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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

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chef!Max Verstappen x vegan!Reader

Summary: in which an unstoppable force (the stubborn Michelin-starred chef of a glitzy steakhouse) meets an immovable object (the vegan just looking for something she can actually eat) … and the rest, as they say, is history

The steakhouse is packed, the ambient light just dim enough to cast a flattering glow over everyone at the long wooden table. Glasses clink together in a chorus of celebration, laughter, and conversation filling the air as your friends lean in close to chat. The table is filled with shared appetizers — charred octopus, beef tallow truffle fries, the occasional bacon-wrapped date — but you’re preoccupied with the thick menu in your hand.

“What’s good here?” You ask, keeping your voice casual. But inside, you’re already scanning for the little green leaf symbols that typically offer you some respite. There’s not a single one. It’s all meat, meat, meat.

“Everything,” someone pipes up. “But definitely the steak.”

You give them a polite smile, already sensing the dilemma growing in your chest. You could’ve sworn someone mentioned the place had plant-based options. But this is a Michelin-starred steakhouse — it seems like steak is the only thing anyone’s interested in tonight.

“Anything catching your eye?” You friend across the table asks, eyes bright with excitement.

“Not exactly.” You chew on your lip, setting the menu down. “I’m, uh, vegan.”

A silence falls over your corner of the table, the chatter continuing elsewhere as your friends stare at you. You feel your cheeks heat up, the familiar twinge of anxiety flaring up as you mentally prepare for the usual questions.

“Vegan? Seriously?” One of them finally says, brow furrowing. “You’re in the wrong place for that.”

“Yeah, it’s just ... it’s my thing, you know?” You laugh lightly, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sure they can whip something up in the kitchen, right?”

“I don’t know, this place is pretty strict,” another friend comments, glancing towards the kitchen doors as if expecting a sous-chef to pop out and reprimand you. “But you could ask.”

You take a breath, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll ask.”

The waiter approaches, a polished smile on his face as he sets down more drinks and asks if you’ve made any decisions. You tilt your head, giving him a hopeful look.

“I was wondering if the kitchen could prepare something vegan?” You say, your voice steady but polite. “I didn’t see anything on the menu, and-”

“I’ll ask the chef,” he cuts in smoothly, though there’s a slight twitch in his jaw as he scribbles something in his notepad. “One moment.”

As he disappears towards the back, your friends exchange wary glances. You try to brush it off with another easy smile, though your nerves are prickling beneath the surface.

“This could be interesting,” someone says, raising their eyebrows. “Michelin-starred chefs aren’t exactly known for accommodating special requests.”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping this one’s different,” you say, half-joking, though you can’t shake the knot in your stomach.

The seconds tick by, each one dragging out longer than the last. You sip at your water, making small talk, but your mind is already in the kitchen, imagining what kind of chef you’re dealing with. When the kitchen doors finally swing open, you feel a flutter of anxiety — and maybe a little curiosity.

He’s not what you expect.

Max Verstappen storms out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel with an intensity that makes the air crackle around him. His blue eyes are sharp, his jaw tight, and there’s a heat in his expression that has nothing to do with the stoves behind him. He’s annoyed. No, more than annoyed — he’s furious.

And when he locks eyes with you, you feel like the world narrows down to just the two of you.

“Who asked for vegan?” His voice is clipped, Dutch accent thick, and it’s obvious he’s not here to make friends. Your friends glance between the two of you, sensing the impending storm, but you lift your chin, refusing to be intimidated.

“I did,” you say, matching his intensity with your own steady gaze. “Is that a problem?”

Max narrows his eyes, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “This is a steakhouse,” he says slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a child. “A Michelin-starred steakhouse. I don’t make rabbit food.”

“Then maybe tonight you could make an exception,” you reply, keeping your tone even but firm. “I’m sure a chef of your caliber could whip something up.”

A scoff escapes him, and for a moment, you think he’s about to walk away. But instead, he steps closer, the heat of his presence almost tangible. “You think I’m going to ruin my kitchen with tofu or whatever it is you people eat?”

You blink at him, thrown off balance for a second by the sheer force of his disdain. But you gather yourself quickly, leaning forward slightly. “So you’re saying you can’t do it? That it’s too much for you?”

The challenge hangs in the air between you, thick with tension. Max’s jaw clenches, his eyes sparking with something dangerous. But then, to your surprise, he laughs — a short, harsh sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not making you anything,” he says, finality in his voice. “You should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

“Maybe I would have, if I’d known the chef had such limited skills,” you retort, not backing down.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. But then, something shifts. The anger in his expression falters, replaced by something else — something almost amused.

“You’re really pushing it,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel a strange thrill at that, your pulse quickening. “I’m just asking you to do your job. Isn’t a good chef supposed to cater to all his customers?”

“A good chef is supposed to maintain the integrity of his menu,” he shoots back. “Not cater to every whim that walks through the door.”

“Maybe a great chef can do both,” you say quietly, watching him closely.

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gaze intense and unreadable. You’re not sure what you expect him to do next — yell, walk away, maybe call security to kick you out — but what happens is the last thing you expect.

He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” you reply, heart pounding. “I just know what I want.”

Max holds your gaze for a moment longer, then straightens up, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “You’re not going to win this,” he says, but there’s a hint of something in his voice — a challenge, maybe.

“We’ll see about that,” you reply, giving him a small, almost defiant smile.

He doesn’t smile back, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads back to the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind him with a decisive thud.

The table is silent for a moment, everyone exchanging wide-eyed looks as if they can’t believe what just happened. Your heart is still racing, your mind replaying the exchange over and over, analyzing every word, every glance.

“Did you just ...” one of your friends starts, trailing off in disbelief.

“I think I did,” you reply, a bit dazed yourself. But beneath the shock, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction. You’re not sure what it is — maybe the fact that you stood your ground, or maybe it’s something else, something about the way Max looked at you in those final moments.

Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling more alive than you have in a long time.

“Okay, that was intense,” someone else says, still staring at the kitchen doors. “Are you sure you want to keep pushing him?”

You take a breath, letting the adrenaline course through you. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good luck with that,” another friend mutters, though there’s a hint of admiration in their voice.

You don’t need luck, though. Not with this. There’s something about Max — something infuriating and fascinating all at once — that makes you want to see how far you can push him, how much he can take before he cracks. You’re not even sure what you’re aiming for — his respect, his irritation, or something else entirely — but you know you’re not backing down.

The minutes pass, and the chatter around the table picks up again, though you can tell everyone’s still on edge, waiting to see if Max will come back. You sip your water, trying to calm the lingering buzz of energy in your veins. Part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake, if you’ve pushed too far, but another part — a bigger part — knows that this is exactly where you need to be.

When the kitchen doors finally swing open again, the table falls silent once more. Max strides out, his expression unreadable, and heads straight for you. He doesn’t have a plate in his hands, and for a moment, your heart sinks, thinking he’s come out just to reiterate his refusal.

But instead, he stops in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’m not.”

He studies you for a long moment, his blue eyes piercing. Then, to your surprise, he sighs — a heavy, resigned sound.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply, lifting an eyebrow.

He lets out a low, frustrated growl, but you can see the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. The tension between you is still palpable, but it’s shifted — softened in a way that neither of you acknowledges.

“All right,” he finally says, his tone somewhere between exasperation and something almost like admiration. “I’ll make you something.”

Your friends exchange surprised glances, but you keep your gaze locked on Max, not letting yourself get too excited just yet. “You don’t have to,” you say, though the look in your eyes says otherwise.

“I’m doing this once,” he warns, pointing a finger at you like it’s some kind of punishment. “And if you don’t like it, you’re not getting a refund.”

You bite back a smile. “Deal.”

He narrows his eyes at you one last time before turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen. The doors swing shut behind him, and this time, the silence at the table is charged with something new — something like disbelief, mingled with anticipation.

“What just happened?” Someone finally asks, breaking the spell.

“I think Max Verstappen just agreed to make a vegan dish,” you say, a touch of incredulity in your own voice.

“That’s got to be a first,” another friend chimes in, shaking their head. “You’ve got some kind of magic power.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been all night. “I don’t know about that. I think he just likes a challenge.”

“Or maybe he just likes you,” one of them says, waggling their eyebrows suggestively.

You roll your eyes, though a part of you wonders. There was something in the way he looked at you — something beyond just irritation. But you push the thought aside. Whatever this is, it’s not something you can figure out in the middle of a crowded steakhouse.

The minutes tick by, and though the conversation at the table picks up again, you can feel the undercurrent of curiosity running through your friends. They’re all waiting to see what Max will come up with, and honestly, so are you. The anticipation builds, your mind racing with possibilities — what could a Michelin-starred chef possibly make that’s both vegan and up to his standards?

When Max finally reappears, he’s carrying a single plate in his hands. He walks with purpose, his expression serious, but there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. As he approaches, the table falls silent again, everyone leaning in to see what he’s brought.

He stops in front of you, holding out the plate with a sort of grudging respect. “Here,” he says simply.

You look down at the dish and feel your breath catch. It’s stunning — an artful arrangement of roasted vegetables, grains, and a vibrant sauce that you can’t quite place. It’s clear that he didn’t just throw something together — he put thought into this. Care, even.

“This looks amazing,” you say, genuine awe in your voice.

Max shrugs, though you can see the faintest hint of pride in his expression. “I told you — just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

You give him a small smile, something warm blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”

He nods, but before he can turn away, you add, “I’m serious. It really means a lot that you did this.”

For a moment, his eyes soften, and you see a flicker of something vulnerable beneath his tough exterior. But then he smirks, the mask slipping back into place. “You’re just lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Is that what this is?” You tease, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer, just gives you a look that says more than words ever could. Then, with a final nod, he heads back to the kitchen, leaving you with the dish in front of you and the lingering feeling that something significant just happened.

You take a bite, and it’s even better than it looks. The flavors burst on your tongue, rich and complex, and you can’t help but smile. This is more than just food — it’s a statement, a challenge met and won.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Your friends order their steaks, and while they rave about their meals, you’re completely absorbed in your own, savoring every bite. You can’t help but steal glances towards the kitchen every now and then, wondering if Max is watching, if he’s thinking about you as much as you’re thinking about him.

By the time dessert rolls around, you’re almost too full to eat another bite. But when the waiter places a plate in front of you, you freeze.

It’s a small, delicate dessert — something that looks like a cross between a tart and a cake, with a perfectly smooth layer of chocolate ganache on top. But that’s not what catches your attention. Written in dark chocolate sauce across the edge of the plate, in neat, precise handwriting, is a phone number.

You blink, staring at it, your heart skipping a beat. Your friends lean in, catching sight of it as well, and their reactions range from gasps to stifled laughter.

“No way,” someone whispers, eyes wide with disbelief.

You can hardly believe it yourself. But there it is — clear as day, an unmistakable invitation.

You glance towards the kitchen, and just as you do, the doors swing open again. Max steps out, catching your eye from across the room. For a moment, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you again, the noise and bustle of the restaurant fading into the background.

He gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod — an acknowledgment, a dare. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving you with your friends and the plate in front of you.

“Are you going to call him?” One of them asks, their voice tinged with excitement.

You stare at the number, feeling a rush of adrenaline. “I don’t know,” you admit, though a smile is already spreading across your face.

But deep down, you do know. Because this — this little gesture, this playful challenge — feels like the start of something. Something you’re not quite ready to let go of.

You pick up your fork, take a bite of the dessert, and let the sweetness melt on your tongue. It’s perfect — just like everything else he’s made tonight. And as you savor the taste, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something far more interesting than you ever expected.

***

The kitchen is filled with the scent of something sweet and savory, a blend of spices and roasted vegetables that wafts through the house and wraps around you like a warm blanket. You’re perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, one hand absentmindedly resting on your growing belly, the other holding a glass of freshly squeezed juice that Max insisted you drink, despite your protests that you were perfectly fine with water.

“You need the vitamins,” he had said, the Dutch accent that once made you bristle now soothing in its familiarity.

“Max, it’s fine,” you replied, but he had just given you that look — the one that says he’s not backing down — and you relented with a sigh, knowing there was no point in arguing.

Now, you watch as he moves around the kitchen with a practiced ease, his hands deftly chopping, stirring, and seasoning. It’s a sight you’ve grown accustomed to over the years, but it never fails to fill you with a mix of awe and gratitude. He’s changed so much since that night at the steakhouse, when he’d been all sharp edges and stubborn pride. Now, those edges have softened, replaced by a quiet determination to make you happy in every way he can.

“How’s it coming along?” You ask, taking another sip of juice and trying to ignore the flutter of excitement in your stomach that has nothing to do with the baby.

“Almost done,” Max replies, glancing up at you with a smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Patience, liefje.”

“You know I’m not good at that,” you tease, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of what he’s cooking.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he continues to stir the pot on the stove. “I know. That’s why I’m hurrying.”

You can’t help but smile at that, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a comforting embrace. It’s moments like this that make you realize just how lucky you are — how much you’ve both grown together, built a life together. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been worth it.

“What are you making, anyway?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

He gives you a sly look, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’ll see.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he retorts, his voice full of playful confidence.

“Unfortunately, yes,” you admit with a mock sigh, though the smile on your face gives you away.

He laughs softly, the sound deep and full of affection. “Good thing, too.”

You watch him for a moment longer, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and contentment. He’s wearing an apron over his casual clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the steam rising off the stove. There’s something almost domestic about the whole scene, but it’s more than that—it’s the intimacy of knowing someone so well, of sharing your life with them in all its messy, beautiful complexity.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” You ask, your voice softening.

Max glances at you, his expression tender. “Not today.”

“Well, you are,” you say, feeling a sudden rush of emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He pauses, the spoon in his hand hovering over the pot as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You won’t ever have to find out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a promise.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that, but it never fails to hit you with the same force, the same certainty that you’ve found something rare and precious in each other.

Before you can respond, he turns back to the stove, breaking the moment with a casualness that belies the depth of what was just said. “Besides,” he adds, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone, “I’m pretty sure you’d starve without me.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky as you try to regain your composure. “You’re probably right. But I’d find a way.”

“Not as well as I do,” he counters, his voice filled with mock arrogance.

“True,” you admit, watching him with a smile. “You’ve ruined me for all other chefs.”

“Good,” he says, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “That was the plan.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the warmth that spreads through you. He’s always been confident, sometimes to the point of being infuriating, but there’s a sincerity to it now that wasn’t there before—a genuine desire to take care of you, to be there for you in every way.

“Are you going to let me taste whatever masterpiece you’re working on, or do I have to wait until it’s perfect?” You ask, trying to peek over the counter again.

“Patience,” he repeats, though there’s a glint in his eye that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Max,” you whine, drawing out the syllable in a way that you know he can’t resist.

He sighs dramatically, as if you’ve just asked him to perform some Herculean task, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. But just a taste.”

He picks up a small spoon and dips it into the pot, then turns and walks over to you, holding it out with a flourish. “Here.”

You take the spoon from him, your curiosity piqued. The aroma is intoxicating, and when you bring the spoon to your lips, the flavors explode on your tongue — rich, savory, with a hint of sweetness that lingers just long enough to make you want more.

“Oh my god,” you say around the mouthful, your eyes widening in surprise. “This is amazing.”

“I know,” he says, clearly pleased with himself as he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “I had to do something special for my girls.”

You swallow, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a soft, gentle wave. “Girls, huh?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re still convinced it’s a girl?”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart swell. “Just a feeling.”

You smile, resting a hand on your belly. “Well, I’m sure she’ll love whatever you cook for her.”

“She better,” he replies, though his voice is teasing. “Or I’m sending her back.”

You laugh, the sound filling the kitchen and easing the last remnants of tension in the air. “Too late for that.”

“Damn,” he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face as he turns back to the stove, stirring the pot with practiced ease. “Guess we’ll just have to keep trying.”

You watch him for a moment, your heart full to bursting with affection. He’s taken to this whole thing — pregnancy, impending fatherhood — with a kind of devotion that you never expected, but that somehow doesn’t surprise you at all. He’s always been all in, whether it’s in the kitchen or in your relationship. It’s one of the things you love most about him — that relentless drive to be the best, to give his all, no matter what.

“You’re going to be a great dad,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Max pauses, his hand stilling on the spoon. For a moment, he just stands there, his back to you, and you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, if maybe it’s too soon, too much. But then he turns, and the look on his face — full of vulnerability and determination — takes your breath away.

“I’m going to try,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I promise.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, you reach out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it gently. He squeezes back, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that’s so simple, so familiar, and yet it says everything you need to hear.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, clearing his throat and breaking the spell. “I’ve got something else for you.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

He smirks, pulling his hand away and turning back to the counter. “Just wait.”

You watch as he opens the fridge and pulls out a small tray, carefully covered with a cloth. He sets it on the counter and, with a dramatic flourish, pulls the cloth away to reveal ... a plate of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicately shaped and glistening with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

“Vegan croissants,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. “Made from scratch.”

Your jaw drops, and you stare at the pastries in disbelief. “You made these?”

“Of course,” he replies, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I told you I’d figure it out.”

You’re speechless, the effort and care he’s put into this gesture rendering you momentarily stunned. You know how much work goes into making croissants, and the fact that he’s done it just to satisfy your cravings — it’s almost too much.

“Max,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “you didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, though there’s a hint of bashfulness in his expression. “I wanted to.”

You reach out, picking up one of the croissants and holding it in your hands like it’s something precious. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I try,” he says with a smirk, watching as you take a tentative bite of the croissant.

The layers are perfectly flaky, the pastry light and buttery despite being vegan. It melts in your mouth, and you close your eyes, savoring the taste. “This is ... incredible,” you murmur, barely able to believe how good it is.

Max’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

You take another bite, unable to stop yourself from grinning. “I don’t just like it, Max. I love it.”

He chuckles, leaning against the counter with an air of satisfaction. “Good. But don’t go telling anyone, okay? You’re still the only person I’d cook vegan for.”

You laugh, a sound full of love and warmth. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He winks, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Better be. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

You shake your head, your heart full as you look at the man you married — the man who, despite all his bravado, has always made you feel like the most important person in his world. “You’re impossible,” you say fondly.

“And you love it,” he replies, his voice softening as he reaches out to gently cup your cheek.

“I really do,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

Max leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

“I love you,” he says, his voice steady and sure.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion.

And as you sit there together, the scent of freshly baked croissants filling the air, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life might not always be easy, but with Max by your side — cooking for you, joking with you, loving you — you know you’ll always have a reason to smile, no matter what comes your way.

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homunculus-argument · 5 months ago

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I may be swinging a fruit bat in a room full of hornet's nests here, but do americans know that most of the world doesn't look the way the US does? Like, specifically concerning ethnic diversity.

Coming from Europe, the fist time I went to the US, I was shocked by it, not in a negative way but in the same "wow, that's a real thing?" sort of way as western people finding out that there actually are that kind of pillar mountains in China, or americans who had never seen Fjord Horses in anything but the movie Frozen finding out that those fantastical yellow ponies are actually real.

And it wasn't some "backcountry rural hick sees Different Colour Person for the first time and dies of shock" sort of a thing. I had travelled before, and at 19 I considered myself quite worldly enough to go to a different continent I had never been on to go meet up a man from the internet, all by myself. I had been all over Europe from Iceland to St. Petersburg and from Norway to France, I have travelled. It was a slow realisation that it's turtles all the way down, that actually got me.

Being in an airport, going from one airport to another, I wasn't surprised by the sheer range of different kinds of people I saw. Airports just look like that, all over the world. Taking one flight after another, I didn't pay much attention to that, because airports just look like that. The "wait, holy shit" didn't hit me until I was already in rural Kentucky, in a fucking Wal-Mart. And if you're an american and the thought of a late teens nordic kid stepping foot into a Wal-Mart for the frist time and thinking "wow, this is actually what America looks like, all the time" makes you want to get defensive, it was by no means a negative feeling.

It was like looking into a bag of M&Ms. That's the only way I could describe it. Every single fucking person, group or family that I saw was apparently different colour and creed than the last ones who passed by. I had never seen black women with styled hair before because in Finland almost every single black woman you see is muslim and their hair is covered. I was used to the concept of large cities being more diverse, in FInland larger cities are the places where you're most likely to see people who aren't white. And I was stunned by just how colourful the population was in goddamn Beaver Dam, Kentucky.

I'm not trying to make any kind of a political point here. I'm just talking from my own experience as a Chronically Online European who has actually been abroad: City streets that look the way they do in the US are completely foreign to most people who are not american. And every time you people start complaining about why a game that's set in Poland, made by polish creators who have never been outside of Poland, only has polish people in it, they genuinely do not know what the hell you're talking about.

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shomatoriashi · 3 months ago

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11/10/24; 09:04am

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when you try to break up with them, and they convince you otherwise ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

queued post; published time 02:50pm

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

sylus no longer had the time to be with you, filling his days with various meetings and conferences while you were left to your own devices back at home.

and when your text messages were left unread, coupled along with how your calls would always end up going straight to voicemail-

you decided that enough was enough.

knowing that he had just returned from a business trip last night, you take quick strides towards his office with your suitcase in tow. you had every intention of showing just how tired you were of being neglected by him, and that you were through with being a mere afterthought.

not even bothering to announce your arrival, you grab at the door's handle and fling it open, allowing them to slam against the walls. sylus quirks an eyebrow at you, looking away from the gun he was currently polishing.

"what's this? is my kitten throwing a little tantrum?"

"i'm not your kitten- not anymore." you hiss at him, tossing back your hair while meeting his crimson gaze. "i'm leaving you, and that's the end of it."

a flash of annoyance was seen in his gaze, and he trails his eyes downward, finally noticing the suitcase in your hand.

"is that so?" with a click of his tongue, sylus pushes aside his gun, taking casual strides toward you. when he stands before you, his smirk seems to widen before placing his hand beneath your chin-

yet what you weren't expecting was for sylus to pin you against the wall, tossing aside your skirt while sliding down your panties with his teeth, revealing your soaked entrance to him. as he inserts a finger within your slick heat, thrusting that single digit in and out of you to draw out even more moisture from you, you could no longer resist him-

could no longer ignore just how much you had missed this intimacy with him.

the sensation of it all was enough to make you toss your head back in response, nails gripping at his hair when sylus manages to hold you by the back of your thighs, keeping you upwards using his strength alone before diving into your honeyed sweetness with his tongue. you gasp and unconsciously began moving your hips-

riding his face as your pushed your aching cunt against sylus's eager mouth. using his skilled fingers, he keeps thrusting it in and out of you, drawing out even more of your breathy moans as you felt your abdomen clench in response to your incoming release. within mere seconds, you felt a rush coursing through your veins, climaxing within sylus's awaiting mouth as he groans at there pure taste of you, swallowing all that you had to offer him.

feeling like your legs had effectively turned to jelly, you nearly fell to the ground had it not been for sylus. he keeps you pressed against the wall, using his free hand to unbuckle his belt before pulling his cock out of it. you tremble, seeing the way his lips were still shining from the evidence of your release briefly before crying out to him the moment his cock impales you.

