JPHiP Radio (16/200 @ 128 kbs)     Now playing: Ishikawa Rika - Omoide wa Kanata

Author Topic: Re: [Recchuun's OS Collection] Until Time Stops (SayaMilky) + Extra Domestic AU  (Read 2582 times)

Offline recchuun

  • (・ω・)
  • ecchi
  • Member
  • Posts: 32
  • writer
A/N: Hello! It's been awhile since I've posted here, so I decided to revamp and post a lot of my OS's here. Ongoing fics (if I ever write one) will be posted in different topics, but will be linked here! Thank you ~ (Also if you want to request anything, I'll try my best to fulfill them).

« Last Edit: October 09, 2014, 07:26:03 AM by recchuun »

Offline recchuun

  • (・ω・)
  • ecchi
  • Member
  • Posts: 32
  • writer
Until Time Ends
Sayaka/Miyuki (NMB48)
1548 words

A/N: i wrote most of this at 4 AM lmao, please praise me


There’s a red string that coils around her finger, retracting and extending from the loop around her pinky. Miyuki’s six when she first notices the piece of string, bright and strange. Grasping the length of it with childish paws, she holds it upwards to her mother.

“What’s this?”


Her mother stares at her and Miyuki’s much too young to understand what it means, but she keeps asking anyways. “What’s this? What’s this? What is this red string? I can’t get it off.”

Miyuki doesn’t get a clear answer because all her mother does then is pat her on the head and shoo her out of the kitchen.

—-

Miyuki learns quickly in the next year not to ask about the string.

The first, and only, time she shows off her “magic string,” Miyuki’s taunted by another girl for telling lies – “liar, liar, pants on fire” – and the chanting continues until she’s reduced to tears, eyes red as large droplets fall from eyes; she wails, pitifully, and points to the string, tugging and stretching and retracting it, but the other kids still tease her until the teacher comes and pulls her away with a tight embrace.

“I-I’m not lying,” she bawls, a mix of tears and snot dirtying her teacher’s clothes. “I-I have a string,” a hiccup, “tied on my finger.”

The teacher is kind, a gentle woman who threads her finger through the twisted locks of Miyuki’s hair until Miyuki’s calm enough to stop the tears – hiccups and whines taking its place instead. “I believe you,” the teacher whispers, “It’s the red string of fate.”

—-

The red string of fate, Miyuki learns, is a superstitious. A string is attached from one soul mate to another, a fated destiny that eventually came to truth as true love brings the separated lovers together. The string can never be destroyed, nor can it ever fall apart. The string brings happiness to all who follow its guide – the intrinsic pull that continuously urges the lovers to a place, to a single moment, where the world elapses and “true love” blossoms.

As silly as it sounds, Miyuki likes the idea of true love – wallows in the concept of a perfect relationship brought together only by destiny itself because the universal pull is never wrong. Miyuki likes the idea of finding her soul mate, lost and wandering in the world, likes the idea of being whisked away by a prince waiting in the shadows. Watanabe Miyuki is in love with the idea of being in love.

Miyuki’s sixteen when she divulges all her secrets to her best friend, Yoshida Akari. It’s also the second time she gets laughed at, but this time, in front of cheap hamburgers and soda.

“You’re so dramatic,” Akari says, wiping at her eyes for the tears that had already formed on her lower lid. “What kind of a childish joke is this?”

Miyuki frowns. She expected something like this, knowing Akari, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt getting laughed in the face. “Never mind,” she mumbles, taking a sip of her soda, neck going limp as it hangs forward slightly, eyes trained on the dirty table. “It’s just a joke, sorry.”

Akari soften almost immediately, a defensive sort of guilt replacing the humor in her eyes. “Whoa, that’s not what I meant. I mean, a string on your finger that you can’t cut off? It’s a little hard to believe.”

“It’s the red string of fate,” Miyuki murmurs again, voice low and rumbling, as though the words were shoved through a funnel that clenched tighter and tighter near the bottom.

“You’re kidding.”

Miyuki stares; annoyed.

Disbelief is evident in Akari’s face as the girl gapes, mouth opened almost as wide as her round eyes. “What are you five?”

And that’s when Miyuki finishes the rest of the burger and excuses herself to the bathroom. But instead, she makes beeline for the restaurant exit and leaves Akari with the tab.

—-

Miyuki has to wait another four years until she feels the first tug of her string, warm and comforting, as though she was suddenly surrounded by a fluffy blanket straight out of the dryer; a childish metaphor that accurately represented what she likes to think is what love feels like. It’s overwhelmingly soothing – and it’s gone as soon as it comes.

She waits the rest of the day, listlessly, for the feeling to come again. The one o’clock anatomy class goes straight over her head as her left fingers pull and tug on the string until she gets a pull back. The reply tugs are faster, more pressured, but still careful and deliberate while Miyuki’s are soft and dainty, careless and haphazard in speed and strength.

