#like.... the loneliness of being one of the few people who know the Truth about the gods

[sun-marie]

omg this Paris Paloma song is soooo Sabina-coded 😭

[writerofautumnnights]

A Dance with the Devil

*No spoilers. It takes place before the brothers return to Mississippi

pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!OC

sumary: Lena Pearl, a waitress in Al Capone's world, confronts Elias "Stack" Moore, a man caught in the same violent life she tries to escape. As tensions rise, they both face the uncomfortable truth about their shared darkness. Their connection is undeniable, but will it be their salvation—or their undoing?

warmings: angust, mention of death, internal conflicts, survival and violence. English is not my first language.

word count: 4,7K

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The Green Mill - Chicago, 1929

The cutting Chicago wind was no match for the heat emanating from the basement beneath the old barbershop. Lena Pearl adjusted her string of fake pearls as she descended the wooden stairs that creaked under her careful steps. Her emerald-green dress – simple enough not to draw attention on the streets, yet elegant enough for the job – reflected the yellowish glow of the strategically placed lamps around the lounge.

"The princess has arrived," murmured Big Joe, the security guard stationed at the inner door. He was one of the few men Lena allowed to speak to her that way.

"Mr. Capone asked for you three times today."

Lena just nodded, without revealing the weight those words carried. Working for Al Capone was like dancing constantly on the edge of a cliff – dangerous, but impossible to walk away from. There was a strange vertigo in that routine, as if she lived suspended between the urge to disappear and the need to keep being seen.

The Green Mill was buzzing despite it being only Tuesday.

The economic crisis that ravaged the country seemed only to intensify people’s thirst. The saxophone wept on the small improvised stage while white men in expensive suits mingled with South Side workers – all equal in their pursuit of the oblivion only forbidden alcohol could provide. It was ironic – the deeper the country sank, the more vibrant that basement became as a refuge for broken lives.

"Bourbon for table three and a double whiskey for the man with the hat in the corner," said Gina, another waitress, hurrying by. "Oh, and watch out for that new guy. Stack, I think. He’s been watching you since you walked in."

Lena discreetly lifted her gaze toward the indicated direction. In the shadows, partially hidden by the haze of cigarette smoke, a Black man in a dark gray suit stared at her without disguising it. There was something in his eyes – not the usual lust or curiosity Lena was used to ignoring. It was as if he recognized her from somewhere impossible, from a life she had never lived.

She looked back. For the first time in a long while, Lena allowed herself to hold someone’s gaze. There was a restlessness sneaking under her skin – recognition, maybe? Or just loneliness? Elias “Stack” Moore wasn’t just a new man at the bar. He was a living question mark, a reminder that she could still be moved by something other than fear or cynicism.

As she served the tables, she felt the weight of that gaze on her back.

For the first time in ages, Lena felt the loneliness she carried like a second skin. Among so many, she was always alone – it was what kept her safe, what kept her alive in a world where women like her served only temporary, limited purposes. And now, there was a man who seemed to see beyond the role she performed every night.

"Miss Pearl." The deep, controlled voice surprised her as she turned from a freshly attended table. Elias was there, too close, too real. "Allow me to introduce myself, Stack."

"I know who you are," she replied, offering neither a hand nor a welcome. "And I’m working, Jack."

"Stack," he corrected, with a restrained smile. "Just wanted to say Mr. Capone speaks very highly of you. Says you’re the only honest person in the entire place."

Lena couldn’t suppress a half-laugh. “Mr. Capone has an interesting concept of honesty.”

“Maybe,” Stack stepped aside, allowing her to pass – a rare gesture of respect in that place. “But I’ve learned to trust his judgment when it comes to people.”

Before Lena could reply, the back door burst open violently. Two men in overcoats entered, followed by a blast of cold wind. One of them – short, round-faced, and wearing a dangerous smile – was unmistakable. Al Capone removed his hat, revealing his scarred face, and his eyes immediately found Lena.

“Pearl!” he called out, ignoring the bows and greetings around him. “Bring me my whiskey. The special one.”

Stack watched the subtle transformation in Lena, how her shoulders adjusted, how her expression closed off even more, how she became both more present and more absent at once. To him, it was like watching a butterfly retreat into its cocoon at the first sign of threat.

As she walked away, Stack felt a strange pang. Who was that woman, really? Why did she seem so profoundly alone, even in a crowded room? And why was he, a man used to staring death in the eyes – so unsettled by a simple waitress?

“Always on time, Mr. Capone,” she replied with rehearsed formality, already heading to the bar to fetch the bottle kept especially for the boss.

Elias watched her go, realizing in that instant what Big Joe had hinted at earlier. There was something about Lena Pearl that set her apart, not just her undeniable beauty or the dignified posture she maintained in a world that constantly tried to shrink her. It was something deeper, a quiet resistance that seemed to say:

“I’m here, but I don’t belong to this place. I never will.”

Lena returned with the special bottle of Scotch whisky – smuggled in recently from Canada, on a shipment that had cost three men their lives the week before, though no one spoke of it. She carried it on a silver tray, along with a single crystal glass. At Capone’s table, the men fell silent as she approached.

“Here it is, sir,” she said, placing the tray on the table and pouring the first drink with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much pleased him.

“Thank you, Pearl.” Capone looked up, his eyes lingering on her face for just a little too long. “I missed you last night.”

In the background, the piano began a melancholic melody, blues notes weaving through muffled conversations and thick smoke. The saxophonist – a middle-aged Black man with eyes that looked like they’d seen hell – joined in with a wail that made the hairs on the back of Lena’s neck stand on end.

“I wasn’t feeling well, sir. My apologies.”

Capone nodded slowly, not believing her, but willing to accept the lie – for now. He looked at her like a man who believes he owns everything he sees. And Stack saw it. He also saw the pride in Lena as she masked her contempt behind flawless professionalism. That was resistance in its purest form. And beauty. And pain.

Capone’s gaze drifted past her shoulder, noticing Stack watching the scene quietly.

“Stack!” Capone called, his voice shifting suddenly to a louder, more expansive tone. “Come meet the Green Mill’s crown jewel.”

Elias hesitated for just a second before approaching the table – but that brief pause seemed to stretch, as if he were deciding whether to dive or retreat from the edge of a cliff. His eyes met Lena’s, and in that brief exchange, there wasn’t just tension – there was memory. Not real, but instinctive. As if they recognized in each other something long forgotten, a shared pain disguised as strength.

“Mr. Capone,” Stack greeted with a nod. “We’ve already met.”

Capone raised his eyebrows, a smile with more teeth than joy. It was the kind of smile that served as a warning.

“Have you?” he asked. “My Pearl’s charmed you too? She has that effect on men.” He laughed, but the sound held no warmth – it was just noise, like ice cracking. “But she’s different. Not like the other girls around here.”

Lena remained still, like a painting of herself. Her face was neutral, expressionless, but her clenched jaw betrayed the tension underneath. Stack noticed and understood. Capone’s words, though wrapped in charm, were fences. A territorial warning.

“I can see that,” Stack replied, his voice even, but not his eyes. His eyes said something else. They said he truly saw Lena. “Some people carry their own light. Even in the dark.”

The saxophone, almost as if conspiring with the moment, let out a sharp note – nearly a wail. The music captured what words couldn’t: That something there was on the verge of breaking.

Capone took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes following Stack with measured interest. “Stack did us a big favor last night,” he said, his tone taking on a more performative flair.

“That issue with the Irish on the North Side? Taken care of.”

Lena’s stomach tightened at the violence in the memory. That morning’s newspaper headline returned like a punch:

Two bodies floating in the river,

Enough bullets to erase names, stories, families.

Now reduced to mere statistics – and silence.

“Stack has a steady hand,” Capone continued, his pride laced with provocation. “Not like those amateurs who make a lot of noise and do little else.”

Elias kept his expression unreadable, but his eyes sought Lena’s – for just a second too long. And she saw it. There was something there – a tremor, perhaps regret, or the shadow of doubt. Not something that could be said out loud. But it was there.

“I just did what needed to be done,” Stack replied. There was weight in his words and emptiness too. Like a man used to digging holes inside himself.

Capone laughed loudly, slapping the table with delight. “Modest! I like that in a man. Makes doing business easier.”

Then he turned to Lena with that look – the one that always reminded her of her place.

“Pearl, bring us another bottle. I want to properly celebrate Mr. Moore’s success.”

"Yes, sir," she repeated. But her thoughts remained tangled in the truth she couldn’t ignore.

Stack was like the others. A killer. A man who took lives for money, for loyalty to Capone, or for any excuse that helped him sleep through the night. And still… he had looked at her as if she were whole – as if both of them might find some kind of salvation in each other’s eyes. That hurt more than any lie. Because Lena didn’t want to feel that. She couldn’t afford to.

The music seemed to change, as if the room itself could hear her thoughts. It grew heavier, more oppressive.The bass throbbed like a broken heart, while the saxophone cried notes that clawed through the air, sharp with regret.

“Pearl?” Capone’s voice pulled her back. “The bottle?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Lena turned toward the storeroom where the special bottles were kept, suddenly suffocated by the heat and smoke in the room. She needed air, space to think. To process the disappointment she wasn’t supposed to feel – Because what had she expected? That in this nest of vipers, one man might be different?

“Stack, go with her,” Capone ordered, voice casual, but his eyes calculating. “Show her which bottles we brought back from the Jefferson Park stash.”

Stack nodded and followed Lena, keeping a respectful distance as they moved through the crowded room. The singer had taken the stage now, her husky voice rising above the instruments, singing a blues made famous by Ma Rainey:

“Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… For a man’s got a heart full of jealousy...”

The lyrics hit like a warning, a painful truth that echoed in Lena’s ears as she walked, hyper-aware of Stack’s footsteps behind her. Every syllable a sting. Every note a reminder.

When they finally reached the hallway that led to the storeroom – away from Capone’s watchful eyes and his men – Lena stopped abruptly and turned to face Stack. There was fire in her eyes. But it wasn’t just anger. It was fear too. Of him. Of herself. Of all of it.

“The Irish,” she said, her voice low but laced with something trembling between disgust and necessity. “Was it you?”

Stack glanced around, making sure they were alone before answering. His eyes returned to her with the same intensity as before but now, there was a thread of exhaustion in them.

“Is that what matters to you?” he asked, his voice lower than usual. “Or is it just something to help you keep your distance?”

“Don’t answer a question with another question,” Lena snapped, anger rising in her like a rising tide. “Two families lost their sons yesterday. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Stack stepped closer – still composed, but his eyes betrayed a storm beneath. “Those men tried to kill three of ours last week. They were planning to raid this place tomorrow night.”

“Ours?” Lena let out a bitter laugh, but it came out like a blade. “So you're one of them now.”

“I don’t consider myself anything but what I am,” Stack replied, voice quieter now, as if speaking from the bottom of a well.“A man trying to survive in a city that only gives people like us certain paths.”

The music from the club reached them like a whisper, the blues seeping through the walls like the heartbeat of a wounded creature. It echoed everything they weren’t ready to say.

“And what path is that?” Lena asked, barely breathing.

“Killing for money? Doing the dirty work for men like Capone?”

“And what’s your path, Lena?” Stack shot back, eyes burning. “Pouring drinks for men who look at you like you’re for sale? Smiling while dying a little more inside every night? Pretending you don’t see the bodies being dragged out the back?”

Lena blinked, as if his words were wind throwing dust into open wounds. He was right and that hurt more than any lie.

"At least I don’t pull the trigger," she said, steady on the outside, but wavering within. Because she knew – even without blood on her hands, she was still part of that theater of horror.

"No," Stack murmured, his tone now more sorrowful than accusatory. "You just serve the drink that celebrates after the trigger’s been pulled."

The silence that settled between them was thicker than the stifling air of the corridor. It wasn’t just silence – it was the weight of everything they felt, and everything they wanted to deny.

The music outside seemed to swell, as if the saxophone understood the gravity of that moment. A melodic lament, like a warning that what was being said couldn’t be taken back.

"We need to get that bottle," Lena said finally, her voice slipping back into a practical tone. "Capone’s waiting."

"Capone’s always waiting," Stack muttered, more to himself than to her. "The question is: how long are we going to keep doing what he expects?"

Lena didn’t respond. The question echoed inside her like a prophecy. Then she turned and continued down the hall toward the storage room, her footsteps blending with the muffled rhythm of the blues that followed them like a ghost through the dimly lit corridor.

When they reached the door, Stack reached out and gently took her arm. It wasn’t force – it was an anchor.

"Lena," he said, a vulnerability trembling beneath the surface of his voice, "we’re not as different as you want to believe."

She looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. And what she saw there – honesty, doubt, fear – scared her more than any threat ever could. Because it was real. Because she was on the verge of believing it, too.

"That’s what scares me," she whispered, almost regretfully. And then she opened the door.

Stack followed her inside. He closed the door slowly, like someone closing a confessional. The sound of music became even more muffled.

The pantry was a narrow cubicle, barely larger than a closet. Shelves of worm-eaten wood supported rows of carefully organized bottles–some with legitimate labels, others with homemade seals, all containing the forbidden elixir that kept Chicago running like a drunken clock. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently, casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls.

Stack adjusted the red handkerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstripe suit–a touch of color in a man who seemed made of shadows and restraint. His presence there, in the tight space, was like an eclipse; he occupied no more physical space than necessary, but his aura filled the environment. He was the type of man who had learned to make the minimum seem impossible to ignore.

“Third shelf, second row,” he murmured, approaching Lena from behind. It was strange how he seemed to know the place better than she did, each word measured like expensive whiskey–warm, direct, impossible to forget. “The whiskey came from a shipment we received yesterday. Legitimate Scotch. A man died for it.”

“Just one?” Lena asked bitterly, stretching to reach the bottle. The movement drew attention to the scar on her right wrist, a thin, whitish line that extended across her exposed skin. Her sleeveless dress left her arms completely bare, revealing not only the scar but also the delicate strength of her shoulders.

Stack noticed, but didn’t comment. In his world, every scar had a story someone preferred to forget. He knew that kind of silence well.

“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” he said, his voice low like a confessional. “And so do you, right? That’s why you asked about the Irish.”

Lena reached for the bottle, her slender fingers closing around the amber glass. The liquid inside shimmered under the precarious light like melted gold. Gold with the taste of blood.

“I just want to know what kind of man I’m trapped in a pantry with,” she replied, without turning. “Self-preservation.”

Stack almost smiled. There was something in her calculated coldness that fascinated him–perhaps because it sounded exactly like the lies he told himself every morning when he woke up.

“You asked me if I pulled the trigger,” he said, advancing a step. The space was so tight that the heat from his body reached her back. “You want to know if I’m a killer or a man with principles?”

“Is there a difference in this place?” She finally turned, the bottle between them like a fragile barrier.

The proximity was dangerous. There, in the yellowish light, Lena could see the golden grillz that adorned his teeth, gleaming discreetly when he spoke, the way a vein pulsed almost imperceptibly at his temple, the texture of skin marked by years under the merciless sun. Too many human details for a man who should be just another customer, just another danger to avoid.

“In 1917, I enlisted in the 369th Infantry Regiment,” Stack said, his voice suddenly distant, as if he were reciting facts about someone else. “Harlem’s ‘Hellfighters,’ that’s what they called us. I spent 191 days on the front, without rest, without replacement. More than any other American unit.”

Lena wasn’t expecting a confession. Not there, not now. The entire Green Mill was waiting for them to return with a bottle of whiskey, not with war secrets.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I wasn’t a violent man before the war. Afterward… afterward, violence began to make sense. Something about surviving changes the way you see the world.”

The smell of old wood mixed with the subtle aroma of whiskey filled the air between them. Outside, muffled by the thick walls, the piano melody continued, an ironic soundtrack for that confession no one had asked for.

“The Irish were armed,” he continued, something trembling beneath the surface of his words. “They were going to kill everyone at the Miller’s Club on 35th Street. There were women there. Children in the back. Employees’ children.”

Lena felt a shiver run down her spine. Stack wasn’t justifying himself. He was sharing a burden with someone he sensed might understand. The burden of impossible choices.

“I’m no better than you, Lena. I’m no worse. We’re just two survivors caught in Capone’s web, trying not to be devoured.”

The light flickered for a moment, as if the building’s electricity felt the weight of that conversation. In the brief moment of dimness, both their faces seemed more vulnerable, stripped of the masks they wore in the hall.

“Your eyes recognized me when I entered that room,” Stack murmured, his voice now almost a caress. “Why?”

The question caught her off guard. It was true–something about him had awakened an instinctive recognition, like an echo from another life. Was it the way he carried his own pain without ostentation? Or perhaps it was just the loneliness she recognized, so similar to her own?

“I know your type,” Lena replied, trying to rebuild the wall he was, without realizing, tearing down. “Men who think they can save the world, or at least themselves, by working for the devil.”

