#i need to post some of this at some point

[science-hoes]

Taste

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: FILTHY smut, lactation kink, unprotected sex, language, canon typical medical drama, mentions of addiction

Description: Robby is fighting nicotine withdrawals, but the reader has something sweeter to curb the cravings.

—

Robby sipped on the beer that Donnie had tossed him before leaving the usual post-shift hangout. He used to stay longer, maybe even have two beers, but now he had you and Eliza. That was much more rewarding after a grueling day in the Pitt.

Especially after today. Three kids ended up in his ER following a “chicken pox party.” They had been given aspirin and developed Reye’s syndrome, each being sent to the pediatric ICU after Robby evaluated them. What a surprise that anti-vax parents also didn’t know the contraindications of aspirin. The parents were sent with them, but not without a scathing lecture from the chief attending. The selfishness of those parents refusing to immunize their children bewildered him in general, but now that he had a baby girl waiting at home for him, who didn’t have a full immune system yet, it made his blood boil.

As he walked home, he could smell the intoxicatingly thick smell of cigarettes as he passed by strangers with the vice between their fingers. His eyes nearly rolled back at the aroma, wishing he could relieve his stress with a long drag. Just one, that’s all he would need. But cigarettes were seductive, and he could never have just one. Instead, he reached into the side pocket of his backpack and popped a piece of nicotine gum out of the aluminum packet. Not nearly enough of the drug compared to a cigarette, but it kept him clean.

Robby approached the small but beautiful house you had picked out together just a month ago. Only a few blocks from PTMC, making it an easy walk to and from work. That was the main selling point, along with the somewhat spacious backyard for Eliza to play in as she grew up. He juggled his keys, finding the new house key, and unlocked the door carefully.

“Hey, kid. I’m home.” He called out, but not too loud, just in case the baby was sleeping.

After there was no response, he shut the door quietly behind him. His backpack dropped to the floor, a physical metaphor for the burden that fell off his back the moment he smelled the warm vanilla scent of the candle you had been burning. Even while on maternity leave, you found time to make the new house feel welcoming.

Robby stepped out of his New Balance sneakers and padded across the hardwood floor to the living room. There he saw you on the couch, cradling Eliza in your arms, as she drifted off to sleep. The sight was truly beautiful. He couldn’t hide his smile even if he wanted to.

You looked up to him and smiled. “Hey.” You whispered.

He sat down next to you and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his nose into your shoulder. A heavy exhale left his lungs while he watched his daughter. Eliza’s eyelids fluttered as she dreamed in her mother’s arms.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day.” Robby mumbled into the fabric of your shirt. His shirt, actually.

You tilted your head slightly until it rested against his. “Long day?”

“Mmhmm.” He murmured.

“Do you want to put Eliza down? Then we can talk about it?” You asked.

That was the routine in the Robinavitch household since Eliza was born three months ago. Robby would come home from his 12 hour shift, but the baby would already be asleep. So, you let him put her down in the crib, always taking a few minutes to absorb her snuggles and kiss her before letting her rest until she woke up in the middle of the night. He would always get her before you could register her cries, just for the chance to see her while she was awake.

Robby sighed heavily and shook his head reluctantly. “No. We had some kids come in today with Reye’s syndrome from chicken pox. I don’t want to touch her right now just in case.” He answered, and you could hear the disappointment in his voice.

You turned your head slightly to press a kiss to his temple. “Okay. Let me put her down then.” You offered.

Robby didn’t answer but let go of your waist. As you slowly made your way to the nursery, he couldn’t help but watch the dancing flame coming from the candle you had lit. Almost taunting him. The same tiny burst of light that used to burn his tobacco for him. He rubbed his eyes to alleviate his thoughts, jaw faithfully chewing the gum that was supposed to be curbing his desire.

You walked back into the room and noticed his distress. “What’s wrong, love?” You asked as you sank in the couch next to him.

Robby’s hands moved from his eyes to scratch his beard. “You know it’s days like this that I really crave a fucking cigarette.” He muttered.

Your hand reached up to rub the back of his neck, fingertips kneading into the wrinkles there. “You don’t want to break your clean streak. Is the gum not helping anymore?” You asked.

He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes, indulging in the comforting movements. “I’m going through a pack a day.” He admitted.

“What about Zyns? That’s what Langdon uses.” You suggested.

He huffed and opened his eyes just to roll them. “Yeah, because he’s the poster child for making good drug choices.”

Your eyes narrowed, massaging hands stopped. “Michael.”

Robby scrunched his face at the use of his first name and nodded. “Sorry, that was mean.” He confessed. He held his hands in front of him, watching the way they trembled. “I’ve gotta do something. I’m fucking shaking. I can barely run a simple stitch. This plus the caffeine…it’s getting to be too much.”

After his apology, your nails began to scratch the freshly buzzed hairline at the base of his neck. “Maybe it’s time for one of those nicotine nasal sprays?” You offered.

He just nodded in agreement, leaning back into your touch. He would have fallen asleep right there on the couch like that, with your hand in his hair, but your tiny moans of discomfort pulled him back to reality. “What’s wrong, love?” He asked, sitting up a bit.

You pressed your hands to your chest, pushing against your breasts to relieve some kind of pressure. “I’m gonna have to pump again.” You grunted.

Robby put his hand on your back as you shifted uncomfortably. “How many times today?” He questioned.

“Eight.” You admitted.

His brow furrowed with slight concern. “Eight?”

You nodded. “I’m gonna have to start taking some of the frozen milk to a bank. We don’t have enough room in the freezer for anymore.”

Robby watched you for a moment, gears in that genius brain of his turning, jaw grinding on the nicotine gum. Without a word, he got up and walked to the kitchen. You heard him spit the gum out in the trashcan before he returned. He shrugged of his navy hoodie and tossed it on the ground. He sank onto the couch again, legs sprawling naturally, and patted his thigh.

“Come here.” He ordered.

You watched him with skeptical eyes, but followed his lead as he guided your legs until you straddled him.

“Robby, I need to-“

“I’m gonna handle it.” He cut you off.

Before you could answer, he’d pulled that baggy old shirt of his off your upper body, leaving you in nothing but your pajama shorts and maternity bra. His coarse hands ran across the luxuriously smooth skin of your waist, thumbs brushing against your shriveling stretch marks from pregnancy.

Your cheeks reddened as you realized his intentions. “Oh.” Was all you could say.

His fingers trailed across your skin until they reached behind you, unclasping your bra. The silky straps slid down your shoulders, and you tossed the bra behind you. Robby groaned unconsciously as your breasts dropped to your chest and a smirk played at his lips.

“What immunoglobulin is found in breast milk?” He asked.

Your eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. You grabbed fistfuls of his black scrub top, pulling him forward. “Don’t you dare quiz me right now.” You hissed.

Robby’s smirk turned into a devilish grin, and those brown eyes darkened with blown pupils. “I’m your attending. It’s my job. Plus you have boards coming up soon.” He replied.

Your glare could have sliced through marble, but your husband was a force to be reckoned with. “Breastfeeding isn’t on the board exam.” You grumbled.

He chuckled and winked at you, that fucking charming man. “It could be.” He teased.

Your breathing was becoming labored as the fullness in your chest increased. “Michael Robinavitch, if you do not help me, I will report you to the Board for sharing unauthorized board exam content.” You threatened.

But he knew your threats were empty and driven by madness, and that diabolical grin remained on his face, smile wrinkles deepening around his eyes. He tilted his chin up to where his lips ghosted against yours. “I would answer the question if I were you.”

His fingers began to trace your shoulders, moving down but not close enough. You shoved him back against the couch, his hospital badge clacking against his chest. “IgA.” You finally answered through clenched teeth.

“Good girl.”

Robby’s large, freckled hands moved to your engorged breasts, massaging them gently. The sound that left your throat was animalistic. You grasped his forearms, trying to guide him to what you needed.

“What is the sympathetic innervation of the myoepithelial cells in breast tissue?” His voice was unwavering.

Your face scrunched as the fullness began to become overbearing. “Robby…” You growled.

His thumbs hovered above your aching nipples. “Come on, pretty girl.” He beckoned.

You struggled to sort through your medical education as his hands kneaded into your chest. “T1 through T5.” You responded.

Robby chuckled and moved his lips to your breast, his beard adding a rough sensation. “Yes, ma’am.” He affirmed, beginning to kiss your skin.

His fingers began to tweak your nipples, eliciting a moan of painful pleasure from you. Your hips rocked once against his absentmindedly. “Michael, please.” You begged, grabbing the back of his head to guide him.

Robby paused all of his ministrations to look up at you with those big brown eyes, glistening in the dark. “Last question.” He mumbled against your breasts. “What hormone initiates the let-down reflex?”

Your chest heaved in anticipation, and your grip on the back of his head tightened. “Oxytocin.” You answered like your life fucking depended on it.

He smiled and wrapped his lips around one of your hard nipples. Your mouth dropped open as he suckled gently and kept his fingers on your other breast. His free hand moved to your lower pack, guiding your hips to rock against his. You could feel his hardness teasing against your clothed pussy as you grinded.

Then that familiar pins and needles sensation rushed through your chest. You shuddered as the let down reflex ran its course. Robby hummed against your breast as the first drops of milk graced his suckling tongue. Liquid pearls slowly dribbled down his hand that tweaked at the other nipple. The rush of oxytocin seeped through your whole body, and you finally relaxed in your husband’s embrace.

Your fingers massaged the back of his neck like you had earlier, rewarding him for his assistance. His rapid, small suckles began to turn into longer, deeper pulls as the flow became continuous. Your other breast began to leak freely, a small river of cream streaking down his hairy forearm. He breathed loudly through his nose in between swallows, indulging his new favorite dessert.

“What does it taste like?” You breathed, enamored by the sight before you.

Robby took a long drag at your nipple before sitting up and pressing his mouth against yours without a word, pouring your own nectar onto your tongue, the rest spilling in between your chins. It was sweeter than you expected, and you understood why he hadn’t come up for air in several minutes.

