about. i'm aly from the philippines! i have been writing and reading fanfiction for 11 years. my main is polaroids.
notes. as of the moment, requests are not open. however, the ask box is still open for any questions. nsfw works will be indicated at the beginning of the work
jujutsu kaisen.
⤷ kento nanami x reader
✩ untouched, unreachable (2021)
real person fiction.
⤷ fionn whitehead x reader
✩ as the sun sets, the darkness rises (2019)
⤷ yuki ishikawa x oc
✩ first winter, then spring (2024)
✩ love letter (2024)
⤷ yuki ishikawa x reader
✩ sticker frenzy (2024)
✩ where the stars shine brightest (2024)
✩ you're on your own, kid (2024)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
— two things are definite: you like george, and george likes you. unfortunately, you two seem to be the only ones who don't see it.
+ part of my 'be my valentine' mixtape series ! love this song and i was so excited to use it for a george fic, so i hope you enjoy <3
“oh mate, you’re joking.”
“shut up!” george huffed, running the palm of his hand down his face in exasperation. “it was not that bad.”
he could defend himself all he liked, because in spite of that, george knew it really was.
this was possibly the third time this month that george had fumbled his chance to ask you out, and alex was beginning to grow tired of his friend’s constant pining and lingering stares.
“here’s what you’re gonna do,” alex said, his voice growing more serious as he looked george dead in the eyes. “you’re gonna ring y/n, and you’re gonna tell her you forgot something at her place. a shirt, socks, anything.”
"but i haven't?"
"not the point," alex groaned. "you're gonna tell her that, so you have an excuse to turn up there. this is your chance. don't be a stupid. tell her you think she's cool, that you like her, something to charm her."
george still wasn't convinced. his brows were pinched together as he ran over alex's plan in his mind, able to find a thousand different ways it could go wrong for him.
"right. and what happens when she realises that i haven't actually left anything there, and i just look like a massive twat for showing up?"
alex wasn't sure that he could take any more.
"mate, you can't just sit around and wait for some sort of fairy tale ending to come out of nowhere for you. at some point, you're just going to have to confess to her."
though he was being assertive, alex was still trying to be supportive, laying a hand on george's shoulder and delivering a friendly pat of encouragement.
"i can promise you she's probably thinking the exact same thing right now, anyways."
george scoffed, his answer hanging in the air unspoken. as if.
unbeknownst to george, alex was a lot closer to the truth than even he may have realised.
the events of the afternoon were playing on a loop in your mind as you tried to dissect every last piece of your interaction with george, from how he'd greeted you - a brief side hug and a smile - to how he'd said goodbye - a weak effort to get you to stay and a silly, yet endearing, wave.
was this your life now? driving yourself mad over even the smallest little details, all because of some stupid feelings?
when you'd first started developing somewhat of a crush on the mercedes driver, you made a promise to yourself that it would never become a thing. and you had kept that promise for roughly four months, until you made a huge error: revealing your feelings to someone else.
ever since you had let it slip to a friend that you actually quite liked george in ways that far surpassed the platonic label, you'd been - for lack of a better phrase - absolutely fucked.
now you had people to fuel your delusions, try to convince you that george had to feel the same way, and no, of course he wasn't just being polite when he offered you his jacket, you fool. outside interference and reassurance should have made you more confident in your feelings, maybe even push you to confess, but instead they'd had the opposite effect.
the weight of the word 'hopeless' in hopeless romantic had really started to resonate with you. though you weren't allowed to dwell on your misfortunes for too long.
some may have chalked it up to fate, some may have attributed it to a divine power wanting to laugh at a poor mortal, but whatever the reason, your phone rang with an incoming call from george.
the stupid candid photo you’d taken as a contact picture flashed up on your screen, and the automatic smile that painted your lips made you want to yell in frustration.
"y/n, hi!"
pathetic was the perfect word to describe you, thanks to how utterly gone you were for george, as the mere sound of your name leaving his lips was enough to make your heart jump.
"sorry, know i only saw you a few hours ago, but i just remembered that i think i left one of my mercedes shirts at yours when i was there the other day."
you didn't even think twice about it, why would you? george had left countless items at your place in the past, and he would leave more in the future.
"no problem. y'can always come by and get it, i'll try and grab it for you."
george's chest ached at how ready to help you were.
"yeah? you're a lifesaver, y/n, really. i'll set off now, should be there in about fifteen minutes."
brief 'see you later's were exchanged, and the moment you set your phone down onto the coffee table, your hunt began.
you didn't recall seeing one of george's shirts anywhere around, but previous mishaps had enlightened you to the fact that things could turn up anywhere. you'd thought that the shoes buried right underneath your bed were odd, until a sock turned up in your bread bin a few weeks later.
nothing was off limits anymore.
yet, somehow, no matter where you looked, you couldn't find the fucking shirt. frustration slowly nibbled at your mind, the sound of a knock being the only thing to break you from your frantic search.
an annoyingly attractive george russell greeted you when you swung open the front door.
in all of the years he'd known you, george thought this was the most adorable you'd looked.
your hair was in disarray, the strands unkempt as though you'd been running your hands through it over and over again. your face shone a little, and you were clearly a little out of breath, if the small, panting gasps you took were anything to go by.
your apartment was a mess, and george quickly realised that you'd turned your entire place practically upside down to try and find a shirt that wasn't even there in the first place.
guilt began to bubble up in his throat, and george hoped that, after today, it would all be worth it. he only had one chance, and he wasn't going to fuck it up.
before he could allow doubt to creep into his mind and sow seeds of regret, george lifted a hand to cup your jaw. the feeling of your soft skin against his palm elicited a gasp to slip from his mouth. the parting of his lips provided you with the perfect opportunity to meld your lips together in a chaste, sweet kiss.
feelings went unspoken, for now. time would grant you the chance to properly word every last affection you harboured for one another at a later date.
besides, george was a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words, and this kiss was living proof.
george forced himself to pull back, his forehead resting against your own, and he believed that to die like this would be a blessed fate. because you were definitely going to kill him when you found out the truth.
"i lied, by the way. there was no shirt," he mumbled, blue eyes meeting yours with a wince.
i'm open to proofreading any fandom for as long as the content is not triggering. on the other hand, beta reading is limited to fandoms that i'm in (genshin, ryujin nippon, film). i'm part of many fandoms, so if they're not listed here (or if i have never written about them before), i would still appreciate knowing the fandom of your work just in case i could work on it.
i've already written half of the new fic, but i'm moving to japan next week and so i've been preoccupied with the move. this fic is an x oc fic, but i do have another x reader fic in mind. i'm also working on changing the format of the blog and the posts, since the color palette (and a portion of the formatting of the fics) were made years ago (hint: pre-pandemic). so for now, no yuki fics. my apologies!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
> smau in which fans start to realise that f1 photographer yn seems to have a favourite. note. sorry for not posting for a while !!! had lots going on irl :,) here’s my masterlist and here’s where you can request if you’d like <3 pls ignore the timeline LOL i’m too lazy to do it properly n this is super short sorry!
scuderiaferrari: Wow wow wooow! The best photographed by the best! Thanks for coming along and capturing everything so beautifully ❤️
liked by ynusername
username: does this not mean she was on the yacht….
username: i spy w my little eye a soft launch
charles_leclerc: Such a talent 🫠 Thank you for these pictures ❤️
liked by ynusername
username: I’m crying she isn’t even denying the favouritism rumours anymore 💀💀💀
username: i too would have a crush on charles leclerc and only photograph him 🙂↕️
f1.gossipclub: well well well 👀 looks like since putting her camera down @ynusername has been busy! spotted at the #ErasTour with @charles_leclerc @pierregasly @francisca.cgomes double date anyone????
ynusername: the lucky one :)
view all comments
username: THATS LITERALLY VHARLED AND LEOOOSOEOEOE
username: Leooooo 🥹🥹🥹
liked by ynusername
username: LEO CONFIRMED OMG
francisca.cgomes: miss you already 🩷🩷🩷🩷
↳ ynusername: such a happy accident !!! 🥹🥹 miss u love u
꒰ summary ꒱ living together requires a lot of adjustments and a messy journaling addiction. yuki ishikawa does his best to help you sort out your stickers and pens because it helps him, too. but one day, he wants a change in routine.
