thanksgiving for herself.  Gina and her latest boyfriend had stopped in for a quick dinner but had left to go to his family’s house on the other end of the island.  Bella and her baby – a little girl named Moira – were taking a nap upstairs in her childhood bedroom, exhausted by the baby’s awful sleep schedule.  That left Sonny parents and Tommy in the living room, watching the football game and dozing off from their respective turkey comas.
Sonny was so exhausted that he was having trouble sleeping.  It had been an awful year.  He had an undercover assignment with a men’s shelter that left him shaken to his core about the thin possibility of redemption for lost souls.
His sergeant had also been gunned down and killed.  They never replaced him, though, so SVU was running perpetually short-handed.  He rarely had time off, he never had time to recover from one case to the next, and his commanding officer seemed pretty cavalier about the mental wellness of her detectives.
If he ever needed his best friend, it was now, but he respected your choice to move to L.A.
He kept in touch with you, of course.  He called and texted, and the two of you had a few video chat sessions.  You showed him your cramped little apartment a few blocks from the ocean, and once you had a chat from London, where you were working on a limited episode run for a streaming service. 
He loved seeing you, but it left him heart-sore.  Seeing you on the screen of his laptop could not compare to the genuine article.
He held back a lot of his work struggles.  He didn’t tell you how lonely he was, how much he missed his friend.  He didn’t want to make you regret your choice.  All the same, you seemed to sense when he was at his lowest, because a new playlist always seemed to appear for him to bolster his flagging spirits.
The best playlists, though, were the ones he was able to buy after you started your stint on the west coast.  You got work – first with the limited run series, then with a bare-bones action film, then with a larger film.  You scored a documentary, and the haunting piano and string-based score was nominated at some film festivals.  Sonny bought every soundtrack and score that had your name on it. 
He set up a news alert for your name and got some traffic.  The best was a profile about new up-and-comers.  It was a group shot of everyone in the piece, but he was able to crop everyone else out on his computer.  You looked amazing in it:  hair down and styled, in a chic tuxedo tailored to your form, with a slight smile on your face.
Still, he missed you.  And on days like Thanksgiving, he felt your absence more keenly.
He sat with his parents and Tommy for a bit, half-heartedly watching the Lions play.  He wondered what you were doing.  Probably hanging out with your new friends, eating the authentic Mexican food you were always raving about.
He stood up abruptly and made his way down to the rec room in the basement.  Most holidays – and summers when you were in college – that’s where you and Sonny ended up.  It was your movie hub:  just the two of you curled up on the couch together, under his nonna’s scratchy acrylic crocheted blanket (because he cranked the air to an uncomfortable degree on purpose), watching a movie and ignoring the tension between the two of you.  Well, he knew it was tension now.  At the time, he had just thought it was him.
He sprawled out across the old couch and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he found something.  “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.”  Sonny smiled.  It was one of your favorite movies, and he settled down and watched it.  If his mind wandered, it wandered back to your final week in the city.  Those few final days you had spent together, mostly in his bed (and in his shower and on his couch and once on his kitchen counter).  He replayed those moments over and over, but the details had grown hazy over time.  All he could vividly remember was the feeling of completion and contentment when you had fallen asleep beside him.
The movie was about halfway done when he heard people talking upstairs – laughter and little shrieks of joy.  He guessed that Moira was awake and his mother was cooing over her.  Or maybe Tommy and his dad were really getting into the Lions game.
He heard the basement door open and someone take a few tentative steps down the creaky stairs.  It must be time for dessert and coffee, but Sonny wasn’t hungry.
“I’ll be up in a bit, ma,” he called over the back of the couch, focused on the screen in front of him. 
“I’m not your ma, stretch,” a familiar voice replied in a teasing lilt, and he shot up into a sitting position just in time to see you descend the rest of the steps. ********
Your first thought was that you broke him.  He stared at you over the back of the couch so long without saying anything, you worried that he had died in place.
Your second thought, as you looked him over was, Christ, he looks exhausted.
