𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞

No Place He’d Rather Be

Pairing: Daycare Teachers!Sope 

Genre: The Fluffiest of Fluff| Domestic Vibes

Word Count: 5.3k

Prompt: Chocolate Covered Faces

Rating: G

Summary:  Yoongi gets called to help out at Jin’s daycare and the following is a small, fluffy oneshot of him realizing Hoseok’s wonderful at childcare and that he’s fallen head over heels for the man.

A/N: @apotatomashedbybts I’m so sorry it took me so long ; w ; this was changed and revised so many times but I hope the end result is still enjoyable. This was almost a Taekook easter bunny thing but i missed the window oops. Please enjoy and feedback is always welcome~

AO3 Link

Yoongi sighed as he nervously ran his hands down his pants leg. Today was his first day as a helper for a daycare owned by his close friend. He normally wasn’t much of a people person, and high-energy kids would surely take a lot out of him, but Jin, the owner and his friend, had all but begged him to help out for at least a month while he tried to find someone to fill in.

Worldwide Smiles was the product of all of Jin’s love and hard work, having invested all of his time and money to open a large daycare in Seoul that took in elementary school-aged kids. Jin had hired several close friends to take care of the kids with Namjoon and himself as the caretakers for the children from the fourth and fifth grade. Taehyung and Jimin for the first through third grades, while Jungkook and Hoseok had taken over the children in both pre-k and kindergarten.

Jungkook was going off to college, and since he had signed up for morning and afternoon classes, he wouldn’t be able to assist Hoseok anymore until he graduated.

That’s where Yoongi came in, as per Jin’s request. The older man had asked his long time friend to step in until he could find someone to permanently take up the position.

Yoongi stopped outside of the room with the sun painted on the door, lips pursed as he heard the chaos unfolding inside spilling out into the brightly colored hall. He inhaled deeply and twisted the door handle, taking a step inside.

Almost immediately, a hand shot out in front of his face and he flinched, letting out a startled scream.

Keep reading

Some good ol’ unhinged Kaz Brekker (+ridiculous doodles). Hats off to Freddy Carter for slaying it this season, just nonstop outstanding performance!

Better than Perfect

You meet a cute rapper at the BBMAs.

Request: I would like to request a Yoongi x Reader Oneshot in which the reader is a young Singer-Songwriter and they meet at the BBMAs (it’s the readers first time there) :)

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Genre: Flooooffy fluff

|mlist|

“You’re kidding.”

Sana shakes her head, biting her lip to hold back a grin. “Cross my heart. You’re nominated for Top New Artist!”

“Oh my god!” you shriek, jumping up and down. “I didn’t think– I can’t believe–”

“Hey, you earned this.” Sana’s eyes go from gleeful to focused in a second. “Now, we need to take advantage of this while we can. You’re not performing, which is fine– it is only your first time there. As for your outfit … I can cash in a lot of favors to get you something from Gucci’s new line, and then we have to practice interview questions… I think we can find you a late night spot–“

“Sounds great,” you interrupt, clapping your hands. If you let Sana go into Full Agent Mode, she won’t come back for a while. “I’m gonna head to the studio, text me when I can, y’know, do anything.”

Sana nods, gripping your arm. “Alright. Y/n, I can’t tell you how happy I am for you.”

You blink hard to hold back tears. “Th-thanks.”

“Get going, superstar.”

Twenty minutes later finds you in the extra room that you converted into a music studio when you first moved to the city. Biting your lip, you scribble lyrics into your battered notebook. Sure, you can dance– sort of– and singing is a strength of yours, but for you it’s always been about the lyrics. Nothing matters more to you than the message you send, and finding the perfect rhythm and syllable count to convey that message is always your goal. You’re just working on a new song, tapping out a beat on your thigh, when your phone rings.

“Hello?”

“AAAAAAAH!”

You laugh. “Hi, Sunmi.”

“You got nominated oh my god I’m so proud I’m already crying why didn’t you tell me?!”

You lean back in your chair. “I found out less than an hour ago, girlfriend.”

“That’s literally too long,” Sunmi whines. “I need time to plan your BBMA-winning party.”

“You know for a fact that I won’t win– my first nomination? No way.”

“You’re winning or I’m fighting you,” Sunmi insists. “You’re good, y/n, really good. You just need to go to the BBMAs and be your beautiful badass talented self and they’ll be throwing trophies at you.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

Sunmi scoffs. “Not as terrifying as me if my best friend doesn’t win. Call me when you’re getting ready for the BBMAs so I can help out.”

“Will do,” you laugh.

“Oh, and do you know Korean?”

To anyone else, it’s a weird question, but you’ve always been a polyglot– you pick up languages with ease. You’re fluent in English, Japanese, Spanish, Italian, Mandarin, and Russian.

“Not too well, but I’ll practice. Why do you ask?”

You hear Sunmi giggle. “Definitely practice, and no reason.”

You sigh in bemusement before hanging up and going back to your lyrics. You’re working on a power ballad, and you’re struggling with the balance between empowerment and unkindness. As much as you’d like to be strong and opinionated in your songs, you can’t afford controversey right now. “Having something doesn’t mean anything… I’m mine alone, don’t need a ring.” You stare at the words before scrunching up your nose and crossing them out. The lyrics need to be perfect.

Time passes, and soon enough the awards show is in less than a week. You’ve spent the last month practicing everything– interview questions, polite clapping, walking in heels, and (just in case) an acceptance speech. You’ve also worked on memorizing the names and faces of all the other nominees. It’s a lot, but at least you can prepare.

“Who would you love to collaborate with?” Sunmi reads from an index card.

“Probably Ariana Grande,” you reply with a smile. “She seems amazing.” Breaking character, you shake your head. “Was that too vague?”

“I think you’re good,” Sunmi replies, tossing the index card aside and reaching for the next one. “Sana told you to be vague, after all.” She squints at the latest question. “How does it feel to be nominated for Top New Artist alongside blah, blah blah?”

You giggle at your friend’s impatience. “It’s a huge honor. It still doesn’t feel real…” you falter, reaching for the perfect words. “Uh, I can’t believe it–”

Sunmi shakes her head. “Nope. You can believe it, remember? You can’t act like you’re not good enough.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “But I’m not. I’m not perfect enough–”

Your friend rolls her eyes. “When are you gonna stop thinking that? You’ve worked ridiculously hard. You’re the most talented person I know. Get over yourself, because you deserve this.”

You inhale shakily at her words. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Good. Now I’ve got to get going, and don’t you have a meeting with Sana? Good luck,” Sunmi says, blowing you a kiss. “Dedicate your Grammy award to me in a few years.”

