#i need to come up with a name for this au

[unamusedyams]

snapcube reference

[shokocide]

LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

-

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

-

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

-

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

-

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

-

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated. 

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

-

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

-

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

-

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

-

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

-

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had. 

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

-

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch. 

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

-

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

-

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him. 

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

-

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

-

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

-

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty 

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

-

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles. 

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

-

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

-

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin. 

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

-

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

-

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

-

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

-

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Satoru Gojo... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

-

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure.  “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand. 

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him. 

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed. 

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[mononijikayu]

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~

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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.

[n0tamused]

⋆.˚ ★—University AU!Anaxa x Reader

Content: a collection of modern au headcanons for Anaxa, some voicelines at the end, sfw, GN reader, yapping Words: 737

Masterlist ✦ Rules ✦ Ko-Fi

-Anaxa is a biochemistry major, he's simultaneously going to two universities actually. First one, his major, is in the morning hours while the second on is in the evening hours and the schedule for that one is much more relaxed. It's a miracle how well his schedules worked out. But that being said, catching Anaxa alone and while he is not busy is a rare event. He comes home and it is straight to his business again, studying, researching and reading some more like the nerd he is. Staying busy is what keeps him calm, which some find mind boggling

 -He isn't a morning person even if his uni has always started early, he never got used to it. He hates waking up so early and downs coffee down like it is water. He's not proud of it but he makes shit tasting coffee because he's simply not in the mood to spend too much time thinking about it so early...so if you happen to wake up around the same time as him or earlier and make him coffee?? Immediate brownie points that he saves up for later, but he also gives you a big kiss before he departs for class

 -Anaxa never misses a class he's interested in, and in general he is the type of person to always be there. Class starts at 6:00 am? He’s there before anyone else, somehow. There are one or two classes that he dreads to go to since he deems them worthless and not up to par with the modern advancement in technology and biology, but they're necessary so he drags himself to those too- although...you have a good chance of talking him into going to get a meal or a drink with you instead of going to those classes. This guy is just looking for an excuse and god knows he could use a good meal

-Anaxa has a reputation for debating professors or simply talking to them the entire duration of the class, which is both good and bad. It is something that landed him on the uni's debate team. He is quite snappy but it is hard to refute his arguments... 

-Has a pet bird that his sister gifted him and he loves that little bird lots. Named her something stupid though but endearing like Ribbit or something

-Anaxa doesn't let anyone inside his office room in his home, not that he really has anyone over nearly as much, but still. It stands that the office room is his room, his space, and no one else's. It did take a while for him to get warmed up to you but once he did he began inviting you inside, and slowly you began to just hangout in his office without him asking and he was 100% fine with it. He loves your company, even if you may not be engaged in an active conversation or interaction in general

-It goes without saying that Anaxa only indulges in physical touch with you, cuddling with you with a good book in hand or simply closing his eyes while listening to your heartbeat while he dozes off for a little while

-He doesn't dress that fancy around you, which is a sign of comfort. He doesn't like when anyone else sees him "underdressed". But you see him in the most absurdly casual clothes around the house. I'm talking stuff like pink slippers + shorts + beanie hat + sweatshirt. Does the fit make sense? It does to him. It's comfy to him. Don't question the genius

⋆.˚ ★—Voice lines

-"Beloved...why have you gotten out of bed so early? Hm? Mhm..." (He then gets up to spend the morning with you before you leave, regardless if he needs to be anywhere that early himself)

-"Such a matter could not have been in your control. Do not bash yourself over it, it is useless. What you should look forward to is this opportunity.. No, no, it is quite expected to feel lost. But remember, I'm here"

-"Come here... What? Yes, I'm calling you in for a hug. Don't make it a waste"

-"Here.. I've made us some tea. This blend will help your body relax. And while the tea takes its effect on your physical body, you and I can work on unraveling these knots and twists your mind has been pulled into"

-"No rush. This sort of thing takes time, breathe.."

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[iydiamartinx]

JASON

( slasher au )

Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 591 synopsis: You thought you knew him. Until you found the mask. a/n: Okay, this definitely gives Halloween vibes—but hey, we’re close enough, right? I swear I planned for this to be a one-shot for just one character… and yet I'm tempted to write for the other Batfam. warnings: talk of murder

You’d always known Gotham was considered the city of darkness and crime.

Even in its quietest moments—when the fog rolled low and the streetlamps flickered like dying stars—there was something in the air. A hum beneath the concrete. A hunger for chaos.

But it wasn’t until the new string of murders started that you realized just how deep that hunger ran.

They were brutal. Like the killer wasn’t just trying to take lives but make a statement. Cops whispered it was personal. That whoever was behind the mask wasn’t just killing, that they were hunting down their victims.

You didn’t believe it at first. Not when the photos surfaced. Not when your best friend vanished and never came home.

Not even when Jason started disappearing more often. Not even then.

You told yourself he was working. That the faint bloodstains on his hands—wiped away too quickly—were from some street fight gone sideways. That the corpses piling up across Gotham, strung up like broken puppets, had nothing to do with the man who curled behind you at night.

You lived on the poorer side of the city. Violence was routine. Maybe someone had come after him. Maybe he’d defended himself.

You told yourself that because you loved him.

Because the man who murmured your name like a vow, who touched your body like it was something sacred—who kissed your temple and laughed low into your hair—couldn’t possibly be the one carving people up in alleys.

Until you found the mask.

It was wedged behind the false panel in his closet. Matte black. Red streaks smeared down the front like war paint. It smelled like copper. And beneath it—tucked into a leather pouch, wrapped in bloodied gauze—was a photo.

Your photo.

A soot-smudged fingerprint dragged across your cheek. It looked like a mark. A claim.

You just hoped that didn’t mean you were next.

Your hands trembled. The walls felt too close. You took a shaky step back, heart thundering in your ears. The apartment was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

Then the floor creaked behind you.

You whirled around.

Jason stood in the doorway, rain dripping from the hood of his jacket. His eyes—so often warm—were shadowed now. Cold. Detached. It felt like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

You barely recognized him. This wasn’t your Jason.

He looked at the mask. Then at you.

“I didn’t want you to find it like this.”

You swallowed, breath catching. “So it’s true.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped inside, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling a cornered prey.

You backed up instinctively, heart racing.

“You killed them,” you whispered. “All of them.”

“They deserved it,” he said flatly. No remorse. No hesitation. “They hurt people. They were never going to stop.”

“My best friend—”

“She was using you!” The words cracked out of him, sharp and violent.

“You lied to me.”

“I protected you,” he growled, taking another step forward. “I saved you. I kept this city from chewing you up and spitting you out.”

You stared at him—at the man you loved, now a stranger in the shape of something monstrous. And yet…

Your heart still fluttered. Caught somewhere between dread and a dangerous, aching need.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” he said, softer now. Regret blooming behind his eyes. “But now that you do…”

His hand reached for the mask in your hands.

“…you have a choice.”

Would you run from the monster?

Or would you stay—and become one with him?

[luvyeni]

TWO DUMB VIRGINS ๑. ( 박지성 )

PART TEN. so dumb …

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ──── you wanted to lose it . he was tired of being made fun by his friends. both of you thinking he’d pull out fast enough… but what can you expect from two stupid virgins ? …

( 対 ) park jisung + fem. reader genre young parent au , smau · contains! mentions of sex. pregnancy talk. crude language. jokes among friends mature content

you sat at the table; tapping your nails against the cup; your stomach churning. was it nervousness or sickness due to the baby growing inside you? maybe a little bit both. “yn?”

you look up and there he is; standing right next to the table, you have to crane your neck up at him. “hi.” you smiled softly. “hi jisung.” he took a look at the seat across from you. “ca-can i sit down?” he for sure was the same boy you met at the party about a month and a half ago. “of course , i did invite you here, didn't I ?”

he chuckled nervously, sitting down. “i was sure you never wanted to talk to me again.” he said. “i thought you purposely did that with the numbers.” you shook your head. “no i would never do that.” you stopped , he smiled. “point is i didn’t mean to do that , i simply write like a child.” you said , clutching the cup of hot chocolate. “i got you something to drink.” you pushed the extra cup of hot chocolate. “i don’t drink coffee.”

“thank you.” he said , taking the warm drink. “well i guess you’re a bit confused as to why i made you come out in the middle of the day after a month and so of not talking.” you said , he nodded. “no-not that i don’t mind it , i did want to see you again , even if you wanted to just be friends.” he clarified so he wouldn’t creep you out. “well it is a bit weird i’ll admit.”

“yeah.” you bit down on your bottom lip; jisung took notice to this. “you okay , you look a little sick or something?” he asks , you nodded. “i’m fine , it’s just…” you stopped , trying to find the right words. “when we you know…” you explain , his face turned red. “ye-yeah , i remember that.” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “we didn’t wear a condom.” you said , hoping he’d piece it together for himself — he unfortunately did not , the look on his face told you that.

so you just decided to let it out.

“i’m pregnant.”

the boy almost choked on the drink. “huh.” he said , thinking he heard something wrong. “h-how i pulled out.” he said a little too loud. “shh.” you looked around to make sure he didn’t garner any attention. “clearly not fast enough.” you whispered; his breathing started to pick up. how the hell was he gonna have a kid? he could barely take care of himself , he didn’t even live by himself. “okay.” he sighed. “i’m not gonna freak out.” he said. “good because if you will i will and i don’t think we both need to have a panic attack in this store.” you said. “and you’re sure? like you took a test.”

“you think i would’ve told you had i not taken a test? i went to the doctor and took a test after i came down from the shock because i thought i was stuck in a dream.” you said. “right that was dumb to say.” he said. “no it’s fine , you have every right to be a little confused.” you said. “im just .. just a little stressed , you can understand.” he nodded quietly , and you both actually sat there in silence for a while , both staring at your drinks , coming to terms with the news.

“we’re so damn dumb.” you spoke up with a light chuckle. “yeah.” he said. “how are we gonna do this?” he shrugged. “whatever you want, i’ll totally respect it.” he said. “not to rush you, but have you… you know thought about what you wanted to do?” he said. “no , my head hasn’t been screwed on right since i got the news , i had a test the other day and im sure i spelt my name wrong , and the girl whose hair i did , im pretty sure i did her hair wrong.” he chuckled. “i’m serious she sat in my chair with brunette and walked out with a bob, im a mess.”

“i don’t regret what we did you know?” he spoke up. “i wouldn’t go back and stop myself from doing it.” you nodded. “me either.” you added. “well maybe i’d tell myself to use a goddamn condom but you understand what i meant.” he nodded with a smile; his phone rang. “give me a second.” he answered it. “what?”

“don’t what me, where the hell are you? jeno said you haven’t shown up to work yet?” jeno yelled through the screen. “i thought you said you had an hour.” he smiled. “okay maybe i had 20 minutes.” he confessed. “you’re still on that date? why are you so irresponsible.” you chuckled listening to the boy be scolded. “okay , okay fine i’ll get there in about a hour.” he said. “you’ll be there in 30 minutes , goodbye.” he hung up. “okay i have to go , but i can walk you back to your apartment or class.” he said. “just to make sure you’re safe.” he said. “but don’t you only have 30 minutes to get there?”

“jeno is the manager; he won’t fire me.” he said, you shook your head. “sure , but i have work , so you can walk me there.” you both stood up , he stared down at your stomach. “you can’t see anything yet.” he looked down , standing up. “right.” grabbing your bag , let’s go.” you walked out then store the tall boy following behind you.

you both quietly walked to your job , stopping right at the door. “are the chemicals okay for you to be inhaling?” he asked. “my boss has forced me to wear a mask ever since she’s figured it out.” you responded , the door opening. “seulgi.” you said. “this him?” she pointed. “could you not be so embarrassing?” you asked. “h-hi.” the boy waved. “he is cute , both of you are incredibly stupid.” she said. “sorry , she has taken the older sister role way too seriously.” you said. “come , grandma is here , it’s your day.” she said. “no it’s yunas.” you said. “yuna has managed to piss her off before the appointment so you’re up.”

you sighed. “well it’s better you go , don’t want your friend to tell you again.” you said. “yeah , i better gon, it was nice meeting you.” seulgi nodded to the boy. “yn i’ll text you soon , about you know.” he said. “yeah.” you said before he turned around, making his way back down the block. “jesus he’s just like you.” she said. “really?” you asked. “i don’t see it.”

“of course you don’t , but how did he take it?” you walked into the salon , seulgi following behind. “better than i did.” you said. “he took it well , a little too well almost.” you said. “trust me , he’s freaking out just like you , he just didn’t want to alarm you.” she said. “and like i said you two are the same , so if you freaked out , trust me he’s freaking out.”

and she was right the moment he was away from you he almost fell to his knees; luckily he was at work and jeno helped him to a chair. “what the hell is wrong with you?” he asked. “i don’t… what am i gonna do?” jeno decided it was above his pay grade and just patted his back. “whatever it is , you’ll be fine.” he said , walking away. “yeah.” jisung sighed.

“hopefully.”

( 🏷️ ). @starsungwrld @neverbeurs @chocolate-scoups @delinalovesriize @cupid-ville @maiyhw @cosmicwintr @nctislifue @httpsxnox @hyunjinslongasslegs @andyyjw @kookssecret @ithinkulikeme @meowmeowhoon @jae-n0 @413ktz @httpjiprk @antifrggile @ourshin @itskpopular @smiles4hyuck @jaeminnnanaaa17 @bbyinni @sillypaperspyeagle-blog @n0hyuck @catdonut657 @markleesleftpinky @clean-soap @janjoonty @veilstqr @mikeeel @cigsaftersuh @kittykyuuu @akirawhore

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 PREV. TDV. NEXT. .ᐟ

©️LUVYENI

[jakesaverse]

QUIET LIKE US | INTRO OF YN’S STORY

Genre: angst; fluff ; college au; university au

Pairing: Jake x reader; mentions of ex boyfriend ; some other guys from school

Synopsis: After your ex-boyfriend dies, the blame nearly drowns you. So you run—to a new town, a new school, where no one knows your name or your past. You try to disappear, keep your head down, stay alone. But then you meet Jake Sim. He’s quiet too, not by choice—just the kind of person everyone avoids. As the two of you grow closer, you realize he’s hiding something, just like you. And no matter how far you run, some stories follow you.

warning: mentions of death

first chapter out on: May 5th

—————————————————————————————

You don’t remember walking to the podium.

One minute you’re clutching a folded piece of paper in your lap, your fingernails biting into the skin of your palm, and the next, you’re standing there in front of everyone—behind the mic, behind the weight of every gaze that dares to meet yours. Most of them don’t.

They look through you. Past you.

You’re a ghost here. A stain.

You unfold the paper with trembling fingers. Your voice comes out too soft, too shaky, too full of everything you’ve been trying to swallow.

“Chul-soon was… kind.”

Lie.