Sonny was as handsome as ever.  His hair was a little greyer, but it made him hotter, in your opinion.  It was soft and tousled, unstyled – your favorite version of his hair.  His eyes were as blue as the ocean.
But he looked pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes, and the lines around his eyes were deeper than the last time you saw him.  You knew that his job wasn’t easy, and you knew from Bella that it had been more difficult than usual.  You worried that you hadn’t made things easier on him either.
He continued to stare at you, and your eyes flicked to the TV.  It was one of your favorite holiday movies, and you made a little cry of delight.  You walked around to the couch and made to sit down to watch, but Sonny shot to his feet and pulled you into a fierce hug.  He wrapped his long arms around you and squeezed you so hard you thought your ribs would break again. 
“You’re really here,” he muttered into your hair.
“I am,” you replied.  Your face was pressed against his chest, and you breathed him in.  He wore a cologne that always made you think of growing things – a sort of fresh, green smell that combined with his soap and his own body chemistry.  “I would have been here sooner, but traffic was a nightmare.”
He squeezed you to him for another moment, then pushed you away, his hands firmly placed on your upper arms.  “No one told me,” he said, looking you over.  “You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”  You suddenly felt shy underneath the scrutiny of his gaze, and you ducked your head.
He moved both of his hands to either side of your face.  “It’s the best surprise ever,” he declared, and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your lips.  You sighed and kissed him back.  You had missed him so much.
He tilted your head, deepening the kiss.  You felt him part his lips and run the tip of his tongue along your lower lip, but before you could open your mouth to him, the basement door swung open again.  A voice – Bella’s – yelled down that coffee and dessert were being served.
“And stop making out, you perverts,” she added for good measure, and you ignored her cackling laughter with all the dignity you could muster. 
********
Sonny sat across from you at the dining room table as everyone gathered for pumpkin pie and coffee.  You immediately scooped baby Moira from Bella’s arms, claiming that you had to make up for lost time.  The baby grabbed at your hair and tried to shove her chubby fist in your mouth.  She was completely enamored with you.
Baby Moira wasn’t the only one.  Sonny felt like he would never be able to look at you enough.  Your hair was just a shade messy – he knew it was from your cross-country flight, but it looked exactly like your usual post-sex hair, and it made him feel more turned on than he would usually like while sitting with his family at the dining room table. 
You were in relaxed jeans and a button-down flannel shirt, partially unbuttoned and revealing a lace-trimmed camisole underneath.  You looked completely comfortable, and maybe for the first time since Sonny met you – completely comfortable with yourself.  You had a relaxed air about you.  Maybe it was all the sunshine.  More likely, it was all those tamales that you raved about.
Bella dished out pie while Dom Senior poured mugs of coffee and passed them around.  Sonny’s mother went to the kitchen and came back a few minutes later bearing a plate of reheated leftovers.  She placed it in front of you with a smile.
“I’m sorry I was late,” you said with a rueful shrug.  “Our plane didn’t have a gate and it took forever to get here.”
His mother waved off your apology.  “We’re just glad you’re here.”
You tucked into your leftovers one handed, your other arm cradling the baby as she dozed off against you.  It made Sonny smile to see it.  You were always such a natural with his nieces – even this one who had just met you.
“How long are you staying?” Dom Senior asked. 
You chewed a forkful of stuffing and swallowed before you answered.  “I fly back on Sunday morning.”  Sonny felt his stomach drop.  You were only here for a few days, and it already felt like time was slipping away too quickly.
You glanced over at him and caught his gaze before you continued.  “I have a few more months on my sublet here in New York, but after that, I’m going to move back.”  You gave him a smile.  “I’ve made great connections, and I’ll probably have to travel back to L.A. more than I’d like, but plenty of composers and musicians live elsewhere.”
Bella scoffed and gestured to the window where an icy rain was pattering against the glass.  “You’re trading in warm weather and sunshine for this?”
“Aren’t you the one who gave me a list of reasons why L.A. was worse than New York?” you teased back.