Stack’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile–that rare smile Gina had mentioned, like the sun breaking through at the end of a cloudy day. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to completely transform his austere face, revealing the man behind the legend that Chicago was already building around him.

“And you?” he asked, leaning slightly. The space between them diminished with each breath. The perfectly adjusted tie at his neck seemed a contradiction to the controlled intensity in his eyes. “What do you think you’re saving by working here?”

She could feel the warmth of his breath–whiskey and cigarettes, but also something cleaner, like mint. A man who arrived without making noise, who made entire rooms fall silent by instinct, but who cared about insignificant details like his own breath, even in a world of chaos. This disturbed her more than any threat.

“I’m saving the only thing I have left,” she answered with a honesty that surprised her. “The illusion that I still have a choice.”

Stack raised his hand, hesitant. For an instant, Lena thought he would touch her face – a gesture she wouldn’t know how to receive. But he only adjusted a lock of hair that had escaped her careful hairdo, his finger lightly brushing the skin of her temple.

“We all have choices, Lena,” he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. “They’re just not the choices we’d like to have.”

The distant sound of breaking glass in the hall brought them back to reality. The world outside continued its course, indifferent to the secrets exchanged in the small pantry.

“Capone is waiting,” said Lena, resuming her professional posture like someone putting on armor.

Stack nodded, taking a step back. The space between them expanded again, but something had changed in the air. An invisible bridge had been built–fragile, perhaps temporary, but undeniably real.

“You know what the hardest part of the war was?” he asked, as she turned to leave. “It wasn’t the combat, the bodies, not even the constant fear. It was coming home and discovering there was no more home. That the place we return to is never the same as the one we left.”

Lena stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Her back was to him, but Stack could see the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity that betrayed that his words had reached some deep place.

“You know that feeling, don’t you?” he insisted. “Of belonging to a place that no longer exists.”

Lena closed her eyes for a brief moment. Images of a simple house in New Orleans, the smell of jambalaya on the stove, laughter of children playing in the yard. A world that had collapsed so long ago that sometimes it seemed to have been only a particularly vivid dream.

“We’re taking too long,” she said, her firm voice contradicting the tremor in her hands. “And that’s dangerous for both of us.”

When she turned, bottle in hand, her eyes avoided his. Stack understood the retreat. He knew that dance too well–the cautious approach, the mutual recognition, and then the strategic withdrawal. It was the only way to survive when you carried more scars inside than out.

“What do you think Capone is really celebrating with this whiskey?” he asked, deliberately changing the tone of the conversation, offering her the exit she silently requested.

“Something none of us wants to know,” replied Lena, grateful for the change. “Ignorance is sometimes the only protection we have.”

Stack held the door for her – an anachronistic gesture of chivalry that seemed almost comical in that setting of criminality and survival. But Lena noticed how he positioned himself strategically, so that he would be the first to enter the dark corridor. Protection, not courtesy. The difference mattered.

As they walked back through the corridor, the sound of jazz grew progressively, like a tide rising to engulf them. The smell of sweat and cheap perfume mixed with tobacco announced their return to the real world– a world of masks and well-rehearsed roles.

“I know you don’t trust me,” murmured Stack, leaning slightly so that only she could hear. “And you’re right. But if you ever need help…”

“I won’t,” Lena cut in, but without the coldness from before. There was something almost like gratitude in her tone.

When they were about to emerge back into the hall, Stack stopped abruptly. Lena almost collided with his broad back.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

“I saw something in the back of the storage room,” he replied, his voice suddenly tense. “Boxes that shouldn’t be there. With military markings.”

Lena felt a chill. Weapons. They could only be weapons. Capone was planning something bigger than the usual territorial disputes.

“Forget what you saw,” she whispered urgently. “For your own good.”

Stack stared at her, the dim light of the corridor creating shadows on his angular face. “Is that what you do? Forget what you see?”

The question hit Lena like a slap. For a moment, the air between them seemed too heavy to breathe.

“I survive,” she finally responded. “It’s what we all do.”

The music in the hall changed to something more lively, as if mocking the tension between them. A loud, fake laugh from Capone crossed the stuffy air, a timely reminder of what awaited them.

Stack held her arm gently, his warm fingers against her cold skin. “There’s a difference between surviving and living, Lena. At some point, we’ll have to choose.”

Before she could respond, he released her and went ahead, emerging into the golden light of the hall like a man without weight on his shoulders, his face already wearing the mask of efficiency that Capone appreciated.

Lena breathed deeply and followed him, the bottle of whiskey in her hands weighing like lead. As she approached Capone’s table, where Stack had already resumed his place, she realized something disturbing–for the first time in years, she felt fear. Not the familiar fear of Capone, of violence or poverty.

It was the fear of possibilities. The fear that perhaps, just perhaps, there were more paths than she had allowed herself to see.

When she placed the bottle before Capone, her eyes briefly crossed with Stack’s. In that silent look, there was an unspoken promise–or perhaps a warning. His eyes, which normally seemed always distant, trapped in a past he never talked about, were now firmly anchored in the present. In Lena. In possibilities too dangerous to name.

“Stack!” Capone’s voice cut through the air. “Where’s your brother tonight? We need the best for tomorrow’s job.”

“Smoke is taking care of that business in the South Side,” Stack replied, his voice returning to its usual formality. “He’ll be here early tomorrow.”

Lena noticed how Stack transformed near Capone–every movement calculated, every expression a perfect mask. It was as if he stacked layers of protection between his true self and the world. Stack. The man who always had something stacked: money, marked cards, too many secrets.

The future was as uncertain as Chicago on a foggy night. But one thing was certain: that meeting in the pantry had planted a seed of doubt that, like the weeds in the city’s abandoned lots, would be difficult to eradicate.

And as Capone raised his glass in a toast, celebrating some bloody victory, Lena knew that something had changed inside her–something silent, dangerous, and irreversible like the tick-tock of a time bomb hidden in the city’s basements.

Nobody knew for sure where Stack had come from, only that he appeared in Chicago–along with his brother–on a night of heavy rain, with a worn suitcase and a look that said he had left more than memories behind. Now, Lena wondered what else he hid behind that gaze which, for a brief moment in the pantry, had lowered its guard only for her.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

-

Heyyyyyyyy,

There's no tag list, I just had to launch something that was burning in my mind as soon as I left the cinema. Feel free to show your love. Until next time 🥹❤️

~

[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.

[yan-randomfandom]

[ BC & Human, no names stated, they/them prns! ]

a/n ; most unconventional post ever dawg but idk where else to post it,, i js wanted to write about beachcomber 💔 really very short

— 🌊

Loneliness was never a concept for Beachcomber during his time on earth.

Beauty surrounds him. The first time he saw the stars, the cosmos, and life beyond the battle was the moment he deemed the war meaningless.

It only fills him with deep sadness whenever he thinks of his home planet—destroyed by its own people. Nothing but pointless fighting, extinguishing millions of sparks. So much out there, so much beauty, so much to explore, and yet his fellow Cybertronians fail to see it. The Decepticons fail to see it. Well, maybe they did. Who wouldn't?

His optics gaze far into the distance. Just look at this view. The sun setting, the waves dancing, and the sky painted in a beautiful gradient of unique colors to Cybertron. The sand beneath him is as cheeky as ever, rough yet harmless against his frame.

Truly, he wishes his friends were here to experience it. If only.

A few chirps snap Beachcomber out of his trance. He hums and tilts his head to his feathery companion, who shifts uneasily on his shoulder. "Pardon? Can you say that again, my dear?"

"A human," murmurs the green bird, its tweets and twitches translated by the bot's processor. "Human here!"

Beachcomber is confused, and understandably so. Yet the more he watches his friend, restless, the more his doubt begins to cease. Humans have rarely ventured this far from their civilization, and he has made sure they would never bear the burden of knowing he exists. Put simply, a human wandering around this area sounds impossible.

"By the by," he says with a sigh, "are you pulling my leg? I thought we stopped with the antics—"

The bird shakes its head. "No! No, Beachcomber! Human here!"

A sense of urgency finally washes over the bot, so he stands to his full height, his shadow from the sunset looming and stretching through the sandy ground until—

Beachcomber stares at the human in silence. Form coated by his shadow, their own is not even half the size of his. Their widened eyes, he could tell, were filled with so much fear.

An entirely different species—yet an emotion he is no stranger to, a memory he does not want to keep reliving. Nonetheless, he continues to observe with false composure. The human remains still, frozen in disbelief.

He can feel the fidgeting claws of his small friend. Beachcomber can feel his servos fidgeting.

Truth be told, he has never interacted with a human. His experience is limited to watching them from a distance, unreachable beyond their sight. Now, with one standing before him, he does not know what to do. He does not know how to act.

Despite his time here, to think that silence would be his first impression of the savviest beings to walk this planet.

The human exhales. Just as Beachcomber is about to speak, they beat him to it.

"You're ugly," they blurt out, their lips pressing together in immediate horror at their own words.

Beachcomber pauses. That's a rather odd response to their fear. And, mind you, this is his first radio with a human.

So, he chuckles, fully accepting your words. "And you're beautiful."

Just like that, with the utter gentleness of his voice and his choice of words, he smiles at the human, watching as they begin to loosen up, if only slightly.

i actually did think he was ugly the first time i saw him 🥲 he still is tho but thats how i see all of my pookies

i wanted to write more but i burnt out quick oops,,, i did this instead of my projectS ahah, anyway beachcomber omg!!!!!!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

═ Monday you can fall apart ═

Chapter 1 - Blue

Chapter overview

CWs POV Dean, loneliness, anxious Dean, John Winchester being a POS, pre-series. 7.5k words

Dean always seems to meet her on a Friday.

Actually, he’s not sure about that. Hunters don’t have weekends, so it’s a toss up if he even knows what day of the week it is. He’s sure he’s met her on other days, it’s not like he keeps a diary around, where he circles the days he saw her, draws little hearts next to them. But it always feels like a Friday when he sees her. Or what he imagines Fridays feel like to most people. He gets a little giddy, excited for what’s to come. There is so much promise and anything seems possible.

The first time is a few months after Sammy has left for Stanford. Dean feels lonely and John is in an even worse mood than he usually is, if such a thing is possible. The shock and the betrayal of Sam leaving them sits deep in them both, but of course they don’t talk about it, because that’s not what Winchesters do.

Instead they stew in it, Dean noticing he ducks his head whenever John walks into the room. He’s not a kid anymore, hasn’t been for a long, long time but he is sure he can feel the air get thicker whenever John is around. Like all abused children he knows what mood John is in by the sounds of his foot steps, and depending on how they sound he adjusts himself, his body and his face before his father has even walked through the door.

Quick steps, slightly staggered, means John has found a case or brought a drink. In case it is the first thing, Dean locates where his jacket is in the room, so he can grab it as quickly as possible, follow John out to the car. He never takes his boots off for this very reason, not even when he sleeps, and won’t for years even after John is dead. If it’s the second thing John will pull a bottle or two out of a brown paperback, and they will sit together, maybe turn on the TV, a game or some old action movie that Dean’s seen a million times. They won’t talk. John doesn’t seem to get drunk anymore, only quiet and tired. And Dean? Dean’s not even really there. He’s imagining things. Thinks about a different life, thinks about girls.

Once he knows her, he’ll think about her. The bar lights over her head, the gleam in her eyes.

It's bad when John’s steps are slow. It’s like he’s purposefully putting his entire foot on the ground before moving the other up, like he can’t bear to be away from the floor for too long. That’s when a lead hasn’t panned out, or he’s been thinking about Mary, or lately, Sam. Dean knows to make himself small then. He tries to relax his shoulders but often finds he can’t, his body out of his control. He’s as big as John now, or nearly, but he feels like he’s made of sticks.

They go to a bar, not to drink, but for a lead. It’s the early evening, but it’s already full. The clientele is interesting, old timers mostly but there is a group of younger people as well. Students maybe, or yuppies on their first job, who have found this place, run down as it is, maybe go here ironically, to say Jesus, look at this place, look at these people. We’ll never end up like them.

Dean hates those kinds of groups. He pretends it’s because of his contempt for anyone who thinks they’re better than others, but the truth is they make him feel insecure. They make references he doesn’t understand, ask him questions he has no answers to and it’s always only a matter of time until there is some dig towards his lack of education, his clothes, the way he talks, his car. So when he walks into the bar and sees them he scoffs in their direction, making it clear to anyone who cares to watch him that Dean Winchester couldn’t care less about his preppy peers.

No one is watching him that closely, of course, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

He wonders if that’s the kind of people Sam hangs out with now, and then quickly forces that thought away.

John walks up to the bar, says “hey, Earl,” and the man standing behind the bar turns around. Earl’s big, and he looks a little like Bud Spencer, if Bud Spencer had been put through a meat grinder. He nods at John while polishing a glass with a less-than-clean looking rag. He looks like he’s posing for Barkeeper’s Quarterly.

“How you doin’, John?” he asks, and his voice sounds friendly. John doesn’t answer except to lean on the bar, look around. Earl asks: “This your kid?” He looks at Dean. Dean nods back. All his movements are meant to look effortless, but they are not. They require effort, so much effort, their minimalism hard earned.

John doesn’t stop looking around, but sort of thumb-points at his son. “That’s Dean,” he says, not wasting time or spit on any unnecessary information. Earl nods again, puts the glass he’s been cleaning down.

“So you got my message?” he asks.

John nods. “How many?”

Earl pulls down the corners of his mouth, leans his head to the right, then the left. “Four. Maybe five. Couldn’t rightly say.”

John nods again. “And they’re just hiding out in town? Under everyone’s nose? Under your nose?”

There’s a quick glimmer in Earl’s eyes. His pleasant expression never falters but the hair on Dean’s neck stands up. He gets the distinct impression that Earl is not someone to be fucked with.

“Come on, Winchester,” the big man says, grins a little. “I know how much you love to hack and slash. What, I was just gonna go in on my own? Leave you out of the fun?” John sort of breaths a small laugh out of his nose. The balance between them has been reestablished, both getting a dig in, but Dean can’t help but wonder at what history they have.

“You wanna go now?” John asks.

Earl looks up, scans the bar. “Yeah, should be good.” He looks to the side, and in a louder tone to be heard over the voices of his patrons, he says her name.

Her name.

It doesn’t mean anything yet to Dean, of course. He’s distracted looking at the bottles behind the bar, wondering if he can get a drink in before they leave to wherever they’re leaving to, so he doesn’t see her when she first walks up after being summoned by Earl. Then he looks down from the shelves and sees her.

She’s beautiful. Not in a Hustler type of way, not the way the co-eds he sometimes picks up are, or the waitresses in the cheap small town bars that look at him like they’re hoping he’ll take them with him and out of there, not in any type of way he’s ever seen.

He must be staring, because after Earl introduces them - “this is John Winchester, an old buddy of mine, and this is, sorry, kid… didn’t catch your name?” – he forgets to answer for a moment.

“Dean,” he says then, and repeats it, like an idiot. “I’m Dean.”

She holds his gaze for a second and he can’t guess at what she’s thinking. It’s not the kind of look he usually gets, and has been getting for as long as he’s known the kind of effect he has on girls, and then later, on women. She’s just studying him for a moment and then she’s looking at Earl, and he’s telling her to take care of the bar, call in someone named Simon if things get too busy, and to not let someone else, someone called Tip, which Dean doesn’t think is a real name, take too many smoke breaks.

She nods at everything he is saying, then gives him a little smile. “Be careful, okay?” Earl nods at her, a kind look in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, honey. I got John Winchester with me. Worse comes to worse, I’ll just throw him at them.”

Chuckles all around and then John stands to his full height and Earl walks off, presumably to get his things. Dean takes another look at her but she’s already busying herself with something else, saying a few quick works to a scrawny guy with a ratty mustache and yellowed fingertips, maybe Tip. He takes a breath and is about to follow John out of the bar, but John stops him with a raised hand.

“No, Dean, I think you should sit this one out.”

Dean feels like he’s walked into a brick wall. “What, why?” he says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too affected. Of course he couldn’t care less if John takes him or not, at least that’s what he wants him to think, the fact that the statement immediately feels like rejection not registering with him on any intellectual level. He is such a well-trained dog.

“Just think Earl and I can handle it,” John responds, “plus it’ll be nice to catch up with him without having to keep an eye on you.”

Boom, bang, John goes for the immediate knock-out, all following rounds be damned. Dean swallows down the insinuation of why anyone needs to keep an eye on him but it doesn’t leave his mouth, sits on the back of his tongue like sick from the night before.

“Sure, uh, whatever, do you want me to go back to the motel?”

John shrugs. “Or get a drink. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. Easier said than done. What does Dean want?

John and Earl leave, Earl looking even more hulking without the bar in front of him. Dean stands around for a second, unsure what to do. So, as he’s learned to do when in doubt, he gets a drink.