You smile at your friend. “Of course.”

As soon as she leaves, you get a text from Sana: My office. Now.

Faster than you think is humanly possible, you find yourself in Sana’s office.

“What’s… wrong…?” you pant, leaning on the wall. Sana looks up from her desk.

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” she says. “I just wanted you here quickly so I could show you these.”

With a flourish she holds up a set of clothes hangers.

“This is what you’re wearing to the airport,” she murmurs distractedly, handing you a stylish outfit. “These two are for your late night interviews, I forget which… Oh, this is for after the awards show, I got you an invite to Justin Beiber’s afterparty… aha!” she pulls out a dress, and your jaw drops.

You’re looking at the most gorgeous black dress you’ve ever seen, a dress shimmering as the light hits it.

“Isn’t it too much?” you whisper in awe. You reach out, but you’re scared to touch it. The cloth looks more expensive than you’ll ever be.

“Nah, you’re gonna wow them. Trust me on this,” Sana winks. “Wigs’ll be flying as soon as you show up.”

You take the dress, stroking the fabric in awe. “I hope you’re right.”

“Aaaand I’m joined by y/n l/n, who’s been making a splash in the charts! Y/n, how does it feel to be nominated for Top New Artist alongside such amazing new stars?”

“It still doesn’t feel real, honestly,” you laugh, alternating eye contact with the red carpet interviewer and the camera. Around you… so this is the hustle and bustle before an awards show. “I’m honored.”

“And who are you wearing tonight?”

You smile graciously. “Gucci.” Giving you just a hint of cleavage and hugging your curves in all the right places, you’ve never felt more powerful.

“Well, you look great, and best of luck to you tonight!”

You’re about to thank the interviewer when a sudden chorus of screams makes you jump. What the hell? You strain your ears, making out a consistent cheer.

“BTS! BTS! BTS! BTS!”

Holy shit, they’re here. You’ve done your fair share of googling on the nominees– BTS is easily the biggest boy band in the world, known for their dedicated fanbase. You’ve listened to some of their songs, and they’re talented to say the least– but you don’t have time to get distracted, as you’re soon approached by another interviewer.

Your feet are aching by the time the cameras follow the guests inside, and you’re led to your seat. Why a barely known singer like you has been seated in the very front row, you don’t understand, but you’re not complaining– Sana will be squealing at the additional screentime.

The front row is barely filled in by the time you sit down. There are seven empty seats to your right, and you’re left twiddling your thumbs, your body tense with nervous energy.

A few minutes later, you hear the roar of another thousand teenage girls, and you twist around. Looks like BTS has entered the building, and when one of the members raises their hand to wave the volume of the screams increases tenfold.

You stare in awe. That’s what it means to be famous. These guys… these guys have made it. They’re perfect. They’re talented. They’re… sitting next to you?

You hold your breath as the members settle in their seats. Beside you, if those Wikepedia articles you read are correct, is Suga. He’s… wow, he really is even more attractive in person.

You keep your eyes trained on the stage as the MC of the night begins to talk, but you can’t help but focus your attention on your peripheral vision. You’re entranced by the ethereal beauty of the men beside you.

“And we’ll be right back!” you hear the MC say, snapping you out of your fog. The first commercial break already?

You turn, and you’ve never been more grateful to your best friend– you’ve been focusing on Korean ever since Sunmi mentioned it, so that now…

“Hello,” you say to Suga.

He notices, his eyes widening in surprise. “You speak Korean?”

You hold your thumb and index an inch apart. “A little bit. I’m learning.”

“Hyung, we’re getting some drinks,” one of the members– RM, perhaps?– says. “You coming?”

“In a second,” Suga replies, his eyes trained on you. Something in his gaze sends shivers down your spine.

“You should go with them,” you breathe as the members file away. “The cameras will want to see you all together.”

“The cameras see us together enough,” Suga says, leaning back and folding his arms. “How do you know Korean?”

You shrug. “I’m good with languages. My friend told me to improve my Korean–” you laugh. “Now I know why.”

Suga smiles. It’s a cute smile: his lips pull up above his gums and his catlike eyes sparkle with delight. Inside your chest your heart flutters, but you calm yourself– you’re not here to pick up guys, and idols like him basically can’t date anyways–

“Are you nominated or here as a guest?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, I’m nominated for Top New Artist,” you say, beginning the sentence in Korean and finishing in English. “I’m small fry.”

Suga raises his brows. “Seems like a big deal.”

“Not as big as you,” you reply. “Top Social Artist, right? That’s impressive.”

“Yeah.” Suga tries for a smile, but his eyes dull a bit.

“Is… is something wrong?”

“Ah, no.” Suga rubs his temples. “It’s just… don’t get me wrong, a BBMA is a huge honor for a foreign group like us, but I feel like people care more about our fanbase than our music.”

He shakes his head, covering his face with his hands. “Aah, that sounded bad, sorry.”

“Not at all,” you reassure him. “Trust me, I’m a songwriter, and I get more questions about my outfits than my lyrics. It can be frustrating, huh?”

“You write your own songs?”

You open your mouth to reply when the lights start flickering to signal the commercial break’s end. The other members of BTS return to their seats as the MC takes the stage once more to introduce the next performer.

“Are you performing?” Suga whispers while the audience applauds.

“God, I wish. I’m not nearly famous enough,” you whisper back. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Suga winks at you, and you blush happily. “Look forward to it.”

You feel your phone buzz and you check it discreetly.

Sana: Quit flirting, there are cameras on you.

Your head snaps up and you notice the familiar red blinking lights of dozens of cameras around the grand room, some of them apparently trained on you. Or rather, you acknowledge, trained on the members of BTS.

You focus on the stage once more, glueing a smile to your face as two more trophies are awarded.

“After the break, Ariana Grande is back with her latest single!” The MC says, smiling brightly into the camera. “Coming up, Top Social Artist and Top New Artist. We’ll be right back!”

As soon as the lights brighten to signify they’re no longer broadcasting, you lean over to Suga.

“Gee, I wonder who’s gonna win Top Social Artist,” you tease.

Suga shakes his head bemuseadly. “No clue.”

“Turn around and make a heart with your hands,” you suggest. “Every single scream is a vote for you winning. And I’ve heard some of your stuff, you guys deserve it. Your lyricist should get a raise.”

Yoongi laughs. “I’ll tell the others, but I think we’re pretty well off already.”

“Huh?”

“Me, Namjoon, and Hobi-ssi, sometimes the others– we write and produce a lot of our music.”

