#but shes the same in each one..... and that is comforting in some way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

masorciereviolette · 3 days ago

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Could I request an Agatha Harkness x Reader Fic? One where Agatha is Reader’s Mom’s best friend but Reader has a huge crush on Agatha. Reader is in her last year of college and has too much to drink one night and calls Agatha to tell her she has feelings for her. Agatha picks her up and takes her back to her house but tells her nothing can happen between them. However, some time later they do sleep together but Agatha tells reader it can’t happen again as she’s her mom’s best friend. Reader gets upset and avoids Agatha when she goes round her mom’s house. But Agatha realises she also has feelings for reader so they talk it out and decide to have a secret relationship. Maybe there could be a mommy kink in there 🙈 thank you in advance.

Confessions In The Dark

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Pining, Comfort, Legal Age Gap Relationships, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 16.3k

A/N: Thank you for this absolutely fucking phenomenal request. The older woman, forbidden relationship tropes are always a favorite of mine!!!!! I hope I did your request justice:))))))) if anyone would like to be added to my tag list please feel free to let me know!!!

Taglist: @harknessshi @atlasimagines

Masterlist Link

It starts with one too many drinks and a number you know, deep down, you shouldn’t have dialed. You’re slumped in the shadowed corner of a half-crowded bar not far from campus, the stale scent of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air.

The worn leather of the booth creaks beneath you as you fumble with your phone, your fingers clumsy, your vision a little too blurry. You stare at her name—Agatha—glowing back at you like some forbidden temptation. You shouldn’t call her , you know you shouldn’t.

It’s reckless.

It’s selfish.

It’s dangerous.

But she’s always been your comfort zone. Your mom’s best friend—the one who used to sneak you extra food at parties when you were a kid, the one who looked at you like you were seen when no one else seemed to bother. The woman who, at some point over the years, shifted in your mind from safe to utterly, devastatingly irresistible. And tonight, when your heart feels too heavy and your body too weightless from bad decisions, something inside you just—snaps.

You press the call button without giving yourself another second to think. The phone rings twice. Each second drags too long and not long enough. You almost hang up, panic flaring, when her voice comes through—low, tired, edged with sleep, but still that same velvety rasp that always makes your stomach flutter “Hello?”

Your breath leaves you in a shuddery rush “Aggie—” you slurred , her name falling from your lips far louder than you intended. You wince, glancing around at the other patrons, but no one’s paying you much mind.

“Hi,” you continue, blinking hard, struggling to corral your swirling thoughts into anything coherent. “I just—listen. I’m drunk. Like… bad. And I shouldn’t be calling you, but I did, and—I think you should come get me.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

A long one. You can almost feel the wheels turning in her head, the tension humming through the phone line. She’s weighing a hundred things you can’t see. When she finally speaks again, her voice has shifted—no longer groggy, no longer casual. It’s sharp. Focused. Worried “…Where are you?” she asks, tight but calm.

You glance blearily at the neon-smeared window beside you, trying to focus on the bar’s name painted in backwards cursive. You mangle it the first time you try to say it, dissolving into a breathy, embarrassed giggle before correcting yourself.

She sighs on the other end, soft and almost fond in a way that makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs “Don’t leave,” she says. “I’m coming.”

You clutch the phone a little tighter, pressing it against your cheek like it could somehow hold you together “okay—,” you whisper.

And even as you end the call, letting the screen go black, your hands still tremble—not from the alcohol. But from what you just did. By the time she pulls up in her sleek black car, headlights cutting through the misty spring night, you’re already outside the bar, teetering slightly on the curb.

The pavement feels uneven beneath your shoes, and the damp chill in the air is just sharp enough to start dragging some of the drunken fog from your mind. When the driver’s side door clicks open and Agatha steps out, you blink up at her, heart thudding stupidly against your ribs.

She’s still in what must have been her evening clothes—dark jeans, black boots, a fitted jacket—but her hair is slightly mussed, and there’s a sharpness to her movements. Like she dressed fast. Like she came for you without hesitation. You see it immediately—the look on her face when her eyes land on you. Exasperation, yes. A familiar thread of it. But layered thickly with something else. Concern most likely.

She exhales through her nose as she strides over, slipping her coat from her shoulders in one smooth motion. Without a word, she swings it around you, tugging it snug across your frame before her hand finds the small of your back “You shouldn’t be calling me when you’re like this,” she mutters, steering you gently toward the car, her voice low and tight.

You catch the way her fingers linger at your side, more careful than irritated “You could’ve called your mom,” she adds, unlocking the passenger door.

You slump into the seat with a graceless thud, the coat swallowing you whole. The interior smells like leather and the faint trace of her perfume—amber and something sharp underneath. Comforting. Dangerous.

You turn your head to the window, forehead bumping the cool glass, and mumble without thinking “Didn’t want Mom.” Your eyes flutter shut for a second before you add, softer but no less true “I want you.”

She’s halfway around the car when you say it. You hear the stumble in her steps. When she slides behind the wheel, she’s stiff, too controlled. Her hands grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her steady “You don’t mean that,” she says carefully, finally starting the engine.

But you catch the way her voice wavers at the end, the crack she can’t quite hide. You lift your head enough to glance sideways at her, your vision swimming just slightly. Your body feels heavy, pliant, but your heart is a live wire inside you “I do,” you whisper, blinking slowly. “I’ve wanted you forever.”

The words hang between you—thick, electric. Agatha doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at you. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes stay locked on the road. The drive to her house is silent except for the low popping of the tires against the wet pavement, the occasional sigh from the heater.

You don’t remember much of how you get inside. You just remember her arm tight around your waist, steadying you as you stumble up the steps. The warmth of her hand between your shoulder blades as she guided you inside. The familiar creak of her front door swinging shut.

The guest room—your room—feels exactly the same as always. Safe. Familiar. Infinitely more dangerous now. She disappears briefly down the hall and returns with a pair of soft pajamas “Bathroom’s the second door on the left,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes.

You nod clumsily, managing to shuffle away, the pajamas clutched to your chest. She waits in the hallway as you change, giving you privacy but hovering close enough that you feel her presence like gravity. When you emerge—cleaner but still woozy—she just smiles tight and leads you back to the bed, pulling back the covers for you.

You collapse into them without protest, sinking into the familiar, worn sheets. It’s only when you’re curled up beneath the quilt, your cheek pressed to the pillow, that you notice her still standing there.

She lingers at the side of the mattress, her hand gripping the bedpost so tightly you’re amazed it doesn’t splinter. You blink up at her, vision swimming, throat raw with the words you barely have the strength to say.

“This can’t happen sweetheart….I- I’m sorry” Agatha says softly, it sounds like she’s ripping the words from her own heart. “You’re drunk. And you’re—” She falters, her jaw clicking “It’s not okay,” she finishes, voice breaking.

You watch her through heavy, hurting eyes “Is that the only reason?” you whisper, your words slurring, your consciousness slipping fast. Agatha’s mouth opens—but no sound comes out. You don’t hear an answer.

Sleep drags you under like a tide, pulling you into the dark. But if you’d stayed awake just a moment longer, you might have seen it The way Agatha’s hand twitched toward you— Then froze. The way her whole body leaned forward, like she was about to fall to her knees beside you.

The way her mouth formed your name on a breathless exhale she didn’t have the right to speak. And the way she finally tore herself away from the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving you alone in the bed… because if she stayed another second, she would’ve given in. And she knows once she has you—She’ll never be able to let you go.

It’s been almost two days since that night. Two days since you embarrassed yourself. Two days since you cracked your heart open and exposed the messy, desperate feelings you’d tried so hard to bury.

You woke up before dawn, the room still cloaked in a soft gray darkness. Your head was pounding, your mouth dry, but it wasn’t the hangover that made you want to sink into the mattress and disappear. It was her. The memory of falling into her arms. The ache of the things you said.

The unbearable kindness in the way she tucked you into bed instead of pushing you away. You slipped out of her house as quietly as you could, barely breathing as you eased the door shut behind you. You couldn’t face her.

Not then. You should’ve just left the pajamas on her porch. Dropped them like an apology you didn’t have the courage to say. But something in you—something stubborn and wounded and aching—needed to see her. Needed to really know. So here you are, standing on her front step, the weight of the folded clothes like a stone in your arms.

When the door finally swings open, it feels like the air is sucked from your lungs. Agatha stands there, framed by the soft light spilling from inside, and she looks—wrecked. There’s no polished mask today.

No carefully curated smile. Just raw exhaustion stamped into every line of her beautiful face. Her hair is pulled back hastily, loose strands falling into her tired eyes. She’s wearing a soft sweater that hangs off one shoulder, rumpled like she’s been dragging herself through the hours without really noticing.

Her gaze sweeps over you—sharp, conflicted, hungry. You swallow hard and force a sheepish smile, holding out the bundle of clothes between you like a peace offering “Thought I should return these,” you say, your voice soft, almost apologetic.

For a beat, she doesn’t move. Then her hand reaches out, slow and tentative, fingertips brushing against yours as she takes the pajamas from you. The touch is feather-light, barely anything at all. But that all it takes to shatter the fragile thread of restraint between you like a snapped cable.

You barely register the soft thud of the clothes hitting the floor before she’s pulling you inside, her hands fisting in your jacket, slamming the door shut behind you with a shaky breath. Your back hits the wall and then—then—her mouth is on yours.

There’s nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It’s brutal, needy, a crash of teeth and lips and desperate hands. She kisses you like she’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world. You moaned into her mouth, your fingers scrambling for purchase in her sweater as her body presses flush against yours.

She tastes like desperation. Like regret. Like everything you’ve ever wanted but were too afraid to ask for. Her hands roam your body with a feverish intensity—tugging, squeezing, memorizing. She touches you like she knows she shouldn’t. Like every second of it is killing her and saving her all at once.

Heat floods you, dizzying and wild, the kind you’ve only ever dreamed about in the quietest corners of your mind. You barely remember how you make it to her bedroom. Clothes trailing behind you like discarded promises, your hands frantic and greedy as you pull her down to the bed with you “Fuck please—“

Agatha's eyes darken with a hunger you've never seen before as she propped herself up above you, taking in your naked form laid out beneath her like an offering. She licks her lips, a slow, deliberate motion that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

"Please what, baby?" Agatha purrs, her voice a low, seductive rasp. "Gotta tell me what you need, sweetheart. Tell me how to make this feel good for you..."

Her hand trails up your thigh, fingers dancing along your skin with a feather-light touch that has you arching into her, craving more. She leans down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collar bone stopping at your chest taking a nipple into her mouth, rolling the bud between her lips.

"Is this what you need, baby girl?" Agatha murmurs against your skin, her breath teasing, tormenting, making your core throb with anticipation. She nips at your nipple, not hard enough to mark, but enough to make you gasp, to feel the sharp sting morph into a dark thrill of knowing she wants you, desires you with a savage intensity.

"Or do you want my fingers baby?" Agatha continues, proving her words by trailing a finger down your stomach, pushing teasingly along your folds, not dipping inside, but tracing your slit like a map, committing every inch to memory.

"Want me to fuck this pretty pussy until you can't remember your own fuckin' name, sweetheart?" Agatha growls in between nips to your skin, the crude words falling from her lips like salvation, each syllable one step closer to the edge of the abyss. Your back arched in pleasure at her assault of your chest, each bite sending a bolt of lightning through your spine. your fingers slipped up into her hair tugging softly. Hips rocking forward, chasing her teasing strokes just shy of where you wanted her most “please mommy I want you—“

Agatha grins wickedly at your breathless plea, the desperation in your voice igniting a feral hunger within her. She can feel your body trembling with need as you arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her hair, silently begging her for more "Listen to you, baby girl," Agatha purrs, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Begging so sweetly for mommy's touch..."

She rewards your plea by abruptly thrusting two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, burying them to the knuckle. Your slick walls clench greedily around the sudden intrusion, trying to suck her in deeper "Fuck, you're absolutely soaked," Agatha groans, pumping her fingers slowly, teasingly, watching your face for every reaction. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you sweetheart?"

Her thumb finds your swollen clit, circling it with a maddeningly slow rhythm, applying just the right amount of pressure to have you seeing stars. The stimulation makes you clench tighter around her fingers, aching for more.

"Want me to make this sweet cunt all mine?" Agatha growls, punctuating her words with a particularly hard thrust of her fingers, curling them just right against that spongey spot that makes your toes curl "You gotta show me, sweetheart..." she demands, scissoring her fingers inside you, stretching your walls exquisitely. "Show mommy exactly just how you need it..."

Agatha's other hand skims up your side, cupping the soft swell of your breast. She squeezes, kneading the tender flesh as her fingers plunge harder, faster, fucking into your desperate sex with a renewed vigor "Louder, baby..." she coaxes, thumb flicking quickly over your clit, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Let me hear those pretty moans, please"

Your curled your fingers deeper into her hair, a pathetic mewl clawing up the back of your throat. Agatha hissed in pleasure as your nails sunk into her scalp, your hips bucking wildly against her hand as you chase your pleasure. She can feel your slick walls clenching rhythmically around her fingers, your body trembling on the edge of ecstasy.

"Fuck yes, just like that sweetheart. Take what you need from mommy's fingers," Agatha growls, pistoning them harder, faster, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Ride them baby, paint my fingers with your fuckin' cum..."

She leans down and captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your shameless moans and whimpers as her free hand roams greedily over your curves. Agatha pinches and rolls your nipple between her fingers, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

Breaking the kiss, Agatha trails her lips down the column of your throat, biting and sucking as she goes. She's determined to mark you here as well, to claim every inch of your skin as her own as her fingers plunge mercilessly into your dripping heat "C'mon baby. Wanna feel you," Agatha demands, twisting her fingers inside you, rubbing your g-spot dead-on. "Let go, sweetheart"

“Fuck mommy—" you keened desperately, the words ripped from the depths of your lungs as your body seizes with pleasure. Your cries only spur Agatha on, spurring her fingers to plunge even harder, even deeper. Your cunt grips them like a vice as your climax crashes through you, wave after wave of electric bliss radiating from where you two are joined.

"Fuck just look at you—dripping all over me." Agatha snarls in unbridled lust as your release gushes out around her pumping fingers, soaking her hand. She punctuates each word with a savage thrust, drawing out your high until you're utterly spent and shaking. Finally she pulls her fingers from your fluttering channel.

You’re both lying there tangled in sweaty sheets, your heartbeat thundering against hers—you think, for a moment, she might finally stay. Might finally stop pretending. Might finally stop running from this.

The room is thick with the scent of skin and salt and something far too deep to name. Your bodies are still touching, limbs tangled loosely, breaths slowly evening out.

Agatha rolled to lie beside you, now utterly still. Her chest rises and falls steadily, but her eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling as if she can’t quite believe what she’s just done. As if the weight of it is crashing down on her all at once.

You shift slightly, reaching for her without thinking—but her body tenses at the movement, a subtle flinch so quick you almost miss it. She drags in a shaky breath. And then, like something in her breaks wide open, she moves.

She peels herself farther away from you with a gentleness that somehow hurts more than cruelty ever could. Her bare skin brushes yours as she sits up slowly on the edge of the bed, her back to you.

Her shoulders are stiff, her spine rigid—every line of her body radiating guilt, conflict, regret. You watch, helpless, as she buries her face in her hands, her fingers threading into her hair like she’s trying to disappear and you know. You know what’s coming before she even says it “This shouldn’t have happened—,” she says, her voice hoarse, broken.

“What?” you croak, even though you heard her perfectly. She scrubs her hands over her face like she can wipe the moment away.

“I shouldn’t have done that, fuck—” she says bitterly, the self-loathing clear in every syllable. “I’m supposed to protect you, not—” She cuts herself off with a frustrated growl, shaking her head like she can’t even say the rest aloud “This was a mistake.”

You sit there, frozen, the weight of her words pinning you in place. The ache in your chest flares sharp and ugly. You don’t argue. You don’t beg. You just gather your clothes in silence, hands shaking slightly as you dress. Ignoring the way her shoulders tense when you turn away.

Ignoring the way your heart feels like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces. You walk out of her house without another word, leaving her there—In a room that still smells like you. In a bed that still remembers us. And the worst part is? You already know.

You’ll never stop wanting her. Even if she keeps breaking your heart one shattered goodbye at a time. The door clicks shut behind you. And for a long moment, Agatha just sits there. Frozen. Numb, just listening to the hollow echo of your absence rattle through the house.

The scent of you still lingers in the air—sweet, familiar, devastating. It clings to the sheets twisted around her waist, to the pillow where your head had rested, to her own skin where your hands had touched her like she was something precious.

Slowly, she leans forward, her elbows digging into her thighs, her hands burying into her hair with a quiet, shuddering breath. She can feel it—all of it—settling heavy in her chest like a second heartbeat. The want. The guilt. The bone-deep ache of something she’s tried for so long to pretend wasn’t there.

Agatha squeezes her eyes shut. But it’s too late. The imprint of you is everywhere. She presses her palms against her face, her body trembling under the weight of it, and lets herself break—silent, small, unseen. No sobs. No dramatic collapse. Just the quiet, relentless pain of a woman who let herself taste happiness for a moment—only to shove it away with bloody hands.

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, anchored to the edge of the bed where your warmth is already fading. All she knows is she’s never hated herself more. And she’s never wanted you more.

The following weeks after—what was possibly the best and utterly worst afternoon of your life—are a special kind of torture. You avoided her Completely. At first, it’s easy enough. You’re buried under the weight of finals, endless papers, and late nights spent hunched over textbooks, your brain numb from exhaustion. It’s a ready-made excuse, one no one questions. Not even your mom. But the truth is darker, heavier. You’re hiding.

Because facing Agatha now—facing what you did, what you almost had—feels unbearable. You slip into a rhythm of evasion. You skip family dinners with vague apologies about needing to study. You dodge casual invites and gatherings with muttered excuses and sudden headaches. You stop lingering in places where you know she might be. You stop asking if she’ll be there. You stop saying her name.

You carve her out of your life like she’s a wound you’re trying to stitch closed—but every movement aches. Your mom notices the change before you realize you’re being obvious. The way your shoulders tense when her name comes up. The way you offer tight, hollow smiles instead of real ones. The way your patience shrinks, your presence in the house becoming something thin and ghostlike.

She doesn’t press—not yet—but you see the worry etched deeper into her eyes every time you brush her off and retreat to the isolation of your room. When you do see Agatha—on accident, through cruel twists of timing—you pretend you’re fine.

You school your face into something blank and pleasant. You speak to her like you’re making polite conversation with a stranger in a checkout line. Nothing more. You don’t let your gaze linger on the way her fingers twitch at her sides. You don’t acknowledge the way her jaw tightens when your eyes slide right past her.

You don’t dare notice the sadness leaking from the edges of her carefully composed smile. Every meeting becomes an exercise in survival. Smile. Nod. Look away. Smile. Nod. Look away. You have to, if you stop pretending, even for a second, you’ll crack wide open. And Agatha—She sees it.

Every calculated glance you avoid. Every breath you hold when you pass her in the hallway. Every word you don’t say. She sees it all. And she feels it like a blade twisting in her gut but she says nothing. Not yet, But it kills her.

One night, it all comes crashing down. You barely have time to brace yourself. You’re in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, helping your mom prep dessert for what’s supposed to be a “small family dinner.”

You’re distracted, half-listening, until she mentions it too casually “Agatha’s coming too. She just got promoted! Can you believe it? I thought we could celebrate her with a nice homemade dinner.”

You freeze where you stand, the bowl of batter wobbling slightly in your hands. Before you can protest—before you can find an excuse to vanish—your mom turns and flashes you that look. The one that means no arguments “She’ll be so happy you’re here. So you’re coming.”

And just like that, you’re trapped. Now you stand in the kitchen, helping lay out plates and folding napkins with mechanical movements as the evening drags on. You haven’t even looked at Agatha once. Not properly. You feel her though.

Her presence presses at the edge of your awareness like a tide you can’t hold back. Every brush of her voice in the room. Every shift of her body when she thinks you’re not watching. It’s unbearable. And worse, it still hurts.

It throbs dully under your ribs with every laugh your mom shares, every glass clink, every casual conversation you’re expected to smile through. Then your mom suddenly claps her hands and chirps, “Shoot—I forgot the wine!”

You glanced up sharply “I’ll be right back,” she says brightly, already grabbing her keys. And before you can even suggest going yourself, she’s looking back over her shoulder key in hand “Y/N, keep Agatha company for me, will you? I won’t be long!”

The door swings shut. Silence falls over the kitchen. The weight of it is suffocating. You lower your head, pretending to fuss with the dessert, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You hear the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

You can feel her getting closer. The air shifts. Charged. Electric. Unforgiving. Then— “Why are you avoiding me?” Her voice is quiet. Low. But it cuts through you like a blade. You stiffen. For a second, you consider ignoring her. Pretending you didn’t hear. But something inside you is too tired to keep pretending anymore.

You turn.

Slowly.

Meeting her gaze for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. “Why do you think?” you ask, your voice rough and breaking around the edges. The hurt is written all over your face. You know it. You don’t even try to hide it, she didn’t deserve the curtesy.

Agatha flinches, just barely—but enough. She starts toward you, her movements cautious, deliberate. You stand abandoning your dessert on the table, taking an instinctive step back—But the wall behind you limited your space. You’ve got nowhere to go now.

“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice cracking a little around the edges now too. “Don’t push me away.” You laugh bitterly, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.

“You told me i was a mistake,” you breathe. Your hands fist at your sides “You said you didn’t want me. And I—I believed you.”

Agatha closes her eyes like the words physically hurt her. She presses her palms flat against the wall on either side of you, not trapping you—but steadying herself. She leans in just enough that you can feel the warmth of her body, the trembling in her breath.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” she says, her voice raw. “I thought it would protect you. Protect us. But it didn’t.” She swallows hard, and you see it—the regret carved into every line of her face “It felt like I was lying to both of us,” she finishes, her voice so soft you almost miss it.

You stare at her, your chest burning, every inch of you aching “So now what then?” you whisper.

Agatha’s eyes flicker—relief, sadness, longing—so many things crashing into each other at once. She leans closer, bracing her palms completely against the wall behind you. Not trapping. Just there. A barrier between herself and the urge to shatter all the rules again.

Her body cages yours in—but her voice is the softest thing you’ve ever heard when she finally speaks “Now we stop pretending this isn’t real,” she breathes. “I want you. I care about you. Im tired of pretending that I don’t.”

Her words sink into you like sunlight on frozen skin. Your heart slams against your ribs, aching so sharply you almost gasp. You breathe her name, a broken prayer “Aggie…” And she moves.

She kisses you—not with hunger. Not with desperation. But with something truer. Like it’s the only truth she knows anymore. Like she’s sorry for every second she made you doubt it. It’s meant to be a kiss. Just one. But the second Agatha’s mouth finds yours again, it’s over.

The tension between you doesn’t just crack—it shatters, spilling into every desperate movement, every hungry breath. Her fingers tangle in your shirt like she can’t bear to let you go again.

Your hands slide up her sides, pulling her closer, closer, until her body is flush against yours “I missed you—” you whisper between kisses, the words raw and broken against her lips.

Agatha groans quietly, her forehead falling against yours. “Fuck—don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you ask, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You started this.” She doesn’t answer. Instead, she kisses you harder, like it’s a confession. Her hands dip under your shirt, trailing warmth over your skin. The air feels charged, like it’s about to combust—and maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

Because for all her rules and restraint, she wants this. Wants you. You let her push you back , gasping when her mouth finds that sensitive spot beneath your jaw. Your fingers dive into her dark hair, tugging lightly, and that earns you a low, dizzying sound from deep in her throat “We can’t do this here,” she mutters, but she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop—,” you breathe, tilting your head back to give her more. She groans, frustrated, and kisses you again—slower this time. More deliberate. Her tongue slips past your lips, and your knees nearly give out.

You barely hear the gravel crunching outside. Barely see the familiar glow of headlights through the front window—until Agatha stiffens, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale. Your head whips toward the window. Shit. Your mom’s car pulls into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the kitchen like a spotlight on two criminals caught red-handed.

Agatha stumbles back like she’s been burned, hair mussed and lips swollen, breathing hard “Okay—okay,” she says, more to herself than you. “This is fine. I can fix this.”

You blink at her, still breathless. “Fix what? We didn’t—”

“You’re flushed, your shirt’s wrinkled, and I look like I just rolled out of your bed,” she hisses, smoothing her blouse with shaky hands. You look down. Yep. Your shirt’s halfway untucked, your mouth still tingles from her kiss, and you’re 100% not emotionally ready to see your mom right now. Her lipstick is smudged telling you the evidence was most likely adorning your face as well.

“Go sit at the table,” Agatha orders, voice tight but composed. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened.”You nod wiping the back of your hand across your mouth wiping away any remaining proof, heart racing, you stumbled toward your chair just as the front door opens and your mom calls out cheerily, “I’m back!”

Agatha’s already plating dessert, her back turned to the door, somehow radiating the picture of calm. You’re not sure how she does it. But as your mom walks into the dining room and says, “You two behave while I was gone?”—Agatha doesn’t even flinch.

You swallow and nod. “Totally.” Agatha hands your mom her plate. Then, with a perfectly practiced smile, she meets your gaze and in that look—quiet, smoldering, unspoken—you know this is far from over.

Later that night, after dessert and wine and what should’ve been a perfectly innocent conversation that had you squirming in your seat, your mom finally leans back with a satisfied sigh.

The kitchen is warm, the soft clink of dishes being cleared mixing with the faint hum of music playing from the living room. Everything feels easy, relaxed. At least, it should. You can barely focus on your glass of wine, not with the way you can feel Agatha’s gaze brush against you every few minutes — casual, careful, but enough to turn your skin electric under your clothes.

Every laugh from her lips, every subtle glance in your direction, coils tighter in your stomach until you’re dizzy from pretending not to notice. You’re almost relieved when your mom claps her hands together and says brightly “Sweetheart, would you mind helping Agatha carry a few boxes over to her place before you head to bed? Just some books I’m giving her. They’re on the hall table.”

You pause, blinking as the words register. Your gaze flickers instinctively toward Agatha. She sits back in her chair, utterly calm, swirling her wine lazily in the glass.

Her expression is the picture of innocence — if innocence looked just the slightest bit smug. Suspiciously unbothered. Your stomach twists “Uh… yeah,” you say, forcing your voice to sound casual. “Sure.”

Your mom smiles, already pushing up from her chair “Thanks, honey. I’m gonna go get ready for bed,” she calls lightly as she disappears down the hall. She pauses just long enough to add, teasingly, “But if you end up staying awake a little longer when you come home, just be quite okay? I could hear your music playing last night.”

You swallow hard. From the corner of your eye, you catch it—the subtle curve of Agatha’s mouth as she hides a smirk behind the rim of her wine glass. You narrow your eyes slightly at her. You don’t trust it for a second.

Your heart beats faster as you gather the dishes, your mind already racing ahead even though you don’t dare admit to yourself what you’re hoping for. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Agatha Harkness—It’s that she never plays fair.

Especially when it comes to you. The walk to her house is short. Too short. Each step feels weighted, heavy with everything left unsaid between you. You each carry a box—something light, unimportant—but it feels like you’re hauling the entire weight of the last few hours in your arms.