“Jesus, fuck, I’d swallow poison if it tasted like you.” He mumbled against your lips.

You pulled away to look at him. The beads of white meshed into his beard, peppering it further, and his lips were swollen from suction. Your husband had never looked so viscerally attractive. You reached at his waist and hiked up his scrub top, tossing it behind you.

“Can I please ride you?” You asked, desperately chasing your oxytocin high.

Robby chuckled and leaned back against the couch for a moment to shift out of his scrub bottoms and boxers. “Can’t say no when you ask so nicely.” He teased.

You giggled and shimmied out of your pajama shorts that had a wet stain already. Without a moment of hesitation, you sank down on his massive cock, the familiar stretch that still made your back arch. He took advantage and latched onto your nipple again, groaning at your tightness before he began to suck.

You bounced on his hips, adding to the suction patterns he pulled on your breast. He continued to tug at the other nipple, the milk spraying across his bare chest, scratching the itch in your sensory neurons. His thrusts grew stronger, and your release drew closer.

“Robby, I’m gonna-“

Before you could finish your sentence, Robby fisted both of your breasts, squeezed them together, and enveloped both nipples in his mouth. You held back a scream as he swallowed hard around them, determined to get every last drop.

Your eyes squeezed shut as the white hot explosion of your climax shot across your nervous system. Your body went limp, draping your arms around his shoulders. His grunts became more frequent as his hip thrusts faltered at the feeling of your pulsing walls. The only time his mouth let go of your breasts was to grunt as he came. You rocked gently, working him through his orgasm, pulling every last bit of cum he had to offer.

Robby slouched back against the couch, and you enjoyed the view. His soft upper body glistening with sweat and tributaries of milk. His face and ears flushed with exertion. His lips swollen from half an hour of suckling. The pearls of milk still nestled into his beard.

“You’re hot.” You teased, resting your hands on his biceps, tracing his tattoos.

He let out a strangled chuckle as he caught his breath, and a content smile played on his lips. “You keep me young, kid. You know that?” He asked.

You smiled and leaned to give him a sweet, soft kiss on his puffed lips. “Good. We need you around for a long time.” You replied.

Robby lifted his hand to caress your face. “I’m gonna be. Not gonna miss a second.” He assured you.

You raised an eyebrow. “That means no relapsing on cigarettes.” You lectured.

He sighed and nodded. “I know.” He replied, looking down at his forearms that were still streaked with milk. “But I think I found something to distract from the cravings.” He winked at you as he dragged his tongue across his veiny forearm up to his wrist, gathering every last drop.

You couldn’t help but blush through your laugh. Carefully, you lifted off his lap and pulled your pajama shorts back on. You used the old t-shirt that you had been wearing to clean up the mess on your chest and his.

“Hey! That’s my shirt.” Robby complained as you wiped his upper body.

You shook your head. “It’s our shirt.”

He rolled his eyes and hoisted his boxers and scrub pants back on. Just as he was about to make a snarky comment, tiny cries came from the baby monitor that sat on the table next to the couch.

You smiled slightly. “Go see our girl. She’s missed you.” You said.

He hesitated for a moment. “I saw those kids today.” He said.

“You don’t have your scrub top on. Use the hand sanitizer next to the changing table. You’ll be alright, doc.” You replied.

Robby chuckled and headed to the nursery. Within seconds, the crying stopped, and you heard his smooth voice singing a Hebrew lullaby to Eliza. He reentered the living room with your baby girl tucked into his elbow like a football. She was so tiny compared to his large frame. You walked over to him and rested your head on his shoulder. Eliza’s big brown eyes stared at her father’s identical ones.

“Did you have a good day with Mommy?” He cooed.

She reached for the sparkling pendant at his neck, and he held her closer to put it in her grasp. Her tiny fingers wrapped around the Star, pulling it to her mouth.

“She’s gonna start using that to teeth pretty soon.” You mused.

He smiled. “I know. She’s getting so big.”

You felt an unusual ache in your heart. “I know. I hate it.” You admitted.

“I’ll stay up with her a little longer. You get some sleep. You’ve been working hard today.” He offered, pressing a kiss to your head.

You stifled a laugh. “You’re the one who worked a 12 hour shift.” You reminded him.

Robby met your gaze, his eyes shining in the living room glow. “You’re with our daughter all day. Taking care of her. Loving her. Making our new house a home.” He leaned down to kiss you sincerely. “You’re giving me the world, kid. That deserves some rest.”

You hugged your husband tightly, tears stinging your eyes. “Thank you.” You whispered.

“Thank you.” He repeated. “Now, go. I’ve got our girl.” He assured.

You kissed Eliza goodnight before walking to the bedroom. As you neared the room, you heard Robby’s voice carrying through the hallways as he sang his Hebrew lullaby again.

—

A/N: Thank y’all for humoring my pathetic Dr. Robby thoughts. As soon as I came up with this idea, I couldn’t stop writing until it was done. I can’t wait to write some more smut for him.

[transfemme-shelterdog]

I see a lot of posts on sites like Reddit, from trans guys asking advice about "public bathroom etiquette" in the men's room. So here's some quick points for the trans guys here:

If you're gonna piss in a urinal, keep an empty one between you and the guy beside you.

Nobody is gonna notice if you're using an STP or not, as it's considered "weird" to look over, so nobody will even notice

Most urinals have dividers anyways between them, if there is a divider, you don't need a space.

If you'd rather pee sitting down and use a stall, nobody is gonna notice that you're "not pooping", nor are they gonna notice the way your piss sounds.

If you need to wait to use a urinal, that's cool. Just stand by the door with your phone out, scroll Tumblr or something. So long as you're not pointing it at someone, nobody is gonna think you're a creep.

Guys don't give a shit what you're doing in there. They're in there to pee and leave, so don't think that anyone is gonna be trying to clock you. I've literally walked in and out of bathrooms with a purse, and nobody has said shit.

[bimbovicc]

#JEALOUS BABY ˎˊ˗

pairing — Jason Todd x f!reader

synopsis — jealous Jason fucking you after you flirt with someone else (don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing)

tags — sex, p in v, a lil bit of jealousy (don’t @ me), jealous sex, rough Jason gets what he wants 🥰

a/n — first post on this new lil blog, and if you reported my last one? I hope you choke on a limp dick and cry about it, bitch. Mwah!

﹒⌗﹒ 🦇﹒ ౨ৎ˚₊‧

You didn’t think it would matter. Just a few harmless words, a smile that lingered a little longer than it should have. But to Jason? It was everything. You should have known better.

You were at a gala. The kind of event that Jason hated, but you insisted on going, wanting to see the people you cared about, wanting to have fun, to be seen. And that’s when he saw it. Saw you, laughing with some guy—a little too comfortable, a little too familiar with him. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened at his sides. The way you brushed your hair from your face as you talked to him, the way your lips curled into that smile that was usually reserved for him, the way your hand rested too easily on his arm—it was all too much.

Jason’s eyes burned with jealousy, a dark, suffocating jealousy that made the blood in his veins boil. He couldn’t stand it. The way you seemed to forget who you were with. The way you flirted with someone else like it didn’t matter.

As soon as the guy turned his back, Jason was right there. His hand gripped your wrist, dragging you away from the crowd. You blinked in surprise, trying to pull your arm away, but his grip was too tight, unyielding, like a vice. You tried to speak, to explain, but Jason didn’t care for your words. He was already furious, already far past the point of reasoning.

“You think it’s funny?” His voice was low, dangerous, full of a darkness you had seen before but never quite like this. His anger had a different edge to it now—a need to reclaim, to remind you who you belonged to.

Before you could react, he had already pulled you into an empty room—a guest bedroom, some luxurious suite that he knew no one would enter. His hands were all over you, tearing at your dress with a speed that made your head spin. There was no tenderness in his touch, no affection. Only roughness. Only the need to mark you, to remind you of your place.

“What the hell were you doing?” Jason’s voice was colder now, even darker, as he shoved you against the wall, pinning you there with his body. His lips were on your neck before you could protest, hot and forceful, biting down on your skin, leaving marks—marks that would stay long after the night ended.

You opened your mouth to speak, to apologize, but Jason didn’t want to hear it. His lips were on yours before you could get a word out, his tongue demanding entry, his kiss hungry, desperate, as if he wanted to devour you whole. His hands were everywhere, ripping off your clothes, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, and at his mercy.

“Did you forget who you belong to?” Jason growled, the anger in his eyes turning dark, stormy. You could see the storm building in him, the need to control, to make you understand exactly what was his.

His fingers gripped your wrists and slammed them above your head, pinning you against the cold, hard wall as he stepped back, looking you up and down like you were his prize to claim. His eyes darkened as he saw the way your body reacted to him—how it betrayed you, how your skin flushed and your breath hitched. You were responding to him, despite the fear, despite the anger in his voice.

Jason didn’t wait for your consent. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t here to be gentle. He was here to remind you.

Without warning, he shoved you onto the bed, the force making your body bounce against the soft sheets. You gasped as he climbed over you, his hands instantly going to your hips, pulling your body flush against his as his cock pressed into your core. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his body tense, muscles coiled with the dark desire to ruin you.

“Flirting with him… You think you can just give yourself to anyone else?” Jason hissed, his fingers digging into your skin, his grip tightening as his eyes bore into you. “You belong to me, baby. Only me.”

Before you could even think, he was inside you, filling you completely in one swift, brutal thrust. Your body trembled beneath him, the shock of the sudden invasion almost too much to bear. Your nails dug into his arms as you gasped, trying to catch your breath, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t care about your reaction.

Jason was rough, merciless. Every thrust he gave you was punishing, his cock slamming into you with a ferocity that left you gasping, your body trembling under him. He fucked you hard, showing you exactly who you belonged to, reminding you of your place beneath him.

“Say it,” Jason growled, his voice hoarse with need. “Say you’re mine.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel. His cock was hitting so deep, so hard, that your mind was losing focus. But you knew you had to say it.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your voice broken as your orgasm started to build. “I’m yours, Jay.”