The place at the bar he and John occupied a minute ago has been taken over by three of the younger people, two guys and one girl, splitting off from the larger group that’s sitting by the window. They are loud and obnoxious and want everyone to know they are having a great time, so Dean looks for a seat farther down the bar, finds it. Who he assumes to be Tip takes his order, which is a little disappointing. He can see her a few feet down, filling a glass with seltzer and putting it in front of the three younger people, pushing it towards the girl who, Dean notices now, looks absolutely plastered. Her hair is falling out of the bun at the back of her head and her eyes aren’t focusing so well. She looks so goddamn happy though that Dean is actually a little jealous.

He gets his drink, borne to him on yellow-tinted fingers and he goes to pay, but Tip raises his hand, says in the most congested voice Dean has ever heard: “Earl told us he’d got you covered if you stayed.” Well, Dean’s not gonna argue with free drinks so he raises his glass a little in thanks to Tip, but he doesn’t really react, just slouches off to the next person waving him down at a speed so slow that in a joint this packed it’s actually offensive.

So Dean looks around, listens to the conversations around him. He’s an easy talker, can normally get some small talk going with pretty much anyone, so long as he can lie about every single thing he’s saying and never show his cards at all. So, normal conversation. He’s downed half his drink quickly and is looking around when the group sitting near the window break out into such loud, ear-shattering laughter that he has to turn around. It’s part his irritation at them, part the fear that they might actually be laughing at him that makes him stare at them for a few seconds. He notices one of the girls among them and she’s kind of cute, long hair that’s—

“You want another one?” He turns back around and it’s her. She’s leaning on the bar opposite him, both arms spread wide to lean in further. He thinks she’s flirting and then he realizes she’s doing it to hear him better, but maybe she’s still flirting. The group of three with the drunk girl down the bar are clapping now, well, the two guys are, yelling “chug chug chug”. Dean nods towards them.

“Maybe I should have what she’s having,” he says, grinning in a way that he’s seen work well. She just raises her eyebrows.

“Big seltzer guy, are you?”

“No,” he says, “I mean, because, no, cause she’s—”

He’s interrupted by a triumphant roar from the drunk girl’s two friends as she downs the glass, holds it over her head, swaying, looking like a cockeyed Statue of Liberty for a second. The noise distracts her from what he was saying, how he was stumbling over himself, but he feels a rush of embarrassment. Two for two, he thinks, what the hell is going on?

She turns back to him, a soft customer service-y smile on her face.

“Say,” she asks, “you don’t happen to have a gun on you, do you?”

“No, why?” Dean asks.

“So I can kill those assholes first and then shoot myself.”

It takes him a moment to understand that she’s making a joke. Her face and her tone give nothing away, at least he doesn’t think they do, so, hell, she might be being absolutely serious, but he’s so relieved that she doesn’t seem to think he’s a seltzer-drinking weirdo who can’t say his own name, that he laughs, and that makes her sort of grin at him, and it seems like a real one.

“So, another one?” she says, pointing at his now empty glass.

“Only if I can buy you one,” Dean responds. This time it comes out exactly the way he means for it to come out: voice just a tad deeper, the smile playing on his lips a little flirty and he even makes eye contact. Bingo, Dean Winchester is back, baby!

He can tell she is suppressing a smile, maybe he’s flattered her and he expects her to blush when she says: “Aren’t you drinking on Earl’s tab?”

How the hell does this keep happening?

“Well, yeah,” he says. “But I can pay for your drink if you want one.” She doesn’t really react, instead grabbing a nearby bottle of liquor, filling his glass first and then grabbing one for herself, which she fills, clinks against his before he has the chance to raise it, and shoots it down. She makes a bit of a face, then winks at Dean, and his lungs stop working for a moment.

“Always tastes better when somebody else is paying for it,” she says and Dean might just be a little bit in love.

Then she looks at him expectantly, at his glass, back at him. He picks it up quickly and downs it as well. The burn is pleasant but it’s not whiskey, as he was expecting. He makes a face.

“Step up from seltzer?” she observes.

“Eugh, is that tequila?” he says.

“Añejo,” she replies, like he’s supposed to know what that means. “Aged,” she adds at his confused look, and then: “And you’re supposed to sip it.”

“But you—“

She laughs then, really laughs, and it’s the sweetest sound Dean has ever heard. It’s not mean either. She’s not laughing at him, but at her own cleverness, proud of herself. Dean can’t help but grin, giving a little laugh. She grabs the bottle at his reaction, fills his glass again.

“Enjoy,” she says, and then someone’s waving her over to order something. Dean looks after her, rushing back and forth. She smiles sometimes, politely, or does a “ha” when someone says something that’s meant to make her laugh, but she doesn’t grin at anyone the way she grinned at him.

He takes a sip from his drink. It’s not so bad.

The bar becomes fuller and then it peters out. On the way to the restroom at some point Dean chats up the girl from the obnoxious, loud group. She’s sweet but his heart’s not in it. He wants to go back to his seat at the bar, and even though she’s kind of flirting with him he leaves after a while. A little later the group moves on, and then it’s just Dean and her behind the bar, and an old drunk whose name he finds out is Walter, who two hours ago was telling everyone who would listen a story about how he once got run over by a bus and walked away without a single broken bone (“Like a snake,” he says, and Dean doesn’t find it in himself to tell Walter that that’s how snakes work). Walter is around seventy and has the wettest eyes Dean has ever seen, so much so that it makes him want to wipe at his own. Walter’s mumbling now and every once in a while his voice will go louder and he’ll sort of yell, but it’s not really threatening, just kind of sad.

She walks up from the room behind the bar she went into a minute earlier to answer the bar's phone, stands across from where Dean and the old man are sitting.

“Walter, honey, you gotta go home, we need to close, okay?”

Walter mumbles something, belches. Charming. Just then Tip comes back in, bringing with him a rush of cold air and cigarette smoke. She looks at him, sighs.

“I’m gonna bounce,” Tip says in that painful sounding voice of his. “Want me to get Walter home?”

“Would you? I’m not sure he can walk,” she responds.

Tip nods, moves his scrawny frame in front of Walter and says in a loud voice most people reserve for children and the legally deaf: “Walter, I’m gonna get you home, okay, pal?” Then Tip starts sort of poking at Walter’s armpit and it takes Dean a second to understand that he’s trying to get him to stand up.

“Need a hand?” he asks. Tip nods, and Dean stands up, swings one of Walter’s arms around his shoulder. Walter is a head shorter than him and Tip’s not pulling any of his weight, so Dean pretty much carries the old man to the door all by himself. At that point Tip has figured out how to hold on to Walter and tells Dean he’s got it. Tip shoots a “Night!” over his shoulder at the bar and Walter mumbles something that sounds like “adopted monkeys”, and then they’re both gone.

Dean breathes out slowly, hoping to get the mixture of the combined smells of Tip and Walter out of his vicinity. He turns around to face the bar. She’s wiping down the top.

“That was Earl calling just now,” she says, scratching at a stain in front of her, then wiping over it. “Says everything’s fine but they’re gonna be a while.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, good.” He waits a second to see if she’ll say anything else, but she doesn’t. “Well, I guess I best—”

“Wanna keep me company until they come back?” she interrupts him. Dean thinks. There’s nothing suggestive in her tone at all, but he also doesn’t have anywhere better to be, only an empty motel room with greasy wallpaper and a depressing lack of all things younger brother. So he responds with a “yeah,” and walks back towards the bar.

Before he reaches it, she looks up at him. “Put some music on?” she says, nods at the Wurlitzer that stands against the wall perpendicular to the bar. It’s been played on and off throughout the evening.

Dean walks to it now, at the same time reaches his hand into his pocket to look for some coins. He drags some out, along with a week’s worth of lint and a piece of paper that he’s pretty sure has a bleach blonde’s number on it. He holds his findings in his open hand and picks out the correct coins with the other. He looks at the songs on offer, then grins. He deposits the coins in the machine, makes his choice and goes back to the bar.

He sits down where just as the first notes of Simple Man start playing. She’s wiping something off the counter behind the bar, and her shoulders go up and shake a little when she laughs. She drops the rag in her hand on the counter and puts two clean glasses and a bottle on the bar in front of Dean. He grins. Okay, maybe she is flirting with him.

“Does the simple man want another drink?” she asks, and adds: “It’s really whiskey this time, promise.” She moves one hand over where her heart is and does a little cross sign. Dean raises his eyebrows shortly, then grabs the bottle and pours for them both.

“So,” he says, not liking the silence that she seems totally comfortable with. “This doesn’t seem like a hunter spot.”

She shrugs, rearranges something he can’t see. “That’s cause it’s not. It’s just a bar. Earl’s bar.”

Dean nods. “But Earl’s a hunter?” She looks up, past him at nothing.

“Kind of,” she says. “He’s sworn to leave that life behind him a million times but he just can’t seem to stay out of it. He’s always scanning the news for cases, cutting out articles.” She picks up the glass he poured for her, clicks one of the rings on her fingers against it. “He did that stuff for thirty years. Guess it’s hard to quit.” Dean picks up his glass as well, they cheers. Both are lost in their thoughts for a second, and while Dean isn’t sure what she’s thinking he knows he’s thinking about her, the curve of her neck to be specific. He wants her to grin again the way she did earlier.

He takes a sip of his drink – it really is whiskey – then asks her: “You hunt?” She smiles at him, but it’s not the same.

“I’ve dabbled,” she answers.

“I didn’t know you could dabble in hunting,” Dean says, hoping she’ll say more. Her smile frays a little around the edges, and he wonders if he said something wrong.

“I guess you could say I’m trying to quit, too,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t know what to say, but luckily she fills the silence. “So your friend you came in with, you two hunt together?”

Friend.

“My father, actually,” Dean says, and to make it sound like he’s not some big loser who only hangs out with his daddy, he adds: “It’s the family business.”

She nods, taking that in, then she says: “Your dad’s handsome. Kinda young too, no?”

Dean feels bewildered at that and can’t stop himself before he says, deadpan: “He’s actually really old.”

And then she laughs, and it’s the one he’s been hoping for. It sort of consoles him for what she said about John.

“Must be nice,” she says then, “working with family, traveling with them.” That makes him think about Sam.

“’S a blast,” he says, hoping to talk about something else. “So how’d you wind up with Earl? You two dabble together?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound dirty, but she catches his gaze before he can correct himself or change the topic. She laughs and then her elbows land on the bar, she’s leaning over. Dean’s pretty sure she’s doing it to stretch out her back from standing behind the bar all evening but he has to stop himself from leaning in. She’s closer to him that she’s been the whole night and he feels his fingers twitch. He wants to touch her.

“Nah, none of that, although I hear he was quite the ladies’ man when he as younger,” she says. Good on you, Earl, Dean thinks.

“I was just kind of, you know,” and she’s looking for the right word, takes a long time to find it. Dean likes that she’s taking her time, wants the right word to describe exactly what she was. The correctness of it is more important to her than the flow of the conversation, or being quick and clever. He finds himself wishing he could do that. Just stop mid-sentence and take his time until he finds the right words.

“...forlorn, I guess,” she finally says. Dean nods his understanding, although he doesn’t think he’s ever felt forlorn in his life. He always knows exactly who he is, what to do. Yes, often because it’s the thing John says he should do, but he doesn’t think that’s what feeling forlorn is like. He would know if he’d ever felt forlorn, and then he thinks of Sam again, and the vacuum he’s left with, and maybe he does know a little.

“So what happened?” he asks, getting out of his head.

“I found Earl, or Earl found me, and I just kind of stuck with him ever since.” She doesn’t seem to enjoy the topic anymore, but then something goes over her face, like she’s remembering something. “Wait, did Earl call your dad John Winchester?”

Dean nods. Maybe being the son of a famous hunter will get him some points. It’s not the way he would prefer to get into her pants but he’ll take it. But the expression on her face doesn’t look like she’s just discovered she’s talking to the crown prince of hunting. Instead she looks sort of sad.

“Oh,” she says, and Dean understands a second later. She said Earl has been a hunter for about thirty years, so there’s a good chance that he and John have known each other for a long time. Meaning Earl knows about Mary. Meaning she knows about Mary.

He clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. He’s okay with taking John’s celebrity as an advantage, and he could probably spin Mary’s tragic death into something that would make women want to save him, possible by having lots and lots of sex with him. But this is the one thing that is holy to him, the one thing that’s only his. Revealing Mary feels like revealing the softest parts of himself, like he’s offering himself up to be scratched and devoured.

”Yeah,” is all he says, and then he looks at the bar in front of him, at his hands and the glass they’re holding.

“Earl told me that story once. About your mother. I’m sorry,” she says. And Dean can only say “yeah” again.

They don’t talk for a while. She resumes cleaning up behind the bar, glasses clinking, rustling. She speaks up again after a while.

“Walter, the guy from earlier, the old drunk guy? His mother died when he was a little kid, too. She, uh,” she scratches her forehead with a thumb, looking down at where she’s folding rags, piling them up. “She, uh, put her head in the oven and he found her when he got back from school.” She shakes her head. “He married, had kids, got a good job, but then his wife did the same thing. Not the oven thing but she, actually, I’m not sure how she did it.” She picks the pile of rags up, puts them somewhere else, and then she picks up her glass again. “And his kids don’t talk to him, because he’s an alcoholic but also because I think he was just a really shit father.” She’s looking at him and he has a hard time holding her gaze.

“What I’m trying to say,” she continues, “is that you don’t have to feel embarrassed about something bad happening to you. Bad things happen to everyone, it’s not necessarily anyone’s fault.” He’s about to say that in this specific case, in Mary’s case, it is someone’s fault, and how actually that’s the whole reason he’s here, in this bar, while his father is out there killing something, because it is someone’s fault, but then he’s not sure that’s what she meant.

He looks away, towards the door, and he wonders if he should just leave, call this night a bust. Then she speaks again:

“Bad things happen, Dean. They don’t need to define who you are.” And then she smiles, but the smile is so, so sad. “At least I really fucking hope they don’t,” she finishes.

Dean swallows. Takes another sip. His hands are clammy and he doesn’t know why.

“Put on another song” she says, finishes the rest of her drink and turns her back to him, starts cleaning something else. Dean stands up, and immediately he feels better, not so small, not so knotted. He goes back to the jukebox, looks at the collection again. He finds that he wants to select the right song, one that clears the air that feels so thin to him right now. Something upbeat, easy. He picks Spirit in the Sky and sits back down. He’s refilling both their glasses and although it wasn’t a conscious decision he guesses that means he’s staying.

She starts bobbing her head at the song choice, mutters a little “hell yeah”. He just watches her, and she lets him watch her. The lyrics go When I die and they lay me to rest, I’m gonna go to the place that’s the best, so, okay, maybe not the best pick considering what they were talking about, but she starts swaying her hips a little bit as well, and Dean can’t seem to regret his choice. She’s humming as well and while Dean notices he’s definitely attracted to her – very attracted to her – it’s not the urgent attraction he usually feels, the one that makes him rush towards sex, take it as quickly as he can get it, making him sometimes wonder, after, when his head is clearer, if he should feel disgusted with himself or if something is wrong with him.

She picks up her refilled drink, takes a sip, moves to the other end of the bar with it in her hand, does something or other, and Dean’s just watching her, not even looking at her breasts and her ass so much (a little, sure) but at all of her, and then at smaller parts, and if she's noticing she doesn’t seem to mind.

The song is over way too quickly, and she stops her little dance, making Dean curse whoever invented jukeboxes for not adding some sort of auto-play option.

“Okay, my turn,” she says. She puts down her drink, reaches somewhere he can’t see, pulls out a few coins, lays the handful on the bar and picks up one and walks past the bar to his side of the room. She needs to walk the length of the bar to get to the jukebox so Dean has plenty of time to watch her. All of her, for the first time, he notices. She doesn’t look at him as she walks past him, but he turns in his chair to keep watching her. She leans one hand on the jukebox, but she already knows what she’s picking, the coin goes in, the selection is made.

The first notes start and he immediately rolls his eyes and groans. She turns around just in time to see it.

“Oh, what,” she says, eyebrows raised, one hand going to her hip (holy shit, her hips), “you’re too good for The Cure? You can only listen to music that came out half a century before you were born?”

“It’s so…bouncy,” he says, making sure he looks as disgusted as possible when he says it.

“It’s fun,” she says, exasperated. And then suddenly she’s walking the few steps to him, and he takes a sharp breath when she’s putting both her hands on his thighs, above his knees and leaning towards him. He thinks she’s going to kiss him but she stops a few inches away from his face. “Have you ever heard of fun, Dean Winchester? Or do you just brood prettily all day?”

He doesn’t think he’s a brooder. Is he? In his family he’s always been the good-natured one, Sam and John seemingly in a constant battle of who can be the most glum. God, she confuses him. Also, she said prettily and she’s so close to him.