The night air is crisp, a gentle breeze lifting the edge of Agatha’s jacket, stirring your hair. It should cool you. It doesn’t. Your body’s still humming. Still thrumming with the memory of her hands brushing against you earlier.

Of her voice dropping low and wicked during dinner, making your heart stutter. Of her mouth—God, her mouth—haunting every single breath you take. Neither of you speaks. The silence stretches taut between you, straining with every step closer to her door, until it feels like a single word might snap it wide open.

When she finally unlocks the door and swings it open, the tension follows you inside, thickening the air. The familiar scent of her home wraps around you—clean linen, aged wood, something darker and headier that you recognize immediately as her.

She steps in first, setting her box down with an exaggerated stretch, arms reaching up lazily as if this is just another ordinary night. It’s not. You watch the way the hem of her sweater rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above her waistband. Your hands itch. Your mouth goes dry.

She turns back to you with an easy shrug “Put yours down anywhere,” she says lightly, almost teasing. You do—more by instinct than conscious decision—but your eyes never leave her. Not for a second.

The moment your box touches the table, you straighten and square your shoulders, something reckless burning low in your stomach “So,” you say, your voice rougher, lower than it had been minutes ago “Are you gonna act like earlier didn’t happen this time?”

The words hover between you—bold, daring. Agatha’s brow lifts in an elegant arch, the corner of her mouth twitching into something wicked. Slowly, she starts to step toward you, hips swaying just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Which part?” she murmurs, her voice a velvet drag over your skin “The part where you kissed me like you’d die if I stopped you…” she teased softly taking another step closer. “Or the part where headlights saved us both from making a terrible decision right there on the dining table?”

The memory flashes hot behind your eyes—her body pinning yours against the counter, her hands wandering, her mouth bruising yours like she owned you. You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. She stops just in front of you, arms folding slowly across her chest, head tilting as if daring you to deny it.

You meet her gaze, the words scraping your throat raw as you force them out “It wasn’t a terrible decision.” Your voice is steady. But your whole body is trembling. Agatha smiles then—slow and dangerous, like a fuse sparking to life. And before you can think, before you can second-guess, she closes the last inch of space between you and kisses you. This time, there’s no hesitation. No cautious pause. No careful pulling away. Only heat.

Only hunger. Only her. Her hands find your waist first—firm, greedy, trembling just enough to betray how long she’s been holding herself back. She drags you into her body, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips that she swallows hungrily as your mouth opens beneath hers, soft and desperate. You melt into her without thinking.

Without fear. Like you’ve always been hers, and every second spent apart was a mistake you’re finally correcting. Agatha pulls you even closer, her hands sliding around to your back, splaying across your spine possessively. Her mouth never leaves yours—not even for breath. She devours you slowly, deliberately, savoring you like she’s trying to memorize the taste.

And when you slide your hands under the hem of her sweater, your fingers skimming the burning-hot skin of her waist, she makes a sound— a low, wrecked noise in the back of her throat—that almost undoes you completely.

It’s raw.

Unrestrained.

Hungry.

She breaks the kiss only barely, her forehead resting against yours, her breath coming in fast, shallow bursts “I said this couldn’t happen again…” she pants against your mouth, her voice shaking, her fingers flexing at your waist like she’s already well and lost that battle with herself.

“You lied…” you breathe, your nose brushing hers.

A bitter, broken laugh escapes her lips “I did.”

You don’t hesitate—you tug her closer again, your grip fierce, your nails catching lightly in the fabric of her clothes. You need her pressed against you, you need her everywhere “What now?” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

Agatha runs the tip of her nose along the line of your jaw, her mouth ghosting over your skin in a way that makes your whole body tremble. Her breath is hot and uneven, her chest heaving against yours.

“Now,” she murmurs, rough and ragged, “I remind myself what I’ve been trying to forget every night since I touched you.” Her words shatter something inside you. You barely register the way she laces her fingers with yours before she’s moving—guiding you, pulling you with her like a force of nature. Dragging you to her bedroom like she owns you. Like she always has.

Clothes fall away in a reckless trail behind you, careless and frantic—pieces of armor discarded in favor of something real. The door closes with a soft click that feels final. Inevitable. The moment is urgent—yes—your hearts beating loud and wild in your chests. But it isn’t rushed.

It’s slow.

It’s deeper.

Every kiss feels deliberate, each press of her mouth against your skin heavier than the last, like she’s trying to brand you into her memory. Every soft gasp and whimper you make is gathered up in her hands and tucked into the hollow of her chest like a secret she can’t let go of. When she touches you now—

it’s not reckless or proving. It’s reverent almost careful. Her fingers tremble against your hips, her palms smoothing down your thighs as if mapping every inch of you to memory. She touches you like you’re fragile. Like you’re precious. And every time she pulls you closer, every time she lets her mouth trail fire down your neck, it feels like she’s trying to say all the things she’s too scared to speak aloud.

You feel everything. Every shake in her breath. Every tremor in her hands. Every heartbeat slamming against yours. And when she finally whispers your name—quiet, reverent, devastated—like it’s sacred, like it’s hers, you forget the world entirely. There’s only her. There’s only this.

And you never want it to end. After, when you’re tangled together in her bed spent but satisfied, the room dim except for the faint golden glow of the bedside lamp. The sheets are a mess, twisted around your legs, the air still heavy with the scent of skin and sweat and something deeper—something dangerously close to love.

You lie there, blinking slowly up at the ceiling, your body still buzzing from her touch, your heart pounding a beat you don’t want to analyze too closely.

Her bare legs are intertwined with yours beneath the covers, warm and firm against your skin. One of her hands rests on your stomach, fingers splayed wide, grounding you there with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

She strokes absentminded patterns over your ribs with her thumb, lazy and slow, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Like she can’t not touch you. You think she might say something this time.

You can feel the words perched on the edge of the moment, heavy and trembling between you. Something about your mom. About how wrong this is. About how much she regrets letting this happen.

You brace yourself for it. You wait. But she doesn’t. The silence stretches on, thick and strange but not uncomfortable. Not painful. It’s just—there. Instead of words, there’s only the steady sound of her breathing. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against your side.

For once, she lets the moment stay. No running. No apologies. No breaking the fragile peace with things you’re not ready to hear. You stay there longer than you should, letting yourself memorize the feeling of her—her weight, her scent, the way her body curls slightly toward yours even in sleepiness, as if drawn to you by gravity itself. But you don’t stay the night. You can’t.

You know the risks. You know how reckless it would be. And if you don’t go now, you might never want to leave. So eventually, reluctantly, you slide out from beneath the covers, careful not to wake her fully.

You pull your shirt back on in the low light, the soft cotton catching awkwardly against your flushed, still-sensitive skin. You cross the room quietly, reaching for the door handle, heart clenching with every step away from her. And then—“Hey.” Her voice is soft, scratchy with exhaustion, but it stops you like a hand closing around your wrist. You turn, heart in your throat.

Agatha’s sitting up now, the sheet slipping down to her waist, baring the smooth expanse of her shoulders and collarbone. Her hair is a tousled mess, wild and beautiful, her cheeks still flushed with leftover heat. She looks unfairly beautiful like this. Raw. Unmade. A little unguarded, like she forgot for once to build her walls back up.

Her eyes find yours across the darkened room. “Be careful,” she says quietly, voice fragile around the edges “Someone might notice if you keep looking at me like that.”

Your throat tightens. You manage a small, wry smile, even though your chest feels like it might break open “Then stop looking at me like you want me just as bad,” you murmur back. Agatha doesn’t respond.

She just stares at you—long and slow and full of something you’re too scared to name. Something she’s too scared to say. She doesn’t stop looking at you. Not even as you slip through the door and into the night, carrying the ghost of her touch on your skin and the weight of her silence in your heart.

The Easter barbecue is your mom’s favorite kind of event—an excuse to decorate the entire house in pastels, make too much food, and gather everyone she loves under one roof. Family, old friends, your college buddies… and Agatha.

Of course, Agatha. She arrives a little late—draped in a soft lavender blouse tucked into high-waisted black slacks, sunglasses pushed into her waves, mouth painted a criminally tempting shade of plum. You nearly drop the deviled eggs when you see her “Don’t stare,” your neighbor teases, nudging you with her elbow. “She’s always been that hot.” You choke “What? I’m not blind.”

You laugh, but your face is burning—and it only gets worse when you check your phone and see a text waiting for you, Agatha: The violet you’re wearing is very pretty color. Very wholesome. A shame what lies under it isn’t.

You suck in a breath. You reply, half-defiant, You: Bold of you to say that when you’re the one who couldn’t keep her hands off me.

Her answer comes seconds later, Agatha: True. I could make it worse? Tell everyone here how our hosts precious daughter, moans my name like a filthy prayer.

You nearly fumble your drink. The next hour is pure torture. Agatha’s across the yard, sipping a lemonade and chatting casually with your mom’s coworkers like she hasn’t been whispering filth into your phone for days.

She’s teasing, calculated, throwing you little glances over the rim of her glass that make your stomach flip and your thighs clench. Your phone buzzes again while you’re helping serve food Agatha: Come say hi, sweetheart. Or are you worried I’ll behave badly?

You reply through gritted teeth You: If you keep this up I’m not gonna be able to restrain myself much longer

Agatha: Promise? You snapped. Not with anger—but with a plan. You wait until she’s leaning against the back patio door, her empty bottle in hand, half-listening to one of your cousins. Then, with innocent precision, you walk up beside her—offering her a new beer.

She smiles eyebrow raised suspiciously “How sweet—” And that’s when you “trip.” The drink slips forward, splashing cold and golden across her blouse and all down her chest. Gasps. A few laughs. A chorus of “Oh no!” from the group nearby. Agatha freezes. You gasp and lunge forward with a napkin, patting her front with theatrical guilt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Let me help—I’ll grab you a towel.”

You grab her arm and guiding her inside before she can say a word. The second the bathroom door shuts behind you, everything shifts. She locks it “Accident, huh?” she says, voice low, amused, blouse clinging to her curves. You press her back against the door, your hand already sliding up her soaked shirt popping open each button at a time. “You’ve been torturing me all week,” you growl. “I warned you what would happen.”

Agatha smirks, eyes dark. “I was counting on it.” You kiss her hard, hungrily, your body flushed with adrenaline. Her hands are under your shirt instantly, nails dragging down your back as you grind against her with a soft whimper “Someone’s going to notice,” she breathes.

“Then shut up and be quiet,” you whispered kissing her again. Your hands slipped down around her waist unzipping her pants. You shoved them down around her hips, fingers slipping further, pressing against her soaked panties.

Agatha groans lowly as your fingers press against her, feeling the damp fabric cling to her aching sex. "Fuck, sweetheart, you've got mommy so fucking wet," she whispers breathlessly against your lips, rocking her hips to grind herself against your hand. "I've been thinking about this all fucking day, about bending you over that counter and fucking that pretty cunt until you scream my name—"

To emphasize her point, Agatha hikes your top up further, her hands splaying across your bare back, nails raking down possessively. You hissed softly nipping at her jaw teasingly “feeling territorial mommy?” You hummed trailing a line of kisses down her neck, across her collar bone and down her torso. You softly dropped down to your knees, curling your fingers into the waistband of her pants and panties.

You guided them, swiftly down her legs, lifting each leg up individually to remove them from under her. Tossing them aside you gripped one of her calves tightly, resting her leg over your shoulder before borrowing your face between her thighs. Agatha inhales sharply, the cool air hitting her dripping sex making her shiver with anticipation. She tangles her fingers in your hair as you guide her leg over your shoulder, opening her up completely to your hungry gaze.

"Fuck, baby, look at you," Agatha breathes, voice thick with desire. "On your fuckin' knees for me already, so eager for a taste..." She rocks her hips forward, painting her slick arousal across your parted lips, a filthy tease. "Go on then, sweetheart. Memorize just how wet mommy is for this greedy little mouth of yours."

Agatha tangles her fingers tighter in your hair, guiding your face closer to her aching cunt. Your nose brushes against her clit, and she can't help but gasp at the contact, hips bucking forward, trying to grind herself against your face.

You licked a broad strip up her dripping slit, lips wrapping around her clit, suckling the swollen bud as you groan your pleasure into her sex. The vibrations shoot straight through her core, making her legs tremble and her abdomen clench. You slipped both hands around her hips pinning them back against the door, Agatha lets out a strangled moan, fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair as your tongue delves between her folds to lap at her aching sex. Her hips buck against the tight grip of your hands, seeking more delicious friction.

"Oh fuck baby," Agatha gasps, head falling back against the door with a soft thud. "Your tongue feels...fuck, just like that..." She grinds herself harder against you, smearing your chin and cheeks with her slick arousal as you work her sensitive flesh. She can feel her climax approaching fast, spurred on by your dedicated focus.

You feel her thigh start to tremble and quiver around your head as you suckle her clit more greedily, your tongue flickering against the sensitive bud. Her grip in your hair tightens as she grinds herself shamelessly against your hungry mouth, desperate for release. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." she chants breathlessly, the obscene wet sounds of your feasting filling the small bathroom.

"Don't stop baby, please don't fucking stop..." Agatha head thuds back softly against the door, letting out a strangled whimper as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave.

Her sex clenches rhythmically, gushing arousal into your eager mouth as she rides out her high, holds you flush against her throbbing core, shuddering helplessly from the force of her climax. You released her pulsing bud, tongue stroking deeper between her folds, lapping at her clenching hole. Groaning at the taste, you speared your tongue inside.

"Oh god, fuck!" Agatha mewls, her orgasm still coursing through her as your tongue plunges deep into her fluttering channel, lapping up every drop of her release. Her grip on your hair becomes almost painful as she grinds herself shamelessly against your face, riding out the aftershocks.

"Fuck, I need... I need..." Her words dissolve into incoherent moans and whimpers as her pleasure builds again frighteningly quickly, her body still so sensitive from her first climax.

She hooks her other leg over your shoulder, balancing herself against the door to open herself completely to your hungry mouth and probing tongue as it fucks into her, curling and stroking her innermost depths. The sounds spilling from her lips turn higher, more urgent, her hips starting to jerk and shudder with a second impending release already.

"Please baby, please, god never stop—" Her begging dissolves into whimpers of ecstasy as a second explosive climax hits her like a freight train, she bit her lip attempting to quiet herself. Her second climax gushing out, flooding your mouth with her sweet nectar as she thrashes against you and the door wildly, completely lost to the intense pleasure consuming her.

She's not sure how long she stays like that, trembling and shaking apart in your grasp, her lip bloody from how hard she bit down. But as the waves of rapture finally begin to ebb, she collapses back against the door, panting and spent, thighs still trembling and squeezing around your head. Her fingers stroke almost gently through your hair as she slowly returns to herself, basking in the afterglow.

"God, sweetheart..." she manages to rasp out, voice wrecked. "That was...fuck, that was incredible. You're incredible." She smiles down at you dreamily, eyes hazy and unfocused. She stroked her hand through you hair affectionately "Such a good girl, making mommy come so hard. I'm so fucking proud of you right now." You guided each of her shaky legs down, one at a time, pressing soft kisses along the top of her thighs.

When finally you slipped back outside fifteen minutes later, a wicked smirk is painted on your lips. Agatha’s wearing your oversized denim jacket and a fresh white T-shirt, face flushed and slightly breathless. Trying very hard not to look like someone who just defiled the guest bathroom.

Your mom glances up from the grill and squints “Everything okay?”

Agatha smiles sweetly beside you. “Your daughter was a perfect hostess. Even offered me something dry to change into, are started a fresh load so the silk wouldn’t stain.”

You blink. Onec the attention was no longer on the both of you. Agatha leans in from behind you, lips brushing your ear “You’ll get your reward later—” she whispers, “Mommy promises.” The tempting words sent a shiver down your spine and suddenly you couldn’t care less about the parties proceedings.

It’s just dinner. That’s what your mom said, standing in the kitchen with a grin while she stirred something in a pot and adjusted the napkins for the third time “I invited Carol and her son Mikey. You remember her—from the office party last year?”

You nod distractedly, helping set the table. You vaguely remember Carol. Couldn’t pick Mikey out of a lineup. You’re not even really paying attention. Because Agatha’s coming, too. That’s all you really care about.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. Since the bathroom. Since you dragged her against the door, your mouth on her like you owned her. And she let you. You’ve seen each other twice since then—both under innocent circumstances. Family lunch. Errands. Nothing touching. Nothing obvious.

But the texts haven’t stopped. And the tension? It’s only gotten worse. By the time everyone arrives, the house smells like rosemary, garlic, and warm wine. The kitchen glows under soft golden lights, pots clattering gently in the background, and your mom is practically radiating happiness as she flits around, fussing over every tiny detail.

You hover near the dining room archway, offering a polite smile when Carol steps inside—elegantly dressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears, already chatting brightly with your mom like old friends. Behind her is Mikey. You straighten slightly on instinct.

He’s tall. Neatly put together in a way that practically screams med school or future suburban husband material—slacks, a button-up, a too-bright smile that feels just a little too polished “Hi,” Mikey says, stepping toward you with a confident grin, extending his hand.

You take it automatically, trying not to wince at the firm, eager shake “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he adds, chuckling lightly as he scratches the back of his neck.

You blink, caught slightly off-guard. “Oh?”

He laughs, a little sheepishly, as if realizing how forward he sounds “Yeah—your mom’s been kind of… hyping you up.” You force a polite smile, nodding once, even as your stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Cool,” you say simply, your voice a touch too flat to be enthusiastic. You’re saved from further small talk by the sharp creak of the front door swinging open again. You turn—and time stutters in your chest.

Agatha steps inside with the kind of casual grace that makes it feel like the entire room rearranges itself around her. She’s wearing black slacks that hug the lean lines of her legs and an ivory sweater—soft, slouchy in all the right places, clinging unfairly to her curves. She looks effortless. Polished.

Dangerous. Your pulse kicks instantly, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. Agatha’s gaze scans the room—and then lands on you. Her lips curve into a polite smile, but you see it—the stiffness in it. The way it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her eyes flick quickly to Mikey, then back to you. A flash of something dark passes through them before it’s tucked neatly away “Evening,” she says smoothly, her voice low and rich like poured velvet. She crosses the room to set a bottle of wine and a pie dish down on the table with a soft clink.

Carol lights up beside your mother “Not at all!” she chirps. “We were just about to sit.” Agatha’s eyes linger on you a beat too long. And then she moves. As she passes by you on her way toward the kitchen, her hand grazes your lower back.

It’s barely anything—a ghost of a touch, featherlight and practiced enough to seem platonic to anyone watching. But to you? It feels like she set fire to your skin. The spot she touched burns, and every nerve in your body strains toward her without permission.

You stand there for a moment too long, rattled, your heart thundering in your ears, desperately trying to pretend like you’re breathing normally. Like you didn’t just feel her claim you in front of the whole room—in a way no one else would notice. No one but you.

Dinner starts off pleasant enough. The table is set beautifully, candles flickering gently, the scent of roasted rosemary and butter still hanging thick in the air. Your mom is absolutely glowing, chatting animatedly with Carol across the table, her wine glass already half-full. The clink of silverware and the low murmur of polite conversation fills the room.

It should feel warm.

Comfortable.

Easy.

And it does—on the surface. Mikey, to his credit, is quite nice. Polite. Smart in the well-practiced way that checks every box your mother would ever dream of. His posture is perfect. His smile a little too polished. His answers to every question rehearsed like he’s been coached for this moment his whole life.

He should be perfect. But he’s not. Because no matter how nice he is—no matter how neatly he fits into the space your mom is trying to carve out—you barely hear a word he says. Not with Agatha sitting directly across from you.

She stirs her wine slowly, the stem of the glass turning between her fingertips with idle, calculated grace. Her head is tilted slightly, lashes lowered just enough to seem disinterested. But you feel it. You feel her watching you. Measuring. Seething.

Every laugh you force for Mikey’s sake goes unanswered by her. Every smile you offer dies a little more quickly under the weight of her silent stare. It’s suffocating. It’s thrilling. It’s Agatha.

“Do you like hiking?” Mikey asks suddenly, shifting just a little closer to you—subtle, but noticeable. You force your eyes away from Agatha and blink at him.

“Uh…” you hedge, stabbing at your plate with your fork. “Not really.”

Mikey grins, undeterred “Well, maybe I could change your mind sometime.” You open your mouth to respond—something neutral, something noncommittal—But you don’t get the chance.

Across the table, Agatha clears her throat. It’s a soft sound.Barely polite. But it slices through the conversation like a knife “Please,” she says, her tone all sugar and steel, “she once pretended to sprain her ankle just to get out of a two-mile loop.”

Heat floods your face immediately. You duck your head, cheeks burning. Mikey laughs it off like it’s adorable “Maybe she just needed a better hiking partner,” he says easily, flashing you a wink.

You risk a glance across the table. Agatha’s smile sharpens like broken glass “Doubtful,” she purrs. Your fork stills halfway to your mouth. The tension is sharp enough to taste.

You glance at her properly this time—really look—and your chest tightens. Her jaw is rigid. Her wine sits untouched by her hand, forgotten. She’s leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, looking casual—disengaged—but you know her better than that. You know every crack in her armor. And right now? She’s raging beneath it.

Your mom, of course, is oblivious to the slow-brewing storm. She beams across the table at you, radiating approval “Isn’t Mikey wonderful?” she says, practically bouncing in her seat. “He just got accepted into a law fellowship—”

“That’s great,” Agatha cuts in smoothly, her voice bright and pleasant in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up “But,” she adds, smiling thinly, “I bet you’re very busy. No time for distractions.”

There’s a barb there. You hear it. You feel it. Mikey, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the dagger buried beneath her words. He just shrugs good-naturedly, flashing another easy grin “You make time for the right people.”

Agatha’s brows lift elegantly. For a moment, she says nothing. Then her gaze slides to you—lingers just a second too long “And how,” she drawls, “do you know who’s right?”

Mikey chuckles, lifting his wine glass in a casual shrug “I guess you just feel it.” The room dips into a moment of tight, uncomfortable silence. You barely breathe.

Agatha smiles again—but this one is different. Tight. Dangerous. A flash of teeth behind velvet “Hm,” she hums, swirling her untouched wine lazily. “Dangerous logic.”

You can feel it building—the sharp edge beneath every word, the tightening in her shoulders, the bitter bite waiting just under the surface. You can’t let it go on. Before anyone else can speak, you scrape your chair back with a soft squeak, forcing a smile onto your face “I’m gonna… clear some of these,” you say, voice too bright.

You stand smoothly, grabbing your plate. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha’s chair shift instantly “I’ll help you,” she says, already standing.

Of course she does. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You can feel the heat of her body already moving toward you, can feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter in the small space between you—And you know. You know this isn’t over. Not even close.

The moment the door swings closed behind you, the noise of the dining room muffled into a distant hum, you exhale sharply—like you’ve been holding your breath all night. The kitchen is dimmer, quieter, the warm overhead lights catching the shine of polished countertops and clean dishes stacked neatly by the sink. The air feels heavier here.

You set the stack of plates down on the counter a little harder than necessary and glance over your shoulder “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice low, tentative.

Agatha leans casually—too casually—against the counter, her arms folding across her chest in a loose, practiced motion. She tilts her head slightly, arching a brow “Peachy,” she says flatly.

You narrow your eyes at her “Peachy,” you repeat skeptically. There’s a sharpness in the way she holds herself, tension bleeding into every line of her body no matter how hard she tries to look detached.

“You sure?” you press, stepping closer, your voice softening just slightly. “Because you’ve been glaring at Mikey like he kicked your dog.” A muscle ticks in her jaw, almost imperceptible. She shrugs, nonchalant on the surface, but you see the way her shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” she says simply. There’s no humor in her voice. No teasing. Just that low, quiet simmer you’re starting to recognize too well—the slow burn of something darker underneath.

“Why?” you ask, searching her face, your heart pounding a little faster.

Agatha shrugs again, a roll of her shoulders that’s too sharp to be casual “He’s not subtle.”

You frown, stepping closer still “And you are?” The corner of her mouth twitches—but not in amusement. It’s a humorless, bitter thing. A crack in the armor she’s struggling to hold together all evening.

You stare at her. You stare until she looks like she might break. And then you whisper it—soft, but certain “You’re jealous.” Agatha scoffs under her breath, turning her head away like she can hide from it. But you see it. The way her throat works around the words she won’t say. The way her fingers tighten where they grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening.

“You are,” you murmur, taking a step closer, your voice coaxing, almost tender. “You’re jealous, and you won’t even admit why.” She closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s praying for patience she doesn’t have.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—she says “I don’t like watching someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The words punch the air from your lungs. Your breath catches audibly, your heart stuttering against your ribs. She still won’t look at you. Still won’t move. As if staying perfectly still might protect her from the enormity of what she’s just confessed.

You hesitate, your hand curling loosely at your side. Then, voice trembling despite yourself, you ask “…Am I?” A beat “Yours?”

At that, Agatha finally turns her head. And when she meets your gaze—for a moment—she looks utterly wrecked. Like the admission costs her something she doesn’t know how to give. Her eyes flicker, shining with something raw, something broken and desperate, and she whispers “Yes.”

A simple word. A shattering truth “But I shouldn’t say that,” she adds, her voice a rasp, breaking apart on the edges. “I shouldn’t let it mean anything.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everything hanging between you. You step closer anyway, closing the final breath of space between your bodies, your hand brushing lightly against hers in a barely-there touch “But it does,” you say, so quietly you’re not sure if you even breathe the words aloud. Agatha doesn’t respond. Not with words.

But the way she closes her eyes—like she’s fighting something inside herself—and the way her fingers flex against the counter says more than anything else ever could. You don’t push her. You don’t force her. You just stay close, breathing the same air, feeling the ache of what almost could be, if only the world outside didn’t exist.

Before either of you can say more, your mom’s voice cuts cheerfully into the heavy air, oblivious. “Dessert’s ready To be plated! Don’t stay gone too long—you’ll make Mikey think you’re not interested!”

You snap your head toward her voice, blinking hard to pull yourself out of the moment. Agatha straightens instantly, pasting a smile on her lips so quickly and flawlessly you might’ve believed it—if you hadn’t just seen her stripped bare. But her eyes—Her eyes don’t smile at all.

You say nothing, simply nodding, grabbing a fresh stack of plates with fingers that tremble almost imperceptibly. When you follow your mom back into the dining room, you feel it.

Agatha’s gaze, heavy and searing, pinned to your back the entire way “Would anyone like some dessert?” your mom beams, her energy undimmed by the undercurrents threading through the room.

She’s already halfway out of her chair and to the serving table, moving with that unstoppable hostess instinct that no one ever dared challenge—smoothing her hands over her apron, practically glowing with pride over the spread she’s laid out.

Carol and Mikey both nod politely, chiming in with soft “Sure”s and “Sounds wonderful”s. You muster a tight smile, your fingers clenching slightly around your fork beneath the table, willing yourself to stay composed.

Across the room, you notice Agatha hasn’t moved. She stands instead, lingering by the kitchen door—her purse gripped loosely in one hand, her body tense in a way only you would recognize.