“He remembered the little things.”

Lie.

“He made people feel safe.”

That one nearly chokes you.

You blink down at the words you scribbled at 2 a.m., while staring at the ceiling and trying to believe them. You wrote about the version of him you always hoped would show up. The one you begged yourself to see when things were good for a little while. The version who smiled and kissed your forehead and told you he was trying.

But that wasn’t who he was—not when the doors were closed, when his voice dropped and his fists clenched and the apologies came too late. He didn’t make people feel safe.

He made you feel small.

And you’re still carrying that.

Still bleeding from it.

“I’ll miss the way he smiled when he was nervous… how he hated to see anyone cry…”

You feel yourself unraveling. Every word cuts deeper. Because none of it is real.

You’re not mourning him. You’re mourning the version of him you made up. The one you needed him to be.

The lies tighten in your throat. And then—

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

You don’t know if you’re saying it to him, or to yourself. Or maybe to the version of you that believed he loved you right.

“I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve said something. I should’ve—”

The paper slips from your hands.

“I shouldn’t be up here,” you say, louder now. “It should’ve been me.”

Gasps ripple through the room. Someone mutters your name. Someone else stands up, maybe to stop you. But no one does stop you. Because no one ever does.

“It should’ve been me!” you scream, the words ripping out of your throat like they’ve been waiting to be free.

And then you run.

Down the aisle. Through the doors. Out into the sharp, cold air that slices through your skin and makes you feel just enough to stay standing.

You collapse just outside the building, folding into yourself. You sob like your lungs might collapse. Because you miss him. And you hate him. And you hate yourself more.

You loved the version of him that never existed. And now you don’t know what to do with all that love.

You don’t hear the door open behind you. Not until a soft voice calls your name.

You turn.

It’s her.

Chul-soon’s mother.

Her face is pale, carved by grief. She walks slowly toward you and pulls a tissue from her sleeve, holding it out like it’s an offering.

You take it with shaking hands. “Thanks,” you whisper, not even meeting her eyes.

She looks at you for a long, quiet moment.

Then she says it—calm, almost gentle.

“You’re right. It should have been you.”

And then she turns and walks away.

Leaving you in the cold.

Alone.

And that’s when you knew.

There’s no one left for you here. No forgiveness. No second chances. No home.

That night, you pack your bags.

No goodbyes. No note. No forwarding address.

Just silence.

And the hope that, maybe somewhere else, no one knows your story.

—————————————————————————————

taglist: @ikonsiconic @hvseunq143 @invsomnixa1

[hameesstuff]

"Code blue, Code you"

Pairing: Doctor Jaehyun (NCT) x Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Slowburn, Doctor x Doctor AU, He Falls First (and hard)

Genres: Humor, Fluff, Angst, Deep Burn Smut

Word Count Target: ~2k

Preview: When two rival surgeons—sharp-tongued, sleep-deprived, and dangerously attracted—are forced to work side by side, sparks fly, scalpels clash, and hearts get involved. In a hospital full of tension, Dr. Jung Jaehyun falls first... and hardest.

___________________________________________

[Opening Scene: The First Cut Isn’t Always the Deepest]

You don’t believe in love at first sight—but you do believe in hate at first interaction.

Dr. Jung Jaehyun walks into the surgical department on your night shift, fresh from Harvard, and within ten minutes he’s reorganized the trauma flow board and corrected your chart notes with a polite smile that somehow feels like a slap.

"You’re welcome to double-check my math," you say icily.

He smiles, too handsome for his own good. "No need. I already did."

He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the moment you vow to make his life as inconvenient as ethically possible.

[Development: Petty Games and Relentless Smirks]

Jaehyun is infuriating. His precision in surgery is flawless. His bedside manner? Award-winning. His smile? Unreasonably effective.

You call him “Golden Boy” to the residents. He calls you “Dr. Ice.”

You leave passive-aggressive notes on the scrub schedule. He adjusts the thermostat in your office to arctic levels.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you tell him after he scrubs in for a valve replacement you specifically didn’t invite him to.

“Not obsessed,” he says. “Just making sure you don’t accidentally kill anyone.”

The tension is ridiculous. The nurses place bets on who will snap first.

They don't know Jaehyun already has.

[Jaehyun’s Interlude: Quiet Obsession]

You occupy too much of his brain. You’re snarky, brilliant, competitive—and every time you challenge him, he wants to either argue or kiss you senseless.

He hears you laugh in the breakroom once. Real, unguarded. It knocks the air out of him.

So yes, maybe he teases you too much. Maybe he volunteers for the same night shifts. Maybe he memorized your coffee order the first week.

He’s falling. Fast. And you don’t even see it.

[Turning Point: Hearts in Crisis]

A teenage patient comes in with a rare congenital heart defect. Surgery is high risk. You clash over the plan. But Jaehyun—calmer than you’ve ever seen—suggests a hybrid approach you hadn’t considered.

You agree, reluctantly.

The surgery is brutal. But it works.

Afterward, you find him alone in the supply room, eyes closed, head against the wall.

“I didn’t know you cared that much,” you say.

He opens his eyes.

“You do something to me,” he says softly. "Even when I’m trying not to care."

You leave before you can hear the rest.

[Build-Up: Long Nights & Slow Softening]

The war softens. The teasing becomes banter. You start looking for his face in morning briefings. He brings you ginger tea when you lose your voice.

One 3AM shift, you share ramen in the call room, knees touching.

“You’re not so bad,” you mumble, half-asleep.

He brushes hair from your face.

“I think I’m in trouble,” he whispers.

You don’t respond. But your hand stays in his.

[Smolder: A Near Kiss in the On-Call Room]

You’re arguing about a surgical technique. He’s too close. You’re flushed. He says something about tension.

“Maybe we should just get it over with,” he murmurs.

You stare at his lips.

But the pager goes off.

The kiss doesn’t happen.

You both pretend you’re not disappointed.

[Jaehyun Falls Deeper]

He starts sketching diagrams with your preferred methods. Learns your favorite OR playlist. Defends you in a board meeting when no one else does.

When you fall asleep on a cot after a 36-hour shift, he covers you with his jacket. Stares too long. Whispers your name like a prayer.

You dream of hands holding yours.

[Climax: Confession Under Fire]

There’s a power outage during an emergency surgery. You’re guiding the team by flashlight. Jaehyun is beside you, calm, steady.

Afterward, you pull him into the stairwell, adrenaline still high.

“You saved that girl,” you breathe.

“So did you,” he says.

Then:

“I’m so far gone for you, it’s not funny anymore.”

[On-Call Room, Tension Unleashed]

It’s past 2AM, and the hospital is quiet in the way that only makes your body ache more—blood still warm from a trauma save, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. You’re both in the on-call room again. The lights are low. He’s staring at you.

You stand in front of him. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Jaehyun’s voice is low, rough. “I can’t help it anymore.”

He steps forward, hands sliding up your arms, gaze locked to your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t. You press your lips to his, and he breaks.

He kisses like he’s been starved—hands firm but reverent, mouth moving with deliberate hunger. You push his lab coat off. He strips yours away just as quickly. It’s frantic, but not careless.

He lifts you to the cot, lays you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, staring down at you as if committing the image to memory. He runs his hands over you like he’s mapping your skin.

When he slides his hand into your scrubs, you gasp.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “Every night. Every shift you sassed me. Every time you stole my coffee.”

He finds you already wet. His breath hitches.

“Fuck, you want this too.”

You nod, breath ragged.

His fingers move slow at first, drawing lazy circles. He kisses you deeply, keeping you grounded with his weight, his rhythm.

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s with a groan buried in your mouth, his name broken on your lips.

He moves slowly, like he’s savoring every second. Your bodies tangle, skin slick with sweat, gasps echoing through the small room.

“Jaehyun—” you whimper as he hits a spot that has your spine arching.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

You fall apart in his arms, and he follows with a shaky moan, burying his face in your neck as he spills into you.

Later, you lay curled against him, your breaths syncing.

“Still hate me?” he asks, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You kiss his chest. “You’re infuriating.”

But you kiss him again.

[The Man Who Fell First, Hardest, and Last]

You’re officially a thing now. Everyone knows. The nurses win their betting pool.

He walks you to work even when his shift is hours later. You scold him for sleeping at your apartment without backup scrubs.

But he just shrugs, presses a kiss to your temple.

“Worth it.”

In surgery, you bicker less. He still teases. You still roll your eyes.

And every once in a while, when you catch him watching you like you hung the stars, you realize:

He didn’t just fall first.

He fell hardest.

And he’s never getting back up.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

___________________________________________

[lakesparkles]

Why are you here? (One shot)

I finished the niche oneshot scene with Thanos and Seo-wan!

Please read it below, if you want:

(NOTE: This is an AU that may make sense only to me ^^’. Everything between [ ] is Thanos speaking English)

 That was a good day. Yes, it was.

 Thanos walked around, almost aimlessly, repeating that same phrase in his head. He even brought his thumb to his lips, biting his nail lightly in concentration.

 What he knew was that there were good days and bad days, no matter your situation.

 He'd heard about that a long time ago. When he was a kid, very young. He had vivid memories of that time, not being able to stand spending an entire day inside a classroom. He wasn't usually a good student: skipping class in the bathrooms to smoke weed; running away from school when the staff didn't pay enough attention; taking out his frustration, even in a good-natured way, on people who didn't deserve it.

 When he started coming home with a black eye more often than not... It started to become a problem.

 It was around that time when he heard about the good days thing.

 He heard that from…

 Thanos stopped in mid-step, suddenly frustrated. He could remember the conversation itself perfectly, but not who he was talking to. It was an adult, yes. Someone much older than him. He put his hand on the back of his neck, frustrated by how the gesture hadn’t been able to make his memories clearer.

 It was with... His mother! Yes, of course, who else would it be?

 Then he started walking again with slightly unsteady steps.

 That day, years back, his mother had explained how necessary it would be for him to know the difference between a good day and a bad day. Thanos didn't pay much attention, because he thought he was about to get another scolding. However, what she explained was that a good day didn't always feel like one. It just needed to be better than a bad one. If he didn't feel terrible most of the time, it would be good enough.

 And now, at that moment, he was having a good day too. His heart was beating a little faster than usual. He was sweating cold, but only a bit. He felt nervous, but not too much.

 So it was a good day.

 "Mr. Choi!"

 He looked back reflexively, regretting it a second later. With a grunt, he lowered his shoulders and started walking again.

 "Mr. Choi? Are you okay?"

 He knew those nurses too well to know that this one wouldn't give up until she got an answer:

 "[I'm great, perfect even!]" He spoke in English, still with his back turned, but waving his right hand in the air. "I'm just going straight to my room, nothing else, señorita!"

 "When you say it like that, I think you're up to something," The nurse said with a small laugh.

 "No way! Me? Never!" Thanos laughed back, increasing his pace so that she wouldn't catch up with him. "[Goodbye!]"

 He arrived in the room a few moments later, satisfied that he had managed to (literally) escape a conversation. He just didn't feel like it. Not at all. To tell the truth, his head started hurting again, so it seemed like a good idea to just go back to his room.

 Without thinking much, he walked over to his bed, throwing his weight on it and feeling the bed frame creak. Some roommate - he didn't care enough to remember his name - complained about the noise, saying that he would end up breaking that thing.

 Thanos paid it little attention, ignoring him and stretching as dramatically as he could. An involuntary yawn even came out of his mouth, it was as if he yawned more often every day.

 Something about that place was that they always tried to keep their patients busy. Maybe so that they wouldn't even have time to think. Thanos had a theory that it would fix him, but in the end, he managed to appreciate the little free time he had in the afternoon. He didn't have a damn thing to do, but he could sleep.

 After five minutes, he realized that he wouldn't be able to sleep.

 So he sat up awkwardly on the bed, rocking his body from side to side.

 He felt like his head was about to explode. He could barely keep his eyes open, so he grunted loud enough to make it a problem for everyone there. Apparently, that automatically caught someone's attention.

 "Were you cursed too? It happened to me on that last mission, remember? Next time, it's better not to cross that bridge," The man in the bed closest to his own spoke in a neutral tone, but clearly confident about what he was saying. 

 That was the funny part! So Thanos smiled, turning towards him:

 "Oh yeah, dude? Do you know if the nurses would give me a healing potion twice in the same hour? It's a healing potion you say, right?" Thanos scoffed, even though he knew that Seo-wan (one of the only names he memorized from there) would take everything completely seriously.

  "Nurses?" The other seemed confused, however. "What are you talking about, bard Su-bong?"

 "Su-bong!?" Thanos exclaimed with the same intensity as someone who just received a slap in the face. "My brother, I already told you that I'm Thanos!"

 "You are not," Seo-wan laughed lightly. "Thanos is just a fictional character, I think you're a little confused.

 "Huh? That you are aware of- Ah, fuck it!" Thanos cut himself off and preferred to move on to the next subject before he got bored.

 First thing, however, he got up from his own bed, pretending that his legs were not wobbly and weak. In a few steps, he reached the other's bed, making himself comfortable and sitting next to him with a smile. Seo-wan returned it with the same gesture, despite poorly disguising his discomfort with the sudden proximity.

 Seo-wan could always maintain the appropriate posture, but Thanos was good at observing people. Even though he'd known Seo-wan for a few days - a little over a week -, he could capture all the little details: the way his shoulders tensed; him changing the focus of his vision to a random point before returning to Thanos out of pure politeness; how he licked his dry lips, something he rarely did.

 Seo-wan couldn't say that explicitly, but he didn't want Thanos there. That fact wasn't enough to make Thanos leave, but it didn't feel good either.

 "Are you bored too?" Thanos began, elbowing him lightly. "I tried walking around, there's no shit to do."

 "I kinda like it," Seo-wan shrugged. A simple statement, with nothing more to add.

 "How so? Damn, I feel like-"

 "Why are you here, bard Su-bong?"

 Thanos opened his mouth to answer, but he was too surprised to form any coherent thought. Since he had been admitted to that place, he hadn't seen Seo-wan acting like that - so direct. His gaze was fixed on Thanos, who had no choice but to stare at his dilated, almost intimidating pupils.

 "What are you-"

 "You're not like this!" Seo-wan didn't even allow him to finish his meaningless question. "I know you'd rather be hunting wild boars during these hours. Or anything else. You're always in someone's company for that too."

 "You're talking nonsense," Thanos looked away, not really knowing what the hell he meant. Usually, Seo-wan's analogies were weird, but understandable. If he tried a little, he could translate half of the words in his mind. Today, his head hurt like hell. "And, like, duh! Now I'm in your company, nothing new, right? Why are you surprised? Do you happen to like watching me?"

 "A little, yes," To his surprise, he received an immediate confirmation. "You're one of the only people here who can hear me too!"

 "Everyone here can hear you, man, they just pretend you don't exist," Thanos shrugged only to finish after a short pause. "Because you're a fucking weirdo."