“Really?” you ask in wonder. “I thought… I mean, you’re such big stars…”

Suga shrugs. “We love the music as much as the performance. Could you ever quit songwriting?”

“Never,” you reply instantly, and you’re about to say something else when the lights dim again. Suga turns back to the stage and for a second you can’t help but be struck by his side profile. He truly is inhumanly beautiful. And funny, and kind, and passionate… he is perfection, you decide.

Another buzz from your phone.

Sana: If u keep staring at him ur gonna be a meme before midnight smh

Blinking guiltily, you tune in just in time to hear the MC finish up the nominations for Top Social Artist.

“…and BTS!”

The accompanying screams drown out any hope you have of wishing Suga luck.

“And the Billboard Music Award goes to…”

You cross your fingers behind your back. Sure, you only met Suga this evening, but there’s something about him that makes you feel as though he’s an old friend. You want him to win.

“BTS!”

You clap politely as a clip of the group’s latest single begins playing. Suga turns and says something to you before standing, but it’s lost amid the rabid screams of the fangirls. The septet files onstage to accept the award and RM makes a speech, all graciousness and gratitude. When the music swells once more the group disappears backstage to take pictures, and a sudden realization turns your blood to ice: your category is next.

The MC makes a short introduction full of scripted puns and half-clever witticisms before introducing the nominees for Top New Artist. You’re screaming inside as you hear your name:

“…and y/n l/n!”

From the crowd you can hear the yells of some of your fans or those that’ve heard your latest single. The song blew up way past expectation, landing you this nomination.

“And the Billboard Music Award goes to…”

Time slows down. Or does it speed up? Are you even breathing? You don’t think so. Your skin prickles in anticipation and your heartbeat is deafening, but the cameras are trained on you and so all you do is smile hopefully, twining your fingers together. It’s fine. You won’t win, no way. It’s fine.

“Y/n l/n!”

Huh? You’re frozen for a second, surely you misheard, for a second you thought they’d announced your name, and around you people are clapping and the guy to your left is nudging you forward and when you stand up the cheers get louder and wait a second they’re cheering for you.

You walk– actually, you practically float– to the stage. Do you really deserve it?

You accept the trophy from the MC and step up to the mic.

“Wow.” You look at the audience and swallow. You have precious few minutes to speak, and you’ll use them.

“Every moment of my life is spent working towards becoming perfect,” you say. “Whenever I get close, ‘perfect’ seems to get farther away. And I’ve realized that being an artist means not being perfect, but being better. Thank you to my parents, my amazing agent Sana, of course Sunmi. Y’all make me better.” You smile at the camera. “But my biggest thanks have to go to my fans. You inspire me every day to become better, and you make me believe that I can be better. Every note, every lyric– that’s all you guys. Thank you!”

You walk backstage to the sound of applause, swelling with pride.

“Y/n! Over here!” A photographer waves you over, motioning to a backdrop. “Could you stand right here? Hold up the trophy– like that, perfect! Okay, we’re good. You can get back to your chair now. Door’s that way.”

Well, that was easy. You head in the direction the photographer indicated, turning a sharp corner and suddenly bumping into someone.

“Oh! My bad, I– oh.” You’ve accidentally run into another member of BTS– Jimin, you think?

You switch to Korean. “Sorry, I should’ve watched where I was going.”

The singer’s expression changes to delight at your words. “Yoongi hyung, is this the girl you mentioned?”

Suga suddenly appears from behind Jimin, and you let out a surprised squeak.

Suga chuckles. “Yeah, she was sitting next to me. Had the nerve to say she wasn’t fluent.” He eyes you teasingly.

You decide to ignore his snark. “What are you guys doing back here?”

“Jimin-ssi had to use the restroom, and I wanted to greet the top new artist,” Suga says with a smirk. “Whoever it may be.”

“Bullshit, you heard me win,” you reply.

He shrugs, and you notice Jimin has already hastened back to his seat. “Maybe I wanted to chat,” Suga continues. “Without the cameras, because I’ve already gotten scolded for talking to you so much.”

You laugh. “Hey, me too.”

“We never really introduced ourselves,” Suga says. He offers you his hand and you shake. “I’m Min Yoongi– Yoongi’s my first name– I’m a rapper, lyricist, and overall pretty average person.”

“Y/n l/n,” you reply. “Singer, lyricist, and overall incredibly awkward nerd.”

Yoongi laughs, a surprised and mirthful sound that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Are you going to an afterparty?” you blurt out.

Yoongi thinks. “Joonie mentioned… yeah, I think so, if our managers are okay with it.” He clucks his tongue. “Parties here are hard, with only one translator. It doesn’t give us a lot of freedom to move around.”

“That’s a shame,” you say, sudden confidence overtaking you. He’s been nothing but flirtatious all night, why shouldn’t you reciprocate? “If we were going to the same party, I could be your personal translator for the entire night.”

Yoongi looks at you, a mischivious glint in his eye. “Whose afterparty are you going to?”

“Justin Beiber’s.”

“Huh. Well, c’mon, we have to get back to our seats,” Yoongi says, gesturing to the backstage exit.

Just as you open the door, you hear the MC’s voice: “We’ll be right back!”

“A commercial break already?” you hiss at Yoongi, and he shrugs.

“To them, it’s all money, isn’t it?”

“Hyung!” RM suddenly rushes up to Yoongi. “We need to get changed, we’re on after the next two awards!”

Good luck, you mouth at Yoongi as RM leads him away.

Thanks, he mouths back, winking.

You settle in your seat as the commercial break ends and the next two awards are given away. From time to time you smile randomly– how could you not? Yoongi is by far the most attractive man you’ve ever met and he’s more than attractive; he’s just so cute…

You’re snapped out of your stupor by the announcement of the next performance: “And here’s the record-smashing phenomenon with their latest single. Give it up for BTS!”

After the performance, you’re still in a daze. They were just so good. You couldn’t help but be captivated by Yoongi’s raps. Whatever he may think, you’re not fluent, and so you only got about seventy percent of his verse but still it was so good…

You’re still thinking about it when you’re led to your trailer to change into your afterparty outfit, a tight-fitting but not uncomfortable cocktail dress. You’re still thinking about it when you arrive at the party location with no clue as to how you got there. You’re standing in Justin Beiber’s living room, positively dumbstruck, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You whirl around to see–

“Yoongi!” you want more than anything to give him a quick hug, but you refrain. The other members surround him.

“Hi, I’m y/n,” you introduce yourself nervously. That much beauty at once is intimidating.