His hand goes to her neck and he pulls her in. Their lips meet, sort of, because while she’s not exactly pulling back she’s also not leaning in. He hears her laugh a little, feels it against his mouth, and then one of her hands leaves his leg and goes against his chest. To grab him, he thinks for a hopeful second, to bury her fingers in his shirt, but then she’s pushing him back, gently.

“Maybe that’s not a good idea,” she says, but she’s smiling. She’s still so close. Dean thinks he can smell her shampoo or her perfume or something. He has to swallow.

“I think it’s a great idea, actually,” he says, his face still almost touching hers. She laughs, making him feel a little light-headed.

It’s Friday, I’m in love, Robert Smith wails and Dean thinks maybe the song’s not so bad after all. She leans further away from him and his hand falls away from her face, but she catches it and then she’s pulling him up from his seat. She drags him two feet, then lays his hands around her waist, which he registers as good, and then realizes with horror that she wants to dance with him. It’s not like he doesn’t dance, but it’s always just an excuse for him to feel someone up, which he’s not sure is an option right now, or is it? Plus the song’s all wrong, the beat too fast, and actually, now that he thinks about it, he fucking hates The Cure, smug British bastards.

He does an embarrassed laugh, which she notices but it only makes her say: “You’ve been staring at my ass for hours now, this is the least you owe me.” Dean feels a rush of defensiveness well up in him. Yes, he was, but he was also looking at other parts of her, doesn’t she see how special that is? He knows there’s something very wrong with that train of thought, but he’s distracted from it when she puts her hands around his neck and sort of leans against him, swaying gently.

She looks up at him, their eyes meeting, and her lips are slightly parted. Dean feels a pull in his groin and he knows this is getting into dangerous territory. He’s not fifteen anymore, he shouldn’t be getting a boner slow-dancing so he quickly looks away from her, from her eyes and from those damn lips. She moves her head a little, like she’s getting some hair out of her face, and he wonders if she’s disappointed.

“You’re interesting,” she says then. Her tone is neutral, unassuming, so when he looks back at her, back at her face and asks: “I am?”, he’s not sure if he should be flattered. He’s not sure how to react to anything coming out of her mouth, and it terrifies and thrills him in equal parts.

“Yeah,” she says. “You walk in here like you own the place, you’re all sweet and helpful with Walter. Then you try to mack on me the minute you get the chance, and now you’re flustered from dancing.” He swallows again, hoping she doesn’t mean what he thinks she means, that she notices something about him, but what his brain latches on to instead is this:

"You saw me walk in?” he asks.

She grins a little, leans in like she's about to tell him a secret. “You’re pretty hard to miss.”

Ah ha, his brain goes triumphantly. She does think he’s attractive. The confirmation is enough to shove him a little bit back into himself, away from this nervous mess he’s being.

“Okay,” he says, “then what’s with the leaving room for the holy spirit?” She laughs again, the real one.

“Well, I have a lot of handsome guys walk into this bar, Dean. You think I’m just gonna throw myself at every single one of them?”

“No, only the really, really handsome, heroic ones,” he responds, tugs her a little closer. “The ones that are amazing lovers.”

He tries again. This time he’s going for her neck, nuzzling it gently. She lets it happen, leans her head carefully against his. The contact makes him a little crazy. She puts her hand on the back of his neck, and he pushes his lips against her skin harder, kissing her there now. He thinks he hears a little sounds come from her and then he realizes the reason he’s hearing it is because the song is over. Thank God, he thinks and then, oh no.

He knows she’ll push him away from her before she does it, so the pressure on his chest coming from her hands isn’t a surprise, but it is crushing.

“Put on something else,” she says, and he lets go of her, a Herculean task if there ever was one. He goes for his pocket again, fishes out another coin, turns to the machine.

“And do not pick something sexy, okay?” she says, and he grins at her over his shoulder.

“Try and stop me,” he says. He looks at the collection again. There are some pretty sexy songs on there, some AC/DC, ZZ Top, but then he sees it and he almost laughs to himself. As he’s putting in the coin and making the selection he realizes that this means he wants to make her laugh more than he wants try his act on her. He doesn’t think about it any longer, not sure what it means, not wanting to examine it. He just wants to go with the flow.

He turns around just as the piano starts and as he’s walking up to her she understands what the song is. Her shoulders pull up again like they did before and one hand goes to her face. She’s laughing hard and Dean feels so proud of himself he feels his cheeks flush. He takes her hand that is in front of her face and puts it on his shoulder, takes the other one and holds it in his own away from their bodies, just as Simon (or Garfunkel? He’s never sure) starts singing When you’re weary, feeling small. He puts his free hand on her waist, and then they’re close again.

“Bridge Over Troubled Water? Seriously?” she says, the laughter still in her voice.

“You said,” he responds clearly enunciating each word, like he’s trying to show her the error of her ways, “nothing sexy. So here I bring you the least sexy song of all times and it’s still not good enough for you?” He huffs, like he’s shocked and disgusted at her callous disregard for how well he fulfilled her request. She bobs again, chuckling.

“I guess,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to actually listen to what I said. I thought you’d just go ahead and pick something that compares women to food, or a car, you know, flattering stuff like that.” He scoffs, fully aware that a lot of the music he listens to does exactly that.

“I’m full of surprises, darlin’,” he says.

They’re slow-dancing now, but not really slow-dancing, their feet don’t leave the ground, they just sway. She looks up at him again, and she actually bites her lower lip to stop herself from grinning, and Dean thinks there should be some kind of law against that.

“I’ll say,” she responds, and he’s not sure to what anymore.

They lock eyes and then something weird happens where time sort of slows down, something Dean didn’t think actually could happen, something he thought was just a metaphor but it seems it’s completely real. He wants to try to kiss her again, but more than that he wants to keep looking at her face, feel the slow rise and fall of her chest against his, feel where their hands are touching, hers fitting perfectly into his.

“Wow,” she says then, and a smile plays on her lips.

“What?” he asks, keeping his voice low because everything else would feel sacrilegious.

“I guess this song is kinda sexy,” she continues.

Dean smiles. “I don’t think that’s the song, I think that’s you.” She raises her chin slightly.

“Not bad,” she answers and she’s close and Dean’s head is spinning and he sees her close her eyes, so he does the same. He feels her before they touch, the way the air is displaced because she is so close.

And then the door to the bar opens. Street noises and, when Dean drops her hand, a rush of cold air reaches him, makes him shiver. He turns.

John and Earl are standing right inside the bar. They look a little worse for wear, but mostly okay. She takes a step back, crosses her arms, clears her throat. Dean lowers his head, the way he often does around his father, unless he’s purposefully keeping it up.

“How’d everything go?” she asks. Earl, after being frozen in place for a second, begins to move, puts a bag on the bar, takes off his jacket.

“Yeah, everything went smoothly, some nasty sons of bitches though,” he says. “Everything okay here?”

She nods. “Yeah, yeah, everything was good.”

John hasn’t moved, hasn’t talked, until he says: “Well, I guess we better get out of your hair.”

“It’s no hassle,” Earl says, throws a look at her. “You guys gonna stay in town?”

“No,” John says, “no, I think we’ll be moving on.” Then he goes to the bar door, opens it up and holds it open. “Let’s go, Dean.” And Dean, good dog that he is, goes to collect his jacket, although he has to think about where he left it or a second. It’s at the bar, next to the stool he was sitting on. He grabs it, doesn’t look at her. Why does he feel like he’s in trouble?

Earl meanwhile has made it behind the bar, is puttering around close to where Dean is. It’s horribly quiet in the room, and getting colder while John holds open the door, rushing Dean. As Dean picks up his jacket, Earl turns his bulk to him, lays something small and white on the bar.

“Think you dropped this, kid,” he says, and Dean most certainly did not drop it, but he takes it, a little piece of carton paper that has some spillage of something on it. He nods his thanks at Earl, puts it in his jacket pocket.

Then he’s walking towards John but before he walks through the door he has to look back. She’s still standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulders pulled high, like she’s cold. Maybe Dean’s imagining it but she looks sad. Then she catches his look and she smiles a little. He does too.

Then he’s out the door. John puts them in the Impala and they leave right away. It’s late, they could have easily stayed in town, but John obviously wants to move. The air is thick and as John starts the ignition he says: “Great to see that you were having a good time.”

It’s dripping with venom, and Dean wants to protest, remind him that he wanted to go on the hunt, that John is the one who told him to stay back because he didn’t want to keep an eye on him, whatever that means, and that he wasn’t just picking up some chick in a bar, that it was something different, they didn’t even kiss, but it all dies in his throat. There’s no arguing with John, he knows that, and he’s better off just letting John’s anger dissipate or hope something distracts him from it.

They’re driving for a while already, the road dark, the sky void of stars, when Dean remembers the piece of paper Earl gave him. He takes it out of his pocket, knowing that John won’t ask about it even if he notices, since that would mean he’s interested in something of Dean’s. Dean flips the paper around.

It’s a business card. Well, business card is a strong word. It’s a piece of thick paper that has the name of Earl's bar printed on it, the logo adorned with little green and brown bottles, its address and then, at the bottom, a telephone number. It’s the number of the bar, of course, not hers. But Dean feels a rush of euphoria run through him anyway. She works there. He can call her. He can talk to her, if she wants to talk to him.

The car carries the two men through the night. It’s cold out and at some point John turns on the heating. It hums along, slightly crackles. Dean doesn’t hear it. He’s not really there. He’s somewhere else. He’s smiling to himself and he’s not cold.

[deangirlsstuff67]

Her Biggest Fan

Jensen Ackles x Reader

Summary: Who doesn't love a good fantasy or escape from our normal lives. When Y/N started this online adventre she never dreamed it would land her smack dab in the path of her favorite actor. Is there a chance this fantasy might become reality? And will the reality live up to the fantasy?

Warnings: fluffy Jensen, talk about divorce, talk about trauma, language, some dirty talk

Authors Note: I love Jensen and his family. This is purely fiction and for entertainment purposes only. I am currently going through a divorce and I decided to pull from it and work out some trauma I have. I hope you enjoy, this is becoming a series so buckle up cause I have some wildly unhinged plans ;)

Masterlist

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Divorce is hard. Doesn't matter if you did it for your happiness, to remove yourself from a toxic relationship, or if you're like me and had absolutely no say in the matter what so ever.

The first few months you feel like your suffocating in your own house. The walls feel as if they are going to cave in and you aren't able to focus on anything what so ever. If you're like me then you went from what you thought was a loving marriage with two beautiful kids, to being a single parent in a blink of an eye.

Shit is rough!

Do I blame my ex husband for leaving me? Yes, in the beginning I did. However, as the months went on and I started to see him for who he truly was and how he treated people, lets just say my ex best friend did me a favor when she stole my husband and broke up my family.

Bitch can keep him now.

No matter how healed you are from the trauma a toxic marriage causes a person, when he has the kids and it's just you, the loneliness sets in.

We're human and all humans hate being alone with our darkest thoughts and demons. Sure I own a farm, work a full time job, and have an amazing best friend who talks with me daily and gets me out doing stuff. And yes I know I'm better off single than wanting my ex or anyone like him in my life.

But I still get lonely. I still crave someone who will put me first and wants to worship the ground I walk on. I mean who doesn't want love in their life.

That's the goal ain't it? Big beautiful family, love someone until you're old and gray, watching your kids grow up and start families of their own, and enjoy life to it's fullest.

Well I had that, for a little while at least. It was great and I will never regret my marriage, I just don't know if I want to risk it all again on the possibility it may go to shit on me.

So instead of getting out there and starting to date and find someone to be with, I did the oppisite. I started a second phone account and I created a fake identity for online purposes and created an OnlyFans account.

I have no one in my life that will get jealous, be offended, or cause problems because of it. I have always been the type of woman who not only enjoyed porn for my own personal use, but I never stopped my ex husband from watching it when he was away.

Look all you want, it was always the touching that pissed me off.

While I'm not ashamed of what I'm doing, I have a family and friends just like the next person and they don't need to know. I'm a grown ass woman and if I want to have some fun online so fucking be it.

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6 Months Later.

"How much money have you made from it?" Yes I caved and I ended up telling my best friend, to be fair her and I have no secrets. I hate secrets, I'm a honest person and there are times when even that's a problem, more so because I don't care who's feelings I hurt.

Don't want the truth, don't ask me then.

Shockingly enough I've done very well, way better than I thought I would. Guess it helps that I don't have anyone but my kids to worry about so I can give mt regulars the attention the pay for. Most of them just want to get off, easy enough considering I have been named the queen of sexting with them all.

Some of them are just looking for a person to talk to and enjoy their company. Either way I'm happy with both sides of the business.

Sitting on her front porch as we watch our kids ride their bikes and play together has been the highlight of my week. I love this woman to death and will forever be grateful after my ex best friend detorying my family, I was sent an angel like her. She doesn't judge me, she listens, makes me smile and laugh, helps me out as much as she can, and s there for my kids as much as she is for me.

Couldn't ask for a better friend if I tried.

"I'm doing pretty good. Made about $2000 last month alone. Funny how a silly little hobby out of boredom blossomed into a second career." inhaling a puff of my smoke, i hear my kids laughing as they climb a tree in the field across from us.

She starts laughing, "look at you go. Soon you'll be able to tell that ex husband to keep his money cause you won't need the child support."

That is the goal. Always was. He has a funny way of thinking because he gives child support monthly that means he still has a huge say in what I am allowed to do and go. Honestly, he still wants me to treat him like my husband and well that's not happening.

Needless to say we end up in a lot of fights that eventually result in a phone call or text message from him saying how he over reacted and he is sorry. Same old shit just a different day. He walked away from me and for some reason that just hasn't sunk into his head, he figures he can have a girlfriend and wife, again I ain't that girl.

Don't get me wrong, should he pay child support absolutely, but I was raised to be independent and to provide for my family. Not to mention it will bring me so much joy the day I tell him to shove his money where the sun don't shine because I don't need it anymore. Making him feel completely useless in my life is my goal, I'm going to show him that I don't need him to survive.

Just then my work phone goes off indicating I have a text message. Smiling I respond to Jay.

Jay: Hello beautiful. How's you're day going?

Me: Well hello handsome. It's going well, just hanging out with my bestie on her porch enjoying a glorious summers day.

Is he handsome, I got no idea. Jay is one of the guys I text daily. While we definitely have had our share of fun at night together making each other cum even though we are in two different countries, he is one of those men who wants a friend just as much as he wants release.

He's sweet, charming, kind, funny as hell, and if I believe what he says then he's a Texan boy born and raised. He won my heart right there, this country girl loves her some Texans.

However, the internet is where people go when they don't want to be known. Is Jay his name? I don't know. I haven't asked for a photo, all I've seen is his large hard cock when I'm teasing him all day before letting him cum. I respect that he probably doesn't want me know who he is and I'm okay with that. Hell not like I'm using my real name anyways.

I've grown attached to him in a way. He's definitely my favorite client. Maybe in another life we could meet and it would be heaven, but this is what I get and I'm okay with that.

Man for all I know he's married.

"Oh uh, I know that look, Jay's texting isn't he?"

"Oh shut up woman! But yes he is."

"Still have no idea what he looks like hey?"

"No."

"Just ask for a photo." God this is why I love her, she's exactly like me. No sugar coating shit, straight to the point every time and I am so thankful for it.

"Why? This way I have my fantasy and he has his. Hell I can pretend he's Jensen fucking Ackles and I'll never know the difference."

She burst out laughing, "really, you think Jensen is texting with you and randomly found you're OnlyFans one day?"

I join in on the laughing, she's right it sounds stupid, but hey it's a fantasy and nothing more, "no I don't, I'm not that crazy, but the fantasy is fun to dive in to."

"Yeah, okay I give you that."

My phone dings again.

Jay: It's killer in Texas today, summer is not our friend here.

Me: Haha I can only imagine from what you've told me. I still think it would be fun to live there.

Jay: I think so, but I'm bais. So just porch sitting with the bestie today?

Me: Hell yeah, momma deserves a break every once in a while. What about you?

Jay: I'm going out to the brewery today and meeting some buddies to hangout. Nothing spectacular.

Me: Man who makes his own beer, add in a whiskey distillery and you'd be the perfect man lol.

Jay: I'll keep that in mind sweetheart. Whiskey girl huh?

Me: Oh 100% nothing better in my eyes. Sitting outside once the kids are in bed, watching the sun set, whiskey in hand and nothing but the quiet of the night.

Jay: Damn that sounds amazing.

Jay: Your ex giving you anymore trouble?

Yeah you've told him about your ex husband. Lately, he's been unpredictable and grumpy more than he's not. You aren't shocked and you can handle his mood swings like a champ considering the 12 years you shared together. Mainly it just annoys the living piss out of you now.

Me: Nah, I put him back in his place where he belongs. Fucker don't scare me and he knows it. I hold all the power as much as he doesn't want to admit it.

You'd agreed to be civil and so far for the most part he was. Then you started going out and having fun while he was stuck at home with her being bored. The anger and resentment started to kick into overdrive. He started to come to the realization that he gave you all the freedom he was craving in life, and all he did was dump you for a more controling woman.