 "That's not true!" For the first time, Seo-wan raised his voice. "The sorceress told me about everything they did to me! She gave me some instructions on how to end this specific spell... But I still haven't managed to fully unravel the enigma..."

 "Sorceress, [right...?]" Thanos remained serious, unimpressed. "Come on, man, do you know what I mean? It's impossible to understand anything you say!"

 Seo-wan seemed to give up on the little argument, making an impatient "tsk" as he lifted his chin and closed his eyes, to see if Thanos would simply stop existing.

 Thanos was about to make another joke, but suddenly stopped.

 It was a simple gesture.

 For a few seconds, Seo-wan raised his hand to his nose, scratching it lightly. There was something in the way he did it, mixed with the way his nose moved... Even Thanos's head stopped hurting for a second.

 He had to admit to himself that Seo-wan always made him feel strange. It was like that ever since he first saw him sitting around in the halls of the psychiatric ward. His gaze met his and Thanos noticed every detail at once, from his faint freckles to the way Seo-wan always kept his hands moving, restless. He was stupidly familiar, and Thanos knew why.

 It was at that moment that he realized that maybe that wasn't going to be a good day after all.

  "Hey, Seo-wan... Wizard, whatever," Thanos remained seated in the same place, even though he looked away and forced a more serious tone of voice. "Why are you here again?"

 Seo-wan hugged his legs and rested his chin on his knees, a little distracted during the short time Thanos had been silent:

 "Hmm? I'm just a little tired."

 "No, that's not it! Not in this bed, why are you here in general?"

 "In this region?"

 "That 's it."

 "I need to defeat the fire dragon, I thought I already told you that."

 Thanos nodded slowly, his gaze completely unfocused. But, of course, he didn't find much sense in what he heard, so he continued:

 "And why do you need to do this anyway?"

 "Isn't it obvious? It destroyed everything I had!"

 "The fire dragon…?"

 "Of course! I've been training for years, I don't think I've ever been so close to achieving it! That excites me, you know? I've focused on this for so long that I don't even know what I'm going to do next. Trying to figure it out thrills me even."

 "I see," - Thanos lied, despite being entertained. He hadn't even noticed the small smile that appeared on his lips. Now that he looked at him, he realized that Seo-wan seemed to be relaxed for the first time that afternoon, even releasing his legs from his own embrace and sitting up straight next to the other.

 "And you, bard Su-bong? Why are you here?"

 With a sigh, Thanos took the weight off his shoulders, already anticipating that very question:

 "Look, there's not only one reason."

 "I could notice."

 "Fuck you," Thanos pretended to be upset. "Dude, I have a huge list. Do you want it in alphabetical order or what? Sure, man, if you don't mind listening to me for a long time! Such an honor, I know you won't mind!"

 Fulfilling his goal, he heard Seo-wan laugh lightly. It didn't necessarily sound like his laugh, but it was close enough to make his heart ache.

 The comparison hadn't been a good feeling. Nor a bad one.

 And the worst part was that Thanos wasn't just lying for the sake of it. He really didn't know how to answer Seo-wan's question. ‘Because it's the first time I've spent more than a week sober in the last decade' could be a good start, but he didn't have the patience to go into any details. He didn't want to tell him more about his headache that wouldn't go away. Or about the chills he still felt days later. Or how ironically he felt exhausted and discouraged all the time. Or about all the times he'd yelled at some nurse when he regretted having gone there in the first place.

 It wouldn't be worth it.

 So maybe he could tell Seo-wan about everything he'd been through until he got there, but it wasn't like Seo-wan would understand or even believe it. Sometimes, even Thanos wondered if his memories were true. If he hadn't created another reality just to pretend that none of that had happened to him in the first place.

 However, what ended up coming out of his mouth was:

 "I miss someone."

 It wasn't the answer Seo-wan was expecting, he could judge by his mouth slightly open in confusion:

 "Really? Who?"

 "Uh..." Thanos scratched the back of his neck in reflex, not sure if he wanted to be honest. "A guy I met a few months ago. You don't know him."

 "I know but... He ended up here in this village? Are you looking for him around here?"

 "That's not exactly it," Thanos knew he was nowhere to be found. Not anymore.

 "Are you running away from him?"

 "No!"

 After realizing that his answer was louder than expected - even making Seo-wan's eyes widen slightly - Thanos stood up with a quick movement. Standing up, he dramatically cleaned an invisible mess from the hideous pants he was forced to wear there.

 "Bard Su-bong, did I say something that-"

 "[Relax, man, you're fine!]" Thanos raised both arms in the air, doing a few turns and turning his body in the same place. "He has nothing to do with you! I'm going to sleep now, okay? Or my head will disintegrate for real."

 He knew that Seo-wan knew he was lying. And he knew that Seo-wan knew he knew. Even so, he walked to his own bed and threw all his weight on the mattress again. Then he buried his face in the pillow and remained still. He couldn't see anything around him anymore, but he heard Seo-wan sigh and clear his throat, probably changing position and going to lie down too.

 But Seo-wan didn't say anything.

 This was wrong, it wasn't supposed to be like this.

 With another sudden memory, Thanos remembered how Nam-gyu would have followed him at the same moment, complaining and whining for Thanos to spill the beans. Nam-gyu could be insufferable when he wanted to, he lost count of the last time he could even think without that bastard's voice ringing in his ear nonstop. If Nam-gyu were there, he would have a worse headache and could already give up on his possible nap.

 But Seo-wan didn't say a single word, too polite to bother him.

 This bothered Thanos immensely.

 He thought about how Seo-wan had the same hair color as Nam-gyu, only much shorter. He also had the same faint freckles. He scratched his nose the same way. He sighed like him.

 But he was far from being Nam-gyu.

 So he concluded that his mother was right all those years ago. Today was indeed a good day.

[kaysdelights]

alien himbo: constellations |

🔞

words: 11042 fem reader x male main character w / au's: alien!au, himbo alien, arranged marriage, anxiety/panic attack, dry humping, a/n: part two to the alien himbo au! here's part one !

You wake up the next morning with his rock hard cock pressed right against your bare ass. You aren’t sure at what point during the night your pajamas came off, but your eyes pop awake when you realize what’s happening. His hand is on your hip, holding your body close as he rolls his lower half against you. 

As soon as the events of the night before come back to you, you melt into his big alien body, feeling so safe and secure in his embrace. He groans a raspy breath in your ear, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrusts against your ass. You don’t know what’s gotten into him. Maybe getting off in front of him the night before has him worked up and dreaming something naughty, but you can’t complain. Your body begins to heat up from his motions. An ache settles between your legs and you wouldn’t mind getting off again. 

It doesn’t help when his arm wraps around your body to slip his palm up your stomach and over your breast. He cups you gently in his sleep, pushing his hips into you from behind and you can’t help the soft whimper that spills out. His touch is so warm and cautious even when he’s dreaming, you don’t dare push him away.

Unfortunately for you, he’s suddenly aware of the situation while beginning to awaken. He jumps up from the bed with a gasp after a second, naked and fully erect. You whimper at the loss of warmth, turning to look at him reaching for his pajama pants to cover himself. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask him with a pout. “It was starting to feel good.” 

“I, uh, I have to get ready for work.” He starts shuffling toward the door, trying not to flash you with his naked body behind his pajamas. “We’re beginning to train recruits today. Long, busy day.” He’s mumbling half-awake and not making eye contact before he rushes out of the bedroom, leaving you naked and wanting him beneath the sheets. 

Clearly he’s too shy for his own good, but you’re in no rush to move things along if he’s not comfortable. If this is your life now, you have nothing but time. 

Sighing, you climb out of bed after he’s dressed in his uniform and left for the day. If it’s a long day for him, it’s probably going to be even longer for you. You have nothing to do on this alien spaceship. You don’t even know how to call your best friend back on earth, but it’s something you would like to learn soon. You have so much to tell her already.

After contemplation, you slip out of the bed to see how much of your morning routine you can accomplish with all the alien gadgetry. Brushing your teeth went smooth enough since you have your own toothbrush and toothpaste. Showering, on the other hand, took a minute because you needed to figure out how to turn the hot water on. After much struggle and fifteen minutes of your morning wasted turning this knob and that, you finally step into the shower with the hot water blasting your skin. 

Other than that, everything was organized in neat little dispensers inside the shower, with a fresh cloth prepared. You washed up while taking your time to enjoy the hi-tech, alien bathroom. When you finished, hidden vents inside the steamy shower blew soft, warm air to dry you off. How convenient, less laundry! You dressed quickly in sweats and a t-shirt and spent the rest of the morning getting Jellybean situated and attempting to cook breakfast.

Jellybean took exactly an hour of your attention to make up for being teleported to an alien spaceship. Eventually he calmed down enough to play with a few of his toys and then prepare for napping for the rest of the day after you fed him his breakfast. Your own breakfast didn’t go so well, however, looking in the fridge in the kitchen to see ingredients you have no name for. You realize they must be from your alien husband’s home planet. So much for preparing yourself a meal.

Around noon you grow too hungry, but you have no way to contact your husband to feed you this time. So, you do the next best thing and try to remember how to make your way back to the bustling center of the ship with all the food stands. Not like you have money to pay, but maybe they’ll do some sort of credit. You wonder what kind of currency these aliens take, but you don’t think it over too much as you make your way through the sliding door and into the hallway. 

You try following the hallway to the right, but that leads you down two more hallways until you’re in a room with a huge, thick glass window. Just outside is a view of earth spinning and numerous shining dots of all the other galaxies behind it. You stop to admire the sight, letting reality sink in just how far you are from home and how insignificant you feel.

Then your stomach growls and you’re back on the hunt for food.  You make it down two more hallways before you start following a sign that looks like a bowl with steam hovering above. Slipping past two sliding doors, you step into a room of glistening glass panels leading to an arched doorway that steam billows through. Your best guess is some kind of locker room and sauna, so you quickly turn for the exit before you see sights you aren’t prepared for.

However, upon doing so, you smack right into a hard, large alien body. With his bare chest on display thanks to only wearing a fuzzy, brown towel-looking thing around his waist, he towers over you as you take a step back to meet his gaze. 

“So sorry!” You hold your hands up in an apology, laughing a nervous sound that looks like it goes in one alien ear and out the other. “I’ll just… be… on… my way…”

An attempt to slip past him proves unsuccessful when he holds a large hand out, blocking you. “Why the hurry? Don’t you want to play with the recruits?” His question has your eyes growing wide. “Why else would a pretty little thing like you be doing in our sauna?” The alien wraps his hand around your arm, keeping you still. Your heart races, looking around for an exit, but coming up blank. 

“Sorry, I think you’re mistaken.” You attempt to tug your arm back, but he’s too strong and his grip is too tight. Your stomach twists, gulping as the urgency takes over. “I shouldn’t have come in here. I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re right you shouldn’t,” he laughs, tugging on your arm to inch you closer to him. “But we can still play.” 

“No, you should let go.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Or my big hot alien husband is going to kick your ass!” There, that should scare him. While your alien husband definitely gives golden retriever vibes, you have no doubt he could actually hurt someone if he needed to. And this alien creep in front of you definitely needed it. How were you going to actually summon him here? You have no idea, but he doesn’t know that. 

“Husband, huh?” The alien grips your wrists tighter, causing you to wince as he brings your arm to his nose, inhaling a deep breath. “You don’t smell mated.” 

“Okay, ew.” You poke his chest with your bare hand, which loosens his grip on you and allows you to free yourself from him. You take a few steps back and one to the right. “What is it with this alpha mates bullshit? Y’all should really get over yourselves! Stay there or my strong, scary husband will deal with you.” Inching your way toward those sliding doors, you try to distract him enough to make your escape. 

“I don’t see a husband here.” His wicked grin sends off the warning signals as you back toward those sliding doors.

Unfortunately for him, your alien husband does show up in all of his possessive, jealous rage, wasting no time lunging toward the alien creep and pinning him against one of the glass panels. You hear the crack of glass as the white crystal shatters behind the two alien soldiers. You gasp and stumble away, watching as your husband wraps one strong hand around the other alien’s throat, making sure he stays put. 

“Don’t ever touch my wife again or I will send you to meet the sun.” Okay, what the hell? That was one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. You have to stop yourself from pouncing your husband before he turns to you after releasing the alien. “Let’s go.” He pulls you with force out of the sauna to begin leading you down the confusing hallways.

“Do you really do that?” you question, looking up at him and bobbling along as you try to keep up with his pace. His expression is cold, like stone. He looks straight ahead with a tense jaw and wrinkled brow. “Send people to the sun?” The thought makes your stomach churn. Or, maybe it’s the gnawing hunger, you aren’t sure. 

“Yes,” is his brusque reply before suddenly pulling you into a little alcove resting in the midst of the hallway. He pulls you close, staring down at you with fire in his eyes. “What were you doing out?” Was he upset at you? The sharpness in his tone would indicate he was, but you aren’t sure what you did wrong. 

“I got hungry,” you pout, suddenly not so sure your alien husband is so excited to see you. 

“You shouldn’t have left!” You jump at the harshness in his tone. Your eyes widen, gasping with an attempt to pull yourself from his grasp.  

“You just left this morning and left me with no food and nothing to do!” Tears begin to well behind your lids, that unfamiliar yet knowing tug that threatens to snap the line of keeping it all together. “I didn’t mean to get lost, but I was hungry! I can’t read a lot of these signs here and I got turned around, and then that big alien just grabbed me and wanted to play, apparently, ew, and now you’re yelling at me and I don’t know what I did wrong!” His expression that was once like steel softens into confusion. His eyes bounce around your face, taking in the tears and your trembling bottom lip. He bites his own bottom lip as he exhales a heavy breath.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” His eyes glass over, pressing a hand to the side of your face so his thumb can wipe your tears. You can’t help yourself when you press your face into his touch. He’s so warm and you’ve had a terrible day. “I didn’t mean to blame you. That was wrong of me and as your husband I should have taken better care of you.” He pulls his cap from his head to run fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath. “I got so scared someone was trying to hurt you, I couldn’t think straight. Please, forgive me.” 

Without warning, he grabs you by the wrist to pull you into him. His arms wrap around your body, holding against his own in the warmest, most comforting hug you’ve ever felt. Now your entire being melts into him, feeling so safe and protected and… what were you even crying about again? 

“You don’t have to forgive me, then, but at least let me get you some food,” he suddenly says in your silence. You almost didn’t hear him. Is it possible to drift off to sleep while standing in someone’s embrace? You’re confident it is. 

“I forgive you,” you whisper into his chest before inhaling the deepest breath you can manage. He smells so perfect, like clean linens on a sunny day. Rich, hot fudge with a scoop of ice cream. The fresh rainfall dripping from the leaves and onto your face as you run out to play as a little kid. All the things that remind you of home, and safety, and comfort flood your entire body with that breath. 