His eyes darkened even further, a wicked smirk curling on his lips as he heard you say the words he needed to hear. “Damn right you are,” he muttered, his pace never slowing, only getting faster, harder, more desperate.

He was driving you insane with pleasure and pain, and when you finally came, your body trembling beneath him, Jason didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, pushing you further, knowing he was the only one who could make you feel this way.

When he finally came, his cock spilling inside you with a guttural growl, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed inside you, his body draped over yours, breath heavy against your skin. He wasn’t done. He was marking you, reminding you again, in every possible way, that you were his.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your ear, his voice dark and satisfied. “No one else gets to touch you.”

And in that moment, as he pulled you close, his hands wrapping around your body like a vice, you knew it was true. No one else could. Not now. Not ever.

[howdidthisevenhappenanyway]

​it’s one of my favourite kinds of endings!

While obviously it's terrible from a creative perspective, there's a certain je ne sais quoi to serialised media where the final instalment ends on a planned cliffhanger with the protagonist in some horrible predicament, and then there's no followup. It's like, you poor dumb bastard – you went and got invested, and now your blorbo is in Clown Jail forever.

[suuuupernovaaa]

cheater cheater

summary: you’ve been cheated on in the past, and pedro is very sensitive to your needs because of it

tags: age gap, reader is mid 30s, not famous, long distance relationship, pedro is obsessed almost an unhealthy amount

MASTERLIST

You don’t, even the slightest bit, buy into the notion that people of differing genders can’t be friends.

Many of your close friends are male, or non-binary, and never once has it meant that you must be sexually attracted to each other. You have meaningful friendships with a lot of people, regardless of gender. Hell, your best friend in the entire world is Joshua, who you’ve known since the second grade.

The idea that a man and a woman can’t be friends without fucking at some point is idiotic, even barbaric.

What you can’t fathom is that any woman could be friends with Pedro Pascal and not have ulterior motives.

Well, that’s not true. Honestly, you do realize platonic friendships exist even for the most charismatic and handsome man on earth.

But you’re fucked in the head. Your last partner, over five years ago, had been aggressively cheating on you, all the while making you feel like you two were headed down the aisle.

So maybe it isn’t that you think men and women can’t be friends. Maybe it’s that you just aren’t as trusting as you used to be.

Possibly, and probably, that’s why Pedro had to pursue you for over a year before you said yes. It’s why he had to send you flowers every week, stalk your social media and comment on every post and story, call and text you every day, for almost 400 days before you admitted that yes, you were absolutely head over heels for him too.

You were just fucking scared. And you still are, six months into the romantic relationship but two years into the friendship.

It’s easy to tell that Pedro is not like that narcissistic asshole from before. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he definitely wouldn’t hurt you, the woman he is so unbelievably obsessed with.

You’re the background on his phone. He keeps a picture of you in his wallet. He brings you up in every single conversation he has, he just can’t help it. You’re in his every thought.

But something whispers in the back of your mind, reminding you that things felt good then, too, and do you want to be blindsided again?

Tonight, you’re joining Pedro on the red carpet for the first time, and you wonder if they make a deodorant strong enough for all the nervous sweating you’re doing.

You’ve never had your make up and hair professionally done before. Your profession as a nurse doesn’t often call for that. You try not to bite on your fingernails while a team of very kind and very busy people prepare you.

“A natural look,” Pedro had told them, knowing it’s what you would want. “She’s beautiful, she doesn’t need much.”

When it’s time to go, you don’t feel much like yourself. Your hair is softer and shinier than it’s ever been, hanging in waves down your back. Your skin is flawless, your freckles painted over, and the dress you’re wearing is unbelievable, made of dark green satin.

It’s a complimentary color to Pedro’s shirt, his idea entirely. Or maybe that’s something couples just do on the red carpet, you have no idea.

Before you leave, he pulls you aside, and holds something out to you. A necklace. Delicate and gold. In his other hand, a matching necklace. A set. Yours has a small “P”, and his holds your first initial.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your eyes misting. You turn and allow him to place the necklace around your neck, and do the same for him.

He grabs both of your hands in his and squeezes. “Please, my darling, relax. If you hate this, we’ll never do it again. I promise, it’ll be easy.”

You take a deep breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Soon, it begins.

The flash of the cameras is over whelming, but Pedro practiced with you, how to smile through it. How to pose. How to hold tightly to him, how it really didn’t matter what these pictures looked like. It’s just fun.

He stops for an interview, and though you try to stay back, he won’t release you. Won’t stop touching you.

“Pedro, tell us who this beautiful girl is!” the interviewer demands, and Pedro grins at you while introducing you.

It’s hard not to smile back, when he looks at you like that.

“This is my whole world,” he tells her, and everyone else who asks as you’re stopped over and over.

Someone asks what you do. “She’s a nurse! She’s been an ICU nurse for a long time, she does telehealth now. She saves lives. Can you believe she’d date a dork like me? A guy who plays pretend for a career?”

He doesn’t answer for you to be rude or to talk over you. He does it because you’re nervous, clutching his hand in desperation, and he wants you at ease.

Eventually, you make it off the red carpet and find a quiet corner of privacy before entering the ballroom.

“You did great!” Pedro hisses excitedly in your ear.

You breathe a sigh of relief away from the cameras but you must admit, it wasn’t as bad as you’d thought it would be.

“Pedro, thank you for bringing me,” you say, reaching up to touch his curls, and trail a finger down his cheek. “I feel special.”

“Mi amor,” he croons, leaning into your touch. “You are special. I’m so proud to have you with me. Would you do this again, sometime?”

You press a soft kiss to his lips, careful of your make up. “I would go anywhere with you.”

You want to show him - you’re as devoted as he’s proven himself to be. You’re his, as much as he’s yours.

Pedro never leaves your side, not once, the entire long night. He proudly introduces you to everyone in the room, holding your waist or your hand, touching you always. He makes sure you’re a part of every conversation, and steers you away from anyone who would treat you like you’re not as important as him.

At the end of the night, you have to admit that you had a fantastic time. It shouldn’t be a surprise. There is nothing Pedro wouldn’t do to make you happy. There’s no way he’d bring you to a party like that and not stick with you. He would never do anything to make you feel less than treasured.

He’s not that other guy. He has a lot of love to go around, sure, but the love he has for you, it’s different.

It’s special.

When it’s time to go, you come back from the bathroom to find him talking, his back to you, and you hear him as you approach.

“She’s just so great. I’d love to have you guys over some time, talk with her more away from all this. Dinner or something!” he’s saying, and everyone is so eagerly agreeing, and you wonder if you might cry right here.

You wrap your arm around his waist and he steps aside, making space for you in the circle.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and you nod. He takes you for a quick round of farewells and soon, you’re in the car, and Pedro is unzipping your dress so you can breathe.

You rest your head on his shoulder as you drive to the hotel he’s staying at, telling him how you can’t wait to fly home together tomorrow, and simply relax.

“I love you very much, you know,” you tell him, and he kisses the top of your head.

“I love you more,” he replies.

You know that’s not true, but it’s still nice to hear.

[windcloudii]

Okay, so here I have Possessed Luo Binghe's Bodypillow AU. It is also connected to this post: 

Modern Cumplane × Bingge. (Bingge/Yuan/Qinghua basically) Part 1

Modern Cumplane has established a relationship and lives together peacefully until Shen Yuan gets Luo Binghe's body pillow.

Airplane: Bro, I think this pillow is possessed. All these weird dreams started from that point on.

Yuan: I don't think it's Binghe. You just watched too many horror movies.

Bingge: It's true, A-Yuan. I have nothing to do with this~ Leave me in your bed.

Airplane: You were so deep in the closet and look where you ended up, in my bed. You really think a closet is gonna help?

More under cut>

Everything is fine at first, but now and then, Airplane notices a hard stare from the pillow. + he starts to sleep even worse than he was when writing PIDW. He gets both horny and horror dreams, Shen Yuan, too, but he refuses to elaborate. Stares and intense atmosphere get especially strong when they make out. 

Airplane deduces that the Pillow is probably possessed by some horny spirit as karmic punishment for writing PIDW and has no idea that it's actually Bingge, who, on the search for kind Shizun, came across this world. Sadly, he is low on energy and can't get into this world in his own body yet, but he can peek out of his body pillow. Firstly, he wants to leave immediately until he notices a room full of items of him ??? The room looks unfamiliar, completely strange and bizarre, and yet full of totems (statues?) Of him. Is it a shrine? No, he also sees a bed, so probably not. 

Intrigued, Bingge stays and follows the life of a pair. Both of them remind him of someone, but he still can't pinpoint where he has seen them, so he continues his stal-  research. He can leave the pillow back and forth. Day by day, he gains more power and can influence the world, so of course, he messes with them a little (not) bit. They know him so well (he needs to find out how they knew even private information), so they probably won't mind, right? They can't expect him to just sit and watch.

Shang Qinghua tries to convince Shen Yuan to get rid of it. But man chooses denial and repression. Classic Cucumber. Airplane tries to exorcise him with different ways from different religions, but nothing seems to work. 

Airplane: I'm going crazy, but... *looks at the pillow* I came to negotiate; no exorcism works against you, so I have no idea what to do except make a deal. You're not planning to get rid of me, and I'm not planning it either. And I will not tearfully beg Cucumber to get rid of you. 

Bingge: *talks for the first time* Now you come to me, but you don't ask with respect.

Airplane: *high-pitched scream*

[professional-rat-eater]

I do like the concept of Daniel attempting to point out Armand’s extensive trauma from Marius’s treatment because I do think as someone who spent his career cataloging the horrors the world has to offer and has no issue calling things out for exactly what they are, he’d not be able to entertain the bullshit Armand says to justify it. That just feels in character for the man we’ve gotten to know.

However, I do not think it would help. In fact, I think it’s important that it doesn’t.

