Poly!Namjin

Injury

word count: 672

genre: fluff, slight angst(?)

pairings: diluc x gn! reader (M’lady is used once)

warnings: blood, depictions of a wound

additional notes: here's some more Diluc, I promise I am working on some other characters. If you have any suggestions or you have anything you would like me to write don't be afraid to send me an ask !!

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   The sun was starting to dip past the horizon as you made your way through the trellises in front of the winery. The day had been long and hard, fighting hilichurls until late this evening. The feeling of bruises starting to form and the pains of fighting are starting to settle in, the adrenaline finally starting to wear off. As you move to open the front door a stinging sensation lights up your entire left arm.

   Looking to your left arm you notice the blood flowing from your shoulder. You take a second to process the fact that you were bleeding from a wound in your shoulder you hadn’t felt before now. Opening the door with your other arm, you swiftly walk into the winery and apply pressure to the wound as soon as you let go of the door.

   You walk toward your shared bedroom and catch sight of Adelinde, when she turns to greet you she gasps and takes half a step back. “M’lady-” she says panicked, heading toward you to inspect the wound “-are you okay?” You nod with a slight smile on your face, “yes, I am okay. Would you be able to send some bandages and such to our bathroom, I would like to deal with the wound before Diluc arrives.”

   She nods her head and moves to start gathering the materials. As she does that, you walk the rest of the way toward your room. You head straight to the bathroom from there, looking in the mirror to assess how bad the wound is. You remove your shirt, staring at the wound closer, before hearing the door open.

   You look up in the mirror expecting Adelinde before catching sight of Diluc standing behind you, holding the materials to clean and dress your wound. You turn to him before looking away when he starts walking closer. He sets everything down before wetting a rag and starting to clean around your wound.

   “Diluc, you don’t have to do this love. You have probably had a long da-” he cuts you off “- my dear, I would do this a million times over just to make sure you are alright.” He looks up at you to make sure he isn’t hurting you with what he is doing. When you make eye contact he sends you a small smile to which you send one back in return.

   As he continues to clean and dress your wound, you raise your uninjured arm and place it on the side of his face, running your thumb on his cheek. He leans into your touch while he puts the finishing touches on the dressing. Once he’s done, he stands to his full height and looks back at your face. “What happened to cause such a wound dear,” he asks. You walk out of the bathroom with him following, sitting on the bed while he starts to change from the day.

   “To be honest with you, I didn’t feel the wound until I was going to open the front door. I assume it happened sometime today while clearing camps.” You look at him as he pulls his night shirt on, looking towards you as he pulls another from his closet and motions for you to change into it. You happily do so before turning around to face him. “I never got to say it, but welcome home love.”

   He smiles at you and takes a step forward, wrapping his arms around your waist. You follow his lead by placing one hand on his nape and the other on his shoulder. He leans forward and you meet him halfway, noses brushing as lips meet. The smell of oak and smoke enveloped you, along with the warmth of the man in front of you.

   He pulls back slightly before leaning in again for a quick peck, resting your foreheads together afterward. His hand had moved to rest on the back of your head and yours had moved to pull the tie from his hair. “Thank you, my dear.”

taglist:

love and tattoos (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: in which jesper has a theory and kaz might be the matching tattoos kind of guy.

or

it’s two small words, a raven and a crow, a broken lock and a key, and a band around their ring finger.

or

“He has to be drunk, or high, or something, because there is absolutely no way he’s just seen a band of ink around Kaz’s ring finger.”

warnings: brief panic attack (not detailed), mentions of wounds and blood (not detailed, canon typical), set in the future, kaz has worked on his touch aversion

kaz taglist: @the-tpd-bau @ellievickstar @thestudiouswanderer | soc taglist: @ancientbeing10 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist just dm me!)

a/n: here i am, once again, because apparently im incapable of stopping myself from writing for kaz brekker. i have so many wips but kaz always calls to me😭😭 this one was so much fun to write, it just flowed, and i hope you enjoy it just as much as i did!!

i. a band of ink around his ring finger, part one.

Jesper must be hallucinating, he has to be. He blinks once, twice, looks down at the drink in his hand, briefly wonders if it’s been laced with some sort of drug powerful enough to have his brain imagining things— because Jesper does not have the imagination to be making this up, he wishes he did —and then looks back up. The ink remains in place. Nope, no way. He shakes his head, presses his eyes shut. He has to be drunk, or high, or something, because there is absolutely no way he’s just seen a band of ink around Kaz’s ring finger.

It’s not the tattoo itself that shocks Jesper. Although, maybe it does freak him out a bit, a band around the ring finger can only mean one thing, and Jesper has never believed Kaz to be the marrying type. (Then again, he never thought him to be the matching tattoos kind of guy, and the last couple of months have had him discovering that Kaz very much could be.) No, what makes Jesper spiral is that he’s seen that exact same tattoo on (Y/N)’s own ring finger.

ii. you break, i mend.

Jesper has seen the tattoo on the inside of (Y/N)’s left wrist more times than he can count.

The word ‘mend’ in all lowercase, the typography delicate and elegant, the font somewhat rounded. Jesper has never asked what it means— because everyone in the Barrel has been branded, either by choice or against their will, and Jesper knows the black ink carries memories, promises and pain, he knows better than to ask —but he thinks it’s fitting for her, both the word and the style. Because (Y/N) is a gentle force, someone who provides emotional care to those close to her, a fixer. She loves proudly and deeply, and Jesper has never met someone in this wretched place that is so unafraid to be kind. He doesn’t know what she does to remain untainted, to keep her soul so pure in spite of their line of work. He envies it, sometimes. But then he’ll hear muted sobs through the thin walls, wake up at the sound of screams caused by nightmares, and he’ll wonder if feeling and caring that much is even worth it.

Jesper doesn’t think much about (Y/N)’s tattoo— it’s pretty and it suits her, and, yeah, he gets the desperate need to ask for a backstory whenever he catches a glimpse of it, but never does. There’s nothing more to it. That is until he spies a word on Kaz’s own wrist.

He only sees the tattoo because Kaz takes his gloves off. That doesn’t happen very often, if at all. But it’s the hottest day of summer they’ve had in Ketterdam in years, and they’ve been out in the sun all day, so Jesper is only mildly surprised when they reach Kaz’s office and he takes the black gloves off. What does take him completely off guard, however, is the inked word on his right wrist, partially hidden by the sleeves of his shirt.

‘BREAK’. In uppercase, with jagged and fragmented lettering. Jesper only catches a glimpse before Kaz twists away and the ink is completely sheltered by his clothes, but he’s almost sure the tattoo has some sort of optical effect, makes it seem like the words have been shattered, all sharp and angular lines.

Kaz is saying something and Inej is responding, and it’s probably important and he definitely should be paying attention, but Jesper’s mind is elsewhere because (Y/N)’s delicate tattoo suddenly comes to mind. The similarities are just right there and now all Jesper can think about is how odd of a coincidence it is that (Y/N) and Kaz have mirror tattoos. Same place, but opposite wrist. A single word, one neat and elegant, the other harsh and precise. Jesper does not believe in coincidences, but it can’t be anything else— because believing it to be something else would mean believing Kaz to be a matching tattoos type of person and Jesper would bet his guns against that —so he simply ponders over the possible coincidence, just for a quick second, before Kaz is directing questions towards him and Jesper is forced to shove the information in the back of his mind.

He ends up forgetting about it. Not forgetting forgetting, more so in the way he forgets his debts until there are collectors knocking on his door. The information is there, stored in some corner of his brain, ready to be brought back into his consciousness with just the right push.

The right push comes a Saturday night, two months after he first notices Kaz’s tattoo.

(Y/N) is out on a job. Jesper doesn’t know any of the details— not the target, nor the entry and exit routes, nothing at all —but he knows something is wrong because Kaz has been pacing for the last half hour.

“She should be back by now,” is all Kaz says when he asks. He doesn’t really need to say more. Jesper feels the way his chest constricts, panic slowly building. (Y/N) is never late.

Just as Jesper feels like he’s about to start pacing himself, the door of the Slat opens. She’s got her hood on, doesn’t look up from the floor when she walks in. There’s a certain drag in her limbs, something that tells Jesper that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Where the fuck were you?” The words aren’t directed towards him, but Jesper cannot help but flinch. Kaz doesn’t get like this often, cold and harsh because he’s worried, so the job must’ve been important, high stakes, the type where survival isn’t assured.

(Y/N) looks up, and it’s only then that Jesper notices the blood. It’s everywhere. It drips down the slope of her nose, it trails down her lips. She walks closer and with the change of light he notices that it’s also embedded in her clothes. The most disturbing thing, however, are her eyes. Glassy, distant, unseeing. She’s shaking. Full body tremors.

By his side, Kaz deflates completely at the sight of her. He’s already moving towards her when she whispers brokenly, “I’m sorry.”

The apology goes ignored, “Where are you hurt?” Kaz asks. He reins his panic well enough, but Jesper can still taste the traces of it, they float around in the air.

(Y/N) doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge Kaz as he comes to stand right in front of her, trying his best to assess for injuries. It’s hard when all there is to see is blood.

“I’m not hurt,” she responds, and it’s like she’s in a trance, capable of responding but not truly present. Jesper furrows his brows, catches the concerned look on Kaz face. Does she not realize she’s covered in blood? She raises her hand to gesture at herself, and it’s only when she does so that Jesper notices the blade. She waves it around. It’s stained red, all the way to the handle. “Blood’s not mine.”

Jesper freezes. Kaz stops dead on his tracks, too.

Kaz looks back at him and understanding passes through them. She snapped. Something made her snap.

It seems like she’s just processing it, too, because a second after she mutters those words the knife falls from her hand and her knees wobble. It’s like Kaz had been expecting the sudden crash, because he’s quick to help her down. He grabs her by the sleeves of her tunic and sits her on the floor, back against the wall.

Her breathing begins to come out hard and labored, she clutches at her chest, hard.

“Look at me,” Kaz instructs, but she’s not here anymore. Jesper cannot help the way fear courses through him at the sight of her faraway eyes and the sound of her disordered breaths. He’s only ever seen (Y/N) like this once before, and even then, it hadn’t been this bad, she’d been responsive to Kaz, and very much able to breathe properly. Right now, not even Kaz’s words are cutting through the haze.

The wheezing becomes louder, more intense. The more she panics, the less she breathes, the more Jesper feels like he, himself, isn’t capable of getting air into his lungs. Kaz keeps talking, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.

“I can’t—” Her lips are slowly losing color.

Jesper is still frozen in place, and he can tell that Kaz is also beginning to panic by the way he grabs her clothed hand and presses it against his own chest.

“Breathe,” he orders. Insistent, firm. Kaz’s words leave no room for argument and (Y/N) reacts accordingly. Like it’s instinct to do as Kaz says, she takes in a deep breath, ragged.

“Good girl.” Kaz’s hand, the one that isn’t on top of (Y/N)’s own, pressed against his chest, hovers over her cheek. He ends up grabbing the end of the hood that still partially covers her face. “One more time.”

She repeats the action, another deep breath, interrupted by a brief coughing fit.

“You’re okay, match my breaths.” She nods weakly and does as best she can, eyes shut. The hand that is on Kaz’s chest has become a fist, rumpling his shirt. She holds onto him like a lifeline.

“I’ll get her water,” he finds himself saying.

Kaz doesn’t turn to look at him, “Bring a wet cloth, too.”

Jesper nods and slips out of the room and into the kitchen. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience, his body working automatically on pouring tap water in a glass, on finding a clean cloth. His mind is miles away.

Saints.

It’s disconcerting to see someone as serene and put together as (Y/N) so rattled and distraught. He feels disoriented, like the world has shifted off his feet. He’s never seen her snap so badly that she ends up spiraling into a panic attack. Jesper doesn’t know much about her past, but Kaz had once mentioned something about a complicated upbringing, about being raised as a weapon not a child. He doesn’t want to begin to imagine what he’d meant.

The soft murmur of words brings him back to reality, grounds him and guides him once again into his body.

“Are you with me?”

No response, but Jesper imagines that she must’ve nodded because he hears the soft sigh of relief that Kaz lets out.

It’s quiet for a little while, Jesper focuses on the sound of water flowing through the cloth in his hands, the feeling of it getting damper.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out soft, filled with emotion and embarrassment.

“None of that.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. It’s okay.”

The silence lingers before being filled by quiet noises. Jesper has heard her sobs through his wall enough times to identify them. His heart tightens painfully.

“It’s okay,” Kaz repeats, softer this time. It’s a tone Jesper has never heard him use with anyone else.

“There were children, Kaz,” Jesper has to strain to make out the words, they’re muffled by something, “little kids. And it just reminded me of… I couldn’t...”

“I know.”

A sniffle, “I’m sorry,” followed by a broken laugh, soft and sad. “I’m a mess.”

Jesper turns off the faucet, twists the cloths to remove any excess of water. He grabs the glass of water with one hand and the cloth with the other and then, just, waits. He knows this conversation is not one he should be present for, he doesn’t want to be present.

It’s a good thing, too, that he doesn’t make his way towards them, because he’s pretty sure he would’ve stumbled and dropped everything at the next words that fall out of Kaz’s mouth.

“If you break, I mend, remember?”

(mend

BREAK)

Jesper places the glass of water on the kitchen counter and blinks once, twice.

Saints be damned.

Kaz might be the matching tattoos type of person.

iii. a raven and a crow

The matching tattoo theory, as Jesper likes to refer to it, remains just that, a theory. Because Jesper has no real way of proving it, not unless he finds the will to ask (Y/N)— which he just can’t do, she’s so open about everything that prodding just feels unfair —or unless he brings his curiosity to Kaz— which might just end up with him losing a finger, and Jesper likes his limbs just as they are, thank you very much. So, for now, it’s merely speculation, something that could be played off as a coincidence. And he thinks it must be a coincidence, right? Matching tattoos are too sentimental for someone like Kaz. (Then again, he has always been different when it comes to (Y/N), so maybe Jesper shouldn’t be that surprised.) And they aren’t matching tattoos, not really, they are more like, well, mirror ones. It’s different. Probably nothing. He might be connecting dots where there’s absolutely nothing to connect.

He can’t help the way he begins to observe more, trying to find anything to sustain or disprove his theory. It’s only natural, he tells himself, Jesper is nothing if not a curious man.

It’s only because he becomes so attuned to them, and whatever that thing is that they have going on, that Jesper notices little things.

“Inej?”

“Good.”

Kaz keeps on making roll call, making sure all of them are there and unharmed.

“Jes?”

“Very much alive,” he grunts in response, letting himself flop into the haystack. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, but at least it’s still beating. He cannot believe a blizzard of all things is what saved their lives.

He looks to his left. Even Inej looks slightly winded. She pats the pocket of her coat, sags in relief immediately after. Jesper does the same, touches his inner pocket, feels the edges of the glass key, and sighs.

The goods are safe.

“Nina?”

“Here.” Her cheeks are rosy. Jesper isn’t sure if it’s because of the dreadful cold or the exertion.

There’s silence after, the room filled by only harsh breaths. Jesper snaps up, looking around frantically, because Kaz is not calling (Y/N)’s name and that can only mean that she’s not there or she’s…

His mind quiets down when he takes in the sight in front of him.

Kaz is not calling (Y/N)’s name because he already has eyes on her. Probably always did.

And that’s when Jesper sees it, a little thing, something that tilts the scales in favor of his theory; the softness in (Y/N)’s face as she listens to Kaz.

(Y/N) is always kind— with battered gang members and hungry street urchins, with the loud customers and even with those who dare gamble against her —but Jesper is just now realizing that there’s a different gentleness when it comes to the way she takes Kaz in. The look in her eyes becomes quieter, more intimate, delicate. She says something, much too quiet for Jesper to hear, and smiles. Kaz shakes his head fondly, responds with a hushed whisper. It’s tender, precious, private. It makes Jesper feel like he’s intruding.

And then something Jesper has never seen before happens. Kaz takes (Y/N)’s chin with his gloved hand, thumb and index fingers holding her. He moves her face around, looking for any visible injury.

There goes another detail in favor of the matching tattoo theory.

Jesper thinks he might’ve just entered some sort of altered reality because what is he even looking at right now. He looks around but Inej and Nina aren’t paying them any mind, too engrossed in their own conversation.

Great, he’s all alone in trying to figure this thing out.

“I’m okay,” he hears (Y/N) reassure.

For the most part, Jesper thinks to himself, because he doesn’t miss the way she’s pressing her hand to her abdomen. Apparently, it hasn’t slipped past Kaz either, because he hums and raises his eyebrows, eyes pointedly trailing down to the wound.

She rolls her eyes at him, even that action looks fond, “It’s not deep.”

Kaz is more tactile with her, Jesper realizes with a start. It’s not a word he would ever use to describe Dirtyhands, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. (And Kaz has gotten better over the years, he has. It’s been gradual, and Jesper has no clue as to how or what he’s done, but he hasn’t missed the way Kaz doesn’t cringe away from the Crows anymore, how he doesn’t pale when someone brushes against him. He doesn’t seek touch, but he doesn’t lose all semblance of control at it either. Still, tactile is farther from what Kaz is, and this? This is huge. This is the greatest display of touch Jesper has ever seen him do.)

“You’ve got it?”

“Yeah, I’ll stitch it.”

His gloved thumb brushes her skin, briefly, before he taps the bottom of her chin gently, in approval, and lets her go.

“I can help you with that,” Nina pipes up.

Jesper turns around, immediately catches the look in the Heartrender’s eyes. Seems like he might not be the only one noticing things.

(Y/N) nods in agreement and Nina follows after her. Jesper decides, after taking only two seconds to ponder on the thought, to trail behind them. He wants to listen in— because he knows Nina won’t be able to keep herself from commenting or questioning and he’s aching to know —but he’s also hoping the Heartrender will take pity on him and heal some of his bruises.

“What do you want?” Nina asks him as they settle on a small corner of the stable. (Y/N) leans against a wooden post as she begins to undress, untucking her shirt.

Jesper simply points at the bruise he can already feel forming on his cheekbone, offering a cheeky smile.

“I’m not a nurse, Fahey.”

“You’re gonna stitch her up!” (Y/N) is watching with amusement and when Jesper points at her she raises one hand in surrender, the other still pressed against her wound.

“Yeah, well,” Nina shrugs, needle and thread in hand, “She’s my favorite.”

(Y/N) chuckles. There’s a broken-down iron chest and she sits on it as well as she can, leaning back so that Nina can work. She winks at him, “Privileges, Jes.”

He pouts.

“Saints,” Nina mutters when she catches a look of him. She’s decided that kneeling by (Y/N) side will be the most comfortable position for her to work. She cleans the wound, pours water over it, and doesn’t turn to him as she says, “If you stop doing that face I’ll see what I can do about the bruise.”

He smirks to himself, “You’ve got it, boss.”

Jesper can’t see it, but he’s sure she rolls her eyes at him.

“Try not to move,” she instructs (Y/N), voice gaining a softer, less teasing edge. The needle pricks the skin.

It’s not a deep wound, (Y/N) had been right about that. It bleeds, but the flow seems to be slowing down. It’s a little bit over her hipbone, but not quite on her abdomen. Judging by the injury, if Jesper had to guess, he would say it was probably caused by a straight back blade.

He had sort of expected Nina to immediately fire away, to start unabashedly questioning, but she doesn’t. She moves her hands in a repetitive motion, closing the skin. Then, she casually comments, “That’s not a crow.”

It’s only then that Jesper notices the ink; just over (Y/N)'s hipbone, only visible because she’d pulled her trousers a bit down to give Nina more skin to maneuver around.

“No, it isn’t,” (Y/N) confirms. She’s got her eyes closed, looks a lot more like she’s sleeping and not like she’s having her skin stitched back together. Either Nina has an amazing ability or she’s somehow managing to dissociate from the pain.

“A raven?”

“Yeah.”

Jesper leans away from the wall to get a better look at it. It’s small, simple, just the silhouette done in thin black lines. He has no idea how Nina managed to identify the bird.

Nina stays quiet for a split second, musing. She keeps her hands steady, thread pulling skin. Apparently, she decides she does not care about decorum— just like Jesper had expected —because she ends up stating, matter-of-factly, “Kaz calls you that.”

Jesper sort of forgets how to breathe. That’s why Nina hadn’t gone on a tangent regarding the touches and the glances, he realizes in that moment. She’d been distracted by something much more interesting.

And she hadn’t identified the bird, she’d just made an informed assumption. Because Kaz does call her that, raven, and sometimes, when he's feeling particularly fond, little raven. He uses it interchangeably with her name and often enough that when Jesper had initially joined the Dregs, all those years back, he’d assumed it to be her name. He’s not quite sure how Nina, who’s been with them for a shorter period of time, managed to make that connection quicker than him.

(Y/N) lets out a breathy laugh, “That he does.”

Instead of further grilling (Y/N) about the tattoo, as Jesper had expected, Nina changes the line of inquiry.

“Why?” She stops sewing and looks up at (Y/N), eyes filled with curiosity.

Oh, she’s insane, Jesper thinks to himself. He sort of wishes he’d have the audacity to ask such direct questions.

(Y/N) doesn’t seem bothered by the prodding, only mildly amused. She chuckles, “You would have to ask him that.”

Not even Nina is insane enough to dare do that. Probably. Nina is sort of a wild card, Jesper can never get a complete read on her.

She proves her sanity by taking the easier route, she whines and pouts, “C’mon. Tell us.”

(Y/N) laughs, louder this time. The reaction is immediate, the wound oozes more blood, and she flinches, moving her hand towards the injury and managing to stop herself millimeters before touching it. It makes Nina get back to stitching.

“You’re bold,” (Y/N) opens her eyes and looks straight at Jesper. There’s something in her eyes, a glimmer that passes quickly, like she knows something that Jesper doesn’t and it amuses her. “Jes would never dare ask.”

“Hey!” He pretends to be offended but isn’t really. She knows him too well.

“You know it’s true.”

He only grumbles in response, hates that she’s right.

Nina is suddenly tense, as if she isn’t quite sure if (Y/N)’s words are meant as a compliment or a reprimand. (Y/N) closes her eyes again, rests her head against the wall and reassures her, “I like that. Your boldness.”

And Nina preens, subtly, but she does. Jesper understands. (Y/N)’s approval somehow comes to mean everything to those around her. She’s like an older sister you’re always trying to impress.