“Good,” he pulls away, grinning with relief evident in his face. Suddenly, your mind comes to and you’re no longer considering running away with him to become space pirates in a far away galaxy. What the hell? You know he’d look amazing commanding a spaceship but your hot golden retriever alien husband would never. He’s too sweet.

You don’t know what came over you, but it’s still hard to stay upset with him. Why does he have to be so cute and hot and made of husband material? No one would stand a chance.

“Please, let me get you some food, and we can sit in the park and I can show you more of the ship. This is totally my fault. I want to make it up to you.”

So, if he’s willing to beg for your forgiveness, you’re not above letting him suffer for a bit. Hot alien husbands have to pay for their crimes, too. Who can blame you? You muster up your best puppy-eyed, pouty lip expression and nod at his words.

“Okay.” The word is quiet on your tongue, but he wraps an arm around you to pull you against his side, leading you out of the alcove and down a few more hallways with sliding doors until you’re stepping into the busy living area. He keeps you close to him as he walks the two of you through the crowds. Now that you’re accompanied with his guidance, you take in the area which can only be described now as a spaceship market. 

There’s shops with clothes, and books, and gadgets lining the walls of the large, open space. Every other corner has either a butcher’s store, bakery, or fruits and vegetables stand. In the dead center is the grassy area you walked through before with the benches, ponds with the fish, and the artificial sun overhead. 

The aromas of the food stands hit your nose to have your stomach groaning in hunger. He takes you through the living market until you spot one food stand with, surprisingly, earth food. At least, the names of the foods written on the board sound familiar enough. You settle for a simple sushi dish as he does the same, and the two of you take a seat at the iron table and chairs located in the seating area near the stands.

For a few moments, the two of you sit and try your food in silence. No doubt there’s tension in the air. You’re still making him suffer by saying nothing and only watching the people pass. You look upon the happy human-alien couples sitting and talking, walking around with their shopping bags. You wonder if that could ever be you. Of course, you have no problem with your husband, even if he did get scared enough over your safety he took that worry out on you. No, you only wonder if you could ever get used to this spaceship with all its confusing hallways and spontaneous sauna rooms. Could you actually fit in so far away from earth?

“I want to apologize again,” he suddenly says, pulling you from your worries. “When I saw someone else’s hands on you-” He rubs a hand over his face before reaching across the small to take your palm in his. “-I got so angry I couldn’t think straight for a while. It’s like I was blinded by the rage and couldn’t calm down even when it came to you. It was only your tears that cleared the haze.” 

Well, you can’t blame him. If someone were grabbing all over your hot alien husband, you would probably want to fight, too. As far as him blaming you, he did apologize and understands where he messed up. You decide it’s time to truly forgive him and let him off the hook. 

Nodding, you bite your lip and release an exhale. “How did you know where to find me?” You admit, if you developed some sort of summoning powers, it would be pretty cool. After all the excitement, you didn’t have time to think about it, but you were in such an obscure part of the ship so you wonder how he managed to know exactly where to come rescue you.

“I don’t know, I just had this feeling in my chest something was wrong, like distress, or fear, so I followed it.” He sighs a heavy breath, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. He looks so big and strong in his uniform, you almost get distracted, but then he continues. “That’s why I rushed out of there this morning. I woke up feeling like I was craving you. This… thing… in my chest was needing you. It’s like something awakened in me from our night together. So when you were in trouble, it sensed your emotions and led me straight to you.” 

You stare, blinking. He can’t help but grin. It’s evident in your expression how crazy it sounds. 

“So…” You nibble on your lip, thinking of your next question because you aren’t ready to tackle whatever the hell his emotions are making him feel. Today has been weird enough as it is. “You actually fling people into the sun?”

This has him laughing and you can’t help but to notice how pretty he is when he smiles. It makes you feel like you have a middle school crush. So many butterflies flutter in your stomach it almost worries you. 

“It’s a form of punishment for the harshest of sentencing, but yes, we can.” He gives your hand a squeeze, rubbing your skin with his thumb. How can all of his touches, even the most simple, make you feel so good and calm and relaxed? “Touching someone’s mate is worthy of the punishment, though.”

“He said I didn’t smell mated, though,” you tell him, watching his expression darken for a split-second, then he’s back. “Can you really tell stuff like that?” 

The big alien sighs and nods, gaze lowering. “That is also my fault. Typically we don’t wait around to claim our mates in ways that other unmated ones of our kind could detect.” He looks disappointed, but you know it’s only with himself. “Once it’s complete, you’re marked for every other male of my kind to stay away. I bet it is also linked with this… thing… inside me. I felt really strong today…”

“Huh?” Your brow wrinkles. 

“Like I could move mountains. I think it’s from you and what we shared last night.” He blushes a little at remembering the bathing pool. It makes you grin and gives you a little bit of a confidence boost you can make this big, strong alien fold. “It needs you close, and when it’s happy, I’m stronger, but I think since we didn’t complete our, uh, bond, maybe it’s kind of going crazy.”

“That is insane.” You chew on your bottom lip while thinking over what he said. It makes as much sense as everything else in your life at this point. “Well, what’s one more thing when you’re married to an alien.” You shrug and grin at him, causing him to chuckle.

“Speaking of,” he begins, cleaning up after the two of you so you can make your way back to your new home now that you’re done eating, “we need to go down to the human alien communications office and finalize our arrangement.”

You freeze for a moment before standing from your chair. “I thought we already did that?”

“No, you signed the papers to be brought aboard, but not everything.” He throws your trash in a recycle bin and then holds out his hand with a shy grin. “I can lead you there now if you would like.”

You smile, nod, and slip your palm against his, walking together while he points out this oddity and that which you might find interesting. Along the way, there’s things you find cute when you look through the glass windows down each hallway, like a daycare for giant alien babies, and a spa for human mates probably needing a break from those babies. There’s a few more lounging areas, information desks with signs in multiple languages, and some offices and apartments, too. You don’t have time to take in much of the ship considering it doesn’t take long before you’re seated in front of a futuristic cyber-tech desk with an intimidating alien woman behind it. 

Her dark hair is made up of braids lighting up with electric blues and green surging down to the end of each strand. Her lips pop with a neon pink and the glasses she wears casts holographic 3D images of the files detailing the relationship between your alien husband and you. Behind her is a glass window overlooking another bustling living market, except this one is lit up like Christmas Eve. If you’re being honest, she looks super cool and her office is the most intricate room you’ve seen so far, with lights racing up the walls and across the ceiling. Her long, glittering nails click-clack on an invisible keyboard you only see due to the letters illuminating a blue shadow over her face. 

She’s too cool to tell her how cool she is, though, so you sit in silence with your hands folded in your lap. 

“Have you completed your bonding process?” she asks, voice monotone as she types away. Her eyes remain straight ahead, zig-zagging across the 3D page in front of her. 

“Uh, not yet,” he admits to her, rubbing the back of his neck. The alien girl sighs, clearly not interested in all the personal details, only wanting to do her job. You can relate so you don’t take offense. 

“Then I imagine your bond is getting cranky, no?” There’s a hint of amusement in the question, but you have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Huh?” He blinks. You look between the two of them. There’s a smirk on her lips.

“They really don’t teach you stupid army brutes anything, do they?” She giggles, typing and typing, eyes back and forth. Then she freezes and visibly stiffens. The air grows thick in the office, making your heart race but your husband doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, sorry…” You frown, finding it odd the girl is suddenly muttering. You lean closer, trying to look at the 3D page, realizing there’s a highlight. It’s a name, and after a few seconds of squinting, you see it’s your husband’s name with the title Prince next to it. 

Huh? You lean closer, but suddenly the 3D, glittering, glowy image is gone. Now you’re face to face with her staring straight at you. Gasping, you settle back in your seat. 

“So, as it stands, you will need to sign a few documents stating that after your trial period, you will be traveling back to your home planet Omberus to serve as Prince of the Court of the Sun, accompanied by your new bride, the newest Princess of the Sun Court.”

“Um, what?!” You nearly jump out of your seat, eyes wide and mouth slacked. “Princess? Prince? Hello? What’s going on?” You look between them both. Your alien husband looks a little uneasy, and she looks about as uninterested as when you first arrived. 

“Understood,” is all he says, nodding. 

“If your bride decides she does not wish to accompany you to your home planet after a week of the bonding ceremonies, then she is free to return to earth unclaimed. Is that clear?”

You’re hanging on to the edge of your seat at the point. Why did no one tell you any of this? And what the hell is  up with the prince and princess talk? Are you really free to leave and go home? Not that you had much of a home to begin with, but at least it’s a choice you can make on your own. At least it’s somewhere familiar, somewhere you can fit in.

You feel him staring at you as your gaze falls to the floor at your feet. You weren’t aware you had an option, and you certainly weren’t aware you would by flying even farther away from earth to live on his home planet forever. 

“Understood,” you tell her, and you can physically feel the tension in the room. He turns away from you and you finally let go of the breath you were holding. 

“If the human decides to stay, you will be free to live on your planet.” She clicks a few more times on her keyboard before a small opening on her desk exposes a finger pad lit up in green lights, looking straight out of the Matrix. “Press your index fingers here to sign.”

He goes first, placing his finger on the pad, waiting a few seconds, then pulling away. Following, you press your finger to the pad, feeling a sharp pinch before yanking your hand back.

“Ow!” You look at your husband looking unfazed. 

“You’re free to go. Remember the rules of the contract. It’s signed in blood.”

You look down at the pinpoint drop of blood on your finger before jumping up from your seat. You rush into the hallway, following the LED signs that lead you away from this resource department. You hear the heavy footsteps behind you, knowing your husband is following close behind, trying to keep up as he calls your name. 

“Wait!” Finally, a hand wrapping around your arm grabs hold of you, stalling your steps and spinning you around to face him. You’re both standing in the corner where two lonely hallways meet. There’s a large glass window to your right, earning your attention out into the wide expanse of darkness, making you feel so, so small, and helpless, and hopeless. You don’t know if you can do it anymore. It was one thing to be close to earth, hoping to maybe visit sometime. It’s another to travel to another galaxy and live on a completely different planet.

It all becomes too much. Your breath quickens, shortens, disappears inside your lungs and you find it so hard to inhale suddenly. The hallways begin to shrink, neon lights beginning to form stars in your eyes. Your vision tunnels. Your heart goes into overdrive.

“Look at me.” Two strong hands cup the sides of your face. You blink, narrowing your vision in on your husband’s face. His eyes are locked onto yours. His lips are moving, but it’s hard to hear his voice over the ringing in your ears. “Breathe in. Slowly. Inhale. That’s it. Now exhale. Slowly.” The voice guides your lungs without a thought once you can zero in on it. The air returns, the ringing quiets, your heart rate slows. Suddenly, his face becomes more clear, and you reach out, pressing your palms against his shoulders and squeezing. 

“I can’t do it,” you whisper to him, watching the confusion spread in his features. “I can’t go to your planet.” 

“What?” You see the heartbreak in his eyes. It’s evident in the way his lids lower, squinting a little with a slacked jaw and parted lips, brow wrinkled just enough to say how you caught him off guard. “Please… you don’t mean that. You can’t…” 

You don’t want to cry, but the way the words tremble off his lips have the tears swelling behind your lids. “I can’t do it, I’m sorry.” You begin shaking your head, taking a step away from him. His hands fall from your face and yours fall from his shoulders. “I can’t go to a completely different planet and live with you.” You don’t tell him you’re scared. It wouldn’t matter now that you have already broken his heart. 

“Please don’t say that…” He grabs your hands to keep you from moving any farther away. “You can’t leave me, please…” You push him away before you can feel the tremble in his hand. 

“I want to go home,” is all you can whisper, watching all hope drain from his beautiful, puppy dog eyes.

 -

Since you made your decision before the seven day trial was over, you were beamed down to earth that evening with Jellybean and your two bags of stuff. Unfortunately for you, your apartment has already been rented out since it doesn’t take long when aliens are involved, leaving you with your best friend’s place as the only option to crash. You were thankful she had no problem letting you sleep on her couch.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asks as she preps the couch with a pillow and fresh blankets. You filled her in on everything that has happened since getting the news, even all the juicy bits, and so far she only seems impressed with your alien husband. Maybe even a little jealous in the good way that best friends can be. “I mean, yeah, it’s like, not right down the road, but I’m sure he’ll get you there at lightspeed. They have all the cool technology. I don’t see the issue. Ooh, maybe they have an intergalactic Uber. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

You sigh and shake your head, petting Jellybean's little orange ears as he purrs in your lap. Sera’s been kind enough to not mind a little cat hair while you crash at her place. You’ll need to think of a way to replay her one of these days. 

“I just freaked out. I don’t know.” Huffing, you roll your eyes at your own decisions with a lump in your gut. “I don’t know what I want, really, but I got scared at the idea of going to a completely different planet with all the aliens and alien stuff. I wouldn’t know anyone, or anything, or what to do or how to act or what to say. Not to mention the prince aspect of it. What the hell is that about?!” You stand, pacing back and forth as you talk while Jellybean runs to hide. Sera watches with a sigh. 

“Well, sounds like you would be treated like royalty on this alien planet.” She shrugs before beginning to clean up the take-out containers on the coffee table. She continues mumbling while leaving the living room of her small apartment to dump the trash in the kitchen. “Which probably means fancy clothes, and yummy feasts, and parties, and servants, and most likely anything you could ever want because it sounds like your alien man is already obsessed with you. He’s seen you play with your pussy once and is already crying that you’re leaving.”

She returns with a grin on her face. You huff and pout at her. “When you put it like that, it makes me sound dumb to leave him!” She giggles at the way you stomp your foot. You know she’s right. How could you turn away a life of being spoiled and pampered by an alien man that would kill anyone that touched you?

Still, the fear weighs heavy on you as you attempt to fall asleep that night. You try to ignore the way you already miss how warm your husband was. His big body kept you so safe and cozy all through the night, is it possible to already become addicted? The way you toss and turn on Sera’s couch proves it to be true. You just can’t get comfortable, and all you can think about is your husband’s heartbroken face when you told him you wanted to go back to earth.

A gnawing pain chews at the inside of your chest, forming a sunken cavern of sudden longing. There’s no way you can miss him already. You don’t even know him. But you know every time you close your eyes to try to sleep, you see his face in the darkness. The heartbreak in his features sketches indentations inside your memory, never escaping the sadness of being without one another forever.

The longing becomes so intense you whisper to yourself in the darkness not to cry. The tension behind your eyes tugs on the threat, wanting to snap free every time a memory from the past two days pops into your head. You curse at yourself not to think of him, trying to count sheep and practice meditated breathing, but nothing works. Your mind goes back to him because something inside your chest calls out for him. Like a magnet, it pulls for him in every direction, image and image of the days spent together flashing through your mind. The first tear hits your cheeks when you remember the bathing pool and they begin to cascade down when thoughts of him saving you come to mind.