Something twists low in your stomach. You look up, locking onto her just as she clears her throat lightly “I should get going,” she says, voice smooth but a little too rehearsed. She slings the strap of her purse over her shoulder in one fluid movement, her smile strained at the edges. “Something came up for work—I need to handle it tonight.”

You blink, heart stumbling “Now?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the word escaping softer than you mean it to. For a second—barely a second—her eyes meet yours across the space between you. It’s fleeting. But it’s enough.

You see it there. The flash of guilt. The sadness. The way her mouth almost moves like she wants to say something else—but clamps it shut instead. It’s a lie. You know it instantly. And it sinks into your chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Still—you nod. What else can you do?

You don’t argue, Not with your mom fussing at the dessert table, humming to herself. Not with Mikey sitting across from you, still smiling like he has a prayer in hell. You force yourself to nod again, sharper this time, biting the inside of your cheek to keep everything else contained.

“Thanks for dinner,” Agatha says sweetly, turning her attention to your mother, who blinks in mild surprise but recovers quickly, flashing a concerned smile.

“Of course, honey. Everything okay?” your mom asks, setting down a dish of pie with a little frown. “You brought the dessert it only fair you say and enjoy it a little—“

“Just one of those last-minute emergencies,” Agatha replies smoothly, breezing past the question with practiced ease. But then—Then she looks at you again. Just for a moment. And it’s different this time. Softer.

Heavy with things she can’t say aloud “I’ll see you soon,” she murmurs, the words almost an apology. You force yourself to meet her gaze but offer her nothing but a slight nod in return, your throat too tight to risk speaking.

You watch her turn away, her heels clicking faintly against the floor as she crosses to the front door. Every step she takes feels like it’s dragging something vital out of you. Tearing something unseen between you that you don’t know how to fix.

Your chest aches—deep and hollow—the entire time she walks away. And even after the door swings shut behind her, sealing her absence into the night, the space she leaves behind feels impossibly large. Empty in a way no one else seems to notice. Except you.

One painful hour and a half later, Carol and Mikey are finally gone. You breathe a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief the moment the front door closes behind them. The house feels instantly lighter, though the polite hum of leftover conversation still seems to echo against the walls.

Mikey had been perfectly nice—charming, even—offering another too-bright smile as he pressed a folded napkin into your hand before he left. You didn’t even glance at it. You dropped it near the sink without a second thought, the scrawl of his number already blurring in your mind like it was never meant to matter.

Because it didn’t. Not when every thought you had still clung stubbornly to the woman who ran from dessert—and from you. Now, you’re elbows-deep in soapy water, scrubbing plates with mechanical movements, the heat of the water doing little to thaw the cold knot still twisted deep in your chest.

The kitchen is mostly quiet except for the low gurgle of the faucet and the occasional clink of glass against porcelain. You’re so lost in your own swirling thoughts that you barely notice your mom step up beside you. She moves casually, almost breezily, placing a glass pie dish down on the counter with a soft clatter “Hey,” she says lightly, like she’s asking you to pass the salt “Can you return this to Agatha tomorrow? She left in such a hurry, I doubt she even realized it was mine.”

You wipe your dripping hands on the towel at your hip before she even finishes speaking “I’ll take it tonight,” you say quickly, a little too quickly. Your mom blinks, taken slightly aback by the eagerness threading your voice. She squints at you—sharp, suspicious in that way only a mother can be—but you refuse to meet her eyes, busying yourself with folding the towel, setting it neatly aside.

“You don’t have to go now, sweetheart,” she says, slow and careful, watching you more closely now.

“I don’t mind,” you reply, your voice tighter, more clipped than you intend. For a second, she hesitates, like she might push. You brace yourself. But then she just smiles softly, stepping forward to kiss your temple.

“Tell her thanks again for the wine,” she says, her tone returning to easy warmth. You nod, grabbing the pie dish with hands that aren’t quite steady. You shrug on your coat, feeling the weight of the glass in your hands like an anchor tethering you to something you can’t walk away from. And with every step you take toward Agatha’s door—through the crisp night air, across the dark stretch between your houses—your heart beats faster.

You knock softly, barely more than a tap. For a heartbeat, you wonder if she’ll pretend not to hear. But then the door swings open—and Agatha stands there, framed in the warm, low light spilling out behind her.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, she looks like she’s been waiting. Gone are the polished slacks and fitted sweater she wore to dinner. Instead, she’s in a loose, worn T-shirt and a pair of soft joggers that hang low on her hips. Barefoot.

Her hair is tied back messily, a few dark strands falling loose around her face. And for a woman who supposedly had an “emergency” urgent enough to skip dessert, she looks… eerily calm. Relaxed in a way that only makes your chest tighten painfully. You lift the pie dish in your hands, your voice small “Emergency handled?”

Agatha exhales slowly, a sound heavy with defeat, and steps aside, motioning you in “Come in,” she murmurs.

You cross the threshold without hesitation, your pulse hammering a little harder with every step into her space—the space that feels too much like home and too dangerous all at once.

You set the pie dish down on the entryway table, the faint clink of ceramic against granite sounding loud in the otherwise still house. When you turn to face her, she’s already watching you. There’s a beat of silence. Long. Heavy.

Only the soft tick of the clock on the far wall and the low hum of the heater break the quiet “You left early,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, too weighted with everything you don’t know how to say. Agatha’s mouth tightens “I did,” she answers simply.

“You lied about it.”

“I did,” she echoes again, her voice softer this time, almost like she hates how true it is. You stare at her.

At the woman you’ve loved in quiet, impossible ways for longer than you want to admit “Why?” you ask, your heart beating harder, the word raw in your throat.

Agatha crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself tightly, like she needs the pressure to stay upright “Because I couldn’t stand it,” she says, her voice rough around the edges.

Your stomach flips violently, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your coat at your sides. She keeps going, her words picking up momentum, tripping over themselves “I couldn’t sit there and pretend it didn’t bother me. Him, sitting next to you. Your mom beaming like it was meant to be.”

She laughs bitterly, the sound brittle and self-mocking “Watching him talk to you like he had any right to know you—”

She cuts herself off abruptly, dragging a hand down her face in frustration “It’s stupid,” she mutters. “I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t—” You take a step closer. Not fast.

Not demanding.

Just there.

Present.

You wait until her eyes lift to meet yours. And then you ask, soft and steady “To what?” For a second, you’re sure she won’t answer. But then— Her gaze shatters. Tired. Vulnerable. Frighteningly, achingly possessive.

“I wanted to drag you upstairs,” she whispers, voice like steel, “make you whine my name so loud they’d all know exactly who you belonged to. Instead of trying to peddle you off like a damn dowery maid—”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath catches painfully, your whole body going still. Agatha flinches at the silence, stepping back half a pace, her hands fisting at her sides “But I can’t,” she says quickly, brokenly. “I won’t. Because no matter how I feel, I’m still your mother’s best friend. I watched you grow up.”

Her voice cracks, and she presses her mouth shut hard for a second before continuing “I shouldn’t—” she chokes on the words, “—I shouldn’t want you the way I do.” You don’t realize you’re crying until her hand lifts hesitantly between you, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, catching a tear.

The touch is unbearably gentle. You close your eyes briefly, feeling the tremble in her fingers “So you do,” you whisper when you can finally breathe again. “You do want me.”

Agatha exhales shakily, the sound like something crumbling inside her “Yes,” she admits, her voice breaking apart completely. “So much it hurts.”

Your heart splinters open. You step in, slow and certain, pressing your forehead to hers, feeling the unsteady rhythm of her breath against your skin. Your hand slides up her arm, anchoring you both to this moment, to this choice you are both making even if the world outside demands you don’t.

“Then stop running from me, I’m capable of making my own decisions….” you whisper. She lets out a strangled sound—a soft, broken thing that makes your chest ache

“I’m not good for you,” she murmurs, and you feel the fear in her words, the way she believes them like a prayer.

“You’re everything Ive ever wanted, don’t say that—” you say simply. Agatha trembles under your touch. So close. So desperate. So fragile.

“I’m scared,” she confesses, her voice barely audible. “I’m scared of what this means. Of how much I already care about you. Of what happens when it stops being easy to hide.”

You nod gently, your hand smoothing up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw “Me too,” you breathe.

You don’t kiss her. Not this time. Instead, you just hold her face in your hands, cradling her like something precious and breakable. You lean in and press your forehead firmly against hers. Letting her feel it, All of it. Not lust. Not just aching want.

Devotion.

Care.

Something painfully real.

Something terrifying and beautiful that neither of you can outrun anymore. Agatha’s eyes flutter shut as you stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing the same fragile air. Neither of you speaks.

You just exist—suspended in the heavy quiet, in the aching hum of something too vast, too dangerous, too real to name out loud yet. It feels like the whole world narrows to the inch of space between your bodies. The place where her breath mingles with yours. Where her skin brushes yours, featherlight but unignorable. You feel it when she moves—slowly, tentatively.

Her hands settle at your waist, trembling just slightly as she spreads her fingers wide, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you under her palms “Come here,” she murmurs.

The words barely reach your ears, so soft they might be imagined. You barely have time to react before she’s guiding you backward, her hand finding the small of your back, pressing there gently—grounding you, anchoring you to her as if you might float away if she didn’t tether you down.

Her other hand brushes your wrist, fingers skimming lightly over the place where your pulse thrums madly under your skin. Like she’s trying to steady herself with the proof of your heartbeat.

She sinks down onto the couch in one smooth movement, pulling you down with her—into her—like a tide drawing you helplessly toward the shore. You end up straddling her lap, your knees braced on either side of her hips, feeling the steady, burning heat of her body pressed close against yours.

Agatha exhales, a long, trembling breath that shudders out of her like she’s been holding it trapped in her lungs for days. You start to shift, unsure if you’re too heavy, if you’re asking too much—But her arms tighten instantly around your waist, tugging you flush against her.

“No,” she whispers against your shoulder, a desperate thread lacing her voice. “Don’t move. Just—just stay.” You do. You let your weight sink into her. You wrap your arms loosely around her neck, your fingers finding the ends of her hair, twisting them idly between trembling fingertips.

And in turn, she wraps herself around you—arms strong, certain, almost possessive—holding you like you’re something rare she doesn’t know how to trust but can’t bear to lose. Her face finds the curve of your shoulder, nuzzling there lightly, her nose brushing the warm skin of your neck.

Her breath is soft, steady, but you can still feel the faint shiver beneath it “I’m sorry I left earlier,” she says, her voice muffled against you. You smooth your fingers through her hair, combing them gently through the silky strands at the nape of her neck.

“I know why you did,” you whisper back. Agatha shifts a little, enough that you can feel the tension rolling off her shoulders, sharp and restless.

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone else touching you,” she murmurs, her voice cracking around the edges, raw and honest in a way she never lets herself be “Not when you feel like…”

She trails off, the confession breaking halfway free but too dangerous to finish. You lift your hand, cupping the back of her head, guiding her gently to look at you “Like what?” you whisper.

Agatha pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. And what you find there steals the air from your lungs. Desire, yes—an ache written deep into the stormy blue of her gaze. But also longing. Fear. Love—or something that feels terrifyingly close to it.

“Like home—safety.” she says hoarsely, each word pulled from her like it hurts to admit. “And I don’t even know when that started. Or how it got so deep so fast. But it’s there. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Your throat tightens painfully. Your whole body feels full of something too huge to hold “You hold me,” you whisper, your forehead tipping forward to brush hers again. “You stop pretending we’re just a mistake waiting to happen.”

Agatha stares at you, her lips parted slightly, her breathing uneven. And then, slowly—so gently it feels like a promise—she presses her lips to your temple. She lingers there, warm and trembling, letting the touch speak all the things her voice is too broken to say.

“Okay,” she breathes against your skin. You don’t argue. You don’t push for more. You don’t need more—not right now. Instead, you shift closer, curling yourself fully into her lap, resting your head against the strong line of her shoulder. You breathe her in—clean linen, worn cotton, something uniquely Agatha that fills your lungs and steadies the wild beat of your heart.

Her hand traces slow, absent patterns down your spine—over and over, soothing, worshipping. The other hand comes up, threading gently into your hair, cradling the back of your head with careful fingers, like she’s afraid you might break if she’s not careful.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing. The soft hum of the heater. The low, steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. You both just exist there—tangled together, holding each other together. Until, after what feels like hours, Agatha speaks again—so quietly you almost think you imagined it “I wish I met you in another life,” she murmurs into your hai “Somewhere where I didn’t have to pretend I don’t need you to breath.”

Your fingers tighten in the hem of her shirt instinctively, as if anchoring yourself even closer to her “You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whisper.

She exhales shakily, her mouth brushing the crown of your head in a featherlight kiss that feels like it costs her everything to give. That night, you don’t ask for more. You don’t kiss. You don’t undress. You just stay—wrapped around each other like a lifeline—letting the weight of everything unspoken settle between you. Because somehow, impossibly, this—This is the closest either of you has ever felt to home.

You feel yourself melt deeper into her lap, your body sinking against hers like you were made to fit there. The warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it lulls you into something softer, something quieter.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns on the sleeve of her shirt, your head tucked against the curve of her neck. You’re so tired. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not the kind of tired that comes from running or pretending.

It’s peaceful. Agatha shifts a little beneath you, pulling the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch around your shoulders, tucking you closer like she can’t stand even a few inches of air between you. Your voice is small when it comes—barely a breath against her collarbone, so soft you wonder if she even hears it “Can I stay tonight?”

Agatha goes utterly still beneath you. You feel it—the way her entire body freezes for a heartbeat, as if the world itself has tilted and she’s trying to find her footing again.

You lift your head slightly, blinking up at her through heavy, sleep-laden eyes, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs “I’ll leave before anyone could see me,” you add quickly, voice picking up with quiet desperation. “Early. I swear.”

You pause, the weight of vulnerability crashing over you, and then, in a voice even smaller than before, you whisper “I just really want you to hold me tonight.”

For a moment, Agatha doesn’t speak. She just stares at you—really sees you—like you’ve peeled yourself open in front of her and handed her the fragile, beating thing inside your chest. Something inside her broke. You see it happen. Right there in her eyes. The cool mask she always wears—the teasing smirks, the sardonic shields—all of it drops away like it was never real to begin with.

All that’s left is raw emotion. Bare. Open. Unguarded. Her arms tighten around you without hesitation, an instinctive, protective gesture like she couldn’t say no even if she tried. Like the thought of turning you away is physically impossible.

“You can stay,” she murmurs, her voice rough, thick with emotion she doesn’t bother trying to hide. Her fingers comb tenderly through your hair, slow and soothing, as if trying to memorize every strand “Stay as long as you want.” Your throat burns. Your eyes sting with the pressure of unshed tears—but you don’t cry.

You just let yourself melt against her again, surrendering to the comfort, the safety, the overwhelming rightness of being in her arms. You pressed your cheek back to her chest, feeling the strong, steady thud of her heart beneath your ear. A rhythm you could memorize in your sleep.

Agatha presses absentminded kisses to the crown of your head—one, then another, then another—like she can’t help herself. Each brush of her lips is featherlight, reverent, anchoring you to her.

The world beyond the walls of her house fades into a muted hum, meaningless compared to the soft sounds of her breathing, the gentle glide of her fingers down your spine. You drift, caught in that hazy, blissful space between wakefulness and sleep, cocooned in her warmth and the steady cradle of her arms.

At some point, you feel her shift beneath you—so carefully, so gently it barely registers. She slips her arms under your legs and back, lifting you with surprising ease, cradling you close against her chest as she stands. You stir slightly, a quiet, content sound escaping your lips, but you don’t resist. You trust her implicitly.Her heartbeat thunders against your cheek as she carries you through the dim hallway, the soft creak of floorboards underfoot the only sound.

She reaches her bedroom and lowers you onto the mattress with painstaking care, like you’re something precious she’s terrified of breaking. She tugs the covers up around you, brushing your hair back from your forehead with trembling fingers. The touch is so tender it steals the air from your lungs.

Then she slides in beside you, slipping under the covers, letting you curl into her side, her arms coming around you fiercely—as if daring the world to try and take you from her. You cling to her without shame, your hand finding hers under the blanket, fingers tangling together tightly.

Her thumb strokes slow, soothing circles against your wrist, each movement like a promise she’s too scared to say aloud. The room is silent but alive—charged with everything you’re both too exhausted, too overwhelmed to speak.

And just as the last threads of consciousness begin to unravel, just as sleep pulls you deeper into the quiet safety of her arms, you hear her whisper—So faint you could almost believe it was a dream “I’m already yours.”

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #aaa #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn

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everythingmp3 · 2 days ago

Text

can’t get enough

adult!Van x fem!reader

living with your girlfriend has many upsides: spending slow mornings together, sharing a sense of home, falling asleep in her arms, and the fact that shes there to offer you relief when youre feeling needier than usual, when you keep wanting more and she keeps giving in

authors note: I wont lie, this one came from me thinking about how certain phases of your cycle can make you feel crazy, so it’s heavier on the smut than usual, but there’s a decent amount of plot too, that’s why it’s around 9k! hope you enjoy <3

warnings: smut (reader receiving)

you couldn´t have asked for a better kind of Sunday.

you were blessed with beautiful early spring weather, Van´s was apartment flooded by golden afternoon light, which intensified the feeling of it being your safe haven. you´d spent the early hours of the day doing nothing but delight in each other´s presence, savoring all those hours of freedom and ease.

even though you´d been dating her for nearly seven months by that point, you were in a new kind of honeymoon phase, since you had moved into her apartment only about a month before, which made it one of the first weekends of you living together as a couple.

up until that point, it had been nothing but lovely, all of the little anxious thoughts that had gotten to you during the moving process - like the fear that you´d start getting on each other´s nerves or lose some of that intense spark you´d felt before - proving to be completely unwarranted because if anything you only fell more deeply in love when you finally got to see the other person during moments where they felt unwatched, like when Van hummed a song to herself while making coffee, or when you took a nap on the couch in her clothes and she almost melted on the spot when she walked in on it.

none of it was truly surprising considering how lovestruck you both still felt even half a year into your relationship, just as passionate as that night you´d first kissed like you were scared that you´d just dreamed each other up, clinging on for dear life.

one of the things that Van did for you before you moved in, was that she´d put a little desk in her bedroom for you to use whenever you had assignments to write and needed to be by yourself, in a separate space, in order not to get distracted by her presence nearby.

that Sunday afternoon, you had an essay to finish, so you were seated at the desk, staring outside of the bedroom window, unable to concentrate, unable to write as much as a single word, silently losing your mind due to one pressing issue: you were horny out of your mind.

it was the kind of horniness that simply would not subside, for hours and hours, that could get you worked up just from a simple thought, that could wreck you just from a minute of fantasizing, so you found yourself almost shaking with need, breathing unevenly, acutely aware that jerking off would not relieve you of the craving that was eating you from the inside out.

moving in together naturally meant that you and Van started having sex more than before, it was inevitable with all that access to each other that you followed your instincts whenever they took a hold of you, no matter what time of day or what you were both supposed to be doing instead, it was exciting to share that new domestic kind of sexuality, for Van especially, since few things turned her on more than being pursued and corned by you. sharing a living space with you gave her that tingling sense of anticipation, the thrill of not knowing when she might feel your hand slide under her shirt, your breath on her neck, your wordless way of saying “give into me”, which she did, every time, often just waiting to surrender, to go pliant under your touch, to do whatever you wanted.

you fell into a comfortable rhythm, which usually stayed somewhat the same, except for the days where you truly couldn´t keep your hands of each other and fucking turned into an all-day thing, round after round after round while abandoning whatever it was that you´d told yourself you would get done that day, not a care in the world about anything but devouring each other only to starve again within no time, barely giving your bodies time to recover, leaving you entirely spent by nightfall, but happily so.

that day was one of those days, especially on your part. it started right after you woke up. it took you about a minute of laying next to her and watching her stir until you started feeling her up, kissing her neck, pushing her shirt up to feel her chest, which turned into a lazy, sensual hour of touching and eventually getting each other off, her hand staying between your thighs until you stopped whining for more. after breakfast, you snuggled up on the couch, which turned into kissing, which turned into making out, a proper heavy-breathing, sloppy, borderline dry-humping make-out session, the kind that she never allowed herself with previous lovers, addicted to every part of it, the way you caressed her hair, the way you grabbed her jaw whenever you needed to deepen the kiss, the way you´d sometimes pull back to kiss her face in a rush of affection before returning your lips to hers, every part of it, so that morning you made out for ages until you caved again and fucked on the couch for a while, laying there breathless and swollen-lipped for a decent amount of time afterwards, enjoying the luxury of having a morning all to yourself, to do whatever you pleased, or rather, whoever you pleased. a few hours of being outside, eating lunch, and getting things done around the apartment passed, until it was around 4pm and Van offered to give you head when she sensed how riled up you still were, really taking her time with it, drawing it out until you were unsure how much more you could take, which ended in you riding her face until you had to tap out, ruined by the sight of her beautiful smile as she laid there with her mouth open, glistening in the sunlight, licking her lips like she hadn´t just gotten smothered by that taste.

in moments like that she was almost in shock about just how deep your need for her seemed to be able to run, seemingly no amount of her touch enough to make you wish she´d stop. she knew in her heart that she could´ve insisted on having you again and again and again that day without meeting any kind of hesitancy, and the thought alone made her feel high on adoration for you, the way you´d come into her life and suddenly made her feel so desirable again, after years of feeling like a shell of herself, empty, unappealing.

as you were sitting at your desk, haunted by the fresh memory of her devoted touch, your skin still burning where her fingertips had dug in to hold you in place, you told yourself to leave her alone and get to work, but nothing helped, you were a mess, so around fifteen minutes after you´d left her alone in the living room with the words “okay, I´m gonna go get this thing done” you admitted defeat and walked back out into the living space, too desperate for more of her to spend another second away from her.

Van was sitting on the couch, reading her book, blissfully unaware of the hunger her girlfriend was eyeing her with. you took a second just to watch her from where you were standing, her freshly washed hair glowing like flames in a way that made you want to bury your nose in it and take the deepest breath, the way you often did at night when you were the big spoon.

eventually, you got over yourself and quietly walked over to her. at first, she didn´t react, so you flopped down next to her on the couch and watched her from the side as she pretended not to notice, her eyes still cast down, her smile giving away that she wasn´t reading at all, that she was just waiting for you to say something, to admit why you were not doing what you were supposed to, but after a moment she dropped her book and turned her body to face you directly with a fond, amused expression, almost like a parent who´d caught their child staying up way past bedtime.

“yes, can I help you, darling?” she said, her tone overly sweet, clearly teasing you about your inability to stay away. “yes…” you answered, your tone quieter and huskier than intended, strained by your obvious pressing need, it was clear what you wanted, but she pretended not to notice, still messing with you a bit when she cocked her head and asked “you done with your essay already?”.

you shook your head, “no, but it´s not due til tomorrow” it wasn´t a lie, but she was too clever to fall for it “well, we have plans tomorrow night, so, that´s no excuse”. you didn´t laugh, you were too riled up to have any humor, which was not the case too often, so seeing you sit there like that, pouting, made her reach out and caress your knee while laughing, “hey, you okay there?”.

her touch was enough for you to lose all ability to restrain yourself, so you sighed “no, no not at all.. I need you so bad..” while climbing over and getting half on her lap to grab her neck, breathing against her face then, trying your best to persuade her, your body basically vibrating with need as she wrapped her arms around your back and felt you cling to her, which got a labored breath out of Van, the way your weight pressed down against her, the feeling of being climbed like that. she searched your eyes and said “again already? it´s barely been an hour”, she was clearly baiting you to flatter her a bit, but you were glad to do it, so you nodded and gave her a brief but heartfelt kiss “yeah I know…can´t help it…”.

she could tell that you were genuinely already just as worked up as before, so she cooed “poor thing, you´re really going through it today, aren´t you?”, aware that the faux-mocking would only rile you up more, so she used the moment to her advantage and went in for the kill, kissing your neck while slipping her hands under your shirt, an undignified sound leaving you because the way she moved her lips all over your pulse-point didn´t alleviate you from your ache, it only deepened it, to a worrying degree, each wet kiss making you squirm and bite your lip in an effort to stay quiet while your nails dug into her skin, jerking forward on her lap, chasing friction.

you heard a quiet laugh as she felt you shiver all over and pulled away, whispering “so needy today..”, no malice to her words at all, just her usual way of using foreplay to seem composed, because the second you actually got down to it, she could never pretend to be anything but weak in the knees for you, a slave to your every wish, so you let it slide, her momentary cockiness, only nodding, unable to deny that you were in fact the picture of neediness right then.

Van pulled back and looked at you, holding your face in her hands, gently, stroking your cheeks “I should tell you to get back to your work, you know” she mused. you both knew that there was no world in which she could ever deny you, but even just the thought of stopping right then made a wave of terror wash over you, so you said “no” a bit sharper than intended, “no?” she echoed, grinning, moving her hands from your face to your shoulders.

“please just.. I don´t need much baby, I´ll be quick, please, only a few minutes” you were out of your mind, usually you wouldn´t have bargained for sex with her, you would´ve made a joke or been more playful about it, but you were sucked up in such a vortex of desire that you couldn´t speak or think the way you normally would, which made Van feel a kind of power that wasn´t unpleasant, still, she wasn´t one to be sadistic, so she dropped the teasing “hm, well I think I can do better than just a few minutes”.

“yeah?” you asked with bright eyes, but it wasn´t a surprise, Van was not the type for quick aggressive sex, rushed attempts at getting off, she was a romantic at heart, especially in bed, so the most satisfying intimacy for her was the kind both you and her could savor, draw out, drown out time and space with, so she gestured for you to get up and grabbed your hand to lead you back to the bedroom, endeared by the way your eyes seemed to sparkle at her suggestion, “yes, come on, let me see what I can do for you”. as you let her tug you forward you felt anticipatory relief from what was about to happen, and a rush of heat from her formal way of phrasing it, as if she was talking about a business offer, not you, getting ruined by her.

you were only wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt without a bra, so within seconds you were undressed, unwilling to play it cool or act coy, your underwear already discarded on the floor when Van was still peeling off her flannel and her jeans, leaving her in her underwear and a thin white tank top as she crawled up on the bed where you´d already found your place.

Van was about to get between your legs but you beckoned her closer“wait no, come here”, eager to kiss her, so she smiled and obliged, letting you pull her into a deep and hungry kiss, melting into it for a second, a pleased groan when you kept going and going, lavishing her with the kind of kisses that one might give a lover after having missed them for weeks, when it had been just an hour since you´d last made out. she seemed surprised, judging by the moan stuck in her throat, but it was nothing new, no amount of time spent with her seemed to ever make you feel like you had gotten enough of her lips, the softness, the warmth, the way she tasted, but after a while you grew too hot and separated, panting, nodding as if to say “okay, now you can get down there”, which she did, gladly, kissing a line all the way from the hollow of your throat to your lower stomach, working you up even more, which made you brace yourself on your elbows to watch her, breathing heavy, parting your legs wider to give her space, to invite her, impatient, a sudden throbbing sensation where you where dying to feel the heat of her mouth once more.