"heh, as if you could ever live without me." sylus speaks to you in harsh tones, fucking you against his wall when his hips harshly met with yours in a series of passionate thrusts. "i won't let you leave me, not when everything i have done was for the sake of your happiness."

even while he was speaking, you couldn't bring yourself to understand him, feeling his cock filling you so well that you gripped him with your walls almost greedily. as if reading your mind, sylus gives you a shit-eating grin, leaning closer to whisper hotly in your ear,

"as if you could live without this cock."

you knew that zayne was a busy man that had big dreams of becoming the best cardiac surgeon in the world-

however, you felt like you were getting in the way of zayne achieving his dreams.

it wasn't like zayne was ignoring your calls, or remained unavailable because he was ignoring you. that was never the case when it came to him. in fact, you understood that he spent most of his days performing surgeries that would save lives-

and he shouldn't have to deal with you when you felt like you were nothing more than a distraction for him.

when evening came, you arrive at akso hospital with a solemn expression on your face. in your hand was a bag filled with various dishes you had prepared for him. this would be your final act of love and kindness for him before you broke it off with him.

arriving at his office, you felt your throat clench up with anxiety, knowing that what you were about to do was by far your hardest feat yet.

taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you breathe in deeply before knocking at his door. a faint 'come in.' was heard coming from the other side when you invited yourself inside his office.

zayne was settled in front of you, remaining seated at his desk all while appearing worn out. his hair was messy, like he had run his hands through them many times throughout the day. once you shut the door, zayne sees your figure approaching and gives you a tiny smile, "hello darling... what brings you here?"

you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, settling the packed meal off to the side before admitting to him, "z-zayne, you deserve better than me."

shock was written all over his face when he stands from his seat, "what do you mean?"

you shake your head while clenching your eyes shut, "i mean- you're someone who surpasses me. you save lives with what you do, a-and i just feel like a distraction to you and your dreams. that's why, i'm break-"

however, your words were cut off when zayne grips at your chin before pressing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. it was enough to make your mind go hazy, forgetting all about what you wanted to say to him when he delves his tongue into your mouth. your respective tongues fought for dominance, and you were losing this battle against him.

"z-zayne, stop, i-i can't think clearly when you do t-this."

zayne let's out a sound between a grunt and a groan, "then don't think, just feel."

and just feel you did.

all forms of coherency were lost the moment zayne places you on top of his desk, shoving aside all of his paperwork before kneeling before you. with your pants off, zayne spreads your legs all while pocketing your panties, wasting no time when he shoves his face within your slick heat.

his tongue was felt tracing at your pussy lips, making you cry out as your hands automatically delve themselves into his hair. you tried to bite down at your bottom lip, not wishing for anyone to see you in this compromising position with your exboyfriend.

knowing the ins and outs of your body intimately well, zayne was able to curve his fingers and swirl his tongue within the depths of your walls. he expertly draws out your honeyed arousal with a groan, and with a final pinch felt at your bundle of nerves, you released yourself completely into his hot mouth.

the intensity of your orgasm kept you in a daze, making you dimly aware of the sounds of shifting fabric before something hot and velvety was felt pressing against your entrance. a single grunt of your name was all the warning you were given when zayne pushes his cock inside of you, not stopping until he was completely sheathed.

zayne sets a steady pace, gripping at your clothed chest while ramming his cock in and out of you. he was panting, unable to ignore the sensation of your tight walls gripping him so sweetly when he tells you-

"i won't let you leave me... not when you're the only thing that keeps me grounded in this world."

you knew that your boyfriend's life was not only busy, but filled with danger as well.

it wasn't easy, working as a hunter while coming home exhausted nearly every single day. and despite how lonely you felt without him by your side, you figured it was best to end things now before it got too serious.

your heart was still a wreck at the thought of it all, because really, could you break things off with someone sweet like xavier? could you bear the thought of seeing his innocent, blue eyes filling with tears as you broke it off with him?

but at the same time, wouldn't he be better off without you? where he wouldn't need to think about your happiness-

your heart jumps within your chest when you heard the sounds of the door unlocking, revealing xavier as he alerts you of his return. tired, blue eyes met with your panicked gaze, and you felt so anxious that you simply blurted out-

"let's break up."

the sleepy quality of his eyes were gone now, with xavier standing up rigidly, "what?"

you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that you would turn into a coward and back out. choosing instead to ignore him, you began to ramble all while gathering your belongings together, "it's just, well, you work all the time, and it wears you out. it feels unfair of me to take away all of your time and i just- you deserve less stress in your life, and i'm certainly not helping, being a burden and all, a-and-"

your rants were cut off when xavier stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your front before picking you up. a flustered expression was seen on your face, and you tried to wiggle yourself out of his embrace-

only to feel xavier's arms tighten around you, ignoring your protests when he enters the bedroom before placing you on the bed.

"we are not over." xavier speaks to you in a matter-of-fact tone. "and just to prove that you're wrong..."

he hums, eyes never once looking away from you even as he places his hands down the waistband of your pants, making you gasp when you feel his calloused hands touching at the border of your entrance. "you're not a burden to me... you never were, and you never will be."

you end up gasping while arching your back against the bed, feeling xavier's slender fingers dip inside of you. he thrusts his fingers in and out of your slickness all while pinching at your clit. unable to stop him, you were only able to grip at his biceps, your back arching against the bed as xavier thrusts his fingers in and out of you. the overwhelming sensations of pleasure were almost too much for you to handle-

yet xavier refuses to stop.

he keeps on toying with your aching core, drawing out even more moisture from you when you suddenly released yourself against the palm of his hands just mere seconds later. letting out a hum of your name, xavier extracts his hand from your now soaked panties, admiring the shiny quality of his fingers as evident of your release.

curious blue eyes admire his stained fingers for a moment before putting it in his mouth to lick it clean. "hng... so sweet..." he meets your flustered gaze, blue eyes now eclipsed with darkness as evident of his desire. "i need more..."

filled with desperation and need for you, xavier grips at your clothes, seeming to rip them away from your body before tossing it in a pile on the ground. with both of your bodies left bare, xavier wastes no time when placing his face between your legs, devouring your soaked core a man starved-

and when he manages to thrust his cock within your silken walls, let's just say you both forgot about your talk of breaking up.

"let's forget all this talk about us being over... and have you ride my face instead."

your eyes go wide upon hearing rafayel's bold words, and you found yourself at a standstill now.

knowing rafayel's passion for art, you felt like you had gotten in the way of his work. there were times where you felt like you were a nuisance to him, especially when he had to stop working on a commission each time you came over, or even called him, voicing your desires to be with him.

despite how rafayel never minded sharing his time with you, your anxieties kept telling you otherwise, the scathing voice in your mind filling your heart with doubt.

like how you were simply an unnecessary distraction for him-

that you were someone that got in the way of his work and dreams-

that rafayel never needed you.

deep down, you knew that your boyfriend never viewed you in such a manner because of how much he loved you-

yet in the end, you allowed your deprecation to win, convincing both your heart and mind that rafayel was only with you out of pity.

but when you tried to break things off with him-

rafayel simply met your gaze while demanding that you ride his face instead.

were you missing something?

"rafayel, didn't you hear what i just said? we're ov-"

"oh i heard you loud and clear, alright. i just refuse to do it." the young lemurian purposely cuts off your words all while giving you a come hither movement with his hand, "now, why don't you be a good girl and ride my face instead?" rafayel was practically purring at you, "i know my princess just feels a little stressed, and she didn't mean to say all those mean things to me."

your traitorous body clenches in response to his seductive words, with your heart racing out of his chest the moment rafayel takes off his shirt. seduction was seen in his gaze when he pulls down his pants and boxers, not stopping until he was utterly bare for you. your eyes immediately see the way his cock slowly became erect for you, making your mouth water at the sight.

swallowing thickly, you could do little than to allow rafayel to grip at your hand, leading you back towards the bed. giving you a wink, rafayel grips at your backside before giving it an audible smack, "you know what you want to do, princess."

your boyfriend was smirking at you, letting out one last hum of your name before laying down in bed. your heart begins to skip its beats as you trail your eyes down to his cock once more, your cunt clenching at the sight of how it twitched in anticipation, waiting for you.

with trembling fingers, you shakily unbutton your blouse, allowing the thin fabric to fall to the ground as your shorts and panties follow suit. when you were left in your bra, you sigh and unclasp it, tossing it to the ground before climbing on top of the bed.

rafayel's gaze turns hungry when he sees your figure approaching him. "that's it, that's my girl." he grips at your wrist, pulling your body toward him as he slides you until your soaked entrance was directly over his face.

"fuck, such a pretty little flower..." you nearly fell on top of him when his finger traced at your pussy lips, teasing you as a rich chuckle escapes from his lips. "all wet and ready for me... come on, princess, you know what you want to do."

unable to resist him any longer, you bite down on your bottom lip and land on top of his mouth, rubbing your slick walls over his mouth. you shiver upon feeling his groan vibrating through you, tossing your head back as his tongue manages to travel inside of you, massaging at your slickness.

"hah..." you felt breathless, your thighs already squeezing rafayel's head as you tried to chase your high. no longer thinking about anything that wasn't rafayel's face buried within your sweet cunt, you continued to ride him, tossing your head back each time his tongue tried to reach even deeper inside of you.

your moans and his muffled grunts were all that you could hear, and when you tried to quicken your pace-

you found yourself needing something bigger to help with assuaging the painful ache between your legs. looking behind, your eyes widen upon seeing the way rafayel's hand desperately gripped at his cock, giving it quick and fast strokes while his tongue kept delving into your core.

not even fully comprehending your actions, you lazily got off of his face, purposely rubbing your wet heat down his chest as rafayel struggled to sit up, "princess? why'd you stop?"

but you ignore his question, not stopping your slow descent across his body until your slick walls gripped at the underside of his cock. you bask in the way the veins seemed to pulse against you, making you let out a dreamy sigh when you gently gripped at his shaft.

"b-baby-"

a low hiss was heard coming from rafayel when you slap his cock against your entrance for a few brief moments before holding it in place, allowing yourself to sink down on him. the young artist ends up tossing his head back at the sensation, letting out a string of curses, "fuck yes! that's it princess, that's it... my pretty girl..."

rafayel was left a babbling mess now, praising you in an almost drunk manner the moment you kept bouncing yourself up and down his cock. "that's my good girl, such a good girl f'me...- fuck!"

you loud cries and whiny moans echo throughout the room, and you rode rafayel's cock with a reckless abandon, earning a smirk from him when he manages to tell you,

"this is where you belong, princess, right here, bouncing up and down on my cock."

end notes: my thirst for my fave lads men have returned 🫠 i swear i had this in my drafts since early october, so im happy that i was able to think of a good plot for it just now ;A;

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

#sylus smut #zayne smut #xavier smut #rafayel smut #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x you #zayne x you #xavier x you #rafayel x you #lnds smut #lads smut #writings 📖#l&ds smut

1K notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 2 months ago

Text

⋆ angel of mine; i’m probably gonna think about you all the time.

biker!sevika x stripper!chubby!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when you get news of your grandmother’s declining health, you pack what’s left of your life in miami and begin to head home. on the way you meet enigmatic stranger sevika, who gives you a ride.

wc: 10k

cw: age difference! stripper!reader, chubby!reader, fem!reader, mommy issues, implied melvika, implied melvika x reader, strangers to lovers, roadtrips, biker!sevika, resolved sexual tension, codependency, found family, dysfunctional families, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, exhibition kink (implied), degradation, name-calling, dom/sub, dom!sevika, sub!reader, hyperfemme!reader, lowkey sugar mommy!sevika.

notes: you can definitely tell i’m southern in this piece. i love the south despite it not loving me (black, sapphic, & female) back. so much of florida contains my family and love though i left it. i hope that comes through. i’m really proud of this and i hope you enjoy. so sorry for any typos i may have missed. let me know what you think & if you want a full melvika x reader pt. ii ! i love you. 𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖°

playlist: lana born to die: paradise album. listen here.

The white teeth of Miami were always going to eat you alive.

That’s what your grandmother used to say, her voice crackling over the phone, sweet but certain, the way only old women could be. She didn’t say it to scare you—just to remind you that the city, for all its glitter and heat, had sharp edges. She was a lioness, and you were good meat.

You’d felt it too, walking barefoot along the highway, heels swinging in one hand and your purse in the other. The sunset was dying behind you, streaks of cotton candy pink, baby blue, and tangerine smeared across the horizon like someone had finger-painted the sky in haste.

Your cheeks still sparkled faintly under the fading light, remnants of glitter you hadn’t scrubbed off from work. It clung stubbornly, refusing to let go. You’d braided the front of your hair into two plaits that went straight back, falling apart in the middle to join the rest of the mass—wavy and tinsel-streaked. It was your “mermaid hair” as your younger sister loved to call it. You blinked heavily, your 60s-style lashes dragging their soft bodies across your plush cheeks.

The ache in your feet was grounding though, pulling you out of the haze of the club—the strobe lights, the bass that rattled in your ribs, the haze of too many eyes on you.

You’d gotten through the night, but just barely. Grandma’s sick. That had been the thought looping in your head as you swayed under the lights, pretending to be something more desirable than tired. Your mother had called, her voice small and broken. She wouldn’t tell you where she was. I’ll be home tomorrow, you’d promised anyway and then you climbed back on the stage.

You’d scraped together what you could tonight, but not enough for both a cab and the medicine your grandmother needed. The last bus out of town was fucked, something about a technical failure. So, you walked, the stretch of highway endless, the heat still radiating off the asphalt like it was sinking into hell.

You were so distracted by both your raging anxiety and oncoming hunger that the headlights caught you off guard. A single beam at first, low and flickering, until the growl of the engine grew louder, sharper, swallowing the silence. You turned instinctively, lifting a hand to wave—desperation bleeding through the gesture.

The motorcycle slowed. It wasn’t just a machine; it was an extension of her.

Its rider was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence filling the space before she even spoke. A thick, short braid of dark hair hung over her shoulder, catching the light like polished onyx, and her face was all hard angles—sharp jaw, strong brow, a faint scar cutting through her upper lip. She leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on a prosthetic arm that gleamed silver in the twilight. Her eyes, cold at first glance, raked over you, measuring.

For the millionth time that night, you became painfully aware of your appearance. You hadn’t had much time to change before rushing out, so you were stuck in a turquoise spaghetti-strap tank that clung uncomfortably to your skin and a pair of low-rise grey sweatpants, the faded mall-brand logo on the hip barely holding on.

Your purse—a tiny baby pink crossbody clutch—was stretched to its limit, struggling to close over your overstuffed Polo Assn. wallet, its dark brown leather warped by thick stacks of crumpled bills and nearly maxed-out credit cards.

A single white earbud perched in your left ear, the mile-long wire snaking under the loose neckline of your tank and into your hands, where your phone gleamed faintly in the glare of her headlights. Glittery gold, covered in 3D bubble stickers of pale pink and cream roses—your little sister’s handiwork.

Between the heat of the phone and the plastic of the case, you’d tucked a Polaroid: you, your sister, and your aunt, all dolled up in perfect makeup and hoop earrings, the three of you grinning wide enough to make the moment feel permanent. Behind the photo, folded neatly, was a note.

The faintest whiff of smoke clung to you, softened by bellini, cherry, and peach. You’d tried hard to be sweet, always sweet, but it wasn’t enough to cover the night’s work. Especially not tonight.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice gravelly, low, like the rumble of her engine hadn’t entirely faded.

“Not lost,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “Just… trying to get home.”

You were always trying to go home.

She raised a brow, glancing at your bare feet and the glitter still dusting your face. “Long walk.”

You shrugged, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your face.

“No choice.”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded toward the seat behind her.

“Hop on. I’ll get you there.”

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the gleam of her prosthetic, the way it contrasted with the calloused hand gripping the throttle.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally, your voice quieter now.

She huffed faintly, tilting her head. “Sevika. And you?”

You gave her your name, your voice carrying the weight of gratitude but a lack of trust. You weighed your options—you had none—and decided that you could only hope she wasn’t insane.

You thought of the note in your phone case.

“Lord, I confess i want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe. Like everyone else, I want a storm I can dance in. I want an excuse to change my life. Lord if I say bless the cold water you throw on my face, does that make me a costume party. Am I greedy for comfort if I ask you not to kill my friends if I beg you to press your heel against my throat - not enough to ruin me, but just so I can almost see your face.” (x.)

Then, without another word, you climbed onto the bike, your fingers brushing against her shoulders as you steadied yourself.

The engine roared, and the wind hit your face, carrying you forward into the night. You bent your neck, tucked your head into her back, and began to pray.

❀

You woke to a soft hand on your skin.

“Hey. You up?”

The words were quiet, almost careful, but they pulled you from the thin edge of sleep. For a moment, you were disoriented. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, white with faint water stains bleeding outward like bruises. The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, and smelled of saltwater and lavender. There was a thin blanket draped over your shoulders but it felt impossibly heavy, anchoring you in place.

Sevika was leaning over you, her face shadowed but sharp in the dim light spilling from another room. Her hand lingered on your hip, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, rasping against the quiet. “Mel wants to meet you.”

“Mel?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“She lives here. She’s… persistent,” Sevika said with a dry edge, stepping back to give you room to sit up. “And she’s got a thing for taking care of strays. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

The apartment was small, but the stomach of it was softened by a clear effort to make it feel like home.

The walls were painted a pale cream, though the paint was peeling in the corners, and the floors were scuffed wood. The furniture was mismatched, but there was a warmth to it—a knitted throw slung over the back of the couch, a row of half-burned candles on the coffee table, the faint scent of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air.

The windows were open, letting in the salt-thick breeze of the early morning, and a line of photos pinned to the wall swayed slightly, the string barely holding on.

Mel appeared in the doorway to what must have been the bathroom, her figure backlit by the soft, yellow glow. She was taller than you’d expected, her frame lithe but strong, and her black braids pooled over her shoulders like an oil spill, gleaming in the dim light. She held a cherry red hairbrush in one hand and a small bottle of lotion in the other, her brown skin catching the light beautifully.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice rich but cautious. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, warm but searching.

Most people tended to treat you this way. It was as if you were a scared animal and they were trying to coax you in.

You nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Yeah. Sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude here.”

“You didn��t,” Mel said quickly, stepping closer. Her tone softened, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Sev doesn’t bring people home unless she has a reason. You must’ve needed it.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Your gaze flicked to Sevika, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her broad chest, her prosthetic glinting faintly in the soft light. She was watching the two of you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve seen you before,” Mel said suddenly, drawing your attention back to her. Her smile turned wistful. “At The Siren, right?”

The mention of the club sent a ripple of recognition through you. You nodded slowly, and Mel’s expression shifted, her eyes softening further.

“I thought so,” she murmured. “You helped me once, in the bathroom. I was… having a bad night. You were so sweet.”

The moment came back in pieces. Her face streaked with tears, her voice trembling as she spoke about her mother, about leaving home. You’d handed her a tissue, touched her shoulder lightly, said something comforting.

“I remember,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mel said, her gaze steady. “But I’m glad you did.”

She knelt in front of you, holding up the brush. “Let me help you. You’ve had a long night.”

You hesitated, but something in her expression, in the calm warmth of her voice, made you nod. She guided you to the bathroom, which was small and tidy, the mirror rimmed with salt stains and seashells.

As she brushed your hair, her touch was careful, her fingers grazing your scalp like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice faint. “You smell nice.”

Her laugh was quiet, and you felt the warmth of it root deep in your chest.

“Coconut oil,” she said, but there was a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Mixed with vanilla. I like to smell dewey and sugary. Kind of like you.”

You smiled tiredly at her in the mirror, lifting a hand to pat at her wrist. The tender powder pink of your acrylics were bright against it. Behind you, Sevika leaned in the doorway, her presence as steady as a shadow.

“You’re making her shy, Melly,” she teased, her voice like gravel underfoot.

Mel glanced at her, rolling her eyes, but you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips. As a final touch she added a large bow clip to your tamed strands; it was lilac and worn at the ends.

When you were cleaned up, you reached for your purse, pulling out a crumpled bill.

“Here. Let me—,” you began, holding it out.

Mel’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more serious as she cut you off. She pushed your hand back gently.

“Honey, you don’t owe me anything.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you tucked the money away, unsure of what to say.

Sevika cleared her throat. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Tampa,” you said.

She raised a brow, her smirk returning.

“Figures. You seem like a Tampa girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Sevika just shrugged, her mouth twitching.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The three of you stepped into the early morning light, the ocean-heavy breeze brushing against your skin. You didn’t even know you could live this close to the ocean in Miami.

You turned back and caught Sevika and Mel in silent conversation. There was something unspoken between them, between you, something you couldn’t quite name. For now, though, you let it rest.

Grandma’s sick, you reminded yourself. You had to keep going.

❀

The rest of the day swelled with humidity, the horizon bruised with the threat of rain. The Cadillac’s engine purred low, its growl humming beneath the croon of soft rock spilling through the speakers.

You kept your eyes on the window, the world outside blurring as heat shimmered off the asphalt and smeared the palms into a haze.

Sevika hadn’t said much since you got in her car. She didn’t need to.

There was a quiet kind of ease in her presence, a stillness that somehow made the grief gnawing at your chest feel less unbearable. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window frame, her fingers idly toying with a cigarette she hadn’t yet lit.

The smell of the car had settled around you—leather, faint smoke, and something warm you couldn’t name. It was the kind of smell that made you think of safety, though you didn’t know why.

Your phone buzzed in your lap, the screen lighting up with a message from your mother.

Sorry, baby doll. Grandma’s on the brink.

You read the words twice, three times, and still they didn’t make sense. Your fingers tightened around the phone, your nails pressing into its glittery gold case, and something sharp and hot clawed its way up your throat.

Sevika glanced over, her brow furrowing.

“You good?”

You nodded quickly, your lips pressing together to hold back the tears that were already welling. But it was no use. They spilled over, fat and hot, streaking black mascara down your apple-round cheeks.

You turned your head, pretending to watch the passing trees, but your reflection in the window gave you away.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered, low and rough. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then flicked it out the window. “Hold on.”

She pulled off the highway, her movements smooth and deliberate, and guided the car into the gravel lot of a diner. Its neon sign flickered faintly against the gray sky, Chuck’s written in soft pink cursive. The building was small and sweet, painted robin’s egg blue with white shutters and lace curtains framing its windows.

Sevika parked and cut the engine, turning to look at you.

“Come here.”

Her voice was softer now, but it still carried that unshakable steadiness. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap, but the look on her face left no room for doubt. You leaned toward her, and her arms came around you, solid and warm, pulling you into her chest.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand smoothing over your hair. “Come on, angel. Just let it out.”

And you did. The sobs came in waves, ripping through you until you were shaking, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline. She didn’t flinch, didn’t tell you to stop. She just held you, her hand a steady weight against the back of your head, her thumb brushing small, grounding circles into your shoulder.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged you like this.

When you finally pulled back, your face was hot, damp, and streaked; your mascara smudged into shadows beneath your eyes. Sevika reached out, her thumb catching the tracks on your cheeks.

“Messy,” she said softly, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

The diner’s door chimed as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and bread washing over you. The interior was impossibly charming, with its pastel booths, checkerboard floors, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool against the back of your legs.