To be neat was the optimal way of living, according to Yuki. On top of never-ending schedules, he wanted to be in control of everything; for example, his apartment, an abode of safety and security, had to be the neatest out of everything he could take hold of. Initially, he thought he could stick to this routine for a long time. When he meant a long time, he thought years, decades, the end of time even.
Then you came along like tornadoes in spring, with boxes full of journaling materials and whatnot, placing them in empty tables, dark corners, and unseen crevices.
“Do you need all of this? Can’t you just use one pen? And a single notebook for all your thoughts?” were the first lines of ammunition he shot towards you when the both of you were adjusting to living with each other. He was rather confrontational about the whole thing and it was no surprise—after all, inviting a woman to live with him was a considerable change in his routine, but the mess was less tolerable than he had hoped.
So, while Yuki was your lover, he also became your personal Marie Kondo. He would always show an item you owned, wave it around, and ask if you would keep it. You would throw it away or sell it, more often than not.
Then began months of civil negotiations. Do you need that many fountain pens? You sold some of them away. Do you need that much parchment paper? You placed them in a box, and all of them were sorted out by thickness. Can’t you paint somewhere else? You bought a large mat to put on top of the white table if you needed to journal your day. It became a biweekly routine of some sort, and funnily enough, to Yuki, he enjoyed it more than he had thought.
Still, one part of the social contract never moved, and it was starting to affect him.
Your stickers.
When you realized the whole decluttering situation Yuki was trying to pull, you had to make sure the stickers were the first to be stored away neatly. You kept them in IKEA plastic organizers or cheap white clear books. You stuck to sticker sheets, and its stickers stayed with their original sheet till their eventual use.
But you just had this horrible habit of placing your stickers everywhere.
A new cabinet? Let’s place some stickers on the side. A reused notebook? We can add some dinosaur stickers on the cover. You never figured out why you did it, but you’ve embraced such an itch since you were a child.
Yuki, however, was not too pleased.
After a day of having the sticker frenzy, he would scrape off the stickers. It often wasted his precious thirty minutes, and by the time he would finish, he would slump down the couch next to you. Then, he would scold you.
“I feel like I’m saying this over and over again. Can we stop putting stickers on everything, please?” he would say.
You would nod and tell him that you wouldn’t do it again.
Then, a few days would come, and you’d do it again.
Every time, Yuki would be exhausted on the couch, nails slightly chipped. He would tell you off again. You would nod.
As months would pass, the scolding would get lighter in severity while at the same time, the frequency of sticker scraping would get less. Eventually, he stopped. It stopped annoying him. In fact, he wished that you would do it every day.
So here you are, sitting at the dining table. Yuki, the bore that he is (your words, not anyone else’s), is brushing up on his English while you begin to prepare your journaling. Since high school, you’ve been using the Traveler’s Notebook— the blue one in the regular size in particular—to capture every special day that you have had since then. Last week, you attended the wedding of an old friend; Yuki was your plus-one.
You take out the tiny wedding invitation and shuffle it around the page, trying to figure out the best place for the invitation. But first, you decide to step it aside, putting out the stickers, tape, and paper that you’ll use for your journal. You place a ripped square of wrapping paper in the corner while adding small stickers in the middle of the page or the rest of the corners. Afterward, you stick the wedding invitation and then Fujifilm polaroids of you with the couple and then with Yuki. You begin to concentrate on the most crucial part: the details of the day.
This is the part when Yuki knows he should be leaving you unbothered, as you need to prepare your pea-sized brain to recall everything from that morning till evening.
As you finally finish writing your entry, then you add tiny stickers, hearts, and all that jazz. Holding both sides of the journal, you hold it up and marvel at your new creation. Yuki, curious to see what you’ve done, leans closer to see what you’ve made.
“Very… girly,” he comments.
You glare at him as you defend yourself, “Obviously, it had to be cheesy. It’s a wedding. I needed to add the doves, rings, the bride, and the groom.”
You begin to clean up your mess as Yuki continues to read his books. When you return to fetch the last set of materials, Yuki finally places his book down as the both of you prepare for bed. You lie on the right side of the bed while he is on the left. He brings himself closer to you, and suddenly, you can feel the heat of his entire body on you. His arm is tangled with yours, and his lips are near your ears.
He kisses it. Lightly.
“I could get used to this every day,” he tells you, “I know it. I’m sure of it.”
You bring one of his hands to your lips, but you don’t kiss it at all but warm it with your soft blows like a prayer. Then he kisses your nape, and the both of you feel like you’ve met for the first time again. Your sighs are deeper than the sea, and for the next few minutes, there are touches of love entangled in metaphors. Slowly, you and Yuki drift into reverie, a candle of manifestations and desires, an atonement to reality.
Then, when you wake up, you’re all alone.
You can hear plates clanging outside the room. Then, for a minute, your eyes shut, and the sound stops. But you begin to hear pans clanging and something frying. You get up from bed and walk out of the room to check out the commotion to find Yuki trying to make breakfast.
“You know I’m in charge of breakfast for a reason,” you say.
“Good morning,” he greets you.
You wave your hand, your groggy state dragging you to the restroom.
You lightly slap your cheeks, trying to find some more consciousness if your brain could allow you. You wash your hands slowly, letting the cool water run from the wrist to the tip of your fingers. You dry your hands, and when you look up—
There are stickers on your face.
In horror, you walk out and ask Yuki, “Did I leave this on all night?”
He shrugs and is startled by what’s in the pan. The eggs are burnt. How does one burn an egg? You shake and slap your head.
You head to the study table where your materials rest. You go through your collection and try to figure out where they came from.
Where did they come from?
You shuffle some parts of your table but return them to their original place. Then, you see your journal sitting on top of the table. You slide it slowly to find a note that reads:
Will you marry me?
Four words are enough to drive you crazy. You read it like a broken record, and you bring it to the level of your eyes. You’re astonished, drunken in some unknown joy. You put the note down, still holding it, and turn to the door.
Yuki stands right there, leaning by the door. He’s smirking, but you know he’s scared shitless.
“Did you buy these stickers for—”
“Yes. I bought it for this specifically.”
“I thought you didn’t like all this cheesy stuff.”
“Eh… well…”
He scratches the back of his head.
You hold his hand, and you’re both standing there in silence. You can feel his hands begin to sweat as you’re standing there contemplating a question still left unanswered. He looks at you intently; he wants to shake your body to know the answer out of nervousness, but he knows it takes time. There’s a part of him that’s grateful that you’re standing and thinking for a while, for making good life-altering decisions has always been your greatest trait.
“Yes, I will marry you.”
Suddenly, he turns away and throws his fist in the air like he’s stuck in one of his games. He picks you up. Then he pinches your cheeks before kissing you. He’s out of breath because you know he needs a kiss—and badly. There’s a quench in him he didn’t know he had. It’s an itch that’s scratched differently every time.
When the both of you finally break apart, you peek towards the breakfast and then look at him.
“Did you really burn those eggs?”
“Yes, I did. I was nervous, alright? You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
You tease him by laughing and pointing at him. He’s all red, but he knows more than to turn away from embarrassment. He looks at your smile, and he savors it; he feels fuller than consuming the average meal. Immediately, you make him lean down on you as if to ask something about it.