Van looked up at you and let out a quiet, vaguely pitying “ohh baby” when she saw how helpless you looked, how you couldn´t even smile because you were so sick with desire, which made her feel equal parts protective and possessive, an acute sense of “only I get to see her like this, nobody else”. it stirred something deep within her, so she leaned in and kissed your inner thigh feverishly, licked over it, bit down ever so lightly, marked her territory before she moved up and reached out to drag her fingers over your cunt to part you, a high-pitched whimper from you as she took a moment to appreciate how wet you´d already gotten for her. after a moment of playing with you, she leaned in and kissed the outside area, slowly dipped her tongue between your folds, met by that taste she could never tire of, a moan from her that matched yours as you laid back and felt her start to move her tongue up and down in long, self-indulgent strokes, over and over, gripping your thighs and getting her face all up in you, the way she always did, clearly never waiting for your approval or praise but just enjoying herself so deeply that it was a given you were too, heavily making out with your cunt, lewd sounds that almost drowned out the whimpers you couldn´t keep in.

after a while of unravelling you, she focused only on your clit, relentlessly, applying just enough pressure to satisfy, while making you whine for more, faint, muffled “hmm” sounds coming from her as the tip of her tongue flicked over you again and again, a rhythm that you matched by rocking your hips up to meet her mouth, which only made her go harder.

when she really loved someone, the way she loved you, she found a place of worship between her lovers legs, poured all of her feelings into the act of giving head, which was why you were addicted, the same way she was, both of you oftentimes taking turns multiple times in one night until your jaws hurt. in that moment, it was no different, you were all hers, moaning and sighing praises as she kept going, your hands finding their way into her hair as you lifted your upper body a bit to be able to watch, lovingly caressing the back of her head as you looked down at her and felt a tightening ache at your core, your breathing even more rapid from the sight of her eating, the divine perversity of it, a sharp breath in when she let her gaze flicker up at you and held eye-contact for a moment while you kept her trapped, your legs close to her ears, and felt her reach up to hold your hands, squeezing them in reassurance, until she could feel that you were getting close and freed her right hand again, moving her mouth away for a second, panting, chin slick with you, so she could see what she was doing as she slipped two of her fingers into you, an instant sigh of relief as you felt her inside of you, so you moaned “yeah like that..” and laid back again, fully surrendered.

she took the cue and went to finish you off by curling her fingers up in you, hitting the spot she knew so well by then over and over, while attaching her mouth back onto you and hearing the familiar sound of your pleading and cursing, your hands clutching the sheets, your mind blank, your walls clenching around her fingers as she didn´t let up one bit and sucked on your clit until you couldn´t hold out any longer and came all over her fingers, her free hand gripping your thigh to keep you from closing your legs as she kept going all throughout your climax until your muscles finally relaxed and you let out a deep shuddering sigh, shaking, high on the orgasm in a way that left you needing more, much more. one wouldn´t be enough, even while you were still recovering from the intense release, your body was already calling for the same thing again, a tremor taking you over that would not subside, Van could tell, so she caressed you and kissed your leg to catch a small break, before she pushed her messed up hair out of her face, which made you move your head to see it and marvel at her, the beauty of her in that moment, her face all flushed, her lips raw and red, a glow that made her look like she´d just come as well, which knowing her, perhaps she had, it had happened before, that she´d finished just from pleasing you.

“.. you´re so pretty…” you sighed, still breathless, which made her grin and move up to kiss you, softly, a faint residue of your taste hitting you, her face so hot that it radiated onto yours, both of you ready to push it further, to look even more wrecked by the end.

you needed more, badly, the throbbing wouldn´t go away, nothing would help, so you felt the urge to take her strap. you didn´t do it too often, it was something you reserved for when either or both of you wanted to be fucked so badly that fingers wouldn´t suffice anymore, which wasn´t every time, but right then, you were in that state, and a shared look between you was enough to communicate, you didn´t even have to ask, but still, she made sure, “need a bit more than that, don´t you?”, so you nodded “yeah.. please”, and the return of your begging was enough to make her need it as well, to see you get what you were craving, to watch you come again, but harder than before, it was ringing in her ears then, the memory of how you´d sounded the last time she´d fucked you that way.

before she got up from the bed, she moved your hand between your legs and smiled devilishly as she whispered “go on, touch yourself a bit, feel how wet you are” a pause before she added “how ready” the last word said in a low tone that made you choke up on your own spit almost because it was unlike her, to speak like that, and it was clear she said it half-jokingly, as if she was putting on a different voice than her own, but still, it thrilled you, to have her insinuate that your body was just waiting for her to invade it, which it was, had been all day.

you used your fingers to apply just enough pressure to keep yourself worked up as you watched her red rid of her remaining clothes, unwilling to deny herself the feeling of being flush against her lover, her back turned to you, your gaze lingering on her legs, the soft, delicate nature of them that contrasted her tough exterior, a point of obsession for you, since only you got to see her legs fully in the nude. it was a ritual for you to kiss her calves, her knees, her thighs, whenever you´d just finished giving her head and used the time she needed to recover to cover her lower half in kisses.

it was no different in that moment, you felt a rush of heat go to your face when you saw the contrast of the black of the harness and the paleness of her skin, some of her flesh spilling out over the straps, a sudden urge to bite into it, a shiver down your spine when you saw the aggressive hand movement of her making sure everything was truly tight enough, sitting right over her hips, around her sides, a whimpering sound as you touched yourself a bit harder then, unable to restrain yourself, which made her flip her hair back over her shoulders in a slightly cocky way as she come back to you and watched you shamelessly stare at her with that same helpless expression as before, moving over to make space for her.

Van knew what you wanted, so she sat down next to you and patted her lap, conscious of the fact that having you on top first was ideal, not just selfishly because she wanted to get a good show, but because it gave you the freedom to tire yourself out, before being finished off by her afterwards. so, you got up and shook a little as you climbed over her and felt her hands on your sides, to steady you, both your eyes and hers cast down, watching you take the strap in your hand to guide it into yourself, carefully, which wasn´t necessary, you arousal so intense that there was no resistance whatsoever, your cunt drenched and throbbing as you sat down, feeling yourself be stretched and filled, your eyes fluttering shut from the overwhelming relief, the sensation so good that you kept still for a moment to soak it up, while moving your legs to a comfortable position, one you could last in, a “hmmm” sound escaping you, which made Van smile as she tenderly caressed your back and sighed “there you go baby, that´s better, hm”.

it turned you on to know that Van felt like it was actually her cock you were taking, so you started moving with her help, her hands travelling down to guide you a bit, deeply turned on by the fragility you exuded in that moment, the trust you placed in her, the way you put yourself in her hands in your most vulnerable state, drunk on the whimpers you let out while rocking back and forth on it, feeling the strap deep inside, your walls clenched, slicking it up as you picked up a rhythm, trembling because it had been a while since you´d taken it like that, so violently turned on that you were sick with the need to come, hard, chasing the all consuming high with blind need, the kind that doesn´t happen fast, that takes time to build up to, and Van could tell you were overly eager, at risk of rushing it, so she tried to bring you back to the present moment, to enjoy the feeling of pained pleasure, the submission to that pre-orgasm ache, so she cooed “you´re okay, shhh, easy, nice and slow, let me take my time with you” and pulled your face closer to kiss your cheek.

you leaned forward in response and held onto her neck as you felt more secure and found a good angle, breathed against her face and heard her whispering sweet nothings to you as your clit brushed up against her in a way that made you moan louder again, your lips brushing up against her cheek, a shiver down her spine. you weren´t bouncing on it the way you might have if you hadn´t fucked all day, you were too weak for it, but you had enough energy to manage a bit of that motion, moving up and down a few inches, again and again, your juices leaking down the strap, her arms firm around your back as you kept whining and riding her, turned on by your own motion, the romantic yet pornographic feel of it, the feeling that you were performing for her, your cunt sucking the strap up easily over and over, a neverending feeling of “more, more, more” as you went a bit faster and felt a rush of confidence that made you lean back and brace yourself with your palms flat against the sheets, to show of your chest and tilt your head up to the ceiling, which allowed Van the perfect view of not just your body but the way the silicone disappeared in you, your arousal milky white against the black of the toy, her mouth open in hunger, her chest flushed pink in response, her whole body.

you could hear her whisper “jesus.. look at you..” under her breath as she palmed your tits and watched you ride yourself into oblivion, your moans more pathetic than before, her thumbs brushing over your nipples to hear you wince in pleasure, her hands reverently moving all the way down your stomach, until they rested right above where you were getting fucked, fucking yourself, both, that thrill of being on top, the double feeling of she´s doing it to me, I´m doing it to myself.

Van was the type of lover who often preferred to use her hands and mouth on you, it was what she craved most days, the filth of having you drip all over her lips and fingers, the sensuality of it, but whenever you did end up wanting to get strapped by her, she enjoyed every little thing about it, rediscovered her eagerness to see you take more than what she could naturally fuck you with. it drove her wild, to see the way you gave in and opened yourself up, you could hear it from her heavy breathing, felt in the way her hands grabbed you wherever she could reach, worshipful, her own composure crumbling by the second, both of you letting out little curses and groans.

eventually you needed support, so you leaned all the way forward and braced yourself against the headboard with both hands, which made your tits eyes level with her, so Van lost no time and held you in place and started sucking on your right breast, hard enough to make my cry out, the double arousal making you see stars as she closed her lips around your nipple and refused to let go, addicted to the soft feel of it, her teeth digging in for a second as you tried your best to keep up your rhythm, panting, needing release so badly that you were scared of losing your stamina, but you pushed through the intensity of being fucked and sucked on, until you whined “baby I can´t, I´m so.. fuck” unable to find the words, so Van let moved her hands to your waist and held on firmly. “I´ve got you, just keep your hands right there” she reassured you, so you did as she said, braced yourself, slowed down, allowing her to take over, which she did, thrusting up into you from below in a way that made it clear she wanted to see you come, soon, so you surrendered to the fast, deep strokes and heard the slapping sounds of your skin meeting, over and over, as you couldn´t do anything but let out moans that were matched by hers, as if she was also being fucked, both of you gone by then, high-pitched cries falling from your lips until you felt like you might cry from how hard she was hitting the right spot deep inside, so you groaned “fuck fuck I can´t I´m gonna-” choking up on the last word and shuddering just as it all crashed over you, hard, overwhelming, your entire body shaking as she kept going but eased up a bit, your orgasm ripping through you, leaving you spent and breathless on top of her, your hands on her shoulders then as she caressed you, soothed you through the aftershocks, waited for you to ride it out, patient, her own breathing ragged and laced with faint whimpering sounds.

once you felt the tremors subside a bit, you climbed off her and let out a sigh from the sudden emptiness where you were still raw, still sensitive, her hands never leaving you as you followed your urge to suck her off and licked over the side of the strap all the way up until you reached the tip, briefly taking it in your mouth, tasting yourself, drooling on it, her hand in your hair as she let out an “oh…” sound of disbelief, a shiver taking hold of her from the unexpected thrill of seeing you do that, for a second almost forgetting that it wasn´t part of her, a phantom feeling of actually having her dick sucked by you leaving her a mess then as you wiped your mouth and tried to get your bearings.

you laid down next to her, riled up the max, the ache from before less pressing but still there, so you looked at her and whispered “please..”, which you didn´t have to say twice. Van got up and moved to kneel before you, saying “lay back and relax for me”, as she reached out to gently put a flat pillow below your hips, creating a better angle, making sure you were comfortable before she smiled down at you and saw an exhausted but happy smile being directed back at her, her heart melting at the sight, her own wetness almost matching yours by that point, so she got to it and held one of your legs up in a way that opened you wider, teasing for a second by just moving the tip over your outside area, slicking it up, until she heard an impatient “baby…” and gave in, pushing herself all the way in with one swift motion as she leaned over you, a deep groan leaving you as you were filled again, your hands on her back then, nails scratching down as she placed her hands by your head and kissed your face, your cheek, ever so softly, a maddening contrast to the deep, slow strokes she was giving you, your legs wrapped around her waist to keep her as close as possible, your chest pressed against hers, your heartbeats close, so close, a feeling of melting into one as she almost hugged you while fucking you, groaning from the effort, a deeply intimate feel to it that made every movement of her inside of you feel even more intense.

“fuck..” you whined, her breath hot against your face as she sighed “feels good?”, “yeah so good…I love you.. so much” it just spilled out, you couldn´t contain it, the adoration for her that was threatening to tear you apart, crying from it it almost, so she moved her face to stare down at you, her beautiful flushed face, her pink lips, the glowing waves of her hair, all of it adding to your feeling of “god I am so in love with her” as she stared you with the same exact feeling written all over her face and sighed “I love you too..” right as she hit a spot in you that made the words burn not just in your heart but your cunt, body and soul ablaze with the way she was handling you, the way she used sex like that for intense passion, not aggression or dominance over you, her motions never too hard, always just the right amount of pressure - for a second you both just breathed into each other´s open mouths while listening to the “huh” sound that left you with each thrust, Van fixated on how much she adored the way getting it from her always turned you so docile and lamb-like, in awe of it all, her lips brushing yours, a deep intimacy to it, both of you staring into each other´s souls until you caved and started making out, desperately, your hands on her neck as you opened your mouth and felt your tongue against hers, in heaven then, bursting with how good it felt to have her on you, in you, while kissing like that - you couldn´t get enough of the bliss of being wrapped up in her presence like that, her perfume and and shampoo and natural musk hitting you where you were weakest, every part of you claimed by her intoxicating physicality, the same for her as she tasted and smelled and felt you, both of you refusing to let go even when you struggled to continue from how heavy your moans were getting in the way.

eventually she changed her position a bit to have more control and grabbed your legs right under your knees to push your thighs back a bit, up towards your face, to go even deeper, which made you let out a borderline pained “ohh fuck..”, Van mesmerized by the sight of the strap moving in and out of you, using her stabile position to really fuck you, giving you a moment of just being pounded, so you rested against the pillows and took it, scared that you´d come already but holding it together to have an even more rewarding release, breathing through it, until she slowed down again, aware that switching between different speeds was what always got you, not immediate release but gradual building up to it with small setbacks until she gave it to you for good, it drove you crazy in the best way. she leaned back over you and kept your legs up with her arms and leaned down to lick over your chest, animal-like, as if she was trying to devour you, tasting your sweat, your hot skin, her hair spilling over you as she sucked on the flesh of your tits erratically and used her hands to keep you open, both of you addicted to the filthy wet sounds that were filling the air, each move into you creating another maddening sound, the muscles in your lower stomach tight and ready to release again, your cunt overstimulated and leaking all over the strap and yourself, both of you addicted to the sensations, the primal nature of your actions, your sounds, the scent, everything about it.

Van sounded just as pathetic as you then as she sighed “god..” and shut her eyes, as if she was praying for the strength to hold on, so you gripped her shoulders and pleaded “baby please.. I can´t” as you felt the intensity challenge what you were capable of handling, but she insisted, encouraged “it´s okay, you can take it baby, just a bit more, you´re doing so well” so you listened and took a deep breath, remembering how much better you came whenever you didn´t hold the air in, so you willed yourself to relax and saw her approve “that´s it” her face buried in the crook of your neck then, soothing you, “I´m right here, I´ve got you, I´ve got you”, your nails digging into her shoulder blades as you whimpered and got scared of your release, after all that build-up, so she commanded you “come for me baby, just let go, make a mess”, and somehow the last part got to you, your body eager to comply, so she kept you pinned down and didn´t change a thing about the pace and depth she was going at as she felt you come undone beneath her, kissing your face all throughout it, encouraging you “there you go” as you cried out and felt your whole body shudder and shake, sweat dripping down your forehead, spit collecting in your mouth, your legs tensed up, your body unravelling in the most deliciously violent way, no part of you unaffected by the climax, Van staying right where she was, still inside you, out of breath, obsessed, drinking in every sound, every sigh, every touch of your desperate hands, the way you clung to her in your moment of dying of pleasure and coming back to life anew.

you shared a frantic kiss and then her gaze was drawn to where a few tears had escaped you, without you even realizing, so she kissed them away too, tasting the salt, feeling you relax even more from her gentility, so she cupped your face in her hands and used her palms to infuse you with all the soothing touch you needed while recovering from the multiple highs you´d just been through. you shut your eyes and whispered “thank you..” but she didn´t want any gratitude, so she shushed you with another kiss, briefly rubbing your temples with her thumb, trying her best to burn that moment deep into her psyche, to keep it, forever.

eventually she gave you some space and moved on the bed. “be right back” she promised as she got up and freed herself of the harness to put her clothes back on, before she cracked the window open and grabbed a tissue from the bedside table to wipe the sweat off your chest, the juices off your inner thighs, a few deliberate swipes here and there to clean you up a bit, to be of service not just during sex, but afterwards too. for a moment after she just stood there next to the bed and grinned as her gaze traveled all the way over you, the way you laid there, dazed, satisfied, glowing.“damn, what a view...” she marveled while appreciatively running her index finger all the way up your leg, so you smiled and twisted your body a bit to get into a more flattering position, “all yours” you whispered, meaning it, so she got back on the bed with you and pressed a kiss to your stomach “that´s right. all mine” the words spoken against your skin, her voice all raspy and deep, a tingle on your skin where her the breath of the word “mine” left its impact.

it took no time for her to want you close again, so she moved behind you on the bed and sat upright while you draped yourself half over her lap, her arms around your waist, both of you quiet as you melted against her and heard her sigh “my angel”, a quiet laugh from you considering how far from saintly you´d just behaved for her. “you´re a fucking dream, you know that?” she said, her voice clearer and louder then, her grip on you tightening, her chin resting on your shoulder, “you are..” you countered, while lacing your hand through hers and squeezing them.

“god. I needed that so bad…” you confessed, which made her smile to herself “you don´t say”. there it was again, the teasing, her usual tone coming back, “but clearly I did too.. you drive me fucking crazy”. you nuzzled up closer to her and felt her grip on you tighten a bit as you said “I always want you, of course, but on days like today…” you paused to sigh and shake your head “I´m not joking I could just go on and on, I feel insane” your hand wrapped around her wrist then, your cheek resting against her upper arm, her heart swelling from the sight. she laughed at your way of phrasing that “well, don´t ever hold back for my sake, please, I might tease you about it but don´t think I don´t love it when you get like this. it´s hot.”

“yeah?” you asked, just to hear a bit more, already aware that she definitely meant it, so she indulged you “of course, I mean I´d have to be beyond ungrateful to complain about my situation here, having a hot girl want me over and over, that´s about as close to heaven as I´m allowed to get in this life I think” she laid it on thick, so you turned your head to look at her with a questioning but undeniably pleased look, Van grinned, standing by her statement, and leaned down to kiss your forehead, her lips lingering long enough to hear something close to a purr from you.

“you know” you said, playing with a strand of her hair as she leaned back again and caressed you absentmindedly “yeah?” she asked, her tone soft and patient, so you went on,“you might not be the first person I´ve ever been with” a fake gasp of shock from her in response to that,“but!” you insisted, laughing at her dramatics “it still feels like you are because it´s so intense when you´re in love, which is very much a first for me. it´s just so much better like this. I mean clearly it´s addictive to me..” alluding to your never-ending hunger for her that matched hers for you, the kind that made homebodies instead of a couple who spent entire weekends outdoors.

Van nodded and thought for a second before she added to your thought “yeah I mean I wasn´t exactly inexperienced when we met but this is definitely very new to me as well, to actually need someone and feel like touch can be.. healing” she said the last word quietly, as if she was a bit embarrassed about being so earnest, but you squeezed her hand to encourage her to go on. “forgot what that felt like. this might sound corny but I don´t care, it honestly feels like my body came alive again with you. you changed everything for me. everything, I swear.” she sounded like she might choke up, so you moved out of her arms to face her directly and put your hands at the back of her head, your fingers tangled in her hair, scratching gently. “so did you..” you told her and leaned in to kiss her nose, that part of her face you felt so tenderly for, the way it scrunched up whenever she really smiled, a few soft kisses that instantly made her weak again.

“did I wear you out?” you asked after you pulled back, straddling her lap by then, the sight of you completely nude on her clothed body a sight that stirred something deep within her as she cocked her head and ran her fingertips up and down your spine. “your concern for the elderly is very touching, really, but I can keep up. for now. besides, I´m the one who should be asking you that, you´re the one who took it”. she squeezed your hip for emphasis, which caused an involuntary motion from you that made you rub up against her thigh in a way that almost got you going again, but you held back, still, she saw it, the flicker of need behind your eyes, unsure how she got lucky enough to have someone so wrapped around her finger.

“I´m a bit sore, but I kinda like that, so I´m good” you mused and watched her eyelids lower the way they always did when she was suspicious. “you like being sore?” she asked, unsure if you were trying to rile her up or being for real, but you insisted “when it´s your doing, yes” whispering it lasciviously, so she played along “oh really?” her own voice dripping in sensuality then, “yeah, I remember the morning after I first slept here, I was so giddy all the way home when I felt my muscles aching.”

“damn” Van laughed, “you´re something else, girl” you shrugged and settled back in her arms, laying down again, sprawled out over her. “but I agree, I also like when you leave your impact on me” Van admitted, her masochistic nature not a secret to you, so you took her arm and playfully bit down enough to leave some faint teeth marks, which made her wince but more from pleasure than pain, her smile audible when she said “yeah, something like that” and hoped that the indents would actually stay for at least an hour or so, already hoping you´d bruise her inner thigh the next time you gave her head.

for about ten minutes you continued to lay there, eyes closed, breathing in unison, a deep relaxation settling over you in that moment of precious, quiet intimacy.

before either of you could fall asleep, Van tapped you on the shoulder and said “so. is there any point in me leaving the bed and telling you to get to work now, or are you just gonna come crawling all over me again in ten minutes?”. you sat upright then and went to go gather your clothes from the floor to get dressed again “I´ll try to restrain myself. I mean, you could also just tie my legs to the chair”. Van watched you from where she was still sitting and laughed “oh, don´t tempt me”

“okay, so” she said as she also got up from the bed and went over to you, snaking her arms around your waist “how about you finish your work while I cook us something nice, then after dinner we could go get some fresh air and then get back to bed later. how does that sound”, you smiled, nodding “perfect”.

before she could leave you shared one last thought “you know you´re the first..” you were searching for the right word “lover” you said, which elicited a grin from her, “that I have ever lived with and I can´t imagine it going better than how it is right now. I feel so at peace here, like I´m home, for real”. Van´s expression softened “I know, I´ve shed some tears about it, trust me, I feel very lucky”.

you wrapped your arms around each other and breathed in each other´s scent one last time and then begrudgingly separated, a groan from you as you sat back down at the desk, so she turned around and said “alright, in and hour I wanna see at least 500 words progress, are we clear? don´t ruin your academic career because you´re too busy throwing yourself at me”.

you whipped your head around and found her leaning against the doorframe, clearly satisfied with herself, a hint of pride in her demeanor that suited her “you calling me a whore?” you joked, watching her smile get even wider as she countered “I´d never”. she blew you a kiss, half-teasing, half-earnest, and left you to it, uttering “good luck” as she closed the door behind herself.

miraculously you actually managed to put your head down and push through the last few pages of your assignment without taking breaks or distracting yourself or letting thoughts of Van get a hold of you too heavily, so after about an hour and fifteen minutes of sitting there and typing away, you emerged from the bedroom and joined her in the kitchen where she was putting the finishing touches on a nice pasta dish she´d cooked up. you wanted to be close to her, so instead of taking a seat, you stood there with her, picking up random things on the counter and putting them back down again to occupy your hands, so she said “trying to find a good space to bend over for me?”, not willing to let it go yet, that you´d been needy as hell all day, a smug grin as she kept her eyes on the plates she was preparing while you scoffed “you wish”, pretending to be offended, a little turned on from the mental image.

after you both got some energy back into your system from the pasta and some ice-cold soda, you decided to go out and enjoy the beauty of the golden hour, the sky empty save for a few clouds here and there, the breeze just mild enough to allow you to leave your jackets, but fresh enough to make you link your arms in order to be cozy.

after an hour of wandering around in the park and stocking up on sweets for later on, you went back home and both a had a shower, she first, then you, and right as you freed yourself of your clothes to wash yourself, you saw that you´d bled into your underwear a little, confirming what she´d alluded to earlier, that your sex-drive had been intensified by your impending period. she´d said it off-handedly that morning in bed, that she remembered you bleeding one morning after you´d begged her to keep going and going all night, but you´d brushed it off, certain that you weren´t getting it until at least a week later, but it had in fact come a bit early that month and it made you emotional in a way, to know that she paid such close attention to your body, to your moods, everything.

Van was waiting for you in her sleeping clothes on the couch when you walked over and said “well you were right earlier, I got it now..”, so she perked up, immediately alert, always concerned about any pain you might be in, “fuck I´m sorry, does it hurt?”. “a bit yeah, but not as bad as usual, you can take credit I think, relaxed my muscles” you smiled as you approached the couch and carefully sat down, your hands on your stomach.

Van grabbed your knee, searching your eyes from up close “still, do you need a pain killer?” and you considered her offer just a second too long before answering, so she cut you off and decided for you “yes you do”. she rushed over to the cabinet to get some pills and a glass of water and brought them back once you´d obediently swallowed them.

“come here” she said once she sat back down and opened her arms, so you laid on top of her, your back against her chest in a way that allowed her to caress your abdomen, ever so gently, trying to alleviate you from any tension that might´ve been causing discomfort.

“comfortable?” she inquired as she felt you go slack and breathe out “yeah very. you´re so warm” you hummed while resting your hand above hers, “and you´re so beautiful..” she answered quietly, her eyes fixed on the space where your sweatpants had been pushed down a little, your skin visible below her palm. you smiled when you heard the reverence in her tone, moved by it, so you shifted your position a little and gave her a kiss before you rested your head on her shoulder, by the crook of her neck, suddenly emotional over her way of caring for you as if it was second nature to her.

“oh you´re killing me today baby” she sighed and held you close, unsure how to handle the feeling of having you curl up on her like that, your body so pliant and open under her touch. “I haven’t gotten used to it yet, that I get to be held like this all the time now..” you told her. she agreed, “yeah me neither. and it´s been like a month of you living here but I still have these moments where I wake up at night and see you there next to me, or when I come up the stairs and you´re already there and I didn´t expect it and feel such a rush. the same way I did when I first met you.”

you smiled and clung to her “god I´m so glad I have you…” your eyes getting heavy, hers too, “my baby” she whispered and let you drift off. before you could fall asleep, you mumbled “love you.. ”, her voice just as fragile “love you too..”.

both of you were too relaxed and content to move and got to bed already, so instead she pulled blanket from the couch over you and let you stay on top of her, keeping you warm and safe as you both dozed off to the feeling of each other´s chest rising and falling pressed against your own, heart to heart.

as your consciousness became hazy, you found yourself in a state of almost prayer-like, deep gratitude for Van, the way she tended to you, body and soul, the way she could overwhelm you with pleasure, make you lose yourself in passion, but also soothe any ache or discomfort and still your being with the simplest gesture and touch.

a memory from earlier that day was the last thing you thought of, you heard it echoing in your head, what she´d said, and repeated it back to yourself, to affirm it, revel in the fact that no dream you were about to sink into could match the sweetness of your reality: I´m hers. all hers.