Halfway through the lesson, somewhere between naming the parts torso and the neck, Miyuki feels the tugs subside and instead, they’re replaced with a soft buzz, a gentle vibration that doesn’t even tickle her skin. When the vibration leaves, it’s again replaced with the earlier feeling of love; the warm fluffy blanket, the smell of bread – a bakery, the serene quiet of a library, the wild enthusiasm of children playing in a park – it’s all overwhelmingly sweet. Miyuki’s heart expands to secure the images, the feelings, and it swells more and more until she’s sure it’s going to explode.

And suddenly, all at once, the feeling is gone and replaced by the gentle tugging once more.

—-

Class isn’t over fast enough, but when it is, Miyuki swings her backpack on her shoulders and dashes out of the room (promptly ignoring Nana’s indignant “Hey, we’re having lunch with Kei and Akari, remember?”). ­­

She runs left, down the corridor, following the buzz of the string on her pinky. She turns a left and then backtracks as the buzzing stills, and takes a right instead, towards the music rooms of the university. There’s a trombone sounding in one of them, something she passes over; there’s a piano in the next room, but the buzzing doesn’t increase; and there’s a guitar in the last – and this was it.

Miyuki stands in front of the room, the short strand of string tucked neatly underneath the door as she tugs in the length, watching as it moves back and forth. The reply is instantaneous and sharp.

She’s nervous. Bouncing from her heels to the balls of her feet, she gives the string another quick tug—the door slides open and Miyuki can almost feel her heart drop to her stomach, heart palpitating as her hands sweat.

The string stops buzzing.

“I’m Yamamoto Sayaka,” the girl says – bashfully, almost. Miyuki’s eyes trail to the string on her finger, eyes moving along the length as she visually trails the string all the way to Sayaka’s finger. Sayaka does the same.

“Watanabe Miyuki,” she’s grinning by now, large and bright and happy and all too much in love, “And I think I want to be in love with you.”

—-

Sayaka is a little shorter than her, with long raven hair and sharp prominent features. She’s a bit goofy, a friendly and much too comedic personality over a serious interior, but that doesn’t hide the raw musical talent underneath it all. Sayaka, Miyuki learns, plays the guitar, writes compositions, and sings the finished pieces. Her fingers are padded and rough, calloused with years of playing.

Miyuki likes Sayaka’s fingers.

She likes the way Sayaka’s fingers match well with her own, sliding in between her own long, bony digits. She likes how Sayaka’s pinky also has the red thread wrapped around it, extending and stretching like Miyuki’s as they moved apart and together continuously. She likes Sayaka a lot.

The string doesn’t buzz anymore and the sensations of love rarely come anymore; the waves of feelings have stopped and instead, the physical embodiment of everything Miyuki’s ever wanted is at her side instead, alive and breathing, and they are in love.

—-

Two years later and Sayaka cuts her hair, short and boyish, while Miyuki grows her out, adding pink extensions whenever she has the chance. They live together, in a small apartment building with three dogs.

Sayaka has a job, a composer, and Miyuki has a job too, as a nurse.

Miyuki was the first one to confess; Sayaka was the first to propose.

It wasn’t an elaborate surprise, nor did the whole getting down on one knee happen. Instead, it had happened, informal, but lovely nevertheless. They were at the park, arms hooked at the elbows, bodies close enough to barely touch and brush against one another whenever they moved. Miyuki smiles first, initiating the short kiss that happens, hidden, in the shadows of a tree. Sayaka speaks first, hands cupping Miyuki’s cheek as she says “I want to marry you.”

—-

The red string is faded in color, a light pink, and there’s no more buzzing or surges of emotions. But it doesn’t dissipate or snap; the coil springs forward and retracts like it did in the past, and still does. There’s a ring now, in addition to the string on her hand, and Miyuki’s sure that the string will stay for as long as they live, for as long as they are in love.

Watanabe Miyuki is in love with the idea of being in love; and she is in love with Sayaka.






Domestic AU
-*-Sleeping

It’s almost two in the morning when Sayaka arrives back to the shared apartment, tired and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed for a restful sleep. Quietly she sneaks into the bathroom and quickly strips, takes a shower, and runs through her nightly routines before donning on a tank top and some shorts before crawling into bed as quietly as she could.

“Sayaka?”

The lump that had taken over the middle of the bed stirs underneath the covers as Sayaka wraps her arms around the figure’s waist, face snuggling into the crook of Miyuki’s arms as she breathes in the familiar smell of floral shampoo and the laundry detergent.

Although in the morning Sayaka always complains about Miyuki wearing yet another one of her oversized button-down shirts, she really doesn’t mind because the large sleeves fall down over Miyuki’s hands and it’s cute – cuter than she’d ever like to admit. But she’ll keep on complaining anyways.