Yoongi says something quickly to the other members in a dialect you don’t understand, and the six of them surreptitiously melt into the crowd.

“What was that?”

Yoongi smirks. “I was promised a personal translator. I don’t want to share you tonight.”

Somehow his words sound far from innocent. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not that kind of girl,” you warn him.

Yoongi snorts. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a walk in the backyard. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself.” As if to prove his point, he jams his hands into his pockets.

You giggle, following him onto the perfectly manicured lawn. You and Yoongi stay outside for hours or maybe days, and at some point you look down and notice his fingers intertwined with your own.

“Didn’t you say you’d keep your hands to yourself?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to?”

The word is out of your mouth before you have time to regret it: “No.”

Yoongi grins widely. “You’re too smart for a hurried party hookup. I have an idea, if you’re interested… it might mean we can see each other after I fly home?”

“Tell me.”  

“Want to collaborate? I heard that clip of you singing earlier, god, I could write a thousand songs for that voice of yours.”

“Collaborate… with you? On a song?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Yoongi says hurriedly.

The human embodiment of perfection– better than perfection– is asking to collaborate. “Are you kidding? It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, in more ways than one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You lean towards Yoongi until your noses are mere centimeters apart. The space between your bodies feels electric. “Whatever you want it to.”

A/N thanks for the request, @minanna01! I hope I did your vision justice. As always, my inbox is open and feedback is welcome and appreciated :)

Close to you

(Gangster! Yoongi x Goodgirl! Reader) (Rags to Riches Au) 

Summary: Nobody likes Yoongi, not your older brother or your friends. But with him, you feel more protected than possessed. And though he might be a gangster and more than a little dangerous himself- that makes all the difference. From drug dealer to producer, from rags to riches, you’re Yoongi’s person- his muse- his soulmate.

Tags: good girl x bad boy au, blood, drugs, Yoongi with tattoo’s, references to making good ol’ sweet love, Rags to riches! au, brief mentions of drunk sex, Yoongi is soft and squishy and just loves the reader a lot.

A/n: This is more a story than a fic- with a little bit of an open ending to it- legit when I was editing this it tripled in length. 

W/c: 9.8k

Song rec: Lover by Taylor Swift 

You and Yoongi play basketball together, late at night in the park near your college. You don’t know how you started meeting up, but now you do nearly every day. You gather with the others at the edge of the court when the street lights turn on. Maybe it’s just to let off some steam from your busy college schedules, less than ideal lives, or just plain because you like the game. 

It’s a mish-mash of different people from different backgrounds, misfits and goody-two-shoes alike, pros and newbies at different skill levels, but everyone is pretty good. 

The games are never serious and no one really ever keeps score. The teams change depending on who tells what joke who gives what jibe. Lines are drawn in the minutes before you start, sides taken based off inside jokes and playful feuds. 

One night when a regular named Wonho wears a crop top and calls it ‘fashion’- teams are drawn based on who thinks it’s ridiculous or not. (You and Yoongi are on the same team that night- because of course boys should be allowed to wear crop tops).

You’re always the last two to leave the court at night, sometimes just before the lights shut off at midnight, sometimes you have to hop the fence if the security guard has already come around to lock up. You joke that he might have a vendetta against your group- you always say until the very last moment the court closes and he grumbles about leaving early. 

And on the nights where strangers lean in- when the streets don’t feel so safe and shadowy figures that seem recognizable at a distance linger longer than they should. When there’s another stabbing or a rumor of a girl getting taken off the street, Yoongi is the first to ask if you want him to walk you home.

You try reserving your impression until you know him better. But the tattoos on his arms and on his chest, peaking out over the low collar of his tanktops lead you to make conclusions that you’re not proud of. 

Your first interactions with him are brief at best and you know just from how he looks that you should be careful around him. The others might play at being rugged and dangerous but Yoongi doesn’t have to pretend. 

You realize this when he stats to walk you home. No one messes with him, the other gangbangers on the street don’t catcall you when yoongi walks you home. Shop keepers seem to Nodd at him if they feel brave and close their doors the second they see him if they don’t. 

Yoongi seems pretty abnormal for a typical gangbanger, He doesn’t fit the trigger happy sadistic stereotype that the media paints others of his ilk in. 

When he first asks to walk you home, You blush and let him because Yoongi is cute, charming even, and he’s nice company, even if he does look a little threatening sometimes. 

You wouldn’t let him walk you home for any other reason then just…needing the safety he provides, not at first, not when your overprotective older brother doesn’t let you date at all. You have a dating ban until you graduate college and as long as you sleep under his Roof. 

He’d even tried to squash your interest in the pick-up basketball games when you first started going- but you needed an outlet, justified it by saying you weren’t apart of any sports teams and needed to exercise. it isn’t safe on the streets so late at night, he says (and he’s not wrong- it isn’t.) he tries to get you to stay home each night or tries to guilt you into only playing on the weekends during the daytime.

But try as you might, every time he says it isn’t safe or brings up a carefully worded story by the news on the infestation of gangs in the city, you can’t help but picture Yoongi’s face. And maybe it isn’t safe for everyone. but the way he looks at you- guarded but curious and with a hint of mirth over the edge of a ball during a pass, makes you think that it’s safe for you. 

You weren’t exactly sheltered here, in your nice apartment on the edge of where town turns from seedy to bougie. You straddle the edge of gentrification Unable to fit in perfectly with either side. You’ve already had to move your apartment twice since you moved in with him after rent hikes and new policies made your past apartments just too expensive. 

The first time your brother catches sight of Yoongi, on the stoop of your apartment building just as your brother gets home from work- perfectly mistimed, he goes apeshit when he realizes that Yoongi’s just dropped you off. Your older brother takes one look at him and says that you shouldn’t date gangsters- that Yoongi will just bring your trouble one day. 

“Jesus Christ- he was just walking me home it’s not like it’s a big deal” and you remind him that you’re not dating- that you’re just friends and Yoongi is just being nice- and that your brother should be glad you have friends that want you to get home safe. 

He tries to keep you from going out the next night and threatens you with few words not to keep seeing him. You’re late to the game because of it sucking off your pink sweatshirt and growling out that you need to work off some steam. “join my team” Yoongi says, making the others pause with a wave of his hands. 

 They reach for water bottles while you get your shoes on, Yoongi tucks the ball under his arm and stands while you finish lacing up your shoes. “you good?” he asks, “yeah just my brother being a dick and making me late.” 