I think Daniel would learn the hard way, likely through a number of ugly, ugly arguments, that Armand is much too deep in this trauma for merely pointing out the obvious to actually be helpful. It’s cathartic to read fics where Armand gets to heal but often I think it happens far too quickly. He has demonstrated already that he knows what happened to him wasn’t all okay, though to what degree he knows this we haven’t heard in detail as of yet.

What we do know is that it has been sitting in his mind for hundreds of years, undisturbed, blending in with all his other trauma, silently shaping who he is and informing his decisions. That’s perhaps the most difficult part. Most human beings with intense traumas spend their entire lives unpacking it. Imagine if you had centuries between you and what happened to you.

Daniel is the first person Armand has met who both has a modern worldview where abuse is simply labelled abuse and is actually invested in him enough to notice and point it out.

What I do hope and believe could happen, though I doubt we’d see it because these bitches are messy and we’d need fifty more books/seasons to cover it, is that Daniel is able to help Armand, not as someone who is there to save him and ‘fix’ him, but as his companion and someone who loves him as people are supposed to be loved. He can only help him as much as an outside person who was not a witness can, so the majority of the work still lies on Armand and that means Armand has to want to do it. It’s slow, and painful and they fight about it all the time, but they don’t give up.

It’s important that it’s because Daniel loves him, not because it’s his job to change him. When you love someone you don’t want them to suffer, and he spent his mortal life piecing people’s stories together. He helped Louis make sense of his past and demonstrated that it wasn’t out of some ruthless desire to be the one to get the story. He grew to care about Louis. And this is Armand. He’s in love with him, so the investment is even deeper.

When I say it takes a long time, I mean longer than any average human would have, especially since for a very long time, Venice actually was the only bright spot in Armand’s existence. I think I’d look back on it fondly too, and now he has to contend with completely recontextualising it. But look at what the first five hundred years of life turned Armand into. Where could he be in the next five hundred? They have so much time to figure it out.

I don’t even need to see it, it’s just a comforting thought to believe that it could happen.

(And it goes without saying this is a mutual thing. Armand could help Daniel grow in ways we cannot even conceive, but that in itself is an entirely separate post.)

[randomgayapproaches]

hey so this is actually so nice ???? wtf ???? thank you ????

i cant just leave that alone in the reblogs like this is the best,,, constructive criticism (??) ive gotten in a while

i had no idea what i was doing for the background so i was just fucking around until i thought it looked decent

can you tell that idk how to draw backgrounds lmao

[azulpitlane]

we cant be friends ii l fc43

summary: after months of hiding your pregnancy, one mistake ruins your peace notes: this is kinda chaotic idk how to feel about it lol

part one masterlist

july 2025

🔒yourusername

346 likes

yourusername quick baby bump update at the six month mark💘🎀

view all comments

user your bump omg!!! so cute

user ur having a girl whattt🥹🥹🥹

user missing u in argentina <3

user you were born to be a girl mom🩷

alexpriv i took two out of three of these pictures. i feel like the father.

yourusername um you literally are the father of my child tho??

alexpriv considering im the one who goes out to buy your weird cravings, i might as well be!

-

-

yourusername posted stories

317 views

alexpriv did you go out alone? i wouldve gone with u babes

yourusername actually😬😬😬 i accepted francos mom’s offer to eat lunch together

alexpriv um what

yourusername …and i told her about the baby

alexpriv um WHAT

yourusername i cant lie to her!! shes like my second mom :( she didnt ask who the father was though so i didnt mention it either

alexpriv oh gosh is she gonna tell franco?

yourusername she said she wont. she knows we dont talk anymore, she just doesnt know why. ig franco didnt tell her about everything

alexpriv of course he didnt🙄🙄

-

-

f1

1,529,258 likes

f1 BREAKING: Franco Colapinto will race for BWT Alpine for the remainder of the 2025 season. He will be replacing Jack Doohan starting at the Belgian Grand Prix.

view all comments

user yay he’ll have money to support the baby

user this couldnt have been announced at a worse time😭

user wait why ?? am i late to the gossip

user girl go on twitter. everybodys freaking out saying he impregnanted his best friend

user WHAT SHSHSKSLSL

user someone posted a picture of his mom and his best friend (who he was always shipped with) and she was definitely pregnant

user twitter is nothing compared to the argentinean gossip shows, theyre milking tf out of this rumor

user they on twitter saying hes a baby daddy

user alpine pr had to come up with something real quick!

user congratulations on the promotion! oh and the baby🍼🍼

user guys what if franco is not the father…

user omg that would be so embarrassing for everyone in these comments

user nah that would be hilarious😭😭

-

-

yourusername posted stories

243 views

alexpriv you are SO unserious😭

yourusername babes my life is falling apart! humor is the only thing getting me through

alexpriv should we just run away to a different country again?

yourusername yes! i heard canada is nice!

-

🔒yourusername

294 likes

yourusername life is too chaotic. im just gonna sleep until i have to give birth brb

view all comments

user girl see u in three months i guess

user gonna miss ur baby bump updates🥹

alexpriv oh when i told u to get off your phone you actually took that seriously LOL

yourusername in my selena gomez era and deleting all social medias bye

-

november 2025

-

alpinef1team

425,294 likes

alpinef1team Alpine F1 Team Statement.

view all comments

user man what is going on with colapinto this season? he's barely scoring points, now this?

user at this point just give doohan his seat back🤣

user i thought briatore said they were going to move on from these "distractions" ?? why is he missing a race now?

user and when we needed him the most, he vanished😔

user so unfair!! do you know how many fans flew out to see him race??

user wow everyone is being so insensitive, it clearly states family emergency!! all other drivers would choose their family over racing!!

-

yourusername posted a story

342 views

-

-

yourusername posted a story

304 views

alexpriv i leave you two alone for a few hours and now he's laying down in MY bed😒

yourusername LOL to be fair, i was the one that told him to get some rest

alexpriv um what the hell ?? you are being too nice to that man

yourusername that man is unfortunately the father of my child

alexpriv wasnt much of a father these past nine months

yourusername trust me I KNOW. but honestly right now im just happy lucia is healthy and perfect, i don't want to deal with the drama right now

alexpriv ill deal with it on your behalf and get him out of there.

yourusername 😭😭 don't worry ill let you kill him another time for now im just gonna nap

alexpriv WAIT I NEED A DEBRIEF OF YOUR CONVERSATION WITH HIM AFTER I LEFT THE ROOM

alexpriv HELLO??

-

🔒yourusername

429 likes

yourusername little lucia💘

view all comments

user oh my god she's perfect!! congratulations bby

user lucia omg❤️ beautiful name for a beautiful baby

user i cannot wait for you to bring her home!! gonna shower her with gifts

alexpriv OMFG I LOVE HER SO MUCH ALREADY I WOULD KILL FOR HER

alexpriv so honored to be her godmother <3 im still crying

alexpriv okay but that debrief though...

yourusername ill text u rn dummy😭

-

francolapinto

liked by lando, pierregasly and 2,490,245 others

francolapinto ❤️

view all comments

user I KNEW IT OMG

user HELLO?

user he missed the race to be at the birth🥹

user honestly i applaud you for being able to keep this a secret

user Y/N X FRANCO TRUTHERS WE WON

user and they called us crazy for believing these rumors

lando congratulations mate!

-

-

epilogue out now ♡‧₊˚

-

(im so disorganized when it comes to tags, if i missed u i apologize😵‍💫)

tags: @toldyouitwasamelodrama @hc-dutch @96mcobo @formulaal @aleatorio1234 @kayleighlovesf1 @angelluv16 @hadids-world @landossainz @flowerpotterr @eclipsedcherry @weekendlusting @freyathehuntress @irisesinthegarden @bravo-delta-eccho @kissesandmartinis @mrs-reeves-17 @dancerbailey3 @chlmtfilms @oopsalltropes @mayax2o07 @htpssgavi @janhavichauhan @luvrrish @widow-cevans @ellelabelle @kaztheemyth @mclarenswag @1800-love-me @czennieszn @unstablefemme @formula-ghost @ajordan2020 @parkerloves @ivegotparticulartaste @oiiiiiijhhhvcfxc @riverjane-d @rendezvoushn @taeraeshii @kravitzwhore @sunshine-and-midnight-rain @blackmage24 @marijas-stuff

[ay0nha]

Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

GIF by crushribbons

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where Robby says, "Please forgive me." The first step in Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, mentions of rats, vaccines (anti-vaxxer fuck off), needles, pining, angst, Myrna, incorrect medical things, plot driven by movie magic, flashbacks, arguments, some fluff, me projecting my competency kink, smoking, scrub sharing, word vomit, etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post and @sunkissedburns' post.

A/N: Not quite what I had in mind, but I'm not going to be too hard on myself. This first bit was entirely self-indulgent. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged, they truly keep my going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin for helping me out again. Enjoy.

prologue

“I could fake a seizure.” 

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Love?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Robby’s allergic.” To love. You wouldn’t say the word out loud, afraid you’d catch fire by some divine fury.

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.” 

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point. 

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She continued. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner.  “It’s just temporary.”

You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. It took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

“You won’t even spit in his coffee!” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.”

“That’ll just give him more reason to bother me.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

—

The ED was slow. 

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to acknowledge it. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. Slow days brought the worst cases.

The quiet no longer felt like rest. It starts feeling like a missing tooth. You keep tonguing at the space, even when it hurts. 

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off subconscious anxiety. Neither was remedied. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew. 

“You alright?” Dr. Robby perked from the desktop, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t. 

Robby imagined the way your fingers deftly played with the lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. He resisted the urge to follow you out. But you didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit. 

 His attentiveness made you nauseous. 

“Peachy.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary. 

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his glasses reflected the screen in front of him. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?” 

Ignoring him no longer led to guilt. You viewed it as self-preservation. It was the only selfish act you could take in your condition. You’d be stupid not to exercise your only right. Robby continued to push lightly. His attempts at your vulnerability were in vain. It had been weeks, and you’d yet to budge. 