Jesper thinks she won’t be saying anything more, but (Y/N) does.

“Ravens are softer than crows, more playful,” she mumbles quietly. Jesper, who isn’t even far from her, strains to hear, “Gentler, too.” And it’s like she knows exactly where the ink lays on her skin, like she has it memorized, because she manages to avoid Nina and the needle and trace the outline of the tattoo, eyes still closed, “And yet they manage to survive in the same brutal world that crows do.”

The words sink in. Jesper blinks once, twice, shifts on his feet, somewhat uncomfortable. It feels like he’s just gained insight on something much too private, into the feelings and thoughts of Kaz Brekker. Because what she just explained, vaguely and in simple words, has a much deeper meaning, and Jesper doesn’t miss that. It’s how Kaz sees her, an equal. Someone as strong as a crow, as fierce and resourceful and capable, but softer, gentler. That’s (Y/N) to him.

“That’s it?” Nina sounds perpetually unimpressed, but she doesn’t get it. She hasn’t been with the Crows long enough to understand.

(Y/N) smirks, like she knew the words wouldn’t mean much to her, and that tells Jesper something. There’s even more to the meaning of the nickname and she won’t be sharing.

“If you want more you can just ask Kaz.”

Nina huffs and pouts, pulls at the thread a bit harsher than necessary in retaliation. It probably doesn’t even sting, but (Y/N) plays along.

“Ow!?” The smirk remains on her face.

“Sorry,” Nina says, not sounding the least apologetic.

(Y/N) only chuckles, “I really do like your boldness.”

It isn’t until later that night, as Jesper sleeps in the haystack and shivers from the cold, hoping to the Saints that the smell of horse can be removed from his clothes, that realization strikes him. His eyes snap wide open.

The image of a letter R inked in Kaz’s forearm flashes through his mind.

R.

A Raven.

No fucking way.

He has no evidence of it, no evidence that those tattoos might be complementary, but something in his gut tells him they are, and he decides to listen to his instincts.

Great, that’s yet another circumstantial piece of evidence in favor of his theory.

(Jesper doesn’t know, will never know, but he gets it both wrong and right. The letter R that is permanently etched on Kaz’s skin means something else entirely, but he does have the small silhouette of a crow, different from the one on his arm, over his ribs.)

iv. a broken lock and a key

Jesper and (Y/N) stay behind. It’s Jesper’s fault, he’d landed wrong when they jumped off the cliff, too busy on firing his guns to focus on the landing, and the resulting sprained ankle made it hard to keep up with the rest. (Maybe it was sort of Kaz’s fault, too, because who even decides on an exit route that includes free falling off a cliff. Jesper should be used to Kaz’s antics by now, but the man keeps on outdoing himself.)

(Y/N) had quickly offered to match his pace, to keep him company while the rest went ahead.

After a quick discussion Kaz had agreed to it. Jesper hadn’t missed the way they’d said goodbye. Their pinky fingers interlacing with one another.

He might not be completely sure about his matching tattoo theory— denial, really, he’s in denial, and he’s man enough to admit that to himself —but he has absolutely no doubt there is something going on between them. Jesper hasn’t put a name on it yet, he’s not even sure they have, but one would have to be blind to deny it.

Wylan had volunteered too, but Kaz needed him for the next phase of the plan, so he wasn’t really an option. A shame, really, Jesper would’ve enjoyed some alone time with his boyfriend, but he can’t complain, (Y/N) is good company. She doesn’t whine about how slow they’re going, doesn’t mention the fact that, by now, they’re probably two days behind. She keeps the air between them filled with light chatter and that makes it more bearable, makes him feel less of a burden.

On the third day of their journey Jesper wakes up alone. He’s not immediately filled by dread because he’s a light sleeper, he’s sure he would’ve woken up at the sound of any commotion, and he’s even more certain that (Y/N) would’ve had any attacker down on the floor with a gun to their temple before they even had the chance to breathe too close to them.

So, he’s not worried, but there’s something about not having (Y/N) within his line of sight that feels wrong, partly because he’s got no idea where she is, and mainly because Kaz had given him a cautionary glare when they’d ventured ahead, an easily interpreted warning to keep her safe or else.

It’s only when he begins to look around that Jesper notices her knapsack is also missing. He closes his eyes and focuses. Somewhere in the distance he can hear running water. He follows the sound before he can think too much, limping along the way.

Jesper finds her easily. He sort of wishes he hadn’t found her. Because she is showering in the lake and she is completely naked.

“Saints!” It’s a knee-jerk reaction to turn around, eyes screwed shut. “I am so sorry.”

(Y/N) snickers, unbothered, “Relax, Jes. It’s okay.”

And she’s saying that, but Jesper is pretty sure Kaz would gauge his eyes off is he found out he’s just seen her completely nude.

He shakes his head, over and over. Ah, Kaz is going to kill him. He is a dead man walking.

She must be watching him because she lets out a laugh.

“Oh, please.” There’s amusement in her tone, “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” she teases, and Jesper regrets every single thing he’s ever told her about his sexual encounters.

He huffs out a laugh. It’s got nothing to do with that, Jesper isn’t a prude, he’s just trying to process the fact that if Kaz ever finds out he will more than likely lose a finger, or his life. But he can’t say that, that’s a conversation he’s not ready to have, so he settles for, “You’re like my sister, it’s not the same.”

“Fair enough,” she responds. Jesper catches the affection in her voice. He doesn’t think he’s ever told her how she sees her as family and she must’ve known, their bond runs deep, it goes unspoken, but maybe it’s different to hear it out loud.

“It’s my fault anyways, I shouldn’t have left without telling you where I was going,” she disrupts his thoughts. “But you were finally sleeping.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. Obviously it wouldn’t slip past her that in between the pain on his ankle and the cold of the night he’s been having a hard time falling asleep.

“You shouldn’t be standing for long,” she points out, and Jesper agrees. His leg is beginning to ache and if they’re going to travel long today, he must rest as much as he can. But the idea of walking back to camp and leaving her alone doesn’t sit right with him— even if he knows she’s capable of defending herself, she would probably do a better job than him, given his state —so he limps towards a big rock, back still towards her, and sits.

“You’re gonna keep me company?”

Jesper hums in response, “Talk so I know you haven’t suddenly been kidnapped.”

She doesn’t talk, instead she sings. It’s an old Kerch song, Jesper knows because of the mournful feel. It builds up slow and steady, flows with the morning air. She's got a nice voice. Jesper never gets tired of hearing her.

It’s as he listens, slowly being lulled into a peaceful mindset, that the memory of the ink flows through his mind. It’d been the thing his eyes had zeroed in, the black mark on the back of her neck.

Maybe it’s the soothing music, or maybe he’s slowly becoming more daring, but the words slip out of his mouth without thought, “Is it a key?”

(Y/N) stops midway through the bridge of the song.

“What?” she asks, confusion permeating the lone word.

“On the back of your neck,” Jesper clarifies, gesturing to his own neck.

There’s silence, long enough for Jesper to start thinking that maybe this wasn’t the best idea, before the air is filled with laughter. She chuckles as if he's just said the funniest thing.

She’s still giggling when she says, “I can’t believe you caught sight of it.”

He’s confused by her reaction and settles for responding with a teasing, “I’ve got a great vision.”

“That you do,” she replies. "It is a key," she confirms and then the singing starts again, more of a humming this time around, a much brighter song.

And Jesper must be really really losing the filter between his mouth and his brain— he blames the pain and the lack of sleep —because he finds himself asking, “Does Kaz have a lock, by any chance?”

He’s teasing, but not really. It’s a good enough question, not truly invasive. It gives her room to answer as she wishes.

To his surprise, she says, “Yes, he does.”

His head snaps towards her, momentarily forgetting that she’s naked and that Kaz will definitely kill him for seeing her naked twice. To his luck, (Y/N) is already getting dressed, water dripping down her hair and staining her shirt.

“What?”

There’s a sharp glint in her eyes, knowing, almost playful. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, just enough hint of mischief to make Jesper doubt the truthfulness of her words.

“Yeah,” she repeats in mock seriousness, “he’s got a small lock around here,” she points the area around her collarbone, close to where her heart is. “It’s very pretty.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

(Y/N) snickers, “Maybe I am.” She ruffles his hair as she walks past him.

Weeks later Jesper realizes that she had been fucking with him, but not lying. Kaz’s shirt rips during a heist and Jesper catches the briefest glimpse of the image of a broken lock, inked right above his heart.

v. a band of ink around his ring finger, part two.

As if summoned by his thoughts, (Y/N) materializes by his side. She takes a look at his face, follows his line of sight, and snickers.

“Did you finally figure it out?”

He turns to her. Blinks once, twice.

“What?”

She looks highly entertained by the evident confusion on his face.

“I caught you staring at my tattoo sometimes,” Jesper follows the movement of her fingers, watches as she rubs the mend on her wrist absentmindedly. “And then you would get this constipated look on your face.”

Jesper sputters, “I do not look constipated.”

“Only when you’re thinking too hard,” she teases, her smile bright. “So, I figured, well…”

“That I might be losing my mind trying to figure out if Kaz is the matching tattoo kind of person?”

“Yep, something like that,” she takes a sip of her drink. “He is, by the way.” (Y/N)’s not looking at him anymore, her eyes have drifted. He follows her sight and isn’t surprised to find her looking at Kaz. She softens immediately. “All the tattoos were his idea.”

Jesper feels like he’s really entered some other reality. He can’t believe she’s just telling him all this. Does this mean that he could’ve known months ago if he’d just asked?

“And,” he dares ask, because apparently (Y/N) is in a sharing mood, and apparently he's grown bolder. It must be the alcohol. “You’re married?”

He doesn’t miss the way she rubs her thumb against her ring finger, the one that contains the exact same band of ink as Kaz’s.

“Yeah.”

“Actually?”

She pulls her necklace. A wedding band lies there. It’s anything but traditional. Black, probably forged from oxidized steel. Sleek, unadorned and somehow still elegant. There’s something engraved on the inside. Jesper just catches the letter R.

“Got the documents to prove it, too.”

Jesper sighs, astounded, “You never said a thing.”

“We didn’t really keep it a secret, just private.” It sounds like an apology somehow. “It's just, in a place like this," she gestures around, "some things you have to keep to yourself."

Jesper understands.

He shakes his head, still somehow feeling like he’s drugged.

Kaz Brekker, a matching tattoo and marriage type of person. Who would’ve guessed.

“Lovers, huh?”

(Y/N) smiles, before she slips away and makes her way towards Kaz, Jesper hears her whisper.

“‘Lovers’ feels too small a word for what we are.”

of course i saw @wewentcarracing 's INSPIRED post about the grid as male thot jobs.....so naturally i had to draw it

The mysterious Mrs. Piastri

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming for a Valentine's Day Treat. Remember that video where Oscar was asked "Get married or get a tattoo?" Well, it showed up on my FYP and I was like..:WAIT

Summary: 

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Easy. Straightforward. Oscar barely had to think before responding, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Because one second later, Lando spat out his drink.

“YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned, confused. “What? No.”

Lando, looking equal parts betrayed and horrified, pointed an accusing finger. “Mate, I’ve seen you in swim trunks. There’s no way you have a tattoo. Where is it?”

Oscar frowned. “I don’t have a tattoo.”

Lando’s face twisted in confusion. “But you just said—” He stopped. His eyes widened. Oscar could see the moment his brain caught up.

“WAIT. WAIT.” Lando practically jumped out of his seat. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Lando looked genuinely stunned, his mouth hanging open in shock. 

Oscar nodded, calm as ever. “Yeah.”

Lando’s reaction was not calm. Lando let out a strangled, guttural noise, kind of sounding like an indignant cat.

“WHAT?!”

The interviewer, who had been mostly observing up until now, leaned forward, eyes shining with the excitement of a woman who had just stumbled upon the biggest scoop of the season. “Okay, hold on. You mean married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar frowned. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands were now on his head, his entire world seemingly crumbling around him. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged. “A while now.”

The crowd lost it. The interviewer looked like Christmas had come early. The McLaren PR team, wherever they were, was probably having a collective heart attack.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A GIRLFRIEND.”

Oscar frowned. “You know that," he told Lando pointedly.

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT,” Lando shouted. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oh well. Oscar just shrugged. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando let out a hysterical laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. No, no. You’re telling me you have a freaking WIFE?!”

The interviewer seized the moment. “Okay, no, we need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Since we were 15."

Lando made a strangled noise. “15?! YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER SINCE YOU WERE 15?!”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

The interviewer looked delighted. “How did you meet?”

Oscar tilted his head. “School?”

Lando groaned and turned to the audience. “Look at this guy. Look at him. Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course.”

The interviewer pressed on. “When did you get married?”

Oscar shrugged. “When I was 18.”

The entire crowd erupted. Fans were screaming, phones were recording, and McLaren PR was definitely hyperventilating somewhere.

Lando, meanwhile, looked like his whole world had just collapsed in real-time.

“You—you got MARRIED at EIGHTEEN?!” he wheezed. “WHY?!”

Oscar looked at him like he was stupid.  “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

The interviewer cooed over the answer. Lando physically recoiled. “What, like straight out of high school?!”

Oscar frowned. “Not straight out of high school. We waited a bit.”

“HOW LONG IS A BIT?!” Lando demanded.

Oscar thought about it. “Like… three weeks after graduation?”

Lando let out a strangled noise. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, OSCAR. THAT’S BASICALLY IMMEDIATELY.”

Lando dramatically fell back in his chair. The interviewer, meanwhile, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Okay, okay, follow-up question—how did you propose?”

Oscar thought about it. “I asked her to marry me.”

The interviewer stared. “…That’s it?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

The interviewer, trying desperately to salvage something remotely romantic, asked, “Where did you propose?”

Oscar, as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer, said, “Uh. At home?”

The interviewer looked at him. "...At home?"

"On the bed," Oscar added.

Lando looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

The crowd groaned. The interviewer looked physically pained. Lando just laughed in disbelief. “I knew you’d be the most unromantic bastard alive.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

Lando wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “That poor woman.”

The interviewer shook her head in awe. “Oscar, mate, I have to ask—how did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?”

Oscar blinked. “No one asked?”

Lando just screamed.

The interviewer, who had completely abandoned all pretense of professionalism, leaned forward. “Okay, wait, wait, who is she?”

Oscar blinked. “My wife?”

Lando threw up his hands. “YES, OBVIOUSLY, but who is she? What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”

Oscar's forehead creased. "Is that... relevant?"

The interviewer just about had a stroke. Lando looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

The fans were losing their freaking minds.

Lando nearly fell out of his chair. “YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND I’VE NEVER MET HER.”

“I mean, I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!” Lando yelled. “BECAUSE IT WASN’T OBVIOUS TO ME.”

Oscar just shrugged. 

Lando groaned. “Mate, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE EXISTED!”

Lando looked like he was seconds from grabbing Oscar and shaking him until some kind of information fell out. "Okay, I can't believe I have to ask this, but why the hell didn't you tell me?”

"I thought you knew," Oscar answered simply.

Lando just gaped. "How on earth would I have known?"

Oscar shrugged. The interviewer, meanwhile, was leaning closer, clearly invested in the whole thing now.

Lando, apparently having had enough, decided on a different tactic. Lando pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting away with this. You are going to introduce me to your wife.”

Oscar sighed, clearly knowing a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he said after a moment.

Lando sat back, satisfied. “Good.” Then he paused. “Wait—does anyone else know? Like, do the team know?”

Oscar shrugged. “I think Zak does.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “Why does Zak get to know?!”

Oscar pointed out, “Because he’s my boss?”

The interviewer, clearly having thrown all professionalism out the window, was just enjoying the chaos. Lando looked like he wanted to scream. “But I’m your friend!”

Somewhere in the background, McLaren PR was probably losing their minds, trying to figure out how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, their quiet, low-maintenance driver, had accidentally revealed he’d been married since he was 18.

Not Oscar’s problem, though...After he escaped Lando Norris' clutches.

He had a wife to call after all.

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, love,” she greeted, her face appearing on screen. She was sitting in their apartment, hair tied up, wearing one of his hoodies. 

Oscar felt himself relax immediately. “Hey.”

She smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”

Oscar sighed. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar shook his head. "I thought he did."

She let out a small laugh at that. "How the hell did you think he knew?"

Oscar shrugged. "I dunno. We've been married for, what, five years now? How could he not know?"

Her smile widened. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're about as romantic as a cactus?"

Oscar let out a huff. "I can be romantic."

Before she could respond, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar sighed through his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly seconds away from laughing. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND—”

Oscar hung his head. “Yes.”

She was laughing now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad because it was an adorable sound.

The banging continued. “I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE. STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You should probably let him in before he tries to break the door down.”

Oscar debated not letting him in, but realistically, Lando would either A) find a way in, or B) make this everyone else’s problem.

So, with a long-suffering sigh, he got up and opened the door.

Lando barreled in immediately, eyes wild.

“WHERE IS SHE?!?” he demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar sighed, holding up the phone. “She’s on FaceTime, you absolute lunatic.”

Lando’s head whipped around, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the couch. He pushed past Oscar with a huff, then stared, wide-eyed, at the phone.

Lando was silent. For once.

His wife was, bless her soul, doing her best to fight her laughter at the look on Lando’s face. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Lando.”

Lando just continued to gape.

Then, slowly, he pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

Lando turned to Oscar, looking personally betrayed. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “And you married him? At eighteen?!?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

Lando reeled. “WHY?!”

She tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

His wife stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Lando pointed at the phone. “I need to meet her.”

Oscar sighed. “Fine. Silverstone.”

Lando gasped. “Really?!?”

Oscar deadpanned. “No, I just said it for fun.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you at Silverstone.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to his wife, who was fully laughing.

“I love Lando,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Posted: 1 day ago

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 15. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

She’s still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???

↪️ @/mrspiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @mrspiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/lanoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of. ↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/mrspiastri: 10/10, would marry him again. (Even if he forgets to tell people.) ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

@/mrspiastri

Posted: 2h ago

Caption:

"So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love (and slightly impulsive).

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of three years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer? 10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/paddockinsider: Be so honest. What did people say when they found out you guys eloped? @/mrspiastri: Oh, everyone thought we were insane. Random people who barely knew us were convinced we’d crash and burn. Now we get a lot of, ‘Wow, you guys really made it work.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Wasn’t hard.

@/f1obsessed: Did you guys ever break up? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. Not once. Not even a ‘we were on a break’ situation. We’ve been together since we were 15, which is wild when I think about it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere lol. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/gridgossip: So who knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark. Andrea. Probably Zak? Our families, obviously. And, um. That might be it?

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: “OBVIOUS TO WHO??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/f1insider: We need more details about Mark Webber finding out. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I swear I saw his soul leave his body. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Didn’t seem necessary to tell him at the time ↪️@/landonorris: “HOW IS MARRIAGE NOT NECESSARY INFORMATION???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark Webber sat Oscar down like a disappointed dad and was like, ‘Mate. How do you just… forget to mention you’re married? ↪️@/mclarenupdates: “And what did Oscar say??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: “He just shrugged and went, ‘Not really relevant to racing. ↪️@/landonorris: “I NEED TO LIE DOWN.”

@/paddockdrama: People always joke that Oscar is a robot. Does that ever bother him? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. I once asked him and he just shrugged and went ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone as long as you know how much I love you.’ ↪️@/landonorris: NO BECAUSE WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I TOLD HIM I GOT P2 AND HE JUST WENT ‘NICE’??? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It was nice.

@/paddockgossip: “Did ANY other drivers know???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/foreverf1: Wait, I need to know—who said ‘I love you’ first? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar did. Completely out of nowhere, too. We were 16, lying on the floor doing homework, and he just looked over and went, ‘Oh. I love you.’ Like he just realized it in real time.

@/f1teaqueen: Okay but like… NO COLD FEET?? Not even a little?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. We were 100% sure.

@/wildforwags: Who actually officiated your wedding?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Some very lovely lady at a London registry office. She called us ‘sweethearts’ and I think she knew we were completely insane, but she was very supportive about it.

@/racewifematerial: What did you wear?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A white sundress I bought the week before. Oscar wore a suit that was slightly too big because he borrowed it last-minute. We looked like two teenagers who ran away from home, which, to be fair… we kinda did.

@/formula1fangirl: Who took the wedding photos? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We handed a disposable camera to two very confused tourists outside the registry office. They did a great job.

@/landoandchaos: Oscar, babe, how did you manage to keep this from your friend for FIVE YEARS? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Listen, Oscar is elite at two things: racing and not offering information unless directly asked.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/fastandflawless: Be honest, did you ever have a moment of ‘Oh my god, I married an 18-year-old racing driver, what have I done’?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really? I mean, other people definitely thought we were nuts, but we knew exactly what we were doing. The real crisis moment was a few months later when I realized I’d have to file taxes as a married person.

@/waggossip: “Did Oscar have a big, romantic proposal, or was it just like, ‘Wanna get married?’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar woke up one morning, looked at me, and said, ‘We should get married. Logically, it makes sense.’ ↪️@/f1softies: YOU’RE JOKING. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I was like, ‘Okay?’ And he said, ‘Great, I’ll book an appointment.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: So let me get this straight. No knee. No ring. Just ‘We should get married.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Correct. ↪️@/f1wifeguys: And you weren’t even a little mad?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nah, I thought it was funny. If he’d done some big, dramatic proposal, I’d have thought he was concussed. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Please tell me he at least got a ring after that. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He did! We picked one out together. It has both our birthstones.

@/paddocktea: Okay, but does he ever get super romantic out of nowhere?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. Once, when I was really stressed out, he just looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m always going to be here.’ ↪️@/f1wifeguys: STOP THAT’S SO SWEET.

@/paddockinsider: What’s the most uncharacteristically romantic thing he’s ever said? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were lying in bed once, just scrolling on our phones, and out of nowhere he goes, ‘You know, no matter how my life turned out, I think I would’ve found you in every version of it.’ And then he just went back to reading about Formula 2 tire degradation like he hadn’t just ruined me.

@/backmarkerbrigade: “So, like, what did you do after you got married? Fancy dinner? Celebratory champagne?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: ...Sandwichs at Pret-a-manger

@/gridlove: What’s the most Oscar Piastri way he’s ever told you he loves you? ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time he texted me ‘You’re my favorite human’ completely out of the blue. No context. No follow-up. Just that. It was adorable.