You need him, desperately. So urgently you feel as if your heart won’t beat if he’s not near to give you a pulse. You don’t know what’s come over you, you only feel the aching inside your chest. It burns, deep inside you red hot flames licking upon your loneliness like waves against a rocky shore.

You jump up, clutching your chest and gasping to receive enough air. Darkness clouds your vision in every direction, seeing shadows dance along the walls. Your chest feels tight and your hands begin to shake, oblivious to your surroundings or the fact that the front door is being crashed into, a large alien body forcing his way in to make his way to you.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” He cups your face, just like he did on the spaceship, informing you to breathe in and out. You follow the instructions without thinking, inhaling slow and deep, exhaling while the tension melts from your body. “I’m here, you don’t have to worry.” His thumbs brush away the tears before he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“I-I…” you begin stammering, but he silences you by gathering you up in his arms, taking a seat on the couch to hold you in his lap. Your head becomes buried in his neck as you clutch his shirt in your fists. The tears don’t stop falling as he folds you tight against him.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, soothing your back with a large palm beneath your shirt as you cry against him. “I felt you call me through our bond. I came as quickly as I could. Don’t cry, I’m here now.”

“I-I can’t…” You sniffle, trying to catch your breath before speaking. “I can’t live without you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I just want to go home with you, please, say it’s not too late. I want you to be my husband again.” Tears waterfall down your cheeks as you cry and ramble and beg him. He squeezes you tighter, allowing you to melt into his big, beautiful warmth and comfort. This is what you needed all along. How could you ever be scared of anything when you have him to protect you? 

“Of course it’s not too late,” he soothes your cries with his words. “You’re mine. My human. My wife. My mate. Mine. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do in this galaxy and any other for you. I’d rearrange the cosmos if it meant keeping my mate happy, so please, say you’ll return with me?”

“Of course,” you mumble against him, sobbing into his shirt as he holds you tight, soothing all your tears away with his hands on you. You continue to straddle his lap, pressed against him and soon all your worries do fade away. That comfort and warmth you’re growing to love returns to flood you with instant relief. Like euphoria on cloud nine with your coziest childhood blanket. It engulfs you in safety, an assurance you’ll always be okay if you’re with him. “I need you.”

You feel the exhale of the breath he was holding. You pull away from him, looking into his eyes to see tears just the same. Your alien husband cried for you, so scared you wouldn’t return to him. No wonder whatever inside his chest brought him to you. Like you were created for one another as destiny would have it. You met one another at the perfect time.

“I need you to need me,” is all he says and all you can do is lean in and press your lips to his. The kiss is electric, igniting a spark of hope in one another as the softest skin and gentlest motions earn a whimper against his lips. He’s so careful as he kisses you back, like he might break you if he makes the wrong move, or ruin the moment if he isn’t perfect. But you’ve already decided your alien husband is the most perfect being in any galaxy and you’re going home with him to his planet.

Turns out, your home aboard the alien spaceship wasn’t just a home, but it was its own spacepod, capable of jumping from galaxy to galaxy at the speed of light to get to your husband’s home planet. All you had to do was pass the living room, press on a certain book on the bookshelf, and a door would open leading you to a high tech alien cockpit. The two of you wasted no more time before you departed the alien spaceship (after he stayed a while to fix the front door he slammed through), deciding if your minds are made up, there’s no point in waiting for the rest of the trial week.

He strapped you into the co-pilot’s seat with a grunt, making sure each buckle was fastened and each strap was secured. He wasn’t taking any chances with his wife. Then he settled in the pilot’s seat, and God, he looked so hot . You had to remind yourself not to drool over him as he pressed all the fancy buttons with the pretty lights and radioed in about the departure. He’s never looked more serious or sexy, seeing why his job is to train new cadets. He’s a total pro and takes his role as flight captain seriously. 

By the time you’re orbiting his home planet, it feels as if no time has passed at all. Jellybean meows in your lap, barely affected by the jump through space. Maybe he’s learning to be an alien kitty after all. You look through the screen ahead, taking in the vibrant colors of his planet, Omberus. Breathtaking hues of pinks, purples, and blue swirl into a vivid scene of life before you. Mixed between miles and miles of endless ultramarine oceans that fade into glittering, celestial waves the closer to land. Not to mention, two suns and multiple moons orbit the heavenly hued planet. The moons even have their own nightlife bustling about, you see as your ship zooms past. 

His planet is stunningly gorgeous. Your heart soars at the sight, like seeing your favorite movie for the first time, but you don’t know it’s going to be your favorite. It leaves an impact on your soul from its beauty alone, touching your heart in a way that brings you to tears.

“This is where you’re from?” you ask in a whisper, filling the otherwise silent cockpit with your voice. You turn to him as he steers the ship, his face illuminated by the lights on the dashboard. 

“This is my home planet, yes,” he says coolly, pulling the handles and pushing a few buttons as the two of you begin your descent. “Which is now your home, and the territory we’re flying to is where I grew up and where you are now the princess.”

“The Sun Court?” You remember the cool lady’s words when she mentioned the planet, though it mostly went over your head. 

“Yes,” he replies, smiling more to himself than anyone else. The sight warms your heart. He’s excited to return to his planet. While you’re scared out of your mind if you’re being honest, it makes you happy to see his shy grin as he prepares for landing. The two of you zoom into the planet’s atmosphere as he gives you a brief breakdown of things when he thinks of them. The climate is similar to earth if not cooler, with a day lasting thirty of earth’s hours, and it is constantly summertime in his territory. The ship flies through pastel colored clouds, revealing lush scenery beneath. Your jaw slacks as he circles a tower with a landing pad on it, attached to some sort of welcome center, or five-star hotel, you aren’t sure. The place is huge, however, and you can’t stop yourself from looking wide-eyed out of the screen ahead. 

The building sits nestled against the side of a mountain, intimidating walls standing high with elegant gold trim tells you this place is only for royalty. It’s straight out of a fairytale. The walls are literally glittering thanks to the two suns. The ocean crashes against the sides of the mountain, making for a breathtaking scene before you. 

He lands the ship with ease and soon the two of you are crawling out onto the roof with a pissed off Jellybean in your arms. A hoard of aliens in fancy, velvet robes and dresses come rushing over to the two of you, hearing the pitter-patter of their feet against the glass floor. Or, should you say ceiling, braving a glance down to see what looks like a spaceship garage beneath you, descending multiple floors deep into the mountain. You look straight ahead at your husband leading the way toward the group of people, making sure you don’t get sick from a fear of heights. 

“Prince! Welcome back! Princess! Welcome to our planet, we are so happy to have you here!” 

You're never going to get used to that, nor are you going to get used to these aliens bowing to the two of you and rushing to grab your items from the ship. One even takes Jellybean from you before you can protest. The one who greeted you, a shorter, older alien man with gray eyes and smile lines, motions for the two of you to follow him. He leads you away from the landing pad and through the door that materializes from crystals right before your very eyes. Once you’re through, the crystal door disappears behind you. You’re left in a long, quiet hallway, trying to take in its glass floors and lighted panels on the wall. This place is regal and futuristic, leaving your jaw hanging. 

“Preparations are already in order for you both to get settled, washed, and dressed for tonight’s feast. The rest of the court will be waiting to celebrate the Prince’s arrival and his new bride, our Princess.” 

Every time someone says it, it just sounds all the more weird. You have bruises from pinching yourself so much to see if you’re dreaming. You try to keep up with their big alien footsteps, practically running down the hall as they pay you no mind, only talking between themselves.

“I told them no celebrations.”

“They insisted.”

“We don’t need to draw attention to ourselves when you know what we’re here for.”

“I’m aware, your highness, but you know the court loves a good party…”

Suddenly, they stop walking, mutter a few things to themselves as the three of you stand at the entrance to a large foyer with grand, sparkling columns, calm waters in a circular pond in the middle, and vines of sparkling fauna wrap intricately around the room. You didn’t think this place could get any more magical.

Your alien prince turns to you, a gentle smile on his lips. “There are preparations in place for the two of us. You’ll follow Biron to your suite and he’ll introduce you to the servants to begin. I’ll see you soon.” 

And that’s that, apparently. You follow this alien Biron into the magical looking foyer with a pool and down another equally magical hallway. Lining the walls are portraits of royalty adorning crowns made of vibrant green vines and yellow flowers. Your jaw drops at the painted portraits, taking in each generation of prince and princess. Biron doesn’t say much as he escorts you, only telling you to turn here and go there. You follow him into a room with a large marble staircase, beginning to ascend the steps with glittery, glowing vines around the banisters. 

It goes like that for a few minutes. He leads you to another magical, hi-tech alien room in this ginormous castle, then down another hallway, again and again until you’re all turned around and confused. Finally, you come face to face with another crystal door that materializes before you at the end of the one the hallways. 

“Right through here. The ladies will get you taken care of and prepared for tonight’s feast, Princess. If there’s anything any of you need, please have one of them fetch me. Until then…”

He gives a polite nod. The crystal door opens, revealing another room waiting. Before you know it, you’re pushed inside and there’s a million hands on you. Alien women oohing and ahhing at the human, tugging on your clothes, combing through your hair with their fingers. You hiss and groan and resist the urge to smack one of them. You know they’re just doing their job of assisting the princess, but you begin to feel the sting of their poking and prodding. You’re not used to this, and they’re speaking in a language you don’t understand. It’s not even one you’ve heard before. It’s like words mixed with little zips and zaps.

They manage to get you naked and in a large, hot porcelain tub full of steaming water after a while. They begin scrubbing this body part and that, and honestly you let them after a while because it reminds you of that scene from Mulan . The ladies quiet into soft hums as they take care of you, cleaning you up until you smell of exotic flowers and sweet delights. 

Once you’re out of the tub and all dried off, they seat you down in front of a vanity with a towel wrapped around you and a brush already in your hair. One lady begins patting your face with creams and serums before she begins to apply make-up. Another brings dresses over to you, holding them and all their beautiful lace and frills up to your chin, picking out different colors before settling on a low cut, emerald gown with tulle and embroidered flowers to outline the bust.

When they’re done with you, you feel like a fairy. You’re shimmering and shiny, with high light in all the right places, your hair fixed with what looks like flecks of stardust, and the dress outlines the curves of your body while still feeling elegant enough. You have no complaints for the ladies. If they’re going to make you look like an actual Princess, they can poke and prod all they want. Grinning, you turn and thank them even though they probably don’t know earth languages. Your smile must tell them all they need to know. Though they look like you, their features are almost robotic in how they process and display emotion. They smile in return, waving goodbye to you before Biron leads you out of the alien spa.

“You look lovely, Princess,” he says with a bow when greeting you, and you nervously chuckle and bow at him because you have no idea what to do in this situation. He smirks, shaking his head and motioning for you to follow him. “Your husband is eager to see you. He’s been asking about you nonstop for an hour.”

Wow, did the ladies really keep you longer than an hour? Time flies when you’re getting The Princess Diaries Special . The thought of your alien husband, your prince, nervously waiting around for you makes your heart swell, warmth flooding your body at just the mention of him. You know you should be freaked out about all the princess stuff, but something inside your chest constantly reminds you it's all okay as long as you have him. You believe it. Your insides are buzzing with excitement to see him now. 

Biron tries to make small talk as he leads you through the royal and majestic maze that is this mansion and apparently your new home. You still haven’t processed that news yet. You want to get this welcome home party over with first. You just hope alien hubby has a map drawn out for you or something. You can’t rely on that thing in his chest to find you every day.

“How is the weather like on your planet currently?” He extends his hand as he asks, leading you onto what looks like a magical, futuristic elevator. You step onto the lift and he follows, tapping a few invisible buttons floating just below his hand. Holy crap. You hope they have sticky notes so you can practice that.

“Hot as balls,” you tell him without thinking as the lift descends.

“Oh! Um…” Biron goes speechless from shock. You bite your lip in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I know that’s not very Princess-like.”

Surprisingly, Biron chuckles. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Okay, Biron is a cool, old alien dude. You turn to him smiling, and he laughs some more. Since your Prince is the epitome of a golden retriever husband, it makes sense for his staff to be so laid back and cool. It must be nice working for him since they all seem satisfied and eager to fulfill his requests. 

The doors open to lead to a landing before a huge staircase. Below is what you assume to be the ballroom and the place the celebrations are happening. All you hear from behind is a “Good luck, Princess,” from Biron and suddenly you’re all alone. You take a few steps forward, heels clicking on the glass floor just a few feet from the staircase, each step illuminated by the reflections of the crystals sparkling off the natural moonlight seeping in through large, arched windows. Crystal chandeliers light up the rest of the alien ball room and it looks like a scene straight out of a fantasy novel. 

You take another step, noticing heads beginning to turn toward you, and once they do, they keep their gaze focused. Alien after alien snaps their sights at you until nearly the entire ballroom has gone quiet. All eyes on their new princes, some gaping, some dropping to the floor to bow. All of them making it hard to breathe as you try to inhale enough air to get your legs moving.  It doesn’t work, so you’re frozen at the top of the stairs like some hanging portrait at your funeral. Here lies your Princess. Died from too many people looking at once. She leaves behind one Jellybean and an impressive toy collection. 

You’re having one of those panic attacks again. The one where everything feels like a dream and you aren’t sure what’s real. You scan the room for an escape, eyes bouncing from this confused alien face to the one next him that looks hangry. Looking behind you leaves you feeling more lonely and hopeless than before, and so you’re all alone, on an alien planet and everyone is looking at you and sure, you look amazing, but now they’re whispering and beginning to smirk. You don’t think even teenage you could have dreamed up something this embarrassing.

Suddenly you’re breathing. Like, actually taking a deep breath in, then you hold it, and finally exhale. You do it again. The room becomes a little more clear. There’s a voice. Breathe in. Breathe out. You listen, you don’t think. You just do. Breathe in. Breathe out. You hear him next to you, his face coming into view a second later and you’ve never been more relieved to see your husband.

“Oh, it’s you,” you whisper, voice trembling and bottom lip quivering. “That man of my dreams.”

He quickly, but gently pulls you away from the crowd and back toward the elevator. The party continues on, a roar of gossip all at once suddenly drowning out everything else as everyone returns to what they were doing. Music begins playing, something classy and classical sounding similar to earth’s Mozart or Tchaikovsky . You try to focus on these little details to stop your mind from spinning.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he says, face next to yours, hands cupping your jaw. You stare into his eyes, blinking a few times and taking in their worry. His brow is furrowed and you tell yourself to focus on how cute he looks when he’s worried so you don’t get wrapped up in your panic again. You guess getting married to an alien and flying off to another galaxy is a lot for a girl to handle. “Come back to me. Breathe for me. Talk to me.”

Just like that, you’re safe. You’re comfortable. Maybe that’s why you didn’t care about moving planets. When he’s this close and you need him this much to calm you, he feels like your home. What else do you need?