“I just liked living vicariously through you,” she shot back.  “How many friends run into one of the Marvel Chrises on the way to the bathroom?”
You nodded and took another bite of stuffing.  “True.  But I can’t keep up with the people out there.  Too many diets and workouts.  Everyone assumes I’m a wannabe actress and critiques me accordingly.”  You scowled at your plate.  “One producer told me that I was a ‘New York five but an L.A. two,’ and that was after he realized I was there to score his garbage movie.”
Sonny felt a flare of hot anger to hear that some guy made you feel bad about yourself.  “You’re a Staten Island eleven,” he blurted, making the table erupt in laughter.  He felt his face growing red, and his dad reached over and clapped him hard on the back.
“Smooth, son,” he chuckled, but Sonny’s mom reached over from the other side and smacked her husband. 
“Like you ever did any better,” she teased.  Dom Senior snatched her hand as she tried to draw it back and kissed the back of it.
“I did good enough to get you,” he said with a wide grin, making Bella groan in embarrassment.  Sonny, though, could only watch you across the table.
********
Sonny’s family was old-fashioned, despite having a grandchild out of wedlock and a daughter who had recently divorced.  As such, you and Sonny put up what you hoped was a convincing charade about how he was going to drive you to a friend’s place where you were crashing for the next few days. 
The reality, of course, was that within seconds of returning to his apartment, he had you pressed against his door, the two of you kissing fiercely and pawing at each other like you were each drowning.  There were too many sensations and emotions:  the feel of his warm hands as they untucked your shirt and camisole to touch your back.  His mouth on yours, his lips impossibly soft.  His thigh, as it pressed between your own legs and parted them.
You reached down and tugged at his grey Henley, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head, ruffling his hair even more.  You tossed it aside and then his mouth was back on you, kissing the sensitive spot at the junction of your neck and shoulder, sending chills through you.
“I missed you so much, doll,” he whispered against your neck.  His breath was hot and sent another tremor through you.
You ran your fingers through his hair.  “I missed you more,” you breathed back.
Sonny fumbled at your shirts.  His fingers scrabbled at your button-up, and he mumbled curses when he couldn’t get it undone fast enough.  When he did get it unbuttoned, he tried to pull it off of you, but your sleeves got caught and he cursed again as he unbuttoned the cuffs. 
You pushed him off of you so that you could handle it, so he shifted his attention to his own clothes.  He tugged his undershirt over his head, but slowed and then stopped completely to watch you as you removed your camisole.
You bent over and pulled your boots off, then straightened up to unbutton your jeans.  You looked up at Sonny and laughed at him.  His chest was rising and falling with his shuddering breaths, and his mouth hung slightly agape.
He moved swiftly to you.  He pressed you back against the door, latching his mouth on the pulse point.  You laid your hands on his bare chest and tugged on his sparse smattering of blond hair there.
Sonny’s hands drifted down to your hips and finished unzipping your jeans.  He unlatched his mouth from your neck and worked his way down, pushing your pants down over your hips, down you thighs.  His ran his warm palms over your bare legs before he pulled your jeans over your feet and tossed them aside.
He knelt in front of you, and you laid your hands on the top of his head.  You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging it gently, trying to get him to stand back up.  He looked up at you, in just your underwear, while he was still half-clothed.
“You need to catch up, Dominick,” you said.  You loved the way his sunny blue eyes turned dark when you called him by his first name. 
Instead of responding to you, he slid an arm behind you, cupping your ass in his large hand and pulled your lower half towards him until his face was pressed into your lower belly.  You ran your nails over his scalp, drawing low groans from him that vibrated through you.  His hot breath made the throbbing between your legs increase almost painfully.  You felt dangerously close to losing your legs underneath you.
“S-Sonny,” you stuttered as he moved his mouth a fraction lower.  “I need you.”
“You have me,” he murmured against you.  He licked along the lace waistband of your panties, making your knees buckle just a bit. 