He gives you those puppy eyes as if to wait for your next demand. Then you pat his cheek and bite it.
Silly girl.
He rolls his eyes and urges you to begin breakfast. He doesn’t eat before you take the first bite, and when a sound of delight comes out of your mouth, he is beyond relieved. He looks out the window and into the sky to give him a form of remembrance for one of the happiest days of his life. He turns to you, gobbling his cooking up, and he laughs to himself. You look up at him, and you’re both looking at each other, and there’s a growing feeling of anticipation. Both of you continue to eat without keeping an eye off each other, and that feeling is finally described: that feeling of excitement for something permanent, something that you feel you could get accustomed to until the world comes to a stop.
꒰ summary ꒱ in the midst of an important game, a preoccupied yuki ishikawa thinks of breaking up with you. he plans to do so when he gets home, but different outcomes and realized feelings sets him up for another course.
꒰ a/n ꒱ another yuki one shot! i've honestly enjoyed writing him so much, even if this comes off as more depressing compared to two of my previous one shots. i still have a lot of ideas, some of which are halfway done. thanks so much for reading my other yuki one shots, and if you haven't, please don't hesitate to find them on my page and read them! if you enjoyed this, don't forget to leave out a comment! thanks again!
In every game, there’s a winner and a loser. For Yuki, he knows that there’s no winning or losing in this match. Because the game he wants to win isn’t on the court, it’s at home.
He doesn’t know when or where, but it began with the tiniest things: how the books were supposed to be placed, how the toothpaste was supposed to be squeezed out, or how the food was supposed to be cooked. Earlier on, he was less critical with how things went around at home—you were new to your humble abode, you were new to him. Things will adjust in their own time.
“Yuki, where am I supposed to put these plates?” You once asked.
Yuki put out the biggest sigh. “We’ve been living together for a year. I’m sure you’ll remember where they are.”
There was an inexplicable feeling in him, like he had wanted to hint the answer to you—no, not in that way. Perhaps, maybe, in a way that you’ll come to your senses and know the answer. He hates telling the obvious and the repeated, and the action of doing so is beginning to put pressure in his entire body.
You frowned, then began to open every cabinet, until he walked up and opened the very last cabinet for you.
“Remember, the plates go here. Please remember that. Please?” He told you.
You both looked at each other. Things will adjust in their own time, you both thought.
The opponent prepares to serve the ball. The cheers are loud, but to Yuki’s ears, they slowly falter away. The cheers turn into heartbeats. Yuki looks at the ball intently, but there’s a troubling thought at the back of his mind.
“Just tell me what you feel. Anything. I don’t care if it will hurt me,” You begged.
In the few weeks prior to the game, you and Yuki have bickered over things left unsaid. Maybe it was a terrible habit of his, but his emotions could never find a way out of his body.
“Why would you go around telling people what’s going on between us? I didn’t even know that you felt this way. I’m tired of going around in circles. Can’t you just tell me what you feel without putting out the important details?” You berated him.
“Let’s break up,” you told him.
He ran up to you and begged you to stay.
He said, “Things will adjust in their own time.”
They were a set of words that were supposed to help both of you put this relationship in motion. A prayer for every wrongdoing. Now, a chant to summon you and stay.
Before he knows it, the ball has been traveling around. He’s out of his trance, and chases after the ball. Now the ball’s in front of him, and all he needs is to get this point so he could at least savor a win before what he feels might be a major loss. Then he begins to jump, and when he’s up in the air, he’s in a different kind of heaven. It’s the only place where time stops.
Two years, you and him. But for Yuki, it was four years, for he had been yearning for you in the two years before you got together. He’s chased you—and oh, what a chase. He had always fantasized doing everything with you, from quick vacations to sweet nothingness. He’s wanted to do so many things with you, that he’s even thought about them in his sleep: He once woke up happily after seeing you hold a child in his dreams. But what a waste of time—all that imagining—has been.
For the path he took was always meant to be taken alone.
He spikes the ball, hoping to get the final point, but the ball lands outside the boundary line. The cheers are now in absolute silence. There’s a look of disappointment from his face, but God knows what caused it.
Yuki will be preoccupied with the game’s loss for the next hour. But when he travels all the way back home, all he’ll think about is you. He will rehearse the lines he plans to tell you when he walks in the door and finds you sitting on the couch. He will drink the remainder of his water bottle at one of the stop lights because he knows that he’ll be raising his voice at you. When he parks his car and gets his bag out of the trunk, he’ll have to take in a few deep breaths, wasting ten minutes in the parking lot. He’ll pace around the elevator as it heads up.
Then when he finally gets home…
You’re not there.
He goes around the house, searching for your belongings. Your Snoopy cup is gone, and so are your floral plates. Your clothes have been cleared out from the closet, as well as the photos that once sat on the vanity mirror. Your DVDs are gone from the shelves. Only one toothbrush sits on the cup in the bathroom.
It seems as if everything is a dream. If anyone walked in on him at this very moment, they would assume that he lived alone. All the proof that you once lived here is gone.
He sits down on the couch and stares at the floor. He’s imagining things again: he should chase after you once more, and ask you to stay. Why did he think of throwing you away? Who’s going to ruffle his hair now? Or kiss his fingers every time they hurt? Who’s going to listen to his every thought? Who will be the cause of his happiness?
He damns himself. The way he hesitates. The way he hides. The way he sometimes looks down on you when he now realizes that he’s not any better.
He lies down. As he adjusts his head to the pillow, he feels a hard object behind it. He finds a small Cinnamoroll miniature. You once told him that this tiny dog was your son, and you squealed every time you’d see Cinnamoroll in the mall. You joked that you’d replace all the household items in the house to make them Cinnamoroll-themed, and that everything your children would inherit were going to be related to that small, white dog. He’s thinking of keeping it, for in this miniature was his hopes and dreams for and with you.
As Pablo Neruda once wrote, “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”
For the next few months, he’ll put it in his pocket when he goes out for groceries. He’ll hide it in the bottom of his bag when he travels. He’ll kiss it before every game.
The photos on his phone mean nothing. The miniature is the only remaining testament to your existence, your touch. It’s the hope that you’ll get back together. He knows you’re out there, wanting to get back together with him. You will get back together. He knows because, according to him, he knows you.
What a foolish thought.
In his four years of knowing you, you were always one step ahead of him, and it seems that he was none the wiser about that fact.
A year later, he looks at the miniature after a game. He stares at it, then throws it into the trash can. Then he forgets about it, and then you. Days pass, then weeks, then months. You’re no longer you, but a former lover, an individual of meager importance. In the story of his life, this paragraph is the last you will find yourself in.
For the path he has walked has been lonely and bare, for many years he will continue to walk by himself, and till the end, he will walk alone, and the path he will walk is long and far, with nothing but the endless road when he turns and looks back.
꒰ summary ꒱ in high school, many students do their hardest to achieve their dreams. aimie, an aspiring writer, ghostwrites love letters for other people to earn just a little for her aspirations. when her friend and aspiring volleyball player, yuki, finds out just what kind of work she's commissioning, he's not too pleased.
꒰ genre ꒱ hurt/comfort, slight fluff, high school au
꒰ pairing ꒱ | ishikawa yuki/female oc
꒰ w.c. ꒱ 6,075
꒰ published ꒱ september 4, 2024
꒰ a/n ꒱ i just have so many ideas for yuki fics that I honestly can't stop! i initially wrote this with the characters as adults, but i decided to make them high school students cause the situation seemed immature enough for teenagers to do. anyways, I can't wait to see yuki play once again this season! will be sleeping late for sure, but it'll be worth it, i know it.