I mean the man can't even text you with her wanting to know ever detail of the conversation. Not like he actually tells her. Yet another reason I won't take him back, he's literally doing the same shit to her that he did to me, and she's dumb enough to by all his lies.

Most of the time you just have to not so gentle remind him he has a criminal record that you can bring to light in a courtroom and he would instantly lose everything and that usually shuts him the hell up for a while.

He's only saving grace is our kids we have together, if it wasn't for them I would have taken him to the cleaners the moment he left me for her.

Jay: Good girl. He needs to remember who left who in this situation.

Me: You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink Jay. I knew what was going to happen with this divorce. I know who I married so it never shocks me.

Jay: You still shouldn't have to deal with it.

Me: We have a farm and kids together, I'll be dealing with it until the day one of use finally croaks. You're sweet though for checking in on me and making sure I'm okay.

Jay: This may have started off as a way to release pent up frustration for me, but sweetheart you have grown on me. I couldn't imagine going a day without checking in on you. I know how that sounds considering we don't know each other and you've only seen my dick.

Me: It's a pretty amazing dick ;)

Jay: Awe, thank you honey. I wish there would be a day where I could show you just how amazing this dick truly is. Cause the things I want to do to you with it will probably seal my fate into Hell.

Me: Naughty boy. I do like the sounds of that though.

Jay: Probably should show you my face before that happens lol. I'm off baby girl, I'll text you in a while. Have a fun day relaxing with your kids and friend.

Me: You too Jay! Xx

Just then all 4 kids come running over to you together screaming how they are starving to death. You look at your friend and you both chuckle. Guess that means we are done relaxing for a moment. Off to make some lunch for us all.

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Read part two here.

Taglist:

@impala67rollingthroughtown @bitchykittenconnoisseur @deansimpalababy @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lessons-of-red @spnaquakindgdom @yvonneeeee @syrma-sensei @nancymcl @tspmoff @idontwannabehere78 @foxyjwls007 @senjoritanana @leigh70 @neii3n @maggiegirl17 @jamerlynn @mostlymarvelgirl @kimxwinchester @multiversefanfics @supershygirl @justwhisperingfantasies

[littledes1re]

Love again / Based on this ask!!

Warnings: reader is lonely, crying, heartbroken stuff, and fluff

You were heartbroken. The feeling of loneliness hanging on your shoulders. Heavy. The world no longer felt the same, your feelings were in complete chaos. However, everything had to go on. You had to pay your rent, you had to feed your stomach. You had to go back to work. After you broke up with your partner, everything no longer felt the same. You took a day off because the physical exertion wasn't enough; you were devastated.

And if all that wasn't enough, you also had to deal with rude customers. Doing what they wanted, but none of them saw the sadness in your eyes. None of your colleagues noticed how the light in your eyes was gone.

You felt alone.

Until there was him. Joel Miller.

The man who came to the bar every other day. An older guy, respecful, funny and good looking. Nothing you see often, not one who looks at your tits, not one who says something disrespectful in a catcalling manner.

He made you laugh, always.

And on that day you came back to your work, he was there too.

„The usual, miller?“ you asked.

„Yea. How you doin‘?“ he asked, the sweat visible on his forehead. He just came from work—like he always does.

„Ugh. I don‘t know. Good, I guess.“

„Just good, huh?“ his left eyebrow arched, he looked suspicious. Maybe trying to not mix feelings with work wasn‘t working.

You nodded and on that day, joel didn‘t ask more questions. He understood. He didn‘t want to make you uncomfortable but he also didn‘t want to leave you in this sadness that you had for whatever reason.

„Hey, s‘me again. You want me to light that up for you?“ It was Joel. On your break behind the bar, trying to light up that god damn cigarette on your hand to just feel peace for one second.

He held a lighter up for you, the cigarette lightening up as you took one big inhale and exhaled it out. Finally feeling just an ounce of relief.

„I know we don‘t know each other but—m‘here. Like if you wanna talk.“

You looked at joel, the rough edges, board shoulders and grumpy face was just a facade. He was a soft hearted man, someone you trusted. And as those brown eyes looked at you, worried, you felt the first tear drops forming in your eyes, quickly looking down and putting your hands on them so joel wouldn‘t see it.

„Oh, sweetheart.“ but he saw it. And he laid a hand on your shoulder squeezing. And as a sob came trough you unexpected, you leaned into his body burying your head into his chest. Crying. He cooed, softly wrapping his arms around you and gently stroking your back.

You felt dumb crying your heart out on the chest of a stranger. But it felt good. The care, the words. The warmth. In that moment, this is what you needed.

Joel let you know that he was going to be waiting for you after your shift. And he did. Standing there in front of his car smiling at you. It felt familiar.

„Beautiful girl like you will have lots of partners in the future. I know, the feeling after breaking up with someone. It gets better, I promise you.“ as you sit on his passenger seat, talking your heart out.

His words made you feel better. Not so alone anymore, you felt comfortable being with him. His words calming you, giving your heavy heart the peace it deserved.

„And whenever you feel sad, know that there are people who care about you. Including me.“ he added.

„Joel, you are way too kind.“

„Nah, not too kind. M‘telling the truth, it‘s a hard time. But can‘t bare seeing you this sad.“

‚Joel <3‘ was the name you gave him on your phone. He came every day after your work to pick you up, never left you hungry, never sad.

Let you talk out your heart, let you know him better. He was a good man, caring, gentle. His step daughter the same, you loved them both. And after a few weeks joel asked you for a date. While you felt like you couldn‘t let anybody in that fast, you still wanted to be with him. His words reassuring you, his acts making you know that he loves you.

„Ain‘t gonna let my girl go out with a hungry belly.“ he told you as he gave you packed sandwiches before your work, giving you a kiss on the lips and a peck on the forehead, before he lets you go. And while work sucked and the people were rude, you were awaiting to see your sweet boyfriend at the end of the day again.

Anon, I hope you feel better!!🫂🩷

[doumadono]

Hello! I'd like to ask for an emergency request if that's alright—your inbox says there's still 2 slots available so I wanted to give it a try. I don't wish for anything overly complicated and to put it simply my request would go as follow: could you write something (whether headcanons or one-shot, it's up to you) with Shigaraki and Dabi with a very, VERY lonely fem!reader? As vaguely as it sound, I find it fitting to add some background: reader is an only-child who comes from a small family with basically no aunts, uncles, cousins—the other half of the family either dead or living far away abroad. Due to constantly moving since early childhood, there's no such a thing as childhood friends, neighbour friends or any sort of community to belong. Additionally, she's always been single since it was impossible to build any long-term relationship while constantly changing the place of living. She's independent, used to being all alone (in school, job, home...) and doing everything alone (shopping, cinema, coffee shop, watching movies...) but sometimes it can get really lonely being all by herself in the world... If it's not emergency enough it's okay but if you'd be willing to write something on the subject I'd be very grateful!

Synopsis: after you skip Toga’s party, Dabi and Shigaraki start following you, noticing how lonely you really are. Confronting you at your favorite café, they make it clear - you’re not alone

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST - PART 2

The café smelled like freshly ground coffee and warm vanilla, the kind of scent that usually wrapped around you like a comforting hug. But today, it did nothing to ease the weight pressing on your chest.

You curled your fingers around your cup, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your favorite drink sat untouched in front of you, steam curling lazily into the air. The noise of the city outside hummed through the glass windows, the chatter of people blending into a steady backdrop, but none of it really reached you. It was just you, your thoughts, and the empty seat across from you.

You weren’t surprised by the feeling anymore - the familiar weight in your chest, the hollow ache of knowing that, at the end of the day, it was just you. No family to call. No childhood friends to reconnect with. No one to notice if you skipped a meal or spent the entire weekend inside without speaking a word to another person.

Which is why it wasn’t exactly surprising that no one questioned it when you’d declined Toga’s birthday gathering a few days ago.

You’d made some excuse about feeling sick, about needing to rest. It wasn’t entirely a lie, not when loneliness had a way of making you physically exhausted. The truth was, you hadn’t been in the mood for anything. 

Still, you hadn’t expected anyone to care beyond a passing “feel better” from Twice or maybe Toga pouting about missing your presence. And what you hadn’t expected surely was being followed. And you definitely hadn’t expected them to show up here.

The screech of a chair dragged against the floor cut through your thoughts.

"Alright, this is fucking depressing," Dabi stated, moving a chair. "So this is what you do when you’re too busy for Toga’s party?" The black-haired man drawled, slouching down into the seat like he owned the place. "Sitting in a café, looking like the poster child for depression?"

Your fingers twitched around your cup, your mind catching up to the fact that he was here. You barely had time to register that before another chair moved, this time with more hesitation.

Shigaraki.

Unlike Dabi, he didn’t sit right away. He hovered, almost like he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea but had already committed. His red eyes flickered to you before landing on your untouched drink. "That’s getting cold."

You blinked. "What—"

"You've been staring at it for fifteen minutes," Shigaraki muttered, finally sitting down beside Dabi, slouching like he was trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible by pulling his hood lower on his face. "Took us a while to figure out your routine," he muttered, sounding vaguely irritated. "You go to the same places. In the same order. It’s kind of pathetic."

Your mouth opened and closed. "Excuse me? You've been watching me?" you asked, suspicion lacing your voice.

Dabi smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Yup."

"For how long?"

Shigaraki gave a noncommittal grunt. Dabi, on the other hand, leaned forward on his elbows, improving the face mask he wore. "Oh, you know. Just a couple of days."

Your stomach twisted. "Are you serious?"

"You didn’t even notice we were following you," Shigaraki continued, fingers twitching slightly against his sleeves. "That’s careless. If it were anyone else, you’d be dead."

You stared at them, brain short-circuiting. "Why?"

Shigaraki shifted, eyes darting toward the window before landing on you again. "You looked miserable."

"You didn't leave us much of a choice," Dabi added quickly, stretching his arms behind his head. "You think we wouldn’t notice you acting weird? Turning down a party? Avoiding everyone?"

Shigaraki tilted his head. "Toga was worried."

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "So that was why you followed me around?"

Dabi snorted. "We observed."

"Like creeps."

"Hey, if you didn’t want creeps watching you, maybe don’t look like you’re about to start narrating a sad movie monologue every time you sit alone in this café," Dabi shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, do you even talk to anyone outside the League?"

You hesitated.

And that was answer enough.

Shigaraki exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "That’s what I thought."

Your fingers tightened around your cup, the familiar ache in your chest pressing down again. It was one thing to know you were lonely - it was another to have someone point it out like a glaring neon sign.

"Why do you care?" you muttered, voice quieter now.

Shigaraki didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at you, fingers twitching slightly like he wanted to fidget with his sleeves but resisted the urge. Finally, he muttered, "Because it’s fucking annoying."

You frowned. "What?"

Dabi chuckled, shaking his head. "What he means is, it pisses us off that you think you have to do everything alone." His voice was lighter than Shigaraki’s, teasing even, but there was something underneath it - something genuine. "Like, come on, you’re part of us, ain’t ya?"

You swallowed hard. Part of us.

The thing was, you had never really considered the League of Villains your family. Sure, you worked with them once in a while, trusted them in the way soldiers trusted the people fighting beside them, but outside of missions? Outside of sitting in the hideout and tolerating their antics?

"I don’t really have anyone," you said finally, voice quieter than you intended. "No family, no old friends. It’s just me. And most of the time, I don’t mind, but sometimes, it gets lonely." You stared down at your cup, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic. "That’s all."

"That’s fucking stupid," Shigaraki uttered bluntly.

You blinked up at him. "Excuse me?"

The leader of the League of Villains scowled, shifting in his seat. "You do have people. What the hell are we, then?"

You opened your mouth, but Dabi cut in, his voice oddly serious. "You think we’re just watching you for fun? That we care if you go missing for days because we’re bored?" He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto yours. "Newsflash, sweetheart. You’re ours. You’ve been ours for a long time now."

Something in your chest tightened. "But—"

Shigaraki huffed. "You put up with us when no one else does. That counts for something." He glanced at his hands, fingers twitching again. "So stop acting like no one gives a shit about you. Because we do."

Dabi drummed his fingers against the table, tilting his head. "We’re not exactly model citizens, but we take care of our own. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not."

Your throat tightened, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. You swallowed, trying to force down the sudden wave of emotion creeping up. "You guys are really bad at this whole cheering someone up thing, you know."

Dabi snorted. "Yeah, well. If you wanted sunshine and rainbows, you picked the wrong friends."

Shigaraki crossed his arms. "Are you coming back or not?"

You hesitated, but before you could answer, Dabi suddenly reached over and stole your cup right out of your hands.

"Hey!"

He pushed his face mask down enough to take a sip, but then he immediately made a face. "What the hell is this?"

"My coffee, you asshole!" You tried to snatch it back, but he held it out of reach.

"This is gross," he complained, handing it to Shigaraki, who - surprisingly - did not drink it, just set it back in front of you like a normal person would.

Dabi grinned. "Guess I’m buying you a new one. Something that doesn’t taste like liquid disappointment."

You rolled your eyes. "I like it."

"And that’s the problem," he shot back, already waving down a barista.

Shigaraki stood up, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "You’re coming back to base after this," he said, not even asking, just deciding. "No more sitting in cafés alone like some kind of tragic novel protagonist."

You looked between them, exasperated. "So that’s it? You’re just forcing me to rejoin society?"

Dabi smirked, tossing an arm lazily over your shoulders. "Damn right we are. Whether you like it or not."

You shook your head, unable to stop the tiny, tired laugh that escaped your lips. It wasn’t much - not some grand, emotional declaration or a life-changing moment - but it was something.

And maybe that was enough.

Because when you looked up at them - Dabi, slouched with a cocky grin, and Shigaraki, pacing back and forth as he already wanted to leave the place - the ache in your chest didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

@pixelcafe-network

[fanfic-gallery]

manger's random tots #8 [ NSFW MDNI ]

|| cw (dead dove) : implications of stalking, spying

» manager's note: with the trending of the milkman over all my social media nowadays, i've decided not to hop on this train- but instead, write about some other type of pretty boy with a low paying profession (no, this is not a 'that's not my neigbour' fic, thank you) hope you guys enjoy...? (i had the idea him being an oc in mind but you can slap whatever character you want <3)

the neighbourhood mailman; absolute sweetheart, can do no wrong- sometimes giving away small little treats and nick-nacks along side the letters, pulling off light tricks and pranks to gargle a laugh or two, trying to brighten people's days.

yet, most don't seem too kind about his selfless gestures; impatient and grumpy bastards telling him off, yelling at him to knock it off with his piercing bike bell and 'nice guy' act.

on days like those, the only thing that seemed to be his light at the end of the tunnel, after gurgitating hours of cycling about under pretty harsh weathers, being chased off walk-way after walk-way... was you, his last patron of each day.

you weren't one of the first few in his delivery route; yet, you barely lived far down, so why is it that you were always his last? "...don't know... your letters always seemed to be at the bottom of the pile~" is what he claims; when in truth, he just wishes to spend the rest of his late-evening chatting your ear off with fun little misadventures he had during the past week.

he felt... cherished for once in his life; not someone needing to deal with the sour attitudes of people when they're all huffy or some boy-toy, taking his acts of service as an invitation to go running their hands all over him. he loved how he could play around, joke and complain without having the need to refrain himself. he felt... alive.

so it was to no one's surprise that he developed a massive crush on you; always giving you a little extra compared to the other townsfolk. full length handwritten letters, extra savings of candy and snacks he's been distributing that day, that box of pastries you seemed to have been eyeing up for the last few days or that prize you didn't manage to win during on one of your latest trips to the arcade.

seems light-hearted enough, right? if only you knew what other little treats he placed within your regular delivery... envelopes holding typed-letters; pouring his love for you over the many, many pages... each line, each paragraph... sometimes even rambling off into tangents- tangents of what he had been dreaming to do to you since day one... since the day you noticed his pains and took upon yourself to heal him back up.

yet, these sick fantasizes, these twisted thoughts on paper- you never blamed him for it, why would you went the initials signing off the letters eerily matched the creep that lived a few houses down from yours, who always seemed to have brought themselves false hope in charming you even after you said no.

no... you would never blame the innocent, naive mailman who's barely paid enough to suffer from verbal abuse every day of his life; barely having the funds to keep a himself together; yet, still cherished the happiness of others over his own.

maybe that's why you always seemed to accept his 'lustrous' gifts, especially that medium-sized stuffed bunny he so graciously sewed for you for valentine's to rid you of your loneliness. its soft yet limp body still laying on your bed, oblivious of the shine behind its dull black spheric eyes.

"...hah... hah...~" lustful eyes smiling as his flushed features melted against the monochrome screen he's stuck himself to, body trembling with each stroke of his throbbing cock, relishing in the soft breaths as you slept, spurring more pre to drip down his plush thighs, drenching the ground beneath his cheap desk chair. "...soon... soon, my love... i'll tell you the truth..."