You don’t know why, but you were all heart today. Maybe it was what Myrna had said to you. Maybe it was the cold that weighed your limbs down. Maybe it was Robby’s question, an unorthodox olive branch, saying: everyone deserves a break. 

You waited for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he doesn’t. The meaning of his words was not lost on you. It allowed something warm to creep through your chest, so you gave him a nod. One that held forgotten gratitude. 

It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up. 

Had his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? 

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you picked up any task you could. When things were busier, the trivial things vanished behind the rush, but it was too slow a day to hide behind it all.

“You hear me?”

You hummed, unaware that the way your ears rang consumed your space. You focused back in on Robby, leaned back in his chair, arms tight across his chest. Although in a relaxed posture, Robby looked protective, as if it took a lot of courage to reach out to you again. 

“Your scrubs.” Robby’s eyes crinkled, toying with suppressed charm. It made you shy, like you’d done something wrong, gone too far, and lost your defensive bravado.  “If you’re going for the tie-dye look, you’ll fit in better with Peds.” 

There were splotches across your chest. It looked like dried blood, deep in color that led down to your pants. The droplets looked unprofessional, and you had meant to change, but the few patients that came in commanded your attention instead. 

 “Oh.” You said.  You mumbled as the memory came back to you.  “...had to snatch the povidone-iodine from a patient, they saw it had 70% isopropyl alcohol…tried drinking it…”

You’d volunteered for the busy work of stitches, as it was the only thing that you didn’t need to be monitored for. You were already counting down the days until the patient would return so you could remove them; another moment where you’d be able to come up for air. 

However, it was the ED, you couldn’t turn your back for a moment because even stitches became overly complicated. 

“Excuse me, doctor…” 

The voice behind you is so timid, you don’t hear it right away. 

“Uh, the scrubEx machine is, uh, broken—” Dr. Whitaker sheepishly interjected, catching the conversation in passing. You eyed him, seeing he wore morgue scrubs too big for him. “I mean–I-I didn’t break it…I think it’s old or it needs maintenance or something…”

You frowned. You were already in your spare. 

“Check my locker, I should have extra…” Robby threw the comment passively, not bothering to look away from what he was doing. “504-985.”

Everything stilled for a breath. Nurses who were casually eavesdropping were locked in. Dana’s eyebrows even raised hearing Robby’s code roll off like second nature. Dr. Whitaker blushed on your behalf. You knew his code by heart from years ago: the area codes of New Orleans. He couldn’t let go of the numbers; they followed him everywhere. 

The coldness in your limbs vanished. A prickly heat traveled through your fingertips, representing something close to mortification, but ultimately led to confusion. Then, quickly smothered with irritation. 

You wanted to be suspicious, to think this was just another test, but that wasn’t in Robby’s motive. He covered himself in sarcastic exasperation, but beneath all the stress and trauma, warmth and wit were his nature. This was genuine, this was not Dr. Robinavitch or Dr. Robby, Michael had offered the clothes off his back to you. 

You were like a rabbit frozen in tall grass. Ears perked, heart running, eyes blank and wide. But you didn’t move yet. 

“Go on,” Dana jerked her head in the direction of the locker room. “We’ve got a GSW coming in hot.” 

—

You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to be quiet and happy.

The lockeroom wasn’t even a room. It was just lockers tucked away at the end of the hall. The so-called privacy was a small sign that said: staff only. It was between the hallway and the bathrooms, forgotten and small. 

Punching in Robby’s code, you were praying for it to be wrong. 

It was minimal. There was an unopened water bottle, neatly folded scrubs, and a pen that had been there since before Robby. Everything he needed was in his backpack. It was functional, tactical, his. It was all he ever needed and was there if he ever needed to run. 

You felt like you were intruding, like you were moments away from being caught. For what? You didn’t want to know. 

You tried to rip it off like a band-aid, grab the scrubs, and go. Something made you jerk. The fabric was scrunched into your fist like it would get away if you let up. The longer you held onto it, the more it tethered you. It was standard scrubs. Unisex and black.  You went through the details, trying to be clinical. Professional. They would be big on you, but they would be functional. 

You drew the fabric closer, holding the top as if it were going to vanish like a bad prank pulled. You ignored the fact that the action resembled something primal. Brushing it against your nose, you knew these were Robby’s by the faint smell of mint. It lingered from the pocket where he stored his nicotine gum.  

“Thought you got lost…”

You paused. 

Not out of interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. 

“Checking to see if they’re clean.” You don’t miss a beat with the latent insult. “I know better than to trust you these days.”

There it was, that festering anger that was built on resentment. Your heart had frozen over again. You forced the air colder. It was unrelentless with no room for kindness to settle, it was not the kind of cold that came from a breeze or shade, but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. 

You comment on trust was spat as if the idea itself was revolting. It created a hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Robby said your name. 

“Dr. Robinavitch, I appreciate the…” You couldn’t even thank Robby properly. You’ve stood your ground this long, there was no retreating.

You shrugged off your scrub top, your thermal the only layer left. You moved swiftly, the GSW would be here in moments and you already took enough time for yourself. Tugging Robby’s shirt over your head it fit as expected; baggy in areas that didn’t matter and stitched with reliability of the owner. 

The smell enveloped you fully. If you let your thoughts linger you’re sure you could figure out Robby’s detergent and what aftershave he used when it was time to trim his neck. You adjusted the collar like it was tight, a nervous tick to reprimand yourself for thinking about how Robby’s chain would hang just where you touched. 

Your fingertips tingled with buried emotion. You projected a longing for when things were in a different rhythm, for when Robby was there for you outside of stipulations. 

Communicate. Ask for help if you need it. Trust your attendings. We will get through this together. 

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this. 

Together was a false-bottomed hope. Together didn’t exist—couldn’t. Your eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in. 

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, refusing to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students.  What is not clear here?”

 You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips. 

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now he’s dead.” Robby kept going, cementing your fate. “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

You hadn’t realized your wrist had been caught until you were met with resistance.

You pulled back instinctively. “What are you—

A dull pain scratched at your wrist, and Robby was afraid he’d caused it. But he knew what he saw, identifying it immediately. 

Robby held onto you steadily.  “Did something bite you?”  

“What?” Getting your wrist back, you finally looked at it. The bandage was haphazardly put on, now snagging on your sleeve, exposing two pinpricks.  “You heard Whitaker, the patient tested positive for rats...” 

You cringed, trailing off. It was a cheap joke that landed flatly. A few bubonic plague jokes came to mind, but you swallowed them. 

“I’m fine.” You went to push past Robby, but his arm landed against the wall blocking you. His frame didn’t intimidate you, but it made you hesitate with your response. “...I’ll be fine.” 

“You need antibiotics, a tetanus shot…” Robby rubbed his hands over his face, rougher than he should have, but it helped restrain his agitation. “Streptobacillosis can happen, rabies—

“Seriously, rat bite fever? I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting that.” You actually laughed, but it wasn’t appreciated. “We have a GSW incoming.” 

“The students need non-cadaver experience.” Robby attempted to be lighthearted, but there was an edge of authority to his voice. “They’ve got plenty of good hands to learn from out there.”

“Don’t be—

“You understand that’s my polite way of saying you will not touch a patient until I clear you, right?”

The words landed like a stone in still water. 

They silenced you, but you didn’t shrink. They cut deeper than it was meant to. It seemed to always happen that way, where once the pleasantries passed, what weighed heavily between you only grew in pressure. The guilt was mocking you again. 

Robby moved, knowing you’d follow. As he traced the hallway, you recognized what he grabbed: needles, medication, gauze, gloves, and confidence. You could have administered it all yourself, but this was a test of faith, one you were too curious about to challenge. 

 —

Anytime you went to the doctor, you felt like a child. Like you’d still get a lollipop and a sticker for being brave. It was why you avoided them if you could. You felt pathetic with your eyes wide and naive as Robby pulled the curtain around the two of you.

The irony didn’t go over your head. 

His gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Robby mumbled what he would have to a patient, it was a reflex you were familiar with. You just stood there, anxious that you were in too vulnerable a position. 

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.”  Prepping the syringe, Robby looked you dead in the eyes, working without the need to look. You wanted to indulge in the charm, but you stayed quiet. “Ready?”

You nodded. There was nothing but everything to be afraid of. Doctors never got used to being a patient. It felt like going against the natural order of things. Especially when Robby looked at you so expectantly. 

“Don’t think I can get through to your arm…” Robby was waiting for you to catch on. Out of habit you pulled at your long sleeve, as if covering the bite itself would disappear. 

Eyeing the needle, you knew it would be intramuscular. It needed to be deep enough to be effective. It was calming to go through the facts you knew, waiting for it all to be over. The muscles had good vascularity. The injected drug would quickly reach the systemic circulation, bypassing the first-pass metabolism.

Robby repeated your name, prompting you to understand so he wouldn’t have to say it. He’d been through the worst imaginable, the grossest, the strangest things. That was life in the ED.  But this was new territory. 

“If you could…” He instructed you in a low tone, clearing his throat. “Turn around.”

Oh. 

You had become so warm, you forgot you intentionally layered for the weather. Your arms were covered. Your legs were covered. The easiest muscle to access caused you to lean against the examination table. The paper crinkled from the slight force as turned your back to Robby. 

He couldn’t seem to clear his throat enough. “If you could…” 

“Right.” You snapped out of your slight stupor. If you had any conviction left, you’d have scolded him. Instead, you hooked your thumb in your waistband. Pulling the fabric down, you barely gave Robby enough surface to administer the shot. 

You could almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down than it had to—how he was tentative to pull at your pliant skin to find the muscle. It didn’t matter how hesitant he was because even through the gloves, his hands were unbelievably warm on your bottom. 

“First one…slight pinch…” Robby’s voice was muffled by the needle cap in his mouth. “Alright, one more. Deep breath.” 

The cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache. 

Instead, Robby, in his own way, cared so deeply for others. His care was written in small things, never said, but done. He’d say he didn’t have any friends, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb—always. Yet, he never carved out space for himself to be minded. 