Emilie,
Last night, I made up a string of lies just to ask my mom what she thought of you. I wouldn’t dare to write every word she uttered in this paper because it would be too much for the nib to handle. Allow me to summarize it for you to protect your heart: she did not approve of us. It hurt me to see that the woman I have looked up to for so long would go so far to insult you, even if the both of you have never formally met.
People may never approve of us, but none of it matters.
We have professed our love in the presence of God. If they say our love is false, then so is the God we all bow down to. Still if they prove that God is real and our love falser than false, then reality isn’t real and this world is a dream, and what a beautiful dream we’ve concocted for each other.
Tonight I will dream of you as every other night, and there we will meet again.
Your Eternity,
Rostom
As I wrote the last letter, I took the paper that held these contents and rested it on the table beside me. I wiped the black ink off my fingers with a worn-out towel, as I looked out into the horizon.
There were things in this world that I begged to know, like why we could barely see so much of the world when we looked towards the distance. But as I looked into the pink sky, raging into orange and then black, I realized the magic of distance: I can believe that there’s a whole other world behind the distance my eyes are capable of seeing, even if it was most likely filled with nothingness.
“Are you done with my letter?” Jun, my schoolmate, asked, who crept up behind me as I was looking out the window.
“The ink is drying. I’ll put it in the envelope in a few minutes,” I explained to him.
“Can’t you just use the Parker Ink? I swore you used that a few letters ago.” he insisted.
“The Parker inks aren’t dark enough for me.”
“With writing like that, I’m sure the receiver wouldn’t think about what ink you’re using. Elaine–Emaine–I mean Emilie–loves the letters that I send her!”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a me problem. But I just think the presentation is just as important as the content, you know? Why do you think we judge people’s handwriting so much? Ink is also a factor in how we judge the writer,” I explained.
“We can talk about ink if we were in the 20th century, but we’re not. Aimie–letters have been out of fashion for so long that people won’t even tell what’s good parchment and what isn’t.”
“Yet you come to me asking to write old-fashioned letters with flowery words for a woman,” I said as I raised my eyebrows.
He scratched his head, tilting it while explaining, “She’s an intellectual. I needed to find a way to impress her.”
I shook my head. This dude was a pain in the ass.
“Alright, the letter’s dried. Now take this envelope and get out,” I ordered him, folding the letter into the envelope before I gave it to him. He placed a couple of coins on the table and left the classroom.
I tightly sealed the bottle of ink before wrapping it in a plastic bag. I stuffed it in the bottom of my bag before putting the extra pieces of paper inside my portfolio bag. For a brief moment, I continued to look out the window. Then, there was a knock on the door.
“Aimie,” Yuki greeted me softly before walking towards me.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I told him. I felt spots of heat enter my cheeks. I looked away, allowing my cheeks to cool down, before turning to him.
“Why?”
“Don’t you have a bunch of girls waiting outside your classroom every day?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Or was there no one camping out for you today? Maybe they finally got to find out that you’d be a nightmare of a boyfriend,” I joked.
“I think I’d be a capable boyfriend. I would be a very good boyfriend… I think…” he boasted…ish.
“I know you always make your folks late to work because you take up so much time showering,” I sneered at him. I heard him huff, and he crossed his arms.
“Hey, at least I’m unlike you, lazing around, looking into the window all day. I know you always finish your homework while your teacher is asking the class to pass the papers to the front.”
“Shut up–”
“And you’re always obsessed with men… kissing each other…”
“It’s the 21st century! I am at the very least politically correct–”
“With a bed filled with nothing but stuffed toys because no one wants to hug her at night!”
“That’s mean! And to think I was supposed to take you out for dinner. Hmph! Leave me alone!”
He took a chair and dragged it beside me. He quietly put his bags on the floor and nudged my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he attempted to console me, “It was a joke. I won’t do it again…”
A smile began to creep up on me.
“…I’ll pay for dinner instead–” he slowly said.
“Exactly what I’m talking about!” I celebrated as I bolted right up. He scoffed as he watched me quickly gather my belongings. There wasn’t much left to put in my bag, but I wanted to be sure that I had everything together, lest I end up leaving behind something and be forced to think about what I left behind all night till the next school day.
“Are you actually going to pay for my food?” I asked him.
“Obviously not,” he retorted as a matter-of-factly. I whined and stomped the floor, crossing my arms. He smirked and quickly turned away, leaving me. I shouted and followed right after him.
We arrived at the restaurant not thirty minutes after I packed up. There was hardly anyone save for a few salarymen, tourists, and a woman speaking to herself. Loud rock music was playing in the background. We chose a table in the corner just by a window, where we would practically see none of them. The music was surprisingly quieter in this area. We sat across from each other.
“I would have said, ‘Finally, some peace and quiet!’ but you’re here,” Yuki hissed at me.
“Hey, you’re making me pay for your food and fooled me into thinking that I won’t be paying and now you’re making me pay again!” I complained. A “hmph!” came out of my mouth. Yuki slid himself closer to me and tapped my hand.
“I’m just messing with you,” he whispered, “I’ll pay for your food.”
“Really?” I pouted. He looked down as he smiled, and I could only get a glimpse of his sheepishness.
“Yes, now go and order what you want,” he directed me.
We both looked down at the menu. For a good three minutes, there was a circle of silence around us. I looked up to take a peek at him. He was so concentrated on someone who just needed to choose a meal for himself. Then he looked up at me, and I looked away for a moment.
I nodded, turned the menu towards him, and pointed at the two meals. Yuki shook his head, “Can’t you just get one?”
“Why? I’ve had a long day. Can’t I have two?”
Yuki rolled his eyes, showed me the side of the menu he was browsing at, and pointed at two meals.
“You’re not the only one who wants two meals,” he clarified, “The doctor told me to eat more so I could add some more weight.”
I sighed, “Fine. I’ll just get the curry.”
He didn’t reply but gave me a face. He pressed the button to call for the waitress and gave out our order. He pointed to the menu and asked for adjustments, to which I rolled my eyes and mocked him, then looked away.
When he had finished ordering, he called for my attention.
“Aimie, what were you up to in the classroom?” he asked me, the tone which almost felt like an interrogation.
I turned my eyes to him, but still kept my head towards the window, “I was just… writing some letters.”
“Letters?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Yes, letters. People ask me to write letters or translate them so they could send it to other people.”
He fussed, “Who is sending letters out these days? Can’t you just send them through mail?”
“I mean… that’s what it is…” I spoke slowly. He stared at me, then rolled his eyes.
“I meant mail as in online mail. You’re taking me literally.”
“Yes, I know what you meant. It was a joke.”
“It was not.”
“Is.”
“Not. And you’re changing the subject. Why are you writing letters for people?”
I crossed my arms and frowned at him. He tilted his stupid head, waiting for me to answer, but as time passed, he was disappointed to find out that I was not planning to respond at all.
“Aimie. I know you’re the best in our class when it comes to writing, but I think you should not be doing this.”
“Why not? It’s becoming a trend! Everyone likes to get letters 'cause they’re genuine.”
“Genuine? How can you call that genuine when you’re the one writing letters instead of them?”
As I was about to respond, the waitress arrived with our orders. We both looked at each other uncomfortably and began to eat in silence as if to forget the argument that was just about to transpire. He looked out the window as he ate while I slouched like a child, eating my curry as quietly as I could.
Later on, the waitress returned with another meal set on her tray and placed it between Yuki and I.
“A third one?” I quickly turned to him, “Is your doctor really making you eat that much?”
He shook his head and slid one of the plates towards me.
“It’s yours,” he told me softly, “Of course I’m not going to make you pay for my food after I just told you that I was going to pay for it.”