Sevika sat across from you, her body filling the small space like a storm cloud, heavy and unshakable. You stared out the window, watching the rain slip down the glass in delicate rivulets. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled, low and faint.

“You’re strong, you know that?” Sevika’s voice broke through the quiet.

You turned to her, startled. Her eyes were dark, but they were the softest you’d seen them so far, almost tender.

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing your chin. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through you, her thumb catching against your skin.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, her voice low and certain. “You’ll be fine. You have to be.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, the sound of it filling the silence between you. And then Sevika let go, her hand retreating back across the table.

The rain continued to blur the diner’s windows, the soft pink neon outside flickering faintly against the new gloom. You stared down at your coffee, the chipped porcelain mug warm in your hands, but it wasn’t enough to steady the tremor that had worked its way into your fingers. The realities of the world felt too sharp, too close, like you might unravel right there in your plain sight.

“Talk to me,” you said suddenly, your voice thin and unsteady. “I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.”

Sevika’s eyes lifted from her coffee, dark and knowing. Her expression didn’t shift, but something gave in the set of her jaw. She leaned back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, her other hand absently brushing the lip of her mug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” You exhaled shakily, your gaze flicking out to the rain before returning to her. “Tell me why you drive a beat-up Cadillac.”

That pulled a small, low chuckle from her, quiet but rich. She tipped her head, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you felt less like you were shuddering into beautiful pieces.

“You think she’s beat-up?” Sevika asked, her lips curving faintly.

“She’s held together by rust and prayer,” you said, almost smiling. “I’m just saying.”

Sevika’s laugh came fuller this time, a sound that filled the air without disrupting the other patrons.

“Hey. She’s got character. My dad gave her to me when I was nineteen. She used to be pristine—white leather, a real beauty. But time does what it does.”

You blinked, caught on the number.

“Nineteen?” you asked, hesitant. “How long ago was that?”

Her smirk grew, slow and sharp. “Longer than you’d guess, angel.”

Your brows furrowed, curiosity blooming against the weight in your chest. “How old are you?”

Sevika’s gaze lingered, the kind of look that made you feel seen in a way that was both unnerving and magnetic.

“Old enough to remember when you had to rewind your mixtapes with a pencil,” she said, her voice dry, teasing.

You couldn’t help it—a small laugh slipped out, barely there, but it felt good.

“I’ve always had a thing for older women,” you said absently, the words slipping out before you realized what you’d said.

Her smirk deepened, her eyes sharpening in a way that made your stomach flip.

“That so?” she murmured, her voice low and rich, a swatch of velvet dragged through smoke. “You looking for a mommy, angel?”

Heat flooded your face, vicious and unbearable, and you pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m, um—gonna order something at the counter,” you mumbled, refusing to meet her gaze.

She chuckled, soft and lazy, her voice following you as you turned toward the counter.

“Go on, sweetheart. Take your time.”

The diner felt warmer, brighter, as you made your way to the counter, the fluorescents buzzing faintly above. You kept your eyes on the menu board, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

❀

It’s four more hours to Tampa, but it’s the most excruciating period of your life.

You’d left the diner a little steadier, Sevika’s arm brushing yours as you climbed back into her car. The Cadillac rattled like death, its leather seats sticky against your thighs.

You leaned your temple against the window, watching as the flat Florida landscape blurred into soft greens and yellows. The air outside was still thick with heat, even with the sun reducing its intensity as it slunk away.

The highway stretched out like an open wound, raw and endless. You fiddled with the radio dial until a bouncy indie pop song filtered back through the speakers, filling the air with a thousand wailing guitars. Sevika didn’t complain, her focus locked on the road ahead.

At some point, she pulled off into a gravel lot in front of a boutique. The building was small and unassuming, its pink paint faded by time. A hand-painted sign swung lazily in the humid breeze.

“We’re stopping?” you asked, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

“You need other clothes,” Sevika said simply, stepping out of the car. “Come on.”

The shop smelled faintly of coconut wax and dust, its racks crammed with mismatched pieces that managed to appear more curated than random. Sevika leaned against a rack of jeans, her arms crossed, as you wandered through the aisles.

“We’re strangers,” you said eventually, holding up a knit top to your chest. “Why are you taking care of me?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw tightening in thought.

“I remember being twenty-one,” she said finally. “The world was a lot to handle back then. Some days, it still is.”

You lowered the top and gazed at her, mouth dipping in understanding. She was so beautiful here, despite being far from at home in this confectionery store. Her arms flexed gently as she shifted in place, and you resisted the urge to press her hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry that you know what that feels like.”

“You don’t have to pity me,” she said, the response clearly a reflex.

You smiled crookedly and didn’t press further.

The outfit you picked—a striped knit and high-waisted jeans—felt soft against your skin. The knit hugged your curves, the soft plum-colored neckline slipping just low enough to expose the plush swell of your shoulder. When you stepped out of the dressing room, Sevika gave you a once-over, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’re a girl with expensive taste,” she teased. “Is that cashmere?”

“It’s my stage name for a reason,” you shot back, smiling softly. “And everything is overpriced here.”

“You look like a doll,” she said, her tone amused.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her to the counter.

“I’ve got to look a little more appropriate.”

“For what?” she teased. “Tampa doesn’t care.”

“Well , my Aunt Kenna will.”

Unsurprisingly, you found yourself overpowered by Sevika at the register. She pressed her card down, its body sleek and black with silver lettering. Once again, you were struck by the kindness of strangers and you felt your throat tighten.

She gave you a look, as if to quiet your self-effacing urges. Behind the counter, the clerk smiled to herself as she observed the two of you. She was petite and had a pinched face, her hair short and a creamy blonde. Maddie, her tag read. She reminded you a lot of your mother, possessing the same shifty energy of a runner as she racked up your total.

The drive resumed, and with it, you revealed more of yourself to Sevika. You told her about your grandma, about the way she used to braid your hair with fake frangipani from the craft store and sing to you in the evenings where your mother would be gone. How her hands were always soft, even when they were tired. How you used to tuck yourself under the desk at the hospital where she worked when your heart was crumbled by women you definitely shouldn’t have been involved with at eighteen.

You spoke of your aunt, the way she fought to keep the family together, even when it wasn’t hers to save. You spoke of your little sister who in a way was also your child, how you did most things in life for her sake.

Sevika listened in silence, her hand resting on the wheel, her gaze never straying from the road. There was something in her stillness that made you feel seen, even when the words caught in your throat.

When you finally crossed into Tampa, the sky was dyed indigo and gold, the houses lining the street glowing faintly in the dusk.

You rolled the window down and leaned out, your phone poised to capture the image forever on your cracked back camera. You were such a tall child.

The warm air stroked against the moon of your face, tugged at the ends of your hair and dried your lips. You felt Sevika’s hand slide to your thigh, just below the crease of your ass, heavy and grounding, and you froze. Her palm was rough against the soft give of your flesh, her fingers splayed just enough to keep you steady.

“Don’t fall out,” she muttered, her voice tinged with quiet amusement.

“I won’t,” you said, but you sat back soon after, your heart beating a little too fast.

Sevika’s hand lingered a second longer before retreating to the wheel.

The butter-yellow house came into view, its shutters glowing faintly in the twilight. Your breath hitched. It looked the same as it always had, though the paint was more weathered, the steps chipped at the edges.

Sevika pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was deafening. You fumbled with your purse, fingers trembling, but before you could open the door, Sevika’s hand found your chin. She turned your face toward hers, her thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Always is.”

Her eyes held you in place, dark and unflinching.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed her. Before you could think too much of it, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her cheek. Over her scar.

“Thank you.”

Her mouth parted, but the screen door creaked open, and you saw your aunt step onto the porch, her arms crossed and one brow raised in quiet judgment. You hesitated, glancing back at Sevika.

“You could come in,” you offered, the words heavier than they should have been.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to your aunt before landing back on you. She pushed off the seat and got out to follow you, her presence like a shadow at your back.

The porch light hummed faintly as you step inside, and a creamy warmth filled your chest. Your sister cheered when she saw you, and you laughed—your eyesight blurring. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe.

❀

As always, you dived in headfirst and sought out your grandmother’s room.

It was a terrible mistake. You couldn’t handle seeing her like that.

Almost immediately, bile surged up your throat, sharp and acidic, and you bolted—pausing just long enough to set the medicine down on her nightstand with quaking hands. You burst outside, where the air was sweltering with salt and the sudden impact of your new reality.

You weren’t good with death, not in any of its forms.

When your daddy died, something inside you cracked clean in half, the break jagged and irreparable. You’d felt a piece of yourself slip down into his grave, like a loose flower. Since then, you’d clung to the hope that love—your love—could somehow keep the people you cared about alive. At least until you felt ready for the loss.

Your chest ached in a way that felt both too familiar and entirely new, like grief had leveled your ribs to construct a home in your body. You rubbed at it absently, trying to dull the pressure blooming there, blinking hard against the rising tide of tears.

She was going to die. You knew this. It settled into your stomach like lead, poisoning you.

Behind you, the woods creaked, the trees’ chorus soft and low, like they were joining you in mourning. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Hey, angel,” Sevika said, her voice low and warm, the kind of soft you wouldn’t have expected from her. It caught you off guard every time. “You alright?”

“I’m not going back in there,” you said quickly, your voice brittle and thin.

“You don’t have to.” There was a pause, long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, quieter, “Can you look at me?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands, at the chipping polish on your grown out tips and the way your fingers trembled. You could feel her waiting, patient and steady, like she’d stand there all night if you needed her to. Finally, you turned, slow and reluctant, until your eyes met hers.

Sevika stood at the edge of the porch, broad shoulders framed by the faded light. Her face was unreadable, but not unkind.

“Come here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t think. You moved, inching forward on unsteady legs and stepping into her orbit. Her hands came up instinctively, one curling around your elbow, the other hovering just above your waist, as if she wasn’t sure where to touch you.

“I can’t go back in there,” you repeated, your voice cracking.

“[Name]—,”

“She’s dying.”

“But you knew that. You can’t leave her when she needs you the most.

“I’m tired of people fucking needing me.” You crossed your arms over your torso, holding yourself. “They all just leave anyway.”

“When you love people, that’s the process. That’s life’s price.

The words hit you like a perfect blow, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying—big, fat tears that streaked your cheeks with warmth and made your mascara run. You tried to turn away, but her hand found your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.

“Hey,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s unfair, I know. Trust me, I know. Let it out.”

And you did. You let the sobs take you, let them rip through you wave after wave, until you were clinging to her shirt, the fabric balled tightly in your fists. She held you through it, solid and unfaltering, her hand steady against your back.

When the tears finally subsided, you felt drained, like you’d been wrung out and left to dry. But her arms stayed around you.

❀

Sevika managed to coax you inside, shivering and bleating like a lamb, but the house was newly unbearable.

Every room smelled like antiseptic and something sweetly rotting beneath the surface, a scent that clung to your hair and the back of your throat. The walls felt too bright, too alive for what was happening inside them.

It was like the house was mocking you. Every sound—your grandmother’s labored breathing, the clock ticking too loudly in the kitchen, your little sister’s restless movements on the couch—seemed to close in on you.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that room, not in that house. Maybe you took after your mother more than you liked to admit.

Your sister looked so small on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her and her face blank as she stared at the flickering TV. She was holding onto the hem of her dress like it might unravel if she let go and the man on the screen promised to get her a spot in heaven, under God’s thumb. Bullshit.

When you spoke, your voice was soft, barely audible over the droning hum of the television.

“Get your shoes on, bug,” you said. “We’re going to the beach.”

Her head snapped up, her wide eyes searching yours for a moment before she nodded and slid off the couch.

You were almost out the door when your aunt caught you, her voice sharp but quiet.

“You better know what you’re doing with that woman.”

Kenna’s words stopped you cold, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face shadowed by the dim porch light.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with her,” you admitted, your voice low. “But I know I trust her.”

Your aunt studied you for a long moment, her gaze heavy and cutting. Finally, she stepped aside, her expression softening just enough to let you know she wasn’t angry, just worried.

“I know what infatuation looks like. I know what love looks like too, even when it’s still on its way. It’s coming, baby. Just—,”she sighed, breaking off.

“Just be careful,” she finished.

You hugged her tight, sagging as she slid a hand over her hair before letting you go.

Sevika was waiting in the car, her arm draped over the steering wheel, her face unreadable in the twilight. Your sister climbed into the backseat, curling up immediately with her Lisa Frank coloring book, and you slid into the passenger seat without a word.

The drive was quiet, the low hum of the city filling the space between you. Sevika didn’t push, didn’t ask what had happened inside. She just drove, and you were so grateful you could’ve kissed her.

The beach was nearly empty when you arrived, the sun beyond gone now. You spread a blanket out on the cool gray sand, letting your sister run down to the water. Her laughter echoed faintly, carried by the breeze, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

You pulled off your woven cover-up, revealing the soft orange bikini you’d slipped on. The well-loved fabric clung to you, accentuating the plush curves of your body in a way that made you stall for only a moment. But then Sevika looked at you, and the way her gaze dragged over you made all air flee your throat.

She swallowed hard, her jaw working as she tore her eyes away and stared out at the water instead.

“You look nice,” she said, her voice gruff.

You snorted, sitting down on the blanket.

“Nice?”

“Very nice,” she amended, but the rasp in her voice gave her away.

“You do too,” you told her and you meant it.

She was gorgeous in her black cropped tee and little black cargoes. This was “as beachy as she was willing to get”. You didn’t give a damn. You wanted to eat her alive.

The sky deepened into a hazy indigo, the stars faint and scattered. Your sister danced along the shoreline, her feet splashing in the shallow waves. You watched her, your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

“I wish this was my entire life,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Sevika.

She turned to you, her brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing to your sister. “Taking care of her. Taking care of my daughter with my wife. No illness, no bills piling up, no—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “No worries. Just a quiet life.”

Sevika didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked at her, her face was so soft in a way you knew was probably a rarity. Her prosthetic raised in an aborted motion, as if she’d thought to touch your face.

“I could take care of you, baby,” she said quietly, the words slipping from her lips like a promise.

Your breath caught, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Come back with me, [Name],” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stay with me and Melly. Bring [Sister’s Name]. You don’t have to do it alone all the time.”

The fantasy of her words pressed against your chest, warm and overwhelming. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it: her, Melly, your sister, a life where the world's heaviness couldn’t crush you.

Your sister called out from the water, waving a piece of driftwood she’d found, and the moment broke. Sevika’s hand brushed yours, solid and grounding, and when you turned back to her, her eyes were still on you, waiting.

The tide lapped at the shore, the sound mingling with your sister’s laughter, and you felt a rising pulse in your mouth, on your tongue.

“They do fireworks at the docks. You have to pay, but we sneak in all the time. You wanna see?”

“Sure,” Sevika said.

The answer came so easily and you knew she’d give you everything. Maybe even love you forever. The thought made you tingle and you dug your toes into the sand.

“Let’s go,” you said, your pinky twisting around hers.

You both knew you weren’t talking about the fireworks.

With a wry smile she rose and set about taking you home again.

Your sister—forever your baby—was curled fast asleep in the back seat of Sevika’s car by the time you pulled out of the lot, her face slack with the kind of peace only children seemed capable of. Her soft snores filled the space between you as Sevika drove back to your grandmother’s house, the streets quiet and warm, lit faintly by streetlights. The evening air hung heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

You glanced at Sevika as she drove, her profile lit in flashes by the passing lights. Her grip on the wheel was loose, but her fingers drummed absently against the leather, her thoughts somewhere else. Maybe with you.

You wondered if she was nervous. You wondered if she knew how much you were.

“She’s out like a light,” Sevika murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Guess it’s just us.”

You swallowed, your fingers playing with the hem of your cover-up, and nodded. “Just us.”

Your aunt was waiting on the porch when you arrived. She was perched on the railing, her vape glowing faintly in the dark. You knew the scent without looking: cucumber, apple, and sour cherry.

Her sharp gaze moved between the two of you as Sevika carried your sister inside, her long stride easy and steady despite the weight of the little girl in her arms.

“Enjoyed your family outing?” Aunt Kenna asked, teasing but pointed, as you lingered by the door.

You blinked at her, startled, heat rising in your cheeks. “It wasn’t like that.”

She snorted, taking a long drag. “Sure it wasn’t .”

❀

The docks were quieter than you expected when you arrived. Most of the families had settled in their little corners, kids running barefoot across the wooden planks, their laughter echoing into the open sky. The air smelled of pear, peach blossoms, and distant charcoal grills, a mix of sugar and fire that felt like the very essence of where you’d been born and raised.

Sevika parked far enough away to avoid the crowd but close enough for you to see the shimmering reflections of the boats swaying in the dark water. She leaned back against the hood of her car, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and watched as you wandered closer to the edge, the creamy orange of your tiny bikini glowing faintly in the dim light.

You should’ve been illegal.

“Careful, angel,” she called, her voice warm, fond. “You fall in, I’m not jumping after you.”

You turned, smirking, the breeze tugging at the bow sitting pretty in the middle of your full breasts.

“I can swim.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to fish you out,” she said, but her smile gave her away. She was watching you so intently, her gaze loaded, as if committing you to memory.

You walked back toward her, your arms wrapped around yourself, and stopped just a foot away. The tension between you was almost tangible now, electric. You could feel it humming in the air, in the way her eyes lingered on the curve of your wide hips, the dip of your collarbone. It made your breath hitch.

“I’ve always loved the docks,” you said softly. “They feel… timeless. Like you could stand here forever and nothing would change.”

Sevika hummed, tilting her head to look up at you. “You think that’s a good thing?”

You shrugged, your lips curving faintly.

“Sometimes.”

The first firework burst above you then, a bloom of pink and gold that lit up the sky and reflected off the water. A shock of red followed shortly after. You both looked up, the moment suspended, the sound of the explosion echoing in your chest.

You glanced at Sevika, her face bathed in the soft glow of the fireworks, and felt something shift inside you. Something undeniable.

The show continued, and you moved to lean against the hood of her car. The metal was warm and your stomach was buzzing at the nearness of Sevika’s broad body.

By the time the fireworks were halfway through, you couldn’t focus on them anymore. The loud bursts of color seemed secondary to the way Sevika was lounging next to you, her broad shoulders relaxed, her eyes soaking in the way goosebumps bubbled along your arms. It felt like she was daring you to do something, to cross the line you’d been dancing around since she’d swept you off the highway.

You moved closer, your bare feet brushing against hers, and she straightened slightly, her head listing to the side as she watched you.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice low.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding.

“I’m thinking…” You trailed off, your fingers twisting in the sides of your bikini bottom. “I’m thinking this feels… nice.”

Her lips quirked, just slightly, but her gaze was serious. “Nice?”

“So good,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I feel… safe with you. Things are perfect like this, and—and I’m probably never gonna feel this way again.”

The words hung between you, honest and raw, and you could see the way they landed on her, the way her expression softened, her guard slipping for just a moment.

“I’d never hurt you,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, stepping even closer until you were standing between her legs, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. “I know.”

You didn’t, really. She could be selling you a paper thin dream. But your hope had always been the largest part of you. It spurred the flame you felt for her, your aching burning desire to be with her all the time. To ride by her side without question.

Her hand came up then, hesitating for just a second before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost cautious, but it sent an electric current straight through you.

“Sevika,” you whispered, your voice stumbling.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against your cheek.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the gap between you, your lips brushing against hers in a kiss that felt just right, like the tide meeting the shore. Your body lit up, and you collapsed into her—trusting and free.

She stilled for a moment, as if surprised, but then her hand tightened on your waist and she kissed you back, slow and deliberate.

The world seemed to fade then, the fireworks a distant, glittering symphony in the black sky. All you could feel was her—her warmth, her strength, the way she seemed determined to hold you together even as you felt like you might fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in weak gasps, lightheaded and aching to faint, she rested her forehead against yours, searching your dilated eyes.

Your lip gloss was smeared across Sevika’s jaw, leaving a streak of shimmering peach and rose that caught in the fleeting light of the evening. It clung to her skin, soft and vivid As she moved, the stain glistened faintly, the contrast against her sharp, weathered features sending a slow, aching thrill down your spine.

It was yours, this faint, glittering mark, lingering in the space where your mouth had been. She made no effort to remove it.

“Angel,” she murmured, her voice rough. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, your hands clutching at her shoulders. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she pressed another searing kiss to your lips.

“Come on,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Let’s get in the car.”

❀

Your palm slapped hard against the roof, your teeth almost tearing through your bottom lip as you tried to hold back a loud moan.

Beneath you, Sevika gripped the copious flesh of your ass as she sucked at your clit.

“Oh, shit, Sevika. Fuck.”

In the beginning you were so careful, worried about blocking her airway. With a hard slap to your ass she pulled you down, relentless in taking all of you.

“Hnnnnnh,” you whimpered. “Sevi, fuuuuuck.”

Sevika hummed in satisfaction at that. As she watched your face she grazed your clit with her teeth, relishing in how you arched.

You were so warm and supple between her fingers, your pussy slobbering over her nose and mouth. You tasted so good, so musky and honeyed. She never wanted to let you go.

Slowly, she slide you down and pressed you down to her chest as she undid your bikini top so that your tits spilled eagerly against her own. She then tenderly tucked two fingers inside of you, cooing as you whined at the stretch.

She began to bounce you by the fabric of your bottoms, forcing you to ride her fingers until they were covered in the thin film of your wetness. You moaned at her strength, at how easily she’d decided how you’d take her.

“Good fucking girl. So sweet, aren’t you, baby? Hmm?”

“Sevi, please. Just—just a little faster.”

She grinned meanly, inserting a third finger and curling them—raking cruelly against your g-spot. You sank further into her, swiveling your hips if only to get her deeper. To take her harder. Your pussy was weeping, emptying itself onto her hand.

“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re leaking all over me. ‘M never gonna get this out of these seats.”

“Good,” you breathed out, smiling impishly.

Sevika’s eyes darkened and she suddenly rearranged you till you were on your back against the leather seats, your legs wholly spread. she lowered between them, licking a long stripe up to your clit experimentally.

She had you soft and loose. You didn’t realize just how spacious this car was.

You moaned, high and loud, snapping into an arch until you were forced to come back down, Sevika’s arm holding your hips firmly. Your eyes were closed now, and your eyelids were no longer just black, explosions of color staining them, ripping through you.

Sevika lapped at you, taking her time but still intentional with the way she touched you. She used a hand to spread you apart burying her face into her pussy, her nose becoming wet again with your rabid need. She became messy, moving her head back and forth, slurping at you until you were almost shaking, on the edge of something greater.

Settling back just slightly, she spat harshly into your cunt and rubbed it into your clit, pressing down until it was close to painful. You couldn’t breathe correctly. You couldn’t even remember your name.

"Sevi. Sevi. Mommy, oh my fucking God.“

Sevika said nothing, just caught a lip of your cunt between her teeth, biting down as she slid her fingers back in.

"Unh," is what you had to add to the nonexistent conversation and Sevika grinned against you.