[salty-autistic-writer]

Sunshine at noon wakes him up. Tommy furrows his brows in annoyance and blinks at the too-bright snippet of the outside world he can glimpse from where he’s curled up on his couch. Clear sky. It would be such a nice day for flying. Just like yesterday.

But instead of flying, Tommy has been parked on the same spot on his couch for a few days now, wrapped in a blanket like a sad burrito that someone left at the side of the road. He can imagine just fine how the rest of him looks. Unwashed, uncombed, unshaved. It’s a good thing no one will ever see him like this. He’s invisible. Hidden from the world.

Tommy took a personal leave. No one at work batted an eye. No one complained. It never happened before and after transferring from the 118 to the 217, Tommy made sure he had a certain reputation. He’s reliable. On time. Capable. Unproblematic. Friendly enough that people talk to him and want to go drink a beer with him once in a while. And he sold his role well enough, obviously. No one is worrying too much about him. They think he’s just … sick. Down with a cold or something.

They don’t know the brutal truth: Tommy is a complete mess. And he can’t find the energy to change anything about it.

All he does these days is sleep, stare at the TV without following what’s happening, drag himself up to go to the bathroom once in a while and get himself something to drink or eat - only the barest necessities, go back to slump on the couch again, and eat lots of ice cream. A ton of ice cream, actually. Empty containers surround him.

He’s pathetic. And an idiot. An idiot who manages to destroy everything good in his life and in the lives of the people he gets too close to. He messed things up before. But this is different. Because this time, he was almost about to be happy. And he had to throw that away too.

It’s better this way , Tommy tries to convince himself once again. I can’t be selfish. Evan deserves better. He may be hurt, sad and angry for the moment, but he will get over it. He is amazing and will find an amazing person. Someone who doesn’t carry around suitcases filled with past baggage. Someone who isn’t damaged. Someone who doesn’t stand on a wobbly heap of insecurities, ready to fall down the rabbit hole of panic and overthinking any moment. He will find an amazing person and he will be happy. Yes. He will be happy. 

No. Tommy can’t be selfish. But that’s it. He already was, right? He indulged himself. He allowed himself to enjoy what he had with Evan. Enjoyed it too much. Because it felt so good. It felt so right. Evan was always sunshine and nice things, hope and gentleness, honesty and acceptance, wrapped into touches that burned without being painful. 

Tommy took all that and then forgot that it couldn’t last forever. Because good things always come to an end. And the moment Evan spoke about moving in. About futures. It hit him. Evan doesn’t know enough. And Tommy loves Evan too much to let him walk into something he is going to regret. He learned enough lessons to know how this one would end. So he ran.

He ran once again. And now Tommy doesn’t know where to go.

God. He can’t even stay in Los Angeles, right? Something tugs painfully at Tommy’s heart when he realises that. He built a life here in LA. A relatively stable one compared to whatever he had before that. He liked to think it was a good life. With a stable job. With colleagues who like him enough to talk to him after work. With a house and a garage and hobbies. With neighbours who smile at him. A quiet life. A normal life.

A lonely life. 

Loneliness protects me, Tommy thinks grimly. He should leave. It would be better for everyone.

It was nice to reconnect with Hen and Howie. It was nice to meet Eddie. They have a lot in common. It’s been a while since he could talk about his time in the military with someone who knew exactly what he was feeling. It’s been nice to see Bobby and eat his lasagna again. But in the end, all of them are Evan’s family. So it’s only reasonable that they won’t want to spend time with Tommy anymore. He lost them with Evan.

So what is holding him here?

So you really want to run again? That doubtful little voice nagging his mind wonders.

I need to. It’s better this way. For everyone including myself. 

Is it? Or is this just you following a pattern because you’re too scared to wait and see if things might turn out differently this time? Because they could right? You can’t see the future. 

And the next thought going through his mind might be the sharpest. It cuts into his heart and leaves it bleeding. It hurts. But it’s so clear and real.

What do you have to lose anyway? 

Tommy sits up and buries his face in his hands. Yes. What does he have to lose, now that he destroyed everything? He has nothing and no one. Because he’s a coward. Always has been. Always will be …

The doorbell rings. Tommy flinches violently and stares towards the door, wide-eyed, his heart pounding.

Immediately, Tommy is flooded by anxiety. He’s not expecting anyone. Oh God. He really hopes it’s not Evan. He’s not ready for that talk. Or maybe it’s just someone from the 118 who decided to tell him in person what an asshole and coward he is. Well. I deserve that, Tommy guesses tiredly.

The doorbell rings again.

Tommy sighs. He drags his body up, letting the blanket slide on the couch and shuffles to the door, preparing himself for being yelled at. Or for being punched immediately. When he opens, however, he’s in for a different surprise.

“Lucy?!”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t check on you?” Lucy asks, raising a brow. She eyes him up and down, crossing her arms. “You look horrible.”

“I know,” Tommy mutters, scratching at the back of his head, feeling how greasy his growing hair is.

Lucy doesn’t wait for an invitation. She pushes past him, walks right into the living room, puts her hands on her hips, while she takes a look around and shakes her head. She reaches out to pick up one of the emptied ice cream containers that are littering the couch, the table, the floor. She turns to look at him, raising the container and a brow. “Jesus, Tommy.”

“I know,” Tommy sighs again, fidgeting with the hem of the old hoodie he’s wearing. He can't look her in the eye. Can't even ask her why she's here. He didn't think anyone would actually make the effort to drive by his house and ring the doorbell. And now he doesn't know how to deal with it.

“Have you eaten? I mean, anything else than ice cream? Come on. Let’s order Chinese,” Lucy says, already pulling out her phone.

A ghost of an almost smile appears on Tommy’s face. That’s why he likes Lucy. She’s direct and stern and somehow exactly what he needs right now. He doesn’t know how he deserves her being here, but it helps. It really does.

Their food arrives a little while later and they sit on the couch to eat. Tommy’s stomach growls when he smells the food and he feels a little dizzy. Wow. He didn’t even notice he was hungry before Lucy decided to pay him a visit.

“You broke up with Buck,” Lucy says, digging into her noodles. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Tommy wonders if it's that obvious or if someone told her. And if so, who? “And now you are going to tell me why.”

Tommy sighs. “I thought it’s the right thing to do,” he says, after he chewed and swallowed his chicken. “The best thing for … for him.”

“So you freaked out,” Lucy says dryly. “It was a flight response. What did he do? Oh God,” she looks up from her food, wide-eyed. “Did the idiot propose already?!”

Tommy blinks. “Uh. No. He … He said he wants me to move in with him.”

Lucy deflates. She shakes her head. “Wow. Okay. Wait. Why would you move in with him? He has a loft. You have a house.” She gestures around, raising a brow. “I mean. If anything, he should be moving in with you. Is his bed even big enough for the two of you?”

“Not really,” Tommy mutters. Not if they wanted to use it for specific things. “But it doesn’t matter, Lucy. I broke up with him. Because he deserves better. He thinks he’s in love now. He thinks he wants a future with me now. But … There are things he doesn’t know about me. And I don’t want him to regret it. I don’t want to wake up in a few weeks, after living the dream, only to realise it’s going to turn into a nightmare where we both pretend that everything is alright but it isn’t …”

“Self-fulfilling-prophecy,” Lucy says, staring at him incredulously. “That’s what you’re doing right now, Tommy. You act like you know the future. Like you know how things are going to turn out. But you don’t! There are things he doesn’t know about you? So what? Tell him!”

“It’s not that easy,” Tommy mutters, his heart growing heavy. “I don’t want him to look at me differently. I love him too much for that.”

“You love him,” Lucy says, matter of factly, her brows wandering up.

Tommy swallows. He just said that, right? “I guess."

“So,” Lucy raises a finger. “Let me see if I got that right. You broke up with Buck because … you love him too much?”

Tommy doesn’t know if he’s supposed to cry or laugh. He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Lucy. I just … I got scared. This whole thing was too good to be true in the first place. And now he acts like he wants a future with me but how can he know that? How can I know it? Also … I don’t want him to miss out on anything. He just discovered he’s bisexual. And I was his first relationship with a guy.” Lucy scoffs. “Oh, come on, Tommy. Buck is an adult. He can make his own choices. And from what you are telling me, he already did. No. This is about you , freaking out because you are scared this will end badly.”

“Well, it’s not like things worked out in the past,” Tommy says bitterly. “Even if I was trying.”

Lucy makes a sympathetic noise. She reaches out, her hand resting on Tommy’s shoulder. A comforting presence. “Okay, but look at yourself now. You’re the definition of miserable. Those last few months? You’ve been glowing. Always smiling and giggling like a teenager in love with your phone in your hand. It was quite disgusting, to be honest. But I loved it for you. Loved it for Buckley, too, a little. You’re sabotaging your own happiness because your trauma tries to tell you that whatever happened in the past will happen again. But that’s the thing. You don’t know that. If you run, you take away your chance to find out things are going to be okay. He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says hoarsely, feeling his throat tightening and tears gathering in his eyes. So happy.

“Then stop eating ice cream and start talking,” Lucy tells him.

Tommy swallows. She makes it sound so easy. But … “He won’t want me back now. Maybe he won’t even want to talk to me. I hurt him.”

“Just tell him the truth. Tell him what you told me. And then tell him the rest. If you don’t try, you will never know and I’m quite sure not knowing will hurt even more. Who knows. Maybe he’s already waiting. Or thinking about texting you.”

“Do you really think that's possible?” Tommy asks, surprised. He imagined a lot of scenarios. Most of them involve Evan cursing Tommy's name.

Lucy smiles at him. “I can imagine it. Come on, Tommy. I can see it in your sad wet eyes. You really do love this idiot. Don’t throw this away just like that. Don’t run away. At least try to fight for it. Because if he feels the same, he’s going to do that too.”

“I’m scared,” Tommy admits, glancing at his phone. Scared of the reaction hurting even more than this does.

Lucy rubs his back. “I know. But you can’t let fear control your life. Fear is a liar. And if you listen to it, it’s always going to take you back to the past.”

She gets up, collecting the empty boxes and putting them into a plastic bag. “Text him. Or call him. Don’t wait too long.” She wrinkles her nose. “And please stop playing hibernating hedgehog soon. I need you back in the cockpit.”

Tommy manages a smile. “I will try. Thank you, Lucy.”

“Of course,” she tells him, her eyes softening.

After Lucy leaves, Tommy stares at this phone. He stares at it for a long time. Then, he takes it in his hand and opens his chat with Evan. His heart clenches when he reads their last conversation. Feels like that happened an eternity ago. Before any of them even thought about a breakup. Because … they really were happy, right?

Tommy stares at the screen and he starts to think this is the scariest thing he’s ever been thinking about doing. Because what if Evan simply ignores or blocks him? Or … what if Evan just tells him to go to hell? Fear comes in waves, dark and cold. But then Tommy remembers that he really does not have much to lose. And he has at least one friend who will be there to collect the pieces when he breaks apart completely. He should get a grip and take a leap of faith. He messed this up. Maybe he can fix it. Maybe.

Tommy takes a deep breath and starts to type.

(AO3 link)

[fangirlfuel]

Chapter 2: “One Night, One Line”

---

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.

Whoever he was.

You told yourself it was just a one-night stand, a drunken accident that didn’t deserve space in your thoughts, let alone in your chest. But for the past week, every time you closed your eyes, you could feel him again. His fingers trailing down your spine. The soft way he had kissed your shoulder. The heat of his breath on your neck.

And worse than that... the emptiness he left behind.

You’d tried to brush it off. To laugh about it with your best friend, who kept pestering you about the “mystery man.” But you hadn’t told her the full truth—that you hadn’t seen his face. That you didn’t remember his voice. That you ran away like a coward, barefoot and breathless, and you hated yourself for it.

What haunted you most wasn’t just not knowing.

It was how your body still remembered him, even when your mind didn’t.

And then... things started to shift.

At first, it was small. Fatigue that clung to you even after full nights of sleep. Nausea that curled in your belly at random times of the day. You skipped your period, but you told yourself it was just stress. Then, a week later, your appetite changed. Scents made you gag. You burst into tears watching a commercial about puppies.

You stared at your reflection one morning, hands gripping the edge of the sink, and whispered, “This isn’t me.”

---

It was a rainy Tuesday when you finally gave in and made an appointment. The clinic wasn’t far. Clean white walls, kind nurses, the smell of hand sanitizer and lemon air freshener.

You told the doctor everything—or at least, most of it.

You weren’t eating right. You felt dizzy in the mornings. Your body didn’t feel like your own. No, you hadn’t had sex recently. Not since... well. That night.

She tilted her head, gently, with practiced concern. “When was your last period?”

You answered, and she wrote it down.

A few tests. Some blood drawn. The faintest suspicion already blooming in your chest, but still you clung to denial like a raft in the ocean.

You waited twenty minutes.

And then the doctor came back.

---

Reader’s POV

You stared at the ultrasound screen like it was mocking you.

Small. Blurry. But real.

The word pregnant came out of her mouth so softly it felt like a secret.

“...That can’t be right,” you murmured, blinking hard. “I haven’t—there’s no way. I haven’t slept with anyone except...”

The room spun a little.

Oh God.

You brought a hand to your mouth, heart thudding so loud you could barely hear your own voice. “I don’t even know his name.”

The doctor offered you tissues. She spoke gently, reassured you this was more common than you thought. That you had options. That it was okay to be overwhelmed.

But you didn’t want options.

You wanted answers.

And all you had was one memoryless night, and a heartbeat fluttering on a screen.

You cried all the way home.

---

He hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

The girl who disappeared. The girl with the soft laugh and unreadable eyes. The girl who vanished before he could say good morning.

He was losing it, and the guys knew it.

Carlos kept teasing him about being “ghosted by a goddess.” Max told him to get over it. But he couldn’t. He’d tried going out, trying to meet new people, but every girl he looked at felt wrong.

Because none of them were her.

He didn’t even know her name, and she haunted him more than any girl ever had.

She took something with her when she left.

Something he wasn’t sure he’d get back.

---

You sat curled up on your couch that night, wrapped in a blanket like it could protect you from the world. The pregnancy test sat on your coffee table, the positive line staring back at you like it had all the power.

Tears came again.

Not from shame. Not from fear of motherhood. But from loneliness.

You didn’t regret the baby—not yet—but you regretted not remembering him. Not being able to give your child a name for their father.

You touched your flat stomach, whispering to the silence around you.

“I don’t even know who he is... but you’re here. And that means something.”

You didn’t know how to find him.

But life had a way of circling back to unfinished stories.

And this one was only just beginning.

[literatureloverx]

hi! it's 🍰 anon again! (or rather, 🍰 no-longer-anon)

come take a look at this pic ~

look into his eyes ... just look into his eyes <3 i believe this panel was from one of the more recent chapters ...

knowing that sango sensei puts lots of thought and symbolism into official art and facial expressions , do you think his eyes here hold symbolism?

and yes !! i've been fine. i'm oscillating between laziness and productivity rn hahaha. and i'm sure that lots of people share your interpretations for fedya !! he is such an amazing character and a lot of us just want to. dissect him.

Essentially, this was me, with every fibre of my being, when I first saw Fyodor:

When I see someone for the first time (even if they are a fictional character—but my husband is, of course, far more than just fictional), the first thing I notice is their eyes and gaze.

From the moment I saw him, I was utterly captivated by how enigmatic he was—yet somehow fragile. His gaze held an unfathomable depth, one that I instinctively knew was rooted in buried emotions and deeply held convictions. There was a subtle madness in his eyes, a haziness unlike anything I’ve ever encountered in another character. To me, his eyes are windows to his soul, revealing the immeasurable depths of his inner suffering and loneliness—his ceaseless struggle with himself.

So few truly recognise the immense weight of the pain he carries or the torment he has already endured.

I believe his eyes hold significant symbolism— as I’ve already mentioned, they are hazy. In BSD, a character’s moral perception of themselves is often reflected in the lightness or darkness of their eyes. For instance, Akutagawa’s pitch-black eyes symbolise his view of himself as morally corrupt.

(BSD spoilers!)

Fyodor’s eyes, on the other hand, are hazy—not dark, but only truly light in rare moments when he is entirely truthful about what he is saying (such as in the panel where he tells Fukuzawa about the war).

This suggests that Fyodor is aware his actions are not wholly righteous, but he justifies them by believing the ends outweigh the means.

Another interpretation might relate to his alleged ability to take over other bodies, possibly blending their consciousness or moral alignment with his own, resulting in the hazy, blurred quality of his eyes. However, I’m less inclined to support this theory, as it feels less coherent to me personally.

I’m so glad to hear that you’re feeling good, my dear. ♥️ I’m sure many people share my interpretations in their own way, but I’ve never quite come across anyone who expresses them in the same structure or perspective as I do. There was always something missing in other takes, but recently, I’ve had more luck finding like-minded people here.