I nodded while looking down. My cheeks began to turn red, and from the edge of my eye, I could see Yuki slide the plate towards me even more. He continued to eat, looking out the window again.
I often wondered if we ever thought of the same things when we would look out the window. Does he judge others who pass by or think of them with kindness? Does he imagine the daily lives of the people that pass by? Does he see a woman and think she’s pretty? Does he think of me while he looks at a woman, as I’m before him?
He then continued our previous conversation, “I just don’t like the idea of you posing as someone else–”
“I’m not pretending to be someone else–” I emphasized. A heavy feeling was growing in my stomach, and I knew that tonight was going to open fresh wounds.
“It could cause you a lot of pain. And confusion. I–It’s admirable that you–I mean, you’re writing what other people can’t seem to express, but a letter–it’s personal. The people asking to write letters for them should express what they feel even if they can only express it in very few letters. It would be a dishonor to those who receive it. They would be disappointed when they begin to know the real them and find that they’re not as honest as their eloquence,” he tried to persuade me.
“Come on, Yuki. Who are we to judge them? I’m just trying to help. I’m not harming them at all.”
Yuki placed his hands behind his head, squeezing his eyes and opening his mouth in frustration.
“You know, I don’t know what to do with you. I know you want to help, but–”
He looked around, bewildered, and then shook his head. He dug his hand inside his bag and took a notebook out, and rolled it took his notebook from his bag, rolled it, and slightly stood up.
“Kindness–”
He began lightly hitting my head.
“Starts–”
He hit my head again.
“With honesty. If you help people become dishonest, then you’re not really helping at all.”
I pouted and looked up at him. He blushed and sat back down.
“Finish up your food. I have work to do,” he breathed out.
I saluted in reply and took big bites of my food.
After we finished eating, we walked our way to the train station. I sat on the seat nearest to the door, while Yuki sat across me. I looked at him as he stared down at the floor. I tightened the grip of my school bag, eventually hugging it instead. When he turned his eyes towards me, I averted mine, and I tried to focus on the view behind him.
“Don’t you want to sit beside me?” I asked as I patted the seat beside me. He hummed and did so.
To the ordinary person, a stranger asking their friend to sit beside them was a normal occurrence. But when it came to Yuki, sitting beside him on the train meant something else. I had the privilege of looking out the window to stare at him through the reflection. It seemed desperate, and it was. When the boy you like was admired and ambushed by girls every day, spending your every minute with him had to be well-spent. I would do anything to sit and look at him, even if his reflection could only hold an ounce of what was genuinely worth admiring about him.
I turned my head to the real him as I allowed my hand to wander inside my school bag. I pulled out a ball of those expensive Lindt chocolates, and showed it to him. His head was pointed towards the chocolate, then to me. He looked down and shook his head.
“No, I can’t have any. I need to control my intake,” he rejected me and apologized profusely. I cleared my throat and looked into the window. I wanted to phase out. Even if I was in public. Even if he was right beside me. I could handle a rejection of chocolates from anyone but him.
“You alright?” he asked me, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I felt my hand shake a little as my fingers began to sweat. When I turned towards him, his brown eyes were looking right at me. I could drown myself in that sea of chocolate. I could count the times he blinked. One… two… three…
Then the train doors opened, and Yuki stood up, motioning me to get off the train with him. With a myriad of people, we tried to stay as close to each other as possible. I held onto the strap of his bag, so I wouldn’t lose him. Then, all of a sudden, he turned around and took hold of my hand that was attached to his bag strap. He held that hand and looked at me in the eye as if to tell me to hold on tight so we wouldn’t lose each other.
There was a part of me that wanted to swoon. But for the most part, I wanted to hide in embarrassment because that’s the thing with Yuki. When you thought you finally knew him, he does something completely out of the ordinary. But no matter how shocking the action was, it doesn’t actually mean anything.
Still, he warmed my heart every time.
“I’m fine on my own,” I insisted.
“No, Aimie. In my six years of knowing you, you always have the tendency to get lost,” he nagged me and held my hand even tighter.
My hands began to sweat, and I managed to pull away from his grip..
“I don’t… feel comfortable,” I admitted.
His eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I stood firmly, “But I think we should get walking.”
For the next few minutes, we walked around in silence. A few cars would pass by, but the atmosphere between us was static. He would sometimes slow down to let me catch up. To my surprise, he would usually scold me for being so slow. This was not the case.
As we turned to our street, there was a man and woman arguing. The woman, high-pitched, kept on slapping the man as he kept on pushing her. Yuki and I stayed close to each other to the point that our arms began to touch. But as we were about to pass by them, the woman suddenly grabbed the collar of my blouse and pulled me in front of you.
“Are you Aimie?” she asked me.
I gulped and nodded.
Yuki walked beside me, “What do you want with her?”
“Get out of it, you brat,” she spat at him and pushed him by the shoulder. She then focused at me.
“Are you the one writing letters to Jun?”
I shook my head. I looked at Yuki, his lips pursed, and his fists began to turn white. She then began to shout at me, the words incoherent. I froze like a doll, allowing her to hurt me, till Yuki got in the way.
“No, I don’t think you understand,” he insisted.
“Yes, I do! She’s the mistress! She–She writes to Jun!”
“She’s not interested in him at all. And who might you be?” Yuki raised his eyebrow.
“His… his girlfriend!” she shouted unsurely before looking away.
“You look too old to be his girlfriend,” he remarked. Can’t he be a little more careful?
“HUH!? And who are you to tell that, with that tiny voice of yours?” she shouted again.
“I’m her friend. And you’re misunderstanding,” he placed his hand out as if to calm her down. The man with her looked at the both of them the same way I was looking at them. We were clearly the most useless out of the four.
“Her friend… Clearly, you’re dating. And I can’t believe you’re… tolerating her. That hag is cheating on you!”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said calmly, “And she’s not the mistress. She’s just writing letters for other people.”
The woman was taken aback. She walked back slowly, though never turning back, and tilted her head towards the man behind her.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” she whispered to him. The man raised his eyebrow.
“I don’t think Jun dates high school girls in the first place–”
“He could, if he would,” Yuki interjected, “He’s a high school student after all.”
Quickly, the man walked away from the woman. He began to laugh at her.
“Did you just get tricked by a high school student?” he cackled and pointed at her.
“No, no,” the woman objected, “I’m just a year older than him. And… I thought we were in the same university…” She tried to convince him that there was nothing wrong when something obviously was, and it had barely anything to do with the letters at all.
“Well, he does look old,” the man said, to which everyone either looked at him in horror or shame.
“I’m sorry for my sister,” the man apologized and bowed in front of us, “She caught Jun’s letter on the table while he was at work. It seems like he puts your name and house as the return address.”
Yuki laughed lightly, and I stared at the floor.
“Do you actually write the letters?” the woman asked me, her voice softer.
“Yes, I do. But I put it in the envelope and well… I don’t write the addresses for them. I didn’t know he’s been putting my name and address the entire time. I apologize,” I explained.
She sighed, “Kid, try to get out of people’s other matters. Even if it’s just writing a letter.”
In embarrassment, I kept my head down. Yuki spoke for me, “Sorry for making you worry. I’ll bring her home.”
“Sorry for the misunderstanding. Have a good night,” the woman said and the siblings bowed.
Yuki and I walked back to my home, but before I could say anything, he stole the opportunity to break the silence.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to write letters even after all that,” he looked at me in a distasteful manner. I shook my head as fast as I could.
“It’s just a misunderstanding. It’s going to happen from time to time, but I can–“
“You’re still going to do it!?” he blasted. I took a step back.