You tightened your grip on his hair, drawing another groan from him.  You felt almost dizzy with desire and had to press the back of your head against the door and take a few deep breaths to calm yourself.
“Sonny, we have plenty of time,” you told him in a strangled voice.  “But right now, I really need you.”
His other hand landed on your hip, tugging at the edge of your panties and pressing wet kisses on each new inch of exposed skin.  He didn’t reply, too focused on moving his mouth closer and closer to his target.
“Damnit, Dominick!” you yelled, and you pulled his hair hard enough to get his attention.  He looked up and shot you a wounded look, like a puppy that had been scolded, but whatever he saw on your face made him stand up and press the length of his body against yours.  You pulled his face to yours and kissed him breathlessly, without any art or ability.  Just his mouth with his soft lips against yours, tongues sliding against each other, breathing each other’s moans.
“I need you,” you repeated, panting against him.  He shifted his head back to the nook against your neck.  “Please.  I…I’ve waited for this for months.  I’ve missed you, Sonny.  So, so much.”  You wrapped your hand along the back of his neck, stroking between his hairline and the knobs of the top of his spine.  You felt rather than heard Sonny sniffling against you, and you felt the first tears when they hit your shoulder.
“I missed you too, doll,” he said.  “And it’s been a tough year.”  His voice was watery, and you tightened your grip around him, pulling him as tight as you could.  He took deep breaths against you as he tried to regain his composure, and once he was calmed, you took his face between both of your hands.  You forced him to face you, and you looked into his brilliant blue eyes, now rimmed and swollen from his tears.
“I love you, Dominick,” you said solemnly.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
He shook his head gently between your hands.  “I’m glad you went, doll.”  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at you.  “I’d never want to hold you back.”
You couldn’t help but smile back at him – his namesake sunniness was contagious.  “I’m here now though.”
“You are.”  He reached down to grasp the back of your thighs, and you jumped up into his arms.  You bit back a moan at the sensation of him pressed against your core, and you wrapped your arms around his neck as he carried you into his bedroom and laid you down on the bed.
He stood at the foot of the bed and removed the rest of his clothes, and you wriggled out of your underwear so that when he crawled over you, you were both completely naked. 
You could feel the conflict in him – you knew that Sonny was gentle and probably wanted to take his time, but you also could feel how badly he missed you.  He settled on an uneven middle ground, pressing slow, wet kisses to you while his hands roved wildly over your form. 
His mouth drifted a lazy path from your mouth to your jaw and down your neck, across your collarbones and back to your mouth.  His hands wandered down your sides and up your front to cup first one breast and then the other.  He stroked your nipples until they were peaked and hard under his caresses. 
Spurred on by your moans and your squirming underneath him, his hand glided further down until it was pressed between your legs.  He slid a finger between your folds and groaned at how wet you were.  He pulled his head back to peer down at you, and your face felt red-hot.
“I told you I needed you,” you muttered at him, avoiding his gaze.
“I told you that you have me,” he replied thickly, and he pushed his finger into you slowly, making both of you moan.  Your face grew hotter, which didn’t seem humanly possible, as he stared down at you through half-lidded eyes.  He slid a second finger into you, then shifted his hand so that his thumb was circling your clit.
You huffed out a breath through your nose and tried to calm yourself, but you felt a liquid heat pooling deep in your belly, and you knew you weren’t going to last long. 
“Sonny, stop,” you whispered.  You felt him hesitate and pull his hand away from you.  You looked up and saw the question in his eyes.
“I want to…finish,” you stammered.  “With you, you know.  Inside me.”
He nodded and shifted his weight off of you to reach into his nightstand for a condom.  You used the moment to try and steady yourself again, squeezing your eyes shut as you heard him rip the wrapper.  Then you felt him stretch himself on top of you again, and you felt his hand cup your face, the thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“Hey, look at me,” he said softly.  You opened your eyes and looked up at him.  He gazed down at you as if you were the only other person in the world.