“That was…” You exhale a heavy breath with your eyes closed. “That was a lot of people. I just got scared…”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, smiling in reassurance. “We should not be having this party anyway with the-” His expression hardens for a second, then his smile returns. “Why don’t we just go back to our sleeping quarters, okay? We don’t have to have any celebrations right now.”

“Really?” How did you get so lucky to have such a sweet and understanding husband? Seriously, you wonder if Sera hacked some files at her job to score you the best alien husband there was. If so, you were going to send her a long distance alien care package. 

You look to your right over your shoulder at the room of people flowing about in the ballroom. The party looks so pretty and you would hate to leave it, but it is a lot to take in in one day. Hopefully the royal whoever will understand, and maybe there can be another party when you’re feeling up to it.

You agree to retiring for the evening, taking his head as he leads you back to the elevator. You ascend down to the very bottom floor, which takes a few minutes so you wonder how deep does this alien castle go down into the mountain. The doors open to lead into the largest bedroom you have ever seen. Black, titanium floors. Midnight blue walls with alien scriptures glowing in galaxy hues across its pattern. The largest, most royal looking bed with gold trim and sheets to match the walls literally floats in the middle of the room. Huge, icy windows overlook the ocean just beneath the mountain, stardust and the moon’s light brightening the night outside. 

You’re in awe. Speechless. “Is this our bedroom?”

“Do you like it?” he questions, leading you inside as the doors slide to a close behind you. As you enter the bedroom, you spot a matching bathing pool to your right past sparkling curtains fluttering in the breeze sneaking in through those large windows. It’s like your own little private sanctuary you get to share with him and only him. A bedroom fit for royalty, made for a prince and his princess. 

“I love it.” You do a full spin, noticing a large, black crystal chandelier hanging above, bringing that starlight into the bedroom as the moon’s glow casts shadows all around. It’s simply magical. “I can’t believe we live here. In this big alien castle inside an alien mountain on an alien planet.”

He chuckles, standing near the door to watch you take everything in. He looks at you with different galaxies in his eyes, like he feels nothing but inner peace. You are finally calm enough to take in his regal attire. The colors of the royal guard must be blue considering the deep hue of his jacket and matching slacks. Gold trim in blossoming spirals of flowers brings the soldier’s dress attire to life. He looks divine with his hair slicked back, clearly freshly showered, shaved, and completely irresistible.

The day has felt so long without him, and considering the drama it took to get the two of you here on his planet, it’s felt even longer without being close to him. Neither of you have had a second to stop and take in one another’s company. After all, this is the week you are supposed to be getting to know your new husband, but it’s been a rollercoaster.

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him, voice quiet as you stand in the middle of the lavish alien bedroom and fidget with your hands.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a grin. “It’s been dire without you close,” is all he says, sending your heart racing. For an alien man that’s so shy and inexperienced, he sure knows the right things to say to have you melting into a puddle. “You look simply stunning tonight, my wife.” 

Grinning, his words give you a little boost of confidence. You go to him as he lingers near the door, coming face to face with him. 

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you.” His lips part. His sharp inhale isn’t as obvious because he tries to hide the effect your words have on him. “I’ve been thinking about our first night together, too.”

“O-Oh…” He begins to mutter and shift from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck. You grin at him because he’s so cute. The first night together seems like centuries ago when so much has happened since then. Truth is, you could be anywhere in the universe as long as you have him. It doesn’t sound normal. Maybe something you would read in a smutty, sci-fi romance story. It feels right inside your chest, though. There’s a swirling source of energetic warmth that tells you to let your guard down and trust him, so you do. 

Now that warmth in your chest needs him close. 

“Can I kiss you?” you ask him in a whisper, knowing it’s what you both want, you feel it inside you, but there’s still a chance of rejection. You ask him softly because he’s still so uncertain, so scared to fail he’s almost not willing to try. You would wait as long as it takes for him to gain the courage, and if he can’t, you’ll coax out what was there all along. “I’ve really missed my husband. These past few days have been so… weird, but I just know I want us to be closer.”

His body softens at that. A gentle smile crosses his lips. You grin in return, trying to remain cool and lead him toward the floating bed, noticing soft clouds billowing out from beneath as you grow closer. You bite your lip in an attempt to keep from screaming over the fact that you’re about to make out with the hottest alien on the coolest looking bed. You feel like the main character in a fantasy novel.

“Will you help me with my dress?” you ask him. You’re sad to see it go, but there’s too many layers and frills and sparkles to get in the way, and you need your body pressed to his like yesterday. 

You hear him audibly gulp before he moves behind you, tugging on a zipper and a strap and suddenly the pretty fabric is circled around your feet on the floor. You didn’t mean to give your husband a spontaneous strip show, but you forgot you were wearing nothing underneath. You stand bare at the edge of the bed, stepping out of the dress and turning to face him. You don’t shy away from him. There’s no use when you’re married forever now. You watch his eyes travel up and down your body, stopping to linger on certain parts, licking his lips at others.

This hot alien wants you. Badly. He may be too shy to act on it, but the body language is telling you a story you’re about to need a sequel to, merchandise, and a three movie deal. You’ll still remain patient for it all, however. Maybe allowing him to look at your naked body, other than the killer heels you’re wearing, helps him adjust little by little. Baby steps are fine with you. The warmth in your chest tells you it’s okay to wait forever for him. 

“Sit down,” you guide him as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed. You have to admit, standing naked in front of this big, strong alien while he wears his elegant, yet intimidating royal dresswear does something to your confidence and your pussy. He can’t stop looking over your breasts though he’s seen you bare the first night you were together. There’s a hunger in his eyes, and as much as you want to feed it, you only want to feel close to him tonight. You have forever to figure the rest out.

Carefully, you straddle his lap, one bare leg on either side of him until your core rests against him. There’s hard evidence of his excitement in the moment, feeling his cock press through his pants, rubbing against your bare pussy.

“You can touch me,” you tell him, voice soft as you look into his eyes. “Whatever you feel comfortable doing to me, you can do it.” A darkness takes over his eyes at the words, as if he’s imagining a million things he could do with each part of your body he wants to touch. This realization ignites a fire inside of you. You know you’re already wet for him. You’re already so hot and worked up. If you looked, you’re sure you would see yourself dripping onto him. 

After wrapping your arms around his neck, you lean in, pressing your lips to his own. Softly, gently, you test the waters until he opens up to the feeling. He presses his mouth into you just a little bit, causing you to whimper against his soft lips because he wants this just as much as you. You’re a goddess in this alien’s lap, guiding him because you have him wrapped around your finger. 

You deepen the kiss the moment you feel his hands on your hips. He’s hesitant at first, but when you nip at his bottom lip, he squeezes indentations into your skin, mood shifting into something more desperate. 

“I can feel you,” he mumbles against your lips between kisses. A groan erupts from his chest the moment your fingers slip between the strands of his hair, nails scratching his scalp as your tongue caresses his bottom lip. “You’re so hot against my cock, baby.” His hips begin to move beneath you, creating friction between your bare pussy rubbing against his pants covering the huge hard on he has for you. A moan slips out before you can stop it, heat swelling from your center at the sudden sensation. 

“Kissing you makes me hot,” you tell him, pushing down against him to roll your hips, grinding against his cock and earning another groan. “I want you so badly, my prince. I’m so hot and wet for you.”

Calling him your prince must have flipped a switch inside of him. He lets out a grunt, then groans as he pushes his hips into you, caressing your wet, aching pussy with his cock from below. The motion earns a whimper of his name. You grin against him, slipping back and forth over his pants, feeling the ridges of his cock against your soaked cunt. You dig in, wanting more pressure, more friction, riding against him as the heat of bliss begins to swell. 

“I think you might make me come,” you warn him, breathless, voice just a whisper. Your thighs begin to shake around him and your fingers tug at the strands of his hair. He keeps a tight hold on your body as you move together. “I’m… I’m coming for you, my prince,” you cry out, gasping and whimpering his name as the peak of your pleasure swells and crashes over you. He wraps his arms around your body, holding you close with a grunt and a few curses under his breath you weren’t aware he knew. You’re shaking against him, breathless, completely spent and crashing into his body once the high cools down.

You hear his heavy breaths, too. His forehead falls against your shoulder. You stay settled in his lap, hands still in his hair, scratching his head tiredly. 

“I’ve never…” His voice is quiet, so you almost miss it when he begins talking. “I’ve never been able to do that before.”

You gather the strength to pull away, looking down at him. “What? Come from dry humping? Come in your pants? Come untouched?”

“Just… come… as you put it...”

It takes a second, but the realization leaves you with parted lips and a slowly nodding head. “Oh… oh, okay.” You just gave your hot, strong, sexy alien husband, who is also a prince, his first orgasm as you sat naked on his lap. If that doesn't give a girl confidence, you aren’t sure what will.

“Did you enjoy it?” you ask, not wanting to let your own excitement get in the way. You try to keep calm about it. You don’t want him to feel anymore insecure. He grins at you, blushing.

“I think we should kiss more often.” He bites his lip, looking shy and adorable. How he goes from intimidating warrior alien to shy cutie pie should be studied in a lab somewhere. How did you get so lucky? 

You aren’t sure, but this is your life now. You might as well embrace it. The warm feeling in your chest tells you you’ll be okay as long as you have him, no matter where in the universe. 

[pinksugarscrub]

Rivalry

Hobie Brown x fem! reader (modern au)

Scenario: Listen, I really want a guitar and I've been seeing a lot of garage bands on tiktok

word count: 1,772

warning(s): cursing

~

“I think I need new strings…” you murmur. Plucking each string expertly before focusing entirely on the G string.

“It does sound kind of dull.” Gwen notes while chewing. Far away from her drum set but still settled on the stool kept together by duct tape and dreams.

You hum before continuing to scrutinize the string. Adjusting the peg forward then back. No amount of tuning seems to bring back the low chord you’re accustomed to hearing. 

“Want me to check your bag?” 

“Yeah, thanks Felicia.” 

“Barf you know I hate it when you use my government name.”

Gwen snorts,“what do you want us to call you?” Biting into her sandwich again and waving the contents around. “That ridiculous stage name?”

“And what? You think Ghost-Spider is any better?”

Gwen’s cheeks heat up as she throws the remaining wrapper of her lunch. “It’s a work in progress.”

“More like a dumpster fire- god, do we really need (y/n) for everything.”

They both shift their attention to you, hunched over your bass and mumbling incoherently. 

“Yeah…” Gwen starts,“she’s not listening. Besides, the Mary Janes is a cool band name and so are the song titles. You can’t complain.”

“I wasn’t.” Felicia rolls her eyes. She’s found crumpled up flyers, math homework, and a gum wrapper in your case. “We just lack creativity. It’s sad really.”

“So you admit Black Cat is a dumb name.”

“I think it’s good,” you insert. “I’m still coming up with mine.”

“Which is hard to believe!” 

Felicia nods in agreement before sifting through another pocket in your bag. “This is filthy. How do you even work with this?”

“I write all of our songs on my phone.”

“That still doesn’t excuse the state this is in.” Felcia cringes as she pulls out a tissue.

“It was to clean my fretboard.” 

“Still,” Gwen winces. “Not even I’m so disorganized.”

“Finally!”  Felicia sighs in relief as she finds a packet hidden in a small pocket. Torn open but definitely not lacking the string you needed. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You answer. The brand logo is faded. You can’t recall buying these and can only assume someone gave them to you. Likely MJ.

“Guys!”

Right on cue

‘Hey’ you all simultaneously answer. Felicia taking a seat beside her piano and drinking from the canned coffee she bought from the drugstore.

“You’ll never believe what’s happened.” 

“You’ve got me stumped- ow!”

“Anyway, we were reposted then mentioned by another band!”

“Oh you mean that one- you know with the-” Gwen struggles while reaching for her phone. “And the-”

You huff, uninterested. “You mean the one they keep comparing us to?” 

MJ’s face drops. “Hey, chin up. It’s not their fault y’know.” She places a hand on your shoulder, in reassurance you guess. And of course you’re easily swayed. 

“Vocalist was cool.” You offer up like a bone. MJ takes it.

“His name’s Ned. They live in Camden, isn’t that crazy? Middle of the greatest punk movement.”

“Camden?” Gwen asks. Feeling her beanie slip she tugs it forward and fixes the pieces of pink hair that frame her face. Giving up on finding the above-mentioned band Gwen’s phone sits dangerously on the edge of the snare.

“It’s a city in England.” MJ nods enthusiastically. Tapping on her phone then turning the screen. 

The three of you lean forward to get a better look. It’s a page already filled with more than a dozen videos. The profile picture is the band’s logo, a spider with the letters ‘F’, ‘N’, ‘S’, and ‘M’ in the center.

“So what was the mention about?” 

Felicia combs through her hair. It’s ridiculous how not subtle she can be as she’s staring straight at a video with the lead singer as the cover. She has a thing for brunettes apparently but you’d like to avoid opening that can of worms by mentioning it.

“Well actually-it was for you.”

It doesn’t register in your brain her phone has been thrusted in your direction.

“(y/n)?” Gwen mumbles. Face pinched together in confusion. “Did you rage bait them or something?”

“What?” You blink.

“She is the type to create a fake account to comment ‘anonymously’.” Felica laughs while making air quotes with her fingers. 

“Huh?”

“Just watch,” MJ sighs. She’s lost all hope in her friends.

Gwen scurries to come closer but Felicia stays seated. Somewhat amused by the turn of events. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah, he’s alright.”

Felicia deadpans. “You have no taste.”

You turn to rebuttal but MJ’s quick to redirect your attention back to the screen. 

He is handsome. The boy who’s introduced himself as the guitarist. Piercings galore and wicks tied back. In all honesty his guitar matches his personality.

He screams confidence and it brings a smile to your face. A small one but one nonetheless.

“He wants to challenge you?” Gwen asks incredulously.

“He already did,” Felicia corrects. Grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I say give him a taste of his own medicine. He’ll regret asking.”

“It’s all in good fun,” MJ scolds. Letting go of your head now that the video has played through.

“I don’t see why he would.” Gwen grumbles and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why just (y/n)? Why not the whole band? He’s singling her out and isn’t that I don’t know- a bad sign?”

“I get where you’re coming from but it isn’t like that. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it if I had gotten a hint that they wanted to slander her name for content.” 

“Who knows,” MJ continues,“this could be the start of a really good thing. Having a challenge will make us a better band.”

“As if,” Felica laughs. Looking totally unfazed. “(y/n)’s going to wipe the floor with him. What do you say girly?”

There’s a stretch of silence before you answer. “I’ll do it.”

“See.” Felicia grins while motioning with her hand. “Poor guy, really won’t know what hit him.”

MJ practically beams and sets down her phone. “Great! Next practice, bring your guitar and we’ll shoot the video.”