She spread her fingers and then curled them, dragging your hips into her lap as she sat up. You couldn’t feel your fucking legs.

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. It feels so fucking good."

Sevika was driven and vicious, determined to eat away at the woman beneath her. You curved your back as your orgasm approached, determined to feel it all the way up in the cavern of your mouth. You needed this.

Sevika leaned over you, tilting your head down so that you were looking at one another.

"I want you to keep looking at me as you cum."

You made a faint noise of agreement and clutched at Sevika’s arms. She took your hands and placed them underneath your knees, so that you could hold yourself open. It spread you apart until she was able to view how pink and puffy you were.

“I can’t wait to get you in bed, honey. ‘M gonna bend you over, open that tight little cunt with my cock, and watch you swallow me.”

“Oh.” You let a little groan of satisfaction as she thumbed at your clit.

Sevika pressed your foreheads together and thumbed at your mouth. You felt both here and there, brain blanking.

“Ohh,” she mocked you with a slight smile. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You cast your head back as Sevika returned her mouth to your pussy, suckling at it in combination with her fingers carving a space deep inside of you.

"Come on, angel," she urged. "Be good for me."

You were trying, goddamnit.

"Gonna take a photo of this creamy cunt. Show Melly, tell her that I did this. That you let me."

You let out a high whine, and she nodded in faux sympathy.

“Mmm? Is that what you want to do? Want me to take you to that shitty club and spread you open on stage? Stake my claim?”

A fourth finger now. Her voice dropped as if telling you a secret.

“Maybe I’ll slide some cold, hard cash into this slutty cunt, stretch that slit.” Faster now. Your toes curled. “ Fuck. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy just wants to slut you out.”

She pressed a delicate kiss to your cunt and you were unsure if what came next was just the slam of your hand against the door echoing or another firework going off.

All you knew was that the world around you was roaring, that she refused to stop. All you knew was her digging into you.

You imploded.

❀

The drive back was quiet, the tension between you still palpable but softer now, sated and sleepy. Sevika reached over once, her fingers brushing against your cheek and you shifted, pressing the petals of your lips into the center of her palm without hesitation.

When you finally pulled into your grandmother’s driveway, the house bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, you turned to her, your heart full to bursting.

“Stay,” you said, your emotions splayed wide open. “Just for a little while.”

She looked at you for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Okay.”

You both knew it wasn’t just for a little while.

❀

The house smelled like hibiscus and coffee when you walked in, the faint scent of six-dollar soy candles lingering in the corners. Your aunt was at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her curls pinned back with a clip. She turned when she heard the door creak open, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Sevika trailing behind you, broad-shouldered and quiet.

“You brought her back?” she asked, not in a disparaging manner, though her tone carried the weight of an older woman who’d seen it all.

“[Sister’s Name] forgot something in her car,” you lied easily, gesturing toward said alibi, who was peeking into the kitchen while rubbing a fist over her eye, her drowsy greeting muffled as she dragged her blanket behind her.

Your aunt didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either. Instead, she flicked her chin toward the counter.

“If she’s staying, she may as well help.”

Sevika looked at you, one brow arched slightly in amusement. You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though the idea of her folding herself into your life—even for something as mundane as this—made your stomach swoop.

The kitchen was broiling, almost unbearably so, with the old oven humming faintly and the humidity from the day still clinging to the walls. Sevika rolled up her sleeves, revealing the curve of her forearms, the prosthetic gleaming faintly in the soft overhead light.

You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept drifting—over the way her hands moved as she dried the dishes your aunt handed her, the faint flex of muscle under her skin.

“You ever wash a dish before?” your aunt asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Plenty,” Sevika admitted, her voice low and even. “Did a couple restaurant stints when I first came to this place. I was hoping to never do that shit again.”

You bit back a smile, ducking your head as you reached for a towel to dry the counter. The space felt smaller with her in it, her silhouette filling every corner, her quick movements electric.

Your aunt glanced between the two of you, her gaze lingering on Sevika before she handed her another plate.

“You’re a hard worker. Good. She needs someone who can keep up.”

Sevika’s lips quirked, but she didn’t respond, her attention focused on the task in front of her.

The radio crackled faintly from the corner, playing some old Cuban bolero your aunt loved, and you found yourself swaying slightly as you worked, the rhythm infectious. You caught Sevika watching you out of the corner of her eye, her gaze soft but intent, and your cheeks warmed.

“You dance to this too?” she asked, her voice pitched low enough that your aunt didn’t catch it.

“Sometimes,” you said, keeping your focus on the counter. “Not for free, though.”

She chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “Figures.”

Your aunt, oblivious or maybe just tactfully ignoring the tension that weaved itself between you, turned to Sevika with a clean dish in hand.

“Rinse this for me, would you? And don’t let her distract you—she’s been trouble since she could fucking walk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sevika said, glancing at you with a spark of amusement in her eyes.

The night wore on, the kitchen growing quieter as your aunt finally finished and stepped out to check on your sister. You stayed behind, leaning against the counter as Sevika dried her hands on a threadbare patch of towel.

“I can’t believe you were hustling in restaurants,” you said, nodding toward the sink.

She smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I can be a delight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Thanks for helping.”

“Anytime,” she said, her voice softening slightly.

You watched her for a moment, the way her shoulders seemed less tense now, the way her hair caught the light. The memory of her hands on you earlier still lingered, watering over your skin. It was a secret only the two of you shared.

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped closer.

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Yeah. Just a little tired.”

Her hand brushed yours, just barely, but it was enough to make your heart skip. She noticed, her gaze dropping to where your fingers nearly touched before she pulled back, her jaw tightening.

“We should get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.

For a moment, neither of you did, the hum of the radio the only sound in the room. Then she stepped back, giving you space you didn’t want, and you let her.

❀

Your bedroom felt much like the inside of a shell—quiet and strange, the air soaked with a mixture of rose, magnolia, and something darker, something that sat low in your chest. You could still taste the golden slices of your childhood, still feel the ache in your ribs that came from building elaborate forts.

But now there was Sevika, solid and steady beneath you.

As soon as the door had closed, she’d taken you apart slowly, carefully, as though she’d known you needed it to feel stable again.

The rough pads of her fingers, the soft murmur of her voice, the way she called you princess like it was the only name you’d ever had. And you had suffered in silence, hand across your mouth as you clenched and shook around her head for the third time, then the fourth.

You’d finally tired after a good ride on her thigh, holding on desperately to the nape of neck. Her baby hair was soft there, tender. She came when you kissed her nose, slid down to her mouth, and called her beautiful. She’d whimpered, bucked awkwardly around your fingers, and you held her to you as you whispered her name.

You’d looked it up in the bathroom. Sevika. Of Indian and Sanskrit origin. Servant of God.

Now, she lay between your legs, her head resting heavy and warm against your stomach. The weight of her felt magical, made your body feel more virginal than it ever had been, and you sighed lowly as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across her back.

The swan wings stretched with her every move, the feathers catching flight as she breathed. Muted ivory and soft grays leaned tenderly into the faintest hints of lavender and navy blue, the delicate gradient of ink glowing against her deep, bronze skin.

You reached out, tracing the curve of a wing’s tip near her shoulder blade. The ink felt warm under your fingertips, her skin soft but unyielding. The swan’s head, nestled at the base of her neck where the wings met, was elegant and sharp, its eyes bright as if they could see into you. You followed the line of its neck with your thumb, your touch lingering at the place where her spine dipped, and she hummed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated through your body.

She tilted her head, her cheek brushing against the softness of your belly as her eyes opened slowly, sleep still heavy in her gaze.

“You like it?” she murmured, voice rough and low.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re beautiful.”

You had already said this, and the reminder made you blush in embarrassment. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at her lips, and she closed her eyes again, sinking deeper into you as if she belonged there. You felt her hand slide up to rest on your thigh, her fingers splayed against your skin, holding you in place like she was afraid you’d disappear into the rising morning.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you flinched at the sound, the world outside pressing back in. Sevika didn’t move, just let her hand trail lazily up your spine as you reached for it. The screen glowed with messages from your aunt:

aunt kenna 𓆉: Couldn’t get anyone to cover the rest of my shifts this week. aunt kenna 𓆉: Mom’s still kicking. She’s getting stronger. aunt kenna 𓆉: Ty for coming home. See you soon. Love you, bug x

Still alive, you thought. The words lit up something inside you, bright and raw and impossible to contain. You laughed, the sound catching on the edge of a sob, and dropped the phone onto the bed.

“What is it?” Sevika asked, her voice filling with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The words tangled in your throat. Instead, you turned to her, your fingers trembling as they found her face, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her full mouth.

“She’s still alive,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer.

Her eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cradle your face, her thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “She’s a strong woman, just like the rest of you.”

The relief hit you all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and you kissed her because you couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was messy and desperate, your hands fisting in her hair as you tried to pour every unspoken thing into her mouth. She let you, her body surrendering to its basest urges .

“Still alive,” you repeated, this time against her lips, your forehead resting against hers as your tears slipped silently onto her skin.

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure, her hands steady on your hips. “You’re all gonna live forever.”

You kissed her again, because you needed to. You needed her.

You believed her.

And the truth was you didn’t know how good it would get for the two (five) of you.

You’d look back, let go, lose this part of things. Take your baby sister and leave.

You’d still be you, but you'd be free.

taglist: @miles-42-morales @indigopearl96 @marvelwomenarehot0 @vintagelotus345 @queen-simone @uronlymiaa @namuranguinhos @femlesbianbarbie @femme-historian @vikaswife @powderpinkandsweeet @drgnflyteabox @icespiceluva @theirlaliengirl @supermanwifey @nkeyaaa @batmanslittlelover @strawberrykidneystone @shimmerstraps

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d-z20 · 2 months ago

Text

Extra Credit (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You’re Billy’s favourite teacher, but it seems his mom, Agatha Harkness, has taken quite the liking to you too. What starts as innocent parent-teacher meeting quickly spirals into teasing glances, stolen moments, and Agatha making it very clear she always gets what she wants.

-OR-

She fucks you on her kitchen island and you've got to keep quiet while she takes a call

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Agatha being a MILF again, reader's got a praise kink, oral (R recv), fingering (R recv), orgasm denial if you close your eyes, could be more but idk

Words: 4.4k

A/N: Agatha All Along Week Day 1: Single Mom/Teacher AU

AO3 | Part 2 | Masterlist

The clatter of a pen dropping onto your desk jolts you back to the present. You blink, realising you’ve been staring at the clock for longer than you care to admit. Another parent-teacher conference night, another gruelling line-up of exhausted faces and polite nods. You adjust the stack of papers in front of you, trying to muster some energy for the last meeting on your schedule. Billy Maximoff. His name is scribbled neatly on the appointment sheet, but it’s the blank column under “Parent/Guardian Name” that catches your attention.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of boots hitting the tiled floor in the hallway. You glance up just as a woman steps into the room, her presence commanding immediate attention. She has an easy confidence about her—a casual yet put-together look that suggests she doesn’t overthink her appearance but still manages to look effortlessly striking. Her long brown hair falls in soft, slightly wild waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing a striped blazer over a slinky olive-green blouse, paired with a camel-coloured suede skirt that hugs her figure in all the right ways. Her rugged, well-loved boots and the faint smudge of dirt near the hem of her skirt add a touch of groundedness to her otherwise polished vibe.

She leans casually against the doorframe, her hand brushing through her hair as she surveys the room with a faint smile. Her striking features—sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes—are softened by the glint of curiosity in her gaze.

“Good evening,” she says, her voice smooth and low, with the faintest trace of amusement. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.”

You scramble to respond, fumbling with the pen you just retrieved. “Not at all, Ms.—?”

“Harkness,” she supplies, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Agatha Harkness. Billy’s guardian.”

The name suits her. You nod, gesturing for her to take a seat, but instead of sitting, she crosses the room leisurely, her boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the tile. She pauses to examine the bulletin board, running her fingers lightly over a thumbtacked notice about an upcoming bake sale.

“Charming,” she remarks dryly before finally settling into the chair opposite you. Her gaze flicks to the papers on your desk, then back to your face, and suddenly the air feels heavy. You clear your throat, diving into the usual spiel about Billy’s performance.

But Agatha isn’t interested in small talk. She listens with one eyebrow arched, occasionally interrupting with a cutting observation that’s somehow both insulting and charming. When you nervously adjust your glasses and shuffle your papers, she tilts her head, her smirk widening.

“You seem... distracted,” she murmurs, leaning forward. Her voice drops an octave. “Do I make you nervous?”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “No, I—um—”

She chuckles, the sound low and indulgent. “Relax. I’m just teasing.” Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary before she reclines in her chair, her smirk firmly in place. “Now, about Billy…”

—

After that first meeting, Agatha becomes a constant presence. At first, it’s subtle—a chance encounter at the grocery store, a polite wave during drop-off. But then the notes start. Brief, cryptic messages scrawled on elegant stationery, left on your desk between classes. The first one reads, “How about some extra credit? – A.”

You keep them, of course. It feels impossible to throw them away, even as you berate yourself for the ridiculous flutter in your chest every time you see her looping signature.

At a school fundraiser, she catches you off guard again. The room is crowded, the noise a blend of clinking glasses and polite chatter. You’re busy sorting auction sheets when you feel her presence behind you. Her voice is warm against your ear.

“Lovely event,” she purrs. "Though I think we both know it could use... a bit more spice.”

You turn, startled, and find her standing impossibly close. Her honey-brown waves frame her face, and her eyes glint with amusement as she surveys your reaction. “You’ve done well, though,” she adds, her tone softening. “Admirably, even.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone, blending seamlessly back into the crowd. Your heart races as you realise how much you want her to stay.

—

It happens after school one Friday afternoon. You’re tidying up your classroom; the muffled sound of students filtering out of the building serves as a backdrop to your thoughts. You’re so focused on organising the papers in front of you that you don’t notice the soft creak of the door opening.

When you finally look up, Agatha is leaning against the doorframe, her hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. She’s still in her usual style—casual yet disarmingly striking. Today, her blazer is swapped for a simple, fitted cardigan over a loose blouse that dips just enough to draw attention, paired with high-waisted trousers that hug her hips. Her boots are the same ones you’ve seen her in before, scuffed and charmingly imperfect.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she says lightly, though the look in her eyes suggests otherwise.

“Not at all,” you stammer, clutching the stack of papers a little too tightly.

She steps into the room, closing the door behind her with a deliberate click. “I wanted to discuss Billy’s progress,” she begins, but her tone is far too casual for this to be strictly about academics.

Her boots thud softly against the floor as she saunters towards your desk. “He’s a bright kid,” she continues, her voice smooth and measured. “Though, I must say, I think you’ve had quite the influence on him. He’s been glowing about his ‘amazing teacher’ for weeks.”

Her compliment catches you off guard, and before you can thank her, her eyes drop slightly as though assessing you.

“I can see why,” she adds, her voice dropping to a low, velvety purr. “I imagine the hot teacher fantasy must be quite the hit around here.”

Your face flushes instantly. “Excuse me?” You manage, but the words come out far more flustered than indignant. Heat blooms in your cheeks, betraying you completely.

Agatha laughs—a low, indulgent sound—and steps closer, her presence both suffocating and electric. She watches you squirm with an almost predatory amusement. “Relax,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “It’s a compliment. You wear it well.”

“You’re fun to watch, you know,” she continues, her lips curling into a smirk. “Like a rabbit caught in a trap.”

Your breath catches. Her words feel like a challenge, a test of your composure. Mustering your courage, you blurt, “Why do you keep teasing me?”

Her smirk fades, replaced by something darker. She steps closer until you can feel the heat radiating from her body.

“And what if I wasn’t just teasing?” She whispers, her voice low and intimate. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against your wrist in a touch so light it sends shivers up your spine.

Before you can respond, she closes the distance, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that is slow and deliberate yet utterly consuming. Her hands slide up to cup your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss as she presses you back against your desk.

The room spins, your papers scattering to the floor, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Agatha’s kiss becomes more demanding, her hands sliding to your hips and pulling you closer. Her body presses against yours, a perfect combination of softness and strength.

Without breaking contact, she lifts you onto the desk, her hands firm on your thighs as she pushes between them. The new angle allows her to deepen the kiss further, her teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp.

Her smirk curves against your mouth at the sound, as though she’s cataloguing every reaction for later. Her hands slide boldly up your thighs, fingers pressing into the fabric just enough to make you squirm. She’s deliberate, taking her time as her lips trail to your jawline, then down to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Sensitive here, aren’t you?” She murmurs, her voice low and teasing, as she presses a lingering kiss that sends a tremor through you.

You can only manage a shaky exhale, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as though it might ground you. Agatha notices and hums with amusement. She kisses her way back to your lips, this time taking control with an intensity that makes your head spin again.

Her hands roam further, sliding beneath your shirt, her palms burning a path along your skin as she pushes it up inch by inch. Your breath hitches as cool air meets flushed skin, only for the sensation to be overtaken by Agatha’s touch as she explores, slow and deliberate.

She pulls back just enough to take you in, her darkened gaze locking onto yours. Her thumb brushes over the skin of your waist in a slow, deliberate circle. “Look at you,” she murmurs softly. “So pliant already.”

You shudder visibly, her words as much of a caress as her touch. Before you can gather a coherent thought, her mouth is on yours again, her kiss deep and consuming. One hand slips up to cradle the back of your neck, tilting your head just the way she wants, while the other grips your thigh to pull you closer against her.

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time—your heart racing, your body responding to her every move as though it’s instinct. Agatha pulls back again, just enough to let you catch your breath, her lips brushing against your jaw as she chuckles softly.

“Billy’s at his boyfriend’s this evening,” she whispers, her voice low and deliberate, laced with wicked promise. “I think we should continue this at my place. Don’t you?”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them making your pulse quicken. When you manage to nod, she grins—slow, sharp, and triumphant.

“Good,” she says, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “Come on, then. I’m not done with you yet.”

—

By the time you arrive at her home, the tension between you has reached a fever pitch. Her house is a perfect reflection of her: elegant but unpretentious, with bookshelves stacked haphazardly and a hint of sandalwood in the air.

Agatha shrugs off her cardigan, draping it over the back of a chair before turning to you with a gaze that pins you in place. “Relax,” she murmurs, a smirk playing on her lips as she steps closer. “I don’t bite… much.”

She reaches out, her hands settling on your hips as she guides you backward, your lower back hitting the edge of the kitchen island. Her touch is confident yet tender, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt as she pulls you closer. She lifts you effortlessly onto the cool surface, and your legs instinctively wrap around her waist.

She leans in for another kiss, this one slower, more exploratory, as if she’s savouring every second. The heat between you both intensifies, your breaths mingling as her hands roam over your body, claiming you in a way that leaves you breathless.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with satisfaction. “I like that.”

Her hands trail up your sides, her nails scraping lightly against your skin, sending sparks of sensation coursing through you. When she pulls back, her hair is slightly tousled, and her eyes are dark with intent.

“Now,” she whispers, her voice dipping into a commanding tone that makes your stomach flip, “let’s get one thing straight.” She tilts your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. “I’m in charge tonight. Understood?”

You nod, too breathless to speak, and her lips curve into a wicked smile.

“Use your words for me, sweetheart,” she purrs.

Your hesitation earns you a raised eyebrow, her smirk widening in amusement. “Oh, don’t be shy,” she coaxes, her tone softening into something almost soothing. Her fingers trail up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing against your flushed skin. “Say it.”

“I understand,” you finally manage, making her control snap. Her hands tighten on your hips as she pulls you closer, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that is anything but gentle, her movements firm but unhurried, her touch alternating between rough and tender in a way that leaves you utterly breathless.

Her hands trail up your sides, tugging your shirt over your head before letting it fall to the floor. The air feels cool against your flushed skin, but her touch quickly distracts you as her lips trail down your jawline to your neck.

When you hesitantly reach for the buttons on her blouse, she lets you help, watching you with sharp amusement as your fingers fumble. “Careful,” she teases, her voice low and wicked. “Don’t tear it.”

Once her blouse falls open, you can’t stop yourself from staring. The soft, teasing dip of her lace bra is enough to make your mouth run dry, and Agatha doesn’t miss it. She arches an eyebrow, her smirk turning fond as she cups your face, fingers brushing along your jawline before she pulls you into another searing kiss.

The kiss is all-consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs as her body presses against yours. Her movements are intoxicatingly slow, as though she’s savouring every sound you make. When she pulls back just enough, her lips curve against your skin in satisfaction.

“You’re adorable when you’re overwhelmed,” she murmurs, her voice rich and indulgent, like honey warmed over fire.

Her hands, still impossibly steady, slide down your torso, pausing only to stroke the skin she’s uncovered. Her touch is deliberate, methodical—she wants you to feel everything. Agatha presses her lips to the hollow of your throat, leaving a trail of kisses that make you squirm under her control.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before her mouth finds yours again.

The kiss is slower this time—deeper, almost reverent—like she’s intent on memorising the way you taste. Her hands move with purpose, one gripping your hip while the other trails up your spine, leaving sparks in its wake. When you let out a soft, involuntary sound, Agatha groans softly into your mouth, her control threatening to slip.

Your hands wander up to push her blouse the rest of the way off her shoulders. Agatha hums in approval, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor.

She kisses you until you’re dizzy, her hands continuing their exploration of every inch of you. She’s relentless but not hurried, building the tension inch by inch until you’re left breathless beneath her. At some point, her fingers slide down to unfasten the button of your jeans, but she pauses, her lips hovering over yours.

“Are you still with me, darling?” She murmurs, her voice soft, grounding you just enough to remember to breathe.

You nod, your cheeks flush, and your heart races. “Yes,” you whisper, and her smirk softens into something impossibly fond.

“Good,” she says, pressing a kiss to your mouth. “That’s my good girl.”

Your body responds to her praise before your mind even catches up, a soft whimper escaping your lips. Agatha’s grin widens, dark and satisfied, as she watches your reaction. “Oh, I am going to have fun with you,” she murmurs, her voice dipping into something deeper, more possessive.

She steps back slightly, her gaze flicking over you as she considers her next move. There’s a moment of deliberation as her fingers trace lightly over your thighs, her eyes narrowing in thought.

“Let’s see,” she muses aloud, her voice low and steady. “How to get these off...”

You remain still, heart racing, the heat between your legs palpable as her fingers trail up your body. Her eyes lock onto yours for a brief second, and then she decides. With a swift motion, she places her hands on your shoulders, pushing you back gently so that your back is now flat against the cool surface of the kitchen island. You gasp, your breath hitching at the sudden change in position, but you don’t protest.

Agatha steps between your legs, her fingers moving slowly up your body, and she starts to tug at the waistband of your jeans and underwear. Her hands are skilled and deliberate as she traces the outline of your hips and thighs, pulling at the fabric with a teasing slowness that leaves you aching for more.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Agatha lowers herself, pressing a series of soft, heated kisses down your torso. Each kiss is carefully placed, her lips lingering just a little longer than necessary, as if she’s savouring every inch of your skin. You can feel the heat of her breath against your body, sending shivers through you as her hands trail along your sides, lightly grazing your skin.