You know he says it’s all for you so that you’ll do well and school and get a good job later in life and have it easy, unlike either or your parents. but sometimes it feels like he just wants to control you needlessly. Yoongi nods and you see something- the mention of older brothers darken his gaze, you wonder why.  “He pitch a fit after he saw me last night?”

 “Oh you know it,” you say with false positivity. “But don’t worry you can still like- walk me home if you want, I liked talking to you yesterday,” you say, Shooting him a smile that makes his cheeks turn a little pink, he clears his throat “if it makes you feel safer of course” He reassures, ever the gentleman, and goes to shoot some free throws while you finish getting settled. 

The blush doesn’t fall really, especially when you meet his eyes over a pass a few seconds into the pell-mell start of the game. And you start to think that Yoongi with  his tattoo’s and his roguish exterior might be the perfect amount of rebellion to get out from underneath your brother’s thumb

Of course, Yoongi ends up being a lot more than that. 

Keep reading

The Introduction of Mrs. Lecter

Hannibal lecter x reader

Word count: 3864

Warnings: slight mention of unrequited love

Will Graham wouldn’t have ever guessed that Hannibal Lecter was married. Not once did he mention a wife or wear a piece of metal around his finger. So imagine his shock and confusion when he steps into Hannibal’s office only to see him dancing with a woman he’s never seen before. Will stood in silence at the door, watching the couple glide around the room like fairies. It wasn’t until Hannibal spun the pretty woman that they stopped.

“Will, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Hannibal’s voice caused Will to cut off his staring from the pretty lady and look at Hannibal instead. “I didn’t know you were busy, I should’ve called.” Will felt awkward, he had just walked into an intimate moment between Hannibal and this mystery woman. “Nonsense darling, I just came for an impromptu visit, come sit, I believe there’s enough lunch for all three of us.” Her voice surprised Will. He looked at her again only to see the sugary smile she was offering him. “Will meet my wife, (y/n). (Y/n), meet my close friend and colleague, Will.”

The introduction only made her smile brighter and she turned to look up at Hannibal, softly saying something that caused the man to smile. Will observed the couple together, he thought it was odd to see Hannibal as such a caring husband. Hannibal’s hand was splayed over the small of his wife’s back as she stepped forward to greet Will fully. He couldn’t hair her even if he tried. Will made his way into the office and sat in front of Hannibal’s desk, beside (y/n). Now that he was closer, he could see that she didn’t carry the same amount of age that Hannibal did. No, she was more youthful and her face held the same type of innocence that Abigail’s held.

“I-I didn’t know Hannibal was married, he doesn’t wear a ring or anything.” The words left Will’s mouth before he couldn’t even comprehend what was happening. (Y/n) turned to look at him, her mouth stuffed with food that hadn’t been chewed yet, it made her look like a chipmunk. Hannibal also stopped his actions, looking up at Will before his hands went to his neck and pulled out a silver chain with a wedding band on it. “I didn’t want to scratch up my ring or lose it. I find it more practical to wear it as a necklace in case of any violent patients.” Hannibal’s voice was soothing and accented as he spoke to Will. His voice held no offence to his question.

(Y/n) looked at Will then glanced to his plate, he hadn’t touched his food yet, a small frown placed itself on her face before disappearing. This didn’t go unnoticed by Hannibal as he subtly gestured to Will to eat. A while after they’d eaten and shared some stories, the three lounged around in the office. Will sitting across from Hannibal and (y/n) who had her feet in his lap, the glossy red heeled boots she was wearing long abandoned. They drank some white wine at the request of Hannibal and it was now that Will let down his walls and fully took in Hannibal’s wife. He would call her pretty but that would be an

understatement, she was stunning. The type of beauty that inspired writers and the muse for artists all around the world.

She was different from Hannibal though. While he was more clean and neat, she was classy and old timey. At this moment though, she seemed younger than she was, dressed in a black silk skirt and a red corset top that was topped off with a black leather jacket now strewn over Hannibal's chair. A small cross necklace adorned her neck and big gothic earrings. She looked like a teenage girl's vampire dream. From their earlier conversations, Will had learnt that (Y/n) was an English teacher at a local highschool. Hannibal informed him further by stating that she also writes books.

Seeing them together brought Will to reality, he could never be her. No matter how much he tried, Will would never fit and flow with Hannibal like she does. They’re two different rivers that merge together at one end. One where you can’t tell where it starts and ends. If Hannibal was the moon then she was his stars. Will looked away from the couple for a few seconds, their loving glances only causing pain in his heart. Their night ended with (y/n) hugging Will goodbye and making him promise to bring Winston next time. He complied before giving the couple a smile and driving off to his isolated home in wolf trap. It was a long drive and the night sky had set long before his departure.

Back in Baltimore, Hannibal was picking up papers and organizing them while his wife put on her boots and jacket. By the time she was done, Hannibal had finished organizing the papers and turned to her, offering his arm for her to grasp onto before leaving the building. They are a couple that fit well together. It was like the universe had fated them to be together and created them from the same particles. The following morning Hannibal followed his daily routine of waking up, making breakfast, waking up (y/n), eating, getting ready and then heading off for the day with a soft kiss pressed to the lips. Today he was starting the day by helping Jack with a new body, one that he had put there two nights prior. A shrine for his beautiful wife, her writing had always inspired him. Just like how he was the muse for most of her characters, she was the muse for his murders.

Hannibal remembers the first time he met (y/n). It was many years ago now in Portland. He was there on business and she was there with her friends. A graduation trip to celebrate their masters. The two had bumped into each other when they went to grab the same book. Her soft shy eyes staring up to his predator ones. He knew he wanted her then and had her. In his care and in this relationship, (y/n) grew from being a bunny to being a fox. Cunning and smart just like he was, on par with him.

Snapping from his thoughts, Hannibal turned his attention fully to Jack who was still speaking of the body. From his peripheral vision, he could see Beverly studying something that she picked up from the ground. For a moment he prayed that it wasn’t a picture of him and his wife. Hannibal tried everything to keep her away from all of this but unfortunately that one picture had to fall out of his wallet at this moment and land into the hands of a very inquisitive Beverly Katz.

Beverly looked at Hannibal with a questioning look and he knew there and then that the small picture she was holding was the one from a dinner party hosted by his in-laws.

There was no doubt that it was the picture of him nosing her neck as she smiled for the camera. Hannibal sighed internally before focusing everything back on Jack. Will saw the picture that Bev picked up, she gestured to him with a questioning look and he just shrugged back, not wanting to talk about (y/n) without her or Hannibal’s permission. It was after that they were done discussing that Hannibal was cornered by Beverly. She asked him questions about the “pretty woman in the picture.” “That pretty woman is the lady I’m married to.” His answer shocked Beverly and gave him the opportunity to take the picture back from her hands. Unfortunately for him, Jack and Alana had overheard their conversation. Jack only raised an eyebrow in Alana’s direction who simply copied his action.