“Not too bad, right?” His smile was awkward, but soft. Genuine. Concerned. 

“Ouch.” You mumbled, a playful frown pulled at your lips. “I’ll live.”

“Good.” The snap of removing his gloves invited reality back. “This can’t be done without you.”

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. The curtain’s fabric was a safety net in the chaos. He was slow to rub the hand sanitizer on. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly. 

“Thanks for—

—I’ve been thinking…” Robby cut you off before you could slip away, hands pulling at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting. 

You paused, letting it sit for a minute.  “Dangerous thing.” 

You’d been thinking too, but now wasn’t the time to crush the hope in his eyes. The risks outweighed the benefits.

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.  

Even now wasn’t how he’d wanted to approach you.

“Look—I don’t know.” Robby chewed on his cheek. “I just—fuck.” He looked at you with a childlike regret. As if he’d gotten too excited and played too hard. “We can’t keep going like this...I don’t blame you… and I don’t know…”

You knew what he meant: I’m sorry—please forgive me. 

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

“I know.” That smile that you wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over your guilt for now.

[honeytonedhottie]

how to curate ur own skincare routine (a guide)⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🛁💕

welcome to honey's beauty school where we'll learn about how to take care of and beautify ourselves 💖, today's topic SKINCARE. this is going to be structured as an informative post and after you read this you'll be ready to build a skincare routine thats gonna give you fabulous results...💬🎀

KNOW YOUR SKIN TYPE ;

literally the most important aspect of skincare and if u have never gotten into skincare before, THIS is where you start. knowing ur skin type is the foundation on which u can start building a routine and learning about whats best for your skin.

theres oily, combination, dry, sensitive and normal skin types. another thing that is crucial to know before building a skincare routine is skin conditions. (eg. pimples, rashes, inflammatory etc) if ur unsure about any of these things consult a dermatologist or conduct some of ur own research and determine both ur skin type and any skin conditions before we go any further.

SKINCARE ORDER ;

oil cleanser -> reg cleanser -> exfoliator -> toner -> serum -> moisturizer -> SPF. of course you don't have to do ALL of these every single day, but if you have everything in this line-up you should be good. im a firm believer in minimalistic skincare because thats what gave me the best results. simplicity is the highest form of luxury.

but yeah as long as u have everything mentioned here you should be good, just use it as needed. but the order in which u apply ur skincare is SO so important. because products have different molecular sizes that penetrate at different depths in the skin. some little things that can help ur products soak into ur skin better can include ->

waiting 45 seconds between steps so that the product u just applied can soak into ur skin

SPF daily (non-negotiable)

morning routine (simple and gentle preferably) evening routine (stronger and more repair focused)

in regards to the last bullet point, im going to explain why i think of morning and evening skincare routines in the way that i do. first of all, its just not practical to be putting on lots of skincare in the morning. like theres no reason you should be oil cleansing in the morning unless u slept with makeup on your face which you should NOT be doing anyways.

second of all, using stronger more repair focused skincare in the evening means that those products can soak into your skin overnight and you'll wake up all glowy and pretty. plus walking around all day with a face that feels heavy and greasy from skincare products just doesn't sound pleasant whatsoever.

also if u use an exfoliant during your morning skincare and then you go out into the sun, thats just a wicked combo and your gonna be all irritated and in pain and its just not hot...💬🎀

DOUBLE CLEANSING ;

double cleansing is the proper way to wash ur face. oil cleanser breaks down the dirt and oils from the day and regular cleansers clean you off after and give u that squeaky clean finish. it's literally just (oil cleanser -> reg cleanser -> clean face)

when it comes to oil cleansing, you have plenty of options. micellar water, oil cleanser, cleansing balm. for regular cleansers theres gel cleansers, hydrating/exfoliating cleansers and everything in between. for the second cleanse, go with whatever option is suited to your specific needs.

AS A COMBINATION SKIN GIRLIE...

as a combination skin girly i tend to go for oil cleansers thats very light like the CENTELLA light cleansing oil. then i'll use a very mild cleanser...💬🎀

like the heartleaf anua cleanser or the ceraVe facial foaming cleanser depending on what my skin needs that day. its all about balance when you have combination skin because u dont wanna over-strip the dry parts of your skin or leave the oily zones greasy. i rly love hydrating toners and a lightweight serum in a rotation, like yess ma'am.

(hyaluronic acid, niacinimade etc) nothing too much just products that are there to maintain my skin barrier and keep my skin healthy and happy. and when it comes to moisturizing i love water based moisturizers (i use the tatcha water cream oil-free pore minimizing refillable moisturizer). its so lightweight but gives me such a JUICY and glassy finish. and for sunscreen i use the beauty of joseon rice sunscreen because it doesn't leave a white cast and it has enough SPF in it.

FINAL THOUGHTS ;

skincare doesn't have be twelve steps long to be effective. to do skincare properly is to know what your skin needs and to be consistent. its actually really easy once you have those two things. take your time, learn ur skin and treat it with love. stay glowy, xoxo, beauty professor honey 🍯

[johannepetereric]

r/NoStupidQuestions

"How should I feel about big breasts?

"So I'm a tits guy, I do like me some big boobs but at the same time I've been digggingg around on rredditt and reading some stories about women who got breast reduction surgery and how it changed their lives for the better and now I've completely lost the thread, I do not know where I stand with them and I just kinda need to see other opinions by this point."

Ok, this is funny, but let's pretend we're actually on that Reddit post.

It's okay to be a tits guy, but don't be giving shit or "mourning" or "but--" when somebody wants to reduce or get rid of the tits. Tits are not for anyone except the person wearing them. They are not inherently less womanly or more manly for doing that.

As long as you're not giving shit or creepy about the bazongas (or lack thereof), you're good 👍

modern empath crisis of faith

[satorupi]

new to posting on tumblr, but currently thinking ab innocentgf!reader asking experiencedbf!satoru how to give him a handjob?? hear me out hear me out

you're still not quite sure what on earth brought on the urge to ask the question.

scratch that, you actually are sure -- you'd been dating satoru for over a year and some at this point (almost two) and the furthest you'd gone were heavy make out sessions and nothing more.

it's not like you don't want to do stuff with him, because of course you do. he's your boyfriend. he's kind, great on the eyes, so sweet to you. of course you want to do more than just kiss him.

you've been dating long enough and the trust is mutual...but the idea of being that intimate just feels so unreasonably embarrassing. it's so hard to get out your own head.

steam billows out the shower satoru currently occupies, swirling near your feet, a thin fog that leaves surfaces damp in the lightest bit of condensation. the words feel lodged in your throat, already flushing at the faintest outline of his naked body through the partially frosted glass.

if you're already embarrassed at the prospect of seeing him naked, how would you even ask the question?

it takes everything you not to retreat, really. your pacing outside the bathroom for 5 minutes before you'd worked up the courage to come inside couldn't be taken for granted.

why chicken out now when you're already in here?? you'd practiced this, it wasn't a big deal.

"satoru?"

"baby?" he responds over the sound of the water, glancing backwards like he'd be able to see you through the glass. "something wrong?"

"no. no, I just uh..." your fingers toy at the edges of your shorts, rocking on your heels, "I wanted to ask you something."

"oh?" you can see his hands slow in his hair before starting back up, "well, i'll be out in a minute so-

"no!" the words come out in a rush, high enough to embarrass you. your hands squeeze at your sides, working up the needed courage to keep from retreating, "I mean, I should probably ask you now. kind of important."

there's a pause, only the steady hiss of the shower filling the damp air.

"...alright then," he said, a little slower this time. "what's up?"

the words come out one big breathless, a too loud tumble before you can regret it. the way they always did when you got nervous. "how do you...how do I, you know, give you a handjob?"

your body flares hot with panic with the clearly startled noise that leaves him, molten hot in the cheeks, already spinning on your heel to bolt. "never mind!" "wait-- babe! don't run-- shit, ow!" you're already slamming the door behind you and making a beeline to the bedroom. then a beat and a half, muffled from the distance,

"wait! i've got soap in my eyes!!"

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the bedroom door slams behind you with a solid thud, throwing yourself into the bed and yanking the covers over your head like it would stave off the mortification. great, just great. you should've chickened out like you wanted to. dating the most effortlessly perfect man alive and you'd just propositioned...whatever that was. sex 101?

the bathroom door flying open and hitting the wall is noisy even with all the distance. "babe! where'd you go?"

maybe if you stay really, really still he might think you'd left. maybe you could just play dead, actually.

it's mostly silent, sound of your heart throbbing in your ears louder than anything else.

...then the bedroom door flies open, frame rattling on its hinges. "did I hear you wrong?" and he sounds so bewildered that part of you feels bad. "are you seriously hiding?" that part at least sounds humor filled. oh, so he thinks this is funny? there's the wet slap of his feet against the hardwood, getting closer and closer to you till the part of the mattress near your head dips with his weight. "..you embarrassed? is that it?"

you bury your face deeper in the sheets, teary with just how hot your face was getting, a pathetic little whimper being your answer. of course you were embarrassed, who wouldn't be?

"you're okay." satoru wonders if you know how cute he finds this all. his hand finds your head over the sheet keeping you hidden, smoothing his hand up and down just to soothe you. you drop a bomb like that then run away from him while he's incapacitated? how evil. how cute. "you were asking how to make me feel good, right? you can talk to me."

your nod is weak under the covers, mortification easing up with all his reassurance.

"come on out, sweetheart." he murmured, tugging lightly at the blanket. "c'mere. lemme see you."

maybe if he wasn't being the absolutely sweetest you'd put up more of a fight...but since he is, your head pushes free from under the cover, peeking out just enough to see him. your eyes find his face before anything else. crystal blues turned stormy, hair still partially sudsy w/ shampoo, a mess of strands sticking up in different directions.

and then?

then your eyes drop, you're not sure how you hadn't locked on that first because his towel is all low on his hips like he'd haphazardly wrapped it around himself, a very clear, thick imprint straining against the white cotton.

oh.