#I was kinda delirious from being sick when I wrote this so that might have also featured in #my style for her is pretty consistent I think but this one did feel a bit different so I thought I’d just put it out there and see what #you how you guys feel :)#yellowjackets #van palmer x reader #yellowjackets x reader #van palmer

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delusionalalien · 3 days ago

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[Embrace You, Devour You] [Chapter 4] YANDERE!Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader x YANDERE!Variant!Invincibles

I feel like absolute shit and I'm fucking hungry that i could eat a Mark variant.

1 year time skip next chapter.

prologue

previous chapter , next chapter

T.W / Tags: Slow-burn, Soft yandere, pining, mark is bat shit crazy but he good dw, baby-trapping, teen pregnancy, yandere variants, mark a lil pushy, breeding kink, jealous Mark Grayson, talks of abortion, misunderstandings, possessive Mark Grayson, murder, gore, child-murder(variant!readers), attempted suicide, readers mom had a miscarriage, OOC, prob need more tags

Crusher does not trust Omni-man.

To others, your mother was intimidating and unfriendly, standing at a whooping 190cm (6'3) with a muscular build, face that stayed a permanent scowl all hours of the day, hair tied tightly into a low military bun and streaks of white hair on each side of her head, tucked tightly behind her ears. Giving a more unapproachable look.

But to (Name), she was Vanessa P. Aguilar, your mother who was, yes scary and intimidating and quite frankly unapproachable to some, but behind the intimidation, she a kind woman. A hard-ass without a doubt but she tries her best for her family. For you, her daughter she loved so much.

Her baby.

Vanessa's pregnancy was difficult, she lost so much over the years, so emotional and angry until (Name) finally came to her and Nicolas lives. She had cried ugly in that hospital bed when they handed her daughter over cradled into her arms in a pink blanket, relieved that finally everything she had dream for are finally coming true.

She had a child to call and love as her own.

Pure love, not like the one her father drilled into her head.

The pure parental love that was absent in her earlier life.

Vanessa stares, and she stares intensely at a snack section in a small market somewhere in Seoul, South Korea. Food, you like food, you like eating just like your father and no dolls can please you unlike when you we're only a child. There was so much she couldn't choose just one to take home.

The store clerk stood by, dragged by the tall foreigner from the safety of his counter asking him in minimal English while he breaks into broken English, giving his best to reply.

Communicating with one of America's top superhero's known as the infamous Crusher, was hellish.

A thick Russian accent rolled from her tongue, unforgiving and sharp, picking out 8 of the sweeter options in the entire shelf and paying for them all with the additional salted ones she picked out for herself.

This was new to her as it will be new to you. Vanessa often daydreams how you would initially react when she goes out of her way to spoil you with new things, either by object or food. It was one of her many joys in life.

She steps out of the store, hands gripping tightly on the plastic bags and flew right back up into the sky to met up her neighbor.

"Nolan."

Nolan eyed the woman as she stopped besides him. He too went shopping, wanting to please his wife and Mark. Vanessa could tell he wanted to look normal and followed her idea, but decided not to bring it up, it was none of her business is what she tells herself every single time.

"Vanessa." Nolan greets her in the same way.

"Did you buy what i asked of you? I also bought something Mark and (Name) may like." She lifts a bag up in the air, the rustles of junk foods reaches his ear.

Nolan genuinely smiled for once since their departure from home. He too showed a plastic bag full of the stuff Debbie and Nicolas were obsessing over that was only available outside America. Vanessa smiled back.

There was no further conversation. No jokes or jab at each others worn appearance. Just stiffness and odd comfort in the silence that surrounds them both as they fly back home in a steady pace.

Nolan likes working with Vanessa. She was quiet, she minded her business, and most importantly knew where she stood. He didn't feel like he needed to explain why he do things his way, unlike those in the GDA.

coughmidmortalcough

Vanessa however did not feel the same. Something about Nolan, still clueless and stiff coming from somewhere in space and was sent to protect earth, was unsettling. Like a storm brewing and ready to combust at any given moment.

Is she scared of her neighbor? Absolutely.

Was she going to do something about it?

Vanessa pondered at that question for a moment. Sneaking glances at the alien who stared ahead. Soon, she tells herself over and over since the first time they met.

Nolan just needs to give her a reason, a trigger, to put a fist through that gut of his.

"Maya lyubov, I am home!"

You hear the back door opening with a loud creak. You and Mark halted your activities. Duct tape in hand as you both glanced at each other.

It's been a few days since everything fell back into normalcy. Mark and William was there congratulating you for finishing your last class and headed out to eat out at the local burger mart down the road.

Your father and Debbie even spoiled you three by playing in the arcade and a sleepover at Williams to end the day.

Both you and Mark grinned. Tapping down last of the duct tape on your knees and bolted down the stairs to where your parents were.

Nicolas was with your mother in the kitchen, giving him a passionate kiss before they hug. You mother's large build covering him fully in their long embrace.

"Mom! Look and me and Mark! We're Duct tape man and Duct tape woman!" You announced from the doorway, posing with Mark proudly with both your hands on your waist.

Your mother's jaw drop at the horrifying sight of her baby looking ridiculous, your father simply laughed at the both of you.

"Even if me and Mark don't get our powers!" You fake punch mark who dramatically falls back to avoid it grinning at you as he does, "We'll be the duo that sends all the villains in jail with our duct tapes!"

"Sounds like an expensive superpower." Nicolas teased and crossed his arms, a huge grin on his face and avoiding the punches that you were throwing at him. Your father giggled and nudges for your mother to say something.

"Well does Debbie and your father know of this, duct tape adventure?" Vanessa muttered, reaching to peel a duct tape on your face.

You winced and she recoiled back surprised that it hurt you. Vanessa noted that she ask Debbie how to get rid of the silver tape without hurting your skin.

"We'll I'm quite excited to see what both of them are going to say to whatever you two we're cooking up." Nicolas ruffled both of your hairs.

You and Mark held hands while your parents trailed behind you two as Mark barged right into his home. Saying the same thing you said to your parents.

"Dad look! We're gonna be Duct tape man and she's gonna be Duct tape woman!"

Nolan and Debbie stared at the two of you as you two posed and started punching the air while Mark was explaining more about the power of duct tape. Debbie caught sight of Nicolas holding in his laughter and Vanessa shaking her head as they stood by to watch.

"I don't know if that's gonna work as well as you hope so kiddo." Nolan said. Both you and Mark paused and looked at each other. Debbie was quick to be by her sons side and gently tugs on the tape.

"And you two might want to rethink that as we peel all this off."

"You two go upstairs and run a bath, that just might help," A flutter of giggles escaped your lips and you drag Mark upstairs accompanied by Nicolas who nodded at three left in the living room to keep an eye on them.

"A little."

Vanessa sat on a bar stool sighing loudly.

"I was not prepared to witness my own child rolled in duct tape along with your son, my apologies." Debbie pats her back.

"Well we signed up for kids, its bound to happen that they'll do something stupid together."

A loud thud happened upstairs, a muffled yells of your name left Mark and your father heavy footsteps scrambled to aid you in whatever happened. Vanessa and Debbie can't help but laugh a bit at the sound of their children calling to each other.

"That boy is never getting his powers is he?"

Debbie leans over and gave Nolan a hug.

Vanessa glanced at him warily from the side before she stands to leave the two alone.

"Don't ask me, you're the superhero space alien."

"But even if he doesn't, we'll love him just as much."

"OW!" , "Sorry Mark!"

Debbie shakes her head, "Finish dinner while I go over there and help untape the kids."

Note : I took Russian in Duolingo before. After a week i was like, man this shit hard tf. So i dropped it (I only know how to say bicycle in Russian💀)

#yandere mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x reader #idk what im doing #idk man #variant mark grayson #variant!mark x reader #idk how to tag this #invincible x reader #invincible x you

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idontknowanymoreidk · 7 hours ago

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I'll do this again <3

- One millipede, one centipede, and some isopods! Lil' cuties. All the isopods are named Little John, and the millipede is Vegetable Noodles. The centipede is Fred.

- Plain rice and lettuce (not together)

- I speak English and Spanish! My mom is teaching me Urdu because I'm embarrassed that I don't know my families' native language.

- I give rocks to people I love. The best present you can give me is a rock. I will cherish it. Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way so... whenever I try to give someone a rock they always act weirdly and I'm scared they'll just throw it outside.

- I've helped one of the snakes in my science classroom get more comfortable around people by just holding her for 15 minutes each day (her name is Cupcake btw. She's a ball python and the sweetest little thing).

@ anybody who wants to join

Tag game because I want to know you better !

-Do you have a pet ?

-Comfort food ?

-How many languages do you speak ?

- Random fact about yourself

-Something you’re proud of

To begin this little tag game, I’ll tag @ebony-reine-vibes @freddie-77-ao3 @newobsessioneveryweek @thehaikuman and @miraclesnail

I hope the questions aren’t boring and love you all 😘

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 2 days ago

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Hi there, I don't know if you're taking requesting at this moment but I'm gonna leave it here either way. I was wondering if you could do something regarding skz(any member you like or all of them, up to you :'D) where their s/o doesn't have any friend but hides it from them, thinking it might be embarrassing or pathetic, cuz they all have each other and she doesn't. But they find out somehow. Maybe she said she's going out but found her alone somewhere( park, library idk wherever you want lmao), and the rest is up to you ToT <33. Hope this makes sense. It's been way over a year since I moved abroad for studies and still stuck in the outer part of every circle lmaoo. Love love ABSOLUTELY LOVE your work. I'm so glad I found your work ToT. Thank you for existing with your creativity <333333

First off, youre brave for leaving home to go study. It’s takes a lot to uproot everything you know and love and go chase your dreams. I admire that kind of courage. So sorry for the late response, but I hope this brings you comfort ♥️

You tell him you’re going out. You even smile when you say it, and that’s the hardest part. Because smiling shouldn’t feel like lying, but lately, it does.

“Gonna go meet some people from class,” you say, slipping on your shoes, tying the same laces twice just for something to do with your hands. “We’ve been meaning to catch up.”

He smiles back, trusting you. Because why wouldn’t he?

Chan doesn’t question it. He doesn’t follow up, doesn’t pry, just gives you that soft nod he always does when he’s trying to be supportive without hovering.

“Have fun, yeah?” He leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Text me when you get there?”

You nod.

You lie again.

You don’t go to class.

You don’t meet anyone.

You walk.

Not even aimlessly- which in your mind would have made it the slightest bit better. You know exactly where your feet take you. The long path toward the quiet park just past the river bend. A spot you’ve gone to more than once, with a worn bench that overlooks the water and a broken lamppost that flickers, even during the day. It’s safe here.

Silent.

You sit and watch the wind skim across the water’s surface, pretending it’s talking to you. Pretending you’re listening. Pretending this isn’t the only place you don’t feel out of place.

This city is full of people. You are surrounded by thousands every day. When you walk the streets you realize just how beautiful and intricate the world is, seeing new faces and sights everyday. So, so many things around you. People.

But it’s never been harder to feel seen. No matter how many circles you dip your toes into, the water never feels warm.

You hover on the edge of things, always invited, never included.

No one really waits for you.

No one really calls.

No one but him.

But he’s different. He has them. Eight brothers that orbit around each other like they were born to do just that.

They have matching hoodies and inside jokes and nicknames. They show up for one another- loud, chaotic, and whole.

You show up to group projects and fade into the background. You sit in full classrooms and still feel invisible. You eat lunch with your phone on the table, pretending not to care when no messages come in.

You don’t want Chan to know that.

You don’t want him to see it.

He’s warm and soft and kind and caring in ways you’ve never been able to describe without falling apart.

He gives you space, yes- but that space is filled with love.

It wraps around you like a sweater two sizes too big and just heavy enough to feel safe. You don’t want to ruin that with your loneliness.

You don't even know how you first met Chan, let alone how this… romance happened.

How his warm, snuggle, strong embrace became a part of your daily routine when you couldn't even find someone to stick around long enough to learn your name, your fears, your dreams.

So you lie.

“Going out with friends.”

“Group study.”

“Coffee with the girls.”

And then you sit on this bench, hands in your lap, watching the hours pass.

This.

The only other routine of your life. The same thing over and over.

You wondered how long you could keep your loneliness hidden.

You don’t even hear the footsteps until they stop right beside you.

“…You said you were going out.”

Your heart drops.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

But you do. Slowly. Like maybe if you stall long enough, the truth won’t crack open between you.

Chan stands there, hands in his coat pockets, hair windswept and cheeks pink from the cold. He looks at you like he’s trying not to jump to conclusions.

Understanding and patient as always.

But his voice is already soft, too careful, too warm. And that’s worse.

You laugh. It’s thin. “I…did.”

“Out with friends, you said.”

You nod, but your throat’s tight. “Yeah.”

He looks at the empty bench. The overcast sky. The paper coffee cup by your side that’s clearly been there too long. The way your cuticles are already ripped from picking at them since he made his arrival known.

You didn't have to know he had been standing their longer than you realized. That he had sensed something was up for a few weeks.

Maybe he was wrong to have followed you. But he cared too much to not see if there was something that was bothering you.

You were too busy watching his face to acknowledge the gears in his head turning from the scene.

You swear his heart breaks a little when he puts it all together.

“How long?” he asks, quiet.

You swallow.

“I don’t know.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

He knows. God, of course he does.

“How long have you been coming here?” he tries again, gently, slowly sitting beside you like he’s scared you might run. “When you said you were meeting someone?”

You stare at your hands. “A while.”

Silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your voice breaks without your permission. “Because it’s embarrassing.”

His breath catches. That’s the one that hits him.

You force a laugh again, but it’s wet this time, your vision already blurring.

“I mean, look at you. You have them. You have a family in every way that counts. You’ve got people to lean on, talk to, yell across rooms to, joke with. I don’t even have anyone to text that I got home safe except you.”

You blink hard, trying to keep it together.

"Not that thats a bad thing!" You backtrack. "But...it’s pathetic. The only person I have to talk to is my boyfriend. Its burdensome. Embarrassing. I didn’t want you to see me like that. Like- some lonely girl who can’t even make a single friend in a city full of people.” You swipe at your tears furiously.

Chan says your name softly, but you shake your head.

“I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat.

And then he says, quiet but firm:

“I could never.”

Your breath hitches.

“I mean it,” he says, turning to face you now, knees knocking yours. “I could never think less of you for something like that.”

“But I-”

“You moved across the world, alone. You chased your goals, even when it meant starting from zero. You’re brave. You’re strong. You don’t have to hide how hard it’s been. Not from me.”

You want to believe him.

But it’s hard. It’s so hard.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” you whisper.

Chan takes your hand. Carefully. Tenderly. Like you’re glass, but not as if you're fragile- just precious.

“You’re not a burden,” he says. “You’re a part of my life. I want to be there for all of it. Even the parts that hurt.”

Your chest caves in. A quiet sob escapes before you can swallow it down. And he’s already there, wrapping you in his arms, pulling you against him so your cheek rests on his shoulder and his hand cradles the back of your head like he can shield you from the weight of your own silence.

“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

You cry harder at that.

Because it’s the first time in months it feels true.

He holds you until the shaking fades. Until your breaths come slower, easier. Until the wind quiets and your fingers find his, holding tight.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “Not with me.”

You don’t talk much on the way home.

You think you should. Maybe say something light, make a joke, smooth over the awkward edges still hanging between the things you said and the way you cried into his hoodie. But Chan doesn’t rush you.

He walks beside you in silence, his hand in yours, and it’s the kind of silence that doesn’t ask you to fill it. The kind that just says I’m here. I’m still here.

You lean a little closer than usual. He doesn’t mind.

It seems he is deep in thought.

And when you step inside your apartment, the quiet settles again but this time it feels different. Not empty. Just calm. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

Chan toes off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket.

You linger by the door.

“Want tea?” he asks, already heading to your kitchen like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. But your fingers twitch toward him, aching to hold something. Anything. Him.

He notices. He always does.

Without a word, he places two mugs down on the counter, crosses the room in three soft steps, and wraps his arms around you again. Just like before. No pressure. No questions. Just warmth. Just home.

You breathe in. He smells like chamomile and winter air.

“I didn’t mean to cry that much,” you murmur, voice small against his chest.

“I know,” he says, fingers threading through your hair. “But you needed to.”

A pause.

“I’ve cried over less,” he adds. “Like…when Felix dropped my protein pancakes that one time.”

You laugh, a little choked, but real. “You really liked those pancakes.”

“They had peanut butter and bananas. And the brand was discontinued. You don’t come back from that kind of loss easily.”

You bury your face in his hoodie. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

Your heart does a tiny somersault. You don’t say anything. Just squeeze him a little tighter.

Later, when you sit on the floor with a blanket wrapped around your legs while Chan moves around your kitchen like he’s been living here for years. He hands you a bowl of soup, still too warm to hold properly, and sits beside you, his shoulder against yours.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “you don’t have to keep it all in like that.”

You stare into your tea. “I know. It just…feels safer.”

He hums. “I get that. But carrying everything alone doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you tired.”

That lands.

He lets it settle before he speaks again. “I’ve been there too, you know.”

You blink. “You?”

He nods, sipping from his cup.

“When I moved away from Australia…I didn’t know anyone. I had the guys, eventually, yeah. But at first? I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Even the people I did talk to...those relationships didn't feel...real you know? I’d go whole days without saying a word to someone who wasn’t part of a schedule.”

You look at him. “That’s hard to imagine.”

He smiles, but it’s small. “It was lonely. And I didn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t handle it. But pretending to be okay didn’t help. Talking about it did. And that's where I met true friends."

You don’t say anything. Just listen. Just feel.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “Or strong all the time. Or happy if you’re not.”

You glance at him, suddenly shy. “Do the others know? That I don’t really…have people here?” You whisper quietly.

“No,” he says, gently. “But if they did, they’d never judge you for it.”

You nod. You almost believe it.

“Felix would probably cry and then bake you something. Changbin would probably introduce you to a bunch of the girls at JYPE- which I can do for you. They've seen you around a few times and ask me about you. I'm sure they'd love to be your friends.” Chan adds. He bites his lip in thought. “Hyunjin would probably ask you to be his muse for a piece of artwork- just to make sure you weren't alone. Seungmin would pretend he doesn’t care and then start inviting you to everything making some excuse to make sure you tagged along. Jeongin would bring you snacks. Food is something he loves and he'd want to share it with you. Since it makes him happy. Han would- well, he’d find a way to make it worse and then somehow better. He'd also probably be with Lix on the crying boat.” He chuckled.

You laughed softly too.

“And Minho?”

“He’d act like he already knew. Then he’d tell you you’re part of the family now, and you've been a part of the family, so deal with it.”

Your eyes sting, but not from sadness this time.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong anywhere,” you admit. “Like I keep showing up to things hoping something will click, but it never does. And I start to wonder if it’s me. If I’m just…not meant to be part of anyone’s circle.”

Chan sets his cup down and turns to face you fully.

“You belong with me.”

That sentence cuts through every doubt like warm light through fog.

“I know it’s hard when the world feels like it’s moving without you,” he says. “But you’re not invisible to me. You’ve never been. I came up to you first, didn't I?"

Your breath catches.

“And if the people around you can’t see how amazing you are, that’s on them. Not you.”

Tears threaten again, but you manage a watery smile.

He reaches out, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re not a background character, alright? You’re the main one. And I’m not letting you forget that again.”

You lean into his touch. “You make that easy to believe.”

“Then let me keep doing that.”

He pulls you close again, and this time, you let yourself fall into it fully. No hesitating. No wondering if you’re too heavy, too quiet, too complicated to hold. No calculating the space you take up in someone else’s life.

Just…surrender.

You melt into his chest, your arms curling around his waist, and for the first time in what feels like months, your mind goes quiet. Not empty, not numb- just quiet.

Like the part of you that always keeps score finally sat down and closed the book.

Chan doesn’t say anything right away. He just breathes with you. One slow inhale, one slower exhale, like he’s teaching your body a rhythm softer than survival.

“You feel safe,” you whisper, before you even mean to say it aloud.

He smiles, lips brushing the top of your head. “Good. That’s what I want.”

And when he says it like that, you believe him.

His hand moves gently up and down your back, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing you by touch. Not to fix anything. Not to rush you out of what you’re feeling. Just to remind you: you’re here, you’re loved, and you’re not too much.

“I used to be scared of this,” you admit, voice muffled against his shoulder. “Of being known like this. Of letting someone see everything I’m trying so hard to keep together.”

“Yeah?” he says softly.

You nod. “But it’s different with you.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes- those warm, dark eyes that never ask for more than you’re ready to give.

“I know how to hold things gently,” he says. “Especially the parts of you you’re scared to show.”

You blink, and the tears come again but this time they fall without fear. No shame. No guilt. Just soft, steady release. And he’s already there, catching them with his thumb, brushing them away like they were never something to hide in the first place.

You don’t say thank you. Not because you’re ungrateful but because you know he knows. Because gratitude is stitched into the way your fingers cling to the edge of his hoodie. The way you let your weight rest against him, trusting him not to flinch.

You stay like that for a long time.

No pretending.

No hiding.

No masks.

Just two people in the quiet, where being known doesn’t feel scary anymore. It feels like breathing. Like healing. Like the beginning of something steady.

And when Chan finally speaks again, it’s in a whisper just for you:

“From now on, even if it’s just me- you’ll always have someone to come home to.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

#skz imagines #skz stay #skz x reader #skz reactions #skz #stray kids reactions #skz angst #skz fluff #stray kids #christopher bang #bangchan #chan

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vioartemis · 2 days ago

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Charlotte Matthews

(Post rescue! Lottie Matthews x non Yellowjackets! Fem! reader)

You meet lottie at a mental institution you were both sent to, and quickly, a bond creates between you two.

I am back from the dead lol. I don’t know what this is, or if it makes much sense tbh, but yeah I tried something. Title is shit idk 😓 I just love Lottie sm (this was written after watching the very beginning of season 3)

For some reason it was decided that you would have a new cellmate/roommate -you never knew what to call it- and it made you nervous. Charlotte Matthews, that was her name. You’d seen her around, of course. She was hard to miss. But you never tried to talk to her.

Not that you didn’t want to. You did. It did too. And for that exact reason you kept a safe distance between you and her. That being said… you couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice brought you back to earth, and you realized you were staring at her while being lost in thoughts.

“Ah- yes, sorry…”

You looked down at your lap where your book rested, hoping she’d go back to journaling or whatever it was she was doing.

This wasn’t a good idea. Both of you in the same room wasn’t a good idea. You knew it because It was content. She seemed like a nice person, you didn’t want her to get hurt.

“You look… preoccupied” she remarked, putting her pencil down

“I’m not” you replied quickly, too quickly to be honest

Even if you weren’t looking at her, you could feel her gaze on you.

“I’m not your enemy you know?”

Her voice was soft, inviting.

“I know”

“Talk to me then. I can help you”

She closed her notebook and put it down in her bed, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress to be closer to you. You want to believe her. But no one can help you.

At your lack of answer, she tried again,

“What led you to ending up here?”

It was a nice way of asking what was wrong with you. You grabbed your bookmark and put it in your book.

“I went caving with a group of people. We thought it was safe but a tunnel collapsed and we got stuck in there for god knows how long”

You paused, trying to find your words and selecting which parts to tell. You didn’t want to talk about It. Whatever It was, you were sure it was with you down there in the caves. And It was not good.

Charlotte was silent, looking at you patiently.

“We barely had any food, and tensions were quick to rise. People died for stupid reasons. We all… did bad things in there. To survive.”

A longer pause. You weren’t sure how to finish your story.

“What happened when you got rescued?” she asked, noticing your struggle

“We didn’t”

“What do you mean?”

Here came the hard part.

“We didn’t get rescued. One day a… another part collapsed. It created a hole. I barely fit through it, but I managed. It lead to the outside. None of the others followed me. I don’t know if they didn’t fit or if it collapsed again after me. But when I found help and told them, they said it was too risky to try to save the others…”

You still felt guilty. Maybe you could’ve helped them out if you had tried to make a bigger path. If you had insisted to try to save them anyways. If you had-

“It’s not your fault”

You heard her words at the same time as you felt her hands holding yours. She was kneeling in front of you, dark brown eyes looking up at you with sympathy.

“You did what you had to do to survive”

You had a weird feeling that she knew how it felt. You looked down at her, your eyes meeting.

You both stayed like that for a moment, in silence, looking in each other’s eyes. Reading in each other’s soul.

You didn’t need words to know. You saw It in her eyes. And she did too.

From that moment on, you got closer to Lottie. Her presence was comforting. Her touch soothing.

You both had your fair share of nightmares at night, and found solace in each other’s arms to the point where there barely was any night where you didn’t sleep in the same bed.

“Can’t sleep?” Lottie finally asked after you shifted in her bed for maybe the twelfth time

You shake you head no.

“Come here”

She pulls you in her arms, a hand on your back, the other in your hair.

“What’s on your mind?” Her voice was soft, as always

You didn’t know what to answer. ‘A lot’ was a little vague. ‘You’ was too honest.

“Nothing” a lie, not much better than the other options

Lottie’s hand went from your hair to the back of your neck, tilting your head up slightly.

“Look at me”

And you did, almost immediately. It was almost amusing to her how quick you always did what she asked. She found it cute.

She took a moment to get lost in your eyes, giving you some time to get lost in hers as well.

You knew she could read you like an open book, but you didn’t mind. It was easier than saying it out loud.

She rested her forehead against yours, the tip of her nose touching yours.

“Stay with me?”

“Always”

You both knew you meant it. This wasn’t like anything either of you had ever experienced. It was natural. It felt right. It would probably come for you both at some point, but at least you’ll be together.

It was content, for now, and so were you.

#yellowjackets #lottie matthews #charlotte matthews #lottie mathews x reader #lottie matthews x fem!reader #charlotte matthews x reader

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mononijikayu · 2 hours ago

Text

pretty woman — nanami kento.

“You don’t look like you’re here to be fixed either.” he says. “I’m not.” you admit. “Just didn’t feel like being at home. Thought I’d sit somewhere people didn’t expect anything from me. For like, two seconds.” He nods. There’s a silence that settles between you then, but it’s not awkward. It’s rare. Companionable. Like two strangers who’ve walked miles through the same kind of loneliness and just happened to stop at the same bench. After a moment, he asks you, “Are you often this forward with strangers?” You smile faintly, eyes still ahead. “Only the ones who look like they need someone to remind them they’re still here.”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Actor’s AU (AU of the AU);

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Pretty Woman, Pretty Boy, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Hurt/Comfort, Age Gap Relationship (Reader is 30s, Nanami is late 40s), Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Post–Separation/Divorce, Dating, Feeling, Light–Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Soft Smut, Actor! Nanami, Comedian! Reader;

Words: 17k words.