“Yes, but–“
“I don’t–I don’t understand the thought process here. If it wasn’t for me, you would have found yourself beat up the next morning. I mean–they’re not capable of maybe beating you to death, but you would have definitely still been in danger… Aimie, can’t you think straight for once?” he scolded me.
I began to warm my hands with my palms as my heartbeat grew faster. I felt a spot in my throat beginning to hurt. In hurried breaths, I could visually feel myself turning into a pot, ready to whistle for tea.
“No! I can’t!” I shouted, “I don’t have the luxury of doing that! Don’t you know that other people ghostwrite?”
“I know people ghostwrite. But do you agree? Is this unethical doing of yours okay with you?”
“It’s just a bunch of letters!” I screamed and stomped my feet. Yuki crossed his arms.
“It’s not! A letter is supposed to… to… tell people what they feel. To help the receiver understand the writer… in their perspective. You’re missing the point of this!”
“Well, you’re making a big deal out of this. I write letters for other people, love letters. For high school students. I’m not–I’m not going to fool… the Prime Minister into doing what the customer would have wanted him to do. I’m not blackmailing people.”
“No matter how young they are, you’re still fooling with other people’s feelings!”
“I’m not the one fooling them. It’s the person asking me to write for them.”
“So you agree? That someone is at the very least, lying?”
“Okay, fine. Yes. There’s dishonesty.. The person asking me to write the letter is lying. I’m lying, too. But I didn’t ask to be in this kind of position. I didn’t want to be writing letters, I wanted to be writing novels. But I can’t afford to be one. I’m not like you, living in a fantasy world where offers come right at me left and right, where people come flocking at me from all corners.”
Just miles away from us, we heard some lightning strike. Though we could have ran away, we stood there, arguing like children.
“You’ve worked hard, that’s for sure. But other people have, and they don’t get as much returns as you do, to the point that you’re privileged enough to continue to work hard with extra help along the way,” I added.
He wanted to interrupt me, but allowed me to continue talking:
“You have no right to talk to me about honesty, genuinity. How do you know if everything that you have is real? Let’s start with that first.”
Then, it began to drizzle.
I took a deep breath before telling him, “Those love letters those girls would give you? The ones that you would throw away? Most of them were written by me anyway. And if you–and if you ever bothered to read them, you’d realize that I’ve written what they’ve wanted, true, but every word was mine. Every love letter I’ve written, no matter who wanted me to write them, always had you in mind. You’re real to me.”
“Aimie–“
“You live a good life, and I know it’ll just get better. But that doesn’t mean you can bug me and tell me what’s good and what’s bad. I know… friends.. are supposed to tell you what’s good and what’s wrong. But these commissions–they’re the only thing I can do. We both know that.”
“I could help you–“
“I don’t need your help! I never did. I’ve been doing fine without you anyway. But you’re right. It’s dishonest. It got in the way. So I’ll stop,” I finished.
I dug down my school bag and got a foldable umbrella out. I shoved it in his big hands as he looked at me, puzzled. The rain poured even harder, puddles forming at the side of the road.
“Go home,” I demanded him.
Without looking at his reaction, I turned away and ran to my house. I felt his footsteps follow right behind me. I heard him calling for me. As I reached the front door, I turned around to find him gone. With a sigh of relief, I entered my home, where nothing could ever be capable of hurting me.
Two weeks had passed since the incident. I spent most of my days, running away from everyone, even Yuki. My feelings towards the conversation began to mellow, and I clearly saw what Yuki was trying to talk about. When I began to realize the grand scheme of things, my pride and selfishness immensely lowered. Since then, I stopped taking in requests for love letters, and spending my time in the library or the empty classroom.
But there were times when I had to walk out of my safe spaces and Yuki would happen to be there, and every single time, he would have his eyes on me. Every time he would stand up or even take a step toward me, I would run past him as fast as possible or even turn the other way around.
Eventually, my luck had run out because one day, after trying to run away from him, he attempted to chase after me.
“Aimie! Wait!” he called for me.
For some reason, I could have run as fast as I could. He was more athletic than I was, but desperation caused as much adrenaline. Yet I somehow froze, and he eventually caught up to me. I must have used up all my energy because I couldn’t seem to move.
“Can’t we just talk about it?” he asked me, slowly reaching for my arm. I quickly moved it away.
No. We couldn’t just talk about it. Because I didn’t let you talk the last time. And my mouth always took action before my mind does.
“Aimie, please? I’m sorry,” he nudged me. I scratched my arm and looked down, my lips sealed shut. I turned around to face him.
Fair to say, his eyes were red, and they widened when I turned around. I could see the sweat glistening on his palms. He was out of breath.
“No. I should be sorry. I was too prideful,” I admitted.
“No, I should be.”
“You’re too soft towards this. You defended me, and when we were finally alone, I lashed out on you. Insulted you, even. Don’t apologize to a dishonest person.”
“You’re not dishonest,” he stated.
“Do you even know how many letters I’ve written in the past month before I stopped?” I questioned him. I could hear him whisper, “No, no.”
“You’re young. And you’re human. And wel… you’re different. You always have good intentions, but you never really… do them properly,” he acknowledged these as he took a deep breath, “You’re naive, Aimie. You always have been.”
“But I’m a bad person. A bad human.”
“It’s not a crime, is it?”
I didn’t know what else to say. So, I started crying. Wailing, even.
“I–I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. I felt so stupid without you!” I cried out to him, then he began to hug me, “I thought to myself, ‘I’ve lost Yuki! The human equivalent to my brain! My senses have left me! I’m stupid, I’m stupid.’”
He laughed, patting my back. We broke our hug as I took my handkerchief out of my pocket, to which he snatched from my hand and dabbed the tears out for me.
“You think you’re the only one going through a crisis? How am I going to live without my heart?”
“My heart?”
“Yes, you’re my heart.”
I stood still and shook my head, “No, no. You’re my brain and heart. You’re my organs, I’m just a host.”
He cackled at me, “Aimie, think of yourself highly from time to time–”
“Yuki! We’re going in circles! That’s literally why we didn’t talk to each other for two weeks! Because I was thinking of myself highly–”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not talk about it. You’ve put out too many tears,” he interrupted.
When I stopped crying in such an ugly matter, he handed out a piece of paper to me.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked me.
“It depends, what is it?”
“I want you to write a letter.”
“Oh no, no no. You just told me that you didn’t want to–”
“It’s worth it, I promise. It’s the last letter you’ll ever ghostwrite. It’s just a love letter I want you to fix a little while translating.”
“Translate?”
“To English.”
I glared at him.
However, I began to think of his previous actions and how they were never really as I predicted. Maybe he had something in mind. A terrible joke, even. So, I decided to play along with it, “Fine, fine. Look how biased you are…”
We walked back to my classroom and I sat by my usual seat near the window. He sat at the chair right in front of me as he crossed his arms and let them rest on the back of the chair. He placed his chin on his arms, and I could feel his eyes follow my every movement. I took out my pen and a fresh leaf of paper, and looked at the outline of his letter slowly.
I began to ask him a few questions, to which he responded with no hesitation.
“To whom is this letter addressed to?”
He smirked, “Keep it empty for me. I’ll write her name on the envelope.”
Her? My heart dropped. The worst thing he could do, after all this, was to make me write a letter to a girl. She must be a wonder for him to even ask me to write a letter in the first place.
“It’s a love letter?”
“Well, what else could it be?” he retorted, “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, no. Not at all,” I lied.
I took a deep breath and looked through the outline of the letter he wanted me to write. I looked at him, and he was still looking at me. I couldn’t tell what was on his mind–there was nothing written on his face. I gulped and began to write the letter:
A few days ago, my friend told me about this flower that is native to South America. It takes half a decade for it to grow, before it is able to bloom. Then it blooms again once a year, and it always happens in the middle of the night, before it closes in for the rest of the year the morning after.
