with your palm my altar

Summer days with Kita tend to melt together.

It's a busy time, the early mornings spent in rice fields weeding or flooding. Calloused hands cradling green buds that will bloom golden. Afternoons spent caring for things around the house, tucked away from the heat. He adds that decorative ceramic tile in the kitchen that you traced delicately when you saw it. He moves the house plants for the best sun, tends to a smaller garden while you pin clothes to a line to dry.

Late afternoons are hazy, the summer sun dipping in the sky. Skin damp with sweat, sat on the deck that overlooks fields of rice. You're sharing a watermelon today, plucking the slices from the bowl and letting the juices drip down your hands. Your body feels drowsy with heat, savors how sweet the watermelon tastes, hums where Kita's knee presses into yours.

You think he feels it too.

He looks at you, half-lidded, tongue peeking out to lick the juice that clings to his inner wrist. Slow, eyes still holding yours.

When he reaches out to you, his fingertips are still sticky. Palms rough from work still soft where they seek the skin that peeks out from the hem of your shirt. He pulls you into his lap and kisses you like time has slowed down. Tongue moving languidly against yours, swallowing the soft, sweet sounds you make as he holds your waist firm against him.

His touch leaves you warm, blooming where his hands trace, where his lips press. His skin is hot too, when your fingers slip below the neckline of shirt, when his hips slightly rock against yours.

You find your summer nights melt too, to lips slick with spit, to skin bare against sheets.

reblog & your followers can send asks with the questions they’d like you to answer!

the last sentence you wrote

a character whose POV you’re currently exploring

how you feel about your current WIP

a story idea you haven’t written yet

first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

the word that appears the most in your current draft (wordcounter.net can tell you)

your preferred writing fonts

if you had to write a sequel to a fic, you’d write one for…

start to finish, how long did it take you to write the last fic you posted?

what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

a WIP you’d like to finish someday

a trope you’re really into right now

a fandom you’re thinking about writing for

where do you get your inspiration?

favorite weather for writing

favorite place to write

talk about your writing and editing process

if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

the most interesting topic you’ve researched for a fic

in what year did you publish your first fic?

when did you publish your most recent fic?

do you ever worry about public reaction to what you’re writing? how do you get past that?

pick three keywords that describe your writing

how do you recharge when you’re not feeling creative?

besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

are you able to write with other people around?

your favorite part of the writing process

your least favorite part of the writing process

how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

“Sorry,” you say, turning to him, your eyes glinting in the streetlight’s dull yellow glow. “Did I wake you?”

Nanami pads further into the living room with a hum. He settles beside you at the window seat, ignoring the chilly spring air swirling in through the open window. You press your feet against his side. He wraps a big hand around your ankle, strokes his thumb against your skin. You’re warm. Familiar.

He smooths his palm up your calf, digs his fingertips into the tense muscle. “Bed was cold.”

Cigarette smoke curls around you like morning mist as you exhale. The dim light softens you. Nanami is not one to wax poetic, but there’s something about you in the early hours. You unfurl in them, night-blooming, a moonstruck being.

“It’s 3am,” you say. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“Strange. That’s what i came to tell you,” Nanami says. He leans forward, plucks the cigarette from your lips. Even under the menthol burn, he thinks he can taste your chapstick.

“You’re in rare form, Kento,” you tell him as he takes another drag. Your brow is furrowed, but there’s a smile tucked secret at the corner of your lips.

He pinches your calf. “Would you prefer a lecture?”

You laugh. Your tired eyes gleam, crinkled soft at the edges, and Nanami still isn’t used to the way you make him ache.

(He’d never meant to love you.

He thinks about leaving, sometimes, in the quiet moments. He’d rather fracture you than shatter you.

He thinks about it, but he never does.)

“Come back to bed,” Nanami says. He flexes his fingers on your calf; grounds himself in you.

You look at him, and he doesn’t know what you see, but something in you shifts.

You stub the cigarette out. “Okay.”

He should leave, Nanami thinks, as you curl a leg over his hips in the tender quiet of your bedroom.