You nod with your nose pressed against the body of your bass. You can’t help the excitement you feel in your chest and to calm Gwen’s worries you add in. “If they do try to use it for views, they’ll only look bad themselves.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“No!”

-

“...what’s Hobie doing?”

“Shit if I know,” Yuri mumbles. Too focused on tuning her guitar to really care. 

“We’re just going to ignore…that?” James cringes as he points in Hobie’s direction. “He looks sickly.”

“Sickly how?” Kamala pops in. Twirling a drumstick in between her fingers. “Oh, you mean that. He’s fine.”

James nearly chokes, gesturing more frantically as Kamala walks away and Yuri continues to ignore him. “But-”

Hobie meanwhile, sighs as he stares into his phone. Ned’s joked that his pupils practically turn into hearts and honestly, he can’t find it in himself not to believe him.

‘Never have I ever…played the two most dogged on instruments in my life’ Gwen grins. Sat in the middle of the Mary Janes.

‘What the fuck bro!?’ Throwing your hands up you stomp out of frame before coming back. ‘The viola is fucking cool and you know it!’ 

Hobie laughs under his breath. Your voice syncing to his brain directly through the most marvelous invention, earphones. He scrolls to the next video then the next. He thinks your laugh is the cutest and you’re so…ugh. If he could keyboard smash in real time he would.

“Dude.” 

Hobie jumps as he feels an earbud being pulled out. Ned only grins. “Man you are whipped.”

“What, what did I miss?”

“Uh, practice.” Yuri answers sarcastically. Strumming her guitar for effect. 

“You ok over there Hobs?” Hobie swears Kamala has flowers above her head. Or maybe stars? 

He nods, apologizing with a sheepish grin before sliding off the armrest of Ned’s old couch. “Sorry yeah, all good.” 

Ned snickers and hits his shoulder. “Yeah, he’s had his daily dose of (y/n) for one day.”

“Fuck off,” Hobie laughs. Ignoring the way his face feels hot by grabbing his guitar from its case.

“You mean that girl from that band? What were they called…”

“The Mary Janes!” Kamala informed.

“Yeah them. Thanks.” James ruffled Kamala’s hair. 

“He loves her.” Kamala puckers her lips and kisses the air. “They’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates aren’t real, Mala.” 

“Not with that attitude.”

Yuri sighs and drags a hand down her face. “Whatever.”

“I don’t love her-” Hobie gaped, “I don’t even know her.”

“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that buddy.” Ned knew firsthand how delusional his best friend was. Well, romantic if you wanted to put it nicely. 

“I don’t!”

“It’s kind of pathetic Hobart.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Really,” Yuri continued, “you can’t just pine over someone in another country. At least have the-”

A loud bang resounded in the room. “Oops, my bad,” Kamala chuckles. Picking up her fallen drumsticks. 

“-to ask her out. It’s not like you’ll see each other.”

“Yuri might have a point.”

Hobie glared as he not so subtly threw up both hands. 

“As cute as this is Hobs it can’t be healthy. Maybe in the face of rejection you can move on.” Ned muses while patting him on the back. “I mean just last week you totally ignored that girl who was flirting with you.”

“Wait, you think I don’t have a chance with her?”

“That’s what he focuses on,” Yuri sighs again. Shaking her head she swipes her phone from the rickety music stand.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ned defends. Hands raised as he frantically waves a white flag in his mind. “I’m just saying- you’ve never been this interested in someone. I don’t want you getting your feelings hurt mate.”

“Here.” Yuri interrupts before Hobie can come up with something smart to say. 

The charm on her phone dangles beside her pinky. The flash was quite obviously on as it was dark in Ned’s basement. Especially with the stormy weather. 

“You send her a video. Dedication—I don't care. Just get her attention so we can finally practice again.”

Hobie’s heart skips a beat at the prospect. 

Speak with you. What would he even say? ‘I adore you’? That was creepy as fuck even he could admit that. ‘I’ve been watching you’ ? That was even worse.

“You should challenge her to a song. She plays guitar too, not just bass right? It’ll show you pay attention to her craft as a musician.”

The room goes silent.

“Kamala, have I ever told you you’re my favorite?”

“You have told me on occasion.” 

[peerlesschrysanthemum73011]

Sooo, a random au elaboration nobody asked for!! Go Mirror AU!! (cause i suck at giving names)

So, how would this work? The original concept was that Sy was a broken shard fragment that had been flowing along a river for who knows how long. He has barely any consciousness, and somehow barely just makes it into land. He is in a forest and is unable to do jack shit, and he has no system available to help him.

He hears a rustle from the bushes, and out comes a three-horned centaur, basically the regular centaur, but with an extra horn. These species in particular are fond of nature but unfortunately are mute. Sadly, Airplane wasted another opportunity for lore in favor of porn, so he doesn't know the exact reason they are mute. (and because of this, he realizes he's in PIDW) Anyways, this kind centaur picks Sy up and takes him to his studio Ghibli cottage.

Shen Yuan is then brought into a sort of blacksmithing room, and he slowly freaks out because?? He's going to be melted or something!! The room becomes hot from the heat of the furnace, and oh no, Shen Yuan is gonna die!!!! Slowly but surely, he loses consciousness...

When he wakes up, he feels...refined? He wouldn't know how to explain it, but he feels fancier somehow. He manages to somehow look at himself, and holy cow, he had a massive glow up! He was carved into an exquisite hand mirror!! Shen Yuan is picked up by the centaur and is held out to another centaur.

And oh! the male centaur is gifting the other hand mirror Shen yuan as a courting gift!!! How cute and romantic!! The other is happy, and despite both being mute, the other centaur envelops the other in a hug. She(??) accepted!! They spend their days together, being flirty and romantic that makes shen yuan feel like a third wheel.

Out of boredom, Shen Yuan decides to give them names. For the male centaur, he chose the name Bluebell, since they can represent gratitude and everlasting love. For the female(?), named them Columbine, because he simply felt like it was right.

Shen Yuan stays with them awhile, peacefully living each day to the fullest. Although he can't do much, just being around them brought Shen Yuan peace, and a bit of nostalgia. One day, Bluebell and Columbine leave for what felt like weeks. Shen Yuan gets a little worried, but he's simply a mirror. He can't do anything. Just as his anxiety spikes, the couple return, and oh, in their hands lies a baby.

Shen Yuan feels so, so happy for them.

And of course, their daily lives continue, with an adorable addition. Shen Yuan makes sure Columbine looks as pretty as usual, reflects the baby's appearance to entertain it sometimes, watches as the family gathers around the table to eat. And he thinks a year has passed.

Of course, good things aren't made to last forever.

It's the middle of the night, and Shen Yuan is about to doze off, but a sudden boom jerks him awake. The hazy blue night has turned into a blaze of flames, and he hears explosions going off. The couple is gone-and the baby is beginning to cry. He hears the shouts of people- cultivator's? Columbine bursts into the house, running to grab the baby, and Shen Yuan realizes he's going to be left behind and die. But Columbine also grabs him, and they rush out of the house.

Where is Bluebell? Shen Yuan wonders, but taking a look at Columbine's state, her(?) hair dirtied and matted, body covered with scars, and one of their antlers are broken. After running for some time, they reach some sort of cave, hidden by vines and bushes, he places the baby there, along with Shen Yuan. She gives her baby a final kiss, and places what looks to be a qiankun pouch? And then she leaves.

Shen Yuan wants to help, is desperate to help, but he hears the steps of people and fear instantly envelops him into a hug. Somehow, a rush of adrenaline and the need to protect the child gives Sy the ability to temporary hide the child (basically reflecting the empty cave). A slash from a sword cuts the vines that were hiding them and in comes a cultivator, disappointed that the only thing hiding in this cave is a hand mirror.

Beside him, Shen Yuan sees it. Columbine's dead body, lying on the ground. In the cultivator's left hand is Bluebell's head.

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

summary: you are a twenty five year old woman who lives with your father in austin, tx. you’ve been good friends with the millers for years, but in the past few months you’ve begun to see joel in a new light and it’s disrupting your life.

warnings: brief mention of parent loss, grief, loneliness and sexual harassment (by an inconsequential coworker) (pls let me know if i forgot anything — this is my first fic)

Chapter 1

That summer had been a scorcher. It was routine to shimmy out of your business casual and throw on a tank top and shorts each day after work. You let your hair down from its clip and let it fall naturally.

It was Friday evening and your father was out grilling in the back. Corn on the cob, fajitas and sausage were on the grill, making the air smokey and delicious. You knew there would be a big bowl of potato salad in the fridge and deviled eggs on the shelf above it. You stepped out of the glass sliding door to join the chef.

“How was work, doll?” Your father asked, sliding up his sunglasses to greet you.

You approached him for a big bear hug. He was damp with sweat from the hard work of grilling in the heat. “Hey Pop. Work was work.” You said, going over to a pool chair and reclining it so you could get some sun. “Are the Millers coming over?

“‘Course, Joel’s taking Sarah to pick out some gear for her softball camp. She leaves tomorrow.”

“Oh cool, and how was your day off?” You lathered some sun screen on your arms, chest, and stomach. The smell of chlorine coming off the pool was met with the barbecue smell. It was a nostalgic combination, reminding you of the two and a half decade’s worth of memories made in your backyard.

“All good, changed the oil on the truck, decided to grill for Sarah’s last day at home.”

The Millers usually came over when Pop was grilling. You wished you’d made a cake for Sarah’s last night in town.

“I made her some of that pink salad she loves.” He seemed to read your mind.

You lied back, closing your eyes and clearing your thoughts for half an hour. Your peace was interrupted by the sound of cicadas buzzing louder to compete with the sound of a truck pulling into your driveway. Joel and Sarah must have come straight over from shopping instead of walking down the street to your home from theirs. There was a flutter in your stomach when you’d heard Pop answer the front door and greet them, Joel’s booming voice asking where you were.

It was only a few moments before you’d heard the glass sliding door open and Sarah popped over to you.

“Hey Bug.” You said, looking up at her with a smile.

“Oh we’re sunbathing, huh? Let me get changed, be right back.” She said, turning on her heel with her backpack over her shoulder.

You loved that girl to death, she’d been in your life for the past decade. Ever since she and Joel had moved down the street, they’d become a part of your life. Joel and Pop hit it off when Joel had noticed Pop trying to fix a gutter on his own.

Pop was cursing up a storm when he’d failed to secure the gutter and it all toppled down. Joel had been outside sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck that evening when he’d seen Pop and jogged over to help. It had taken him a fraction of the time to get it right. Pop was impressed and slightly embarrassed, but he thanked Joel with a cold beer and the rest was history.

Life had become less lonely with the Millers around. Before they’d moved down the street it was mostly just you and Pop. Your mother passed away when you were just a toddler. She was sick and it almost killed Pop when he couldn’t do anything to save her. After a few years overshadowed by grief he’d turned his life around and became everything you needed from a mother and a father.

You were fifteen when you’d started to babysit six year old Sarah for Joel. Now ten years later, at twenty-five and sixteen you were very much bonded. You’d been there for Sarah when she’d come out as a lesbian. It took Joel by surprise, but he embraced his daughter and her choices.

You felt a pang of guilt as she took her spot beside you by the pool. Your friend would probably get the ick if you’d mentioned that you maybe, sort of, kind of had a crush on Joel. Your fathers sat beside the grill, just out of earshot, nursing two cold beers and chatting. You had to fight the urge to look back at Joel. The opportunity to get up and cross paths with him would come when the food was ready.

The truth was you’d inadvertently developed a crush on Joel Miller. It felt sort of twisted, he was twelve years your senior, almost forty years old. Not exactly old enough to be your father, but still a noticeable age gap nonetheless.

You’d asked him for guitar lessons last Winter and he obliged. He took you to a music store and you picked out an acoustic guitar. He was excited to pass down the skill to at least one other person. Sarah was never interested, what she really cared about was competing in sports. You’d gone over to their home on weekends and practiced, Joel moved your fingers patiently back to their position when you’d messed up. His large, callused hands landed and held the strings down with ease. He’d tried to make you commit to developing your own calluses to improve your skill.

By the end of Winter you’d learned how to play a handful of songs, mostly dad rock that Joel loved and knew by heart. He would smile so bright when you’d finally get it right. You did everything in your power to get him to flash his teeth and celebrate your little victories.

“That’s it, Darlin, those fingers ain't just for clickin’ and clackin’ on a keyboard now.” He’d chuckled.

You had been drunk on his praise and your shared laughter one evening when you leapt up from your seat and onto Joel's lap, throwing your arms around his neck. His arms wrapped around your waist and you pulled your head back, coming face to face with him. His breath was warm on your lips and you swore there was something in his eyes. It flashed and faded as quickly as it had appeared.

You both dropped the embrace and Joel cleared his throat, helping you pack up for the night. Tears of embarrassment stung your eyes as you silently gathered your things and went home without another word.

You knew in that moment that you were well and truly fucked. As it would happen, you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel from that moment on. You tried to temper your feelings. You mostly doubted that he’d felt what you felt in that moment. The spark, the fear and the desire to cross the line. But the gleam in his eye, the way he almost leaned forward then hesitated replayed in your mind.

You’d stopped responding to the guys you were matched with on dating apps. You’d lost interest in anyone other than Joel. You’d imagined all the ways that evening could have gone. He could have become upset that you’d crossed his boundaries, but he didn’t. He could have closed the gap between you and pressed his lips to yours, but he didn’t. And you hadn’t spoken of that incident since it happened, two seasons ago.

“Can you two go in and grab the potato salad and eggs from the fridge?” Pop had asked you and Joel, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Yeah, no problem.” Joel said, opening the sliding door and motioning for you to head in first.

Your skin prickled when you sensed his eyes skating over your body from behind as you opened the fridge.

“Pop made pink salad for Sarah,” you said, grabbing the bowl of potato salad and turning to face Joel.

“She’s gonna go nuts.” He said grinning, “How’ve you been, kid?”

“Not a kid, Joel.” You huffed. “I’m a quarter of a century old.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He took the deviled eggs from the shelf in the fridge and followed you out to the back.

~

After the barbecue, Pop had made a run to the gas station for more beer and Joel made his way to the kitchen to help you clean up while Sarah took a dip in the pool.

“How’s Angel treating you?” Joel asked, drying off the wet dishes from the rack.

“She’s good, but I’ve been neglecting her a bit lately.” You said, speaking of your six string acoustic guitar. An image of that moment in Joel’s garage flashed through your mind and you blushed.

“That’s a shame, what’s been keeping you too busy to play?” He knew where your dishes belonged, putting them away in the cabinets and drawers as he spoke.

“Work, mostly. This guy at the office has been bugging me to go out on a date with him, it’s borderline sexual harassment.” You huffed, wiping down the inside of the sink.

“Well that’s just not right. You should tell the boss.” Joel said, his voice stern.