@/pitlaneprincess: Who cried more at the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Me. Oscar was annoyingly composed. He did squeeze my hand really tight when we said our vows, though.

@/drsforlove: “This man has been giving post-race interviews like ‘Yeah, good race, car felt good’ and then just casually drops a wife like it’s a tire strategy.

@/wildforwags: What’s something you wish you had done for the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly, nothing. It was chaotic, but it was ours.

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/paddockprincess: Wait, so how did Oscar’s family react to you guys getting married so young? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? They were really supportive. His mum just went, ‘That makes sense,’ and his dad laughed. Oscar’s family has always been the ‘if you’re happy, we’re happy’ type. ↪️@/oscarpiastriupdates: “So no dramatic reactions from the Piastris??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: “The most dramatic reaction was his mum sighing and saying, ‘You two are hopeless.’ But she meant it fondly.”

@/chaosinthepaddock: What about your family? 👀 ↪️@/mrspiastri: Ah. Well. See, they did not get over it in five minutes. ↪️@/f1tea: Omg. HOW mad were they??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Very. Like, ‘multiple angry phone calls’ mad. Like, ‘we refuse to speak to you for years’ mad.” ↪️@/landonorris: Did they actually say you were ruining your life? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, yes. There was a lot of dramatic ‘you’re throwing your future away’ speeches. Which was funny, because my future was literally the same, just with more love and an Australian husband. ↪️@/piastrination: Did Oscar ever try to talk to them about it? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, he tried. But Oscar is Oscar, so he just very calmly said, ‘I love her, we’re married, and that’s not changing.’ Which, surprisingly, did not make them less angry. ↪️@/f1gossip: Have they come around since then? ↪️@/mrspiastri: No.

@/landonorris: Lando’s reaction when he found out vs. your family’s reaction when they found out—who had the bigger meltdown?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, my family by far. Lando was just confused—my relatives were furious.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: “This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.”

@/f1softies: “The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.”

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: “Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: “Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.”

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/mrspiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/mrspiastri: To be fair, you two were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He still does that, btw. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/jehannadaruvala: “The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/jehannadaruvala: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/ollicaldwell: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1softies: Okay but does he ever have romantic moments?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. They just happen out of nowhere and leave me emotionally ruined. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Example, please. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I was having a bad day, and he just looked at me and said, ‘You know, the best part of my life is that I get to love you.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME SIR??? ↪️@/landonorris: “WHAT THE HELL.”

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1insider: So how did Mark find out?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We didn’t tell him. He found out when Oscar referred to me as his wife in conversation. ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were in a meeting. Mark stopped mid-sentence and went, ‘Your WHAT?’ ↪️@/landonorris: HIS WORLDVIEW SHATTERED. @/mrspiastri: Oscar, completely unbothered, said, ‘Oh. Yeah. We got married a while ago.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: I CAN HEAR MARK WEBBER’S EXASPERATION. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark didn’t speak for a full minute. Then he sighed, rubbed his temples, and went, ‘Mate. You can’t just drop that into conversation like it’s nothing.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I didn’t see the problem. ↪️@/landonorris: YOU WOULDN’T. ↪️@/f1updates: Does Mark ever bring it up now? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Every single time we see him. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It’s been years. He should let it go. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Finally he just said, ‘Yeah, I should have figured.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Apparently, Oscar was too relaxed for someone hiding a major life decision. Mark said he’d seen too many drivers try to balance racing and relationships, and he knew Oscar had already locked it down. ‘Kid’s too stable for anything else.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: That’s actually terrifying. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Immediately after he went ‘Alright. Suppose we better make sure this doesn’t derail your career then.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Classic Webber. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Did he at least congratulate you? ↪️@mrspiastri: Yes. Eventually. But only after making sure we’d thought it through. ↪️@/f1softies: Did he give you a lecture?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. More like a ‘If you’re doing this, do it properly’ talk.

@/drsfordays: The fact that her family was furious while Mark Webber just sighed is sending me.

@/oscarpiastri_fanclub: So Mark Webber has known this whole time??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. And I think he’s still mildly offended that Oscar didn’t ask for any advice beforehand.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Oscar is so calm and logical on track. Is he the same at home? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mostly, yeah. But sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll just say the most devastatingly romantic thing. ↪️@/f1softies: EXAMPLES PLEASE. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I joked, ‘You’re stuck with me forever,’ and he just looked at me, completely serious, and said, ‘That was the goal.’

@/f1updates: Do you ever wish you dated other people before settling down? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Not even a little? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Why would I? I already found my person.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Anxiety. And I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yep. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

Not Your Wife [Aaron Hotchner]

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid

Words: 11.6K

Summary: They say in college you can find many things, but the most important thing you found was your best friend

Warnings: Typical Criminal Minds violence, vague descriptions of murder scenes, swearing, some allusions to sex, non-sexual nudity, alcohol consumption, nightmares

A/N: Oh my God! I am so excited to finally post my first technically second Criminal Minds fic and honestly, I'm planning for it to be the first of many. Please let me know what you think in the comments! I'm always looking for feedback and I can't wait to give you guys more Hotch content :)

First day of class, freshman year. A new start at a new school with new people and new classes. It was just the kind of revamp you needed to start your adult life. No more taking math because it was required, no more stupid group projects (you hoped at least those seemed to follow you wherever you went) and most importantly you wouldn’t have to see even one person in your graduating class.

With much excitement you entered your first class, taking a seat upfront, there was no way you would risk not being able to see the notes on day one.

Seemed as though someone else was of a similar mind to you, picking the seat right next to yours and pulling out a notebook and pens.

From first glance you could tell he was organized, dressed casually but nicely, his raven-coloured hair combed and styled. Yet he didn’t say one word to you even after getting his things set up.

“Not good at starting conversations?” you asked and his head shot up.

“Hmm, oh sorry,” he apologized. “Guess my mind was wandering a bit,”

“First day jitters, count me in on that one,” you nodded. “You're not from around here?”

“No, but I’d venture a guess and say neither are you,”

“That would be correct,” you said, taking a sharp inhale, but stretched your hand out towards him. “I’m (Y/N),”

He took it and his lips quirked up slightly, “Aaron,”

“Aaron, sounds like a debate team name, were you on the debate team?”

The boy scrunched up his nose like he didn’t want to admit you were right and you smiled triumphantly, pointing a victorious finger at him.

“I knew it! You totally were,”

“Am I really that easy to read?” he asked.

You leaned back in your seat, looking over into his soft brown eyes,

“I mean isn't that why we’re taking the class? To learn to read people? Understand how their minds work?”

“Okay now this is just a shot in the dark but are you a psych major?” he asked sarcastically and you rolled your eyes.

“And you’re not?”

“Haven’t declared yet, we’ll see,” he shrugged. “Might drop the class cause I have a really annoying seatmate,”

“Wow, real smooth Aaron, first day and you’re already picking on people,” you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, he followed your lead.

The class slowly filled up with more students and when the short arm of the clock hit 11 the teacher didn’t waste a second to start his lecture.

Aaron may have been organized, but behind that exterior was someone with a cheeky and mischievous spirit. In the middle of the lecture, not really a portion that one would need to pay attention to, the teacher had gone off on a tangent, he scribbled something on a piece of paper in his notebook and passed it off to you.

You looked at him curiously, taking the paper from between his fingers and unfolding it to read what it said.

Pick a person and make them a backstory if this guy talks about his racist aunt in Italy for one more second I might die

You tried to hold back a chuckle, turning over the paper and writing

Guy in the red shirt, middle row, got here on a football scholarship and is only taking the class so it can keep his GPA high

You tried to furtively slip the paper back to Aaron and he took it, giving it a read and glanced in the direction you discreetly pointed to with your finger before doing the same thing he had instructed you to do.

By the end of class that seemed to be all you were doing and you missed half the notes as a result. The teacher dismissed you all and you were packing up your bag with your textbook and notes.

“Well, I missed half the class thanks to you Aaron, that might be worse than a group project,”

“You have no regrets, I see it in your eyes,” he retorted.

“Fine, but you owe me,” you said, taking his pen from behind his ear and grabbing his notebook, opening to the first page and scribbling down your name, phone number, and apartment building. “Be there at eight o’clock, I can order pizza and we can go over what we missed together. Deal?”

Aaron smiled and nodded.

“You got a deal (Y/N),”

—

“Aaron Hotchner this is all your fault!” you exclaimed, walking straight into the apartment and tossing down a transcript on the table.

Aaron peeked his head out from the washroom and came into the living room wearing a pair of pants, no shirt and a towel in his hands to dry his dripping wet hair.

“Let me see that,” he reached his hand out and you picked up the transcript, putting it in his hand. “(Y/N),” his eyes looked up at you, head still tilted down towards the paper. “These are A’s,” he noted. “Most people would say that a good thing,”

“Yeah not me,” you grumbled.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” he shook his head, then proceeded to continue to dry his hair with the towel, its normal neat appearance nowhere to be seen.

“It’s my parents,” you said finally. “They’re going to want me to move back now that my grades are good… because it’ll be ‘easier’ to transfer into the big shot university,”

“Do you want to go back home?” he asked, his face trying to block out any emotions of disdain, but it was still obvious enough for you.

“Not in the slightest,” you shook your head. “Can't leave you here alone can I?” you pressed your lips in a thin line and nodded.

“Just um...can you give me one second?”

You nodded and Aaron jogged over to his room, grabbing a t-shirt and slipping it on and then going into his closet and pulling off his high school grad sweater from the hanger. It had only been two years since he graduated but the sweater was already well-loved because it seemed to have passed hands frequently, it was just as much yours as it was his.

He came back out of the room, the sweater in his hands. He glanced down at the embroidery and the school logo before reaching out and handing it to you.

“If you leave you’re probably gonna need something to keep you warm on the plane,” he said. “Go on (Y/N) I know you want it,”

You ignored the sweater in his hands, instead, rushed into his arms and allowed him to pull you into a tight hug.

“You’re gonna help me find a way to say right?” you whispered.

“Of course,” he nodded. “How else am I supposed to get through studying for McClerick’s midterm next year?”

“I’m sure you would do fine without me Mr. I’m gonna be a lawyer,” you poked. “I’m pretty sure your grades are good enough that they’d just let you into law school now,”

“Still got a little ways to go,” he chuckled. He was about to pull away but you squeezed him a little tighter.

“Not yet,” you shook your head. “Just a little longer,”

He nodded and tightened his grip around you again, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

“Alright, come one, we had plans tonight, the semester’s over we need a break,”

“Aaron Hotchner needs a break? Sounds like bullshit,” you shook your head. “More like I need a break and you’re humouring me,”

“That would be correct, I have an evaluation for some higher-level courses in a few weeks, but that can wait for a night,”

“You see this,” you poked him in the shoulder, “This is why we’re best friends,”

“Because I forsake my studying for you?”

You nodded, linking your arm with his and dragging him out the door, “Yeah for you that’s the highest honour,”

He let out a small chuckle and nodded his head.

“And for that, I’ll let you chose the movie,”

Aaron grinned triumphantly, already knowing what he was going to pick, you missed his little smile and were instead paying attention to the directions to get to the nearest Blockbuster.

When you entered the store he broke away from you, heading straight for the action/adventure aisle and scanning around for his favourite movie.

“You know if you pick that one you’re gonna have to wear the hat,” you pointed to him while looking for some snacks and treats to buy.

“Hat or no hat, we’re watching it,” he came back, with two movies in hand, “And the second one if we have time,”

“We just got the third one too kid, haven’t brought it out from the back yet,”

“Really?” Aaron’s eyes lit up. He turned over to you, as if to ask permission to get the third installment in the series.

“Oh go on,” you rolled your eyes and he did a small victory dance in his spot while the cashier went to the back to go grab the movie. “What is it with you and Indiana Jones, I mean they’re no Star Wars…”

“Don’t even start (N/N),” he pointed warningly at you. “You’re telling me you never wanted to go off to different countries and look for buried treasure?”

“Nah I’d rather fight my dad in space with a lightsaber,” you retorted and he let a snort slip past before you both burst out laughing.

“Alright, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Temple of Doom, and The Last Crusade,” the man rang the three through the till along with your snacks. “And you guys college students?’ he asked.

You and Aaron both nodded.

“We’ve got a discount going on, if you can show me your student card I can give you 25% off,”

“And that’s why I carry this bad boy around,” Aaron looked at you knowingly while pulling the card out of his wallet.

“Oh this bad boy,” you picked up the card before the cashier could, pointing to the image on the card.

He had decided when it was time to go in for photos that it would be best to wear a white collared shirt with a red tie, his glasses that he rarely even wore to class and that wasn’t the half of it. The photographer had snapped the photo before he even gave him the chance to do a proper smile and his hair, well that was another story. It was at that awkward point where it was longer than he normally wore it, but not long enough to merit a cut. Maybe that time it did though because now that look was completely immortalized in that photo.

“What! The outfit is smart,” he huffed, and snatched the card back from you and gave it to the cashier who tried his best not to snort at the image.

“See, even Mark can’t keep it together, you look ridiculous, honey,”

Aaron sighed and you wrapped an arm around his shoulder, taking the bag from Mark and paying for your stuff before going back to the apartment.

Aaron set up the TV while you went in search of the hat.

“Aaron where did you put it?” you asked, scouring his room for some sign of the hat.

“Check the back of the closet under my hopes and dreams,”

“Oh stop being so dramati-found it!” you exclaimed excitedly, running back out to the small living room and placing the hat delicately on his head. “There we go, now you’re really Indiana Jones,”

He looked at you from underneath the rim of the hat and you tried to hide the grin that was coming across your face, but it was proving to be quite the challenge. And for a short moment, you forgot that all this might be over soon. You would be back home, studying at the humongous university your parents wanted you to go to. Right now it was just you and Aaron, two best friends doing stupid things and you never wanted that to change.

—

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

“Aaron did you-?”

“I got them!” he put down the phone on the table. “I won the tickets!”

“No way,” your face lit up with excitement.

After five hours on the phone and a lucky answer to a radio host's question, you were both the very happy owners of tickets to see Dire Straits, in concert, live. It was going to be your last big blowout before the school year started. A celebration of you being able to stay, finish your junior and senior year together. All in all, it was going to be a blast.

The night was filled with loud amazing music and you didn’t think you had ever seen Aaron smile that wide. You had the unfortunate affliction of being shorter than the people in front of you and it was quite tricky to see the stage, but as usual, Aaron came to your aid, somehow, despite the lack of room, getting you on his shoulders so you could clearly see the band as they performed on stage.

“Have you been lifting?” you asked with a laugh as he rolled his eyes.

“Maybe,” he shrugged and slapped his arm lightly.

The song ended and they started to transition to the next one and you both recognized it immediately.

“This is our song!” you exclaimed.

The smooth guitar, bass, and keyboard filled the stadium and you carefully rested your hands on Aaron’s head, your chin placed on top of them. He squeezed your legs gently where he held them and if you closed your eyes and concentrated enough you could hear him singing along softly, a couple of beers he had probably aiding his confidence to let the song slip past his lips.

You had never seen him sing sober, mainly because he refused to, but every time you got the chance to see him let loose you savoured it. He was strung up too tight for his own good.

It was a wonderful close to the evening, almost too quiet and calm for a concert, but you were both still on that high as you drove to the motel.

“That. Was. Awesome!” you grinned as you stumbled into the room.

“I didn’t think it would ever happen but it did,” Aaron shook his head in disbelief. “I want to keep listening to their music like it’s playing over and over in my head,”

“Lucky for you I brought this,” you grabbed your stereo from your bag with some CDs.

“Oh you’re the best (N/N),” he hugged you and kissed your forehead.

“Ew you’re all sweaty,” you laughed.

“So are you!”

“Which is why I’m taking a shower,” you noted. “Don't break my stereo or scratch my CDs,” you warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,”

Aaron set up some music while you grabbed some pyjamas and went into the washroom to rinse off. For a moment you were a little concerned as the volume got louder thinking he had turned it up (it was already late you didn’t need to get yelled at) but when you saw the shadow on the other side of the curtain you peeked past and saw the door was open and Aaron was looking for something by the sink.

“Aaron! I’m trying to take a shower! A little privacy maybe?”

“Eh nothing I haven’t seen before,” he waved you off dismissively and you reached out to slap him while calling him an asshole. He chuckled, knowing he was right and you huffed under the water and turned it off reaching out to him.

“Towel please,”

He passed you the towel and you wrapped it around yourself, hopping out of the shower and joining him in brushing your teeth so you could get ready for bed.

It was cheaper to get a room with one bed and on a college student’s budget, it worked best for the both of you to split the cost of one room rather than two (or one with two beds for that matter, textbooks were expensive).

So a good fifteen minutes later, the music was turned off, Aaron was out of the shower and you were both under the covers of the bed, squirming around and trying to find a comfortable position.

“(Y/N) stop kicking me,” he whined while you pushed away from him.

“You’re like five hundred degrees, seriously I’m gonna burn up if I touch you,” you fired back.

“Stop taking all the blankets!”

You groaned and gave up, lay off on your back and stopped pulling the blankets, having Aaron tug a little too hard and fall off the side of the bed.

“This is what we get for being on a college student’s budget,” he groaned.

You sat up on the bed and gave him a hand that he used to pull himself back up, sneaking under the covers and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling your back to his chest.

“I know you get cold at night, maybe being five hundred degrees isn’t so bad then,” he mumbled and you smiled softly to yourself, not wanting to admit it, but the nights you slept best were the nights where he was by your side, there was no doubt about it.

—

You chewed the inside of your cheek, sitting across from Aaron on the couch,

“Okay I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you might get mad,” you explained.

“Mad about what?”

“You know how you’re moving back to Virginia. To go to law school?”

He nodded his head, “I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, but then I figured teaching might be a good run for me, so I applied to do my joint graduate and Ph.D. studies at the University of Virginia, and I was looking for work so I could make myself of some use… I didn’t really think anything would come up from it, but,” you handed him the envelope, a job offer as a consultant with the BAU. “I’d work with the FBI so I guess that might mean we could work together, who knows maybe I’ll bring you over to the dark side,” you joked nervously.

“Why would I be mad?” he smiled. “(Y/N) we could work together, be on the same campus, but wait-I thought you didn’t like profiling?”

“No see that’s where you were mistaken,” you chuckled. “But you sure you’re okay with this I don’t want it to feel like I’m pushing on your school or-,”

“(Y/N) are you even listening to yourself, we’ve been trying to find a way to stay in contact after graduation, you don’t think living in the same city might do the trick?”

“So you think I should accept it then?”

“For completely selfish reason yes,” he nodded, “Please accept it,”

You laughed softly to yourself, you hoped he would never change.

“I will,” you said but raised your brows. “On one condition,”

“(Y/N) I swear to-,”

“You have to take the night off to celebrate with me. It’s been four years Aaron come on you deserve a night to yourself,”

“A night to myself would be going to bed early, a night with you is a very different story,”

You rolled your eyes and stood up, headed for the kitchen and grabbing two beers from the fridge.

“Come on, do you want me to take the job or not?”

He pressed his lips together and reached out a hand for the drink, silently agreed to the deal you practically forced him to take.

Aaron was rarely a heavy drinker, tonight not being one of the nights that he indulged himself, instead, watching you down drink after drink with amazement just as to how much your personality seemed to be accentuated by the alcohol.

He was slightly buzzed, just at that point where the night might feel a bit like a hallucination, but still lucid enough.

You on the other hand were a sight to see.

“I cannot be-lieve I dropped my parents for you, how goddamn baller is that?!” you exclaimed, stumbling over to the couch and pointing at him with your beer bottle in hand. “See that’s friendship Hotchner,”

“Sure is,” he chuckled with a nod, sipping some more of the alcoholic beverage.

“I bet when ya go to lawyer school everyone’s gonna call ya Hotch,” you said. “Watch me, I’ll be right,”

“Hotch,” he hummed. “That’s not bad, I don’t mind that,”

“But I’ll still call you Aaron,” you poked his nose with a giggle, that made him smile.

“And I wouldn’t want you to call me anything else (N/N), you hear?”

“Mhmm,” you sighed loudly, “Aaron I wanna do something,” you whined.

“What do you wanna do (Y/N)? You’re drunk off your ass, I’m too buzzed to drive,” he listed the facts.

“Wait a sec,” you grinned wildly, standing up and running to his room, stumbling all the way there and coming out with a familiar hat. “You wanna know what I can do now cause of you?”

“What?” he asked, leaning forward.

“I could probably recite half of Indiana Jones by heart, I think I know all of Marion’s lines,”

“Well I know almost all of Indiana’s, prove it,” he dared.

“Okay, my scene though,” you said, tossing him the hat. “They’re in the boat, right before the Nazis get there. All alone in the room,”

Aaron put on the hat sitting on the couch, watching as you walked over to him, coming to his side.

“Wait...I don’t need any help,” he quoted from the movie, wanting to see how well you delivered the lines.

“You know you do,” you insisted, leaning forward slightly. “You’re not the man I knew ten years ago,”

“It’s not the years honey, it’s the mileage,” he watched as she reached out to lay him back on the couch so she could pretend to take care of his wounds.

“You are-,”

“Please I don’t need a nurse,” he was practically smirking, watching the look in your eyes, so determined to deliver the scene exactly as it was shown. “I just want to sleep,”

“Don’t be such a baby,” you pressed, a hand on his chest.

“(Y/N) leave me alone,” he slipped up, using your name instead of that of the character.

“What’s this here,” you pointed to a spot on his collarbone. In the movie, Indiana sported a cut and bruise there.

“Go away, ah! Yes, it hurts,” Aaron hissed, the inflections practically ingrained into his mind. “Ow!”

“Well, goddamn it Indy! Where doesn’t it hurt!?”

Aaron’s voice was caught in his throat, he knew what came next, were you...were you really going to do it?

“Here,” he pointed to his temple, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss there. “Here,” he pointed again to another spot. “Here’s not too bad,” his voice stretched into a whisper, your lips against his jaw.

You moved away, waiting for him to give the last sign, and he did, pointing to his lips and mouthing ‘here’.