To say that Hannibal was stressed is an understatement, he was jittery on his way to pick his darling wife up from work and couldn’t stop shaking his leg. This was very out of character for him and (y/n) noticed. She always notices when her always calm husband is anxious. Slipping herself into the front seat, (y/n) turned to look at her husband and he looked right back at her. It was in these rare moments that Hannibal showed her his puppy eyes. “They know.” Hannibal’s voice was so soft that she barely heard him. Placing her hand on his cheek and leaning in to touch their foreheads together, (y/n) spoke, “it was about time, my love. You couldn’t keep me hidden forever.” She placed a small soft kiss to his lips and pulled back, offering the older man a sugary sweet smile.

Hannibal calmed down a bit before driving home, it was a nice drive, like it always is. Filled with conversation about each other’s day. It was when Hannibal was lounging in bed and watching his wife brush her hair that he told her about the events of today. He watched her as she brushed her hair out, concentrating in the heart shaped mirror. Hannibal told her that Beverly saw the picture and how Jack and Alana had overheard their conversation. At this, she paused before making eye contact with him through the mirror. (Y/n) got up and walked towards Hannibal and sat on the bed next to him, smiling gently before speaking, “You should introduce me properly Dr. Lecter. Now that everyone knows, I believe a feast is in order.” Her lips curled up into a sharp smile, her canines similar to Hannibal’s own. He reporicated the smile, the two of them looking like hunters who just caught their prey.

Pulling her down to him, Hannibal’s fingers played with her hair before they moved to the base of her neck, pulling his wife down in a passion filled kiss. Lipstick staining his lips and cheek. It was a bruising kiss but it was one filled with passion and love, not lust. Pulling apart, Hannibal pulled his wife to sleep on top of him, like a weighted blanket. He couldn’t sleep without the weight of her limbs on him, she was the exact same way. Not being able to sleep without the other was common. They slept peacefully that night, like they did every night.

In the morning, Hannibal was the first one to wake up. The sunlight filtered through the curtains and washed over his wife beautifully. It made her skin glow under the sun and she looked like a vision, one that he couldn’t pass up on drawing. Slowly untangling himself from her, Hannibal walked over to her glossy red and black vanity and picked up his drawing bed and pencil before sitting down and drawing her. A couple of hours passed before she stirred awake, her arm feeling for Hannibal’s body next to her and when she couldn’t find it, she sat up in panic, only to see the said man’s focus in his drawing pad.

Hannibal’s marron eyes looked up into his wife’s and he got up to place a kiss on her forehead before checking the clock. It was past their usual breakfast time. (Y/n) asked him if they could eat some pancakes this morning and Hannibal just laughed before rushing her two the washroom, following behind her closely. After their morning routine and a few sneaky kisses, Hannibal prepared pancakes for the two of them in the kitchen while (y/n) started on some marking.

“When do you plan to have that feast, darling?” At this, Hannibal looked up, stopping his actions momentarily before responding, “How about this weekend? You’re free and I won’t put a body out for them, making them free too.” She snorted at that. It caused Hannibal to smile. She always loved his dry sense of humour. Maybe that’s why she got along with Will that day. The rest of their breakfast passed in comfortable silence. The sound of piano music playing in the background kept them company.

After breakfast was when the talk of the great feast started. Hannibal wanted to get this done and over with while (y/n) wanted to drag it out as long as she possibly could. It wasn’t every day that you finally came out of the shadows. They talked about who to invite and who to not invite. Hannibal nearly lost it when his wife mentioned that she wanted to invite Freddie Lounds and Dr. Chilton. The rest of the list were just people from work. Bryce, Zeller, Katz, Crawford, Bloom and Graham along with Margot Verger. Hannibal looked towards his wife, her bright eyes gleamed with excitement and she had a barely concealed smile on her face.

He loved seeing her like this, it always made him so happy. Especially when she saw the bodies that he had dedicated to her. Seeing her like this was how she saw him when he read the poetry written about him. He took her left hand gently in his, the long acrylics she had slightly digging into his skin, Hannibal’s fingers went to play with her wedding band as she talked about the party. They were both excited, really excited.

It was on Monday that Hannibal gave out the invites to everyone. Will just nodded his head awkwardly and muttered something about coming while Alana just raised her eyebrow and nodded her head, Jack also mentioned that he would come and bring Bella along with Him. Beverly was the one most excited about the invitation. Hannibal gently smiled at her before going back to help Will.

At home, Hannibal’s darling wife was tearing apart their shared closet in order to look for the perfect outfits. Spoiler, she didn’t find one. (Y/n) was frustrated, everything she owned was pretty, yes, but it was not something that she would wear to a party in which they were the hosts. No, that simply wouldn’t do, so instead the young woman set out to her favourite seamstress. An old Russian lady who knew exactly what she wanted everything single time. Throwing on a coat and some gloves, (y/n) rushed to her car and drove off to Ludmila’s house. An hour or so later she reached the house. Parking her car nicely, the young woman exited her car before climbing up the stairs to knock on the door. However, before she could get a knock in, the door was pulled open by Ludmila who looked pleased to see her. The older woman pulled her in and ushered her to the couch and told her to sit while she got some tea and biscuits.

After their little snack and tea time was done, Ludmila pulled out her drawing pad and began to work on exactly what (y/n) had wanted. The younger woman was filled with so many ideas, the only downside was that she didn’t know how to sew. Ludmila thought that the woman was a secret vampire, not that she would ever tell her that. No, but her and her husband looked like they were Morticia and Gomez Addams. Always so happy over the grimmest of things. (Y/n) had left 3 hours later, after choosing the fabric of the dress and approving the design that she liked. It wasn’t a difficult job, she was just picky.

On the drive back home, she glanced at the time, realizing that it was far later than she thought and Hannibal must be home already, preparing dinner. Parking her cherry red mustang beside Hannibal’s car, (y/n) exited the car and grabbed the huge amount of bags that filled the back seats. She had stopped for a little errand that turned into a shopping trip, not that Hannibal minded. It was like the said man smelled her and opened the door. Hannibal glanced at the bags in her hands before grabbing them and greeting his wife with loving kisses on both of her cheeks.