As he was explaining this lovely flower, I began to realize that the flower and my feelings were no different.
Like this flower, this love was nurtured and cared for. And it took me one night for my heart to burst and realize just how much I’ve admired you.
Flowers come alive at the sound of good words, and I would be just as alive at the sound of your voice and the sight of your words, our nonsense conversations, your laughs at my terrible jokes, and our bickering–which was very much like an old couple.
If it took me six years by your side and a night to realize just how much I like you, then I would say it would have been worth it. There is no greater source to make the flower of my heart grow than you.
If you’d return these feelings back to me, then feel free to write back a letter. Say these good words and everything in me shall be healed, and the flower in me will bloom for as long as both our feelings will live.
Yours,
Yuki
I capped my pen and I let the letter sit there for the ink to dry.
“Is she a foreigner?”
He put his shoulders up, as if to say, “I don’t know.” I slammed my hands on my lap and sighed.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to write her name?” I questioned him again, just to be sure.
He thought for a while. He pretended to scratch his chin like an old man, and hummed to himself.
“I changed my mind.”
“Alright. So what’s her name?”
“Aimie. Address it to Aimie. A-I-M-I-E.”
Aimie.
I froze and stared at him, my eyebrows knitted together. He looked at me, and a smile seemingly began to grow on his face.
“Do… do you want me to… to put it in an envelope and write the address for you?”
“You do that now?” he cackled.
“It’s a special offer, for the last love letter I’ll ever ghostwrite.”
“Sure. Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write it out for you.”
I took out my notebook, ripped out a page, and handed it to him. He turned away from me and I could hear the pen scratching the page. There was a metaphor that began to form out of that moment, where every stroke of a letter began to scratch my heart. When he had finished, he turned around and showed the paper to me, pointing to the block of text.
“Address it to her, please,” he requested.
I moved closely to the paper, observing what he had just wrote.
It had my surname and last name, as well as the exact house number, street, prefecture, and postal code. I could feel my eyes beginning to itch, slowly being filled by water.
“What a lovely name,” I told him.
“Yes, and what a lovely person,” he smiled, “I’m always in awe every time I see her.”
“I’m sure she’ll love the letter.”
“I’m sure she would. But I’m hoping she’d return the feelings too,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding my eyes.
“I’m sure she will,” I laughed.
He looked up at me, his mouth forming an “O.” Silly as it both was, I still wrote my name and address in the English style. I could sense that his smile was permanently stuck to his face, and when I finished writing, he patted my head. I handed the envelope to him, to which he licked to seal it shut. We stared at each other for a good while before the bell rang.
“Can I walk you home later?” he offered me.
“You don’t have any practice later this afternoon?”
“No, I don’t… So, can I?”
I nodded. Overjoyed, he walked up to me and hugged me. When we looked each other, I was positive that we were equally red. He then began to leave the classroom and turned to me by the door.
“I can’t wait to see you later,” he said.
One by one, my classmates entered the classroom, oblivious to what had just happened. One, they didn’t know that the boy I’d liked for so long had confessed to me. Second, they didn’t know that he’d walk me home later after school. Third and most importantly…
They didn’t know that in a few days time, I’d be able to write my very first love letter. One that wasn’t ghostwritten. One that was written to someone I have always wanted to write to. One that had my name signed at the end of the letter. One that allowed me to express my feelings toward something that was real without any shame or embarrassment. One that would reply to the confession of a friend I’ve admired for so long, to no longer be a pair of friends but something more.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I’m homesick all the time … I just don’t know where home is. There’s this promise of happiness out there. I know it. I even feel it sometimes. But it’s like chasing the moon - just when I think I have it, it disappears into the horizon.
domestic fluff. married couple nanami x fem!reader. ⚠︎ talks of aging, death and grief ⚠︎ suggestive humor and dialogue.
nanami kento is graying
You realize it as he lays his head on your lap and you thread your fingers through his soft, fluffy hair. His strands fade into a lighter shade near the roots, a gradient from gold to gray.
“Oh no,” you sigh. “You're turning into a sexy silver fox.”
“Pardon?” He replies.
“You're graying. Have you noticed?”
“Ah. I never really paid attention. I was more worried about balding.”
“I think I prefer that,” you say lightly, as you glide your fingers through his scalp. “At least I’d have less competition.”
“Competition,” he laughs. “Woman, you're my wife.”
“I know that!” you laugh as well. “But once you’ve gone full gray it's fisticuffs between me and all the GILF-chasers.”
“What is a G—you know what, don't answer that.”
You settle into comfortable silence, alone in the house you've built together. How long has it been since he swept you off your feet and carried you into this life? Time has compressed all of your moments into a montage of routine domestic bliss. In the decades you’ve been married to each other, you've woken up and slept next to him for thousands of nights and days. You've held his hand and kissed his lips, embraced him and made love to him countless times.
And it's ironic, actually, that because of how close and intimately aware you were of each other's bodies, you never noticed those tiny increments of change that come with age.
His eyes flutter shut and your fingers wander towards his face. What else about him has changed? You brush against the faint gray hairs on his brow, the wrinkles around his eyes—lines that converge to his outer corners and curve under the bags of his eyes. You love the way it deepens when he smiles. And maybe that's why you've never seen those wrinkles as a sign of aging. Seeing your husband’s wrinkles is a sign of his joy.
“We're growing old together…” he sighs.
“You said it like it's a bad thing.”
“It's not. It's just a matter of fact. I'm happy that we lasted this long.”
You know that tone in his voice.
“But?” you asked.
“I guess, sometimes, I can't help but question what it really means to grow old with someone,” he says. “Back then I was scared of dying on the job and leaving you alone all of a sudden. But now… what about if I grow ill? Or frail? What if you spend the last years of our marriage washing my ass until I die?”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” you tease. He's never outgrown his tendency to brood, but you've learned how to stop him from indulging in such sad thoughts—a skill you've honed over the years.
Nanami smiles at the way you lightened his mood.
“I just don't want to bother you with all that work then leave you grieving,” he says, holding your hand over his heart. “That's not what you deserve.”
You can't help but smile at his devotion. You raise his hand and nuzzle your cheek against his warm, rough palm. His skin is looser at the back of his hand now, with thick and soft veins running underneath. But the way he has held you stays the same. Gentle and warm. Like laying your head on the sand.
“Grief... Grief is just an echo of love, Kento. That's how we know it was real. And that it was powerful,” you say, reaching down to caress his cheek. “We're spending the rest of our lives together, darling. I wanna feel and experience everything with you. That's what I deserve.”
You lean down, until your soft breaths caress each other’s lips.
“And besides…" you whisper. "I like touching your ass."
Nanami rolls his eyes and shakes his head, though he couldn't help but smile. Then his eyes soften with warmth as he holds his gaze. Perhaps, for the first time, he is seeing the changes in you as well.
And everything about it is beautiful.
“You're the love of my life,” he murmurs.
“And you're mine,” you reply.
You press your lips together, as you did a thousand times. And everything about it feels familiar and right. As if your bodies have found home in each other once again.
He chuckles low against your lips and his joy is infectious. So you lean back and laugh as well.
“What?” You ask.
“It doesn't matter how old we get," he says. "I still feel young whenever we kiss."
You bite your lip and smile and you indulge him once again with your kisses. This time, he parts his lips and lets your tongue slip into his mouth with a deep groan. You pull back, warmed and softened by the taste of him.
“Are you still feeling young down there too?” You ask.
Nanami laughs softly, his eyes turning dark with want.