You leaned in, and unlike the movie your lips only ghosted his, leaving him with the faint taste of beer and an imprint. The faintest imprint of you.

He would close his eyes, almost squeezing them so tight hoping that maybe it would help him feel them more, but they remained the ghost of a touch that pulled away.

“See I told you,” you grinned, pulling away from him. “And that’s all thanks to you. I’ve probably watched that movie thirty times in the past four years. Hell Mark even gave us a copy after we rented it for like the fifteenth time,”

Aaron gave you a smile, it was small but a smile no less.

“I-I’m a bit tired,” he noted. “I think I might head to sleep. You should stay the night though I don’t want you walking home like this okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll take the guest bedroom. Probably about time I hit the hay too,”

You wrapped your arms around him one more time before making your exit to the room, leaving Aaron alone with a memory that would turn into a faint fever dream. Something he never realized actually happened.

—

“Okay we’re gonna need all hands on deck for this case,” Aaron noted, placing the files on the table.

“Does that mean-,”

“That Dr. (L/N) is in the house? I think yes,” you grinned, walking into the conference room through the door, high-fiving Morgan underneath the table before making your way to your best friend and pressing a kiss hello to his cheek.

“(Y/N) come on we’re at work,” he nudged you.

“Then call me Doctor, Agent,” you raised your brows and the group let out some chuckles and a few eye rolls.

“What’s it gonna take for you guys to just get over yourself and bang it out? You’re practically an old married couple already,” Garcia wiggled her eyebrows and twiddled her pen between her fingers.

“Guys,” Aaron said warningly. “We need to focus,”

While he turned around to face the board you motioned at them to play nice pointing to your bag to say that you had something to show them later.

That was probably half the reason they loved you so much, every single time you came to help with a case, without fail, you would bring along either an embarrassing story or memento from your college days, making SSA Hotchner just a little less serious.

The case was big, that was for sure. A lot of victims which is probably why they needed more help, if things were disorganized it was harder to find a connection, a link in the victimology.

In the beginning, everyone was motivated, ready to get some new information, brains buzzing with thoughts, but by the evening when it seemed things were getting nowhere was when it hit hard. They needed a little boost in morale and you knew just how to give it to them.

Since the case was out of D.C. you stayed at the BAU office in Virginia. Everyone, besides Aaron and Gideon, was gathered in the conference room, tiredly flipping through numerous files and making notes.

“Hey guys,” you said quietly, passing around some coffee and tea.

“Why are we whispering?” Morgan queried in a soft voice.

“Glad you asked Derek,” you grinned, pulling out a card from your purse and placing it on the table. “Pretty sure this was during sophomore year student card, poor Aaron thought he was looking good,” you chuckled.

“Hotch wore glasses?!” Garcia gasped, grabbing the card while the others also fought for a look.

There were soft chuckled and giggles pointing to the image until there were shushes and you sighed,

“He’s right behind me isn’t he,”

They nodded and before anyone could act he came up to them and grabbed the card out of Morgan’s hand giving you a pointed look, his eyebrows in that signature furrowed expression on his face.

“This, seriously (Y/N),”

You couldn’t hide your smile, simply shrugging,

“They needed a bit of a pick me up,” you said simply.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Reid piped up.

You could tell Aaron was biting back a smile, trying not to show how stupid he thought he looked, but then again you always did have a knack for profiling him.

“I did, got contacts the year after,” he explained. Looking quickly at the group then at you he sighed, knowing what he had to do, “You guys promise it’s gonna motivate you and you won’t get sidetracked?”

Everyone seemed to nod their heads vigorously while his hold lingered a while longer, tracing the edges of the ID.

He placed the card back on the table, sliding it over to the group before walking towards the door with a faint smile on his lips.

You stopped him quickly, giving him a look before he simply turned his head to the group of smiling profilers. It was a hard job, they would take a moment of laughter where they could get it and he wasn’t about to take that away from them.

The years working had changed you both, some for the better and maybe others for worse. For one Aaron’s strings seemed to be strung up even tighter than before. He found it hard to relax almost always on edge, thinking about what was to come next, the next case, his next steps. But every once in a while the kid you knew back in college would come out to say hello and you felt lucky that it was always when you were around. You brought out his young side, reminding him of where he came from, the intro psych class that started it all.

While everyone had their focus drawn back to the files, his card sitting on the centre of the table you quickly pushed yourself up on the top of your toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t work too hard. Okay, Aaron?”

“No promises (N/N),” he placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed it before leaving the room and going back to his office to make some calls.

You let out an exhale before joining in on reading the files. It was going to be a long night.

—

“Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time off? Didn’t your sister invite you to go to Barbados with her?” Aaron asked while carrying a few boxes from the garage to the living room.

“Nah we both know when she says that my parents will be there and then that’ll just ruin my vacation,” you shook your head. “Plus we both know you are not getting any of this done without my help,” you motioned to the boxes of old things littered across the living room. You might say he was a borderline organized hoarder but you knew better than that. He was just more sentimental than he let on and each little trinket had some special meaning.

Music was playing softly in the background while you practically forced Aaron to get rid of some piece of trash from high school that he insisted was important for some reason or another.

“Oh Aaron we’re keeping this,” you grinned, pulling out a very familiar hat that had not surfaced in a while.

“What do you mean we (Y/N) this is all my-Nooo,” his jaw dropped as he caught sight of the cowboy hat, his protest elongated in surprise making you almost fall over in a fit of laughter.

“Come on SSA Hotchner I know the kid in you loves it,”

You spun the hat on your finger before jumping onto and over the couch to put it on his head before he could protest. He gave you the face he gave the team when he was unimpressed with their shenanigans and you scrunched up your nose in delight, he almost looked like the kid who became your best friend, sending you back ages.

“Oh look at you,” you grinned, holding his face in your hands as you stood taller than him on the couch.

“Not impressed,” he said simply and you just waved him off with a roll of your eyes.

“Aaron you’re so serious! Loosen up a bit!”

“I am not!” he retorted as you stepped away.

“Are too,” you stuck your tongue out childishly at him.

“I can be loose, I’m not uptight,” he muttered to himself, taking off the hat and placing it on the couch.

“Then prove it,” you raised your brows, making your way over to the stereo and flipping the track until it reached the song you were looking for, your song. “Sing it Hotch,”

The man shook his head and you nodded yours as if you knew that’s what was coming. You turned around to pick up another box but stopped when the music transitioned into the lyrics and you could hear Aaron’s voice, clear as day along with the lead singer of his favourite band.

“I wonder where you are tonight, you’re probably on the rampage somewhere. You have been known to take delight, getting in somebody’s hair. You always had the knack… Fade to black,”

You spun around, a bright smile on your face as you saw him with a duster in his hand, being used as some sort of mock microphone. He tossed it aside and motioned for you to come closer, taking your hand in his, spinning you around so your back was pressed against his chest, arms crossed as he held your hands to your waist, swaying side to side as he continued to sing.

The amount of surprise in your expression probably couldn’t be put into words, it was rare to hear him sing even with a few shots of tequila in him first. He must have really wanted to prove you wrong.

You had danced with him before, you were friends, it was something you had done on many occasions, but for some reason, this time around it felt more personal. He was holding you the way you had seen him hold his girlfriends, singing your song quietly in your ear, doing all this for you.

And maybe you felt a twinge of jealousy, all those girls who got to be near him, hold him, kiss him. They got to experience that other side and a part of you wanted that badly because deep down you knew Garcia was right, you were like an old married couple. All those girls got a piece of him while you were just his best friend. Just the person that took care of him, just the person that loved him unconditionally. At least for now (as in the past seven to ten years), Aaron wasn’t focused on dating, not when work took over his life.

You leaned into him, only a little bit more, wanting to savour the feeling of being close to him.

His voice faded away but the music kept going for a while longer and you couldn’t help but let out a half-hearted chuckle.

“What? Was I off-key?”

“Nope, just think maybe you should have been in musical theatre, I would pay to see you on Broadway,” you teased and he didn’t even wait a moment to squeeze the sensitive part of your waist making you squirm. “Aaron! Don’t taser me!”

“You asked for it,” he said in a sing-song voice and you managed to twirl yourself back around, accidentally pushing yourself into his chest and sending you both down on the couch, laughter echoing around you.

You laid your forehead down on his chest and sighed while he gently rubbed your back, moments like these being those things that kept you both going when work got tough when it seemed like there was no more good in the world.

Because even when the world got you down you still had your Indiana Jones.

—

You woke up abruptly, a scream caught in your throat as you pushed yourself up on the bed, clutching the duvet covers until your knuckles went pale.

Your mind was racing, not wanting to come down from the nightmare, images, words still flashing through your mind, voices in your head that would only get louder, and louder, and louder.

With a shaky breath you grabbed your phone and keys, and a hoodie, you didn’t even realize it but it was the one Aaron had given you, his high school grad hoodie.

Your body seemed to be on autopilot, driving a few blocks away from your townhouse and parking your car in front of another set of doors.

Climbing out you knocked lightly, as if you were hesitant about what you were doing, your hands gripping onto your arms as you shook, a little too violently for the warm summer night.

You didn’t hear a sound coming from inside so you raised your hand again to knock, more assured, but the door swung open, revealing a confused and tired Aaron wearing only a concert t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts whose face immediately softened when he saw the state you were in.

“I-I-,”

“Shh it’s okay,” he assured you. “Come here sweetheart,”

You walked into his open arms, letting him tuck you under one shoulder as he closed the door before wrapping the other around you and letting your tears soak his shirt.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked and you shook your head desperately.

You all wanted to say the job didn’t get to you, it didn’t upset you, but there were always those triggers, those things that would set you off, eat at your very core. And no matter how close you and Aaron were sometimes you needed to keep that to yourself. He understood that.

But after a few minutes of just standing there and letting you hold him, he decided you needed to get back to bed, there was no point in fighting the exhaustion. So he took your arms from around his waist and wrapped them around his neck, taking hold of your thighs afterwards and picking you up so you were pressed flush against him.

Your legs found a comfortable spot wrapped around him and resting on top of his hips while he walked up the stairs, holding you like a child.

You thought he might take you to the guest room you normally stayed in when it was late, but he headed straight for his room, the covers already pulled back on his bed when he laid you down and climbed over you to the other side, turning off the bedside lamp.

Even though it was especially warm for a night outside, Aaron’s home was freezing (probably because he was always overheating), so he came close and wrapped his arms around you, your legs tangled together in a mess like things on the forest floor. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, squeezing you tightly as he whispered,

“You’re gonna be alright. I’m here. I’ve got you,”

Over and over again until the words were stuck in your mind and all you could say to yourself.

You were gonna be alright. Aaron was there. He had you.

And you said it to yourself over and over until you believed it, or believed it enough to fall back asleep.

—

“Hey Aaron, what’s up?” you asked, pressing your cell phone to your ear the next day. Your students had just left your classroom and you were done for the week, but if Aaron was calling that probably wouldn’t be the case.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked and you took a deep breath and nodded,

“Yeah, I’m alright,”

“Good, good…” he trailed off. “Um we have a case, it’s in Denver. The higher-ups are wondering if you might come with,”

“Yeah sure, I’ll grab my bag and meet you guys at the airport,” you confirmed. “Aaron,” you started.

“Yes (N/N)?”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

You swore you heard a snort on the other end of the line, and you knew that was only because you were definitely 100% right.

“Aaron you’ve got to stop skipping breakfast, coffee on an empty stomach isn’t good,” you mumbled practically to yourself, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “I’m picking you something up on the way there okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded.

“And no more coffee until the plane,”

He sighed loudly and you mocked him by repeating the sound, “I’ll see you, Aaron, don’t take too long,”

Hanging up the phone you made your way to your car, stopping by a Dunkin Donuts and grabbing some iced coffees for everyone plus breakfast for Aaron.

You were first to the airport (as usual the university was closer to it than the office), and made yourself comfortable on the jet. Around ten minutes later the rest of the team came up and hellos and case files were passed around.

You motioned for Aaron to sit in the seat next to you, grabbing the bag of food and placing it in front of him.

“Eat Hotchner,” you instructed and he peeked into the bag with a slight frown and you held up another bag and showed him. “Eat the food first then you can have a donut and coffee,”

“Oh my God Mrs. Hotchner much,” Morgan chuckled.

“What? He doesn’t take care of himself, someone has to,” you rolled your eyes. “But come on, fill me in what’s the case about,”

“Killer’s targeting married couples,” Aaron said before taking a bite of his bagel. “Oh is this herb and garlic cream cheese?” he asked you quietly and you just patted his back.

“Anything specific that the police have found yet? Like connections between the couples?”

“They’ve all been together since college, but that seems to be the only thing we’ve seen so far,” Morgan explained.

“Did you know that 28% of married couples actually meet in college?” Reid added a small anecdote. “But although the percentage is interestingly high the rate of divorce is also higher between couples who have gotten together in college or high school,”

“But these couples were still together, the ones that managed to stand the test of time,” you noted. “Maybe the unsub’s stressor was a failed relationship, something personal that hit a nerve. If he can’t have it neither can anyone else. I would say it’s safe to rule out a sexual sadist for the time being, especially if there’s no sign of assault on the victims,”

“There’s been very little evidence left at the scene,” Gideon added. “We’ll get a better sense of things when we get there,”

“I’ll take (Y/N) and Morgan to the crime scene. Gideon, you take Reid and JJ to the FBI office and we’ll meet you there,” Aaron instructed and you all nodded.

“Derek, be sure to have Garcia on the line, we might need her to dig up records while we’re there,” you instructed and he gave you a nod.

Aaron nudged your side and you looked over to him, his eyes pointing to the empty paper bag that held the bagel and the muffin.

“You’re such a baby,” you chuckled with a sigh, reaching over to your side and pulling out the, thankfully, still warm coffee along with a donut. “But I got your favourite,”

Aaron opened up the box but glared at you when he saw what was inside.

“Your favourite donut is vanilla glaze with rainbow sprinkles?” Reid asked while the rest of the group tried to stifle chuckles.

“Alright, time for a Hotch story,” you clapped the table and leaned back in your seat while Aaron groaned, it was too early for this. “When Aaron and I were in college he was a perfectionist, still is, I mean look at this little overachiever,” you jokingly pinched his cheek between your finger and he continued to give that look with his furrowed brows. “Anyways, we had this shitty teacher, God I hated her,” you sighed.

“McClerick,” Aaron sighed and you nodded.

“She gave him a C+ on his midterm and he almost lost it. But there was nothing he could do about it so he got piss drunk and ate only,” you grabbed the donut right out of his hand. “You guessed it, donuts with vanilla glaze and rainbow sprinkles,”

“Oh Hotch,” you heard Garcia’s voice over the monitor and you all turned to look at her, sitting in her office. “Honey that can’t be healthy,”

“It wasn’t,” you shook your head. “He got sick and I had to nurse him back to health. Anyways, any important news for us Garcia?”

“Only that I did some more background checks on the victims and it came up that they all went to college in and around Denver,”

“So maybe our unsub has or had connections at the colleges,” Reid commented and you nodded in agreement.

“We’re making our descent so we should be able to get a better sense of things once we hit the crime scene,”

As promised, not before long you were all packed in cars, headed to your respective areas of the city.

The last murder happened in Aurora so straight from the large, albeit, oddly shaped airport you drove into the city and directly to the crime scene. That’s always how it was with the job, no time to get adjusted, just go, go, go.

When you entered the crime scene there was a minimal mess, not a lot of blood spatter, very controlled.

“Unsub used a gun and not a knife, that’s another tick away from a sexual sadist,” Morgan noted. “Most commonly used weapon for them is a knife, blunt force trauma, some way to get their hands dirty, it’s what gives them the release,”

The room was neat, tidy actually, the only spot of displacement being the two dead bodies, one on the bed, the other on the ground, both fully clothed in pyjamas.

You looked through the bookshelves, noticing the many volumes of encyclopedias, books on by-laws, mainly a lot of stuff to do with law, to be honest.

“Hey Morgan, call Garcia and put her on speaker,” you asked and the man obeyed your instructions, holding up the phone for you to hear.

“You’ve reached the goddess of infinite wisdom, how can I assist you mere mortals?” you smiled softly to yourself at Garcia’s classic antics.

“Hey darlin’,” you called over the line. “Can you ring up Josh and Lindsay Hardman for me, I want to see what these guy’s jobs for, hobbies, get a better sense of what we’re looking at,”

“Alright, umm, says here the husband was a lawyer, a prosecutor, and the wife was a professor at the college they graduated from” she started. “Husband liked concerts, classic rock by the looks of it, that's all that’s on his social media. He and his wife seemed close, all of their pictures are together too,”

“Tell me more about the wife,” you asked and you could hear faint clicking on the line before,

“Aha, she was a psych major, teaching master’s classes on abnormal psych,”

You tensed, this felt a little too familiar. A little too close for comfort.

You looked up at Aaron who seemed to have the same feelings as you, then Morgan who was the only person brave enough to say something on the topic.

“Well no one’s saying it so I’m just gonna get it out there… but this sounds like you guys,”

You nodded, taking a deep breath, “I think I need a minute, thanks, Penny,”

“Anytime my love,” she responded and Morgan hung up the phone while you left the room. You could hear Aaron say something to Morgan and soon his footsteps followed you until you reached the car, leaning against it.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, just needed some air. To clear my head,” you nodded.

There was a moment of silence before he piped up, “You know we’re not really at risk here (Y/N) because we’re-,”

“Not together I know,” you nodded. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t scary as shit when you see a victim that’s just like you,” you admitted. “He’s a lawyer Aaron, a prosecutor who likes classic rock,”

“There are a lot of prosecutors who like classic rock,” he tried to counter, but you shook your head, that wasn’t the point.

“Feel however you want Aaron, but there’s no escaping the truth that either this,” you pointed to the crime scene “this is either a coincidence or we should be legitimately concerned,”

Aaron nodded with a sigh, “You’re sticking with me this case,” he said. “You don’t have the clearance to carry a firearm so I don’t want you out of my sight, understand?”

“Aaron,” you turned to him, “Look at me Aaron, look at me,” you whispered and his eyes finally met yours.

“Don’t keep it in here,” you pointed to his chest. “Do you understand?”

He nodded and quickly turned his head to make sure no one had their eyes on you before gently holding the back of your head and pulling you in so he could press a quick kiss on your forehead. A very minor comfort given the situation, but you were at work, you realized the significance of his actions and you took that to heart.

Morgan came out of the house giving you both a nod saying he’d gotten what he needed and huh could reconvene at the FBI office.

The rest of them were already set up in a conference room, a board with all the details of the victims and what they could currently gather from the unsub.

“This one’s creepy,” Morgan said as you entered the room. “Very very creepy,”

“What do you mean?” Reid asked.

“The victims just have a similar story to Hotch and me that’s all,” you waved them off, not wanting to cause unnecessary worry among team members.

“Maybe that comes to our advantage,” Aaron suggested. “You take the two of us and create some sort of victimology from that,”

“I thought we had a rule,” you whispered to him. “No profiling each other,”

“They’re not profiling us,” he said. “Just trying to get into the unsub’s mind through looking at us,”

“Is that not weird to you?” you asked. “Cause it seems a little weird,”

“We can use it if we have to,” Gideon said, not wanting the conversation to have to go much further. “For now I think our victims will give us plenty of insight into the unsub,”

And so the discussions continued, but you decided to take a step back from the psychology and went to go find JJ, maybe you could be of some assistance to her. You could feel Aaron’s eyes burning into your back as you turned to leave and with a few strides he was blocking you.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To find JJ, don’t worry I’ll be inside the bureau,” you swallowed thickly. “Drink some water, okay?” you said noticing his dry lips.

“Alright, just check in with me when you’re done,”

You nodded and left the room, seeing JJ in front of a computer speaking with Garcia on the phone no doubt.

“Hey JJ,” you tapped her shoulder and she turned around nodding and putting Garcia on speakerphone.

“Garcia I’ve got (Y/N) here with me,” she said.

“Oh hey sweetheart, you doin' alright?” she asked and you coughed,

“Could be better,”

“Yeah, she was just telling me about the victims, must have been a bit of a spook,” JJ noted.

“It’s definitely uncomfortable,” you nodded. “But I’ve been reminded I am of ‘no real risk’ and you know how I cope with this,”

“You take care of everyone else,” JJ nudged you. “Especially Hotch,”

“You can’t tell me he doesn’t need it though,” you poked.

“Yeah that man can be hopeless sometimes,” Garcia added.

“A little oblivious too,” you chuckled. “For a profiler, that’s a special combination,”

JJ wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gave you a squeeze and you didn’t hesitate to lean into her side. Even though you were older than most in the group you still found a lot of comfort in their company. They were like your younger siblings.

“Do you want me to fight him?” Garcia asked. “Cause I think I could take him,”

“You wish,” you snorted. “He can carry me up a flight of stairs without batting an eyelash,” you said thinking back to last night. “I think you might have a bit more trouble than you think. And it’s alright. I’ll be okay,” you tried to assure them. “I’ll just be Mrs. Hotchner without the tax benefits,”

You figured there wasn’t much use in trying to hide your growing feelings for your best friend, after all, they had been present for some time now and in a room surrounded by some of the best profilers in the world, you wondered if the rest of them caught on, but chose to stay silent. And Aaron, he was another story altogether. For the life of you that was the one part of him, you couldn’t read, so you would just mull over your own love hoping that knowing he loved you as a best friend was enough, even though you had never said it, and neither had he.

“(Y/N),” you could hear Aaron’s voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “I’m going to speak to the victim's parents, are you up to join me?” he asked.

“Yeah, I can come,” you nodded, pushing yourself up. “Bye you two, don’t work too hard,”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sugar,” Garcia’s voice rang through JJ’s cellphone and you chuckled lightly, taking your place by Aaron’s side and exiting the building and heading for one of the standard-issue SUVs.

You didn’t talk much during the ride, opting for silence with the radio playing in the background. You could sense his eyes flicking to your side often, maybe he wanted to say something, reassure you, but it was possible that part of the reason you were on edge was from your nightmare.

Before you knew it your hand was reaching out to his that was resting on the gear shift. He looked down when he felt the soft touch and carefully lifted his hand and entwined his fingers with yours, placing it on his thigh, his thumb tracing the veins along the back of your hand.