Her lips travel lower, brushing over your hips, before she begins to kiss up your thighs, her touch slow and teasing. Her hands are still steady on your skin, caressing the soft curve of your body as her lips draw closer to where you need her most. The anticipation builds with each lingering kiss that inches closer to where you want her most.

You let out a breath, and your body instinctively shifts, eager for the contact you’ve been waiting for. But Agatha is in control, her smirk darkening as she watches your reactions, enjoying the way your body responds to her slow pace.

Her lips hover just inches from where you crave her touch, teasing you as she takes her time. The heat between your legs is almost unbearable now; your body is restless and aching, but Agatha remains patient. She lifts her head briefly, eyes locking onto yours with a glint of satisfaction.

"You’re so eager," she whispers, her voice rich with amusement, before returning her attention to your thighs. Her hands slide further up, brushing against your skin as she kisses the sensitive area just above your inner thighs, sending waves of anticipation coursing through your body. The slight pressure of her lips on your skin makes your breath hitch, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter beneath you. You can barely hold back a moan as the moment stretches longer than you'd imagined possible, but you know—she knows—that you won’t be able to last very long.

Agatha’s mouth moves even closer now, teasing your skin with the lightest touches before finally, slowly, moving to your sensitive clit. A gasp escapes your lips as her mouth finally connects, and you can’t help the desperate sound that falls from you. Her lips work with slow, purposeful pressure, her tongue tracing the lines of your body in expert strokes that make your hips involuntarily push towards her.

Her hands are firm on your waist, holding you steady as she brings you closer to the edge, her eyes never leaving yours, watching every reaction. "That's it," she murmurs, her voice low and approving. "So responsive... so perfect."

Every flick of her tongue sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, making you tremble beneath her. The anticipation that had been building for so long finally reaches a breaking point, your body trembling with need as she continues her relentless pace. You’re caught between wanting to beg her for more and wanting to savour every moment of this slow, delicious torture.

But Agatha, always in control, draws back just before you can lose yourself completely. She lingers above you, her breath heavy against your skin, and her smirk widens. “Not yet,” she whispers, the words making your chest ache with desire. "We’re just getting started."

The sudden buzz of her phone on the counter makes Agatha pause, her lips just inches away. She huffs softly, almost annoyed, before pulling back. You whimper involuntarily, only for her sharp gaze to snap to yours.

Without saying a word, she picks up her phone and swipes to answer, pressing it to her ear. “Hi Billy,” she says smoothly, her voice a picture of calm.

Her free hand drags lazily over her mouth, wiping away your arousal, before her fingers immediately return to you. She trails them up your thighs, her touch featherlight but devastating, making your hips buck of their own accord, a soft moan escaping before you can stop it.

Her gaze darkens instantly, and her eyes narrow in a silent warning. The message is crystal clear—keep quiet, or I’ll stop. The slow, deliberate circles her fingertips trace up your thigh make it nearly impossible to obey, but the threat in her glare keeps you still.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” She asks Billy, the tenderness in her voice at odds with what’s happening between you two. She waits for his reply, her lips curling into an almost amused expression. She drags her fingers through your folds, deliberately stopping to hover over your entrance, sending shivers up your spine.

Agatha’s expression doesn’t falter as she pushes two fingers inside you, pressing her thumb against your clit with devastating precision, the movement so slow and calculated that it feels like torture. Her smirk widens when she feels you clench around her fingers, but her attention shifts back to talk with Billy, utterly composed as she continues the conversation.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says smoothly, her tone saccharine and calm, as though she isn’t currently unravelling you one touch at a time. “Eddie’s for the night? That’s fine, just don’t forget to let his parents know, alright?”

She drags her fingers out slowly before thrusting them back in harshly, knowing it’ll leave you gasping. You grip the counter beneath you, trying to ground yourself, but your body betrays you—hips jutting towards her, a loud whimper slipping out.

Agatha pins the phone to her ear with her shoulder, bringing her hand to press firmly against your lower stomach, pinning you in place with a deliberate calm. She pauses, her fingers stilling for just a moment as her dark, warning eyes flick up to meet yours. The silent message is clear: be good.

You nod frantically, biting down on your lower lip to stifle any more sounds. Pleased with your response, she smiles softly and resumes, her fingers curling in a way that makes you dizzy.

“Mhm,” she hums distractedly into the phone as Billy continues to chatter, utterly oblivious to what’s happening on the other end. “Did you need anything else, love? I was just in the middle of something.”

The double meaning in her words doesn’t escape you, but you can barely process it as her movements quicken, a cruel flick of her wrist turning the slow tease into something far more demanding. Your breathing comes in shallow bursts, your legs trembling as she drags you closer and closer to the edge with ease.

Agatha’s expression remains perfectly composed, though the corner of her mouth twitches into a smirk when she feels you start to unravel. “Alright, sweetie,” she finally says, her voice gentle yet clipped as though she’s eager to end the call. “Be good, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

She ends the call with a soft click, tossing the phone onto the counter without a care. The moment it leaves her hand, her focus snaps back to you entirely.

“You couldn’t even follow one simple instruction,” she tuts, though her voice is far too pleased to sound scolding. Her fingers press deeper as she leans closer, her breath warm against your ear. “But I suppose I’ll forgive you. This time.”

The promise in her tone is enough to send you spiralling, a taut thread snapping deep within you as waves of overwhelming pleasure crash through your body. It starts slow—a tremor that blooms and builds, spreading through every nerve until it consumes you entirely. Your thighs quiver beneath her unrelenting touch, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

She doesn’t let up, her fingers maintaining their pace, drawing you through every moment with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. The tension that had been winding you so tight finally unravels, your body shuddering under her relentless focus. It’s as if she’s pulling apart every layer of you, and you give yourself over to it completely.

Your head falls back, a broken cry escaping your lips—her name, raw and breathless, slipping free like a prayer you couldn’t hold back if you tried. The sound seems to fuel her further, her gaze locked onto you as though committing every detail to memory: the arch of your back, the way your fingers clutch desperately at her arms, the tremors that ripple through your form as you fight to anchor yourself to reality.

She leans closer, her breath ghosting over your skin as her movements begin to slow, guiding you gently through the dizzying aftershocks. Her free hand, firm yet gentle, settles at your hip to steady you, grounding you when you feel as though you might simply come undone entirely. The intensity of it all leaves you gasping—every nerve in your body oversensitive, your limbs weak as though she’s stolen every last bit of strength you had.

Agatha watches you with satisfaction, her smirk softening ever so slightly as she finally lets her hand still, her fingers brushing idly against your thigh. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice a rich, honeyed drawl that seems to soothe and ignite you all at once. “Breathe, sweetheart. You did so well for me.”

Her words seep into your skin like balm, even as you try to come back down from the overwhelming high she’s driven you to. She presses a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, her lips gentle against your trembling skin, before finally straightening to look at you.

The smug satisfaction in her expression is unmistakable, but beneath it, there’s something more—something almost reverent as her eyes rake over you, flushed and wrecked, exactly how she wanted you. Her thumb brushes softly along your cheek as she tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze despite the haze still clouding your mind.

“There you are,” she murmurs, brushing a hand down your thigh, her thumb lingering against your skin. “Such a mess, but so good for me.”

Her lips curve wickedly as she tilts your chin up, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “Now, let’s take this to the bedroom. I’m not quite done with you yet.”

Read the next part

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Parent/Teacher conference is just a game of smash or pass if you're brave enough. If ANY (billy excluded) of the coven was there I'd choose smash every time

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Like and reblog if you enjoyed. this is a threat 🔫

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jupiterpilgrim · 21 days ago

Text

Drown With Me

Pt.2: Interpolation

Ningning x Minji x Male Reader

word count: 7K

part 1 | part 3

A/n: Pt.2 and pt.3 were supposed to be a single chapter, but it was split in two because of the block limit.

I wish I could be everything you wanted.

—

Oh, here we are again. But this time we're going back in time. We journeyed into the past because some things must be witnessed. And I say 'witnessed,' not 'understood.' For understanding confines the subtleties of human connections to a singular perspective, and that restricts the strange language of the heart.

We're at a bar now, where a lot of stories start. This is one of those:

The lights are dim and amber, casting warm shadows over the polished countertops and the scratched wooden floor. It’s a quiet Tuesday night, a lull between the weekend rush and midweek regulars. You’ve been working here long enough to know the rhythm of it—the predictable ebb and flow of people looking for drinks to drown whatever piece of life was gnawing at them. But then, just as you’re stacking a row of freshly washed glasses, the door swings open, and in walks her again.

She hesitates in the doorway, framed by the cool, blue glow of the streetlights outside. The first thing that grabs you, as it did last night, are her eyes—huge, almond-shaped, and impossibly feline. The kind of eyes that make you forget what you were supposed to be doing. They dart nervously around the room before finally landing on you, and for a moment, she freezes.

“You again,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. You lean casually against the bar, arms crossed, trying not to seem too eager.

She’s wearing a cropped, black leather jacket that clings to her slender frame, sharp and a little out of place against the pale softness of her features. Beneath it, a white tank top hints at the curve of her collarbone and the toned lines of her stomach. Her high-waisted jeans, faded and torn at the knees, hug her slim legs like they were stitched onto her body. The scuffed Doc Martens on her feet somehow make her look even more striking—an accidental runway model lost in a world of beer stains and neon signs.

Her broad shoulders, almost too strong for her petite height, square up as if she's trying to summon some hidden reserve of confidence. But it’s her shyness, that hint of hesitation in every movement, that makes her feel like a puzzle you want to solve. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair behind her ear, her eyes darting away from yours as though the floor might swallow her whole if she stares for too long.

You tilt your head toward the bar, beckoning her closer. “Second night in a row, huh? You sure you’re not stalking me?”

Her lips part in a soft laugh, so quiet you almost miss it. “Hardly. My friend dragged me here yesterday. Tonight… I just needed some air.”

Her voice is as soft as her laugh, tinged with a slight huskiness that adds depth to her otherwise delicate demeanor. She approaches the bar slowly, her movements careful, like someone who’s always aware of the space she takes up.

“Well,” you say, pulling a coaster from under the counter and setting it down in front of her, “welcome back to the quietest bar in town. What can I get you?”

She perches on the stool, her knees pressed close together, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. “Um…just a Coke, actually.”

“Coke?”

She nods, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, only to dart away again. “I don’t drink much.”

“Second night in a row at a bar and no drinks? You’re full of surprises.” You grab a glass and pour the soda, sliding it toward her. “Not that I’m complaining. Makes my job easier.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear again, a nervous habit, you realize, but it only adds to the quiet allure of her presence. “You work here often?”

“Most nights.” You lean against the bar again, giving her your best casual smile. “And you? What’s your excuse for gracing us with your presence twice in a row?”

“I’m…” She hesitates, then shrugs. “I guess I just liked the vibe. It’s not like other places.”

“It’s not like most places because most places actually get customers,” you joke, gesturing to the mostly empty room. “But hey, if the vibe brought you back, I’m not going to argue.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “It’s nice. Quiet. Less… intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” You raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

She fidgets with the straw in her glass, swirling the Coke absently. “Bars aren’t really my thing. Too loud, too crowded. I usually avoid them.” She glances up at you, almost shyly. “This one feels… different.”

You don’t miss the slight blush that creeps up her neck as she speaks, and something about it tugs at you. “Different’s good,” you say softly. “I like different.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The faint hum of the jukebox in the corner fills the silence, playing some slow, melancholic track that perfectly matches the mood. You watch as she takes a small sip of her drink, her lashes casting long shadows over her cheeks.

“So,” you finally ask, breaking the quiet, “what’s your name? Or should I just keep calling you ‘Coke Girl’?”

Her lips twitch into a smile again, a little more confident this time. “Ning Yìzhuo. And you?”

“Coke Boy,” you deadpan, earning a small laugh from her. “Kidding. It’s—”

The door swings open again, cutting you off as a group of rowdy patrons stumbles in, disrupting the peaceful bubble you’d been sharing. Ningning’s shoulders tense immediately, her fingers tightening around her glass. You can tell she’s debating whether to stay or bolt.

You lean closer, your voice low. “Don’t worry. They’re harmless. Plus, I’ve got your back.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching your face for something—reassurance, maybe. And whatever she finds there seems to calm her, if only a little. She nods, taking another sip of her Coke.

You don’t know why, but you can already tell she’s going to stay with you longer than just tonight. Something about her feels significant, like a spark of lightning caught in a jar. Quiet, shy, and utterly captivating.

—

The weeks bleed into one another, and before you know it, Ning is a fixture at the bar. Not officially, of course. She doesn’t work here, doesn’t drink much, and always leaves by midnight like Cinderella with a self-imposed curfew. But she’s here. Three nights a week, like clockwork, perching on her usual stool and ordering her usual Coke, sometimes daring to live dangerously with a Sprite.

At first, you thought she came because it was quiet, because she needed a place to escape whatever stresses her life held. But it’s become increasingly clear that the bar’s charm isn’t the only thing pulling her back. It’s you. And you’re not mad about it.

Tonight, she’s dressed like she always is—effortlessly cool in her slightly oversized sweater, rolled-up jeans, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Her leather jacket is slung over the back of the stool, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like ink. She’s got her sketchbook with her tonight, the same one she’s been carrying for weeks. You’ve seen glimpses of the drawings—sketches of people, abstract swirls, the occasional cat—but she guards it like it contains state secrets, never letting you get a proper look.

“What are you working on this time?” you ask, leaning on the counter with the practiced nonchalance of a bartender-slash-business-student who definitely isn’t secretly invested in whatever she’s drawing.

She glances up from her page, cat-like eyes sparkling under the warm glow of the bar’s lights. “Nothing special. Just doodling.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you point out, reaching for a clean glass to wipe down. “And then you showed me that sketch of that old guy in the corner, and it looked like something out of a museum. You can admit it, Ning—you’re talented.”

She ducks her head, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “It’s not that good.”

“Sure,” you deadpan, “and I’m not the best bartender in this city.”

She laughs—a soft, melodic sound that you’ve started to look forward to more than you’d like to admit. “You’re not even the best bartender in this bar.”

You feign offense, clutching your chest. “Ouch. And here I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” she says, smiling up at you. “Which is why I’m honest with you.”

“Brutally honest,” you correct, smirking. “Fine. Tell me this: do all fine arts students have this much sass, or are you just special?”

“Special,” she says, sticking her tongue out. “And for the record, it’s not fine arts. It’s animation and visual effects. Totally different.”

You nod sagely, as if you know the first thing about animation or visual effects. “Ah, of course. Animation. You’re going to make the next Toy Story, right?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Something like that. What about you, Mr. Future CEO? Made any spreadsheets cry lately?”

“Every day,” you reply solemnly. “It’s part of the curriculum in business administration. They don’t let you graduate until you’ve traumatized at least three Excel files.”

Her laugh comes easily, her shoulders relaxing as she sips her Coke. She looks comfortable here now, like this place—and you—have become a safe haven for her.

It’s nice.

She’s nice.

“You know,” you say, setting the glass down and leaning closer, “when you first started coming here, I thought you were just using the bar as a library with worse lighting.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now I think you’re here because you can’t resist my charm.”

She snorts into her drink, nearly choking. “Your charm? Please.”

“Hey, admit it. I make this place bearable for you.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider. “You do make pretty good jokes.”

“High praise from the queen of sarcasm.”

Her smile softens slightly, the teasing edge in her voice fading. “I just like talking to you. You make things… lighter. Easier to deal with.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s rare for her to let her guard down like this, and you feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to keep it safe, to make sure she never regrets being vulnerable.

“Well,” you say, keeping your tone light, “as long as you keep coming back, I’ll keep telling terrible jokes. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says, holding out her hand like you’re signing a legally binding contract.

You shake her hand, her skin warm and soft against yours. There’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where the noise of the bar fades away, and it’s just the two of you. Friends. Companions in this odd little corner of the world.

“By the way,” you add, breaking the moment, “if you ever need a businessperson in one of your animations, I know a guy.”

“Let me guess,” she says, smirking. “He’s incredibly charming and makes terrible jokes?”

“Exactly.”

She laughs again, and for the rest of the night, the bar feels a little brighter.

—

Ning sits cross-legged on her bed, a pencil tucked behind her ear and her sketchbook balanced on her knees. The room is bathed in soft, golden light from the desk lamp Minji insisted on buying, claiming it was better for productivity. Across the room, Minji herself sits at her desk, perfectly upright, fingers flying across the keyboard of her sleek laptop. She looks like a Vogue spread come to life, even in her oversized knit sweater and black leggings, her shiny, straight hair falling effortlessly over her shoulder.

Minji’s skin practically glows, the kind of flawless complexion that makes you wonder if she’s secretly Photoshopped in real life. Her glasses—a stylish, rectangular pair with gold rims—rest perfectly on the bridge of her pointy nose, framing dark, intelligent eyes that seem to miss nothing. Her lips, soft and plump, are painted a subtle pink, just enough to look effortlessly put together. She’s everything Ning isn’t: confident, composed, intimidatingly perfect.

Ning chews on her pencil, staring at her friend’s back. “Hey, Minji?”

“Hm?” Minji doesn’t look up from her screen. She’s probably working on some group project for her international business course. Even in her downtime, Minji is an efficiency machine.

“How do you, like…” Ning hesitates, fiddling with the corner of her sketchbook. “How do you get guys to notice you?”

That gets Minji’s attention. She swivels her chair around, fixing Ning with a look that’s equal parts amused and curious. “What kind of question is that?”

“You know what I mean,” Ning mumbles, heat rising to her cheeks. “You always have a line of guys chasing after you. It’s like… you just exist, and they’re obsessed with you.”

Minji raises an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not like I’m trying to get their attention.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Ning groans, flopping backward onto her bed. “You don’t even try, and they’re all over you. Meanwhile, I could walk into a room naked, and no one would notice.”

“First of all, don’t do that,” Minji says dryly, folding her arms. “Second, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” Ning mutters, staring at the ceiling. “You’re like this goddess of elegance or whatever, and I’m just… me. How do you make people like you?”

Minji sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in that annoyingly perfect way she does. “It’s not about making people like you, Ning. You just have to be yourself.”

Ning sits up, frowning. “That’s so easy for you to say. You’re perfect. People like you without you even trying.”

“I’m not perfect,” Minji says, though the way she says it makes it clear she knows she’s pretty close.

Ning snorts. “Please. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re the only person I know who actually looks good in those glasses. And don’t get me started on your ‘I just woke up like this’ hair.”

Minji chuckles softly, a sound that somehow feels condescending and comforting at the same time. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have some good qualities. But seriously, Ning, if you want people to notice you, just… put yourself out there.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not shy,” Ning mutters, pulling her knees to her chest.

Minji leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Shy people are fine, but if you never let anyone see who you really are, how are they supposed to notice you?”

“What if who I really am is… shy?” Ning asks, her voice small.

“Then be the best version of shy,” Minji says simply. “Confidence doesn’t mean being loud or outgoing. It just means being comfortable with who you are. People are drawn to that.”

Ning stares at her, skeptical. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Minji admits, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “But if you don’t at least try, nothing’s going to change. And trust me, you don’t need to change who you are. You just need to stop hiding it.”

Ning chews on her lip, mulling that over. Minji makes it sound logical, like a formula to be solved. But Ning isn’t sure she can simply flip a switch and become “the best version” of herself.

“And if it doesn’t work?” she asks.

Minji shrugs, her lips curling into a faint smile. “Then it’s their loss.”

Ning laughs despite herself, the tension in her chest loosening just a bit. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know that?”

Minji smirks, turning back to her laptop. “I know. Now stop overthinking and start being fabulous. You’ve got this, Ning.”

Ning watches her friend for a moment longer, a mixture of admiration and frustration swirling in her chest. If Minji says she can do it, maybe she can. But it still feels like an impossible climb.

“Hey, Minji?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Minji doesn’t turn around, but her voice is warm. “Anytime.”

—

The door to the bar swings open, and in walks Ning with a determined look in her cat-like eyes. She’s wearing a fitted white crop top that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, a plaid mini skirt, and her signature scuffed Doc Martens. Her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and there’s a hint of pink gloss on her lips. Tonight, she’s decided, is the night.

No more shy, stammering Ning. Tonight, she’s confident, bold, maybe even flirty. She’s spent the past three days psyching herself up for this moment, replaying Minji’s advice in her head like a mantra. Put yourself out there. Be the best version of yourself. You’ve got this.

The bar is warm and dimly lit as always, the low hum of conversation filling the air. She spots you cleaning a table, laughing at something one of the regulars said, your easy charm on full display. You see Ning and wave to her with a smile. Her heart skips a beat, but she steels herself. You’ve got this, she repeats silently, striding toward the bar.

Or at least, she tries to.

What she doesn’t see, in her single-minded determination, is the bright yellow Wet Floor sign in the middle of the room. Her Doc Martens hit the slick patch of tiles, and suddenly, her confident stride turns into a cartoonish flail.

“Shit—!”

She feels herself going down, her arms pinwheeling as gravity takes over. But just before she hits the ground, a pair of strong hands catch her, one gripping her waist and the other cradling her back.

“You okay?” Your voice is close—too close—and when she blinks up at you, she realizes her face is just inches from yours.

Her heart is pounding, and not just from the near-death experience. Your eyes, warm and concerned, lock onto hers, and she can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “I—yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” Her voice comes out quieter than she’d like, all the confidence she’d mustered evaporating on the spot.

You grin, helping her stand upright but keeping a hand on her arm to steady her. “That was a close one. You almost went full slapstick there.”

“Yeah, well, I like to keep things entertaining,” she mumbles, avoiding your gaze. Her ankle twinges as she shifts her weight, and she winces.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask, noticing the way she’s favoring one foot.

“It’s just my ankle,” she admits. “I think I twisted it a little.”

“Let’s get you off your feet,” you say, guiding her to a booth in the corner. “Come on, sit down.”

“I’m fine, really,” she protests, but you’re already pulling out a chair for her.

Once she’s seated, you crouch down in front of her, gently taking her foot in your hands. “Let me check it out. I can’t have my best customer suing the bar.”

She snorts softly, despite herself. “It’s my fault for not seeing the sign.”

“Well, next time, try looking where you’re going,” you tease, flashing her a grin that makes her heart skip again.

You slide off her boot carefully, your fingers brushing against her ankle. She tries not to shiver at the touch, but it’s impossible. Your hands are warm and firm, and when you start to massage the sore spot, she has to bite her lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“You’re really good at this,” she says, her voice coming out a little breathier than she intended.

“Comes with practice,” you reply, focused on her foot. “My ex used to come home from work with sore feet all the time, so I’d give her massages. Got pretty good at it after a while.”

Ning’s ears perk up at the mention of your ex. “Oh?” she says, trying to sound casual. “What happened there?”

“She was… complicated,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “Kind of jealous. Possessive. A little manic, honestly.” You pause, then chuckle, shaking your head. “I guess I have a type. Crazy girls seem to find me.”

She swallows hard, caught off guard. “Is that why you’re single now?”

“Pretty much,” you admit, still massaging her ankle. “Taking a break from relationships for a while. Thought I’d give myself some peace and quiet, you know?”