Note: this was a commission of @nanamin-chan who wanted to see a different perspective of the actor's au!!! please thank them for this!!! this is a few years where nanami kento has become all but single and has been going through a LOT. in some ways, this deserves some happiness too after paying for his mistakes. anyway, i hope you enjoy it as much as we do!!! i love you all so much~

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

HIS LIFE HAS BEEN QUITE AN ADVENTURE THESE PAST FEW YEARS. It has been a few years since his separation from his wife of nearly thirty years, veteran actor Nanami Kento drifts through life like a man half-remembered by the world he once commanded.

The silver screen still calls his name, scripts still arrive at his door, and fans still pause with reverence when they see him but deep inside, he is unmoored.

That was the truth of it all. Time, once so precisely accounted for in neat schedules and well-worn routines, has unraveled into empty afternoons and hollow evenings.

Their separation was quiet, dignified by all standards. He expected it, if he was being honest. After he had done to her, he had expected she would have done worse. But his estranged wife was not that sort of person. She was too much of a good person. Too good a person he could never be.

Instead, they packed up their belongings from the old home, had a settlement, and became distant and amicable friends who sometimes drink together. There were reports about it, true enough. But there were no tabloid scandals, no public fallout. They didn’t allow it.

Just two people who had loved each other at one point, perhaps fiercely, perhaps too brutally and too horribly, until the love grew too unbearable to even have between them widened into a chasm. The paper may say that the both of them were just separated, that it's a break.

After all, the law says they are still married. There was an agreement to not divorce just yet. He had your friendship, he has the kids. Yet, it’s not the same.

In every other way that matters, Nanami Kento is alone. His wife does not love him that way anymore. And he doesn’t blame her for that.

Though, he still wears his ring out of habit. He still checks his phone as if expecting her to call, ask what he wants for dinner, or remind him to pick up tea on his way home.

But there is no home. Only a new elaborate high rise apartment to come home to. It was too clean, a bed too cold, and a calendar marked with dates that now mean nothing.

Kento doesn't know if he believes in second chances. He's not even sure he believes in himself anymore. At least not the way he used to, when he was young and roles came easy, when she’d sit in the front row of his plays with those warm eyes, mouthing his lines as if they were poetry written just for her.

Now, love feels distant, like a language he once knew but can no longer speak. He wonders, sometimes bitterly, if he squandered all his good years. If he gave all of himself to a life that has already ended and left nothing behind.

He questions whether he’s worthy of being known and revered, not just admired, but truly seen. After all he had done, was he worthy of something more than that?

There are people who flirt, who reach out, who want to know the man behind the quiet melancholy. But Nanami Kento doesn’t know how to let them in. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

They were just flings to him. Little wanderings that would dry up after five months and then a new one comes along. It was rinsed and repeated.

He isn't closed off out of cruelty. He’s just... tired. Tired of starting over. Tired of hoping. Tired of the ache that comes with imagining a future he’s not sure he deserves.

Terrified of disappointing anymore, terrified of becoming someone that would hurt someone again in the way he had hurt his wife.

And so he moves through his days like a shadow of the man he once was. Still searching. Still mourning. Still wondering if, somewhere out there, love might find him again or if he’ll remain adrift, alone in a life too large for one.

Some days are easier. He’ll wake to the sound of birds on the balcony, light pressing in through the curtains like a hesitant promise. He’ll make coffee in the quiet. Always hot black espresso, no sugar, just the way he likes it.

And for a moment, the ritual feels almost like peace. He’ll go for long walks with his scarf wrapped tight and his thoughts even tighter, passing streets lined with memories he doesn’t quite let himself feel.

The industry still calls. Directors still cast him as the wise elder, the cold father, the heartbroken lover. Many roles that now echo uncomfortably close to the truth. Sometimes, acting feels like the only time he knows what he’s supposed to do.

On set, there are marks to hit, lines to say, someone to yell “cut” when it all becomes too much. But when the cameras stop rolling, when the lights go out, he returns to a silence that doesn't end on cue.

He doesn’t talk about the separation. Not to his co–stars, not to old friends who tiptoe around the subject, not even to himself, not really. To the world, he’s composed. Controlled.

Still the dependable Nanami Kento. But beneath the surface, he's in a slow freefall, reaching for something, anything that feels like solid ground.

Sometimes, when he catches his reflection, he hardly recognizes himself. The lines on his face have deepened, not just from age but from the weight of unspoken things. Regret lives in the corners of his eyes. He doesn't regret loving her, not ever.

But he regrets being a bad man who couldn’t love her well. He regrets the ways they stopped talking. The missed chances. The slow, steady drift apart. The final, unceremonious goodbye that wasn't even a goodbye, just a quiet agreement to let the distance win.

He wonders if there’s a version of himself somewhere that he could be proud of. A version of himself who fought harder, who said what needed saying, who reached out instead of retreating. A man who held on. But that man isn’t here. Perhaps he never will be.

Still, there are flickers. A smile from a stranger in a bookstore. The warm brush of hands during a crowded train ride. A soft voice over the phone, a new colleague, perhaps too young, perhaps too curious.

These moments unsettle him. They remind him that he's still alive. That his heart still works, even if it's bruised. That maybe, just maybe, there’s something left to give.

But love? Love feels a far away concept to him to visualize. And he, so far from the man who once believed in it without question, can only take it one quiet, aching day at a time. That was just the sad truth of it all.

The bar is dim, quiet, and mercifully anonymous. It was the kind of place where people come to be forgotten, not found. Kento sits alone at the far end, nursing a glass of whiskey that's long since warmed in his hand. The ice has melted into thin gold, and he hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

His phone buzzes again. Another message, probably the third tonight, from someone on set. The after party is in full swing. They want him there, say it won’t be the same without him. But Nanami Kento doesn’t even bother to check it.

The phone stays face–down on the polished wood of the bar, the screen lighting up only to dim again. He came here instead, drawn not by desire but by habit.

The party would be all noise, all smiles too wide and eyes too sharp, people leaning too close, voices too loud. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend tonight.

The bartender offers him a silent nod of recognition. He's been here before. Not often, but enough that they know not to ask questions. He appreciates that. He appreciates that someone just lets him be, even for this moment.

He lifts the glass, finally takes a drink. It burns, but it’s a clean kind of pain. Honest. Simple. Nothing like the ache that sits in his chest, slow and stubborn. He stares into the glass like it might answer something, but it never does.

There are couples tucked into booths around the room, voices low and bodies leaning in. Young love, or new love. Or maybe both. He watches them with a strange mix of envy and detachment. Not bitterness. Just…..distance. Like watching a memory from the outside, blurry at the edges.

Once, that was him. The stolen glances. The laughter into warm shoulders. The feeling that just being near someone made the world feel warmer. It’s strange how long ago it feels, like another life. Like another man entirely.

He takes another sip. His mind drifts to the last conversation they had. It was not loud, not cruel, just final. If anything, it was exhausting.

She had looked at him across their kitchen, her hands clenched into the hem of her sweater, and said quietly, “I wish you the best, for all of your life, Kento.”

And he, stunned into silence, had said nothing. Not a word of disagreement. Not any plea like please stay left in his mouth. Not even any sort of apology leaving once again. Nothing. It was just silence, heavy and choking. That silence never left. And neither did he.

Now he wonders if there was still a chance buried somewhere in that moment, a small light he should’ve reached for. Another message buzzes in. Then another. He finally turns the phone over.

A string of emojis, a blurry photo from the party, someone holding up a shot glass in his honor. Come on, Nanami–san. Just one drink with us?

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he finishes the whiskey and signals for another. The bartender pours without a word. As the glass slides toward him, he catches his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Eyes tired. Shoulders slumped. A man trying not to feel too much, and failing. There’s a sadness there he’s stopped trying to hide. Let them see it. Let it sit.

He doesn't know if he's waiting for someone to join him or if he's just punishing himself for still wanting to be wanted. But tonight, he's not an actor. He's not a husband or a father. Not a mentor or a legend or whatever name they pin to his image.

Tonight, he's just a man with a drink and a silence he doesn’t know how to fill.

For now, he knows that’s all he can be for himself and for the world.

And they have to deal with that until he can find his way back somewhere.

The second drink’s halfway gone when you sit down beside him. It was not too close, not with the easy familiarity of someone who knows him, just enough space to make your presence known.

No loud greeting, no recognition in your eyes. Just a quiet figure sliding onto the barstool with the kind of calm that feels almost intentional.

Nanami Kento notices without reacting. He doesn't turn to look, just flicks his gaze sideways for a moment. You're not drunk. Not looking to be.

Your hands are steady on your glass, and you’re not talking to the bartender like you’re trying to make friends. You just… exist there, beside him, in the same gentle quiet he’s clinging to.

It takes a minute before either of you speaks.

“You always look at your drink like it insulted you, pal.” you say, not facing him, voice soft, like you’re letting the words drift more than deliver them.

He blinks, not sure if you’re talking to him or just thinking aloud. But the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. Almost. “I suppose I expect too much from it.” he replies after a beat, voice low and measured.

You hum, tipping your glass slightly. “Whiskey’s honest, at least. Can’t lie to you. Can’t fix you either. I would say mommy’s favorite.”

That lands a little too close to something in him. He snickers for a moment at your words. He glances at you, properly this time. Your face is unreadable, bright eyes fixed on the amber in your own glass like it holds some kind of answer.

“You don’t look like you’re here to be fixed either.” he says.

“I’m not.” you admit. “Just didn’t feel like being at home. Thought I’d sit somewhere people didn’t expect anything from me. For like, two seconds.”

He nods. There’s a silence that settles between you then, but it’s not awkward. It’s rare. Companionable. Like two strangers who’ve walked miles through the same kind of loneliness and just happened to stop at the same bench.

After a moment, he asks you, “Are you often this forward with strangers?”

You smile faintly, eyes still ahead. “Only the ones who look like they need someone to remind them they’re still here.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh. Yet it felt more of an exhale. It's the first real sound he’s made all night that doesn’t sound like it’s been swallowed first. “Maybe I do, pretty woman.” he admits.

You turn your head, finally meeting his gaze. “So… are you going to that party everyone keeps texting you about?”

His eyebrows rise just slightly. “You saw that?”

“I mean, it's too obvious from here. Your phone could lit up like a beacon if I needed to find something in a dark alley. Couldn’t miss it.” You tilt your head, laughing slightly. “You gonna go? It’s better than this place, no?”

“No. I think I’d rather stay here, really.” Kento whispers, voice low and deliberate, like he’s testing how the words taste in his mouth. “Boring sort of people with boring desires. I don’t want that.”

You turn your head slowly, arch an eyebrow, lips already curving. “Good. Because if you’d said yes, I’d have had to dump this whiskey on your head and declare you dead to me. It would’ve been very dramatic. People would've clapped.”

He smirks. “You always make it sound like I’m missing out on a Broadway show.”

“You are. I’m not kidding.” you say, sipping. “Starring me. Written by me. Directed by—well, let’s be honest, probably also me. But you? You could've had a supporting role, pal. Maybe even a line or two.”

He leans back, glancing at the doorway like the boring people might come clawing in. They don’t. Just shadows and silence. Another moment passes. It settles between you like an old friend.

It was familiar, a little drunk, not entirely trustworthy. And in that space, something new flickers in him. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe the trailer for hope. The teaser. The grainy preview before the real film.

He lifts his glass slightly, his voice dry enough to be a martini. “To whiskey.”

You clink yours against his, a little spark of mischief in your eyes. “To strangers.”

“And questionable decisions.”

“Oh, those are the best kind. If a decision doesn’t scare your mother and confuse your therapist, is it even worth making?”

He laughs under his breath. Just a huff of air, but it’s honest. “You know… for someone I technically just met, you make it weirdly hard to leave.”

You shrug. “That’s my charm. I weaponize charisma. It’s not even subtle.”

He studies you for a second too long. The kind of look that starts like curiosity and ends like gravity.

You raise your glass again, tipping it slightly toward him. “So? Are you staying for the next act?”

“Only if it’s got better lighting and fewer existential crises.”

You grin. “No promises.”

There's a stillness afterward. It was a breath held between one heartbeat and the next. Nanami Kento doesn't look away from you this time.

Not out of suspicion, or curiosity, or even caution. Just… presence. Something in the way you look at him is grounding, and in his world of scripts and silence, that's rare.

You both drink. The whiskey goes down smoother now, less like punishment, more like ritual. He sets his glass down with a care that betrays his exhaustion, his thoughts.

His shoulders still carry the weight of someone who’s spent years holding himself together with quiet discipline and the kind of restraint that never made room for collapse.

He takes another sip, then eyes you over the rim of his glass. “Alright,” he says slowly, “I’ll bite.”

You look at him. “That’s a bold offer on a first drink.”

He ignores it, barely smirks. “Why’d you stay?”

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head, let your finger trace the rim of your glass like it’s helping you think or stall. Then: “Because I’m next.”

He sets his glass down, leans forward slightly. “Next for what? The electric chair? A bad haircut? Or are we talking something a little more metaphorical here, because I didn’t bring my dictionary.”

You flash a quick, sideways smile. “I’m next in line for boring. For safe. For that quiet little life with the quiet little house and the partner who says things like, ‘Let’s just stay in tonight,’ and means it every night.”

He winces theatrically. “Sounds terminal.”

“Exactly. You see why I had to bail.”

He leans back, eyes flicking to the empty stage across the room, then back to you. “So what, you’re staging a rebellion over a glass of whiskey?”

“No, no.” you say, sipping. “The rebellion started when I didn’t follow them out the door. This”—you gesture between the two of you, between the glasses, the space charged with something both electric and unspoken—“this is the afterparty.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. Then: “Hell of an afterparty. You, me, and a bartender who keeps pretending he’s not eavesdropping.”

The bartender, who is definitely eavesdropping, gives a guilty shrug. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Hiroto. You’re still cute.” You smile, slow and crooked. “Not all revolutions start with a bang. Some start with a clink.”

Kento looks at you again, and now that flicker inside him, the maybe-hope, is growing teeth. “You seem to always talk like you’re already in the movie version of your life.”

You nod. “Because I am. Just waiting for the right co–star.”

Another pause. Long enough to make both of you aware of the tension winding quietly around your chairs. Then he says, “You really think you’re next? To be someone’s co–star in life?”

You look him square in the eye, not blinking, not flinching. “I know I am. Question is—what are you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick or a test. Then he says, “You really don’t recognize me?”

There’s no arrogance in it. It was just a trace of disbelief. Like a guy who’s used to being pointed at in airports, not stared at across bar tables like a curiosity. He’s not used to not being recognized for something, whether it be for hate or for joy.

You squint at him, overly dramatic. “Did we go to high school together? Because unless you were the lunch lady or the janitor, I’m drawing a blank.”

He huffed a laugh, low and wry. “No. I suppose not.”

You sip your drink, then tilt your head. “Well, good. I’m allergic to men who expect applause just for showing up.”

He smirks. “So no parade for me, then.”

“Not unless you’ve got a marching band in your pocket. And even then, I hope they know jazz.”

Something shifts in his expression. It was subtle, like a muscle twitch, like he wants to say something and then thinks better of it. You soften just a little, enough for him to see it, but not enough to make it easy.

“You look like someone I could talk to, you know?” you say, simply. “That’s enough for me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns slightly, like he’s trying to get a better angle on the moment. On you. He watches your hands, all steady, relaxed. The way you hold your glass like it’s a ritual, not a crutch.

After a beat, he says, “It’s strange. I used to think the scariest thing was being alone. But now I think… maybe it’s being surrounded by people who know your face, but not your name. Who think they know you, but only ever met your shadow.”

You don’t say anything at first. You let the words settle, breathe a little. Then you nod. “Yeah. That’s why I come here too. It’s easier to fall apart in a place where no one expects you to stay together.”

He glances at you again, and there’s something different in his caramel eyes now. It was something between admiration and recognition. Like he’s just seen the curtain drop and the real act begin.

“Were you ever in love?” he asks suddenly, like he’s tossing the question onto the table with the check—casual, but you know it’s the real reason he showed up.

You blink. “Wow. What a thing to ask a gal on a first date. What’s next, blood type? My mother’s maiden name?”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Well, how am I supposed to get to know you if I don’t ask the good stuff?”

You lean back in your seat, smirk playing at your lips. “You let the lady say it first. It’s etiquette. Like holding the door open or pretending not to notice when she cries at Meet Me in St. Louis.”

He raises a hand, mock-defensive. “Alright, alright. Consider me chastised. Properly scolded. Proceed, oh wise one.”

You take a sip, then glance at the ceiling like the answer might be hiding in the rafters. “Yes,” you say finally. “Once.”

His eyes don’t leave you. The room gets quieter—not really, but it feels like it does. “What was it like?”

“It was soft….gentle. I don’t know how to explain it.” you say, slowly. “Like… worn cotton sheets soft. And loud. God, it was loud. Not the fighting kind of loud. The laughter kind. The slamming–the–door–because–we’re–late–to–everything kind. It ended slowly. Like a song fading out on the radio while you’re still singing the chorus.”

You pause, swirl your drink like it might play back the memory. “I still think of them sometimes, of course.” you add, voice lighter now, conversational. “But not because I want them back. Just… because they existed. And once, that meant something.”

He nods, eyes lowered to his glass like it might offer him a response. “That’s a good way to remember someone.”

You lift one shoulder, a little shrug. “It’s the only way I know how. That, or write an angry jazz ballad and become a legend.”

He looks up, mouth twitching. “Don’t tempt me.”

You tilt your head. “You write?”

“Only on napkins. And only after two drinks and a questionable life choice.”

“So, pretty boy….” you say, lifting your glass. “You must be very prolific.”

He clicks his drink against yours. “You have no idea.”

You grin. “Don’t worry, I’m a fan of tortured geniuses with emotional baggage. I collect them like shot glasses.”

He laughs, but it’s warm, grateful. Like someone who needed to laugh right then and didn’t know it until you gave him the line. “Maybe I’m like that too.”

“You gasped mockingly. “Oh, I’d be honored!”

He laughed once again. All the sudden, the bar grows quieter behind him. Last call hasn’t been shouted yet, but the air has that kind of weight to it. It was the kind that says stay or go, but make peace with the choice.

And in that moment, Nanami Kento realizes something. That he’s not thinking about the texts anymore. Not about the party or the people waiting for him to show up with that practiced, polished smile. He’s thinking about how long it’s been since someone sat beside him without asking for anything.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” he says after a while. Quiet.

Almost like he’s said it a thousand times before and never really expected anyone to disagree. You don’t even flinch. Just sip your drink and glance sideways at him. You then smiled at him, almost too kindly.

“I know, I know.” you reply, like you’ve heard that line a thousand times too. “But you look like someone who could use some company that doesn’t charge by the hour.”

He snorts softly. “Therapist or escort?”

“Depends on the night. And whether you start crying or flirting first.”

He gives a tired little smile and turns his glass in his hand, the way people do when they’re stalling, like the liquid left might suddenly refill if they’re patient enough. There’s barely a sip left. There’s barely a whole sentence left in him either.

“Would you stay a little longer?” he asks, finally.

And this time, it’s not with the polish, not with the charm. It’s not Nanami Kento, the actor man in the fancy suit. It’s Nanami Kento the man. The real one. The one under all that stoic posture. Tired. Worn. Still here. Still trying.

You look at him, not hard, just long enough to mean it and say, soft but with a spark. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Then you lean in a little, grinning. “But I expect to be compensated. I don’t sit around giving my sparkling presence away for free.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s the going rate for sparkling presence these days?”

“Oh, steep. Minimum one interesting story, half a tragedy, and a compliment that doesn’t mention my eyes.”

He pretends to think. “Tough crowd.”

“You’re the one who invited the crowd.”

He chuckles, and you both fall into that rare kind of silence. It wasn’t awkward, not filler. The good kind. The kind that says: I see you. You can stop pretending now.

And just like that, you both sit there, two people who don’t quite know what they are to each other yet, but know they’re something. And for tonight, that’s enough.

YOU LIVE PRETTY WELL. Nanami Kento did not expect it, you living just a few blocks away from his own apartment building. It wasn’t the grandest of all the places he’d seen. But it was suitable. It surely was expensive to live in Minato–ku.

Well, he shouldn’t judge. He just met you tonight and became his friend. He didn’t even know what you did for a living. You could be a lawyer or even a modest living CEO.

Kento was sure he was about to get drunk. He’s thinking too much. You unlock your door with one hand, bottle of whiskey in the other, and glance over your beautiful shoulder at him.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” you say, sweeping your arm dramatically. You were playing your bit, he was sure. “Where the heating is inconsistent, the lighting is flattering, and the ghosts all mind their business.”

He steps inside, looking around like someone who’s used to hotel rooms and set trailers, not creaky floorboards and secondhand furniture that’s earned its place. “It’s charming.” he says politely, which is code for small but good enough. “Modest living, huh.”

“Don’t be fooled, really.” you say, tossing your coat on a chair. “This place is one broken appliance away from being a tax write–off.”

He gives a faint smile, the kind that suggests he’s secretly delighted but refuses to admit it. You head to the kitchen, into a more polite nook and grab two mismatched glasses. He hums as he looks around more.

“I’m beginning to think you’re a rich person just living a humble life.” He says to you. “I mean come on, how do you get a Molteni and C Doda armchair?”

“A comedian’s paycheck is hit or miss, you know.” You shouted from your kitchen. “I’m off season right now!”

“You do comedy?”

“For fun, for now.” You say to him, snickering. “I’m a full time make–up artist.”

“Oh wow, for who?” He asks you. “If there’s an NDA, I won’t tell, I promise.”

“Tsukumo Yuki. She pays me exclusively to just do her make–up.”

“Makes sense. She’s got very rich.”

“I hope you like your whiskey neat and your company chaotic.” you call over your shoulder.

“I was at a five-hour press junket yesterday. Chaos is preferable.”

You return, hand him a glass. He clinks it against yours with the casual resignation of a man who has accepted his fate. “To poor decisions made with excellent people!” you cheered as you raised your glass.

“To late nights that sound better in stories!” he replies to you, a smile on his face. You both drink.

“So…..You’re an actor. Makes sense, you might know Yuki.” you say, settling into the couch like it’s your stage. “What’s it like? Being adored by millions, traveling the world, having your face Photoshopped onto T-shirts?”

He sits across from you, unbuttoning his jacket, the way a man does when he’s trying to pretend he’s not too impressed by the upholstery. “It’s… a lot of pretending.”

You nod. “Ah. Acting.”

“Life.”

You raise a brow. “Look at you, going full existential on my futon. Be careful, the cushions aren’t built for that kind of weight.”

He chuckles. “And you? What’s it like being the most interesting person in a room with no spotlight?”

You pretend to blush. “Flattery this early in the night? I didn’t even put on my emotionally unavailable mascara.”

“It’s a rare shade.” he deadpans.

You sip, eyeing him. “So what now? You drink my whiskey, charm me with philosophical sadness, and then disappear into the night like a Scandinavian myth?”

“Only if you promise to write a sad little poem about me after.”

“Too late. Already working on the second verse. Rhymes with ‘brooding’ and ‘unduly suited.’”

He laughs, actually laughs genuinely this time and leans back, loosening his tie. It feels like a small victory. “Why did you really ask me to go with you here?” he asks, voice lower now. “Very rare to do all of a sudden.”

You shrug. “Because you looked like you needed somewhere to just be a person. And I needed someone to split the last of the good whiskey with.”

He nods slowly. “Fair trade.”

The clock ticks somewhere behind you, the kind of clock you only remember exists when the room goes quiet. Neither of you were talking now, not because you’ve run out of things to say but because the good stuff’s already been said.

Nanami Kento was staring down at his empty glass like it might give him an answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud. You shift, curl deeper into the couch, and let the silence stretch just enough to feel it.

“So…..” you murmur at him, drinking. “When do we get to the part where you tell me I’m too much?”

He looks up, brow creased. “Why would I do that?”

You give him a half–grin, the kind that says you’ve heard it before. “Because I am. Too fast. Too loud. Too everything.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes still locked on you. “I think…..” he says carefully. “You’re exactly enough. For once.”

Your smirk falters. Just a breath. Just a blink. And then you laugh, too quick. “Now you’re just trying to sleep with me.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “But not in that way.”

You tilt your head, and this time you don’t mask the weight behind your stare. “So what way are you?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Two. Then: “The kind that just wants to stay. For a minute. In something that doesn’t feel fake.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. The room answers for you. He sits back slowly, his knee brushing against yours. You don’t move away. Neither does he. It’s a soft collision, but it lands like a thunderclap. Something about the way it doesn’t feel accidental at all.

“I’ve had scenes like this, tension building.” he says, almost to himself. “Set lighting. Marks on the floor. Dialogue I didn’t write. And still, this feels more like a movie than any of them ever did.”

“Is this the part where you say you’re bad at real life?” you ask, voice quiet now.

“No…” he says, turning to look at you fully. “This is the part where I say I want to get better at it.”

Your breath catches just slightly. He sees it. He hasn't moved yet. You’re close now, close enough to count the lines near his eyes, the quiet furrow of his brow when he’s thinking too hard. You want to smooth it out with your thumb. You don’t.

“I think….” you say, barely louder than a whisper, finishing your drink. “This might be the moment the audience starts leaning forward in their seats.”

He smiles slowly. “You think they’re rooting for us?”

You nod once, slow. “Only if we don’t screw it up.”

And then finally, he leans in. Not fast. Not certain. Just close enough that you feel the warmth of him. Just close enough that your nose nearly brushes his. One breath shared between two people who’ve spent the whole night circling this exact spot.

His hand lifts slightly, like he’s about to reach for your face but he stops short, waiting. The space between you finally snaps. He leans in that final inch, and you meet him there like you were always going to do so.

It’s not gentle, not at first. More like the tail end of a sentence you’ve both been trying not to say all night. His mouth finds yours and it’s like flipping the switch on everything unspoken: sharp, certain, a little desperate. Like he thought he could wait and just realized he can’t.

Your glass hits the table. It was half–gracefully, half because neither of you’s got the coordination for whiskey anymore. Your hands are already in his hair, pulling him closer like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real. And he is with you….solid, warm, here.

He makes a sound against your mouth, low in his throat, like you surprised him. Everything about your eagerness made him feel everything and anything all at once. You pull back just a fraction, breath shallow, lips still barely brushing his.

“You kiss like someone who thought about it too much.”

“I did.” he admits, voice rough. “And now I’m trying to stop thinking.”

“Good.” you murmur. “Because I’m tired of being charming.”

“Liar.”

You smirked at him. He kisses you again. Only this time slower. It was like he wants to memorize the way you taste when you're not talking. And god, it works. It shuts you both up in the best possible way.

He shifts, crowding closer, one hand sliding to your waist, the other pressing against the small of your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug it loose from his belt.

Not fast, just enough to feel skin. To feel him. You both break again, panting now, foreheads pressed together, like the couch, the whiskey, the city. All of it’s spinning away from this one moment.

“Are you staying the night?” you ask, breath hitching.

He gives you that half-smile—lazy, crooked, completely undone. “You gonna let me?”

“Depends,” you murmur. “You gonna kiss me like that again?”

He does. And then again. The night folds in around the two of you. Your clothes half–on, hands everywhere, mouths tangled in the kind of silence only earned by people who’ve talked their way right into each other’s arms. No spotlight. No stage. Just you and him. Finally, finally shutting up. But you don’t pull away either.