I wish you all the best with your productivity! (Unfortunately, I’m not the best at taking a healthy approach to just “getting things done,” so I’ll spare you the usual encouragement, haha. But I’m confident you’ll do wonderfully! ♥️)

Also, I must mention—I’ve seen your username a few times before, likely because you either liked or replied to my posts, and I’ve always thought it was such a pretty username.♥️

[cosmicjoke]

Hi, Cosmic! I was considering this scene from a Levi story on AO3 which I had read a while ago, where it described his life in the Underground before he met Furlan (maybe it was one of yours, I'm not certain). It talked of how he would often go days without speaking at all, and ultimately delved into his loneliness and how he hadn't realized how alone he'd been until he wasn't. I had also read recently an analysis stating that Levi's attachment style would be fearful-avoidant due to how he grew up, which, I mean, makes perfect sense.

Thus the combination made me wonder: How do you think Levi felt when he and Furlan moved in together? Did it trigger his abandonment issues in any way, letting Furlan in emotionally when his last relationship (that we know of) was with Kenny? Given the concept of attachment styles, Levi was probably both distant and reliant with him, so how do you think Furlan reacted to this?

Hmm, that could have been one of my stories, haha, I've definitely written a few stories (all of which remain incomplete, lol) about Levi's life Underground. I feel like it's a period in Levi's life that's just ripe for exploration, but very few people seem particularly interested in writing about it, for whatever reason.

I know I do explore that idea in "This Life, After", of Levi being sort of functionally mute because he gets so little social interaction, and I think that's a pretty fair assumption to make about him growing up, especially after Kenny left him. As far as we know, Levi didn't have a single friend until he met Furlan, and we know, from the extra stories included in the "No Regrets" manga that Levi met Furlan when he was essentially full grown. I've talked before also, pretty extensively, about how it seems very likely that Levi had no social interaction with other children growing up, even when living with his mother. I don't know if you've read my analysis posts on this, but I'll link you to them here:

Anyway, I'm not a psychologist, so I can't really speak to what specific attachment style Levi may or may not have. In truth, nobody, even an accredited and practicing psychologist could definitively diagnose Levi with any, specific mental disorder or condition, because of course he's a fictional character, lol. But I don't think you need to be a psychologist to make accurate or educated guesses about what sort of mental health issues Levi might be suffering from. For example, I think it's fairly obvious that Levi is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, because it would seem to me nearly impossible for him not to have been deeply traumatized by the experiences, not only in his childhood, but as an adult too, and I say that because of Levi's obvious emotional sensitivity. He feels things very keenly and I think more deeply than any other character in the series. That well of emotional depth, along with his immense empathic nature I think renders Levi more susceptible to emotional pain, and more easily given to grief over the loss of his comrades/friends/family than even an average person. I just think Levi feels things more deeply than is common. I think that's also what gives Levi his exceptional emotional intelligence, his ability to accurately read people and understand who they are at their cores.

To get to your specific question, it's an interesting one.

Levi is definitely someone who I think is fearful of getting close to others out of a fear of losing them, knowing the pain it causes him when he, seemingly inevitably, does. No doubt that finds its roots in Levi's earliest childhood experiences. People often talk about Kenny's abandonment of Levi (with good reason), but I rarely see it talked about how Levi's mother, in a sense, also abandoned him. Not intentionally, the way Kenny did, but the fact remains, Levi's mother died and left him alone, which very nearly led to Levi's own death. I think that absolutely must have had an impact on Levi and caused an expectation in him from very early on of abandonment. Levi couldn't have been more than five years old when his mother died, and those are obviously very important developmental years for a child. You add to that Kenny's abandonment, and it seems pretty likely to me that, yes, Levi has a fear of abandonment by the people he loves.

What's interesting about Levi, though, is that even with this fear, and even in his efforts to keep his distance from people in order to spare himself the emotional and mental distress of losing them, I think Levi's higher level of empathy and compassion renders him incapable of escaping that emotional pain, even when he doesn't know a person well, even when he's intentionally kept away from them. I've spoken numerous times of how Levi shows the same level of care and concern, and makes just as much of an effort to save the lives of people he doesn't know or doesn't know well as the ones he does know well and is close to. He even extends that same level of care and concern toward people who have been actively hostile toward him, such as the merchants in Trost who badger and bully him over the failures of the Survey Corps, to the point of even personally insulting him, or in "No Regrets", we see Levi go out of his way to save the lives of soldiers who have both endangered his own and actively mistreated and been cruel to him. We see Levi do this with Dieter, during the Female Titan arc. Despite Dieter's cruelty toward Levi, calling him a heartless monster, Levi gives him Petra's badge and tells him it was Ivan's. He gives up his own comfort to someone who's been nothing but hostile toward him, and who would have rightly been in for a scolding and even punishment for endangering the lives of the unit. But instead of being unkind in return, Levi shows Dieter nothing but compassion.

All this to say, I think even when Levi isn't emotionally or personally close to people, he still feels the weight of their loss as if he were, and he still empathizes with and understands their emotions and thought process as if he were. There's a part in "No Regrets" in which Furlan laments that they had better hurry up and complete their mission to get the documents from Erwin before Levi and Isabel start genuinely considering "dedicating their hearts" to the Survey Corps. I've talked about how this clearly indicates that Furlan is aware of Levi's tendency to get attached to people, even when he's actively trying not to. Levi, for example, doesn't want to teach his combat techniques to any of the other SC soldiers because he knows if he does and then they end up getting killed, he'll hold himself responsible for it. Again, this is indicative of Levi's tendency to become emotionally attached and involved with people, even those he doesn't know well, to the point he would feel responsible for their lives, and responsible for protecting those lives, even when, again, he doesn't know them well, and even when he hasn't been treated particularly well by them. We have to remember, upon entering the SC, none of the other soldiers showed any particular friendliness toward Levi, outside of Hange. He was even faced with pretty blatant classism from some of them, and plain resentment. But he still knew himself well enough to know that he was already beginning to feel responsible for their lives. Even with being treated as an outsider by them, he still isn't able to keep himself detached from them. We see this play out too, in the story's climax, when Levi makes his choice to go after Erwin alone. He makes the choice with full consideration of what he thinks will be best, not just for Furlan and Isabel, but for Flagon and the rest of their squad. He's equally concerned for their well being, and determines that all of them will have a better chance of survival if Furlan and Isabel stays with them. Again, Flagon has been nothing but hostile toward Levi through the entire story, but he still cares about Flagon's life.

So basically, to get to your specific question, lol, I think Levi likely became very attached to Furlan fairly quickly. There's even a similarity to Levi's relationship with Furlan and what I laid out above, in terms of how Levi even cares about people who have been unkind to him. We know from one of the extra stories that Furlan first met Levi by attempting to entrap him and force him through physical assault to join his gang. So Furlan's first interaction with Levi was one of deception and an attempt to use him against his will. We learn later from a conversation Levi is having with another scout that Levi saved his life from his own gang, when they eventually turned on him. This is consistent with how we see Levi make just as much effort to help and show just as much concern for the lives of people who have previously been unkind to him in some way or even attempted to hurt him in some way. Levi saves Furlan's life, despite Furlan trying to deceive Levi and force him into a situation against his will.

So I imagine, once Levi became actual friends with Furlan, and moved in with him, at that point, I imagine the bond between them was incredibly deep and unbreakable. I think over time Furlan would have begun to recognize that Levi's aloof demeanor and lack of expression wasn't at all indicative of the actual depth of attachment and care he felt toward Furlan himself. I always say that I think Levi's relationship with both Furlan and Isabel was more than simple friendship. I think Levi viewed the both of them as his family, and objectively speaking, I think he was probably closer to the two of them than anyone else in his life. Part of that, I think, would come from the fact they were his first, actual friends, and also because they were the only people Levi ever knew and was close to who were from the same world he was. I think Levi likely was fearful at first when he first moved in with Furlan that he might lose him in some way, that Furlan might leave him, or be killed, etc... But I also think it's a testament to Levi's resilience and open heart that, despite having already been abandoned by the two most important people in his life up to that point, he still allowed this new person into his life and allowed himself to grow deeply close to him. I think, also, that's a product of, again, Levi's inability to close his heart off to people, due to his immense empathy. Even though Levi is afraid of losing people and wants to shield himself against the pain of that, he continually fails at remaining detached, because he just naturally cares too much about other people to ever, truly separate himself from them or freeze them out. He's never been able to not care. I think Furlan probably understood that pretty quickly about Levi, and as I already said, he probably understood that Levi's aloof demeanor and seeming distance didn't actually mean he didn't care. I think Furlan understood that Levi would protect him no matter what and would always stay by his side. Isayama even said Levi is extremely loyal. He isn't ever going to abandon anyone himself. So basically, I think Furlan understood Levi, after a time, and would have recognized that Levi's appearance of apathy in truth was just his way of dealing with the fact he actually feels and cares more deeply than anyone. He only keeps his emotions held inside so he can remain reliable to himself and others, because if he allowed himself to fully feel what he was actually feeling in any, given moment, it would be overwhelming. People that know Levi truly know this about him. And so Furlan definitely would have realized that.

Anyway, I hope that answers your question, lol. That got WAY too long. I can never seem to keep my answers short.

[shiut]

Both danganronpa and even rain code have this underlying but incredibly persisting theme of the cognitive dissonance between one's personality vs their own nature that I can't help but think about a lot.

In my head I tend to call it the "Leon paradox" because he's the first and most obvious character I think of in regards to this, though he's far from being the only one. Despite being an effortlessly talented baseball prodigy, he dislikes doing it and his actual passion is becoming a musician. However, he's pigeonholed into doing something he doesn't enjoy simply because he's good at it and it's a means to an end since it's his only way of getting anywhere.

This gets expanded in dr2. Imposter's dissatisfaction with having to always be someone else. Akane not caring about being a gymnast much at all aside from the perks it gets her. Nagito's disdain for his luck talent that brings him constant misery while also acknowledging that it's the one thing about himself that he can count on the most.

It even becomes a focal point with Hajime, who did everything to fight his nature of lacking a talent. However, Chiaki points out that it's the fact that he has no specific talent that gives him more freedom than any of the ultimates that he admires. Turned out, gaining every talent put Hajime into his own prison, and it's his loss of personality that made him essentially useless.

Even in V3 you have Kaede who actually loves her talent so much that she feels like it's an obsession that affects her ability to socialize normally. Kokichi also seems to have brief moments where he acknowledges that his talent is a huge barrier to being able to actually connect with people and causes his loneliness, but decides that it's a compulsion that's too troublesome to change so he just accepts it.

Shuichi sticks out to me when it comes to this theme. He's extremely good at detective work and will often do it on impulse regardless of reward. However, even just stumbling on his first murder case and solving it before the police could even touch it, he could not cope with the results of the person he'd affected. His emotional sensitivity traumatized him into being avoidant, even using a hat as a literal blinder. He was prepared to die in the first trial in fear of revealing the truth. His compulsion to do detective work even kind of ruined Kokichi and Kaito's plot in ch5, as he got so ahead of himself with revealing the truth that just kind of blurted everything out before realizing that he shouldn't have. His compulsion with detective work even seems to make him comparatively calmer and more focused during investigations than the other protagonists, despite easily being the emotionally weakest-willed out of all of them. He repeatedly keeps falling back into his talent despite the emotional toll it has on him because he just can't help himself. He kind of acts as an example of one of the reasons why Kyoko was trained to be emotionally detached.

Jin actually is very much like Shuichi. He tries to actively avoid detective work because he despises the emotional detachment required for it. You wouldn't even know that he's actually really good at it, but you see glimpses into his skill in the novels where he'll end up figuring things out before even Kyoko does on more than one occasion. I can talk a lot about Jin, but I do get the feeling that one of the reasons why he works at Hope's Peak is because he knew more about what would end up happening there than he let on. He probably could have gotten quite a few things done if he wasn't so insistent on fighting his own nature as a detective.

Very honorable mention to Yui, who turned down an invitation to Hope's Peak for her high-jumping talent in order to pursue her passion as a very mid detective. She might've even lived if she went to Hope's Peak because I'm pretty sure she would've graduated by the time of the tragedy, but at least she died in the most based way possible by rejecting them.

And of course, Junko is a prime example of the detrimental effect of talent. Because of her analytical abilities, she can practically guess everything that's going to happen. Her obsession with despair is a desperate attempt at being mentally stimulated in a society that has let the status quo stagnate to such a critical degree that it's the reason why the very concept of talent had been rotted to this point. Sorry to Kodaka, who has repeatedly said that Junko is meant to be a truly evil villain with no motivation, but he did kind of accidentally give her a motivation in dr0 where we're shown for a fact that without her memories and ability to analyze, she's relatively normal and tame. That is her nature, just a kind of weird girl who wants to be a tradwife and go grow corn somewhere. However, I think it can be argued that what is meant by "pure evil with no motivation" is that she doesn't have any sort of tangible tragic backstory. You can even say it's not her analyst ability alone that caused her madness, since there's plenty of normal non-world-ending analysts. It may simply be that her personality happened to mix terribly with her talent, and that's the nature of what makes her pure evil, because both of those aspects of her are part of her nature that she can not (nor does she even want to) control despite the misery it causes her. She simply learned to love the misery.

Makoto himself is very clear about being bitter about his luck. For the most part, what's apparent to him is that it causes him constant trouble and the good that it actually does for him is so subtle and disjointed that he doesn't even realize it's his luck. However, I think what makes him different from people like Nagito or Junko is his personality. He doesn't obsess like they do, and his optimism makes him bounce back easily. I think his luck even feeds into his personality and, inverse to Junko, it's the unpredictability of his luck that makes him hopeful and optimistic. Since he never knows what's going to happen to him, he had to develop a way to roll with the punches.

The aspect of personality vs ability also carries over to rain code. The master detectives are people who have innate psychic abilities that are seemingly based on their nature, and then it gets refined and specialized based on their personality. Not only does their personality help to refine these powers, but you see that their personalities and abilities often have detrimental impacts on each other.

Halara can't see living things in their postcognition because they aren't good at looking at people. Pucci's ability makes her hearing so sensitive that it's at least partially caused her emotional detachment. Melami not only likes fashion so much that she must wear the clothes of someone to use her power, but she also has to actually like the clothes too. Vivia is constantly fatigued and has depressive tendencies due his tenuous attachment to his spirit.

Former Number One/Makoto are a great example of this sort of destructive feedback loop of cognitive dissonance. You can infer that their empathy and obsession with helping people is what gives them the ability to use coalescence and share anyone's abilities, yet it's the fact that they can do anything that makes them feel like they must do everything. Ironically, the fact that they've convinced themselves that they must do everything makes their ability essentially useless because they end up only working alone. As a result, Former Number One became detached with every emotion except for his obsession, and it's what caused Makoto to ultimately spiral.

[tyrantisterror]

Wife Goals: Morrigan

February. Intense Loneliness. Must gush about fictional women as poor substitute for an actual relationship. Gushed about Harley Quinn last time. Gush about someone else now. Must fill void in heart.

You know what's a great at temporarily filling the gaping void in your heart? RPGs! Well, RPGs with romance subplots, anyway, not all of them have those I suppose. But a lot of them do, and boy howdy do they scratch the itch for a while! ...a short while. Then it comes back. Dear god it comes back.

But the really good ones scratch that itch real good, and few have scratched it as well for me as Dragon Age Origins. DAO does a great job of hooking you in - depending on your species and class choice, you'll get a different origin story for your main player character that gives you a very personal stake in the conflict to follow. The game makes its early tutorials personalized in this regard, with them doing the dual purpose of teaching you how to use your character's unique abilities while also establishing the life your character has been living till now and how the actions of one of the many villains in the story's overarching plot will completely blow it up to Hell. It's very good, gets you invested in your character really quick, and makes you eager to build something new from the ashes of what came before.

Which you then immediately get a chance to do - you have one last tutorial mission of sorts, a small little exploration and fetch quest with three other new recruits for the organization of monster-slaying international warriors you've joined called the Grey Wardens. Your first companion is one of those fellow recruits - the other two are, well... they're surplus to requirements, narratively speaking. But that's fine, because in that fetch quest you meet the second companion you can recruit.

Specifically, you meet Morrigan, the witch of the wilds. And she is so, SO key to what makes DAOwork.

Regardless of which origin story you picked on character creation, it will show you an important fraction of the setting for the game as a whole. You'll learn about one of the hierarchies of this society - whether it's the caste system of the dwarves, the way elves are either forced to live in an increasingly shrinking wilderness or treated as second-class citizens in the cities, how mages are treated as inherently dangerous time-bombs who have to be institutionalized for the good of "normal" people, and how the human nobility are constantly scheming to take each other out for a power grab. Shit's fucked in a lot of ways, and that's BEFORE you find out about the supernatural monster apocalypse that's brewing underground.