“I see you did a little shopping today my dove, how was it?” Hannibal had retreated back to the kitchen by the time his question was done. His darling wife sat in front of him on a bar stool before sighing and answering, “Don't even ask, first I went to Ludmila’s for a dress I just commissioned and then what was supposed to be a short errant turned into a shopping haul. I grabbed you a few ties.” Hannibal smiled at his wife’s sentiment of always grabbing him something. No matter what she did or where she was, she always got him something.

For dinner the two dined on some lamb and pasta complimented by red wine and then followed by some lava cake. Hannibal had taken his wife’s feet in his lap and was rubbing them softly, the two conversed about the theme of the party and (y/n) had mentioned that she wanted something dark themed. Like always. Hannibal compiled since he thought that the decorations of the house were already very fitting. Changing them to a lighter theme would’ve been a hassle, one that he wasn’t up for. His wife’s silk nightgown brushed against his arm before she came and sat down in his lap, her hand caressing his hair. Hannibal purred like a cat, tilting his head back to lean into her touch more.

The day of the big feast was coming closer than ever, two weeks had already passed since the initial invite was sent out and the party was this weekend. Ludmila had dropped the dress off earlier today and (y/n) was in love. It was exactly what she wanted but somehow Ludmila’s work was better than something her imagination could ever conjure. Hannibal let a small gasp when he saw the dress, it was barely audible but his wife still heard it. She grinned, her canines showing slightly. It’s a beautiful dress. A deep red colour that was done in tulle and some satin fabric thrown in. The tulle wrapped around her shoulders in an off the shoulder fashion leaving her collarbones and shoulders exposed. The rest of the dress wrapped around her chest and waist in a corset look before falling behind her in a very gilded fashion. The under layer of the skirt was made from a deeper red satin and the tulle fell over it as another layer. The dress was a masterpiece. Hannibal couldn’t take his eyes away from the dress, his mind wandering to how she would look in it. The back was a lace up corset. One of his favourite looks on his wife.

The day of the party was something. Hannibal had taken a day off from work and consultation and focused solely on the food while (y/n) was cleaning and dusting the little trinkets they had lying around the house. Her favourite one was the skull named Steve, he was a fun guy. The flower arrangements had been done and set already and the only thing left to do was fix the trinkets a little before heading up and getting ready. The trinkets were fixed in no time and it was also when Hannibal was done cooking. (Y/n) peered into the kitchen before smiling at Hannibal and grabbing his hand and tugging the two of them upstairs. Once they were upstairs, the couple quickly shaded their clothes and hopped into the shower. It was a really relaxing shower, one that Hannibal had actually felt relaxed in. After getting out and drying themselves and lotioning. Hannibal helped his wife into her dress, lacing her up tightly while placing small kisses down her neck and shoulders. An act like this always made her smile, a soft gentle smile, like the one she had now.

(Y/n) had gone dark with her makeup, a siren eye look with a deep red lipstick to match her dress. Hannibal pulled out a choker that he had customized for his wife, it was diamond with rubies decorating it with matching earrings. She looked like a true vampire. Really. Hannibal had matched his wife in a dark black suit and a red tie. Anyone who saw them would definitely think that they’re immortal.

The first guest to come was Will who had bright Winston with him. Hannibal opened the door to let him in and lead him to sit down. Will asked for (y/n) but all Hannibal did was give him a secretive look. Will wondered what she looked like. He knew that she would look beautiful like always. The second to arrive were Alana and Margot, Hannibal knew that something was between them, they only proved it by showing up together. He invited them in and led them to Will who greeted them with an awkward smile. Alana returned the smile while Margot just nodded her head in his general direction.

Bryce, Zeller and Beverly showed up together. They looked wonderful and matched the dark theme. Hannibal could taste Beverly’s excitement and she could smell Will's awkwardness, which is why she rushed over to him as fast as she could. Freddrick Chilton and Freddie Lounds showed up together and Jack and his wife showed up not long after them. They were all here before the timing on the card, something that Hannibal appreciated.

Hannibal clapped his hands before gathering everyone’s attention and calling his wife down. (Y/n) knew how to make an entrance. She really did, she could hear all the gasps that were let out by the invited guests. The women in the party were absolutely in love with (y/n). They loved her dress and the way she carried herself. She was truly beautiful. Jack was just confused as to how he didn’t figure out that Hannibal was married. Nonetheless, he was happy to be here.

The party was in full swing with the guests conversing with (y/n) and marveling at how much of a genius she was. Hannibal admired his wife a lot. She was always there for him through everything. Her and Alana became fast and good friends by the end of the dinner and she loved Beverly and Will already. He loved seeing her like this, so free.

It was around 12am when everyone bid goodbye. Later than most of his parties. (Y/n) hugged all the guests goodbye before waving at them and closing the door. She sighed and Hannibal laughed. He led her upstairs this time and helped her out of her dress before setting a bath for the two of them. In the bath, Hannibal removed his already sleeping wife’s makeup. He could tell how exhausted she was and let her rest in the bathtub for 20 minutes before waking her up and pulling her out. Once she was all dried, he tugged on her sage coloured satin nightgown before tugging on his own night suit. Hannibal fell asleep comfortably that night. With his wife passed out on his chest and her leg thrown over his waist. He fell asleep comfortably and with a smile on his face. A smile that indicated that he was happy to introduce his wife to his world.

Tagging my babes: @chchchcheni @shawty-writes-a-little

𝒜𝓊𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝐵𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝐼𝓃 𝒩𝒶𝓋𝓎

Oscar thought he wouldn't have to deal with anything similar to Alpine-Gate ever again. He was wrong.

Oscar Piastri x Horner!Reader

-> Everything Goes Wrong (pt1) -> Oscar breaks up with his girlfriend and McLaren start treating him like Daniel, but then he meets someone new. posted: 3 Feb 2024

-> A Storm Is Brewing (pt2) -> Mark gives the Go-Ahead for possible negotiations with Red Bull, McLaren pull an Alpine, and Oscar makes a decision. posted: 5 Feb 2024

-> The Build Up (pt3) -> In a large bowl mix Contract Negotiations with two parts Announcements and three parts Life Updates, let cook for an hour and while it's still hot, sprinkle some jealousy and betrayal over the top as a nice garnish. posted: 12 Feb 2024

-> Pre-season Bonding (pt4) -> Where teams are announced, dinners are held and Oscar finds himself surrounded by people who are determined to help him on his way to greatness. posted: 3 Mar 2024

-> Get This Party Started (pt5) -> The season starts and it's a relatively calm affair, until it's not. Some things can be predicted while others show up like an unwanted Force Ghost from Star Wars. posted: 29 Mar 2024