The space between you pulses like a held note in a song that hasn’t decided whether it’s a ballad or a tragedy. The city hums outside, and somewhere in your chest, something clicks into place. Not love. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, the start of something dangerously close. At least for tonight.

Kento's lips linger on yours, the kiss deepening as he pours all his emotion into it. His hands roam your body, touching you reverently, as if committing every curve and contour to memory. You can feel the racing of his heart against your chest, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

When he finally pulls back, his caramel eyes are dark with a mix of satisfaction and something softer, more tender. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

Almost instantly, his mouth moves into you again. He moves against you with a gentle urgency, as if he's savoring the taste of you. You respond eagerly, parting your lips to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, exploring, teasing, igniting a fire in your belly.

His hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You arch into his touch, craving more, needing to feel every inch of him. The kiss grows more passionate, more desperate, as if you're both trying to consume each other. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless, your hearts racing in sync.

"I could kiss you forever, my pretty woman." Kento murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "You're addictive."

"Kiss me again." you breathe, your voice husky with desire. Kento obliges, his lips crashing against yours in a fiery kiss. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle.

"So demanding, aren’t you?"he murmurs against your mouth, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I like it."

“There’s a lot of that where it came from.”

He nips at your lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. "Tell me what you want, pretty. I'll give you anything."

His hand trails down your neck, over your collarbone, his touch feather-light and teasing. You shiver, arching into his caress. "You." you whisper, your eyes locked on his."I want you."

Kento's pupils dilate, his gaze darkening with lust. "Say it again, pretty." he demands, his voice low and commanding. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you." you repeat, your voice steady and sure."I want your hands on me, your mouth on me, your body inside mine."

Kento's breath hitches, his grip on your hair tightening."Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me." he groans, his lips trailing down your neck. “You’re dangerous…..I just met you tonight and it feels like forever.”

“I’m good at making people fall in love.”

“I know.” He bites down gently, marking you, claiming you."I'm going to take you apart, piece by piece, until you're begging for mercy."

His hands push your shirt up, exposing your skin to the cool air. He palms your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them pebble beneath his touch. You gasp, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you.

"Yes…” you hiss, hips rolling instinctively against his. “Touch me, Kento. Make me yours.”

He groans low in his throat, eyes darkening as he leans in, mouth trailing heat along your collarbone. You feel him hesitate just long enough to meet your gaze.

“You gonna take your shirt off right now?” you murmur, your voice a velvet tease as you curl your fingers into the hem of his. “Or are we doing this the awkward, tangled way?”

He laughs—breathy, wrecked—and yanks the shirt over his head without another word. You drink him in like you’ve been parched for years. All sculpted lines and quiet intensity, like someone carved a poem out of muscle and restraint.

“Good god….” you murmur, tracing your fingers down his chest. “You really are stupidly hot. Who let you get away with that?”

“No one, pretty.” he breathes, leaning in until your mouths nearly touch. “I’m on the run.”

“Okay.” you say, admiring. “Points for presentation.”

“You haven’t even seen the finale, I’m sure of that.” he says, voice low and dry, but there’s a flicker of heat behind it that makes your pulse jump.

You tug him back down to you, your laugh caught somewhere between your teeth and his lips. Clothes start to disappear like they’re being written out of the script. It was quick, purposeful, a little clumsy in the best way.

There’s something delicious about the mess of it, the way he fumbles with your jeans and mutters a curse when the zipper sticks, the way you kick off your socks with the grace of a cat falling off a windowsill. And still he keeps pausing to touch you.

Fingers trailing along your ribs, over the dip of your waist, the inside of your wrist. Like he’s learning you in parts, not just trying to get to the ending. You pull him on top of you, and he fits like he’s always meant to be there. His hands bracket your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, like he’s grounding himself before he drowns.

“You good?” Kento asks, low, voice hoarse. You nod, lifting your hips to answer the question you don’t want to say out loud yet. “I’ll continue.”

“Make me feel good.” You whispered to him, a smile on his lips.

“Oh, I plan to.”

Kento's hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he thrusts deeper. His lips trail along your neck, leaving a path of hot kisses and gentle bites. You can feel his breath, ragged and uneven, against your skin.

The room fills with the sound of your mingled moans and the creaking of the bed frame beneath you. Sweat beads on your forehead as the pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Kento's movements become more urgent, more desperate, as if he's trying to merge his body with yours completely.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him. The world narrows down to this moment, to the sensation of him inside you, surrounding you, consuming you.You're lost in the rhythm, in the heat, in the feeling of being utterly and completely his.

Kento's hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that steals your breath. His hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You arch into his touch, desperate for more, craving the feel of his skin against yours.

His lips capture yours in a searing kiss, tongues dancing and tangling in a passionate duel. The taste of him, the scent of him, fills your senses, overwhelming you with desire. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pleasure building to a crescendo.

Kento's movements become erratic, his thrusts growing faster, harder, as he chases his own release. You're right there with him, teetering on the edge, ready to fall into the abyss of ecstasy. With a final, powerful thrust, you could feel yourself see stars coming against him.

"Fuck, you feel so good." Kento groans, his voice strained with pleasure. "So tight, so perfect." His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him as he buries himself deep inside you.

"I could stay like this forever." he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. You shiver at the sensation, your nails digging into his back.

"More, more…." you pant, wrapping your legs tighter around him.

"Give me more." Kento obliges, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more desperate. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of exertion.

"Come for me, pretty." he demands, his thumb finding your clit and circling it firmly. "Let me feel you come apart around me."

His words send you hurtling towards the edge, your body tensing as the pleasure reaches its peak."Kento!"

"Yeah, that's it." Kento encourages, his voice husky and low. "Come on my cock, baby. I want to feel you squeeze me tight."

His thumb presses harder on your clit, the sensation overwhelming as you crest the wave of your orgasm. Your body convulses, your inner walls clamping down on him as you cry out his name. Kento's movements become erratic, his thrusts growing shallow as he chases his own release.

"Fuck, I'm close." he grits out, his grip on your hips tightening. "I'm going to fill you up, make you mine."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his body shuddering as he finds his own climax. You can feel the warmth of his release spreading through you, marking you as his. He collapses on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he tries to catch his breath.

A little while later, you both were in the afterglow, still tangled in sheets that are definitely not high thread count, he rolls onto his back beside you, arm slung across your stomach, grounding you like a weight you never knew you needed. You glance over at him, sweaty, flushed, hair all askew, and grin.

“So. That happen in any of your movie scripts?”

“No, not at all.” he mutters, laughing as he was still catching his breath. “But I’m going to request rewrites.”

You laugh, turn into him, and press a kiss to his shoulder. “Next time, pretty boy…..” you whisper. “You’re bringing the pizza.”

He groans. “And you’re picking the music.”

“You’re in luck. My playlist’s 60% seduction, 40% crying in the shower.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you closer to him. And for once, neither of you needs to say anything clever. The silence that settles afterward is thick, but not heavy. Like the kind that follows a good set. Then laughter still echoing in the corners, lights just starting to dim.

You lie there for a while, skin against skin, heartbeats slowly syncing up like they’re getting used to each other. Nanami’s thumb draws lazy circles on your hip. It’s the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything. Just says I’m here.

You glance up at him. “Are you always this talkative after sex?”

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “Only when I’m trying to impress.”

You snort. “Wow. Rolling out the big guns, huh? Silence and mild caressing? Be still my heart.”

“I’m pacing myself, pretty woman of mine.” he says, tilting his head to look at you. “You’re clearly a marathon.”

You grin. “I am a special gal. I walk fast, talk fast, and expect orgasms with flair.”

He chuckles again, eyes half-lidded now, and you feel it, how easy it is to settle into this. Like the city can hum and rattle around you and you’d still find your way back here. He takes a moment to watch you as you move slightly from him and into the glow of lamp light.

“I like this.” he says suddenly, voice soft and a little surprised. “You.”

You blink. “Wow. No foreplay with that one, huh?”

“I thought we were past foreplay.”

You laugh out loud again, but there’s something quieter underneath now. Something steady. You move towards him again, letting your fingers curl against his chest and feel the slow beat beneath your palm.

“You know this doesn’t have to mean anything, hm?” you say, not as a warning, just as fact.

He nods. “I know. But maybe it could mean something good.”

You study him for a second. He was a beautiful man, older than you to be sure, but beautiful. Almost too beautiful to even comprehend. His golden hair rumpled, skin still warm from you, that soft look in his eyes like you’ve disarmed him completely without trying.

“Don’t fall in love with me tonight, pretty boy.”

He smiles at the ceiling. “Tonight’s almost over.”

You hum. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”

“I like messes. I’m made of that. I did all of that.” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “Yours seems like one I could sit in for a while.”

You raise a brow. “Sit in, huh? You talk dirty to everyone you sleep with?”

“No, not at all.” he says. “Just the ones who offer whiskey and existential crisis in the same evening.”

You grin, tuck your face into the crook of his neck. And you stay there. Long enough for the outside noise to fade. Long enough for the city to sleep. Long enough for whatever this is to feel real. Even if only for tonight.

HE LEFT HIS PHONE NUMBER FOR YOU TO CALL WHEN HE LEFT THAT NIGHT. He ended up scribbling it on the back of a food receipt you had in the kitchen, the ink smudged just a little from how long he’d held it before walking out your door that morning.

“Call me.” he’d said, casual as anything. “I’ll answer it as soon as possible.”

It was like it wasn’t already something sitting heavy in his chest. Like he wasn’t about to check his phone every damn hour. But you hadn’t called. Not once. Not yet. And it was driving him absolutely mad.

At first, he told himself it was fine. Cool, even. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were playing it smart, letting the high of the night fade before reaching for anything real. But now, a week into filming his new project, the irritation had fully set in.

He was brooding more than usual on set. Which, for Nanami Kento, was saying something. His jaw stayed tight between takes. His timing was off. He missed cues, flubbed lines that should’ve come easy. The director called for a break and gave him that ‘Are you okay or are we going to have to name the understudy?’ look.

His co-star tried to make a joke about his method. He did not laugh. Between scenes, he scrolled through his messages like a man possessed. Nothing from you. Not even a sarcastic “Sorry, meant to call, got abducted by aliens.”

Each time his phone lit up and it wasn’t you, something inside him clenched a little tighter. Worse than the silence was the not knowing. Has it meant something to you at all? Did it meant as much to you as it did to him?

Because it sure as hell meant something to him. And no one got that close. Not since his estranged wife. Not physically, emotionally. No one had actually left a mark on him. Not since you had come and shaken his life around.

He’d replayed it all too many times: the laughter, the quiet, the heat. The way you’d curled into him like you’d belonged there. The way you hadn’t said goodbye like it was final. And still it was genuinely a badly received radio silence.

Now he was walking around like a man with an itch he couldn’t scratch and no idea if he’d imagined the whole damn thing. Someone handed him a coffee. He didn’t even taste it. Someone told him to hit his mark. He missed it by a foot.

“Hey, Kento–san?” his co-star finally said, pulling him aside between takes. “Whoever she is? Call her. Yell at her. Write a poem. I don’t care. Just get it out of your system before they start cutting you out of your own film.”

He didn’t respond back to his co–star at all. It’s horrible advice. It’s the same sort of advice that led him to be a bad husband in the first place. He just stared at his phone again. And wondered how long you were going to leave him hanging in the space between maybe and never.

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in coincidences anymore. Well, in general, not really. Not in the way that makes people bump into each other like fate had nothing better to do. His life has always been calculated.

Precise. Predictable, even when it hurts. But when he steps out of the quiet, borrowed van onto the main street of a town so small it barely has a name, he sees you standing there outside a tiny coffee shop, a paper cup in your hand and a scarf wrapped lazily around your neck. He suddenly freezes.

That is you. His pretty woman from the bar. The one who sat beside him when he didn’t know he needed company. The one who didn’t ask for anything, who spoke to him like he was a person, not a role. He remembers your voice. Your stillness. The way you didn’t flinch at his silence.

He stands there too long. Enough that one of the crew glances back and nudges him, murmuring, “Everything alright, Nanami–san?”

He nods slowly, distracted. “Yes. Just—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Because how the hell are you here? You don’t look like you belong to this place. Not in any condescending way. Just….you’re the type of person who seemed carved for city nights, bookstore corners, low–lit bars and sharp conversations. Not this quiet countryside with its fading signs and sleepy pace.

And yet here you are. Laughing softly with the barista, hair caught in the wind, bright eyes crinkled with something like real joy. You haven’t seen him yet. And for a moment, he thinks about walking away. About letting this be a memory instead of a moment. But something stops him.

Maybe it’s that same stillness you carried before the kind that made even silence feel like something sacred. He walks across the narrow street, hands buried in his coat pockets. His steps are slow, careful, like he isn’t sure if you’re real.

When he stops in front of you, you finally look up. There's a pause. A blink. And then, it was that recognition. Your lips part, surprised but not startled. Like maybe you were wondering if he was real, too.

“Well….” you say softly, like a secret between old friends. Like you hadn’t slept together that night. You smiled. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” he replies, almost breathless at the sight of you. “Especially not here.”

You glance around, gesturing loosely to the sleepy town behind you. “Yeah, it’s… not where you’d expect to find me.”

He nods. “No offense, but you look like someone who belongs where the sidewalks don’t roll up at 7 p.m.”

You smile, and it’s warmer than he remembers. “None taken. I still can’t believe I’m here either, honestly.”

He waits, tilting his head slightly. “So… why are you?”

You glance down at your coffee, then back at him with a small shrug. “A bit of a reset, I guess. Life got loud in the city, and I needed quiet. Yuki’s taking a break. Thought I’d try letting the countryside teach me how to be still without being lonely.”

He studies you for a moment. The words hit something in him. Something he’s been carrying but hasn’t been able to name. “You always speak like that?” he asks, almost amused.

You grin. “Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a book no one else gets to read.”

You laugh, genuinely, and for the first time in a long while, Nanami Kento feels something loosen in his chest. “Guess I just like giving things meaning, huh?” you say. “Even if they don’t always deserve it.”

He nods once, quiet. “I think that’s why I remembered you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You remembered me?”

“Of course.” he says, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all month. “Some people… you don’t forget. Even if you don’t know her name. All I was calling you was pretty girl, pretty woman. I need your name, you know.”

Your smile softens, tugging at the edge of something real. “It’s [last name] [first name], by the way.”

He repeats it under his breath like he’s rehearsing a line in a play—one he wants to get just right. Like tasting a word he’s not ready to let go of.

“[First name],” he says again. Then he offers a small, almost boyish smile. “Kento. Nanami Kento.”

You blink at him, smirking. “Oh, I know. The actor. Brooding, intense, vaguely Scandinavian even though you’re not. You worked with Yuki.”

He lifts a brow. “And you’re her makeup artist, right?”

You slap a finger to your lips, mock-scandalized. “Shhh! Didn’t I say it’s an NDA? You trying to get me sued?”

“Oh dear,” he deadpans, holding his hands up in faux surrender. “My bad. Please don’t report me to the shadowy cabal of publicists.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “They will come for you. And they’re terrifying. They wear black turtlenecks and know how to erase someone’s IMDB credits.”

“That explains my last three indie films disappearing,” he says with a perfectly straight face.

“Don’t joke,” you say, waggling your finger. “I still have trauma from accidentally contouring a producer into looking like an Easter Island statue. They moved me to background actors for a week.”

He laughs—really laughs—and it sounds like something he hasn’t done freely in a while.

You lean in a little closer. “Anyway, we’ve both outed ourselves now. Me, the paint-slinger. You, the tall handsome face that cries beautifully on screen.”

He tilts his head. “And off screen.”

“Oh, wow. Is that your next Oscar campaign slogan?”

“‘Nanami Kento: Crying Beautifully Since 2009.’”

You grin. “Sold. I’ll do your press kit for free.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where the humor slows, the silence stretches, and something gentler curls around the edges of the conversation. It’s in the way he looks at you. Like he’s not just watching you talk, but listening.

“I like your name.” he says, softly. “It fits you. Sharp and kind at the same time.”

You tilt your head. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll have to fall in love with you.”

“Too late,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “I already called dibs.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, you actors. Always stealing the last word.”

He raises his glass again. “Only when it’s worth stealing.”

He doesn’t sit down right away. Just stand there, taking you in again, the way your hands cradle the coffee cup like it holds more than just warmth. You seem quieter than you were that night at the bar but not withdrawn. More… rooted, maybe. Like the stillness you spoke of found you after all.

“Are you filming something out here?” you ask, nudging him gently back to reality.

He nods. “A small project. Director wanted something slow, intimate. Thought a town like this would feel more… honest.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “You always choose honesty when you can?”

He gives a small, dry laugh. “It’s not always an option. But I think I’ve learned to stop pretending I don’t want it.”

You gesture to the empty chair at your little table, and he hesitates, but only for a moment. Then he takes the seat across from you, folding his coat neatly, as if even now he’s still performing quiet discipline.

“I have to admit.” you said to him, crossing your arms on your chest. “This is the last thing I expected today.”

“Seeing me again?”

“No. Seeing you again here. In this nowhere town where I came to disappear.”

He meets your gaze, steady. “Are you trying to disappear?”

You pause. Then: “I think I was, at first. Now I’m just… trying to be somewhere that doesn’t expect too much of me.”

He understands that more deeply than he can say. The air between you shifts, still light, but layered now. Familiar. It’s not quite like picking up where you left off, because nothing really started that night. But it’s something. A continuation, maybe, of a quiet understanding neither of you asked for, but both recognized.

“Do you want to walk?” you ask suddenly. “This place has a whole six blocks of charm.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A tour?”

You grin. “A detour.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t usually say yes so easily, especially not to detours. But something about you, this strange, steady thread weaving back into his life without asking for permission—it makes him curious enough to get up.

As you walk, you talk about small things. The town’s single bakery with the terrible coffee but perfect melonpan. The inn you’re staying at where the owner talks to the koi fish in the pond like they’re her grandchildren. The stray cat that waits by the bookstore every morning, expecting someone to read to it.

And in return, he offers things he doesn’t tell most people. How strange it is to sleep in hotel rooms that all smell the same. How the silence on set sometimes echoes louder than the noise. How he’s tired, bone–deep tired and he’s not sure who he is when the cameras stop rolling.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t try to solve it. You just walk beside him. As if that’s enough. And somehow, it is. When the wind picks up, you both slow, turning toward the river where the water moves soft and low. He glances at you, unsure of what he’s supposed to say. If this is a moment, or just another quiet breath passing through.

But then you speak. “I’m glad it was you, you know.”

He turns to you, eyeing you somberly. “What do you mean?”

“At the bar. That night. I didn’t go there to meet anyone. I didn’t want to be found. But… I’m glad it was you.”

Kento swallows hard, a quiet ache rising in his throat. “I’m glad it was you too.” he says, and means it more than anything he’s said in years.

The river hums low. The town breathes slowly. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel quite so lost. You lead him down a narrow path lined with crooked fences and old telephone poles, sunlight slanting through the trees like it’s got nowhere better to be.

The wind kicks up a little dust once again, rustles the drying laundry on someone’s balcony. It’s quiet, but not empty. There’s life here. Slow, familiar life. Kento listens as you point out things like the soft bark of the old cedar tree, the old woman who sells pickled plums from a box on her porch, the bench by the train station that creaks if you sit too far to the right.

He watches you wave to people like you know them and more surprising, like they know you back. A group of kids pass by and call your name, dragging along a scooter with one busted wheel. You call out a reminder to “watch the pothole by the bridge” and one of them shouts “we know” like you’re someone who’s always been there.

“You said you came here to get away.” Kentosays quietly, almost accusingly, but not unkindly. “But… this doesn’t look like a getaway.”

You smirk, slowing your steps just enough for him to keep walking beside you. “Yeah. That’s because I lied a little.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, pray tell?”

“My grandparents live here. They’re still alive. Happily.” you admit, nodding toward a pale green house with a sun–faded door and a dozen potted plants crowding the porch. “I used to come here every summer when I was a kid. It’s not glamorous, but I guess it always felt like the world slowed down when I got off the train.”

He looks at you, really looks this time. You, standing barefoot in soft sneakers, a coffee long gone cold in your hand, hair caught in the breeze and eyes full of something that feels like home.

“You seem different here.” he says, without thinking.

“Different how?”

He shrugs, eyes forward. “Lighter.”

You smile at that. “That’s what this place does to people. Even the grumpy ones.”

“You think I’m grumpy?”

“I know you’re grumpy.”

He huffs, almost a laugh. You keep walking, leading him past an old bridge with rust on the rails, and he follows, quiet, thoughtful. He watched as you started to hum a song he doesn’t recognize at all.

“Most people don’t stay here long.” you say suddenly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Just travelers passing through. Photographers, artists, singers. Tired people. Very bored people.”

He hums. “Which one do you think I am?”

You tilt your head, pretending to study him. “You don’t strike me as the artsy type, actually. You’re not dramatic enough to be a writer, and you’re too well–dressed to be just a backpacker. So I’d say… tired.”

He pauses. That lands heavier than you probably meant it to. “Well that’s such a thing to say.”

“Bullseye?” you ask softly, and he doesn’t answer. Just walk a little slower.

When you turn up a narrow dirt road, he follows without asking. He’s stopped asking where you’re taking him. There’s something comforting in the way you walk ahead, like you’ve already decided it’s okay for him to be here.

“My grandma’s probably already started cooking.” you say over your shoulder. “She’ll pretend she doesn’t know who you are, even if she does. That’s her thing. Makes people feel comfortable.”

Nanami frowns slightly. “What do you mean, ‘if she does’?”

You glance back at him, confused. “I mean, she has a habit of recognizing people even when she shouldn’t. Like that guy from the noodle commercials. Or the lady who was on that old soap opera. I swear she has a sixth sense for washed–up celebrities.”

He freezes. Just briefly. You stop, noticing his hesitation. “What?”

“…Nothing.”

You squint. “Wait. Do you want people to recognize you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. He looks at you, expression unreadable. Then, with the smallest shrug: “Just your grandma, I hope. She’d give me bigger food portions.”

You laugh, loud and sudden, full of disbelief. “Oh my god. No way. I sat next to you at a bar, poured my heart out to you, and you wanted me to fuss over you like you were famous?”

“I wasn’t famous in that bar,” he says quietly. “Just tired.”

You stare at him for a moment longer. Then shake your head, smiling. “Well, okay.” you say, “You’re still coming to dinner.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“That you’re a little famous? That people could recognize you?” you smirked at him. “Only if it means you expect dessert.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like he’s still getting used to someone treating him like a person instead of a profile. But he follows you up the hill anyway. Toward a warm house. Toward kinako mochi and nosy grandmothers. Toward something that might just be peace.

You lead him up the hill, past fields of rice that sway lazily in the late afternoon breeze, the golden light casting everything in a soft glow. As you approach the small house with the overgrown garden and the old wooden gate, Nanami Kento feels the weight of the day’s quiet beginning to settle over him.

He’s still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that you’re not just some random person he bumped into at a bar but someone whose life is rooted here, in this strange little town, in a way he never would've guessed.

The door creaks open before you even knock, and an elderly woman with silver-streaked hair and a bright smile appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a faded apron and holding a wooden spoon like she’s ready to defend the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re back.” she says with a soft laugh, as if this happens every day.

“Where’s grandpa?”

“He went to play mahjong with his friends.” Your grandma giggled. “It’s been a while since he played, after all. His friend just got back from Sendai!”

“This is Kento, grandma.” you say, nudging Kento forward. “He’s staying in town for a bit.”

The elderly woman studies him for a moment with sharp, discerning bright eyes that seem to see everything. Then, she nods like she’s accepted something only she understands. She turns to Kento with a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Kento.” she says, her voice warm. “I’m her grandma. But that’s enough. You’ve got good timing. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Kento manages a polite smile. “Thank you for having me.”

“Come in, come in.” She steps aside, gesturing for him to enter.

The inside of the house is cozy. Old wooden beams, shelves lined with mismatched cups and plates, the faint smell of something savory simmering in the air. It feels like the kind of home that’s been lived in for generations, the kind where every corner holds a memory.

“Sit, sit!” Grandma insists, leading him to the low table where she’s already placed a few bowls of rice and pickles. There’s a steaming pot in the center, something rich and fragrant. Nanami sits, still a bit surprised at the ease with which he’s been brought into this domestic world.

[name], as though reading his thoughts, gives him a knowing look. “Grandma’s not one for formalities. She’s always fed whoever’s around.”

Your grandma chuckles, sitting beside him. “No point in starving anyone, especially if they’re passing through. I’m sure you’ve had enough fancy meals in your life, Kento–san. This is a proper one.”

Kento laughs softly, though it’s laced with a hint of discomfort. “I don’t usually have meals like this.”

You watched him for a moment, a quiet understanding passing between you. You know that he’s not used to being this comfortable, to being treated as someone ordinary, not an actor, not someone important. Just a man who’s hungry, tired, and seeking a little peace.

“My grandma’s food is the kind that makes you forget about the rest of the world, you know?” you say lightly. “Just sit tight! This is going to blow your mind!”

And as the first bite of warm stew hits his tongue, Nanami Kento finds you’re right. The tenderness of the meat, the earthiness of the vegetables, the way everything melds together in a way that doesn’t feel rushed.

It’s the kind of food that wraps itself around you, takes you by the shoulders, and makes you feel like you’ve come home, even if you’ve never been here before. Kento had only had something such as this only once and it was his estranged wife’s cooking. But this was a different sort of special. Because you were smiling so brightly.

The silence between you all feels comfortable, unhurried. Kento isn’t used to this kind of stillness. Not the kind that doesn’t demand anything from him, not the kind that doesn’t expect him to perform or speak or be something he’s not. Here, in this humble little house, he can just exist.

Your grandma talks about her garden. About the pleasant weather. About how the local cats keep stealing her catnip and hiding it in the neighbor’s yard. There’s no rush to any of it. It was so beautiful. There was no hurry. And he liked that.

And when the meal winds down, you quickly rise, reaching for the plates. Kento stands, too, moving to help, but you shake your head gently at him. You signal him to just keep sitting down and rest.

“Just sit. You’re our guest.” you say, smiling as you start gathering the dishes. “I’m sure My grandma wants to ask you all sorts of questions.”

Your grandma grins knowingly, hands resting on the table. “Oh, I do. But first… tell me, Kento–san, do you like tea?”

He chuckles. “I do.”

“That’s good.” she says, standing up with surprising energy. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

As she prepares the tea, you go on and sit next to Kento. She was tenderly watching him as if she’s still trying to piece together this strange meeting. It was interesting. She had never seen you be like this before. Or bring any one to meet her, let alone a man.

There’s an almost hesitant energy between you now, something that speaks of both curiosity and something more subtle. Something like... connection. Neither of you expected this, but here it is, unfolding in the quiet corners of this small town, in the middle of nowhere.

“You don’t seem like someone who needs to hide.” you say softly, after a while.

Kento hand stills on his cup. “I don’t, really. I just… forget sometimes what it feels like to be seen without expectation.”