“What do you think?”
this is a birthday dedication to one of my dearest friends, who supported and guided me through my every hyperfixation. one day we will grieve each other. but not before we grow old and hot and rich 🥰 like catherine branski.
this is very rushed and i am sorry if the quality is not as good as when i take my time,,, i wanted to reach my friends birthday. please be gentle with me 🙇♀️
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Thank you so much for the Yuki fic 🥺 How do you write like that?
first of all, thanks for reading my work and taking the time to visit the mailbox! forgive me for not answering this until now.
much of how i write comes from my background beyond a fanfiction writer and as a writer in general. like any other writer, i was an avid reader and writer as a child, and started writing fanfiction well before my teenage years.
i simply followed a piece of advice that was passed around for tens, if not hundreds, of generations of writers: read and write. reading is entirely an action on its own, an exercise that is heavily disregarded by many writers. how will you write a compelling work if you don't even know what good work looks like? writing, of course, helps you in not just honing your skills, but also loosening your mind and emotions. fanfiction, for me, is a great practice on its own because it allows you to play with what you have.
but outside of my own personal bubble, i'm also active in writing circles. for one, i am a creative writing major, and so i am able to discover many things about writing and myself. i'm also part of writing organizations, and that basically has the same effect too.
i find my inspiration for works in the ordinary and the mundane. we unfamiliarize ourselves with what we are familiar with in order to write something that is novel. i would say the same for fanfiction, no matter how many tropes and stereotypes we write about. there is always something new.
what is most important is that you enjoy what you write, most especially with fanfiction. it hardly comes with any returns, and yet there are millions of writers who put out fanfiction simply because they appreciate their fandom and the act of writing.
Tatsunori Otsuka was many things — a volleyball star, a notorious prankster, and an all-around jokester. But if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was bold when it came to love, especially when it involved the younger sister of his team captain, Yuki Ishikawa. The very thought of Yuki finding out that he, Tatsunori, harbored a crush on Mayu was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
One day, after an intense practice session, Tatsunori headed to the locker room, drained and looking forward to a quick shower. As he entered the comfort room, something caught his eye—a scribbled number on the wall, with the words "For a good time, call Mayu."
Tatsunori blinked, staring at the number in disbelief. There was no way it was that Mayu. Curiosity got the better of him, and he quickly snapped a photo of the number, intending to check it out later.
Back at his apartment, Tatsunori paced nervously. What if it really was Mayu’s number? He imagined Yuki’s glare, the sharp lecture he’d get if he even thought about texting her. But the temptation was too strong. Finally, he decided to send a harmless, anonymous message. After all, what harm could a simple text do?
He typed: "Hey, I found your number on a wall. Is this really Mayu?"
Moments later, his phone buzzed. Tatsunori nearly dropped it in his haste to read the reply.
Mayu: "Who’s this? And where exactly did you find my number? 🤨"
Tatsunori hesitated, but then his playful nature took over. "Just a guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. So, are you really Mayu, the volleyball star?"
Mayu: "Depends. Are you one of those weirdos who text random girls for fun?"
Tatsunori chuckled, enjoying the banter. "Not a weirdo, just someone who admires your game. I’ve seen you play. You’re amazing."
Mayu: "Thanks, but I’m still suspicious. How did you even get this number?"
Tatsunori was about to come clean, but the thought of Yuki’s face made him rethink. "Let’s just say fate led me to it. But don’t worry, I’m not a creep. Just a big fan."
The two continued texting over the next few days. Tatsunori found himself looking forward to their exchanges. Mayu, despite her initial skepticism, seemed to enjoy the anonymous conversations as well. She even started opening up about her challenges and funny stories from her own volleyball practices.
But the more Tatsunori texted her, the more he realized he was in deep. He had to tell her the truth before things got out of hand. The only problem was figuring out how to do it without facing the wrath of Yuki.
One evening, Tatsunori sent a message: "So, what would you say if I told you I might know you… in person?"
Mayu: "I’d say you better not be who I think you are. My brother is super protective."
Tatsunori’s heart skipped a beat. "What if it’s someone who thinks you’re really cool and doesn’t want to mess things up?"
There was a pause before her reply. "I’d say… just be honest. I might not bite. 😏"
Tatsunori took a deep breath, deciding it was now or never. "Alright, it’s me… Tatsunori Otsuka. Please don’t tell Yuki!"
There was a long silence, and Tatsunori began to sweat. He imagined Yuki bursting through his door, ready to strangle him. Then his phone buzzed.
Mayu: "Wow, Otsuka. I didn’t expect that. But honestly… I kind of knew. 😅"
Tatsunori blinked. "Wait, you knew?!"
Mayu: "Yeah, I recognized your way of talking after the first few texts. Plus, my number isn’t actually on any wall. My brother probably put it there to see who’d fall for it. 😜"
Tatsunori groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Are you serious?!"
Mayu: "Yup! But don’t worry, I won’t tell him. I think it’s cute that you were so scared of him. But maybe next time, just ask me out in person, okay?"
Tatsunori grinned, relief flooding him. "Deal. How about we grab a coffee tomorrow? Your brother doesn’t have to know… unless you want to tease him."
Mayu: "I’d love that. And maybe we’ll keep this little secret just between us. 😉"
Tatsunori couldn’t believe his luck. What started as a random, anonymous text had turned into something much more. He knew he’d have to face Yuki eventually, but for now, he was content with his new connection to Mayu—and the fact that he had survived the whole ordeal without getting crushed.
But his relief was short-lived.
The next day at practice, Tatsunori was texting Mayu under the bleachers, completely absorbed in their conversation. He didn’t notice when someone approached from behind until a voice, cold and stern, broke through his focus.
“So, what’s so interesting, Otsuka?”
Tatsunori’s heart stopped. He turned slowly, finding himself face-to-face with Yuki Ishikawa, who was glaring down at him with arms crossed. Tatsunori’s mind raced as he tried to shove his phone into his pocket, but it was too late.
Yuki’s eyes narrowed as he snatched the phone from Tatsunori’s hands. “Let’s see what’s got you so distracted…”
“Wait, Yuki, I can explain—”
But Yuki was already scrolling through the messages. His face remained unreadable as he read the exchange between Tatsunori and his sister. When he finished, he handed the phone back to Tatsunori without a word.
Tatsunori braced himself for the worst. “Yuki, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“Why didn’t you just tell me, Otsuka?” Yuki interrupted, his voice surprisingly calm.
Tatsunori blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Yuki sighed, shaking his head. “I knew you had a thing for Mayu. I’ve known for a while. But sneaking around like this? You’re just making it harder on yourself.”
Tatsunori was speechless. He hadn’t expected Yuki to be so… understanding. “So, you’re not going to kill me?”
Yuki smirked, finally breaking into a grin. “Not today. But if you hurt her, you’ll wish I had.”
Tatsunori nodded vigorously. “I swear, I’ll be good to her.”
Yuki clapped him on the back, a bit too hard, but with a brotherly camaraderie. “Good. Now get back to practice before I change my mind.”
As Tatsunori jogged back to the court, he felt like he had just dodged a bullet. But when his phone buzzed with a new message, he couldn’t help but smile.
Mayu: "Did Yuki catch you? 😅"
Tatsunori glanced back at Yuki, who was already back to focusing on practice, then replied:
Otsuka: "Yeah, but I’m still alive. I think that’s a good sign, right?"
Mayu: "Definitely. Let’s celebrate your survival with that coffee later. 😉"
Tatsunori chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Not only had he managed to confess to Mayu, but he had also survived Yuki’s wrath—at least for now. And as he joined his teammates on the court, he realized that maybe, just maybe, this whole thing was worth it.
And so, Tatsunori learned that sometimes the scariest obstacles can be the ones that lead to the best rewards—and that it’s always better to be honest, especially when it comes to matters