“He’s the boss’s nephew.” You turned and saw Joel’s jaw clenched. Your stomach flipped. You hadn’t meant to strike a nerve.

“Shouldn’t matter, he's a punk. What’s his name?”

“Easy, cowboy.” You said, stepping closer to him. “Nothing’s gonna happen, he’s just overly confident.”

“Tell him your friend Joel wants to talk.” This time he was grinning, drying off a glass bowl. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tanned skin on his muscular arms.

You were staring until you heard the screen door pop open, then the front door creaked open as Pop appeared just in time for you and Joel to put some space between the two of you. You finished wiping down the counter and Joel rejoined your dad in the backyard.

You poked your head out the door and called out, “Pop don’t forget we’re going to go get my car fixed in the morning.”

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry I forgot. I have a work thing in Odessa, I'm gonna be out all weekend.” He said sympathetically. “You’re a big girl, you can go by yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of going alone, silly. I’m afraid that they’re gonna overcharge me cause’ I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I’ll take her, I won’t let that happen.” Joel said, pressing a bottle of Budweiser to his lips.

“See, no one would dare bullshit our Joel, here.” Pop grinned. He was giddy and buzzed.

“Alright, nine-thirty sound good to you?” You asked, trying not to sound excited.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up.”

[sweethoneyjays]

peach ade ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ p.j.s

❀ ◦ paring ◦ barista!jay x reader ❀ ◦ genre ◦ fluff fluff and a bit crack ❀ ◦ synopsis ◦ jay was never really intrested in anyone.. untill you stumbled into the his cafe one warm afternoon. ❀ ◦ warnings ◦ just a bit of swearing ❀ ◦ word count ◦ 1700 (exact !)

❀ ◦ note ◦ little jay barista au hehe, hes a bit of a loser in this one too (i love losers). maybe i should make one for the other members too 👀. Anyways hope yall enjoy and thank you to my one and only beta reader @lovegreenie !! <333 ❀ ◦ taglist ◦ @kristynaaah @beenusflytrap @nari-roll

❀ ◦ masterlist

Jay wiped down the counters, the cloth moving in rhythmic circles as Sunghoon stretched out lazily in his seat, waiting for an order that might never come. The cafe was a quiet little hole-in-the-wall, the kind of place people stumbled upon accidentally and swore they'd come back to… but rarely did.

Sunghoon sighed dramatically. “Man, Jake’s been pulling lately. It’s honestly unfair.”

Jay scoffed, not bothering to look up. “And?”

“And?” Sunghoon repeated skeptically. “You don’t think it's annoying? I mean, come on. I’m clearly the more handsome friend.”

Jay finally glanced over, unimpressed. “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sunghoon grinned, unbothered. “The real question is… why don’t you ever find anyone cute? Like, ever? Are you secretly an alien or just ridiculously picky?”

Jay exhaled, setting the cloth down. “I don’t know? I have standards?”

Sunghoon groaned, throwing his arms up.

“Standards? Dude, you’re just making excuses for not being able to pull.” He chuckled, leaning in, eyes narrowing. “What’s it gonna take for someone to actually catch your eye?”

Jay simply shrugged. “Someone I don’t get tired of.”

Sunghoon stared at him before letting out a dramatic sigh. “So basically, a miracle.”

Jay smirked, returning to cleaning. “Something like that.”

It was a slow day at the cafe, nothing but the steady hum of the espresso machine and the occasional rustling of chairs. The quiet was interrupted by the soft chime of the doorbell, signaling a new customer.

Sunghoon glanced up from his place behind the counter and stretched lazily. "Hey, can you handle this one? I need to use the bathroom."

Jay nodded, tossing aside the rag he’d been using to wipe down tables before stepping up to the register.

"Hello, ma’am, what would you like to orde-" His voice faltered mid-sentence as he looked up.

His body went rigid, frozen in place like a deer in headlights.

There you were, standing in front of him with a bright, easygoing smile.

Why did his heart feel like it had been kicked into overdrive?

Something about you was different, almost unreal in the warm afternoon glow streaming through the windows. The soft curve of your lips, the effortless way you carried yourself, the quiet confidence in your gaze, it was disarming.

"Hi, may I get a peach ade with a bacon cheese sandwich?" you asked, completely unaware of the effect you had on him.

Jay blinked. Stared a bit too long.

Shit, stop staring. Stop staring.

Then, realizing he was just standing there like an idiot, he snapped back into reality, fumbling for the register.

"Oh uh- okay, that uhh- would uh be… fifteen total... May I uhm- get your name, please?" he stammered, mentally cursing himself for sounding like a fool.

You tilted your head slightly before chuckling at his flustered state, giving him your name and the money before making your way to a seat by the window.

Jay exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus as he keyed in your order.

What the heck was that Jay

He was praying to the gods above that Sunghoon did not see his fumble.

Too bad the gods were busy today.

Jay barely had a moment to breathe before Sunghoon leaned in, his voice low with amusement.

"What the hell was that? You so find her cute" he whispered, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Jay shot him a sharp look. "Be quiet. And make the bacon cheese."

But Sunghoon wasn’t done. "Oh hoo hoo, someone's a bit defensive. Looks like you have a type, my friend. Cute ones, huh?"

Jay scowled, but his glare only made Sunghoon chuckle as he walked off. "Can’t wait to tell Jake about this" he added teasingly before disappearing into the kitchen.

Left alone, Jay sighed, turning back to prepare your peach ade.

Except now, it was impossible not to glance over at you.

The way your skin glowed under the afternoon light, the effortless way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the soft smile playing on your lips as you scrolled through your phone, it was distracting. Too distracting.

Oh god, she’s so beautiful-

Oh, fuck-

The sound of ice overflowing snapped Jay out of his daze, spilling past the edges of the plastic cup. His eyes widened in panic as he scrambled to fix it, stammering under his breath while dumping the mess and starting over. And to make matters worse his best buddy started laughing by the grill.

Sunghoon was never going to let this go.

Jay had one thought running through his head as he prepared your drink, this has to be perfect.

“Okay, lover boy, try blinking sometime. Your eyes look like they’re gonna pop out from how hard you’re concentrating” he teased, placing the finished sandwich at the pick-up zone.

Jay ignored him, waving him off as he continued making your peach ade, though his focus kept slipping. He risked another glance… just a quick one.

But then you looked up at him.

F-ck.

Jay immediately dropped his gaze, a sharp blush creeping across his cheeks.

Shit- how long have I been staring at her?

Mentally punching himself, he scrambled to finish your drink, shaking off his nerves. He set the cup on the counter, stepping away to grab a tray, he might as well serve it properly.

But when he turned back, Sunghoon was holding the peach ade, inspecting it.

Jay narrowed his eyes. “What? Is there something wrong with it?”

Sunghoon’s smirk was downright criminal as he hastily set the cup back down. “No, no, nothing’s wrong” he said, far too innocently.

Jay rolled his eyes, placing the sandwich and drink onto the tray before finally heading toward you, willing himself to stay calm.

Let’s see how long that lasts.

Jay approached your table carefully, placing the tray down with practiced ease. "Hello, here’s your order, ma’am" he greeted softly.

You looked up, smiling. “Thank you…” Your eyes flickered down, scanning the name tag pinned to his chest.

“… Jay.”

His heart stopped.

God dammit, Jongseong, snap out of it.

Jay barely managed to stammer out, "I uh- your welcome" before making a hasty exit, not before nearly tripping over a nearby table. He scurried behind the counter, face burning with embarrassment as Sunghoon broke into laughter, clutching his stomach.

"Nice one, rizzler" Sunghoon mocks, snorting between gasps for air.

"Whatever" Jay grumbled, turning on the sink to wash his hands. "Just leave it be. It’s not like I’ll see her again."

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, twirling a pen between his fingers. "Are you sure about that?"

Jay paused, slowly turning to him in an exaggeratedly comical way, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing" Sunghoon said, faking his innocence. "Just being the best hecking wingman on earth." His proud smirk made Jay’s stomach sink.

Immediately, Jay turned back toward you.

You were holding the cup, inspecting something closely, your fingers brushing over the writing. His chest tightened as he audibly gasped.

"What did you put on the cup?" Jay hissed, already feeling the panic rise.

"Did you make me look like a weirdo? a creep??" He grabbed Sunghoon by the shoulders, shaking him with newfound urgency.

Before Sunghoon could answer, the cafe bell rang.

Jay stilled. You were at the counter, waiting.

Sunghoon chuckled, nudging Jay forward. "Better go find out for yourself.”

Jay swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his voice steady.

"Hi uh-, how can I help you?"

You smiled softly, handing him your peach ade and half-eaten sandwich. "I was just wondering if I could get these to go?"

Ah, shit.

Jay stiffened. You were leaving.

Did she think I was a creep? Or worse, did Sunghoon's dumbass message on the cup scare her off?

"Oh, yeah, of course" he replied quickly, taking your items to fix them up for takeout. He walked into the back room to grab a bag, only to find Sunghoon waiting for him, arms crossed.

"Thanks a lot, hoon. You made her leave. She probably thinks I’m a creep" Jay grumbled.

Sunghoon scoffed. "What? I literally just put a ‘ur cute’… Welp, nice try, dude. Maybe you’re just not her type."

Jay rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ouch."

Still feeling weirdly defeated, Jay finished packing your order, stepping back out to the counter.

He tried to keep his composure, pretending this was just another normal customer exchange, but the sting of rejection lingered.

Oh well.

He handed you the bag, managing a small smile. "Here’s your takeout."

"Thank you." You reached for the bag, and for a fleeting second, Jay noticed a soft shade of pink rising onto your cheeks.

Odd.

He didn’t question it, until you hesitated, glancing at the counter.

"Uh… can you throw this out for me?" You placed a slightly crumpled napkin on the surface, offering him a quick smile before hurriedly making your way out of the cafe.

Jay raised an eyebrow, confused.

Then, he looked down at the napkin.

His eyes widened.

"SHE GAVE ME HER NUMBER" he exclaimed, voice borderline frantic.

Jay stared at the napkin in utter disbelief, his grip tightening around the flimsy paper like it was some kind of sacred relic. His pulse hammered in his ears.

From the back room, Sunghoon’s head popped out, eyes wide. "SHE DID?!"

Jay had never felt this much excitement, his face breaking into the goofiest grin imaginable. He barely registered Sunghoon stepping closer, eyeing the napkin with intrigue.

"Dude, close your mouth, you’re gonna catch a fly" Sunghoon teased, glancing down at the messy scribble of numbers on the paper.

Jay didn’t hear him. His eyes darted toward the cafe window, spotting you disappearing down the street.

I should text her. Definitely should text her… later.

He just leaned against the counter, exhaling a breathless chuckle.

"Wow…" he muttered, still dazed. "This is the kind of junk that would get a standing ovation in a landfill."

A beat of silence.

Sunghoon scoffed. "Genuinely, remind me never to assist you in anything ever again. I fear enabling whatever this is."

Jay rolled his eyes, finally snapping out of it, folding the napkin neatly and then placing it in his pocket safely.

Looks like miracles do happen after all.

more works here -> masterlist

[firfirov]

Could you draw your own Noisette AUs?I just love her and would love to see them in your performance 🩷

Why not?

Here they are, our Noisettes, from me personally :3

To be honest, at the beginning I only wanted to draw 5, but then I decided to draw more! Although not all of them, 3-4 more are missing (yes, a lot...), But the main thing is that I did it, even without going into detail

Oh yeah, about Noisette from Demonic Tower... I couldn't come up with a good design, but the concept was based on rabbits/bunny and spiders as you can imagine (I need examples, but I don't know where to look, because this design is not very good for me ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ)

Oh yeah, you can make similar requests with other characters to see everyone, otherwise I will definitely not be able to draw them 100% if I do it differently'''

(And I also noticed that there are AUs with the name "Horror Tower", And no one is the first or the last in all this, hehe)

[cheerlessnessboy]

Ok so I love Shang Qinghua and I am going to talk about the au in my mind. The ALIEN AU IN MY MIND?!?!

!! yap time !!

My pfp is my version/drawing of alien sqh. ANYWAY THE PLOT: basically the fanfic — will she get written??! Idk… I hope so I mean idk who’d read the silly thin but god I love i LOVE AJAHAKAJAKAJAJ — is sqh, an alien from a planet that isn’t earth has a fascination with humans and earth and basically writes fanfiction about them which is where PIDW comes into play in this world. It’s very much just romance and papapa fanfiction in a human setting (it takes place in an office rather than the magical world in canon PIDW) with a huge helping of drama and lust and whatever humans do.

Sqh is obsessed with humans.. so much so he sneaks around and somehow finds himself inside of an old space shuttle and ejects himself to earth illegally. Eventually his home planet and the officials on it will try and get him back bc: wtf dude you’re not a human. Dude, you are literally green.

Sqh is delusional; he doesn’t care and he doesn’t think that far ahead. Thankfully when he gets to earth he’s not longer green, he’s just a guy with VIBRANT NEON GREEN HAIR. brother has a soft mullet as well. Something to keep in mind is that he does have antennae on top of his head, but no one really cares or thinks anything of it bc well he could just be a silly little gay with a silly little sense of fashion and some clip ons!!

OKAY. SO. The whole reason sqh wanted to go to earth was to study humans and learn about them. Maybe woo one— he doesn’t have high hopes ok he only thought about it BRIEFLY. SO, by some chance, sqh moves into an apartment! Where did he get the funds? Unimportant! (I haven’t gotten that far, shhhh!!!) Anywya, he moves in next to a very, strikingly, SEXY HOT HUMAN named Mobei Jun.

So… mbj… Is not a human. Bro is a vampire. He wants to find a human lover that he can turn and have for eternity so he doesn’t get lonely. He’s recently started putting himself out there, too! He’s mega autistic and has trouble with emotions, and honestly he hasn’t really found anyone… until a cute lil’ baddie moves in next to him.

Basically, they both think the other is human. Sqh is not even considering dating bc he doesn’t feel worthy and thinks that MBJ is just tolerating him, and MBJ is like… “I just wanna hold his hand, maybe even fuck him over the counter-“

Sqh is oblivious. Sqh is learning about mbj and putting it in his human research journal he brought from his planet. He’s learned very inaccurate and subjective information:

“ All humans don’t need to eat that much! Humans are very quiet all the time. Humans are bad at expressing themselves. Humans are hot! Humans have fangs :) !! ”

He doesn’t really, uh, think too much about what he puts in there. All the writings are very blanket statements which he doesn’t go further into depth with…. He’s trying his best…! But honestly baby is too distracted by his busty friend (he thinks—HOPES TO FUCKING GOD—they’re friends) being… there. Existing.

It follows silly shenanigans where they are both so awkward. Miscommunication happens a lot, but they make up. It’s just… these two haunt my brain. I call it the Vampy MBJ x Alien SQH au. I’ll probably post some art on them soon!!

They consume me, what can I say…