And so it's notable when you meet Morrigan, a witch and, more importantly, a person who lives completely separated from society and all its hierarchies. You, the player, have just been introduced to these systems, and are surrounded at first by people who treat them as immutable truths, and may already be internalizing that This Is Just How It Is Here. But then, at the end of this very final tutorial level, you meet this strange, goth-as-hell witch who immediately starts looking at those systems and saying, "You realize those rules are dumb as hell, right?" Because, like you the player, she didn't grow up in this world, and she, like you the player, can see that Shit's Fucked actually.

This is not to say that Morrigan is some super-enlightened being - she is, in fact, also the product of a horrible abusive hierarchy, just one that's a lot more small and personalize. Morrigan, you find out, is the daughter of Flemeth, who's more or less the setting's equivalent of Baba Yaga, i.e. the archetypal supremely powerful wicked witch in the woods. And like the daughters of the Baba Yaga in Slavic folklore, Morrigan's relationship with her mother is... well, strained in ways that you'd expect for a woman whose mother is an infamous immortal folklore witch.

Flemmeth is a hermit and a misanthrope who views the world as being red in tooth in claw - the strong survive and the weak perish, so you have to be as strong as possible and accept that the weak are meant to die. There is no room in the strong for pity, mercy, or affection - only ruthless self-interest. This is the philosophy Flemmeth believes in, and it's one she's forced into Morrigan as well, and which Morrigan is quick to parrot at all times.

Morrigan has a... mixed reputation in the DAO fandom. A lot of people hate her because, well, she has been taught to believe in a ruthless "might makes right" philosophy, and as such frequently gets pissy when you do, you know, hero shit in your game about saving the world. It was so talked about that Bioware actually sold "Morrigan Disapproves" shirts to play on how, well, Morrigan disapproves of a lot of actions that seem like what you, the player, should OBVIOUSLY do.

And, like, I'm not going to argue that she's right in most of these circumstances. You should help the people of Redcliffe, you should save children from being possessed by demons, you should stick your neck out for people in need. I am a fan of heroes doing hero shit even and especially when it inconveniences them - I am one of those lame players whose wish fulfillment fantasy is "let me be nice and helpful to as many people as possible."

But, like... the conflict between those philosophies is what makes the relationship you develop with Morrigan so damn great. Morrigan is one of four romance options in DAO, and she's one of the quickest to propose you and her begin an affair. She explicitly stipulates that it's a physical thing only, though - stress relief, not a sign of, like, love and affection, because she doesn't believe in love and affection, those are feelings weak people have, and she's definitely not weak! She's strong, her mommy told her so!

So let's say you say yes, because she's a smoking hot goth girl and you're not going to say no to that. Sure, she's a bit ruthless and can be a buzzkill when you're doing Hero Shit, but she's still very polite to you and can be sweet in her own vampy sort of way. And, like, sometimes she makes pretty good points when criticizing the world you live in! Morrigan is one of the only characters who criticizes the inhumane treatment of mages in civilized society - your only other spellcaster companion actually thinks the cruel treatment of mages like herself is necessary, because she's fully internalized the bigotry against herself. Morrigan is cold, but she's not always wrong. There are times when she challenges the world and is correct to do so.

And, well, as you go along and develop your relationship, Morrigan starts to get... attached. She initially claims she's fine with you sleeping around, but backtracks if you actually do - claiming, of course, that she's fine, there's nothing personal, go ahead and sleep with someone else, she's sick of you too actually! (Note: I know this only from youtube clips, I never cheat on my video game wives, not even in alternate playthroughs.) When you get deeper into the relationship, she actually pulls back on affectionate gestures - as if she's scared of what she's feeling about this TOTALLY CASUAL fling you have.

You eventually get to her personal quest, which involves "killing" her immortal mother after you find out that Flemmeth kinda sorta totally plans on stealing Morrigan's body for herself once Morrigan gets strong enough (immortal witches aren't commonplace you know), essentially making Morrigan less a daughter and more, like, livestock to be used in her mother's eyes. When you actually go through with it in one of the toughest optional boss fights of the game, Morrigan's reaction is bafflement. You did all that? For her? Just to keep her around?

She cracks and admits that she only started a relationship to make you her protector - that it was self preservation, nothing more. She's so guilty about what she's done, about how you've suffered on her behalf, and most of all, on how she cares about you now because of it. She doesn't want to say what's obviously true: she loves you, and love is a weakness, and that makes her weak, not strong, and she's terrified of what it means for you and for her.

And you have to tell her the truth that she's really known for a long time but refused to admit: love is not a weakness. Love is a strength. And she tried to argue against it, but she finally concedes. She can't bear not loving you.

The relationship you form with Morrigan is one where you and her challenge each other, constantly. She disapproves, you disapprove, but you need each other, and you both have something to learn from each other. It's not a case of Morrigan becoming good so much as it is her slowly realizing that goodness was in her all along - that as much as she claimed to the contrary, she really is a loving person at heart.

I have a lot of issues with the Dragon Age sequels, but one thing I will say for them is that they allowed Morrigan to retain her growth from Origins. She remains haughty and ruthless, but she also has a kind, compassionate, and selfless streak that was always there in DAO, but had to be brought to the surface kicking and screaming.

Like, I've played a LOT of RPGs where you romance people. Because I'm a sad lonely person who needs to fill the gaping void inside me, you know. But out of all of them, there are few romances where "I love you" hits harder than when Morrigan says it, because you BOTH fought like hell for her to have the courage to say those words, and you know damn well how much she means it.

[likealittleheartbeat]

hello !!

i was wondering, do you know any other characters like aang from other shows/movies/books? or maybe, just his theme of radical kindness appearing in other stories?

i've been missing aang, and it would be nice to find other representations of such a fun and warm personality like his.

ps.: your blog is like, fantastic. truly.

🥰🥰🥰🥰 This is the best ask I’ve ever received!!! Depictions of radical kindness in media is a special interest of mine—not exaggerating. So I’ve done my best to make a list of rec’s, just tv, from most formally similar to ATLA to least, with a short description for each.

1. Fruits Basket (2019)

"My mom told me, it's better to trust people than to doubt them. She said that people aren't born with kind hearts. When we're born, all we have are desires for food and material things. Selfish instincts, I guess. But she said that kindness is something that grows inside of each person's body, but it's up to us to nurture that kindness in our hearts. That's why kindness is different for every person."

An anime orphan whose established memory of the kindness by which her family raised her ends up transforming and liberating a whole clan from an intergenerational curse that enforced an abusive hierarchy all within a show that has a deeply queer subtext, beautifully complex plotting and character development that due to its zen influence refuses to demonize anyone or any perspective wholly, AND a straight romance you can actually root for!? Nothing comes closer to ATLA thematically than this show. While the lead Tohru Honda is the biggest representative of radical kindness, the character of Momiji Sohma with his complex purity, idealism, and gender performance is one of the closest you'll find to Aang in any media.

2. Mob Psycho 100 (2016-2023)

"The truth behind one's charm is kindness. Just be a good person, that's all."

Mob Psycho 100 explores a core tenant of ATLA's critique of imperialism and power: greatness and perfection are overrated. They both ask the question about what to do for the world with one's gifts if that's the case. How can one be both normal and prodigious at the same time? The satirical comedy and style of this anime, which deconstruct a lot of the shonen genre tropes, are pretty distinct from ATLA, but when ATLA arrived on the airwaves, it was a pretty massive break from tradition in Western animation, and for both of these series, that difference of style is tied to the message of the show about the experience and acceptance of difference.

3. Natsume's Book of Friends (2012-present)

"As I encountered kindness, I wanted to be kind myself."

The anime, Natsume's Book of Friends and ATLA both depict the challenge and necessity of facing abandonment, loss, and a deep-seated loneliness with kindness and gratitude despite the persistence of grief. Both take a deeply spiritual view--even a responsibility--of this experience that demands a compassion for all beings including those who intend to do harm. Natsume, an orphan shuffled between houses who is one of the few people who can see spirits called youkai, inherits his maligned grandmother's book of yokai names, becoming a target for them in the process. He hides all of this from everyone in his life, and even five season in, still has trouble admitting to the one person who understands him when he is struggling and needs help. The gentle and light tone papers over a profoundly honest representation of attachment trauma and the wisdom of compassion that develops as a tool to cope with it.

4. Hunter x Hunter (2011-2014)

"You can do whatever you want to hide your feeling. You still have a heart."

If you think that "Radical Kindness" is by definition non-violent, then this show is either not for you or going to change your mind. Gon, the protagonist of HxH, like Momiji mentioned in Fruits Basket, is another rare character whose naivete and optimism are treated with respect. He is allowed to suffer, to be wrong, to be stupid, and to inspire others away from their own cynicism with the persistence of his beliefs nevertheless. But HxH is a show that integrates the most violent aspects of the world (organized crime, capitalistic competition and privileging, state-sanctioned brutality, pure sadism) with its examination of human potential for goodness. And even within a list of shows deeply inspired by spirituality and religions, this show is abundant with religious references as it seeks out meaning, balance, and an ethic for modern experience. On top of that, it ranks with ATLA for the depth and relevance of its magic system to its themes, plus its got gay subtext out the wazoo!

5. Mushishi (2005-2014)

“Make sure to remember, every person and place has a right to exist. It is true for you too, the entire world, as a whole, is your home."

Elegaic, episodic, compassionate, and strange, with some of the best short story-telling of all time, Mushishi is the story of a medicine-man who travels the Japanese countryside helping people deal with the spirits that accompany the little trials and tragedies of life that cling to our minds long after they're passed. The protagonist, Gingko, and the show itself takes the approach of restraint to observe these problems fully and come to a conclusion that's taoist in its balance and acceptance of reality--"Eyes unclouded by hate" as Miyazaki/Gaiman would have it. Each episode is like a therapy session arguing for you to choose to live even as the heaviest burdens sit on your chest.

6. Reservation Dogs (2021-2023)

"See...love doesn't have to be received, it can just be."

We're finally out of the animes, and moving away from the zen and shinto approach into some other options. Reservation Dogs' indigenous humanism was groundbreaking, bringing in distinctly modern American realities (with the kind of true-to-life details only a an on-location shoot could offer) with Native beliefs about ancestry, community, and connection to the land, while rarely feeling preachy. Instead, it's just fucking hilarious and casually heartbreaking. Four friends on the edge of graduating high school on a reservation in Oklahoma try to figure out what to do with their lives after their plans to go to California get abruptly messed up. Radical kindness as a concept often gets focused on accepting the enemy but what about accepting the weird stoner uncle who farts all the time and won't talk about his years in the army. I think that might be a more important goal of radical kindness, in truth, if we are being asked to look and accept reality for what it is, because growing comfortable with disappointment and the mundane let's us live without the relentless striving that drives perfectionism.

7. Skam (2015-2017)

"The second you start looking for hate, you find it. And when you find hate, you start hating."

A Norwegian teen drama that understood internet culture better than any show before or since, four season-long romance plots better than any romance film from that decade, and a masterfully constructed exhortation about leaning into failures of connection to build deeper compassion rather than demonize another person or group. Each season focused on a specific character within a high-school friend group, emphasizing the limited scope of subjective experience, and had them confront the challenges of opening up to others fully. And even when they return into the scenes with new protagonists, their lives weren't sorted perfectly, reflecting how resolving a single romantic plot point would not resolve life. The impact of this low-budget public-television web series (!!!) will be felt for years (it's already been referenced by Netflix juggernauts like Sex Education and Young Royals), but we're not likely to see something that juggles political themes, heartfelt characterization, realistic dialogue, and meta-commentary (it flashed its own hater and fan comments across the screen in the last episode!!) in such a obsession-inducing package anytime soon.

7. Boys Like Boys (2023)

"Because I have always been someone who hates myself, I don't have the courage to face it. Running away is my only option...What if I give myself one more chance to be brave?"

So how can a reality show make it onto a list of radically kind tv series, especially a dating show!? Well, when that reality dating show casts people who radiate warmth, vulnerability, and respect and seem to have the kind of chemistry that most scripted shows can't even manage, it's a good start. But then, when they elevate that cast with a format that addresses the cruelty of dating, elimination formats, and broader societal exclusion (an important consideration for a gay dating show), it offers a new model for future shows. Boys Like Boys did this when mid-season (spoiler alert) they had contestants vote out a contestant, only to provide the contestants with a vote in which they could retain a contestant who they didn't want to leave. In fact, many of the contestants asked if they could abstain from making a vote that would eliminate a constestant and were allowed to. The final result left one contestant, Jia-Hang, up for elimination--he had voted for himself to be eliminated, and many contestants, recognizing his reticence to continue on the program, didn't want to force him against his will to stay. Then, looking around at nearly the whole cast sobbing, even apologizing to him for not providing him enough support, Jia-Hang chooses to stay on. This is just one of many heart-warming authentic moments in the show that illustrate the vital influence of kindness to impact the trajectory of our hearts.

8. Joe Pera Talks With You (2018-2021)

"I can help you reach things. I can tend the garden. The different hours we keep are a good thing. And when they overlap, I can offer companionship and entertainment."

So much has been written about this show's groundbreaking kind approach, I'm going to quote instead: "It can be difficult to convey how a TV show airing on Cartoon Network’s provocative nighttime programming block Adult Swim can evoke almost nostalgic feelings of kind-heartedness. The premise of Joe Pera Talks With You is so simple as to almost be beside the point: Comedian Joe Pera plays a lightly fictionalized version of himself as a sweet Michigander, a middle-school chorus teacher with small and specific passions. Joe likes breakfast food, obscure trivia, beans, trips to the grocery store, and his grandma. He greets every day with a contented smile, stands beneath a pale blue sky, packs a balanced lunch that contains no surprises. (A turkey sandwich with cheese and a tomato, a banana, some trail mix, and as a treat, some cookies.) Joe, more than anything, is satisfied. His greatest joy is sharing these small pleasures with you, the viewer who exists on the other side of the fourth wall he has cleanly dismantled, often speaking quietly to the camera like he’s sharing a secret, just between you two. That he’s talking “with” and not “to” you is a crucial distinction in the show’s title: Joe never lectures nor rhapsodizes. Instead, he waxes poetic about what he loves and who he cares for and how he leads his life, telling his stories from a vulnerable position of welcoming you into his daily existence.” --“A Great Comedy About Being Good,” Allegra Frank for Vox

9. Anne with an E (2017-2019)

"Her life was not short on challenges, and still she held no grudges, believing instead that grace is perennial like the green, green grass."

While maligned for not being the 1980s version, this Netflix adaptation of Anne of Green Gables takes what many have read as an autistic subtext and made it text, giving Anne a performative quality that pushes a lot of the audience into the same irritation that the characters of Avonlea feel for Anne at first, and, thus, requires its audience to persevere toward the same kindness that Anne inspires in her adoptive mother figure, Marilla, among others, which is much more rewarding than simply identifying with Anne right away. In so doing, it enhances the development of its broader approach to acceptance--an approach in its insistence on the requirement of a community of kindredness (see Sebastian's excitement at finding out about the black community in "The Bog") that is much more rigorous than many other shows will cop to. Expanding far beyond literal adaptation into queer, black, and indigenous characters, without disguising history or disparaging the thematic seed of grace at the heart of the novels, Anne with an E imagines what it meant and what it might still mean to build real joyful community with others through kindness.

10. Little Bear (1995-2003)

"Interesting."

A childhood favorite that disguised in its simplicity a wide-openness to the world and an acceptance of different natures. While most child shows emphasize kindness, few do so with as much patience, wonder, and generosity extended to its viewers. Little Bear is a curious kid who goes on adventures in the woods around his house that can turn into games or small imagined experiences. He is sometimes with his friends Cat, Duck, Hen, Owl, and Emily, whose personalities, along with Little Bear's, bring about small tensions in their games that ultimately resolve, if not independently, then with the help of Mother Bear or Father Bear, who give each other knowing glances about the expected childhood behaviors. This is the first show that initially taught me to observe things while withholding my judgment, that first step of radical kindness.

12. The Andy Griffith Show (1960-1968)

"The key to happiness is finding joy in the simple things."

One really old and somewhat controversial throwback for my last entry. If you have concerns about a sheriff character representing radical kindness, I would encourage you to start with the third episode of season 3 where Andy, the sheriff in question, has to explain to the new mayor why he doesn't carry a gun and lets prisoners go to gather their crops. There have been some fantastic pieces written about the complexities of this show's bucolic fantasy and Southerners (of all races) attachment to it, but they all acknowledge a type of humanistic and deceptively simple virtue found in Mayberry that audiences long to witness, if not emulate themselves. It's a morality that resists the "hyperactive zealotry" and bureaucracy that the show satirizes through Barney Fife (along with guest characters like the new mayor) and instead emphasizes the understanding that one can have for each individual and the trickstery middle paths that one can find to address conflict.