Ning’s heart sinks, though she forces a smile. “Makes sense. Less drama.”

“Exactly,” you say, glancing up at her with a grin. “And besides, who needs a girlfriend when I’ve got customers like you to keep me company?”

She laughs softly, but it feels hollow in her chest. She watches as you go back to massaging her foot, completely unaware of the tiny heartbreak you’ve just caused. But she doesn’t say anything.

Because Minji’s words echo in her head: Be the best version of yourself. And tonight, the best version of herself is just a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

—

The dorm bathroom is small, humid, and filled with the faint scent of citrus-scented body wash. The door is open, so the fragrance invades the whole bedroom. The overhead light flickers faintly, casting a soft glow over the scene. Minji stands by the sink in nothing but a pale lavender bra and matching underwear, her skin luminous under the harsh fluorescent light. She’s methodically applying lotion to her arms, her long, straight hair pushed over one shoulder to avoid smearing it. Every movement she makes is precise, deliberate, like everything else about her.

Ning is by the closet, half-dressed, rifling through her limited wardrobe with a furrowed brow. She’s wearing an oversized graphic tee that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the straps of her bralette. Her plaid pajama shorts are crumpled, a stark contrast to Minji’s immaculate appearance.

“Can I ask you something?” Minji’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the room, soft but with that unmistakable edge of curiosity.

Ning freezes, her fingers lingering on the hem of a black skirt she’s debating on. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”

Minji finishes with her arms and moves on to her legs, bending one knee and propping her foot up on the closed toilet lid. Her movements are unhurried, as if the question isn’t a big deal. “Where do you go every week? At night, I mean.”

She glances over her shoulder, her face warming under Minji’s unreadable gaze. “Nowhere. Just… out.”

“Nowhere?” Minji’s lips curve in a faint smile as she straightens up, tilting her head slightly. Her sharp, dark eyes scan Ning, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers fidget with the fabric of her skirt. “That doesn’t sound like nowhere.”

“I mean it’s not anywhere in particular,” Ning mumbles, turning back to the closet. She grabs a random top to busy her hands, hoping Minji will let it go.

But Minji doesn’t let things go. “Ning,” she says, her voice calm but insistent. “You’ve been going out at least twice a week for the past month. You get dressed up, come back late, and you never say where you’ve been. It’s weird, because it's not something you used to do.”

Ning turns around, clutching the top against her chest like a shield. “It’s not weird.”

Minji quirks an eyebrow, her lips twitching as if she’s holding back a laugh. “You don’t think so? Because to me, it looks like you’re sneaking off to see someone.”

“I’m not!” Ning’s voice rises slightly in protest, her face turning a deeper shade of pink. She tosses the top onto the bed and grabs her sketchbook from the desk. “Look, I take this with me, okay? How could I be seeing a boy if I’m bringing this?”

Minji’s eyes drop to the sketchbook, then lift back to Ning’s face, skeptical but intrigued. “I don’t know. Art students have strange habits. Maybe you’re sketching him while you’re there.”

Ning groans, plopping onto the bed and flipping the sketchbook open to a random page. “It’s not like that. There’s a bar I go to. It’s… quiet, and it helps with creativity.”

“Creativity,” Minji repeats, crossing her arms as she leans against the sink. Her hair falls perfectly over one shoulder, her glasses catching the light just enough to make her look like a chic librarian. “That’s your story?”

“Yes!” Ning huffs, holding up the sketchbook like it’s evidence in a trial. “See? Just sketches. No boys, no dates, nothing like that.”

Minji steps closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies Ning’s face. “So you’re telling me you sit at a bar all night, alone, with your sketchbook? That’s it?”

“Well…” Ning hesitates, her fingers gripping the edges of the book. “There’s this bartender I talk to sometimes. But he’s just a friend.”

“A friend.” Minji’s voice is flat, but there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Does it matter?” Ning mutters, ducking her head.

“Probably not,” Minji replies, her tone maddeningly casual. “But now everything is even more suspicious.”

Ning sighs, flipping the sketchbook closed. “Oh, whatever! He’s the bartender. We talk. That’s it.”

“And you’re just friends?”

“Yes.” Ning’s voice is firm, but her cheeks betray her with their telltale blush.

Minji watches her for a moment longer, then does something that catches Ning completely off guard. She smiles. Not her usual poised, mysterious smile, but something softer.

“Can I go too?”

Ning blinks, sure she’s misheard. “What?”

“To the bar,” Minji says, stepping closer until she’s standing right in front of Ning. “If it’s so great for creativity, I want to see it.”

“You want to go to the bar?” Ning asks, her voice incredulous. “The one I go to?”

“Why not?” Minji shrugs, grabbing her towel and tossing it into the laundry basket. “It’s not a date, right? If you’re just hanging out with a friend, I don’t see why I can’t come along.”

Ning stares at her, unsure whether to laugh or panic. “Are you serious?”

Minji leans down slightly, her glasses sliding down her nose as she meets Ning’s wide-eyed gaze. “Dead serious.”

“But…” Ning struggles to find a reason, any reason, why this is a terrible idea. “What about your coursework? You’re always busy.”

Minji straightens up, brushing her hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. “I can spare a night. Besides,” she adds, smirking, “I want to meet this ‘just a friend’ of yours.”

Minji’s calm confidence is both reassuring and terrifying. She knows Minji means well, but she also knows her friend. Minji doesn’t just show up. She observes.

Still, it’s hard to say no when Minji looks at her like that, her dark eyes steady and full of quiet determination.

“Okay,” Ning says finally. “You can come.”

Minji smiles, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Great. I’ll get ready.”

As Minji walks away, Ning flops back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. Just her, the bar, and a chance to take things slow with you.

Now?

She has no idea what’s about to happen.

—

The bar’s hum is steady but quiet tonight, soft music playing from the jukebox, mingling with the low murmur of scattered conversations. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and vaguely thinking about the economics lecture you skipped today when the door swings open.

You look up instinctively, and there she is—Ning. Except she’s not alone.

Ning walks in first, a bundle of energy in her casual but cool outfit: a cropped black sweater that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, paired with loose cargo pants that sit snug on her hips, and her ever-present Doc Martens. She looks great—like she always does—but it’s the girl walking in behind her that makes your breath catch.

Minji.

She’s dressed simply—an elegant cream blouse tucked into high-waisted, dark-wash jeans that make her legs look impossibly long. Her black hair falls in a sleek curtain down her back, and she’s wearing the kind of gold-rimmed glasses that make other people look like try-hards but somehow make her look even more stunning. There’s something about her presence—poised but approachable, with a quiet confidence that fills the room—that makes it hard to look away.

“Hey!” Ning’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as she practically bounces over to the counter. She gestures enthusiastically toward her companion. “This is my best friend, Minji. You’ll love her.”

You recover quickly, setting the glass down and offering a smile. “Hey, Minji. Nice to meet you.”

Minji steps forward, her smile polite but warm. “Nice to meet you too. Ning comes here every week, I got curious and realized I needed to see it myself.”

You nod, trying not to seem too obvious as you take her in. “Well, welcome. Hope it lives up to the hype.”

Ning slides onto her usual stool, pulling out her sketchbook like it’s just another normal night. “He’s being modest. It’s the coolest place ever. And the bartender’s alright, I guess.”

You smirk at her teasing but find yourself glancing back at Minji. “What can I get you two?”

“The usual for me,” Ning says, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “Something light. I don’t drink much—health reasons.”

“Got it.” You start preparing the drinks, glancing at her again. “If you don’t mind me asking, health reasons?”

Ning's Coke is ready in moments, she takes a sip absentmindedly as she looks at her sketchbook.

“I have a heart condition,” she says casually, like she’s used to explaining it. “Nothing too serious, but I can’t really handle strong drinks.”

“Fair enough,” you say, sliding the glass across the counter toward her. “This should be light enough.”

She takes a sip, her lips curving into a small smile. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Ning, who’s been scribbling something in her sketchbook, looks up suddenly. “Minji has been really nosy lately, she wouldn't leave me alone until I brought her here, she's never done this before.”

“Oh yeah?” you say, raising an eyebrow at Minji. “Was she really that mysterious about it?”

Minji laughs softly, setting her drink down. “You have no idea. She’d leave without saying much, come back late, and when I’d ask where she was, she’d just shrug and say ‘out.’” She glances at Ning, her tone amused. “It was suspicious.”

Ning groans dramatically. “It wasn’t suspicious! I just didn’t feel like explaining.”

“Well, I’m glad you brought her along tonight,” you say, smiling at Minji. “It’s nice to meet one of Ning’s friends.”

“Best friend,” Ning corrects, nudging Minji with her elbow. “We’ve known each other forever.”

Minji chuckles. “She’s exaggerating. It’s only been a few years. But yeah, we’ve been through a lot together.”

You lean against the counter, genuinely curious. “How’d you two meet?”

“Orientation,” Minji says, glancing at Ning.

“At first I thought she was snobbish for being so serious."

“And I thought you looked like a troublemaker,” Minji counters, her eyes sparkling with humor.

You can’t help but laugh at their banter. “So, Minji, what are you studying?”

“International business,” she says, adjusting her glasses slightly. “What about you?”

“Business administration,” you reply, and her face lights up with interest.

“Oh, really? That’s great. What year are you in?”

“Third,” you say. “It’s not as glamorous as international business, but it keeps me busy.”

“It’s not glamorous,” Minji says with a small smile. “But it’s practical. And honestly, that’s more important.”

You nod, impressed by her straightforwardness. “So what made you choose international business?”

She takes another sip of her drink, her expression thoughtful. “I guess I like the idea of understanding how things work on a global scale. It’s a challenge, but I enjoy it.”

Ning, who’s been quiet for a moment, suddenly speaks up. “She’s being humble. She’s the smartest person I know. She even helps me figure out my art projects sometimes.”

Minji shrugs, clearly a little embarrassed. “I just give her feedback. She’s the real talent.”

You glance at Ning, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of feedback?”

“She helps me refine ideas,” Ning says, twirling her pencil. “Like, if I’m stuck on a concept, she’ll point out things I didn’t think of. It’s annoying how good she is at it.”

Minji rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of affection in her expression. “It’s not that hard. I just have an outside perspective.”

“Well, it sounds like you two make a good team,” you say, genuinely impressed by their dynamic.

Minji smiles, her gaze lingering on you for a second longer than you expect. “We do. But I think I understand why Ning likes coming here now. It’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Ning chimes in, her voice a little softer. “It is.”

The three of you fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking and laughing like old friends. But every now and then, you catch yourself glancing at Minji, wondering what it is about her that feels so… magnetic.

—

The bar has never been livelier for you, not because of an influx of customers but because Ning and Minji have made it their unofficial hangout spot. At first, it was a bit surreal—Ning showing up with her best friend in tow, bright-eyed and eager to introduce her to her favorite bartender. But over the next few weeks, it becomes routine.

Monday Night

Ning and Minji arrive together, as they always do. Ning’s dressed in her usual casual style—cropped sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and her trusty Doc Martens—while Minji looks effortlessly polished in a tailored blazer over a white camisole and straight-leg pants.

“Usual?” you ask Ning, already reaching for the soda gun.

“Of course,” she says, hopping onto her usual stool.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

“I’ll take the same thing as last time,” she says, her smile easy. “That drink was great.”

You get to work, sliding the Coke over to Ning and preparing Minji’s light cocktail. “So, how’s the week been treating you two?”

“Terrible,” Ning groans dramatically, opening her sketchbook. “I’m behind on like, three projects.”

Minji snorts, glancing at Ning over the rim of her glass. “That’s because you spent the entire weekend rewatching Spirited Away instead of working.”

“It was research!” Ning protests, flipping through her sketches. “It’s a masterpiece!”

You chuckle, leaning on the bar. “She’s got a point. Spirited Away is definitely worth rewatching.”

Minji raises an eyebrow. “I don’t disagree. But maybe she could balance her research with her deadlines.”

The two of you share a laugh, and Ning pouts.

“You’re both nerds,” she mutters, earning a grin from you.

“Guilty as charged,” you say, raising a random glass in a mock toast.

Wednesday Night

Tonight, Minji’s in a soft blue sweater that matches her dark-rimmed glasses, her hair swept back in a loose braid. Ning looks a little tired, probably from pulling an all-nighter.

“You look like death,” Minji observes bluntly as they sit down.

“Gee, thanks,” Ning says, dropping onto the stool and slumping over the counter.

“You okay?” you ask, sliding her a Coke without waiting for her order.

“Just tired,” Ning mumbles, sipping her drink.

Minji tilts her head at you. “So, did you finish that econ paper you mentioned last time?”

You perk up, surprised she remembered. “Yeah, just barely. Turns out writing about financial markets at two in the morning isn’t fun.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Minji says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I bet you still nailed it.”

Ning watches the exchange, feeling a pang of something she can’t quite name. She clears her throat. “Hey, can we talk about something not boring?”

“Sure,” you say, turning to her. “What’s on your mind?”

“Aliens,” Ning declares, grinning. “Do you think they exist?”

Minji sighs. “Oh god, not this again.”

You laugh, genuinely amused. “Honestly? I hope so. Would make the universe a lot more interesting.”

Ning beams, satisfied, while Minji shakes her head. “This is why she likes coming here,” Minji says dryly. “You encourage her nonsense.”

“Hey,” you protest, “it’s not nonsense. It’s curiosity.”

Minji chuckles, and Ning feels a little less out of place.

Friday Night

The bar is slightly busier, but the two of them still manage to snag their usual seats. Minji looks radiant in a sleek black blouse and gold hoop earrings, her makeup subtle but flawless. Ning, in her oversized hoodie and her Doc Martens looks comfortable but feels distinctly underdressed next to her friend.

“You look nice tonight,” you say to Minji as you hand her drink over.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice calm and self-assured. “Ning practically dragged me out of the dorm, so I figured I’d make an effort.”

“You’re welcome,” Ning says with mock pride.

“So,” Minji says, turning to you, “tell me more about your business classes. Do you focus on entrepreneurship or management?”

“A little of both,” you reply, leaning on the counter. “Right now, we’re working on case studies about startups.”

“Oh, I love those,” Minji says, her eyes lighting up. “Which case studies are you doing?”

As you dive into the topic, Ning finds herself zoning out. The conversation is engaging—Minji is clearly knowledgeable, and you seem genuinely interested in what she has to say—but it’s not her world. She fiddles with her straw, feeling invisible as the two of you talk animatedly about market trends and business strategies.

Eventually, she clears her throat. “Hey, do you think they’d let me draw on the walls here?”

Both of you turn to her, surprised.

“I mean, this place could use some art,” she says, grinning.

“Go for it,” you say, laughing. “Just don’t tell my boss I approved it.”

Minji chuckles softly, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly creative,” Ning corrects, feeling a little more grounded again.

Sunday Night

The bar is nearly empty, the quiet hum of the jukebox filling the space. Ning is doodling absently in her sketchbook, while Minji sips her drink and chats with you.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Minji asks, her tone light but genuinely curious.

“Work, mostly,” you admit. “But when I have time, I like hiking. Clears my head.”

“I didn’t peg you as the outdoorsy type,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice.

You shrug. “Gotta balance all the business talk with something peaceful.”

Ning glances up from her sketchbook, watching the two of you. There’s something about the way Minji leans slightly forward when she talks to you, the way her smile lingers a little longer.

“Do you hike?” you ask Minji.

“Sometimes,” she says. “But only when Ning drags me along.”

“Hey, I make hiking fun,” Ning protests, jumping back into the conversation.

“You complain the whole time,” Minji points out, smirking.

“Because you always pick the hardest trails!”

You laugh, the sound warm and genuine. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Next time, you’re coming with us,” Minji says.

Ning blinks, caught off guard by the suggestion. She glances between you and Minji, unsure how to feel about the way this strange triangle is starting to form.

As the night winds down, the three of you settle into a comfortable rhythm, but Ning can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting—slowly, subtly, but undeniably.

—

The three of you have fallen into a strange, unspoken routine—meeting up not just at the bar but beyond it, like some evolving trio of mismatched energy. It feels natural, at least on the surface, even if Ning occasionally finds herself analyzing every interaction, dissecting every glance and laugh.

Tonight, you’re at the movies, sitting in a darkened theater. Ning insisted on watching the latest animated film, claiming it was "research" for her art, though the truth is she just really loves animated movies. You and Minji went along with it, no complaints. Ning sits between you and Minji, a giant bucket of popcorn balanced precariously on her lap.

Halfway through the movie, she notices how Minji leans slightly toward you, sharing whispered comments about the plot. Ning can’t quite hear what you’re saying, but the low rumble of your laugh makes her feel strangely uncomfortable.

“Pass the popcorn,” you murmur, your hand brushing Ning’s as you reach for the bucket.

She stiffens slightly, then relaxes. “Here. Don’t eat all the good pieces.”

“You’re weirdly protective of popcorn,” you tease, taking a handful.

“Popcorn hierarchy is a real thing,” she replies, smirking. But her voice sounds hollow to her own ears.

Minji chuckles, leaning closer. “She’s serious about it. She once bit my hand when I took the last caramel piece.”

“I did not bite you!” Ning protests, her cheeks flushing.

Minji glances at you, her smile lingering. “She absolutely did.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I believe it.”

The sound of your laugh sends a pang through Ning’s chest. She knows it’s stupid, knows she’s overthinking. But the way you and Minji interact—effortless, like equals—feels different.

Later That Week

The three of you are at a college basketball game, seated in the bleachers. It was your idea this time, a way to do something “normal and fun” after a week of classes. Ning, determined to feel confident, showed up in a cropped tank top and tight jeans, her makeup more pronounced than usual.

But as the game goes on, she notices the subtle ways you treat her. When she trips on the bleachers, you catch her arm, laughing softly. “Careful, kid. Don’t want you breaking something.”

“Kid?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “I’m literally an adult.”

“Barely,” you tease, ruffling her hair in a way that makes her want to scream.

Meanwhile, when Minji leans over to ask you something, your tone shifts. It’s subtle, but Ning catches it. You’re attentive, leaning slightly closer, your voice quieter. When Minji laughs at something you say, it’s like the whole world fades out for a second, leaving just the two of you.

Ning fiddles with her phone, pretending not to notice.

At one point, Minji turns to her. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Ning says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… not a huge basketball fan.”

Minji studies her for a moment but doesn’t press. She turns back to you, asking something about the game. Ning doesn’t bother listening.

The Bar, One Week Later

It’s a typical slow night, the kind you’ve come to expect when it’s not the weekend. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and occasionally glancing at the door out of habit. When it swings open, you look up, expecting to see Ning and Minji together as usual.

But it’s just Minji.

She steps inside, her presence as poised as ever. She’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck and a sleek gray coat, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. There’s a calm confidence in the way she walks, like she owns the space without even trying.

“Hey,” you say, smiling as she approaches the bar. “Where’s Ning?”

“She’s sick,” Minji replies, sliding onto one of the stools. “It’s just me tonight.”

There's a hint of excitement in her voice, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. The absence of Ning—her usual energy, her playful remarks—feels strange. But Minji’s presence is undeniable, grounding.

“Just you,” you repeat, setting a glass on the counter. “Alright. What can I get you?”

Minji smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “Surprise me.”

part 3

#minji smut #kim minji #minji x reader #minji newjeans #Minji new jeans smut #ningning smut #ningning aespa #ning yizhuo smut #ningning x reader #aespa ningning smut #aespa ning yizhuo #newjeans minji #kpop m!reader #kpop male oc #kpop male reader #kpop smut #m!reader

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joemama-2 · 2 months ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 11.9k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: dishin these chaps out series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Himari is not having a good day.

First, her burgundy patent leather Saint Laurent Nano Sac De Jour bag is ruined by the help accidentally dropping it on the dirty sidewalk, she lost her favorite lipgloss, and finally, probably the worst of them all, her so-called “boyfriend” isn’t acting very boyfriendly. Sure, he took her out just last night for dinner, and sure he fucked her good when they got back to her place, but he left before she even woke up. Treating her like she’s just a dirty hooker. He’s barely even responding to her texts, letting his ringing go to voicemail. She’s confused, annoyed, and extremely infuriated. There’s no reason for him to be acting like this all of a sudden; she’s his girlfriend for crying out loud.

So why is he being so secretive and mysterious all of a sudden? Why is he almost acting like he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

The sound of her red bottom heels pacing her living room is the only thing heard in the spacious environment. Biting her French-tipped thumbnail, eyes flickering to her cell phone that lays face up on the glass coffee table constantly. She has a right to act this way, she thinks to herself. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him mad? The sharp click of her red-bottom heels echoes through the pristine silence of her living room, the noise rhythmic but erratic as her thoughts spiral. Himari continues to gnaw on her perfectly manicured French-tipped nail, her polished demeanor crumbling bit by bit. As she keeps looking back at her phone, it’s like a silent challenge she can’t seem to ignore. The empty screen glares back at her, fueling her growing anxiety. She’s his girlfriend, after all. What could she have said wrong? She doesn’t remember doing anything to upset him.

Her mind races, replaying every interaction over the past few days. The dinner last night, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fleeting moments of silence during their conversations, like he was somewhere else entirely. And this morning—no note, no text, no explanation. Just...nothing. She takes a seat and her nails dig into the leather armrest of her designer couch. Glaring at her phone again, willing it to light up with his name. But of course, the screen remains stubbornly dark.

No. This isn’t her fault. Satoru is the one being distant and evasive. He’s the one shutting her out. This is not her fault. Her heel taps against the floor, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe he’s testing her, she reasons. Trying to see if she’ll chase him. What a bastard.

Her jaw tightens, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of anger and determination. Twirling a piece of her long, lusciously healthy caramel hair. No, she decides, she won’t let him get away with this. She’s not some woman he can keep on the sidelines, only to toss a crumb of attention whenever it suits him. If Satoru thinks she’ll just sit here and wait, he’s gravely mistaken. She’s Himari Nakamura for god’s sake, her parents own Tenka Couture—one of the most, if not the most sought out and luxurious fashion brand in all of Japan.

She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pausing at his name. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but instead, she opts for something more pointed—a text, again.

We need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting.

The message is curt, sharp, and dripping with the subtle implication that she’s losing patience. Tossing the phone back on the table, she exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling as she tries to reel in her emotions. But it’s no use. The uncertainty, the rejection—it’s eating her alive.

Himari’s gaze flickers to the ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, her reflection staring back at her with a mix of vulnerability and fury. She’s not used to feeling like this—out of control, discarded. Satoru has always been the one to chase, to charm, to reassure her of her place in his life.

So why now? Why does it feel like he’s slipping through her fingers?

A sudden, dark thought creeps into her mind, unbidden but insistent. What if there’s someone else?

Her stomach churns, the idea sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. No. That can’t be it. Satoru wouldn’t dare. Would he? The phone buzzes, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. Her heart leaps, but when she sees the name on the screen, her hope evaporates.

It’s not Satoru. It’s his mother. She stares at the screen, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. What could she possibly want? She finally concedes, pushing her hair over her shoulder, and smiling. “Hello, Mrs. Gojo. What a pleasure to speak to you again.” She greets the older woman on the phone with a wave of politeness.