“Aaron, stop frowning,” you said gently. “You’ll get wrinkles,”

“I think it’s a little too late for that,” he joked and you pressed your lips together in a small smile. “You still think I’m handsome though,”

“Very,” you nodded, but you weren’t sure how much of a joke it was. Whether it was the nerdy overprepared college student or the serious Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner knew how to pull off a look.

“Alright, I can do most of the talking this time around, jump in when you feel comfortable. They’ve already been informed of the murder so at least we won’t be breaking the news,” he instructed and you nodded, finally loosening your grip on his hand and slipping it back into your lap, missing its softness and warmth.

You both left the car and knocked on the door, waiting for the answer. When it came there was a sweet older lady with puffy red eyes. You assumed she had probably been grieving her son and daughter-in-law up until that moment.

“Hello ma’am, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner and this is Dr. (Y/N) (L/N),” he introduced. “We’re with the FBI, we’ve come to ask you a few questions about your son and daughter-in-law, is that alright?”

“Yes of course,” she sniffed, opening up the door and allowing the two of you to enter the household.

Her husband sat on the couch a box of tissues placed close by and you and Aaron took your seats across from him.

“Can I get you two anything?” she asked.

“Oh no that’s quite alright,” you spoke up. “Your help is more than enough,”

She nodded and took a seat next to her husband, taking a deep breath and nodding her head for you to begin your questions.

“Do you think you could tell us a bit more about Josh and Lindsay?” Aaron asked. “What were they like as people, how did they interact with others,”

“J-Josh was determined,” his father started. “He was a top student through all his studies, that’s how he met Lindsay,”

“Psychology wasn’t his forte but he wanted the class...thought it would help him get into law school,” his mother said. “She tutored him and they became friends. Did everything together,”

“Did they-um did they have many friends? People they interacted with?” you asked.

“Just people from work on both ends, but they enjoyed going out and doing things together, concerts, movies, the likes,”

“And is there anyone you can think that for any reason might wish them harm?” Aaron added.

“No...everyone-everyone loved them,” she choked on her words and it made your heart break.

“I’m sorry,” the husband said. “but I don’t think there’s any other way we can help,”

You nodded and pulled out your card from your pocket.

“If you can think of anything don’t hesitate to call,”

The rest of the day seemed to move by in a blur, and before you knew it you were sitting in your hotel room, a bathrobe wrapped around your body as you relaxed in your chair with a cup of tea.

You could hear the shuffling in the room next to yours along with the sound of papers shuffling, right near the desk. Those walls must have been thin.

You slapped the wall,

“Aaron you better go to sleep right now!” you called and you could almost hear his heavy sigh from the other side.

Grumbling, you pulled out your phone and messaged JJ.

Come to my room I need a drinking buddy.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at your door and expected JJ, but when you opened it you saw Aaron on the other side. Frowning, you looked up at him, then down at your phone.

It seemed like you had texted the wrong number, and instead of a girl's night, you had just cornered yourself in with the person you were trying to get away from.

Well maybe getting away was a little strong.

“So you tell me to go to bed then you text me to come and drink with you. Sending some mixed messages Dr. (L/N),” he raised his brows.

“Just get in here,” you rolled your eyes, and opened the door wider for him to enter.

He came inside, not even hesitating to make himself comfortable on the bed, his back pressed to the headboard and arms crossed over his chest.

His tie and jacket must have been discarded in his room because he only wore his white button-down, the top few undone, and dress pants.

“Alright, pick your poison, it’s on me,” you said, opening the mini-fridge and displaying the alcohol inside.

“Forget the booze (N/N), come here,” he even reached out for you with his hand.

“Why Aaron?” you asked, stepping only to the edge of the bed. He came to meet you, on his knees up to the corner of the mattress. He was still a great deal taller than you,

“Because, you told me not to keep it in here,” he pointed to your chest. “This case...it’s unsettling,” he offered. “And I just want to hold my best friend for a little bit to forget about it,”

Best friend.

There it was again those two words that stung so badly, but the two words you kept clinging onto for dear life because it’s what was holding you to reality.

“Alright,” you caved immediately, “But-,” you said stepping away before he could get you firmly in his hold. You went over to your bag and pulled out the sweater, handing it to him. “Get comfortable first, you’ve been wearing this all day,” you tugged at his shirt.

He untucked his shirt from his pants and undid the buttons, sliding off the material from his arms while you held out the hoodie for him to slip his head into. After all those years it still fit you both surprisingly well.

You took his shirt to put on a hanger and bent down to check and see what pyjamas you had packed when you remembered that they were still in your dryer in the laundry at home.

“Shit,” you muttered.

“What is it?” Aaron asked, coming up to your side.

“I don’t have any clothes to sleep in,” but your eyes flicked to the collared shirt, it would be big and comfortable on you, at least you hoped it would be.

“I saw your eyes (Y/N), do you want to use the shirt?” he asked.

“Well it’s all I’ve got right now isn’t it,” you shrugged. “Go on Hotchner, turn around, nothing to see here,” you added while untying the belt of your robe.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he teased as he obeyed your wishes and you rolled your eyes at his antics. It felt like coming back from the night of the concert all over again.

You slipped off the robe from your shoulders allowing it to drop on the ground while you quickly put on his shirt and buttoned it up, missing the top few just like he had earlier.

Before you could say a word his arms were wrapped around you and you quickly spun around to hold him face to face.

“You always looked nice in my clothes,” he gave you a low chuckle and you savoured the sound. Something you rarely heard anymore.

He pulled you towards the bed, sitting again with his back to the headboard, only this time, he placed you in between his legs while you leaned your back into his chest. Breathing in you could faintly smell his cologne on the shirt of his you wore and before you could even recover from the immensely satisfying feeling it brought you could feel his nose and lips on the top of your head.

You steadied your breathing, mind drifting back to the case for a moment. They said you were safe because you weren’t together, but every single day it felt like you were his wife in every sense but the word.

—

“(Y/N) you’re staying here I don’t have time to argue with you on this!” Aaron was frustrated, no even angry, but you weren’t going to let that stop you from trying one more time.

The unsub had been located, he was holding another couple hostage at the university, he devolved fast, just like you had predicted he would. Despite everything, you thought you could still talk him down. Maybe get him to come in peacefully where no one would have to die.

But Aaron was determined not to let that happen, especially after the letter.

“Aaron listen to me please! I’ve taken so many hostage negotiations courses it would make your law degree look easy, just let me come with you! I’ll wear a vest!”

“(Y/N) he knows who you are,” he said firmly. “Even though whatever is going on in his mind is clearly fractured he was of sound enough mind to target you,” he pointed to your chest, but not in the soft manner he had done only mere nights before. “You’re staying here. That’s it, end of discussion,”

“Aaron-,”

“End of discussion,” he repeated. “In the field, I am your boss, and it’s my job to look out for your safety. I’m not taking this chance (Y/N), do you understand,”

“Yes,” you muttered.

“I said, do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” you spoke up, your mouth going dry and he nodded, walking away from you to get into the car. “Fuck my life,” you said the minute you entered the conference room where JJ was sitting, listening to the chatter going on over the communications.

“That bad huh?”

“I really need to get licensed to carry a gun then maybe he’ll let me fucking do something for once,” you rested your elbows on the table. “I just wanna go home JJ, I’m so tired,” you sighed, resting your head on the wood in defeat.

She placed a comforting hand on your back while you continued to listen in, waiting for more details, listening to what was going on.

But after a certain point, things became fuzzy until the radio clicked and things went silent.

“Did they-?” you asked.

“Everyone’s safe,” she assured you and your heart felt relieved, but that’s when the exhaustion kicked in.

From then until you got onto the jet was muddled. JJ was by your side the entire time making sure you were getting to where you needed to be and the minute you entered the plane and your head hit the couch you were knocked out cold.

“You think I was too hard on her?” Hotch said softly to Morgan who sat next to him, playing a game of solitaire.

“On (Y/N)?” the man bit the inside of his cheek and sighed. “Maybe a little, but I think she understands where it’s coming from,”

“What do you mean where it’s coming from, Morgan I’m her boss-,”

“But you’re also someone who cares for her deeply. You don’t need a profile to see that,” he said firmly. “And she cares for you too, in so many ways Hotch,”

“I know,” Aaron nodded, glancing towards his folded hands in front of him before his eyes flicked to your sleeping frame on the chair. “I know,”

—

When you entered the BAU’s office in Quantico late that night you thought you might see at least a few team members lingering but the only lights that were on were those in Aaron’s office.

You were just there to drop off the files, if you didn’t do it now you would forget later. Entering Aaron’s office, he stood leaning against the front of his desk, glancing down at some papers and scanning them, his eyes running back and forth furiously.

You coughed and he looked up, noticing you were there and immediately put his files down.

“I came to bring these back,” you said. “Before I headed home,”

“Thanks,” he said, taking them from your hands. “You know...about earlier...” he trailed off.

“Yes,” you nodded motioning for him to continue.

“I just,” he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. “Out there, when we’re out in situations like that, your safety is my top priority,”

Your safety.

Not the teams.

Not his.

Yours.

It sounded like something a spouse would say and before you could even filter what you were saying it came out.

“I’m not your wife Aaron,”

That made him frown. He looked at you curiously, his features softening when he saw the way you looked, almost hurt having to say that.

“W-What prompted you to say that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

You took a deep breath, throwing your hands up in the air and letting them drop to your sides with a shake of your head.

“I don’t know Aaron, you tell me,” you said. “I come and bring you food when you forget to eat, you’re on the other end of the line when I have a nightmare. I make sure you go to sleep early, you try to make sure I don’t die when we’re out there,” you listed. “Doesn’t this all sound to you like something people who are more than best friends would do for each other?”

Aaron listened avidly, hanging on to your every word.

“A-And I don’t know whether you’re trying to make me confused but I don’t understand why you hold me the way you do, why you make me smile, why do you look at me with your eyes shining like that Aaron? Because I keep doing all these things for you, I keep dragging you away from your job every once in a while so you can remember there’s a world out there that’s not filled with murder, and rape and the worst humanity has to offer, but I do all that...I take care of you...I’m your wife in every single way except one,” your lips were trembling at this point and you could see that look in his eyes, the one he got when he wanted to hold you, help you, protect you and say everything would be okay. “Wifes get love, Aaron. And I love you, but do you… do you love me?”

“Of course,” he whispered, without so much as a thought, finally pushing away from the desk, coming to stand in front of you, centimetres away.

You were no stranger to closeness with Aaron Hotchner, but this felt different. Again, it felt more personal. It felt like everything you ever wanted.

His hand came to cradle the side of your face, thumb wiping a tear away from your cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, that you didn’t know,”

You sniffed, nodding your head, your hands now pressed between your chest and his.

He brought your face closer to his until your foreheads were pressed together before he said,

“I want to say it for you, out loud so you know it,” he started. “And I want to kiss you so I can show it,”

You nodded your head again, feeling his lips brush gently against yours, a faint distant memory coming back from years ago, the taste of beer somehow still present on his tongue, but before he fully pressed his lips to your he whispered,

“I love you,”

And his lips were finally on yours. When they parted you almost whined, but he took your face, cradled in his hands and said it again,

“I love you,”

This time his lips met the corner of your mouth.

“I love you,”

Your cheekbones, two on each side.

“I love you,”

The tip of your nose, making you tilt your head up once more to align his lips with yours.

“I love you,” he said one more time, pressing his lips to yours so firmly it made your knees wobble and go weak.

You and Aaron had always made a good team, this was no exception. His lips moved with yours in such a rhythm, in such synchronicity one would almost think it was rehearsed, but you just knew each other that well. That was part of who you were.

In the end, there were plenty of things you had done and would come to do for Aaron Hotchner, the same from him to you, but by far your most favourite was getting to say I love you.

if you enjoyed this fic please consider reblogging! it's the best way to help creators get exposure!

special thanks to @itsalonglongwaytobasingse and @writingtoforgetreality for helping me with this one and letting me ramble about it 24/7

mr & mrs park.

synopsis : in which the task of killing your enemy is abruptly put on a pause when you discover their cute little secret.

pairing : mafia seonghwa x reader.

theme ( s ) : romcom, angst, action & smut.

word count : 50K ( i- )

there are three things you need to know before you read this.

one, you screwed up.

two, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

three, you’re holding onto a revolver.

Keep reading

s.kiyoomi + gf moments

☆— fem reader, crack, fluff

☆— a/n; i don't know what this is, i just had a thought and felt like writing it.. it could become a serie of events until the Sakusa Kiyoomi finally admits he loves y/n (?) idk, let me know if you like the idea😊

You have been best friends with Bokuto since you were young. Your friendship was so fun and purely like brother and sister that you even decided to move together once high school was over and your University period of life began. Even if you were very different in personalities, somehow you both worked together and couldn't imagine a life without him as your bestie-almost brother.

After some time living together, you got very used to seeing some people around the house almost everyday, his volleyball teammates.

First, it was Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi. Atsumu was the biggest flirt you have ever encountered in your life, almost to the point in which sometimes it annoyed you. In a good way though. He was a cutie.

While Kiyoomi was very chill and shy, he mostly kept to himself if no one bothered him; but he had the most snarky and filled with sarcasm answers for whatever antics Boo and 'Tsumu could come up with. You loved it.

Then Hinata Shouyo joined the team, and it was like a whirlwind uprooted everything in his path. He was the most outgoing and sociable and kind human being you have ever met.

And it all became like a routine. Everyday after practice, all of them would come to have dinner at yours and Boo's apartment. By this time, you already know all of them and how they all liked things and their meals. Especially Omi. He was a particular, rare especimen.

Bokuto had warned you before introducing him, how he did not like physical contact or how he wouldn't take off his mask if he wasn’t playing in a match or eating. He warned you not to feel offended or take it personal if he bluntly commented on how things were not clean enough or whatever.

But surprisingly, he had never looked down on anything in your apartment or even commented anything in front of you.

There was even one time he did comment in the middle of dinner, "I'm surprised how you maintain everything this clean and organized considering you live with Bokuto…"

"Hey!" Boo complained, mouth full of food, while everyone laughed.

That same night, Boo had pestered you about how the Sakusa Kiyoomi liked you. Of course, you couldn't believe it. The man barely spoke to you outside of those moments the team was present at your apartment. 

It was until one night, when everyone came of course after practice to have dinner you were already cooking, when he did something you never thought he would do.

Of course, the amount of noise they made even before getting inside the apartment was a clear sign they were almost there. Shouyo and Boo always came straight to hug, picking you up and squishing you hard as a greeting. Atsumu would fist pump and wink at you before throwing himself on the sofa, of course putting some other volleyball's team match on the TV. While Omi would simply bow slightly with his head, not even getting too close to you, standing on the entrance of the kitchen.

By this time, you already knew and respected each one of them and their ways to show how much they appreciated you.

"It smells so good, Y/N," whined Shouyo as he entered the kitchen and made his way to the fridge to pick something to drink.

Omi was so quiet you have not realized he had followed the red-mostly orange-head and was standing at the door of the kitchen.

"I'm glad you think that," you smiled happily.

"He says that about almost everything. He would eat a bug and say exactly the same thing if he's hungry enough."

To say that you were surprised to hear his deep voice speak that amount of words was small. Yet, you couldn't avoid finding it funny how he always got the cleverest answers and dark humor. So you laughed, while Shouyo pouted, drinking from the beer he took from the fridge–it was Friday night after all.

You kept cooking, smiling and listening to how Shouyo complained to his teammate how evil he was with him when he was all nice to him.

"Alright you two…" you meddled, smiling happily at the incessant noise from everyone around, "If you're gonna keep arguing, you could at least help on setting the table, right?"

They both nodded while moving around to find what they needed, still arguing, but now about something else which sounded like Shouyo's height. Omi loved getting on Shouyo's nerves when it came to his height.

"What's that, Y/N?" Shouyo suddenly asked, signaling to a set of a plate, forks, a glass and a mug that were separated in a corner of the cupboard.

"Oh. That's Omi's," you said, your attention anywhere but said man.

"I don't remember leaving my stuff here," he commented, with no mean intention in his voice towards you.

"No, I mean… I know you don't like your stuff mixed with everyone's, so I picked a set I always clean twice and kept it separated from everything else. No one touches or uses that but you," you answered him, still looking at the food you were cooking over the oven.

Oh, God, kill me now, was all you thought as silence reigned in the kitchen.

But then, you felt a tall, warm presence behind you. You knew it was Omi, Shouyou was not that tall–he was only a head over yours, while you knew Omi was much taller.

It was the first time the Sakusa Kiyoomi got that close to you and it shocked you to the core. But what surprised you the most was when you felt his chin rest on your head comfortably.

"Thank you, Y/N," you could feel the vibrations of his deep voice and the rumble of his chest on your back saying your name, his entire dark but comfy aura so close to you, all you could think was how good it felt.

If you would have turned a bit to Shouyo's direction, you would have seen him with his eyes open wide, like those funny cartoons where their eyes popped off their face to express shock. Thankfully, he didn't say anything, he simply turned on his feet and flew from the kitchen to the living room where Tsumu and Boo were.

"You're welcome," was all you could say, almost a whisper, as he comfortably stayed there, barely a centimeter of distance between his body and yours.

If you weren't shocked enough by that, you definitely almost collapsed when you felt one of his fingers timidly caress your hand that was not holding the spoon you were cooking with, resting next to your hip. It had been barely a touch, yet the warmth and little tingling it provoked made you take a deep breath to gather your mind straight.

If you hadn't before, now you definitely were falling for this rare specimen. 

Regulus: I'm going to bed

Remus: it's 4 p.m.

Regulus: time isn't real, stop oppressing me.

the enemies to lovers project | lee minho

𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙮𝙥𝙚: 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵; 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧

𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 – 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺, 𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵. 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: ~18𝘬+

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺!!! 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦! 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘩𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 >.< 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵! 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥!

prologue.

“You know I despise you, right?”

“Oh, despise. Such a big word, baby,” Minho drawled with an obnoxious smirk, the one that simultaneously made you want to rip his hair out and kiss those perfectly delectable lips of his, “If it’s any consolation, I abhor your presence as well.”

“Wonderful,” you crossed your legs, a smile creeping onto your face as you leaned backward in your chair, “So why exactly are you here?”

Minho laughed, “The same reason I presume that you’re here for. A hundred dollars to put up with you is a tempting offer.”

Keep reading

Life is the tillage

synopsis: with your mental health at an all time low, your old childhood friend welcomes you to recuperate on his humble plot of land. gradually you begin to rediscover the beauty of living — one rice paddy at a time.

tags: AFAB reader (called darling, love, sweetheart), childhood friends to lovers, reader deals with depression (NO mention or description of suicide/self harm), discussions of self worth, Japanese rice farming (probably inaccurate, but there are ducks and frogs!), food to communicate love, bed sharing, resolved romantic tension, eventual smut, no power dynamics, praise, oral sex + fingering (f! receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), aftercare

wc: 15.4k

The covers on the train seats are threadbare, withered with age and itching uncomfortably against your skin. Your eyes wander across the empty carriage, a cacophony of steel meeting track and old wheels turning. Not many people from the city took this particular route unless they were already residents — it was a little further out into the countryside, so much so that most found it an inconvenient place to visit. As the journey progresses the colour palette evolves, the grey landscape of the city fading gently into green and golden hues, accented by the blushing evening sun. 

In that moment the horizon appears seamless and unending; with barely a blemish of cloud the sky reminds you of a fresh bruise. Your throat becomes uncomfortably dry at the simple beauty of it and you find yourself looking away to the hands in your lap, tightly wrung and trembling. Somewhere out there, across timelines and universes, there may be a version of yourself that would never get the chance to see this. 

The thought ripples through your chest and sinks to the bottom of your stomach. Inside you there is a vast and deep cavern, the pit weathering more through every year that passes no matter how much sand you throw into it. Such a tangible absence, it was paraxdocially heavy, and you carried it everywhere you went. You’d ask yourself time and time again: how much longer until it all collapses, how much longer until the infrastructure inevitably breaks? 

Eventually it was too much to bear. I want to live, you’d decided. Though that brief moment of strength hadn’t lasted very long at all. 

I want to die, you think as you sink against the window, vibrations rattling through the thick glass into your temple. And then again — how much longer? 

The station comes into view, a small blip in a sea of fields. There, on the only train platform in the village, Kita Shinsuke is awaiting your arrival. A childhood friend and the buoy you lost sight of years ago, his grandmother remained incredibly tight knit with your family even after they’d moved away following your graduation. It was that very nurtured connection which led to your being here; people do talk, after all. 

“My Shinsuke is happy t’have you for as long as you need. He’s got plenty of room in that house of his”. 

He’d made quite a life for himself in the time that had passed. Rice farming wasn’t anything close to extravagant but you felt the path was completely tailored to him; it fit well around his shoulders and stopped right at the cuff. Kita had always been a stickler for routine, often accumulating small actions that ended up serving a much larger purpose — sowing seeds and tilling fields to eventually bear crops and fill empty stomachs. 

Though there is no fluffy white rice to fill your own, only shame and embarrassment. You spot him quickly through the muddied window, pale green overalls unbuttoned at the torso to be tied around his waist, hand raised and shielding his eyes from the sun to watch as the train crawls to a stop.

You quickly get to your feet, stumbling as the brakes jolt the carriage, and make your way through the automatic doors with suitcase in hand. The air is cool, a gentle caress paired well with the sun's stifling heat, and a shiver spreads along your back as Kita approaches. 

He calls for you, your name sitting right at home in his mouth, having missed the thick accent more than you realised. It reminds you of a much simpler time, where the only thing you needed to worry about was homework or tallying the points for the boys volleyball team. But even then this thing had been gnawing away at you. A thing that would always follow no matter where you went, slowly descending upon you even if you managed to outrun it for a few days. 

It would find you here, too. 

A deep inhale to collect yourself, the oxygen fills your lungs until they bloat and your shoulders straighten up, forcing a grin across your face that strains each cheek. “Kita,” you move to greet him properly and hope he doesn’t see through your puppetry, “it’s good to see you again”. 

Good is perhaps an understatement. He’d always been handsome but in your time apart he has grown, shoulders broader and arms much larger. His bangs hang over his eyes slightly, earth and amber reflecting back at you as the light bounces through them. His expression pinches minutely as he looks you over, searching for something you aren’t aware of, softening only when he meets your gaze. As he smiles at you, you find your own is a little less plastic. 