"didn't get to wash my hair out properly.." the words break you out your momentary stupor, now glossy gaze lifting to eye him again, blinking slowly. as if you care about his half washed hair right now.

"you wanted to learn right?" his hand still strokes the back of your head gently and you nod, fighting the innate urge to glance down again. to get your first proper look. you'd felt it when your kissing got too heated sometimes but never...not this. "i'll show you then."

and that's how you end up on your knees between your boyfriend's parted thighs. the pillow under the pair had been his idea to keep your knees from rubbing against the carpet, hands on your lap idly picking at nonexistent lint.

and satoru...well, satoru's still on the bed, of course. on the bed with his dick in his hand.

minor detail.

the towel's parted and resting on either side of him, cock hard and heavy in his hand as he grips the base, pearly droplet leaking from the tip.

from 'just kissing' to seeing him stroking himself while you watch -- what a jump.

you can count how many times you'd had to look away since you two had gotten in this predicament and it'd only been 2 minutes at best.

"no looking away." he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. wrecked already just from the heat of your gaze. "you wanted to learn, baby. so you need to watch."

his free hand lifts to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing along the bone before it's sliding down to cup your jaw. he tilts your face just enough so that you're watching, eyes instinctively dropping to his dick again.

the rush of wetness in your panties makes you twitch, unable to look away now that you seemingly had no choice. "good fuckin' girl. eyes on me." you barely register the little rush of air that leaves your lungs with his first upwards pump, stuck on his only shaky sigh, hand squeezing your jaw gently.

"feels good," he says, breath hitching when he strokes down and back up again, thumb swiping lazily over the slit. "s'much better with you watching. you're so pretty down there." satoru strokes himself from base to tip, letting his cock slip heavy through his fist. his head tips back just a little, exhale shaky with the effort of keeping his pace slow to demonstrate this properly for you. in all honestly, he felt embarrassingly close. didn't peg himself as some sort of exhibitionist, but, the more you know.

"not...not too tight, and then you can twist jus' like this.." and he does exactly that, breathing out a curse as he works himself lazily. his thumb smears precum over the sensitive tip, aching to be touched properly -- by you instead of himself. his gaze drops back down to you, watching you as you watch him. all curious, thighs squeezed a little tight, lip caught between your teeth. "you can touch it too."

you're not even embarrassed at how eager your nod comes, letting him lead your hand up to wrap around his cock where he's thickest in a tentative hold. it's silky and warm against your skin, heat pulsing between your thighs. your stomach curls at his groan at your curious squeeze, swallowing lightly.

"easy now.." he doesn't let you know that it'd been slightly too tight, he just wraps his hand around yours to ease your hold, stroking your hand with his own. once, twice. very careful. "doing so good, baby. just like that."

okay, you could do this. it's just a dick. a dick wouldn't bite you. not his at least.

a little emboldened by his praise, you shift a little higher to get closer to him, hand lifting from your lap to ease his hand off yours over his and doing the job all on your own. firm even strokes, slow enough to feel the throb of his veins and his dick jumping in your hand. it's a slick slide with all the messy precum he'd smeared, hand doing the twists he'd done on his own, eyes up on him.

if his head being tipped back meant anything, you'd say you were doing a fine job. "is it good, 'toru?" the brush of your thumb over his tip is a little clumsy compared to how he did it, but his hips buck anyway, moan warming your body. you stare is full of fascination at the deeper flush of the head, how another hot little spurt drools out just from your touch to coat your thumb.

"y-yeah. oh god, yes. it's so good." his breath punches out his throat in a gasp, jaw falling open. "keep doing that."

you're almost desperate to keep it feeling good for him, to make him feel even better. your hand pulls along his cock in perfect little pumps, riding the high of all the previous praise, drinking in all his sounds. the twitch of his hips, the silent calls of your names, him asking for more. you're properly getting drunk on it, riffling through your thoughts to find more ways to drive him crazy.

your mind mostly draws a blank save for one idea, not second guessing as you rise higher on your knees to lean in. the side of his shaft is far softer against the wetness of your tongue as you drag the appendage along the rosy pink flesh.

the reaction is almost instant, tongue not even making it all the way up. his jerk in answer makes you rear back completely, eyes wide as your hand releases him.

you freeze, horrified at the look on his face. his panting. oh god, he'd hated it. "sorry! sorry, did I do it wrong?! I thought it-" "no! fuck no, it wasn't wrong. holy shit--" he rasps, lips twitching up into a grin, laugh bursting out of him. wrong? how could it be wrong if his orgasm near raced up on him with the press of your tongue? "where the hell did you learn that?"

you blink up at him, all sweet and pretty, rubbing your lips together to savor the taste of him. "a video! the lady did the same thing."

he laughs again, all amused and carefree like your hand hadn't just been wrapped around his cock, like you hadn't just embarrassed yourself. "a video. you watched a video on this?"

you nod like it's the most obvious thing, "I wanted t'learn how to do it."

he can't fathom that you'd seek out porn to figure out how to touch him well. "fuck, you're so perfect."

his hand eases yours back upward, kissing your knuckles to assure you that no, you licking his dick had not at all turned him off or anything remotely similar. that has you more than willing to start back up again, more confident in your strokes this time. still a little clumsy, it's inevitable with your inexperience.

you know what he likes now, at least partially -- so you're in his space again, mouthing the side of his cock, tongue dragging along wet, hot flesh just as you'd seen. trying to remember parts of the video you'd been to embarrassed to even finish.

the pump of your smaller hand on him sticks to near the tip, lost in his noises as you kiss and lick near the base, nosing at his flesh. he always smelt so good but that freshly showered scent mixed with that of his flesh this close has your mind all foggy. your thighs squeeze together tighter to ease the building ache, panting warmly against the side of his cock, stroking a little firmer.

"god, you're a natural. please keep doing that." if the twitching in your hand was a clue, it'd lead you right to the conclusion that he was close. about to cum for you. your head lifts to look at him, lashes fluttering lips parted as you eyes him in awe. "so pretty--haah--love you, please."

you make proper use of both your hands, stacked one on the other to stroke and twist. it's that same pattern again and again, fingers coated in slick that smears down his cock over and over. "I-I know. I know it feels good." his sounds rise, hips bucking into the touch of your hands, one hand cupping the back of your head. "love you too. are you close?" "yeah, gonna cum...gonna--oh fuck." you barely know what the fuck you're doing but instinct had yet to fail you, his reaction proof enough. head tipped back, his helpless groans. all because of you -- you can't get enough of it. the shaft is occupied by eager hands with your stroking, head left too neglected for your comfort so you at least attempt to use your mouth there like before. no different than how you'd been kissing him and licking earlier. you barely get to wrap your lips around him really. it's nothing more than a wet kiss, a little lick at the tip. hands squeezing between firm strokes, mouthing where he's weeping for you. "babe- baby," he shakes his head, eyes rolling, delirious, "wait, don't. i'm gonna--" he'd tried to warn you, really, but he falls apart just like that. snaps like a livewire, pulsing in your hand as his hips buck, wrecked sound tearing out of him. the hand at the back of your head tangles in your hair, you barely have time to lean back as he falls apart. cum streaks all hot and messy ropes across your lower face and your hands, enough to make you choke on a gasp. your cheek, the corner of your mouth. a little catches on your jaw.

you freeze up, hands slowing their stroking to a stop, quivering at how filthy it is. how hot it is. god. and you can't look away from him, not for a second. his stomach flexes, cock twitching with the remnants of cum emptying from his balls, dribbling down the length of him.

"woah."

the prospect of making him cum has arousal washing you so intensely that you have to close your eyes for a bit to get a hold on yourself, whimpering before you can hold it in.

your panties are properly soaked, clinging to you with how turned on you are, thighs squeezing together instinctively. doesn't help at all, unfortunately.

"holy shit." he finally gets out, still breathing heavily from his orgasm and the fog it left behind, hand loosening in your hair and sliding to cup your cheek.

the dampness against his fingers has him glancing down at you, matching the bewildered look on your face. "oh shit--" and it comes out like two octaves higher, it's almost laughable. all he gets is a surprised huff in your daze.

his hand flies out to clean the mess he'd left on your face, only smearing it on your face a little more. he hates the traitorous way his cock throbs again like he isn't panicking a little internally. this was out your comfort zone already now he'd gone and came on your face? "i'm sorry, pretty. thought i'd have time to warn you-"

your hands still hold his softening cock, too stunned to even give him a proper reply. "didn't mean to-- i'll clean it up, you don't even need'ta touch it."

maybe it's the surprise that has you not flustered from this? you're not sure, all his finishing on your face had done was gotten you wet.

you don't really think about what you're doing, looking at him through your lashes from down below, curious tongue poking to the side to taste some of what had landed.

sweeter than you'd expected, a salty tang on your tastebuds. maybe you should've just let him do it in your mouth? "tastes good though.." you murmur, rubbing your lips together, shifting on your knees. his rambling stops after that one comment, gaping down at you, red rising up his face, tips of his airs flushing with color too. mouth opening, then closing uselessly. looking like he's 2 seconds from cumming again.

then he whines, whines like you'd struck him, flopping backward onto the bed as you blink up at him in confusion.