All the years of frustrated longing, all the other people you’d each been with, every conversation and glance laden with unrequited love – it all fell away when he looked at you like that.  You smiled at him and reached up to cup his own face in your palm, and he leaned into it, touch-starved.  After a moment, you simply nodded at him, and he reached down to line himself up with your entrance.
He pressed the tip of his erection into you with a groan, and you felt dangerously close to the edge.  He slid into you slowly – way too slowly.  His position on top of you made the angle shallow, and his length dragged along your sensitive clit as he pressed himself into your molten core. 
You wanted to make it last, but every single sensation was too much:  the friction on you bundle of nerves where the two of you were joined.  His hot breath, panting praise in your ear.  The scent of his cologne and your perfume mingling along with the headier scent of sex. 
He was only halfway inside you, but it was too late.  You gasped his name once, and then shuddered underneath him with a whimper, your legs wrapping around him to pull the rest of him into you in one thrust.  He started to reply to you, but he growled instead as your sheath gripped him, your orgasm ripping through you.  You shut your eyes as you came, moaning his name over and over.  You were distantly aware of him cursing above you, and he gave a single thrust until he came too.
He collapsed on top of you completely, and his weight pressed you into the mattress.  He groaned again, in frustration this time.  You stroked his hair at the back of his head until you both recovered.  He lifted his head to looked down at you.
“I’m sorry,” you each said at the same time, and you both laughed.  He leaned down and kissed you firmly before he shifted his weight and pulled out of you.  He left the room for a moment to dispose of the condom, then he came back into the bedroom.  He laid down beside you, and you each turned on your sides to face each other.
“I’m sorry I came too quickly,” you said with a rueful grin.  “I was too worked up, I guess.”
He pinched your chin lightly between his fingers and kissed you again.  “It’s all well and good for girls,” he grumbled good-naturedly.  “But I didn’t last at all.  Now all my street cred it gone.”  You laughed at this, and he pretended to look angry.
“It’s your fault,” he continued.  “You set me off.”
“Well, I owe you then,” you replied.  You tried to look contrite.  “Since your street cred is gone and all that.”  You snuggled up against him, enjoying the feeling of his skin pressed against yours.  He wrapped a lanky arm around you and pulled you tighter.
You felt comfortably drowsy, the net effect of your flight, Ma Carisi’s dinner, and being back in Sonny’s bed.  He hummed above you contently, and you started to doze off until your cell phone chimed from the other room.  You roused a bit but settled back against him.
Then it chimed again, and a third time.
“You need to get that?” Sonny asked.  His voice rumbled through his chest.  “Your west coast boyfriend, maybe?”  You knew he was joking, but there was still a jealous undercurrent to his tone.
“There was no west coast boyfriend,” you murmured against him.  “Unless you count my detachable shower head.”
He snorted at this but you could feel the relief in him as he relaxed against you. 
Then his phone chimed, one after another after another.
“Is that Nicole?” you asked, only half-meanly.  He snorted again before he untangled from you and grabbed at his pants at the foot of the bed. 
“Be careful,” he said as he pulled his phone out of his pants pocket.  “If you say her name three times, she’ll turn up and haunt your house.”  You laughed at this and sat up.  You wound his blanket around yourself.  Sonny unlocked his phone.
“Is it work?” you asked.  You felt your stomach dip.  You wanted to stay in this little bubble with Sonny for the entire weekend.  A little sex bubble, maybe with the occasional movie and homemade pasta break.
He just chuckled in reply.  “No, it’s Bella.”  He held up his phone so that you could read the screen.  “She tried to text you and you didn’t reply.  Now she’s of the impression that you’re here with me, corrupting her chaste, virginal brother with your wanton ways.”  He typed out a reply, then turned off his phone and tossed it on the nightstand before lying back down.  He grabbed you around the waist and pulled you down beside him.
“What did you tell her?” you asked.
“The truth,” he said.  He kissed you chastely, then tilted his head to deepen the kiss.  He broke away to look down at you, and his blue eyes were glittering with unshed tears again.  “I told her that you’re home.”
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