“I don’t want any a’ that formality here,” he says as he extends an open hand, wordlessly asking to take your luggage, “doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I’m still your Shin, alright?” 

His fingers brush along your palm as he grabs the handle and you release your grip, fist pressing to your chest and clenched to hold onto the warmth. “Alright,” you quietly assent, shrinking into yourself as his arm leans against the small of your back to guide you forward. 

Your facade must be weaker than intended, you think, if he feels the need to linger so closely like this. 

“I’m parked up just there,” you glance up to catch as he nods in the opposite direction, following his line of sight to an off-white truck decorated in spats of mud around the outer panels. As the distance lessens you can see a red-gold omamori hanging from the rear view mirror alongside a pale blue air freshener. 

“Hop in,” he squeezes gently at your waist once before reaching across to open the door for you, “I’ll put yer things in the back”. 

Curiosity piqued as you waited for him. You pinch the good luck charm between your thumb and forefinger, smiling at the soft scent of chamomile emanating from the hanging decorations. The truck was clearly an older model, a radio that only takes CDs in the centre console and handles on either passenger door to roll down the windows manually. But it seemed well loved, and Kita never complained about appearances as long as the job got done. 

The car rocks on its axle as he climbs into the driver's seat, sending you another soft smile as he leans over to flip down your sun visor and jostles your belt buckle. “Ready?” he asks, tending to his own seatbelt. 

You nod, swallowing the dry swell building in your throat. Somehow while being a young man that you now barely knew, he really was still your Shin, and you couldn’t comprehend how quickly he invited you back into his life. The levels of familiarity and comfort that you’d built all throughout your childhood and adolescence, it was all still there. Unchanged, waiting. 

“It’s not far from here. Ya might have to endure some bumps though,” he continues to speak over the hum of the engine and wheels turning loudly against loose gravel. The back of the seat is hot through your clothes, having spent the day absorbing the sun. 

“Yer quiet,” he comments, though not unkindly, and you grimace regardless. 

“Sorry Ki— Shin. I guess I just feel a little awkward and… guilty, for imposin’ on you like this,” you tell him. Especially because you’d been a terrible friend after graduation, so caught up in your own turmoil and rationing out the small amount of energy you had between work, that maintaining long distance relationships became draining. 

“You could never impose on me. I know it’s a slight ways’ out from where we grew up but my home is still yours an’ that hasn’t changed”. The memory of ten years old Shinsuke’s chubby little finger hooked around your own flashes through your thoughts, both sodden with rain as granny swaddled you in towels. You’d run away from home after an argument with your family, something childish and inconsequential, but so big to you at the time. 

Shinsuke had found you in your shared hideout, patted the top of your head as you cried, and then dragged you back to his house in the middle of a storm. “When yer sad ya’ can always come sleep here,” he’d promised, “granny’s house is your house too”. 

Quietly watching as Kita’s fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, palm pressing flat to turn it with each corner, a familiar sting spreads through your sinuses and you blink away the onset of tears. “Did… Do you know why I came out here?”

“All granny said is that you aren’t ya’self right now. And I’m not one to pry”. 

You exhale with relief. “Thank you, Shin”.

He hums, low and content. The glass windows vibrate in their frames as he drives onto a dirt road, either side shaded by wild grass. “The city isn’t for everyone. Yer always welcome to stay when you need a break,” he replies. 

The surroundings change, the hill faintly sloped, and as he pulls out onto another road you find yourself surrounded by a few acres of golden rice fields. At the end of the makeshift road is a two story wooden farmhouse, made up of heavy timber and uneven beams, covered by a traditional steep thatched roof. Across the landscape into the distance, you can see the silhouette of the Chugoku mountain chain. 

“All this is yours?” 

“Inherited all three hectares of it,” he breathes, voice tinted with faux exasperation and you feel yourself smile, “it’ll be time for harvest soon enough. Most of the ears are gold and beginning to bow”. 

“I haven’t got a clue what that means but I’ll assume it’s positive,” you laugh. The truck pulls up in front of a moderately small outhouse, stalling right where the tracks end, and he pushes down the handbrake before cutting out the engine. 

“When yer feeling up to it I’ll take you around the paddies and explain,” he sinks back into his seat for a moment, head turned to meet your gaze as he grins, “maybe I’ll even put ya’ to work”. 

Something about the mirth in his eyes and the charming quirk of his mouth strums your centre of gravity, a gentle swoop through your belly. “As long as I don’t get in the way I’d love to help,” you reply. 

Once again, for a split second you feel as if you’re being seen through, like your choice of words had given something away to him. “That seems to be a theme with you,” he observes, “don’t assume yer’ a burden to me. If you get somethin’ wrong I’ll simply correct ya, no harm done”. 

“Okay,” is your quiet reply. He softens considerably, hand falling heavily atop the crown of your head to reassure you before he begins to climb out of the truck. Your eyes fall closed, remembering the weight and the sincerity in his expression before following closely behind. 

Landing unceremoniously onto the soft soil, you begin to internally curse some of the clothing you’d brought along with you. Most were chosen for comfort, not for agricultural living, as proven by the awkward grip your soles have in the dirt. But Kita doesn’t comment, only offers an arm to assist you onto firmer ground, and the simple act is enough to wash away the exaggerated embarrassment. 

You often forget that most don’t think twice about the things you do. 

He insists on carrying your luggage and so you trail behind him in awe up to the house, taken by the beauty and craftsmanship woven into the structure. “This is beautiful Shinsuke,” you hear yourself say. 

He glances back over his shoulder to you from the veranda, one that appears to encircle the entire front of the house. “I had it re-thatched a few months ago with a bamboo frame. I read that they were built like this in the Edo period to look like hands in prayer,” he smiles. 

“It suits you”.

“Is that right?”

You step into the genkan, watching as he leans down to untie every lace of his boots, fingers hooked into the heel to pull them off gently and line them up neatly on the shoe rack. You feel somewhat sheepish for the rough manner in which you kick yours off in comparison, too lazy to undo any of the knots. He slips his socked feet into his house slippers and to your surprise, offers you a pair of your own. 

They’re a pale grey and closed at the toe, just like his own, and your heel sinks pleasantly into the thick sole. “I thought they’d be preferable over open toed since we’re headin’ into the colder months,” he says. 

“And the memory foam?” 

The corners of his eyes wrinkle behind thinly veiled amusement. “You always were easy to please”. 

Heat flushes to your face at the lighthearted teasing as he leads you further into the house. As expected it's big, meant to be occupied by a family of at least three generations, and decorated quite traditionally. To the left of the entrance is a pair of sliding doors leading to a tatami room with an unused irori in the centre, which connects further to a kitchen and dining area. 

“This upstairs toilet is all yours, but ‘fraid there’s only one bath which we’ll be sharing,” he says. Kita’s bedroom is the largest room on the first floor along with an extra tatami room that leads out to the veranda, while on the second floor there are three smaller bedrooms for you to choose from. 

“The one at the back of the house might be better if yer not wantin’ the sunrise to wake ya,” he offers kindly, noticing your deliberation. You take the one at the back and he carefully sets your luggage onto the mat beneath the window. 

You breathe deeply and take in the space, embraced by the distinct scent of wet earth and rice straw. Kita watches in comfortable silence as you acclimate, the realisation that this would be home for a few weeks finally settling in. It was nothing like your old cramped apartment back in the city — the room was minimal, but so imbued with nature that you didn’t feel constricted at all. 

His footfalls are light as he crosses the threshold to slide open the closet. “The futon is in here, I aired it for the better part of yesterday so it’s ready for you to use,” he says, “it’s gettin’ late so I’ll start on dinner. If ya like I can get the firewood goin’ outside so you can take a bath in the meantime?” 

You should have expected, given the time period it was built, that this house would not have a regular bathroom. A fleeting sense of fondness flickers through you at the confirmation that Shinsuke, since the day of his birth, has lived in a manner beyond his years. He’d always held great appreciation for tradition, and you’re happy knowing that love permeated all avenues in his life. 

“A bath would be nice,” your hands wringing together against your stomach, smothering any passing anxiety about burdening him. You wanted it to be just as it was, you wanted to be the person he remembered. 

As promised, Kita had kindled the firewood at the back of the house and the water was warmed through the hot pipes, your body sitting deep in the basin as it laps at the curve of your neck. It’s a little funny finding his products lined along the shelves of a room trapped in time, the bright purple plastic of his body wash — again, chamomile — so out of place next to a todanaburo bath. 

The rippling sounds echo as you move, ringing in your ears with each pass of cloth over skin. It would be lonely if not for the occasional clattering of pots and plates bleeding through the gap in the door from the kitchen. 

You don’t soak for very long, conscious of the food going cold. The towels left folded atop the laundry basket are new, thick and soft between your fingers. His forethought makes you smile, as it always has, reminded of his earlier words. If you truly were easy to please, then you wondered why you felt burdened by your own needs. 

Dressed in your pajamas, sleeves to your wrist and pant legs loose around your ankles, you join Kita in the tatami room by the kitchen with the ends of your hair still damp. He has set out a low table, cushions either side for you to sit on, and the inori has been covered. In the time you took to bathe he has changed into a muted grey jinbei jacket and light sweatpants, 

“I was curious if you’d be usin’ that,” you motion to the square recess in the floor, voice announcing your arrival. He glances up at you, pausing as he sets out the small dishes in the centre, and hums amusedly. 

“Hasn’t been used in decades. Decided to leave it there to keep the house's character,” he says, lining your chopsticks vertically exactly an inch from your plate, “but it’s good to feel close to yer ancestors too. I imagine they would’ve shared meals here often”. 

You get to your knees, heels pressed either side of your thighs as you take your seat across from him. The sweet scent of teriyaki sauce floods your senses and you observe the meal set in front of you. Sautéed vegetables of red, gold and green are resting atop a serving of white fluffy rice, along with neatly cut blocks of tofu. 

Your eyes meet as your hands simultaneously come together in prayer, and you say thanks for the food. 

“Donburi?” you murmur appreciatively, chopsticks in hand as he motions for you to eat, Kita’s warmth lingering along the stem, “it smells amazing”. 

“I prepped the tofu a few days ago an’ would’ve hated to waste it,” using deft fingers he takes a piece between his own chopsticks and dips it into the small sauce dish, “nothin’ special but I hope it’s to your liking”.

You cushion a small cube of tofu with some rice and bring it to your lips, hand cupped beneath to catch the runaway grains. The sauce is tangy along your tongue, soft hints of ginger and umami absorbed into the lightly crisped coating. It’s good, and you tell him as much. 

There is no sense of awkwardness, no pressure to find your footing and engage in conversation. Kita had always been a quiet eater, preferring to show gratitude by savouring the food on his plate, and so the two of you eat together in familiar silence aside from the occasional passing of dishes. Somehow, everything tastes better in his company. 

As the evening winds down Kita pours you each one small cup of sake to rinse your palate. Having finished your meal first you try not to watch as he tends to the last of his food, stomach not quite full. “Did you want to go over your day to day expectations now that I’m here?” you finally ask. 

With his free hand he swipes the corner of his mouth and licks the stray sauce from his thumb, humming contemplatively. 

“I get up every mornin’ around five. I like to catch the sun as it comes up and start working early,” as if reading your thoughts he pinches a piece of tofu between his chopsticks and leans forward to put it on your now empty plate, “so if ya wake up and I’m gone don’t panic”. 

“Alright,” you murmur gratefully, lifting the golden cut cube to your mouth, “and when you’re not busy, will you show me the ropes?” 

“Course I will darlin’,” he replies. The pet name falls so naturally from his lips you almost miss it, warm beneath your skin as it registers. “I’ll even introduce you to the ducks, if that’s what ya want”. 

Unexpected, a grin curls at the corners of your mouth, excitement rousing in your chest. “Shin, you have ducks?” 

Judging by the smile in his eyes, your delight is contagious. He reaches over to take your empty plate while you’re distracted and begins to stack them atop one another. “I do,” he says, “raising ‘em alongside the crop is good for keeping pests away. And they help with fertilisin’ the seedlings too”. 

You make a small cooing noise, withholding the onslaught of endearment building in your chest that spreads restlessly to your crossed legs as your knees bounce slightly beneath the table. 

The mental image of Shinsuke handling little bundles of yellow feathers, no bigger than his palm, brings you a monumental feeling of joy. Just as your eyes would be drawn to a small stroke of white across an otherwise black canvas, you are hesitantly lured in, and it happens so easily that your thoughts can barely catch up. Maybe the misery you carried had never been your fault — maybe you’d been in the wrong place all along. You yearned for a reason why things ended up as they were and you would accept any, naïve and juvenile as they might be, because you don’t think you could handle another just because. 

Maybe this could be it. 

After you have helped clear the table the two of you retire to your respective bedrooms, no artificial streetlight outside your window nor people passing by in the night to fill the empty air, and your fleeting happiness was swallowed up once again. It’s there that you remember; hope can be addictive, and the withdrawal is twice as cruel. 

Morning comes between blinks. One moment you are memorising the marks in the ceiling and in the next you are bathed by intrusive beams of light. The sun had risen far above the mountain line, so the day would’ve already started for Shinsuke — that knowledge should be inconsequential, but you still felt heavy for having missed breakfast. 

The sky, while bright, is slightly grey. You slip into something a little warmer, tugging thick work socks up over the cuffs of your sweatpants to hug your calves. He’d told you in passing that he had spare wellie boots that should fit you because your own shoes weren’t especially suited to wandering damp fields. 

Alone with the freedom to look closer, the house is different at this hour. You notice personal touches here and there that you hadn’t seen the night before — framed family portraits, his highschool year book free of dust, polaroids of you both as children; some older trinkets that you remember, too. Things his grandmother must’ve passed down to him, as you can only recall them in her own cabinets. 

Tucked beneath a touristic magnet of the sky tree is a new post-it note addressed to you. Shinsuke’s writing had been methodical and clear for as long as you’d known him. Penmanship was important, his family having taught him that traditions must be recorded and legible for future generations. In dark ink against teal-green, he instructs you to eat the food he left for you in the fridge. 

And whether it’s today or next week, come join me when you’re ready. 

The two onigiri awaiting you are wrapped with cling film and well shaped, assumedly made with the leftover rice. Your teeth sink into them, tender as the grains fall apart on your tongue, the same kindling of happiness settling in your stomach with each swallow. He made these with you in mind, perhaps he’d even woken up before his alarm to do so. 

You savour it — both the faint saltiness and the effort — and then make your way to the genkan with the goal of finding him. As promised there are a pair of navy wellington boots lined up by your own shoes, only one size up, which doesn’t matter much with the thickness of your socks filling the space. 

The breeze is a pleasant intermingling of warm and cool, billowing through your hair and guiding the darkening clouds further into town. The path leading to the fields is mostly flattened soil, soles scuffing on the occasional piece of gravel as you go. Thankfully Shinsuke isn’t too far from the house, having already made his way across a good two acres since day break, soaked to the knee with dirt. 

Strenuous work had always looked good on him, better when surrounded by a canvas of dull gold. Charcoal tipped bangs clinging to his forehead once he wipes away the sweat, rolling his neck as he rolls his shoulders to relieve the tension, chest heaving to catch lost breath. He never complained, choosing to enjoy each brick in the journey as it was laid, and you can’t help but envy him for it. 

He shuffles through the wet mud and bends every few steps to push a gloved hand into the drainage. You don’t call for him until the distance is shorter, gaze lingering for a while longer on the pink crawling up his throat with the effort. 

“Mornin’ Shin!” 

The sound of your voice doesn’t startle him. He stands upright and pulls off a glove with one hand to shield his eyes, looking over in your direction. Once noticed, his fingers lift in a subtle wave to beckon you, then he points them over his shoulder. “Got some guys I want’cha to meet,” he shouts. 

Sure enough, a few metres behind him paddling in the shallow field, are some adult ducks. Eight that you can count, bobbing and weaving between the yield, nipping their beaks along the water's surface. Propelled by your own excitement, with a first step your boot sinks into the sopping mud, each one more exaggerated than the last as you struggle to unstick yourself. 

Shinsuke merely pulls his remaining glove off and watches as you wade towards him, the levels only a few centimetres deep but still forcing exertion. When you’re near he offers his arm, mouth twitching into a soft smirk. “Good job,” he murmurs. 

“Shut up,” you huff petulantly between breaths, peering around him to see the flock between the stems of the crop. Any exhaustion is immediately forgotten 

“They’re so cute,” eager to meet them, you don’t notice that he only has eyes for you, “do they have names?” 

“Tried at the beginning but they’re easy to confuse with one another. I mostly stick t’numbers,” in your periphery you notice him reaching into his breast pocket, pulling out a small bottle of sun protection, “they’re here to work. They aren’t pets”. 

He takes advantage of your distraction, pushing the hair from your face and tucking it neatly behind your ears before smearing the suncream across the swell of your cheeks, and when your nose wrinkles in faint embarrassment he dots it onto the tip. Stammering, you ask: “why do I need to wear sun protection? It’s fall, and the sky is overcast—!”

“We could be out there for a while. Even if it isn’t summer anymore, ya gotta be careful,” he tells you. It feels almost as if he’s gently scolding a child for asking the obvious. A breeze dances through the crop and brushes pleasantly against your arms, patient while you allow him to massage the lotion in. 

“I can do that myself, y’know,” you murmur. He hums, a hand lingering at the curve of your throat before he pulls away. 

“I know. I just like takin’ care of you,” he replies. There’s no hesitance or forethought, he just says it as he does everything else — like he means it. Born from his need to do things a certain way and your younger self's sensitive disposition, he’d always had a penchant for doting on you. Even as you’d matured that habit never went away. 

Something dark twists itself into your sternum like clockwork and you attempt to smother it. Maybe he just thinks you’re incapable, it suggests. This part of you — the one that cannot accept anything with good intention as true — is the thing you hate most about yourself. 

“Sorry,” you rasp, looking to the space between your bodies and finding your rippling reflection beside muddied boots, staring right back. 

“Why?” he waits patiently, but you don’t have an adequate answer. “Have you ever known me to do something I don’t want to do? To do something without purpose?” 

You shake your head, peering up at him with squinted eyes as the clouds part, thinning to allow the sun through. The light swallows his frame, an outline of white gold as it hits his back. He’s beautiful and it’s familiar, because to you he has always been this bright. 

“Then just say thank you,” the water shifts as he begins to turn, his arm held out to help you walk through the sludge, “you aren’t a nuisance to me”. 

With his body no longer shielding the sun, warmth passes over you. His palm is soft as it kisses your own, left untouched by endless hours of hard work thanks to how religiously he moisturised his hands every day. You’re reminded again that small things do matter. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. 

Shinsuke guides you without complaint, adapting to your heavy gait while seamlessly making his way through the fields. He pauses every so often to lower himself and overturn the soil, right glove back on while the left is bare and intertwined with your fingers. 

You take the time to appreciate your surroundings. Given how he leans more toward traditional practices you’d expect smaller, irregularly shaped paddies; but these ones are larger and rectangular in shape, much more fitting for machinery. 

You pause as he regards you, “think ya can do me a favour now you’re out here?” 

The questioning tilt of your head is an acceptable response. He smiles and takes an ear of yellow rice between his fingers, the younger spikelets still coloured green, prying away a tiny kernel and handing it over to you. It’s light in your palm, and you shield it from the oncoming gust of wind for fear it’d blow away. “Test this for me. Chew it carefully between yer teeth an’ let me know what’cha think”. 

Cautious, you put it into your mouth and roll it over your tongue before catching it between your molars. You’re gentle as you squeeze it, feeling the furrow of your brow. He tilts his head as he waits, the field breathing around the two of you. It was mostly firm, but still a little soft, and you tell him as such. 

“Will you be harvesting soon?” you ask. 

“It is around that time,” he replies, “the flooding has been much smoother this year, so we can probably get to drainin’ soon”. 

A little unsure of what he meant, you still find yourself nodding despite him not being able to see it. “I always make sure the levels are stable… like t’keep it around seven to eight centimetres this close to harvest,” he continues. 

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

He releases a sound of acknowledgement, glancing up at you from where he’s crouched. “Partly. I’m also lookin’ for something,” he says, gathering a dark mass into his loose fist before getting to his feet. Curious, you lean forward to get a better look at it, and startle at the glassy pair of eyes blinking between his fingers. 

“It’s… a toad?” 

“A frog. His legs are too long to be a toad,” he kindly corrects, turning his wrist to smile at the creature, “we had a lot of tadpoles this season. Amazing, isn’t it?” 

“Risky maybe. What if they get hurt or stepped on?”. Heat flashes beneath your skin as you realise your hands are still interlinked, but you make no move to let go, instead using the other to gently stroke over the frog’s head. Faint laughter builds in your chest as it squirms. Shinsuke watches you grin with an air of fondness.

“They’re resilient an’ they try their best with what they have,” he murmurs after a quiet moment of contemplation, “it's not only that. The rice around us is sensitive to the slightest change and requires a lotta’ care. Would ya say I’m burdened because of that?”

Somehow, he has circled the conversation right back to the start, right back to the heart of it all. You level him with a withered glare, and he takes it in his stride, unperturbed as ever. Shinsuke can appear unassuming and plain, but you knew he could be skilled in forcing people to confront their own manner of thinking. 

“That’s different. This is your job,” the words catch awkwardly in your throat, and you swallow down the swell. Legs kicking where they hang below his fist, the frog slips from Shinsuke’s grasp and jumps into the paddy with a resounding plop. 

“The difference is I’m not burdened by my job, because I love doin’ it”. Light reflects through his irises, giving the amber hue a ethereal glow, and you notice just how much determination is behind them. 

“Just try to remember the things ya don’t like about yourself aren’t just exclusive to you — they’re all around us in all manner a’ ways. Even if ya do think you’re awful because of them,” he says with a squeeze of your hand.

The impending afternoon heat sits heavy on your shoulders, conscious of your palms growing clammy. You’re overwhelmed, ears of rice grains blowing against your arm, feeling the imposing weight of his stare. “I don’t— I don’t know what to—” say, or do. 

He exhales, tightens his grip on you despite the sweat, and smiles. “S’alright, no need. Just something for ya to think on”. 

You nod, listening to the distant calls of his flock of ducks. They appear to be enjoying themselves, getting their fill of bugs and pests from between the paddies. Shinsuke follows your line of sight and encourages you with a soft tug. 