“Ah, yes. Himari, are you busy right now?” Satoru’s mother, Akane Gojo, replies back. Her aged voice mixed with a hint of reluctance that makes Himari want to call her a bitch. She doesn’t—she’ll never. She’s not that idiotic.

“No, ma’am. I’m not, may I ask why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you happened to know where my son is. My husband has been trying to get a hold of him all day and he isn’t answering. Is he with you?”

So, he’s not with his parents either. That’s even more shady. Just what the hell is he up to? “No, actually, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I was starting to get a little worried.”

Himari hears the other woman sighing over the phone, muttering something about how her son is a headache. "Well," Akane begins again, her tone sharp with a tinge of frustration, "if you do hear from him, could you tell him to stop avoiding his family? It's unlike him to ignore us like this."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let him know as soon as I can." Himari’s voice is syrupy sweet, masking her own irritation.

"Good. Thank you, dear." There's a beat of silence before Akane continues, her tone shifting to something more pointed. "And, Himari, I hope you understand how important Satoru's family obligations are. It’s important he doesn’t forget that."

Himari freezes for a moment, the subtle jab not lost on her. "Of course, ma'am," she replies smoothly, though her grip tightens on the phone. The call ends, leaving Himari staring at the blank screen, her mind racing. Family obligations. Avoiding his parents. Acting strange. All of it points to one undeniable truth: Satoru is hiding something. Her nails drum against the glass coffee table as she processes Akane's words. For a moment, she considers whether Satoru’s mysterious behavior has to do with the Gojo Group’s business dealings. But no, he’s always managed to balance that side of his life without much issue.

This time, it feels...personal almost. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her living room once more. If his own mother doesn’t know where he is, then who does?

Satoru, the wealthy, trust fund man that he is, has multiple places he calls homes. It’s proof of the fact that he has money, lots of it—more than what he knows what to do with. There’s the high-rise penthouse, where most people will find him. Next, the Next, the sprawling countryside estate nestled just outside the city—a retreat designed for privacy, complete with lush gardens, a pristine pool, and the kind of modern architecture that graces the covers of luxury magazines. This place, he rarely visits, but it’s there, waiting for him whenever he craves solitude away from the chaos of his social and family obligations. Then there’s the minimalist townhouse downtown, a sleek and understated property he keeps for the sake of convenience. Its location near the financial district makes it the perfect spot for impromptu meetings or when he wants to blend into the hustle and bustle of the city without drawing too much attention.

And finally, there’s the seaside villa. A true gem perched on a cliff with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. It's a home reserved for moments when life feels particularly overwhelming, a place where he can lose himself in the sound of the waves crashing below and the horizon stretching endlessly before him. Each property represents a different facet of his life: the penthouse for the public figure, the estate for the privileged heir, the townhouse for the businessman, and the villa for the man who sometimes just wants to escape it all.

Despite all these homes, none of them feel like home.

Lately, though, he’s been spending more time in places that aren’t tied to his wealth—places like a run-down apartment complex on the other side of town. It’s jarring, even for him, to walk through the cracked pavement and hear the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights in the lobby. But that’s where she is. Where they are.

After seeing that place for the first time a few days ago, he automatically felt uneasy—maybe even disgusted. That is not the kind of place he wants his son being raised, where he wants you living. It’s a place for the unsavory group of people. Sure, it’s a little thoughtless of him to think these things because everyone has different situations, like you for example. But as stated before, he’s a spoiled brat to the core. So while he didn’t outwardly show it (at least he thinks so), Satoru hates the place you and his son call home.

He’s brewing in these thoughts in his villa. Sitting on the white lawn chair, watching the pearly waves hit the shore and back. His phone’s on silent, taking pleasure in his solitude. For a second, he entertains the brief thought of being with his son and you instead. He can imagine the smile that grows on his face, watching the pretty sight in front of him. He can almost picture it clearly: the sight of you two laughing, Koji’s excited chatter, and the way your eyes soften when you look at him. It’s a nice thought, but he quickly dismisses it. You’ve made your choices, his choices for him.

Still, the image lingers in his mind. Koji, smiling up at him, full of admiration. You, guarded yet warm, offering him a smile that could mean more if he allowed himself to lean into it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and Satoru snaps out of his reverie. His fingers twitch at the side of his chair, but he doesn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he forces himself to stay present. The world he’s created for himself is simpler when it’s just him. No obligations, no questions he doesn’t want to answer. But that image of you and Koji is still there, in the back of his mind.

He doesn’t know why, sure he can imagine himself being with his son. But you too? The woman who lied behind his back for years, the woman who he doesn’t know would’ve ever told him if his best friend didn’t run into you? He sighs, a frustration that isn’t entirely his own settling in his chest. The villa’s quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. He looks out over the horizon, trying to push the feelings away, but they remain, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. What if things could be different?

But there’s no going back now. The phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t afford to entertain any distractions—not now. The solitude feels safer, at least for now. He’ll drive back in a few hours, but for now, he likes it here.

“You look like you’d be a good mom.”

You falter, hands pausing around the pot of hyacinths. Giving your boyfriend a weird look, one of confusion and small disbelief. “Hah, what?”

He simply shrugs, watching you go back to fixing the displays of flowers. He’s half tempted to spout some cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the plants, but he’s already done that five times today. He watches you with that signature grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? It’s true,” he says with a shrug, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.“Yeah, you know—you got those like, instinctual mother thingies.”

“What even makes you say that?” You huff.

“I’ve seen you with kids.”

“And?”

“Andddd,” he drags the words out, dramatically rolling his eyes. “I like it, looks good.”

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, really,” he insists, his tone softening just enough to make you glance up at him again. “You’re kind, patient—except with me, obviously—and you care. It’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re so weird to even be thinking about that right now.”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer and brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “But I’m not wrong.” For a moment, his words hang in the air, and you find yourself wondering what it might mean—if he’s just teasing, or if he’s thinking about something more. The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite name.

“You’re really something, Gojo,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn back to the flowers, hoping he doesn’t notice the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks. “We’re nineteen and you’re immature.”

“Something amazing, obviously,” he replies without missing a beat, his grin widening. And just like that, the moment lightens, though his words linger in the back of your mind long after he’s stopped teasing. “And I’m not immature—at least not too much.”

You hum, rolling your eyes. “Debatable.”

He leans on the counter again, his head tilted as he watches you with that annoyingly familiar mix of mischief and curiosity. “Debatable? Come on. I’m the perfect blend of maturity and charm. Like... the top-tier boyfriend package.”

“Top-tier, huh?” you say dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Is that what you call forgetting our coffee date last week?”

“That was one time!” he protests, holding up a hand like he’s pleading his case in court. “And I made up for it, didn’t I? Flowers and donuts. And sex.”

“Uh-huh, right, right.” You dismissively respond.

“You know, someday you’re going to look back at nineteen-year-old me and think, ‘Wow, I was so lucky to date this guy.’”

“Or I’ll think, ‘What was I thinking?’” you counter, though your smile gives you away.

Satoru laughs, his hand brushing against yours for just a moment as he reaches for the pot of hyacinths. “Nah, you’ll think, ‘Man, this guy’s been stealing my heart since day one.’”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. Even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you wonders if he’s right.

You sigh this time, brushing your hand over the petals of the purple hyacinth. Its fragrance fills the space between you two, sweet and heavy, like the weight of the moment you’re trying to ignore. “You’re way too confident, you know that?”

“I prefer the term self-assured,” Satoru counters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Less teasing, more genuine. He leans a little closer, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “And hey, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Your fingers are still against the stem, and for just a second, the air shifts. His words hang between you like a thread, fragile and thin, threatening to snap. “You’re exhausting, Gojo,” you murmur, your voice quieter this time. But there’s no bite to your words, only a faint ache you can’t quite name.

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says softly, his grin faltering into something smaller, more vulnerable. His hand brushes against yours again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches. His longer fingers interlacing with your own, bringing the back of your hand up to plant one kiss, then another, and another to your skin—slowly making his way up your arm.

“Sometimes I wonder why,” you admit, a half-hearted laugh escaping you as you shake your head. The pot in your hands feels heavier than it should, your grip tightening just slightly. Reveling in the warm feeling of his lips, a small breath of air leaving you.

He doesn’t answer right away, and when you glance up at him, you find his gaze steady on yours. There’s no mischief now, no playful grin. Just him. Just Satoru. “Maybe it’s because we fit,” he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Even if it’s messy or complicated... it feels like it’s supposed to be this way.” His lips are now on your shoulder, marking up to your neck; to which he spends extra time at.

Your chest tightens, and you quickly look back at the flowers, pretending to adjust the display again. “You’re talking like we’re some kind of fairytale, Satoru.” Your hand lets go of the pot, settling it back on its shelf. Cheeks beginning to heat up and you do your best to hold in the pathetic mewl that threatens to leave your mouth when he sucks just a little too sharp.

“Maybe we are,” he replies without hesitation, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. But fairytales don’t last, you think, the thought clawing at the edges of your mind like a dark shadow. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you force a small laugh, pushing the heaviness aside.

“You’re too much,” you murmur, shaking your head again, eyes closing shut.

Satoru watches you for a long moment before leaning up to your ear. You feel his grin returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You don’t respond, but the silence that follows feels louder than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this moment—this version of you and him—is fleeting. Like the flowers in the pot before you, it’s beautiful, but it won’t last forever, especially with how…different you two are. You don’t tell him that, though. Instead, you smile faintly, keeping your eyes on the flowers, and let the moment linger just a little longer. Letting him continue to worship your skin in kisses, reaching your lips in a magnetizing way that always leaves you begging for more. It’s your own way of letting yourself bask in the simplicity and intimacy of one another, pushing back the brutal thought that this could all change.

Preparing yourself for the worst, the inevitable because you’re too afraid to admit to yourself that you’re already playing a dangerous game, already biting off more than you can chew.

The weight of your unspoken fears settles heavily in your chest, threatening to suffocate the fragile warmth between you. Still, you cling to it—this fleeting moment of love—as if holding on tightly enough might make it last. Satoru reaches out again with his other hand, his fingers ghosting over yours, but this time it feels different. Less playful, more deliberate, like he knows something you’re too scared to confront. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder that he’s here now, that you’re here now.

But for how long?

You glance up at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch as though he’s searching for the right words. Or maybe he’s feeling the same quiet dread you are, that bitter knowledge that life has a way of pulling things apart, no matter how tightly you try to hold them together.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His teasing bravado is gone, leaving only raw sincerity behind.

You force a smile, one you know doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?” he presses gently, his gaze unwavering, his thumb moving across your cheekbone gently.

“Nothing,” you lie, your fingers brushing over the petals again, grounding yourself in their softness. “It’s nothing.” Satoru doesn’t believe you, you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back, his shoulders relaxing as he shifts the conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins, his grin returning, though softer now, “if you ever get tired of the flowers, I’m always available for career advice. I’m an excellent life coach.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound thin but authentic. “Yeah? What’s your first piece of advice?”

“Marry rich,” he quips, winking, but the joke falls a little flat. “Meaning me, baby,” he adds, bringing you close by an arm to your shoulders, kissing your temple. You shake your head, but the laughter fades too quickly, leaving you both in the quiet again. The thought returns, sharper now, that this could all slip through your fingers.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself lean into him just a little more, let the edge of your shoulder brush against his. It’s why you kiss him back when he leans back into your lips. It’s not much, but it’s your way of holding onto this moment, even as the inevitability of its end looms over you like a storm cloud. Because deep down, you already know the truth: you’re playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before the flames consume you.

You already know a man like Satoru Gojo would never stay with someone like you.

You jolt upright at the sound of your blaring, very annoying alarm. Quickly turning it off, you give yourself a moment to blanky stare at your sheets. Rubbing your eyes. Were you really just dreaming about that? Or no, it wasn’t a dream—but a memory. A distinct, longing feeling begins to pool in your gut. The kind that makes you feel numb and unresponsive, the kind you get when you just dream about some mystery man you fell in love with but can’t remember his face. You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder than usual, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. It’s a struggle to move, the weight of that memory—no, that ghost of a feeling—pressing down on you.

Satoru.

What once was.

The way your chest tightens, the ache that feels both familiar and unwelcome, tells you everything. You can almost hear his voice, playful and warm, teasing you like he always used to. You can almost feel his touch, fleeting but deliberate, like he was trying to leave a mark without you noticing.

God, why now? For what reason? You’ve long been over him, haven’t you? No doubt he has, considering he’s more than likely dating someone right now. You wonder when—or if—he’ll tell you. He has to, right? Because if this woman will possibly be around your son in the future, you have to know who she is, just like she has to know who you are. And if she and Satoru perhaps get married in the fu—

You quickly stop your train of thought.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake it off. There’s no time for this. You have too much on your plate to sit here drowning in nostalgia. The rent. Koji. Work. Life doesn’t pause just because your subconscious decided to dig up a piece of your past you’ve tried to bury. But the feeling lingers, refusing to let go. You stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in the hopes that it’ll snap you out of it. For a second, it works. The chill jolts you awake, and you grip the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection.

“You’re fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s just a memory.” But your reflection doesn’t look very convinced.

Busying yourself with your other life and mom responsibilities proves to work, the thought of your dream this morning and Satoru in general being pushed to the back burner. You rather it be this way, it’s easier to function.

“I’ll probably be a little late to pick you up from school today, Koji.” You tell your son, hand clutching his as you make the way to his school. The morning is colder, having dressed him in a puffy jacket, a beanie, scarf, and cute mittens you crocheted when you had the passion.

He looks up at you, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. “Why?”

You sigh, not sure how to explicitly explain that you’ll be putting in an extra hour today at the cafe so you can scrounge up as much money as you can for the money due this Friday—in two days from now. It really feels impossible, but you’ll find a way. “Mama has to work a little longer today, I’m sorry.”

Koji’s frown deepens, his small brows furrowing as he kicks a pebble along the sidewalk. "It's okay, Mama. I can wait." His words are simple, but the way he says them—the way he tries to be understanding beyond his years—makes your heart ache. You hate this. Hate that he even has to think like this. He should be carefree, worrying about which dinosaur to play with or what snack he’ll get after school. Not whether his mama is working herself into the ground.

You’re feeling extreme guilt again. Wondering and worrying that you’re making him grow up too fast. But tons of kids stay a bit later at school when waiting for their parents to pick them up, don’t they? You force a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you, baby. You're such a good boy."

His face lights up at the praise—as always. He starts talking about what he’s looking forward to in class today. You nod and hum along as he chatters, trying to match his energy, but your mind is already elsewhere. Two days.

You’re running out of time, and no matter how many hours you squeeze into the day, it doesn’t feel like enough. You’ve thought about asking for help, swallowing your pride just this once, but the options are limited. The last thing you want is to open that door with Satoru, and there’s no one else who can offer the kind of money you need.

By the time you reach the school gates, you’re exhausted—mentally more than physically. Kneeling to adjust Koji’s scarf and beanie, you kiss his cheek and give him your warmest smile. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I love you."

"Okay, Mama. I love you too," he says, his grin wide and trusting as he hugs you tightly before running off to join his classmates. You stand there for a moment, watching him go, before turning and heading toward the café. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your reality pressing down on you.

Two days. And not a second to waste.

But just because things never seem to go right for you, Mr. Ito comes out from the classroom, standing by his door. “Oh, Ms. Y/N? Good morning.”

Jesus Christ, can he just take a fucking hint. You’re literally walking away. However, you put on a facade of politeness and turn around to face him, holding back a scowl at his ever-present smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ito.”

He spares a quick glance into his growing room of children before stepping away and closer to you. Instinctively, you take a small one back. “How are you today?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear,” he nods, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes do a quick scan of you, and you could almost swear you see his smile widen—like he’s appreciating the sight. Dirty bastard.

You suppress a shudder, keeping your expression neutral. This obviously isn’t the first time Mr. Ito has made you uncomfortable, but you’ve learned to play nice for Koji’s sake. After all, the last thing you want is to make things awkward between your son and his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ito, but I really need to get to work,” you say, shifting your weight to one foot, hoping he gets the hint.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move away. “I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with Koji’s improvement with his behavior. He’s such a bright boy, and so polite too. A testament to your parenting, I’m sure.”

There’s something about the way he says it—too smooth, too rehearsed—that makes your stomach churn. You force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Koji works very hard.”

“Yes, well, if you ever need to discuss his progress or anything else, my door is always open. Even outside of school hours,” he adds, his tone far too suggestive for your liking.

Didn’t he already say this line before? Your grip tightens on your bag, but you keep your composure. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Ito. Have a good day.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, heart pounding. The nerve of that man. You’d always sensed something was off about him, but lately, he’s been crossing more lines, and you’re starting to feel trapped.

It’s not like you can pull Koji out of the school—this is the best option you can afford right now. And confronting Mr. Ito? That could easily backfire, making Koji’s time in class unbearable. As you walk to work, the weight of your problems feels heavier than ever. The looming eviction notice, the landlord’s constant pressure, and now, Mr. Ito’s thinly veiled advances.

Two days.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus. You don’t have time to worry about Mr. Ito or anything else. Right now, all that matters is making it to Friday.

“Did you yell at her?” is the first thing Suguru asks. After not seeing his best friend for a week, Satoru would’ve thought he’d have something else to say. However, he can imagine he just wants to get down to the point after he sent the black-haired man a message about seeing you for the first time again.

“No, I didn’t.” Satoru cooly responds, finger tapping along the glass rim of his overly sugar-infested coffee. Suguru takes a seat across from him, giving his friend an analytical glare. Satoru’s dining room, save for the weird tension of words having yet to be spoken.

Suguru leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. "So, what did you do then? Stare at her like a creep?"

Satoru's lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s no humor in it. "I talked to her, obviously."

"Obviously," Suguru repeats, the sarcasm thick. He glances at the untouched plate of food in front of him. "And how’d that go?"

Satoru shrugs, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine. “She was...surprised. And emotional, but I can’t really blame her for that.”

"Emotional, huh?" Suguru raises a brow. “Did she apologize?”

Satoru nods.

"I’m guessing you didn’t hold back."

"Why should I have?" Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. "She’s lucky I didn’t do worse, she honestly deserves every single fucking thing I told her, and more.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch at the outburst. Instead, he lets the words hang in the air, his silence more pointed than anything he could’ve said. Satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t yell at her, okay? I barely even argued. I just...listened and answered.”

"And what did she say?"

Satoru hesitates, his eyes drifting to the cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “She told me why she kept it a secret, how she felt, and whatever.” Satoru's jaw clenches, the memory of seeing you cry filling him with dread—like it used to way back then. He’s surprised he was that receptive to it, especially that quickly. Luckily, he held back the almost innate urge to bring you into your arms and comfort you. Because again, you don’t deserve his comfort right now.

Suguru pauses, letting his own curiosity win over. “Well…why did she do it?”

There’s a moment of still quietness while Satoru thinks over the other man’s question. Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the cityscape, the towering buildings blurring as his thoughts churn. His chest feels tight, a cocktail of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name swirling in his gut. Anger, hurt, guilt—they’re all there, fighting for dominance. “She didn’t give me a chance,” Satoru mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “She decided for me. Like I didn’t deserve to know. Like I wouldn’t have...tried.” He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He’s never been good at this—this vulnerable, messy part of himself. The part that cares too much, that aches too deeply. “I’m angry,” he finally admits, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m so fucking angry at her for thinking so little of me. But at the same time... I…I think I get it. It was the rejection she was scared of, the first failed attempt, she didn’t want Koji growing up like me, she…she didn’t think I was ready, either. She said she was trying to protect us all.” His words are low and hushed, even reciting them making him feel as if he needs to spill his guts. “She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve my understanding, my empathy for her, she…she doesn’t deserve anything. I shouldn’t feel bad for her, I shouldn’t. But I do for some fucking reason, and it’s making me so fucking confused.”

Suguru doesn’t interrupt, letting him vent. Satoru’s words come faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking. “And now, I’m just...stuck. Stuck between being pissed off at her and hating myself for thinking she’s right.” He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots as if the pain will ground him. “Because she was right, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I would’ve run. I would’ve hurt her in ways she didn’t deserve.”

The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, and for once, Satoru doesn’t try to mask it with bravado or a joke. “But now,” he continues, his voice softer, tinged with something vulnerable, “I just keep thinking about Koji. About all the time I lost. About how I don’t even know how to be a dad, let alone his dad.”

Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to be his dad?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drift to Koji’s small, curious eyes, the way the boy had looked at him with a mix of wonder and wariness. The way they got along so well, so quickly. The way the boy was so excited to teach his dad about dinosaurs, to play with him, to his infectious laugh when Satoru lifted him high up in the air. “I don’t know how to,” Satoru finally admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I want to try.”

Suguru nods slowly, his gaze steady. “Then that’s a start.”

Satoru exhales, the weight on his chest lifting just slightly. But even as the conversation eases, the storm in his mind rages on. Because no matter how much he wants to move forward, the shadows of the past—and the fear of screwing up—loom large. And the fact that he doesn’t know how he can get resolve things with you. How is he just supposed to co-parent and see your face so casually after what you did?

Is he supposed to just remain cordial? Closed off? Or should he try to fix things?

But what things even need fixing, there’s nothing between you two. There’s no “them” anymore. There hasn’t been for years. And if there were, shouldn’t that be your job? This entire situation is your fault. You should be the one begging on your knees for forgiveness, you should be groveling for the fact that you kept his son a secret. He’s justified, isn’t he? In being cold? Closed off? In letting you feel every ounce of the pain you caused him?

The bitterness twists in his chest, a dark, venomous thing that urges him to lash out, to make you feel as helpless and raw as he does. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, the thought slithers in: You should be the one who’s grateful that he didn’t do anything extreme like try to take Koji away from yo–

What the hell are you saying?

He feels convicted suddenly, wanting to punch himself for even daring to think such an evil thing. Is he that angry? Petty? Does he want to get back at you that bad that he’d threaten to take away your kid from you? The thought makes his stomach churn, the self-loathing hitting him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the edge of the table tightens, knuckles whitening. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not that cruel. No matter how angry, how hurt he feels, he couldn’t do something so vile.

He’s just not. But he just feels so conflicted and…unsure about everything.

But the anger doesn’t vanish—it just twists into something deeper, more insidious. He feels so troubled, so lost in the storm of emotions that he can’t tell which way is up anymore. And yet... amidst all that chaos, there’s another image. One that keeps replaying in his head like a stubborn melody.

Because he could see it—see how your eyes lit up with a motherly joy after Koji called your name for attention, how you smiled instinctually when seeing your son, how your voice softened so perfectly it practically pulled him in too. He sees the way your face relaxed when Koji tugged at your sleeve, the way your whole being seemed to light up just from hearing his voice. The joy, the pride, the pure, unfiltered love that radiated from you—so natural, so raw, it made him pause.

And for a split second, Satoru forgot the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. He only saw you. You, as a mother. You, as Koji’s mother. Somewhere in the muddled mess of his thoughts, an ache blooms. Not just for the time he lost with Koji, but for the life he lost with you. Because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, part of him still remembers the way you used to smile at him like that. And the other part of him wonders if he’ll ever see it again.