"babe?" your hands pull off from where they're holding him, placing your damp palms on your thighs as your mind races. "did I say something bad?"

bad? if bad meant perfect, maybe. if bad meant...meant absolutely soul crushing, spirit healing, spectacular--

"no." he croaks, shaking his head, cock already stirring. how do you not get what you're doing to him here. "no, you're perfect. nothing's wrong."

satoru sits up so he can look at you again, heart throbbing at your confusion. the little crease between your brow, the stick remnants of him glistening on your skin. god, he's so in love with you that it hurts.

large hands grab at you without warning, tugging you up into his very naked lap to straddle him, frantic kisses pressed to your cheeks. fully uncaring of the mess on your skin. "nothing wrong. you did everything right. fuckin--'" he smacks a kiss to your mouth, hands cradling your face, "soo perfect. perfect, pretty baby."

the laugh that leaves you is breathless, letting him dote on your for whatever reason, arms banding around the back of his neck as soon as you get a chance, knees on either side of him. gentle fingers take their time to wipe your face clean, transferring the mess collected on his thumb to his towel, kissing you here and there. "so messy."

it all makes you feel ridiculously shy more than ever, slapping at his chest, own fingers fixing the mess on his head. "need to get you back in the shower to wash this out properly." you still can't believe he'd been in such a hurry to follow you that he'd left his hair half washed.

his laugh has him shifting under you a little and it's a pain trying not to move. an even bigger pain trying to not acknowledge the heat low and building in your belly. if it was bad when you were knelt on the floor being handsy with his cock, this is 100 times worse.

the air between you two is unsettled as is even if you'd been joking since he'd gotten you in his lap. you swallow gently, smiling down at him. dipping to give him another kiss. "I should probably go wash my face...or something. I think"

you're trying, you really are -- but it's so hard not to move. so you do, a tiny forward tilt of your hips that makes your core heat, toes curling in your socks. subtle but he notices, mouth tipping at one side. "not too much shifting. I'll probably get worked up again."

your nose scrunches up, leaning into him to hide your face in his neck like that would help in playing it off. "just getting comfy." satoru hums, hands lowering to your waist to ease you properly on his lap. no expectations of anything at all, just making sure you're steady, pressing a kiss to your temple.

he doesn't mind all your shifting, not really -- but they aren't doing him much favors. he figures you're just restless after earlier, still shy about the intimacy of it all. "you're fine. we can stay like this as long as you want."

it would be great if it was just that but the throb is almost uncomfortable, only moving on his lap seeming to help. you can’t help the way you tuck your face tighter against his neck, breathing him in--clean, soapy, warm. even his scent has your cunt throbbing hard. "sorry. just...trying'ta.."

satoru isn't dense, he knows you're turned on. shifting to seat yourself better didn't feel the same as deliberately rubbing yourself on his cock through your shorts. he knows. but he stays where he is, lets you snuggle up into him, careful not to push too fast. even when you roll forward more deliberately this time as though testing how it feels he's careful not to react, just squeezing your hips lightly. "you're good, go ahead."

you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just so sweet and worked up, trying so hard to stay still that it has his mind reeling.

you swallow hard, fingers pressing into his skin, whimpering softly as you rock forward.

yeah, he can't exactly leave you to your own devices when you clearly need something. "what's wrong, hm?"

he pulls back to look at you, heart near stopping at the glossiness of your eyes, the clear strain in your expression. still rocking your hips like you can't help yourself. "satoru," you whimper softly, eyes closing, shaking your head, "'nothing, but.." you're hot all over and your cunt refuses to stop pulsing even as you're grinding on him -- so turned on that you could cry. "it's not working." your hips rock forward again, the hardened line of him creating perfect fiction against your clit that only leaves you more desperate, drawing a low groan out of him. "I know, I know. you're okay--" his hands squeeze at your hips, drawing soothing circles over the fabric of your shorts. focused on keeping you settled and staying calm himself even as his cock stirs back to life under your clothed cunt. "just worked yourself up a little, 's all."

you duck your head again, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “i dunno,” you whisper. “just…feels good. wanna keep--" your voice cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut. "just want you to help me."

you swear his breathing stops too with how quiet it goes, keeping your face in his neck to hide your embarrassment. afraid you'd said something wrong.

"or..or not. I can just get--"

"--are...shit--are you sure?" he interjects, voice a little strained, hand coming up to cup the back of your head. you're already worked up as is, the last thing he wants to do is overwhelm you when you two had never gone this far before. "we totally don't have to--"

"--I want to." your head lifts out his neck, hips still rutting gently, lips parted. the sensations have you focused just on how thick and hard he is under you, how much your cunt is throbbing. "want you to help me. please."

he doesn't think any other words are as devastating as those. "yeah. yeah, of course." he whispers, hands sliding up your hips, squeezing your waist. getting high enough to cup your face to kiss you again, keeping a slow pace. "gonna make you feel so good."

well, a second lesson wouldn't hurt.

sena's note: slept on it and it sounded okay on a fresh mind so here we are 🤧

desktop optimized, did it in dark mode but MIGHT look better in light mode bc of the red hues ‹𝟹

[darqx]

Pick up the receiver I'll make you a believer

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

After doodling the first image that hug body slam meme immediately came to mind and i couldn't help myself 😂

Thanks very much I'm glad you are enjoying my art and characs! :D

To put the answer simply, Rire used to work for the prior King as a Collector (of souls) and he was that King's only Collector and so got the brunt of his ire for any related, perceived fault. Aside from that personal connection Rire also really disliked him because he viewed the prior king as a useless glutton who failed at ruling a sector (conditions were tanking/had tanked for ages), and which the Royal powers were wasted on.

Almost all of his sunglasses are actually normal human sunglasses, he can just see better than a human can 😎

Anything can be a kink, anon :d

Boring victims are often exceptionally weak-willed victims so that's something in particular he dislikes.

Yes he can play the piano and violin, and horseback ride and ballroom dance etc. Put it this way he has a lot of particular small skills that he picked up during his Earth visits so he could hide in plain sight with the upper echelons XD

Not like how a snake or cat hisses which is what I'm assuming you're implying XDDD He can't bite off a limb (his mouth ain't that big) but his teeth are very sharp so he can feasibly take a chunk out of someone or like, completely bite off something smaller (finger, ear...)

I havent added to it in a while (since I dont often find songs I like enough to actually download lol) but this is my current playlist for him in no particular order:

Anon, the fact you capitalised "Aliens" made me think of Xenomorphs and I had to immediately stop thinking 🤣

On a side note, I can't actually tell you either way because he hasn't encountered an alien (that isn't a demon or a human) lol. He'd probably initially treat an alien much like he would treat a common demon, if they are obviously not human, and then if he realises they are also not quite a demon this could peak his interest.

Pointing you in this direction because regardless of the canon answer this proves he could look good in one LMAO

Sorry to burst your bubble but no :d Though I suppose he could simulate the effect by reverting parts of them to their "liquid" state 🤔 DO WITH THAT INFO WHAT YOU WILL.

It is theoretically similar to a human's.

If you can remember his age then that is how old he is :d I'm not really like other creators who give their characs a definitive "birthday" down to the year, mainly because I don't often have set "time periods" in my stories lol.

His birth date falls somewhere between late October - late November though.

In the context of BTD; they just don't like each other XD Well I can't actually speak for Cain, but Rire not liking Cain is partly a riff on general angel/demon rivalry dynamics, and partly because Rire would see Cain as more of a threat since canonically Cain is way more OP than him.

Most of the time when i draw them Cain is also actively getting in Rire's space whilst Rire is actively trying to avoid him, so there's also that XD

It...depends. On which aspect of "ownership" you're implying. For those that he has deals with, he'd calculate what exactly the value of the deal lost would be and in this situation he'd likely write them off as Cain would be more annoying to handle then they'd be worth (he can always make more deals).

If someone was specifically marked by Rire, that's a different level of possessiveness and he'd actually try cos like

Hey guys some offence but why are some of you sending me asks formatted as if i were ChatGPT

Is there one for like, personal ambition or cunning or something cos I don't think he'd be any of those listed lol.

Rire doesn't have a mobile phone and he doesn't need one because he has a demon power that basically CCTVs all his citizens to himself. And really, if he wants to find you he'll find you.

He's somewhere in the middle of that scale through the sheer fact that he's been around long enough to see technology change and would've kept up with how to use things to blend in better, but also doesn't need to use the electronics to the point that he'd need to be an expert at it.

Is this cos Gato is Canadian cos I don't remember a country location being specified when we did it? |D Personally I figured most of the settings were in the US since the US has the most documented serial killers

Also sos no i dont anon, you'll need to either ask Gato or EP or dig through any of their lore posts they might have left.

Think kind of like Rire (he did learn a lot from her after all), but with a more Elizabethan era socialite vibe. Possibly a black widow but we dont have any proof about that.

Has/had a p good relationship. I use both terms because I still never decided whether she was currently dead or not lol.

Lol a misconception but Rire doesn't actually perceive humans as trash XD Trash suggests that he hates them and they wouldn't be worth regarding at all, whereas Rire usually finds them more like...novelties. Or like whatever that feeling that is associated with viewing ant farms or animals performing tricks is. Rire's mother would view them as more like working animals or livestock.

[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.

[whatyouredyingtosee]

Hey gentle reminder that you can ignore those "Reblog! If you don't you're [extremely upsetting label here]" posts. You should ignore them, btw. You don't suddenly become a racist because you ignored someone trying to farm interaction, you don't become homophobic because you felt bad about exposing your followers and friends to that, you don't become a bigot because of other people trying to guilt trip you.

If you're not purposely causing harm to minority groups or hold bigoted beliefs, you don't suddenly become a bigot because you ignored someone being an ass. You're allowed to ignore guilt tripping messages and if someone gets irritated at you for ignoring them, tell them to get a grip. 🫂

Likewise, you're allowed to ignore:

Guilt tripping spam asks.

Scam asks.

"Reblog if your account is [group] safe!" posts

"If you don't reblog, I'm going to assume you're a [insert term here]" posts

"People are dying, you can spare some time to reblog" posts

Posts that show actual pictures of real life tragedy with the intent of hoping you spread it across the platform.

"How dare you donate to Ao3/Wikipedia when there's [insert other tragedies here] going on!" posts

Posts that imply that you shouldn't have a safe space and that it's cruel to have your account be a safe space.

Posts that say you shouldn't be happy while there's tragedies going on in the real world.

At the end of the day, 90% of those posts use the "other people have it worse" mindset and that ISN'T HEALTHY. You don't tell someone that's happy they aren't allowed to be happy because someone else is happier than them at the moment, so don't do it for pain and suffering.

Anyway, I suggest you block the people that make guilt tripping posts. Better for your mindset in the long run and people need to realize they can get their point across without triggering people's OCD/thought spirals.