“I suppose we should eat too,” he says, slowly directing you towards a narrow path leading back to the house, “let me fix up somethin’ for ya”. 

An objection sits uselessly at the back of your throat, the sinking pull in your chest returning for a brief moment. You wanted to do something for him, too. You wanted to apologise again, so instead you say: “thank you, Shin”.

You recognise the pride in his expression, and buoyant once more, your footsteps are much lighter.  

Eventually you cultivate a routine you’re content with, though you’re still terrible at waking up early you try to join him in the fields before lunch even when your mood protests. Shinsuke explains how to milk the rice, how he’ll drain the field and what’ll come after with the harvest, satisfaction bleeding through into his voice. There’s now a bone deep ache in your thighs and your arms, unused to taking on so much manual labour, but it feels good. 

The first week comes to an end and the days unfold, each turn of the earth a stark and new beginning — no longer do they blur seamlessly into one another like before. 

You’re less hesitant with each step. As the minor changes slowly accumulate, you begin to notice as the pressure releasing from your body, and Shinsuke does too. “Y’look relaxed this morning,” he’d comment with a smile, “it’s good to see ya settlin’ in”. 

Though you’re happy with the changes, you don’t get comfortable with them, always bracing for another wave of loathing. You’re under no illusions. Nothing is better, but it is easier. After all, walking on a casted leg does not mean it isn’t injured, only that it is supported enough to bear weight. 

The nights are the hardest. Silence in the country is far louder than you anticipated, and the only other thing you can hear is the voice in your own head. Tonight is a little worse. Something about the nothingness — the gaping maw behind your ribs, the way the warm air sits, the dense shadows surrounding the room — is overwhelming. 

You kick off your quilt and leave it rumpled at the end of the futon as you struggle to sleep. You knew you’d need to hang it out again in the coming weeks. Maybe Shinsuke would be content with you cleaning the house while he was out, just to show your appreciation. To hold some purpose. 

Restless, you get to your feet. The sliding door is quiet as you open it, a soft sandpaper sound, but you grimace at the creak of the floodboards when descending the steps. Through darkness your eyes adjust, finding familiar shapes and silhouettes around the house, meandering your way slowly towards the entrance. You’d always known Shinsuke to be a light sleeper, and only hoped that you hadn’t woken him. 

You release a startled gasp once you reach the genkan, left unsteady by the sudden drop as you step down into the space, and wait with bated breath for any other movement from his bedroom. Nothing. Exhale. You slip your feet into the shoes you’d first arrived in and leave the laces loosely undone, unlocking the front door with a gradual turn of the key. A click echoes into the hall.

Noise floods your senses. The pitched whirring of the cicadas is much louder out in the open, almost likened to a distorted electrical current. Under the dim moonlight you observe the canvas of land, tip toeing along the veranda and seating yourself on the edge. Having absorbed the day's heat, the wood is still warm beneath your bare thighs.

A breeze passes through the thin fabric of your shirt, skin pebbling as you cross both arms over your chest. The rice crops barely feel it, standing slightly taller than the week before. Things grow according to their environments, and no two things have the same needs, that is what you’d learnt in the short time you’d spent here. 

It's widely common knowledge, and yet it shakes the foundation of your own perspective when applied to yourself, pushing you to look inwards. A part of you felt angered by how uncomplicated it needed to be.

Would you hate someone for their struggles, for how their symptoms manifested? Would you hate someone for lashing out because of their own hurt, for protecting themselves? Would you judge and be unkind to someone for things out of their control? 

Of course not — yet you had made that assumption about the people around you, and of Shinsuke. You ran from everyone that loved you and told yourself it was for their sake, when it was really because you were scared. Arrogant as it was, you made yourself an unlovable exception. 

You have been so cruel to yourself. 

The realisation stings, radiating through your sinuses and lining your eyes with tears. You blink to will them away, a few strays spill over to dampen your cheeks, but as if in a state of inertia you cannot seem to stop. 

A wet breath catches in your throat, disrupted by the jump of your sternum, and a light flickers on in the room behind you. It’s then that you notice the sliding doors leading from Shinsuke’s bedroom to the veranda, a shadow moving behind the screen, gently tugging it open. 

“Y’okay there sweetheart?” he murmurs, the sleep still thick in his voice as he lowers himself beside you, “what’re ya doin’ out here?” 

He’s in loose pajama pants and a short sleeved shirt, the muscle of his thigh pressed comfortingly against your own as he mirrors your position. An orange glow from the lamp by his futon illuminates his expression, giving warmth to the concern there. 

You swipe the back of your hand along your nose, smile brittle and eyes sore. “Sorry I woke you Shin,” you tell him, “I was just thinking”. 

Forefinger hooked, he catches a tear that has fallen to your jawline, but doesn’t mention it. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks. 

“Just… about why I came here. About how you let me stay, despite the fact that I never offered a good explanation”. 

He hums, acknowledging that he heard you, and that he was still listening. Your hands wring together anxiously as you continue to speak. “Even so, you knew I’d been struggling, didn’t you?” 

“You’ve always been too hard on yourself,” he returns quietly, “there’s no need to explain if ya can’t find the words. You don’t need ta’ justify anything to me”. 

A knot in your sternum, inches thick and splintering with age, loosens with his gentle words. What, why, when. How much longer — explanations were all anyone had ever wanted from you. But Shinsuke held no such expectation, he respected your need for time and never pushed. 

You wanted to try. 

“It wasn’t so bad when we were younger. There was always– something, eating away at me. But it was duller,” as you speak it begins to weigh on you, and so you lean against his side for support. “Then I started to feel like I could never get anything right, and it leaked into every corner of my life. Soon enough I felt like I couldn’t even form relationships properly, that I embarrassed myself every time I spoke, and that everyone else could see it too”. 

“So I isolated myself,” you admit through shame, “but the guilt that came with it was awful. I didn’t know what to do– I still don’t”. The words, slightly warbled and cloying, cause Shinsuke to press his lips together in a regretful thin line. For a moment you think he too might’ve finally seen the worst of you, his body shifting as he gets to his knees and moves away. 

“Wait here,” he reaches to cradle the back of your head for a moment before beginning to stand, “I’ll be right back”.

As promised he returns to the veranda only a few minutes later and repositions himself at your side. Held in his careful grip is a photograph, slightly curled at the edges and well loved. In the centre is an old picture of you and Shinsuke as children, clearly candid judging by how preoccupied you both are with the sparklers in your hands. It had been taken on New Years Eve, each wearing traditional clothing that you faintly remember being far too tight. 

Swallowing the swell in your throat, you look at Shinsuke questioningly. His facial expression, always a little bit softer around you, is kind. “I don’t know if you’ll remember, but after this was taken y’had a real big cryin’ fit because you couldn’t spell yer name with the sparkler like I could,” he says. 

You laugh, but the sound is wet and nearer a sob. With his free hand, Shinsuke extends his arm and swipes away another stray tear sliding over your cheek, the touch lingering by your mouth. “While you were wailin’ like a newborn you said to me, ‘it’s not fair Shin, I’m never good at anything!” looking back to the printed memory, the warmth leaves your skin and returns to his lap.

“Granny told me once that we’re all whole people, but people can’t do a whole lot on their own,” he continues to speak and you watch as he gently traces his finger over your younger self, “sure, ya wasn’t good at everything. But y’had all the things I lacked, did a lot of the things I couldn’t — how else could I have cleaned our sliding door tracks, if not for your scrawny little hands?” 

You breathe a huff of amusement and the exhale seems to deflate you, your eyes burning as you curl against his shoulder. He welcomes it and rests his head atop your own. “What’s your point, Shin?” you ask. 

Being so close to his throat you can feel the faint vibration as he talks, drawn to the comforting heat thrumming through his skin. This was still friendly and you tell yourself it could be passed off as such, despite how he nuzzles into your hair. 

“You’ve trouble fathoming yer worth because you measure it by your successes,” he says quietly, “bein’ in your own head too long like that can distort the truth. The point is that ya don’t see yourself the way I do, or how anyone else does for that matter”. 

Shinsuke leans forward minutely, lips moving against your temple as he talks, mimicking a kiss with each word. “Don’t deprive yaself of livin’ just because you don’t think you’re doing it right”.

The moon is then overcast by cloud, and you’re left only with the intimate light of his bedroom flooding out through the sliding doors. “Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll try”. 

He thanks you. It’s enough for him, it always is. All Shinsuke ever asks is that you try your best, because the outcome never more meaningful as the effort before it. 

“Then, how about joinin’ me tomorrow?” you glance over to him as he tilts his head to meet your gaze, pulse poignant in your chest at the close proximity. Though you can barely see them, you’re sure there are faint freckles dusting his cheeks, kissed by the summer months. 

You’d like to kiss him too, you realise. 

“Tomorrow?” 

He smiles. “I’m goin’ into town to drop something off at granny’s, and was planning to get some grub from Osamu on the way home”. 

“I’d love to. I’ve missed her,” you reply. Shinsuke’s grandmother had been something of a matriarch on your street, watching multiple generations pass. She’d done more for you than you could ever thank her for, with both her kindness and her unending maternal love for you. 

“Plus I haven’t had ‘Samu’s onigiri since graduation,” the memory of it was a fond one, and if you concentrate you can still taste the pickled plum, “it’d be nice to see him again”. 

“I thought so too,” he nods, taking a final cursory glance across his land before eyes fall back to you, tongue subtly wetting his lower lip. He’s all warm toned — his face, his voice, his skin. 

“D’ya think you’ll be able to get some kip now?” 

His question plucks at the magnetism strung between the two of you. Deep in your gut you feel as if your answer might create a fork in the road, a before and an after. 

“Probably not for a while,” — not yet, I want to stay with you a little longer — “you can head off, though”. 

“Not without you,” he huffs, his larger hand encircling your wrist and encouraging you to your feet, “ya need to rest. If not in yer own bed, then in mine”.

Your mind briefly blanks, and he takes advantage of the long moment between your synapses connecting, guiding you into his bedroom. The futon is big, much bigger than your own, spread wide over the tatami flooring and headed by two thick pillows. 

“In… in yours? Is that really okay?” 

He slides the door closed, shutting the latch and giving one short tug to check it’s secure, glancing over his shoulder to where you are standing listlessly. The click echoes in your chest. “It’s fine with me,” he says, “is it fine with you?” 

You observe as he places the childhood photograph back on one of the shelves with more care than necessary. It isn’t the bed sharing that concerns you, but the implication that it could mean something more. 

“Alright,” you breathe, kneeling onto the covers and kneading the plush where your hand sits. It feels expensive, and was likely one of Shinsuke’s only selfish purchases. 

Your head sinks into the pillow gently, laid on your side and turned inwards, watching him settle next to you. The lamp is still on, mellow toned light magnifying the intimacy as he faces you, only a few inches of distance between your bodies. 

You swallow the urge to apologise. “Thank you, Shin”. 

“Thank you,” he returns reverently. Confused, you hum in question and he shakes his head, hints of a fond smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve done more for me than ya realise”. 

“Like helping with the farm?” 

“Like makin’ me happy,” he says. 

You weren’t sure what it was you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Reflexively you turn into the pillow, wanting to hide your smile and the truths written all over your face. The comfortability and yearning that oscillates inside of you when around Shinsuke only seems to spread, felt in the tips of your fingers as yours stretch to brush his in passing. 

You realise that love, something your consciousness had agonised over and grieved, was always been woven into your muscle memory; as if straddling a bike for the first time since you were a child, in your descent of a steep hill, your body remembers. 

You reposition your legs beneath the sheets and try to ignore how little you’re wearing. Influenced by the tension your voice is quiet as you reply: “I’m happier here too”. 

After he stretches across you to turn off the lamp, lingering far longer than he needed to, you fall asleep surprisingly quickly. Alongside the muffled cicadas had been the whirring of a small fan in the corner of the room, filling it with white noise, and his shallow breathing lulled you into security. This was not the first time you’d spent a night with him, though you hadn’t had a sleepover in many years, and you aren’t sure this could be likened to one held between children. 

You wake briefly a few hours later to the first glares of sunlight, squinting as you peer up at Shinsuke, still in the futon but sitting upright as he rubs the sand from his eyes. He notices your movement in his periphery and smiles, settling his hand atop the crown of your head to stroke your head, as if to soothe you. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, “we don’t have’ta leave ‘til this afternoon, so catch up on resting”. 

In no position to object, already halfway there as his nails lightly scratch your scalp, you let yourself have a few more hours. The next time your eyes open he’s gone, his side of the bed made up – corners perfectly overlapping, not a crease in sight – and the pillow is cold. There’s disappointment, but also a sense of relief that you needn't confront your feelings just yet. 

The air seems to have cooled further into the morning, no longer irritated by how your shirt clings to your skin. As you stand you notice a clock on one of his bookcase shelves, blinking digits back at you, informing you that it is almost lunch. Your gait is stilted as the circulation rushes through your legs, still sleep-mussed as you stumble through the lower floor rooms towards the kitchen in search for a glass of water.

“What’re ya lookin’ for?”

“Fuck, Shin—!” 

You flinch at the sound of his voice, carrying through from the main tatami room leading to the kitchen where he stands quietly in the doorway, a steaming mug held between his hands. He’s already in casual clothes, a pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that clings nicely to his arms. He lifts it to his lips, hiding a smile as he drinks, and it’s unbearably attractive. 

“I was just, uh. It was a warm night so, I was gonna drink some water and maybe try makin’ lunch before you got back, but…” your rambling trails off into silence, feeling uncharacteristically shy. 

His eyes flicker to your bare legs for a moment. “If yer willing to get ready now we’ll head out an’ see granny earlier before we stop by Onigiri Miya,” he offers. Externally there is nothing out of place, yet there is still something tangibly different that you’re tempted to reach for. 

“Okay,” you accept, shifting awkwardly between each foot, “I’ll— I’ll go get dressed then. Can you fill up a bottle of water for me?” 

He nods once in agreement, and then again to the stairs, “I’ll be waitin’”.

So you rush each step, wincing at the weight of your footfalls as you go. You hadn’t packed much in the way of making a good impression, or with the thought that you might see anyone other than Shinsuke. In hindsight it had been naive to assume he’d let you isolate yourself all over again, but you’d truly forgotten just how close-by Osamu still was. 

You get yourself ready with haste. Shinsuke stands by the genkan amusedly as he watches you flit from room to room in a cartoonish state, toothbrush in one hand and hairbrush in the other, the buttons of your shirt needing to be fixed more than once. “Alright,” you huff a deep breath, hooking a finger to fix the tongue of your shoe where it folds inwards, “let’s go!”

The journey into the residential part of town is only slightly longer than the first. You lean your head against the window as it rattles, enjoying the vibration through your temple as you observe the many people walking along the pavements. There are a few families that you recognise, even some old students that’d been three years your junior in highschool. 

You suppose not everyone felt trapped here, like they had something to run from or prove by enduring the wider world. They all looked happy. 

The vehicle begins to slow as it crawls up to the curb, a familiar house coming into view. Shinsuke’s grandmother Yumie is sitting beneath the shade in a cushioned bench, a chestnut coloured walking stick propped up beside her. Her carer must be somewhere in the house, you think. Apparently it had taken her a good few years to accept the help, often getting by with the assistance of her neighbours. 

“What is it you were bringing for her again?”

“Some of the duck eggs,” he says, taking a moment to observe her wistfully through the windscreen before moving to unbuckle his seatbelt, “she likes ‘em soft boiled”.

Yumie looks up as she hears the sound of your passenger door falling shut, eyes narrowed into a squint as she struggles to see. Shinsuke approaches her with ease, hand lifted overhead in a wave while he calls out to her, and you watch her grin at his voice. “Shin-chan,” she croons. 

He crouches in front of her and lowers his head to her knees, bowing in greeting. “It’s good to see ya in high spirits granny,” you hear him say. He smiles at her and takes her hands into his own, squeezing them affectionately before her eyes are naturally drawn to where you linger behind him. She visibly brightens.

“Hi again granny,” you move closer as she beckons you, “you’re lookin’ healthy as ever”. 

“And you’re as bonny as the first day I saw ya,” she smiles, and the pink in her cheeks pay her back some of her youth. Shinsuke glances between you, his expression a clear mirror of hers. 

“I’m gonna give the eggs to Murase while you two chat, how’s that?” he suggests, straightening his back as he stands, “we’re not stayin’ long today, so I won’t hog any of your extra time”. 

You worry your lower lip between your teeth. “Are you sure that’s—”

“Thank you darlin’,” Yumie cuts in smoothly, “I appreciate it. So away with ya”. 

Shinsuke follows her instruction dutifully, hand brushing your shoulder with intent as he passes, casting a final smile your way as if to say good luck. Yumie titters at the interaction and pats the space next to her. 

“How’ve ya been faring over on the farm?” she inquires quietly, a playful air about her as if you were children sharing secrets, “has my Shin been good to you?” 

“He’s always been good to me granny, you know that,” you murmur back, entertaining her whims, “I’ve enjoyed staying with him”. She hums, much in the same way Shinsuke does, indicating that she’s pleased. 

“Ya sound a lot happier than when we last spoke,” — the phone call, her suggestion that you pack your things and come back home, you remember well — “had me worried, pet. You’re like another grandchild to me”. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe the words and lean to take her hand, smaller and wrinkled in your own. She has gotten a little shorter too, you can tell. “I’ve… It's been hard. But I want to be better”. 

Her grip tightens, but it’s still weak. “You always were sensitive, had a heart like a bruised apple,” she says, crows feet deepening by her eyes, “wanted so badly to be like everyone else ya couldn’t see how wonderful you were as yourself”. 

Overhead, the sun begins to dim, smothered by grey. If you concentrate you can see that they’re coasting along quite quickly, and the darker clouds are not far behind. “I always found something to be sad about,” you recall noncommittally as you glare up at the sky, “I thought I was doing everyone a favour by pulling away”. 

In your peripheral Shinsuke comes out onto the front step, waiting beneath the door frame with no intention of interrupting. Yumie clicks her tongue, “nothing wrong with being sad, darlin’. It’s alright to ask for help — all wounds deserve healing”.

“Because whole people still can’t do a whole lot on their own, right? 

“That’s right,” barely noticeable as it starts, rain droplets sparsely litter the pavement, “Shin-chan tell ya that one did he?” 

Shin-chan is starting to look anxious, you think to yourself. You grow restless in your seat, wanting to move Yumie indoors before the weather worsens. “He did,” you murmur, glancing over at the man in question and wordlessly asking for his assistance, “we should go inside, granny. It’s startin' to spit”. 

She squeezes your hand once more before reaching for her cane, and turns to you a final time, smiling as she lowers her voice. “You deserve love, too. He won’t let’cha forget that anytime soon”. 

Shinsuke appears before you have the chance to reply discreetly, unperturbed by the secrecy of the moment and extending his arm for her to use as support as she pushes her weight against her cane, “time to head in, granny. I gave Murase yer duck eggs and he’s makin’ shoyu tamago”.

She vocalises her excitement, though rasped and tinny in her throat. Yumie had been an older woman for as long as you’d known her, so much so that you and the other neighbourhood children would gather to try and guess her age. But she’d still been spry, always keeping up alongside the other parents. There is melancholy in knowing her body was beginning to slow. 

The words blur together slightly as you gradually walk toward the house, rainfall quickening into a chorus of pitter-patter, white noise overlaying their voices. The spray is thin and abundant, the kind that hurts your eyes and stings when wielded by wind. A young man, presumably Murase, meets Yumie at the door. He’s clean cut, hair buzzed neatly to his scalp and dressed in a collared polo shirt, a bow at the back of his neck where his apron is tied. He bows upon noticing you. 

Shinsuke lingers with hands at her back as Yumie is helped into the entryway, his anxiety apparent despite trying to hide it out of respect. “Make sure you have enough time to stay when y’next visit,” she titters, turning to pat him gently on the cheek. He nods, and you do the same. 

“After I’ve drained the fields an’ finished the harvest I’ll have all the time in the world for ya, granny,” he replies, eyes closing as he smiles. 

“Good. Now you take proper care of each other”. 

Shinsuke’s touch is warm against the small of your back as he curls around you, your heads ducked closely together and giggling as you rush to the car even though it shields none of the rain. By the time you’re seated in the truck the fabric of your shirt is clinging to your shoulders and droplets are whipping against the roof. The engine sputters as it starts, evolving into a smooth hum as Shin leans across the dashboard to turn the heating on, pointing the small fan in your direction to give you more of the hot air. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, skin pebbling at the sudden change in temperature, “shit, that was fast. Didn’t think it looked like rain today at all”. 

“It’ll pass quickly. See,” — he points across the skyline and you follow the line of sight, finding a clear span of blue in the distance where the darker clouds end — “we should be fine. D’ya still wanna call in at Osamu’s?” 

“Yeah I want to. Does he know we’re coming?”

“I let him know before you woke up this mornin’”. 

“Ok. It’s been a while since we last saw one another,” you say, pressure returning to your chest along with the guilt, “since I last saw… everyone, really”. 

You’re grateful that he doesn't immediately baby you; you left people behind who cared about you. There were plenty of reasons for it, no ill intent, but it still hurt. Them and you. Shinsuke had always been comforting because you knew he would always be honest, and you didn’t really want to be told it wasn’t your fault. He steers with both hands on the wheel, fingers dancing over the curve, each tap joining the cacophony of water against glass and tire against gravel. Hearing the hesitance in your voice, he says: “a sincere apology goes a long way. People are more forgivin’ than you realise”.

You nod silently, fiddling with a loose thread hung from the seam of your pants, and focus on the trails left behind by the rain running down the windscreen before they’re wiped away. “Remember when we used to bet on which droplet would reach the bottom first?” 

Laughter rumbles in his chest, putting you at ease. “I remember ya always used to cheat by changing which raindrop you were followin’,” he replies. 

“I have no recollection of that,” you mutter petulantly, lips jutting into a pout to conceal your smile. The downpour begins to clear up, followed by a potent air of petrichor, and you watch as people sheltered under doorways and bus shelters flock back out onto the busier streets. 

You notice the Onigiri Miya sign in the distance, fixed above the door and displaying his logo to the public. You knew it was just his first restaurant and he wanted to expand his business, but the pride you felt at the sight was insurmountable. 