(Because then Miyuki starts pouting and it’s adorable.)

“You’re wearing my shirt again,” Sayaka says matter-of-factly, planting light kisses against the nape of Miyuki’s neck.

Miyuki shifts, the blanket rustling slightly as she turns to face Sayaka, arms snaking around the latter’s waist as she responds with an incoherent noise and drowsy words, “It smells like you.” And that’s the last thing Sayaka gets to hear before Miyuki’s voice settles quiets and her breathing grows deeper, softer.

“Good night Miyuki,” Sayaka whispers with one last kiss to the forehead, her own breathing slowing to match Miyuki’s.



-*- Mornings

Nine in the morning and Miyuki’s fingernails are dragging long red lines down Sayaka’s back as her breathing becomes ragged, needy whines escaping her throat in raw intervals as she barely stops herself from pleading for more.

Sayaka grins as she spies Miyuki’s twisted grimace, fingers only pressing harder against the outside of her thighs as she slides downwards, cheeks nuzzling against soft skin. She feels Miyuki’s long fingers curl in her hair as she tugs gently on the short strands; the roots of her hair burn at the rough treatment but that only manages to bring a light hiss of pain – Miyuki was close and Sayaka could feel the heat as she nibbles on the skin near her core.

There’s some garbled mumbling and a chorus of wanton moans as Miyuki’s hips buck upwards in unabashed show of want and Sayaka only grins harder as her fingers and tongue do all the work until she feels Miyuki close around her digits, body trembling.

The rest of the time is passed away with cuddling and the soft breathes before one of them reluctantly moves away to make breakfast.

“I’ll make cereal,” Miyuki offers and Sayaka tags along to pour the milk for her.



-*- Storms

Miyuki is afraid of storms. Sayaka knows even though the other tries to hide it.

When the sky first starts rumbling and the clouds gather to shower endless rain upon them, Sayaka closes the curtains and turns on all the lights to get rid of any shadows that may linger in the corners of their apartment. She throws on a movie, a cheesy Ghibli one that Miyuki likes, and goes into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate because Miyuki likes hot chocolate too.

When the two cups are steaming and the amount of marshmallows are just right, Sayaka walks back and settles down onto the couch, waiting for Miyuki to throw the large blanket over her lap before handing her the cup.

“Thank you,” Miyuki mumbles, her cheek pressed against Sayaka’s shoulder as she interlaces their hands underneath the blanket, hot chocolate held in the other. “I love you.”



-*- Trains

They sit next to each other on the train ride to Tokyo, fingers barely grazing one another as their bodies sway to the rustling of the vehicle. Sayaka has earbuds in her head and Miyuki’s deeply engrossed in her book and the whole world goes unnoticed around them.

“Miyuki, listen,” Sayaka prompts, holding out the closet earbud. Miyuki takes it and puts it into her left ear, the earbuds forcing their heads closer together as they listen to the same song.

It’s an obscure band playing some slow love song and Sayaka starts humming along, taking a quick glance at Miyuki as their hands move closer until their fingers are crossing.



-*- Cooking

It’s a fact that neither of them can cook to save their lives, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try anyways.

Miyuki’s the one who always come up with some online recipe she’s seen, printed and ready to go, and Sayaka ends up joining her despite the protests and whining that “the only thing we can make without burning or exploding is cereal.”

This time, they try to make udon from scratch. There’s flour for the noodles and some vegetables and egg and other miscellaneous items that Sayaka is pretty sure aren’t included in the actual broth or the noodles themselves.

“Wait, do we need fruit in udon?” Miyuki’s holding an apple in one hand and a pear in the other, peering closely at the two as if they would miraculously become the noodles themselves.

Sayaka sighs and takes the two fruits from her hand and places them back in the bowl before redirecting them to the flour that’s laid out on the counter top. “No, there’s no fruit. Here, let’s get started on the noodles first. Where are the darn instructions—?”

It turns out the recipe is gone, hidden underneath the massive gathering of ingredients and Miyuki shrugs, grinning as she suggests “Let’s try winging it! It can’t be that hard.”

It really is that hard.

The noodles turn out more like snowball because Miyuki didn’t put enough water in it and Sayaka’s left to knead at powdery flour until it’s gone everywhere, on her face and all over the counter.

“This is your fault,” she whines, using the back of her hand to wipe at her face and leaving a large white streak instead.

Miyuki giggles and dabs her pointer finger into the flour before drawing a heart on Sayaka’s cheek in reply.

They end up not making the udon after all because Sayaka retaliates by wiping flour on Miyuki’s lips and manages to get some on her own.

JPHiP Radio (16/200 @ 128 kbs)     Now playing: Ishikawa Rika - Omoide wa Kanata