The war in Satoru’s mind is relentless, his thoughts ricocheting between anger and guilt, blame, understanding, and even longing. Every time he tries to land on a conclusion, another surge of emotions pulls him in a different direction.

Satoru clenches his jaw, his finger now still against the coffee glass. “I didn’t know about Koji.”

“No, but you knew about her.”

The words hit harder than Satoru wants to admit. He doesn’t respond, and Suguru doesn’t push, though the weight of his stare lingers. After a moment, Suguru sighs. “Look, man. If you’re serious about making things right, about stepping up and being a father, you can’t go back. Sure, you just met the boy, but it’s up to you and her to make sure you make up for the time you lost with him—to create even more memories with him. You have to prove you’ll be there for him.”

Satoru looks up at him, his eyes shadowed with something Suguru rarely sees in his best friend—doubt. “And if it’s too late?”

Suguru gives him a small, sad smile. “Then you make sure it’s not.”

It’s around nine at night, the convenience store’s ambience slowly drifting you into a sleepy state before you catch your head upright. It sucks having to force yourself to stay awake, already on your third cup of coffee today with two espresso shots. At this rate, you don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep, but it’s better that than not getting through your days at work. If anything, you can try melatonin again, even if that is just a blatant scam.

Scrolling on your phone through Indeed, Zip Recruiter, and LinkedIn. You hate seeing the same few jobs that say they’re hiring, but ghost you. Or the jobs that you seem completely too unqualified for that it makes you self-concsious. You’re aware you didn’t finish college, very aware. A part at you constantly eats away at your soul, mind running to the loud thoughts of “what if”. What if you finished college? What if you didn’t have Koji? You quickly push that idea away, feeling mad at yourself. You wonder if it’s bad of you to think about never being a mother—if other parents do that too.

It’s just a simple thought. You don’t regret Koji, you never could or would. Still, you can’t stop thinking at time about how life would be if you had a child later on in life. If you had a stable job, life, everything. Would things be better—different? Would Koji have been happier?

The thoughts gnaw at the edges of your mind as you sip from the coffee cup, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the ache growing in your chest. The sinfulness hits you almost immediately, sharp and unforgiving. It feels wrong to even entertain the idea of a life without Koji, like some kind of betrayal to the tiny, beautiful soul who depends on you.

But you’re tired—so, so tired. And sometimes, when the weight of it all feels like too much to bear, those questions creep in, uninvited and insidious. They don’t mean you love Koji any less. You know that. Still, the mere existence of the thoughts makes you feel like a failure, like you’re not doing enough or being enough. You scroll through the endless job listings again, each rejection or impossibility hammering another nail into the coffin of your hope. A lump forms in your throat as you stare at the screen. Your hands tremble slightly, whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming sense of inadequacy, you’re not sure.

Again, you shake your head, forcing the thoughts away, but they linger like a shadow you can’t quite shake. Koji’s smile flashes in your mind, bright and pure, his laughter echoing in your memory. He’s your light, your anchor in the chaos. No matter how hard things get, you always find your way back to him. But even as you remind yourself of that, the doubts creep back in. Are you enough for him? Are you giving him the life he deserves? You hate that your answer feels so uncertain.

The soft hum of the convenience store's fluorescent lights pulls you back to the present. You set your phone down, closing your eyes for a moment as you press your palms against your forehead. You want to cry but know you can’t afford the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now.

The truth is, no matter how much you love Koji, you feel like you’re drowning. You’re just too good at treading water, keeping your head barely above the surface, to let anyone notice.

And so, you lose focus on your phone and exist in the present. You can’t change the past, but you can change your now, and your future. That starts with working hard, harder than you ever thought you could. The people who rise to the top, the people like Satoru, they fight for what they have. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, and you’d be damned if you let someone else best you.

You’re the ruler in your own life, not Satoru, not money, not evictions, nothing. It’s you. It’ll always be you. You’ve been working since you were fourteen, practically emancipated because your own sorry excuse of parents couldn’t have been more bothered.

That’s another thing that’s your driving force. Just like how you didn’t want Koji to grow up like Satoru, you didn’t want him to grow up like how you did either. You would never—ever—be like them. You pledged that, took an oath. Sure, things aren’t looking very good right now. But you’re strong, resilient, smart. You will get through this. For Koji, and for yourself.

Hard workers get what they worked for. You’ll be there soon. Patience is a virtue, and slow and steady wins the race.

Almost two hours have passed, once again putting in an extra hour. Right in the middle of ringing up some drunken college girls who came in for snacks, your phone in front of the register rings. You look down, it displays a number you know by heart. Mumbling a ‘have a good night’ to the girls who stumble their way out, you take the liberty to answer; not before you take a deep breath in, however.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Um…hey. Can I help you?”

“I’m coming over tomorrow.”

You pause for a moment, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as Satoru's words register. It takes a second too long for you to find your voice again, the casual confidence in his tone throwing you off balance. “Tomorrow?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden swirl of emotions his call stirs. “Okay, why?”

He scoffs. “Because I want to see him,” Satoru says simply, as if his answer explains everything.

Your lips purse, a mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling to the surface. “Satoru, it’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” he interrupts, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I’m not waiting any longer, I want to see my son.”

Your grip tightens on the phone as your free hand balls into a fist at your side. The words you want to say die in your throat, the late hour and your sheer exhaustion making it hard to form a coherent argument. “I…I–I have work tomorrow, he has school.”

“So I’ll come over when he’s out of school,” he counters, his tone softening slightly but still resolute. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to see my son. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

You glance around the empty store, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The reality of the situation presses down on you, the fact that this is something you’ll have to get used to, have to allow. Because he deserves it. “Fine,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s off at 2:30, we get home around 2:40, you can be there by that time.”

“I’ll text before I get there,” he promises, though the nonchalant way he says it doesn’t do much to ease your questionable nerves. “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, leaving you standing there in the dim light of the convenience store, the phone still pressed to your ear. Tomorrow. You set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly, unsure as to why. It’s just the fatigue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Satoru is officially back in your life, his face will be a regular occurrence now.

He’s here for Koji. That’s all. Don’t look into it.

When you slug back home, the first thing you do—after paying Sana—is count your money. Mr. Sato needs around four thousand dollars, you’re still fucking short.

“Nine-hundred.”

“Thousand.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A thousand short, plus another hundred for the utilities. And he needs it by Friday. It’s Wednesday.

On a scale from one to ten of how screwed you are, you’d give yourself an eleven. It’s hard to even admit that to yourself, feeling your hot tears wet the green paper in frustration. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear the creaking of your muscles in your ears, a ringing noise following after. You sit there, staring at the bills fanned out on the table like they’re mocking you. The tears won’t stop, blurring the numbers, but you know them by heart. A thousand short for rent, a hundred for utilities, and nothing left for groceries or the babysitter fees piling up in the back of your mind.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. The frustration spills over, hot and suffocating, as you swipe the money off the table in a fit of anger. The bills scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, and for a moment, you just sit there, trembling in the silence. “Goddamn it,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your head as if that’ll stop the spiral of thoughts. You can feel the panic rising, the way it always does when you’re this close to breaking. How are you supposed to keep everything together when the universe seems hell-bent on tearing it apart? You can already feel your migraine coming back like an old friend, feeling its twisting and pulling on your brain.

Koji’s soft footsteps break through the haze, his small voice pulling you back to reality. “Mama?”

You hastily wipe at your face, trying to compose yourself as you turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed animal—a tattered little bear you bought second-hand years ago. His big eyes are filled with concern, and it breaks your heart even more. “Hey, baby,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, padding over to you and climbing onto your lap without a word. His tiny arms wrap around your waist, and for a moment, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. You stroke his hair, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Mama’s just tired,” you murmur after a while, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Koji looks up at you, his brows furrowed in a way that reminds you so much of Satoru it’s almost painful. “Are we okay?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, but you nod, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Of course we are, baby. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Mama’s got it all under control.” It’s a lie, but it’s one you tell for his sake. Koji doesn’t need to know how close to the edge you really are. And you’d never let him know just how close you are from sinking completely, he’s too young, too innocent.

After a few minutes, he’s able to drift off to sleep in your arms, you stare at the scattered bills on the floor, your mind racing. Tomorrow, Satoru will be here. Maybe—just maybe—you can ask him for help. The thought makes your stomach churn, pride and desperation warring inside you. Are you even allowed to? What would he say?

But what choice do you have?

You need this place, no matter how ragged or disgusting Satoru—or anyone for that fact may think it is. It’s home. Home to you, and home to Koji. You’ve stopped caring about what others thought og you a long time ago. It still comes back, of course. Especially in your most vulnerable, most small of moments. And when it hits you, you realize how much you didn’t miss the feeling. You desperately wish you can just give absolutely zero fucks all day, everyday.

That might be impossible.

As long as you just hold it down, you’ll be good—you think.

For Koji, for Koji.

Walking Koji home the next day from school, you’re focused on checking the time of your phone; surprised when the young boy suddenly rips from your grip and runs forward. Instantly, you look up and call out for him in a hurry. “Koji! Do—”

“Papa!”

Satoru, who’s waiting outside your apartment door, crouches down to your son’s height, arms held out with a wide smile on his face. Koji melted into his embrace, small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Satoru hugged the boy, running a hand up and down his back slowly. “How was school, my big boy?” “Good! We learned about plants, and I drew a sunflower!” Koji exclaims, his words tumbling over each other in excitement as he pulls back slightly to look at Satoru's face. His little hands grasp Satoru’s jacket, his wide eyes sparkling with pure joy.

Satoru’s expression softens even further, a rare glimpse of unguarded tenderness crossing his features. “A sunflower, huh? That’s my favorite flower. Did you know they always turn toward the sun?”

Koji nods eagerly, his grin spreading even wider. “Yeah! The teacher said that too. I wanna show you my drawing when we get inside!”

“Of course. I can’t wait to see it,” Satoru says, ruffling Koji’s hair before standing to his full height, the boy still clinging to his leg like a koala. His gaze shifts to you, his smile faltering just a fraction as his expression becomes unreadable. “Hey.”

You stand a few steps away, your heart caught in your throat. Watching the two of them together feels like a punch to the chest—bittersweet and raw. You manage to swallow the lump in your throat and force a polite smile. “Hey.”

Satoru takes a step closer, his tone light but his eyes piercing. He simply nods in response.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. But there’s an ache beneath the surface, a mix of guilt, resentment, and longing you can’t quite shake. Koji looks happy, that’s all that matters. You step forward to unlock the door. “I have my other job to get to,” you say finally, keeping your tone neutral. “Do you think you can watch him until his babysitter comes?”

Koji rushes in, but Satoru lingers, looking at you. “Who’s his babysitter?”

“Sana, she usually comes a few minutes before I leave, but if you’re here I can go earlier.” You walk in, arm brushing against his that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your spine—one you ignore forcibly.

He follows in, closing the door behind him. Standing a bit awkwardly around the living room, watching you hang your coat and purse up. “I didn’t know you worked two jobs,” he says, almost like he’s not sure if he should be voicing out this small curiosity of his.

You pause mid-motion, fingers lingering on the hook of your coat rack. For a moment, you consider not answering, brushing it off with some noncommittal remark. But the weight of his gaze is palpable, pressing down on you until you finally sigh and turn around to face him. “Yeah,” you say simply, your voice flat. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” There’s an edge in your tone, one you don’t intend but can’t quite help. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you think he might argue, but instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you move to the small kitchen area to grab a glass of water. “Tell you? What would that have changed, Satoru? Would you have swooped in and made it all better?”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I would have. But you never gave me the chance.”

You set the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound of it hitting the counter echoing in the silence. “You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him fully. “You don’t just show up now and act like you care about how I’ve been keeping things together.”

“I do care,” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I wouldn’t? That I don’t give a damn about you—Koji?” The small correction doesn’t get missed by you.

“You didn’t care enough to stay,” you bite out before you can stop yourself.

The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting. His expression falters for just a moment before his face hardens, a wall going up that you recognize all too well. God damn it. Why do you keep bringing up the past and your shitty breakup?

“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You made that decision for the both of us.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The two of you stand there, the room thick with tension, until a small voice interrupts.

“Mama?” Both of you turn toward the hallway, where Koji stands in the hallway, tilting his head. Holding his colored paper of a sunflower in his hands. “Are you fighting?”

Your heart aches at the sight of him, his small frame dwarfed by the weight of the conversation he doesn’t understand. You put on a smile, crouching down to his level. “No, baby. We’re just talking, that’s all.”

Satoru steps forward, his face softening as he kneels next to Koji. “Yeah, buddy. We’re not fighting. Everything’s okay.”

Koji looks between you both for a long moment before nodding, though his expression still carries a hint of worry. “Okay,” he turns to Satoru. “Here Papa, my drawing.”

The two move to the couch, Satoru listening with fascination as Koji talks and talks and talks. His father doesn’t seem to mind, however. Occasionally touching his cheek or pushing hair out his face as if to remind himself this is real, that this is his son. You look away and go to your room, locking the door as you begin changing into your uniform for the convenience store. In a few minutes, you’re out and putting your shoes on. Satoru and Koji are now discussing video games.

“I’m heading out now, baby.”

“Alrigh—”

“Okay, Mama.” Koji cuts off Satoru, to which the latter is glad because why the fuck did he just almost respond to you? He knows you weren’t talking to him, he knows you wouldn’t ever call him baby again, but it just felt so natural and instinctual.

Strange.

He watches you come on over to give Koji a hug and kiss, awkwardly clearing his throat in the seat beside his son; looking away like he’s intruding on something. And so you won’t see the odd flush to his pale cheeks.

“I’ll watch him, don’t call the babysitter.”

You pause mid-motion, your arms still loosely wrapped around Koji. Slowly, you pull back, giving your son a soft smile before turning your attention to Satoru. “Are you sure?” you ask, your tone careful, guarded. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Satoru scoffs lightly, waving a hand in dismissal as he leans back in his seat. “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m his dad, remember? I can handle one night.” His words feel heavier than they should, loaded with the unspoken history between you two. You don’t miss the slight edge in his voice, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Koji, oblivious to the tension, beams up at his father. “Can we watch that superhero movie, Papa?”

Satoru grins, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Of course, big guy. Popcorn too. But after you finish your homework.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering between the two of them. It’s hard to argue when Koji looks so happy, his excitement practically radiating off him. Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag and coat, walking over to the door. “Just... don’t let him stay up too late.”

“Got it,” Satoru replies, his tone almost flippant, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath it. You linger for a moment longer than necessary, your hand hovering on the doorknob. There’s something about leaving the two of them together, about seeing Satoru slip so naturally into this role, that stirs something warm in your chest.

“Alright,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll be back around twelve.” With that, you step out into the cool evening air, the door clicking shut behind you. You exhale, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest—wary, relief, maybe even longing.

Inside, Satoru watches the door for a beat longer than he should. Then he shakes his head, turning back to Koji with a forced grin. “Alright, champ. Let’s see what homework you have today.” But as Koji chatters excitedly, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of your absence pressing down on him, more than he’s willing to admit.

It’s around eight at night now. Satoru took the liberty of making some dinner for Koji, but after sifting through your bone empty pantry and refrigerator, he orders take out. The two are watching Spiderman: No Way Home. His arm is slung around his son’s shoulders, the two sharing a bag of fries. He can almost feel Koji starting to drift off, the sensation of his body sinking further into his side makes him smile subconsciously. However, that small, tender moment is broken when there’s a sudden pounding at the door.

Satoru looks back over the couch, confused as to who the hell could be trying to see you at this time of night. A hookup? Boyfriend? No, no. Don’t think that.

He looks back down at Koji who’s giving him an equally confused, but tired face. “Is that Mama?”

“No, don’t think so, little man.” You said you’d be back by twelve, it’s only eight. That’s weird. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go see who it is.”

Koji nods, Satoru gently laying him on his side and grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket to tuck him in with. He stands with a small grunt, walking over to your front door. He peeks through the hole and sees a man he’s never seen before, Old, ugly, and hairy. He scoffs. The hell do you want? He unlocks it, opening up and coming face to face with the man.

Mr. Sato regards Satoru with surprise and confusion, bushy brows furrowing. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head to try and get a look over his shoulder.

“She’s at work.” Satoru replies, on guard and a hint of firmness in his voice. “You need her?”

“Correct.”

“And who are you again?”

“The landlord.” Mr. Sato says, heavily huffing as he gazes back up at Satoru. His frown deepening when he feels his neck angle up. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Late.” Satoru simply mutters, arms crossing. “Gotta come back another time.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Sato gruffs. “I need to talk to her about the money now.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens at the mention of money, and a flicker of realization crosses his sharp features. He leans against the doorframe, casually intimidating, his sheer presence making the older man falter for a second. "Money?" Satoru repeats, his tone cool but laced with an edge. "What money are we talking about here?"

Mr. Sato straightens, trying to regain his composure despite the younger man's imposing demeanor. "Rent," he clarifies, his voice firm, though his eyes avoid Satoru's piercing gaze. "She’s late on payments. Again. I’ve already given her an extension, but this can’t keep happening. I gave her until Friday but something came up and I need it now.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture shifting. Late on payments? He processes the words, his mind jumping to the extra hours you’ve been working, the tired look in your eyes, the way Koji’s jacket was patched up with care but still clearly worn. The pieces click together uncomfortably.

"How much does she owe?" Satoru asks, his tone still calm, though the intensity in his eyes makes the landlord hesitate.

"That's between me and her," Mr. Sato replies gruffly, puffing out his chest as if to assert some authority in this lopsided interaction.

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening. "Well, she’s not here, so now it’s between me and you." There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the small space.

Mr. Sato shifts uncomfortably under Satoru’s gaze, his confidence wavering. “Four thousand,” he finally admits, his voice lower. “I told her I need it by Friday, but things changed. She said she’d have it.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he processes the number. Four thousand. A drop in the bucket for him, but for you? It might as well be a mountain.

“If she doesn’t have it, I’m gonna push forward with the eviction, I already have possible renters lined up with a more stable income.”

Eviction? And from a place this shitty? Satoru’s jaw clenches, eyes raking over the older man. “Well, she’s not here.”

“Then let me call her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his gaze as he steps fully into the doorway, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows the smaller man in front of him. The landlord, suddenly aware of the shift in the air, takes a half-step back. "You’re not calling her," Satoru says, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Sato frowns but falters slightly, the confidence in his stance wavering. "Look, this isn’t personal. It’s business. If she can’t pay by the deadline, I have no choice but to move forward. That’s how it works."

Satoru tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just a cold, calculated edge. "Business, huh? Funny thing about business—it’s always personal when it’s someone else’s life you’re messing with."

"She’s late. I’ve been lenient," Mr. Sato protests, though his voice is quieter now, almost defensive.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes, replaced by an icy glare that feels like a physical weight. "Lenient? Let me tell you something. You don’t come here throwing around eviction threats like you’re some kind of god deciding who stays and who goes. That’s not how this is going to play out."

Mr. Sato scoffs with a scowl, arms crossing. “Listen here, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are. I don’t give a damn about that. All I care about is having the money, right here,“ he holds his palm out. “Right now.”

Satoru chuckles lowly, but there’s no warmth in the sound—it’s laced with something menacing, something dangerous. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now burn with icy resolve as he steps closer, forcing Mr. Sato to look up at him again. "Who I think I am?" Satoru repeats, his voice soft but unnervingly steady, like the calm before a storm. "Let me make one thing clear—you don’t get to care about anything except what I tell you to care about. And right now, you’re going to care about backing the hell off." Mr. Sato’s scowl falters, his mouth opening to retort, but Satoru raises a hand, cutting him off before he can even start. "Because if you don’t," Satoru continues, his tone dropping lower, a subtle, menacing edge creeping in, "I’ll make sure you have a lot more to worry about than late rent. Understand?"

The landlord stiffens, visibly uncomfortable now, though he tries to hide it with a scoff. "You threatening me? That’s illegal, you know."

Satoru smirks again, but it’s colder this time, a predator toying with its prey. He leans in just enough that his towering presence feels suffocating, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Illegal? Oh, I know all about what’s illegal. But see, the thing is, I don’t need to do anything illegal to make your life a living hell. A call here, a visit there… You’d be surprised how quickly someone like you can lose everything they’re so desperate to cling to. You should really care about who you threaten, this is my son and his mother you’re talking about.”

The unspoken promise in his words hangs heavy in the air, and for the first time, Mr. Sato’s bluster cracks. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as though expecting someone to step in and save him. Satoru straightens, his piercing gaze never leaving the man. "Take the money," he says simply, pulling out wads of cash from his wallet—carelessly tossing them at him, "and don’t let me see you again. Ever."

For a moment, it looks like Mr. Sato might argue, but the weight of Satoru’s presence, the absolute certainty in his voice, crushes whatever resistance he might have left. With a grunt, he snatches the money, shoving it into his pocket. "This isn’t over," the landlord mutters, but his voice lacks conviction as he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of Satoru’s words. Satoru watches him go, the cold fury in his expression lingering even after the door clicks shut. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his body slowly unwinding.

Not over? Satoru smirks to himself, shaking his head. "Senile bastard doesn’t know what he’s saying.” He turns back toward the living room, his eyes softening slightly as they land on Koji, still sleeping soundly. The weight of his own actions sits heavily on him, but he pushes it aside. There are more important things to worry about—like making sure you and your son never have to deal with scum like that again. But also, finding some way to talk to you about this eviction.

Would you have ever told him? Would you have asked for help? Are you going to continue to keep secrets from him, even though they directly affect his son—affect you?

The sound of hurried footsteps, practically running footsteps, sounds throughout the long corridor. Ignoring and maneuvering out the way of the office employees who regard the person with confusion and annoyance. There’s a singular focus in their movement, a sense of urgency that prickles the air. The familiar, large doors of the office are in line of sight, to which the person rushes inside. The grand, imposing doors of the executive office burst open. Usually, he’d knock and wait, but not this time.

Inside, Yamato Gojo sits at the head of a polished, expansive table, his wife, Akane, poised elegantly at his side. Around them, a small group of sharp-suited businessmen turn toward the intrusion, their murmurs of surprise quickly silenced by Yamato’s cold, calculating glare.

The informant can barely get the words out, stumbling over. “M-Mr. Gojo! I have—there’s—I—!” Their face pale and slick with sweat. Words fail them at first, a garbled mess of syllables spilling out in their panic. Finally, they manage to force out, "M-Mr. Gojo! You need to see this!"

Yamato leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he motions for the informant to come closer, his long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The air in the room seems to thicken as the informant, trembling, hurries forward and hands over a tablet. Akane leans in as Yamato taps the screen, her expression calm and unreadable—at least, until her eyes land on the image.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the room like a gunshot as Akane’s wine glass slips from her hand, crimson liquid pooling across the pristine floor. Her gasp transforms into a piercing shriek that sends a chill through everyone present.

Because on the screen, displayed in haunting clarity, is an image that chills the air in the room: their son, unmistakably, embracing a younger version of himself—while your figure stands to the side.

a/n: uh ohhhh

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