-> Down Time Down Under (pt6) -> Oscar finds that having a crush having less than platonic feelings for your boss's only adult daughter is apparently free real estate for some of F1's biggest gossips posted: 10 May 2024

-> Shift Happens (pt7) -> Miami and Imola bring new challenges to the grid. Challenges such as finally initiating the romance part of your potential relationship- oh and being on the podium with your ex-teammate too. posted: 19 May 2024

-> Warning Sainz (pt8) -> Monaco, Canada and Spain oh my! Oscar decides to continue his quest for world domination (claiming home races) and prove that he's the best boyfriend his ex ever lost. posted: 23 June 2024

-> Baby Got Track (pt9) -> Adding two more GPs to his list of home races, Oscar realises that he's A-OK with having half his bags packed with things that aren't his. posted: 10 July 2024

-> Silly Goose Extraordinaire (pt10) -> When Y/n isn't there for two races, Oscar discovers that he's far more attached than he thought he was. At least it's almost the mid-year break! posted: 5 Aug 2024

-> Red Bull Gives You Wins (pt11) -> Mid-year break brings a lot of strong emotions, but there's only one thing that could make them even more intense... posted: 6 Mar 2025 (I'm so sorry)

-> Simply Lovely (pt12) (pending) -> posted:

-> Big Ric Energy (pt13) -> posted:

-> Red Bull School Of Racing (pt14) -> posted:

-> 1st's The Worst, 2nd's The Best (pt15) -> posted:

-> We Shenan'd Once, Let's Shenanigan (pt16) -> posted:

This is an Ongoing Series!

Thank you to @wonderwolffs for this request

Everyone say thank you

Request: Given Toto is Lana Del Rey coded having a partner/wife who dresses 50s/60s inspired and is the talk of the paddock on race weekends

Pit Lane Glamour

Word count: 524

Pairing: Toto Wolff x reader

Summary: Y/n Wolff and her best friend, Dita Von Teese, are an effortlessly glamorous and mischievous duo

________________________________________________________

The Monaco paddock was a spectacle in itself—glittering under the Mediterranean sun, pulsing with the energy of engines revving and cameras flashing. But even amidst the chaos of a Grand Prix weekend, there were two figures who managed to steal the show without even trying.

Y/n Wolff and Dita Von Teese were an evil combination.

Not because they were cruel, or sharp-tongued, or out to make enemies. No, they were simply too elegant, too poised, too unbothered. They floated through the paddock like ghosts of a bygone era, draped in silk and lace, red lips curled in amusement as they observed the world of motorsport with a level of detached amusement.

And at the center of their shared mischief? One very tall, very powerful, and very obsessed Toto Wolff.

“You know, darling,” Dita mused, adjusting the lace gloves on her delicate hands as they strolled through the paddock, “I do believe Toto might combust if you wear that shade of red any longer.”

Y/n smirked, glancing down at the cherry-colored dress that clung to her frame. “Oh, I know,” she replied. “He tries so hard to act unaffected, but I see the way his eye twitches.”

Dita sighed dramatically. “Men are so weak.”

The two of them reached the Mercedes hospitality suite, where Toto was standing, arms crossed, talking to one of the engineers. He was the epitome of power—suited, sunglasses shielding his sharp gaze, the embodiment of control.

Until he saw them.

Until he saw her.

Y/n watched as Toto stiffened slightly, jaw tightening, lips pressing together like he was already preparing for whatever chaos she and Dita were about to bring.

Dita leaned in, her voice a purr. “He looks like a man in distress.”

Y/n grinned. “Let’s fix that.”

She stepped forward first, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. “Mr. Wolff,” she greeted, voice laced with sweetness.

Toto sighed, already exasperated. “Mrs. Wolff.”

Dita followed, a vision in a navy blue fitted dress and a vintage hat that cast the perfect shadow over her sharp eyes. “Oh, Toto,” she crooned, “you look so serious. Aren’t race weekends supposed to be fun?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is my job, Dita.”

“And your job includes looking at your wife like she’s a particularly dangerous curve on a racetrack?”

Y/n beamed, looping her arm through Toto’s. “He can’t help it. I’m simply irresistible.”

Dita sighed. “I really don’t know how he gets anything done.”

“I don’t,” Toto admitted flatly. “I don’t get anything done.”

Y/n giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, leaving the faintest trace of red lipstick behind. Toto groaned, wiping at it in vain while the two women exchanged a look of pure delight.

“Oh, we’re awful,” Dita mused.

Y/n nodded. “Horrible.”

Toto shook his head, defeated. “You are both evil.”

But even as he muttered it, his arm tightened around Y/n’s waist, pulling her closer. Because the truth was—no matter how much trouble she and Dita caused him, no matter how much they teased and tormented him—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

some hot takes

broke: akaashi is serious and calm 100% and bokuto pines after him 24/7

woke: akaashi uses the emotionless expression to hide how much of a disaster gay he is. bokuto is oblivious.

---

broke: oikawa is in love and constantly flirting with iwaizumi, who is dense and doesn't notice that oikawa's feelings are more than platonic

woke: oikawa's the dense motherfucker here, way too focused on volleyball to realize iwaizumi's feelings. iwaizumi is very much aware and gets angry to hide when he's flustered.

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broke: kageyama is really attracted to hinata and doesn't understand why, hinata has no idea.

woke: hinata is painfully aware of the way he feels about kags. kags geniunely has no clue when hinata attempts to confess. "I like you" "i like playing volleyball with you too, dumbass."

---

broke: matsuhana meme lords lmao

woke: both def hide their true emotions behind their carefree nature, both very much afraid to confess to fuck up their friendship

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broke: kyoutani bad boi grrr yahaba pretty boi who confesses and is shy

woke: kyou's afraid of his feelings and hides behind that demeanor. yahaba is a lil too transparent and aggressive with his emotions, probably

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broke: tsukishima is an asshole and yamaguchi is shy™

woke: yamaguchi is NOT afraid to speak up when something is bothering him and his emotions are the only ones that tsukishima genuinely cares about. if anyone is shy and afraid in this dynamic it's tsukishima.

---

broke: kuroo is hopelessly in love with kenma. kenma either notices and doesn't care, or doesn't notice

woke: kuroo is the only one that kenma truly feels comfortable around, kuroo is dense asf and only cares about volleyball and doesn't realize how hard he's made kenma fall :/

---

broke: ushijima doesn't understand his own emotions towards tendou

woke: ushijima is very much aware of how he feels, and is just doesn't understand why he should confess because he doesn't want to mess with team dynamics

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”.

His smiley EYES😭😭😭😭