You meet his eyes, the soft vulnerability of his words hanging between you. “My grandma doesn’t expect much, you know.” you say, eyes softening. “That’s why this place works. It doesn’t ask for anything more than you’re willing to give.”

He nods slowly, understanding your words. The words settle in him, a truth that feels simpler than anything he’s allowed himself to admit. His life was so fast paced and everyone expected so much of him. And he doesn’t like that.

In some ways, this is what he would have wanted with his estranged wife. He would have wanted this life with her. Yet he knew that was over now. It was never going to happen. But as he sat here, he knew that there was another door that opened to him. He knew that when he looked at you.

“You’re right.” he says quietly.

And for the first time in what feels like years, Nanami Kento feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. The evening stretches on, the light outside fading into a rich indigo, the stars barely visible against the soft glow of a lantern that hangs by the door. The small house feels like it’s wrapped in quiet, a rare kind of peace that Nanami hasn’t known in a long time.

You and your grandma settle back into your seats after the meal, the last of the tea steeping as the conversation shifts into more comfortable territory. Your vibrant grandma is telling stories out loud now, so energetically.

The small, almost absurd anecdotes from her youth, her sharp memory lighting up with details that surprise even you. She talks about her childhood, how she used to race the boys to the river, how her first job was at a noodle stand on the corner that doesn’t exist anymore.

Kento just listens, entranced. He can’t remember the last time he sat in a room where nothing was expected of him. No script, no camera, no need to perform. Just stories and the kind of laughter that comes with familiarity, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve always belonged in a place.

At some point, your grandmother gets up to fetch a blanket, and you find yourself left alone with Nanami Kento, the air now full of the quiet hum of cicadas outside and the gentle rustle of the wind.

It’s rare for him to be alone like this with anyone. He’s been alone for so long, even surrounded by people. But with you, he was sure he felt something different. Something lighter, something more like a safe space.

He looks over at you, his gaze soft, a little guarded, but there’s an openness there, like he’s not sure how to read you, but he’s willing to try.

“Do you come here often?” he asks, the question almost too simple. “To visit your grandmother?”

You smile, settling back into your chair. “When I need to. It’s the only place I can feel like myself, you know?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting your words sink in. He’s not sure what to say next, not sure if he’s ready to voice the quiet questions that have been lingering since that first night at the bar.

Instead, he simply says, “I can see why. It feels… real.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It’s real. Not a lot of places left like this.”

Kento’s fond gaze shifts to the window, the faintest reflection of the moon catching in the glass. He thinks about everything. His life, his career, the years spent chasing something he thought he needed to prove. The constant cycle of applause, of recognition, of being seen but never truly seen.

“You know…..” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than before. “I think I forgot what it felt like to just be... without anything attached to it. To be seen without the need for approval or validation.”

You glance over at him, studying the quiet vulnerability in his expression. “You’re not the only one there.” you say softly. “I think we all forget sometimes. The world pushes us so hard, and we get so used to moving with it that we forget how to stop.”

Kento chuckles lightly, but it’s not an easy laugh. “I don’t even know who I’d be if I stopped.”

“Well, I think it’s just part of that.” you say, standing up to stretch. “Maybe that’s the part you need to find. Who you are when you’re just... Kento.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods slowly, as if he’s finally allowing himself to consider the idea. The simplicity of it all. Just being just Kento, no pretense, no expectations.

Everything about it appealed to him. You move toward the window and look out at the garden, where the last of the fireflies are blinking faintly in the warm night air.

"I don't know how long you'll be here." you say quietly to him. "But I hope this place helps you find that person."

“I think it already has, if I’m being honest.” he says, and it feels like the truth. He looks at you, and only you. “In ways I didn’t expect.”

You turn back to face him, eyes steady. “Then let it. Let it help. Let it remind you that you don’t always have to be someone else.”

He stands then, slowly, as if the weight of his body is a bit less now, a bit more grounded. “I’d like that.” he says simply.

Your grandma comes back into the room with a blanket, her tired hands resting on her hips. “I’m glad to see you two getting along. I’m sure we’ll be hearing more stories before long.”

Kento smiles, a little more open now. “I’m sure.”

You pull the blanket over your grandmother’s lap, and she pats the empty space beside her. Nanami Kento hesitates but then sits down, the comfortable silence settling back in as the night continues to stretch on. The sound of the wind outside is almost like a lullaby, gentle and soothing.

And for the first time in ages, Kento feels like he’s in a place where he doesn’t need to rush, and doesn't need to be anyone other than who he is at this moment. Maybe that’s all he needs right now. Maybe it’s enough.

HE’S A REGULAR IN THE SPECIAL FAMILY GATHERINGS. The new family winter house in Tokyo was warm, creaky, and filled with the scent of coffee and cinnamon.

Snow layered the trees outside like something out of a painting, and inside—well, inside was a whole different kind of storm.

“Okay, okay.....” Gojo said, dramatically flopping down onto the couch beside Keiko, who gave him a look halfway between amusement and exhausted affection. “So remind me again….do I count as stepdad or fun uncle with unresolved boundary issues?”

“You count as mom’s midlife crisis, Satoru–san.” Kenshin said flatly, not looking up from his book.

Kento snorted into his tea. That’s his son, alright. “Well, those words are honest.”

“You count as her worst life trauma, Dad. I don’t think you should be saying anything.”

“Noted, son.”

“Uh, correction.” Satoru raised his hand. “I am the ongoing, extremely charismatic, painfully handsome midlife crisis. There’s a difference.”

Nanami Kento rolled his caramel eyes from his armchair by the fire, adjusting the blanket that had been thrown over his legs by force. (Nanami Keiko insisted on cozy traditions that suited her tastes and he cannot deny his daughter anything.)

“You’re both ridiculous, aren’t you?” Keiko said, tossing a marshmallow at Satoru, who caught it in his mouth like an overgrown Labrador.

Kento glanced toward his ex–wife, who sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, nursing her own mug. “Why did we ever let him in the house?”

“Because he brought wine, and not just any, the good one.” she said to him, as if it was a matter of fact. “It's Marchesi Antonori, Kento. I’m not letting that go to waste.”

“I always bring wine for you, baby.” Satoru said, smiling as he kissed her cheeks, watching her smile against Satoru’s touch. “And good gossip, that everyone enjoys. Don’t act like I haven’t upgraded this family’s drama with better lighting and better cheekbones.”

“You say that this isn’t a setup for a soap opera, you know?” Kenshin muttered. “I mean, maybe Reality TV. I’m sure everyone’s going to enjoy it.”

Keiko leaned into her dad’s side. “A very slow, awkward menage à trois on TV? We’ll make bank! Maybe better than my work at the hospital.”

Kento let out a long sigh. “Please don’t say ‘menage à trois’ in front of your mother and I, sweetie.”

“You’re the one vacationing with your ex–wife and her boyfriend, Dad. We’re past pretending this is normal.” Keiko argued at her dad. “Plus, this is how I’m coping with it. It has to be funny or it’ll be trauma!”

“She has a point there, Kento–kun.” Satoru said as he made a comical face, raising his glass. “To co–parenting with complex emotional boundaries and excellent skincare routines.”

Nanami Kento didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. He looked down into his cup like it might hold a different answer this time, then looked up and said, almost offhandedly: “I’m seeing someone. Well, at least I think I am.”

The room went still for a second.

“You’re kidding?” His son says, eyes widened. “Dad, are you serious?”

Keiko looked like her world was rocked. “Beyond five months?”

“I met her seven months ago.”

“Holy shit?” Gojo Satoru huffs, almost like he’s surprised. “This is just…..

“I just don’t know….” his ex blinked, tilting her head. “Wait, are you serious or is this one of your deadpan setups that ends with a philosophical burn?”

“No setup, really.” Kento said. “She’s… well. Complicated. Smart. Funny in a way that sneaks up on you. The kind of person who finishes your sentences and then rewrites them to be punchier. Really witty.”

Satoru wiggled his eyebrows. “So you’re saying she finally made you interesting?”

Kento shot him a dry look. “She has a real talent for pulling the rug out from under people. Emotionally and, on at least one occasion, literally.”

“She sounds really cool, Dad!” Keiko said, grinning. “Can we meet her?”

Kenshin didn’t look up. “Does she like chaos?”

Kento took a sip of his tea. “She lives in it. And somehow makes it feel like home.”

There was a beat of silence before Satoru said, “Okay, see, that’s borderline poetic. You’re in trouble.”

Kento allowed himself a small smile. “I might be.”

His ex–wife raised her cup toward him. “Well then. Here’s to your chaos.”

Satoru added, grinning wide. “And here’s to us, still not a ménage à trois, but definitely an award–winning sitcom.”

“Limited series.” Keiko corrected.

“With a strong fanbase.” Kenshin added.

Kento just shook his head and looked out the window, hiding his smile in the rim of his cup. Satoru leaned back, arms behind his head like he owned the place. Which, of course, he didn’t. But no one ever told him that because he wouldn’t believe it anyway.

“Okay, back to the subject. I’m too nosy for my own good.” Satoru said. “What’s her name? Is she famous? Is she dangerous? Does she do her eyeliner in one perfect stroke without blinking?”

“She’s not famous.” Kento said, voice mild. “She’s worse. She’s normal. She’s a make–up artist by trade and a comedian by enjoyment.”

Kenshin looked up at that. “You brought a normal person into this gene pool of emotionally complicated circus animals?”

“She’s not normal.” Keiko said. “He said she was complicated. Big difference. Normal gets scared and leaves. Complicated brings snacks. And she’s a comedian slash make–up artist. She’s very complicated.”

His ex–wife turned toward him, curious now. “How’d you meet her?”

He looked into the fire for a long second, then said, “A bar visit. She was enjoying there. I wasn’t planning on doing anything else. She made me want to. And—”

Satoru mimed wiping a tear, cutting him off. “I swear to god, you’re one poetic monologue away from stealing my brand.”

“She probably thinks I’m too serious.” Kento muttered, sighing.

“Then she’s got taste.” Satoru said brightly.

Keiko grinned. “Is this the same woman who left you looking like a teenager who’d just discovered jazz and heartbreak the last time you came home to visit us?”

“I told you not to read my journal notes.” Kento grumbled at his daughter.

“You left them on the kitchen table under a mug that said 'World's Okayest Dad.'” Kenshin said. “You wanted us to find them.”

His ex-wife gave him that look, the one that peeled you back like a clementine, soft and amused and just slightly sharp. “So?” she asked, casually sipping her tea. “Why haven’t we met her?”

Kento didn’t answer her right away. He sighed as he shifted in his chair, the firelight catching the quiet tension in his shoulders. The massive room, previously loud with banter, went suddenly still as it held its breath.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to introduce right now. I mean, even her. It’s just….I don’t know how to define it yet.” he said finally, voice low but even. “We’ve been… sleeping together.”

Gojo Satoru raised his brows so high they practically hit his hairline. “Sleeping together as in sleeping together? Or metaphorically, like 'emotionally naked while watching sad French films’ kind of thing?”

Kento gave him a look as he sighed, exasperated. “Sleeping together. Literally. Repeatedly. As friends.”

Keiko blinked. “Wait. Friends who…..what?”

“It’s not like that.” Kento said quickly. “Or no, it is like that. I’m….not sure. I haven’t done this in years.”

Kenshin sighed, rubbed his head. “Okay, explain, dad.”

“I mean……We talk. We laugh. We cook sometimes, or she steals my takeout. She edits my texts because apparently, I sound like I’m drafting a cease–and–desist. Then we end up in bed again and we….do things. And then she talks to me and then she….she leaves.”

“I have to say that’s hot.” Satoru muttered, already pouring himself another drink. “I mean, vaguely tragic, but also, still very very hot.”

His ex–wife shakes her head at her partner’s words. She looked at her ex–husband, leaned forward. “And you’re okay with this?”

Kento paused. “I thought I was, I mean, I was sure I was. I’ve done this so many times with other women, for years and years now.” he admitted. “I told myself it was enough. We had an understanding. No expectations. Just… moments.”

Kenshin, who’d been silent up to that point, closed his book slowly. “So what changed, Dad?”

Nanami stared into his tea like it might tell him. “I started wanting in–betweens…..The mornings after. The dumb little texts during the day. I started missing her even when she was still there. That’s when I realized I wasn’t being a good friend anymore. I was pretending not to care because I was scared she’d run if I admitted I did.”

A beat passes. Kento sighs heavily. “She’s not the kind of person you ask to stay.” he said. “She’s the kind you quietly hope chooses to.”

“Sounds familiar, huh” his ex–wife said gently, with a half–smile. Those words hit him hard, painfully even. Kento purses his lips into a flat line. “Well, maybe you could choose better this time, don’t you think?”

Keiko nudged his arm. “You know you can talk to her, right? Like, use words. You’re supposed to be good with those.”

“Yeah, I did the same thing.” Satoru added, grinning. “Start with ‘I like you’ and maybe not with ‘what are we?’ unless you want to spontaneously combust.”

Kento chuckled, despite himself. “You’re all very helpful.”

Satoru raised his glass. “We’re a walking disaster, Kento. But we’re your disaster.”

His ex–wife clinked mugs with him. “Now call her. Or text her. Or send a raven, whatever suits your aesthetic, Kento. Just….don’t let this one slip away.”

Nanami Kento looked down at his phone. Then, slowly, he reached for it. His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts. It’s the one saved with no emojis, no unnecessary punctuation, just your first name. Stark. Honest. Maybe a little terrifying.

Satoru leaned over like an older sibling with zero respect for personal space. Even when the younger of the two. It was funny, but it was how he was with Kento. “Do it already, man. Text her something casual. Like ‘hey’ but brooding. ‘Hey...’ with a heavy pause.”

“Thank you, Satoru, that’s extremely helpful.” Kento said dryly.

“Do you want it to be helpful or emotionally reckless? Because I can do either, but not both.”

“Can we not peer–pressure Dad into confessing his feelings like this is an after–school special?” Keiko muttered from the couch, half-buried under a blanket and her own secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m not confessing, at least….not yet.” Kento said. “I’m just… acknowledging.”

His ex–wife smiled. “Mm. That’s what people say right before they confess.”

Kento sighed like a man about to walk into traffic with his eyes open. Then, after a brief, silent moment, he typed: “Hey….Answer this when you get back…...Actually, are you home right now?”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as the message peered at the screen. “That’s it? That’s the big opener?”

“It’s a text, not a marriage proposal.”

“Yeah, but come on. Add a winky face or a little something. Give it flair. Give it a mystery.”

Kento locked his screen and dropped the phone onto the coffee table. “If she answers, she answers. If she doesn’t… I’ll wait.”

His ex–wife tilted her head, watching him like a painting she’d seen before, but with new light falling on it now. “You really like her, don’t you?” she asked.

Kento didn’t look away from the fire. “She makes me feel like I haven’t missed my chance yet, to be a better…person.” he said quietly. “Like maybe there’s still time to choose something more than that grief of everything I’ve failed.”

The room fell into that rare kind of silence, where no one needed to say anything clever, because the truth had already landed. And then, like the universe had a flare for timing, his phone buzzed. He didn’t jump. Didn’t snatch it like Gojo Satoru probably would have. He picked it up slowly. Read it once. Then again.

Your reply: “I’ve got whiskey, terrible TV, and your sweater still on my couch. You coming over or what?”

A rare, reluctant smile curled at the edge of his lips.

Keiko noticed first. “She texted back, didn’t she?”

Kento didn’t say anything. He just stood, walked to the hall to grab his coat, and murmured over his shoulder— “Don’t wait up.”

Satoru let out a dramatic gasp. “My god, he’s in love.”

“About damn time, don’t you think?” his ex–wife whispered into her tea, grinning. “He’s waited long enough. I’ve forgiven him already, no?”

“Baby, you forgive too easily.”

“Hm, and you don’t?”

“Oh no, I hold grudges until I die.”

She laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

HE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT A WARMER COAT. The snow outside hadn’t let up. It spun softly in the air like ash, delicate and slow, and Nanami Kento drove through it with one hand on the wheel, the other resting absently near the passenger seat like muscle memory. It was like he was used to reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Yet.

Your neighborhood was quiet when he pulled up, the kind of stillness that held breath. He could see the faint glow from your window, warm and familiar and messy in that lived–in a way that made his chest ache a little. He felt the chill brim through his bones as he walked towards your door.

He knocked. Once. Then again, softer. The door opened. You were barefoot, wearing that oversized sweater he’d left behind a week ago. The sleeves are too long, collar wide enough to fall off one shoulder. You didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow, one hand braced against the frame.

“Well?” you asked. “Did you bring snacks, or is this strictly a regret and emotional unraveling kind of visit?”

He exhaled a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought we already unraveled, pretty woman of mine. Far too much.”

“You’d be surprised how many layers a person can have.”

You stepped aside to let him in. The door clicked shut behind him with a kind of finality that didn’t feel ominous. It felt earned. The apartment smelled like popcorn and your perfume. A mindless old movie murmured from the TV. Two glasses waited on the table. You were prepared for his arrival.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, but….I prepared anyway.” you said, not quite looking at him as you curled back onto the couch.

He shrugged out of his coat, folded it over the back of a chair. “I wasn’t sure I’d be invited.”

You didn’t smile, but your mouth quirked in that way it always did before you said something too sharp or too honest. “We’re not really good at normal, are we?”

“No, not at all.” he said, sitting beside you, knees brushing. “But we’re excellent at being messy, together.”

You handed him a glass. He took it. Neither of you toasted. Instead, you looked at him, eyes softer than your voice. He looked at the glass for a moment and then to you. He takes a sip of the drink.

“So, tell me, Nanami Kento. Is this situation about friends making poor decisions together, or are we headed for dangerous territory?”

He looked at you like he was memorizing something important—something fleeting. “I don’t know…..and that’s perplexed me for a while.” he said. “But I want to find out. With you, if possible.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then you reached for his hand, laced your fingers through his without ceremony. “Well….” you said, voice light but sure. “That’s a good answer. You should buckle up, pretty boy. You’re in my territory now.”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers tightened slightly. He puts down the glass and leans closer to you. It was like he could breathe again. For the first time in weeks, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was comfortable. It was layered. It was like the kind of silence that follows a good piece of music, where no one wants to speak in case it breaks the spell. Where lovers slowly danced to the tenderness of each other’s arms.

Nanami Kento sat there for a long beat, your fingers warm in his. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound the past for all this time. Not until you leaned your head lightly against his shoulder like it was the most obvious place for it to be. Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t ask him what took him so long. You didn’t press for more. That was the thing with you. When it really mattered, you always knew when to stay quiet. Eventually, you broke it anyway. Because you were you.

And because you were you, you had given him a chance to feel like the world was going to be alright. You gave him a moment to believe that he was just a human being, not a monster. He was a terrible person and he atoned for it — he still does. But he deserves more than that too. Sinners cannot be morose in misery forever.

“So. You told your ex-wife about us?”

He blinked. “How do you—”

“Gojo Satoru texted me a winking GIF of a champagne bottle popping and the words ‘you devil 😏’ a while ago.” You snickered at him. “He found out my number, it seems.”

Kento groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Of course he did.”

You grinned. “Honestly, I’m flattered. Feels very film noir meets gossip column.”

He tilted his head to look at you, his expression unreadable but softer around the edges. “I didn’t mean to… make it a thing. I just… mentioned you.”

“Mm. And how much of the ‘us’ did you mention?”

He hesitated, then, because you asked, he answered honestly. “I told them we’ve been sleeping together. That it wasn’t just once. That it never felt like ‘just friends’ to me.”

Your smile faded, but not in a bad way. It merely deepened, grounded itself. “And what did they say?”

“Well, my daughter Keiko called me a coward. My son Kenshin didn’t look up from his book as he chastised me. My ex–wife gave me that look she always does when she knows I’m thinking too much and doing too little. And Gojo Satoru… well.”

“He sent the champagne GIF.”

“And started to advise me on how to text you, let me tell you about that.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “God help us all if Gojo Satoru starts producing romantic gestures.”

“I don’t know….it captured my wife’s attention, so…..”

“Well, one time’s a charm!”

Kento laughed for a moment. When he had calmed down, he looked down at your joined hands. He turned his palm slightly, just enough to skim his thumb along your skin. “They said I seemed happier when I talked about you.”

“Were you?”

He met your eyes. “I am.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you shifted, swung a leg over to straddle his lap in one fluid, quiet motion. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your mouth inches from his. The air changed between you. It was warmer, charged, full of that breathless not–quite–yet.

“You didn’t bring flowers for me.” you whispered.

“I brought honesty, pretty girl.” he said.

“And your very thin coat.”

“And my very thin coat.” Kento starts laughing again.

You couldn’t help but lean in and just kiss him. He was too beautiful. How could you not? Kento recovered from the shock and started kissing you back with just as much passion in his heart as you did.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a clash of longing and impulse. It was deeper. Familiar. Like a conversation you’d both been having in fragments, finally spoken out loud. And when you pulled back, barely, he rested his forehead on yours.

“I don’t know where this is going. But I’m excited.” He whispered.

You smiled. “Good. Because if you tried to define this with a genre, I’d have to throw you out.”

He chuckled, the sound low, private. “What would you call it then?”

“Something between slow burn and absolute chaos.”

“That sounds about right.” You nudge your nose against his, voice warm with the kind of mischief that had always been your sharpest weapon. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Neither would I.”

“But if you keep this up ….showing up in sweaters and being honest and ruinously kissable, I’m going to start talking about you in all my acts.”

He raised an eyebrow, still close enough that your lips brushed as you spoke. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Oh, it’s both, pretty boy.” you said, smirking. “You’ll be immortalized forever as that guy—the emotionally complex, devastatingly hot, slow-blinking brooder who drinks tea and ruins my comedic timing because I’m too busy thinking about his hands.”

He gave a quiet, amused huff. “And here I thought I’d be the brooding muse type.”

“Oh no.” you teased. “You’re gonna be the punchline. Full bit. A ten–minute tight set on how my life derailed because some overachieving man with cheekbones and literary trauma made me feel feelings.”

He tilted his head, studying you like you were something between a challenge and a blessing. “Then I hope you tell the whole room.”

You blinked, slightly thrown. “What?”

He smiled—not wide, but true, unmistakable. “I hope you talk about me. Joke about me. Make fun of how I fold my socks or how I never eat the last bite. I hope you roast me so well they quote it online.”

You stared, mock–offended. “You want me to destroy your dignity in front of strangers?”

“I want you.” he said simply to you. “And you happen to be at your best when you’re telling stories that make people laugh. If that means I’m the butt of your jokes, so be it. I’m used to that, after all.”

You paused for half a second. “Even if I tell you a bit about apologizing to the lamp when you bumped into it?”

His laugh came quick and honest, his head tipping back for just a second. “I was half–asleep. After back to back schedules.”

You grinned. “I’m putting that in the act.”

“Fine. But then I get the right to heckle.”

“Oh really?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Only during the parts where you make yourself sound like you didn’t fall first.”

You felt that one all the way down. You felt your cheeks turn red at his words, entirely flustered. Your fingers slid through his hair, slow and affectionate, grounding the moment in something a little deeper.

“Well, pretty boy….” you whispered to him warmly. “Looks like we’ve got a pretty solid two–person show.”

Nanami Kento smiled into your kiss this time.

And neither of you needed to rehearse a single word.

You just enjoyed each other’s warmth under the falling snow.

epilogue

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The kind of bright, blindingly domestic Sunday that made you suspicious something had to go wrong. But instead, everything went right. Suspiciously right. Nanami Kento, your boyfriend, had warned you about everything, of course.

“They’re a lot, pretty girl.” he’d said, tugging at his collar like it might hide him from the memory. “They’ll ask questions. My daughter is terrifyingly witful. My son is unamused by everything. And my ex-wife is……” He paused. “Too intelligent and efficient. You already are aware of Gojo Satoru, so the warning is already there.”

“So basically, a reality TV show.” you replied, adjusting your eyeliner in the mirror. “Honestly, they’re a crowd that would love me at a stand-up show.”

Now, standing in the doorway of their family vacation home again, this time not as the whispered–about as the woman, not as the mysterious friend but as you. You took a breath and stepped in.

“Hi, hi.” you said, a hand raised like you were greeting a rowdy class. “I brought pastries and absolutely no emotional stability.”

Keiko blinked at you from across the room. Then she grinned. “I like her already, Dad.”

Kenshin looked up from his tablet, assessed you silently, and finally said, “You’re the one who said Dad folds his socks like origami.”

You smiled. “I did. And I stand by it.”

Their beautiful mother appeared from the kitchen, holding a tray of coffee. She looked at you the way women who’ve lived a lot of life look at other women. She was curious, assessing, and not unkind. If anything, she looked at you kindly and friendly.

“You must be the famous friend my ex–husband was crashing out about.” she said to you, smiling as she took your hand. “Thank you for coming!”

“I’ve been upgraded, finally. Took him long enough!” you replied with a smile, squeezing her hand too. “To ‘person who might have a toothbrush here now.’”

She barked out a laugh. “Well, he finally did something right!”

“Oh, I do not know how you deal with his sock choices.”

“Finally, someone who understands!” She cheered.

Nanami Kento, standing off to the side, looked like a man trying not to smile and failing miserably. His ears had gone a little pink as you two started chatting like you were long life friends, sharing secrets and. As the afternoon unfolded, something strange happened.

Keiko happily and quickly dragged you into a game of charades, where she purposefully gave you the most obscure clues because “you’re quick on your feet, you can handle it.” — and she was right!

Kenshin, who claimed not to laugh at anything, nearly choked on his cider when you got the impression of Kento reacting to a surprise birthday party (“mild confusion and deep disappointment, performed entirely with the eyebrows”).

Even his amazing ex–wife, who was already in love with you as her new best friend, ended up sitting beside you on the porch swing later that evening, sipping tea and saying, “He’s happier. I hadn’t seen that in a long time.”

You looked at her. “He makes it really easy. There’s still a lot of struggle, but with him, it’s easy.”

“You make it just as easy for him.” She nodded, watching her children through the window, talking with their dad and Gojo Satoru. “Just don’t make it temporary. I know he’s rough around the sides and he will make you mad, guaranteed. But he’s the kind of man who doesn’t love lightly.”

“I don’t joke lightly either.” you replied, smiling at you. “So we’re even.”

“Then I’m glad.” She whispered at you, smiling back. “We’re both finally happy and fulfilled. That’s good.”

Inside, Nanami Kento was watching you through the glass, his hand half–raised in a wave he hadn’t even realized he was giving. You winked back at him. Later, after the goodbyes were drawn out and warm and no one pretended they hadn’t enjoyed themselves, Kento took your hand as you both walked to the car.

“Well?” he asked, voice low.

“They love me, I think.” you said smugly. “Actually, no. Obviously. It’s obviously.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yes. Obviously.”

“And for the record, pretty boy….” you added, looking at him sideways. “I love them too. Not that I’ll say that to their faces. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Kento stopped walking. Turned to you. His hand slid from yours to your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “I know, pretty woman.” he said. “But I also know you mean it.”

And that was it with both of you. No fanfare. No punchline. Just the truth. And you, leaning into it. Finally, completely, it was like the best setup of your life. You were always going to be invited to family dinners from now on.

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