It’s moderately busy as you enter together. There’s a small line, so you join the end and use the time to survey the interior. Like Shinsuke, Osamu had always favoured things that were a little more traditional, and that was evident in his space. There’s a banner of the shop name written in japanese calligraphy, various artworks hung throughout the walls in appreciation of the local agriculture, and mahogany stained furniture that only adds to its character. 

At first there is a younger woman waiting at the cashier but you pick up on the familiar ring of his voice from the kitchen, loudly carrying through as he ducks beneath the curtain hung across the doorway and trades places with her for the time being. 

Osamu is broader than you remember him being; so clear in your mind is the image of him as a boyish second year, hair coloured grey in opposition to his brother's blonde. Now he stands tall, carrying himself with a natural air of confidence, looking as if he is right at home talking to his patrons from behind the counter. Shinsuke waits patiently beside you, shuffling further up in the line every few minutes, and you feel the prick of his stare as you observe your junior. 

Eventually it is your turn to approach, and Osamu’s eyes meet yours in a double take, his expression opening up as he grins. The tension in your muscles unravels — he is happy to see you. 

“Yo, ‘Samu,” the casual greeting falls from your lips before you can even think, still a habit even after all the years apart, “it’s good to see you again!” 

“Yer a sight for sore eyes, that’s for certain,” he folds his arms atop the counter and leans forward to regard Shinsuke as he speaks, “Kita-wan mentioned ya came back, but I thought he might’a finally started hallucinating after bein' alone over there for so long”. 

Shinsuke huffs a breath of amusement, and you try not to react as he rests his hand by your hip. “Watch yourself. Stop makin’ me sound like a recluse, or I’ll stop giving you the family discount”. 

The familiarity of being with them both swaddles you, and you feel yourself falling back into old shoes, surprised as how effortlessly the shadow fits. Osamu’s head falls for a moment in exasperation, hung between his shoulders as he snorts, before he takes off his cap to run a hand through his hair. 

“It’s brown again,” you comment abruptly, and his movement stills. 

“Ah,” his eyes brightened with understanding, “I forgot that you’d already left before I dyed it back. Whaddaya think?” 

“It suits you well,” you swallow the lump of guilt forming in your throat, remembering Shinsuke’s words, “everything… all of this, it suits you ‘Samu. You should be proud, and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch”. 

Like wax to a flame, his face softens into a knowing look. “Don’t worry about it, we’ve all got our own thing going on. Yer here now and that’s what counts so,” — as he ducks to grab something beneath the counter Shinsuke strokes his thumb against your back in soothing circles and heat flashes through your body — “all I ask is you enjoy the food I lovingly made ya”.

He settles a to-go bag on the surface top, and still warm between your palms when you pull it closer. “I’ll be sure to do that,” you return with muted happiness, then glancing up at Shinsuke, “we both will”.

There’s a stilted moment of silence that you immediately pick up on, Osamu’s gaze flickering between the two of you and measuring the lack of distance, a brow raised in obvious suspicion. “What?” you murmur defensively. 

“Nothing’!” he hooks the cap back over his hair, tucking the stray hair behind his ear as he smirks, “just glad to finally see ya together after all that pining in highschool”. 

“It’s— it’s not like that,” you stammer at the implications and attempt to move away from Shinsuke’s proximity only to be kept in place as his fingers squeeze your hip, attention drawn to him as you ask: “right, Shin?”

But Shinsuke says nothing to help, only looking at you from the corner of his eye, the slight squint an obvious giveaway that he’s trying not to appear amused. Flustered, you gently slap his chest and pull away with the food bag tight to your chest, “whatever, I’m leavin’ before this gets cold”. 

Osamu covers his mouth as he laughs, calling out to you as you back away, “oi, make sure you come back again. ‘Tsumu is gonna be so mad he missed ya otherwise”. 

“I will!” you promise. Shinsuke circles around you in your distraction to get the door while lifting a hand to bid Osamu goodbye, the breeze swelling and carrying the smell of rain into the restaurant. Thankfully he hadn’t parked too far from the entrance, and you hasten to walk ahead of him, avoiding his mirth. 

The truck rocks slightly on its axis as you throw yourself into the passenger seat. Pulling the heavy door shut, you place the bag of food between your legs and keep your thighs together to keep the heat from escaping, glaring over at Shinsuke as he buckles his seatbelt. He remains nonplussed and announces “lets get ya home”. 

You find that the drive back is always much quicker, overcome by a sense of déjà vu as you’re taken back down the flattened dirt road leading to the farm, welcomed once again by the Chugoku mountain-scape. By the outhouse you spot a few stray ducks adventuring along the path, wingspans spreading as they’re startled into flight by the oncoming vehicle. 

He comes to a stop, pushing the handbrake down with a resounding click and muttering something under his breath about the wet mud. “Let me get out first an’ check you aren’t gonna sink in them shoes,” he says. 

So you wait, watching in the rear view mirror as he walks around the back of the truck contemplatively, surveying how saturated the soil was after the rainfall. Gripping the handle of the to-go bag as he unlocks your door for you, he offers an arm to help you in getting down. “Doesn’t look too bad here but I’ll have’ta head out and look at the water levels in the paddies,” he continued. 

“You should eat first,” you insist, finally breaking your silence with a thoughtful frown as he lets you down, “maybe we could get our wellies on and eat as we walk?”. 

Shinsuke smiles down at you, black tipped bangs hung low over his eyes. He’d need a haircut soon, you think. “Really getting into the gist of livin’ here, aren’t ya?” there’s an affectionate intonation to his voice, and again you’re met with the urge to kiss him, “let’s do that then. I wonder what he whipped up for us”. 

He leads you to the house unnecessarily with the flimsy excuse of not wanting you to slip, but you don’t want to let go of him either. Whatever has been kindling over the past week — over the many years you’d spent together — seemed to finally be coming to a head. At some point you’d need to confront it. 

After wearing them down your boots no longer leave blisters, the skin of your feet finally used to the constant movement and friction that came with wading through the paddies. Minor things like that are what helps you realise just how big of a change you have made; even the muscles in your back feel stronger, your posture a little straighter, more confident in the way you navigate the land. 

Osamu’s food is just as delicious as you knew it’d be. The rice is fluffy and warm in your mouth, the fillings tangy on your tongue, paired well with the crisp late afternoon air. Before coming here you don’t think you could’ve imagined ever feeling this at home again, not just in any place but inside of yourself. 

Even though it is late into the month of fall, you feel ripened. 

Fortunately, the water in the paddies are barely disturbed and unneeding of attention. You return to the veranda with mud caked around the soles of your boots, sitting along the edge to slip out of them, banging them together over the side to get rid of the excess.  

Shinsuke does the same. “Y’can leave them by the steps. I’ll hose them down later,” he suggests, and you concede. 

“Shin?” you softly call out to him, close at his back as you enter the genkan and gathering your courage, “why didn’t you say anything back there?”

“It’s nice seeing ya a little flustered,” he admits with an easy smile, watching as the back of his shoulders lift into a shrug, “besides, it’d make me a liar”. 

He turns as he notices you have paused in the hallway. “Be clear what you mean by that,” you sound breathless, heart bloated with hope, “please”. 

Anticipation heightens as he comes back to you, steps kept cautious as if he’s wary of your reaction, stopping only a few inches away from you. His adam’s apple bobs, swallowing before he speaks. 

“I mean it’s exactly like that,” he emphasises the words, like he truly wants you to believe them, “I mean it feels as if I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you”. 

Your body slacks with the next exhale, giddiness bubbling in your throat as you laugh, swaying forward into his chest. His arms embrace you, wrapping around your back to hold you upright, and with your ear by his breast you can hear his heartbeat. It’s fast. 

“Even when I’m a mess?” you ask. He hums in affirmation, the vibration of it akin to a purr. 

“Even then”. 

You tilt your head and he meets your gaze, barely a hair between you, so close you could count each eyelash. You’re anxious to touch him but not out of fear, moreso a sense of restlessness, yet you're wary of overstepping; it feels good to see those same emotions reflected back at you. 

“Me too,” you recite his confession back to him, “for as long as I’ve known you”. All the times you’d thought the worst of yourself, he had been there, and he had loved you. 

“Can I kiss you?” his irises are slowly being swallowed by the pupil, tongue dipping to wet his lower lip. You nod with bated breath — there’s nothing you want more. 

He leans forward, lingering as your noses brush awkwardly and he laughs, turning your mouths until they fit. There’s sanctity in the way he kisses you, palms to your cheeks, cradling you as if you really are something precious. 

The first is relatively innocent. You part only to say his name, and it leads him right back to you, this time with lips agape to take you deeper. All the effort put into repressing your yearning over the years springs forward, like a band pulled taut and released. His tongue tentatively licks into your mouth, searching for any discomfort and finding none. 

Your hands lift to grope along the length of his arms to his chest, allowing yourself to touch everything he’d give you. He smiles languidly against your mouth, breathing a laugh into the kiss, and arousal pools honey-thick in your belly. It continues like this —  things like time and surroundings are held in suspension, content just to have and hold one another. 

“Shin,” you sigh happily, the name still muffled by his mouth. 

He pulls away, a soft wet sound as you separate, a hand still cupping your cheek while the other threads into your hair. “Why’d you stop?”

“We should talk about this,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the skin beneath your eye as he ignores your groan, “m’not going any further til we do”.

“Why do you have to be so reasonable?” 

“Because I want to do right by ya”. Cat-like, you turn into his tender touch at the admission. You shouldn’t have expected anything less — it was Shinsuke after all. 

“Where would we start?” you sag with assent, feeling his chest shake as he laughs. 

“How about you tell me what’cha want?” lithe fingers curl to lightly scratch your scalp. The swell of his cheeks are blatantly pink, even under the low light of the sun flooding into the hallway. With enough time to collect your thoughts you manage to count twelve freckles; seven on the left and five on the right. His question is difficult to answer, not because you didn’t have one, but because you still weren’t sure you deserved it. 

Sensing your reluctance, he ducks to kiss your temple and clarifies: “Let’s say just for tonight. Where do you want this to go?”

Thinking in terms of the present was much easier. What you wanted now… all your mind could conjure was him, him, him. You wanted to kiss him again, to see parts of him you’d only ever imagined, to see the tan lines around the thick of his thighs. Still, admitting that was the hard part. 

“I want you,” he exhales an amused huff and you try not to pout, “don’t— you know I’m not good at asking for things”. 

His voice is low, slightly rough where the words are thick in his mouth, a glimmer of hunger beneath half lidded eyes. “Sorry, darlin’. How about I tell you what I want too?” 

You murmur agreeably, the nod of your head feeble. This was such uncharted territory for the both of you, you couldn’t understand how he was being so confident about it. “Tonight I want to make you feel good, an’ then tomorrow I want to wake up to your pretty face in the mornin’. That's it”. 

It was so simple, so honest. The heat in your belly deepens. “Then take me to bed,” you say. 

The futon is somehow softer than you remember, your body rolling back atop the sheets and ruining the perfectly lined edges as Shinsuke follows you to the head of the bed, mumbling sweet nothings into your ear as he goes. He moves the pillows to cushion your head, traversing a path of kisses from your cheek to the curve of your throat, giving no resistance when you pull him back to your mouth. 

The seams gradually seep into one another until your senses are clouded. He’s all you can think about, all you can feel, his weight heavy above you as your bodies rock together in tandem. “You’re so beautiful,” he pants, gently nipping your lower lip between his teeth, “you're sure this is okay?”

“More than okay,” you moan into his mouth as his cock presses tight against your sex, the friction relieving some of the ache, “are you—?”

“Fuck,” he undulates his hips when he feels your thighs tighten. “Yeah. I wanna make you cum on my tongue, can I?”

You stutter out a plea and he moves, a little wide eyed and triumphant. “Let me know if y’need me to stop,” he says, carefully working the material of your pants down your legs and taking your underwear with them, “and make sure to tell me what ya like, right?”

He parts your knees and you throb at the feeling of his breath along your inner thighs, hooking them over his shoulders when he lowers further, hands squeezing appreciatively as he pauses to kiss every piece of you. Wanting to watch his expression, you support yourself on your elbows and see as he loosens his jaw to taste you. 

You shudder at the first roll of his tongue through your folds, relaxed and smooth, followed by a chaste kiss to your clit. He repeats the motions, testing different patterns and pressures. “Got such a sweet pussy,” he breathes, meeting your eyes as he circles your entrance, pressing himself impossibly close and fucking you with his mouth. It sounds so wet, both his spit and your arousal on his chin as he takes his time coaxing you into bliss. 

He’s purposely teasing you, observing your surface reactions and learning what you like just for the opportunity of giving you a little bit at a time. It’s unfairly good, hyper sensitive as your body coils tighter and tighter, yet never enough to crest. Your clit aches and the impatience is enough to set your embarrassment aside, so you reach to spread your folds for him. “Please Shin,” you whine. 

You feel him grin, giddiness bright in his eyes, “don’t worry, I’ll let ya cum sweetheart”. He gently sucks your clit between his lips and your chest rises with your hips as you arch into him, fists curling into the sheets at the push of a finger at your entrance. He sinks into you until you’ve taken him to the knuckle, languid as he strokes them upwards and out, his other hand tightening around your thigh once you begin to squirm. 

As you grow pliant, head tilting back into the pillow, his tongue grows tense and he massages tight circles around your clit with the tip. He finds the right rhythm and repeats it again and again until you’re teetering at the edge, waiting for the final push. His name catches in your throat, pitched and desperate, bearing down onto his wrist feverishly as you reach for it. 

“M’gonna cum,” the warning falls short as you moan, “fuck— Shin, you’re gonna make me cum”. 

He hums, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your clit. Your body seizes for a moment as your orgasm washes over you, back arched like the spine of a bow, and he doesn’t stop; tongue flickering back and forth unremittingly with fingers pumping in and out of your pussy as you pull him in. He keeps you ashore, gradually slowing his movements to guide you through each wave as it passes, until your muscles are completely pliant. 

He lowers your legs back onto the futon, hand slipping beneath your shirt and pushing it up to fold below your breasts, appreciating the length of your stomach as he makes his way to you. “Incredible… looked so beautiful… did so well for me, love,” he kisses each individual praise into your skin until he comes into view, arms braced either side of your head. 

“Still feel okay?” he kisses your lips briefly and you drag him back into another, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“Yeah. I’m…” you exhale, laughing breathlessly into his mouth, “...you’re unfairly good at that”. 

He joins you, the exhilaration contagious. This was your childhood best friend, and your arousal was on his cheeks. “I’ve had some practice,” he admits in amusement, though there is a faint pinch in his brow when a thought visibly crosses his mind, “you have too, right?”

“I have. Just not for a while,” you reach to smooth out the crease, sending him what you hope is a comforting smile, “my libido was… nonexistent, at some points”.

He shifts on his knees between your legs, cock hard and straining in his jeans, yet his expression is nothing but understanding as he nods. “We can stop now, if ya feel like you’ve had enough,” he says. 

The statement almost makes you cry, overwhelmed not only because of the love that he bathes you in, but because something that should be common decency feels so monumental to you. “No,” you reply quietly, cradling his cheeks in both hands. You don’t think you could ever have enough of him. 

“I want you to fuck me”. 

“I don’t have any condoms,” he warns, “I wasn’t expectin’ this to happen now, so—”

“If you’re comfortable pulling out I’m fine with it,” you gingerly suggest.

While he sits back to take off his shirt you pull your own over your head, discarding it onto the floor beside the futon and crossing your arms across your chest as you wait. The musculature of his abdomen shifts as he bares himself, revealing fine curls of hair between his pecs, more leading from his navel into the waistband of his jeans. 

The groan of relief as he undoes the top button spreads straight to your pussy, thighs squeezed together to smother the feeling only to begin reflexively rubbing them in search of friction. You knew from the clothes he wore that he wasn’t as lean as he’d been in highschool, having gained not only muscle but some fat, too. It made him look broader — thicker.  

It’s hard to shut down that line of thought as it starts. You wonder if he sees you differently too; perhaps you aren’t what he’d pictured you to be, or what he wanted. But with the dulcet call of your name you meet his heated gaze, watching him palm at his cock while he drinks you in.

“Don’t hide yaself,” he moves to gently pry your arms away from your breasts, “look so beautiful laid out for me like this. Wanna see all of you”. 

And with the reverence he directs at you, your insecurities are smothered. “You too Shin,” you wrap your fingers around his cock, still tucked in his briefs, and enjoy how he bucks into the touch. “Let me see all of you, too”.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and he nods as if he were heeding your instruction. Reaching between your bodies, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, dragging the fabric over his cock and down his thighs. 

Saliva pools beneath your tongue at the sight of him. His dick springs back, hard and subtly curved to the left, the tip blushing rouge. The base is covered with neatly trimmed hair, dark rather than silver, and his stomach jumps as you run your finger through it from his stomach to his pelvis. “Even your cock is pretty,” you comment under your breath. 

“I can hear ya,” he murmurs, crowding into your space until skin meets skin, shaping himself around you until he’s the only thing you see. You tilt up your chin wordlessly and he kisses you docile, hands trembling where they’re curled against his chest. His cock is hot against your thigh, and you roll your hips up to encourage him. 

You cinch your legs either side of his waist, feet hooked lazily at his back as you slip your arms around his neck. “Make me feel good like you promised,” you grin. 

Humming with fond amusement he repositions himself, his cock sliding smoothly through your arousal, plucking the soft gasp from your mouth as he bumps against your clit. “I’ve got ya sweetheart,” he lines the tip up and you feel yourself clench in anticipation. 

Swaddled by the weight of his body and supported by the thick plush futon beneath, he sinks into you slowly as if he’s savouring it, just as he does with every meal. Patient as always, he waits a few moments for you to adjust, littering featherlight pecks along the curve of your neck. He feels girthier than he looks, but the stretch is more gratifying than it is painful — the drag of his cock as he pulls out even moreso.

“Fuck, baby,” your hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head as he begins to find pace. Your breasts shake with each thrust, nipples pebbling under his touch, attention attracted to the way they bounce. He looks mystified, his jaw relaxed to take each pant as it comes, a deep groan reverberating in the back of his throat. 

You tighten around him and something in his eyes brightens wildly. Excitement, giddiness. He leans his forehead to yours, sharing your breath and swallowing your moans, pushing deeper until he finds the rhythm that has your fingers curling against his scalp. “There?” he mutters, the baritone of his voice echoing through you, “doing so well for me, love. Got no idea how good ya feel”. 

The space between your mouths fills with murmured praises, disjointed curses, the call of his name over and over. He speaks low to you; erring on a whisper, as if they’re only for you to hear, and the intimacy of it settles warm in your chest. 

“Please don’t stop. Keep— just like that,” you gasp as you feel the familiar pull through your centre, simultaneously pliant and coiled while you try to meet his pace. A hand falls heavily at your hip and he holds you still, unrelenting even when he begins to curl into himself, rasping that he’s close. 

“Let me feel you cum on my cock,” he shudders as your thighs tremble at either side of him, nipples grazing the soft hair on his chest as you keen, digging your heels harshly into the small of his back once you feel yourself slip. Pleasure floods through your senses, brows pinched in awe and momentarily weightless as the second orgasm hits you.

“That’s it darlin’. Shit,” you can barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “need to pull out. Feels too— m’gonna cum”. 

“Please,” you blink away the haze as you run your hands along his shoulders and back, relishing the clear desperation in his expression. Your feet unhook, limbless as all rigidity bleeds from your body, and with a final groan he’s able to push himself away from you. 

You barely have time to miss him as he pulls out, left pulsing around emptiness as you ride out the minor aftershocks. Knelt between your legs with a hand fisted around his wet cock and his chin tucked to his sternum, Shinsuke leans over you in haste. After three rough strokes, he cums across your stomach. 

His shoulders rise and fall with exertion, blush tinted with a golden hue from the late afternoon sun. He sags forward onto his clean hand to support his weight over you, and as the clarity returns to his eyes a boyish smile works its way onto his face. He looks smitten — happy. This must be what afterglow is supposed to feel like. 

“That was…” he huffs a laugh, “...incredible”.

You brush the damp hair from his forehead tenderly, incognisant of the cum drying to your skin. Somehow, you think you want to cry again. “Better than you imagined?” you tease, exhaustion befalling you. 

Perceptive as always, he notices. “Better than I ever imagined,” he repeats in agreement, turning to kiss the inside of your wrist where your hand has slipped to cradle his cheek, “you wait here nice an’ sweet and I’ll get’cha cleaned up”. 

You don’t want him to go but you trust him to come back. And he does, swiftly moving through the house with a damp cloth while naked as the day he was born. He must’ve run it under lukewarm water, gentle as he wipes away the mess he made on you. “Feelin’ okay? Are you sore or anything?” he asks. 

“No,” just satiated, you think. Your thoughts are quiet and your limbs are heavy. 

“Yer all worn out,” once satisfied he slips the sheets out from underneath you and covers you up, cloth discarded to the side in favour of running his fingers through your hair, “get some rest, just an hour or so”. 

Already halfway there, you surrender to the inevitable, opening your eyes to glance up at him as you reach for his hand. “Stay?” you mumble. 

He rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles. “Couldn’t get rid of me if ya tried”. 

His side of the futon is still warm when you wake, but he isn’t there, and the room is dark. You roll onto your back and wince, suddenly feeling some discomfort. Through the sliding doors you hear movement; the sounds of oil in a pan and ceramic cups being set at the table. It spurs you into consciousness and you push away the covers, glancing back to set them neatly by the corners just as he had done before, then make your way to the kitchen after getting dressed. 

You’re met by a light western style dinner, something with egg, though you aren't sure. Still sleep mussed, you kneel and settle onto your cushion with the tatami soft beneath your shins, and as he places your food down he leans to kiss your cheek. The heat lingers there and crawls to the tips of your ears. 

“How can… how can you just do that?”

You’d expected some kind of awkwardness or stumbling, as would be natural on the path from childhood friends to a romantic relationship. There were bends and forks that you no longer needed to be weary of — still, that didn’t mean you wouldn’t instinctively hesitate after all the years of ignoring them. 

But Shinsuke only smiles, warm wrinkles of amusement at your flustered question. His eyes are bright as they meet yours, slightly squinted and sincere as he speaks. 

“It’s easy,” he says, “because it’s you”.