#something i will now think about when coughing

[inseobts]

HAII, I heard your request is now open again and I wanted to request this!

wherein the reader has feelings for (any character you want!) and they friend zone her, and she gets the hanahaki disease!😁 they don't tell anyone until they're almost at the brink of death. well, you can choose if the reader lives or not but the character you choose will happen to realize they do have feelings for the reader and they were only confused at the beginning!

it's kinda like angst sorry😅 But I really want to see something like this from you, since you are an excellent writer! ty smmm

Petals in Silence

zoro x fem!reader

Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim’s romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

a/n: wrote about this for one of my old kpop fanfics so I got really exciting to write this again for a different media

words count: 4.0k

tags: illness, angst and fluff, chopper and law being good doctors, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional hurt

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The first time you cough up a petal, it’s early morning.

You’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom when something tickles your throat. You cough once, then harder.

A soft, white petal drops into the sink.

You blink. Stare. It’s delicate. Real.

“What the hell…?”

You look up at the mirror. Your reflection stares back, pale and confused.

You cough again.

Another petal.

“No. No, no, no.”

You quickly wash the sink, flush the petals, and press a trembling hand to your mouth. You’re breathing fast now.

“What is this?” you whisper.

You sneak into the library on the ship when no one’s around. Robin might be there later, but right now it’s quiet.

You pull out an old medical book. Then another.

Finally, you find it.

Hanahaki Disease: A rare, fatal illness caused by unrequited love. The infected cough up flower petals as feelings deepen. The only cures are returned love… or surgery that erases all memory of the beloved person.

You reread it five times.

Then you sit back, stunned.

“No way...” you say out loud “That’s not real.”

But the pain in your chest disagrees.

You press your hand over your heart. It feels like something is blooming. Slowly. Cruelly.

You whisper the name you’ve been hiding in your heart for so long “…Zoro.”

You try to act normal during dinner. You sit beside Luffy and across from Zoro. You talk with Nami, laugh with Usopp. But you keep sneaking glances at him.

Zoro’s sipping sake, listening to Sanji rant about proper cooking technique. He doesn’t even look your way.

That tiny ache in your chest grows just a bit stronger.

You excuse yourself early and go to bed.

Later that night, Zoro finds you on the deck. You’re alone, staring at the sea. You don’t notice him until he speaks.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You flinch a little “Oh yeah. Just thinking.”

He steps beside you. Arms crossed “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m fine” you say quickly.

“Didn’t ask if you were fine,” he says, tone flat “I said you’ve been quiet.”

You don’t answer. You look away, afraid you’ll start coughing again.

“Anyway,” he says after a moment, “don’t push yourself too hard. You get weird when you're tired.”

You smile, small and sad “Thanks, Zoro.”

He nods and walks away, like nothing’s wrong. Like your heart isn’t trying to kill you.

You start avoiding him.

Not in a big, obvious way. Just enough to keep the pain small. Manageable.

You leave the room when he enters. You sit farther away at meals. You laugh at his jokes less. You pretend you’re busy when he trains, even though you used to watch him every day.

Still, he notices.

“You mad at me or something?” Zoro asks one afternoon.

You blink “What? No.”

He raises an eyebrow “You’ve been weird. Distant.”

You shrug “Maybe I’m just tired.”

He watches you, arms crossed “You’ve said that a lot lately.”

You force a smile “Guess I’m always tired.”

You walk away before you start coughing again.

Later that night, you’re alone again on the deck. Same spot. Same stars. Same sea.

Your chest feels heavy tonight. Your throat burns.

You cough hard. Petals. So many.

They spill from your mouth, red and white, soft and cruel.

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stop the sound, trying not to cry.

This is getting worse.

You fall to your knees.

It’s too late to stop it now.

The next morning, you can’t take it anymore.

You find Chopper in the infirmary. You pull him aside, whispering.

“Can I ask you something… privately?”

He looks up at you, curious “Of course. What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard “Do you know anything about… Hanahaki disease?”

His eyes widen.

“What?” he says “Why? Who—who has it?”

You don’t answer. Just pull a crumpled petal from your pocket and place it in his hand.

His face falls.

“Oh no… Y/N...” he whispers.

You don’t speak.

He looks at you with tears in his eyes “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!”

You give him the weakest smile “I didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not him.”

Zoro finds you the next day.

“You’ve been ignoring me” he says bluntly.

You sigh “I haven’t.”

“You have. What’s going on?”

You look at him. Really look at him.

Strong. Focused. Brave. And not yours.

You take a deep breath.

“Zoro,” you say softly, “do you see me as… anything more than a friend?”

He frowns “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer.”

He looks confused for a second, then says, “You’re a great friend. You know that.”

Your heart cracks right there “I see.”

He tilts his head “Why?”

You shake your head and step back “No reason.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go” you whisper, already walking away.

You cough again as you turn the corner. This time, petals fall from your hands like snow.

You visit Chopper again the next day. This time, you don’t bother hiding the blood on your sleeve.

He panics the moment he sees you.

“Y/N, sit down, right now.”

You do.

He shines a light in your throat, listens to your breathing, checks your heartbeat. His hooves are trembling.

“Your lungs…” he says quietly “the flowers are growing faster.”

“I know.”

“You’re in the second stage. If this keeps up—”

“I know, Chopper.”

Silence.

You break it first.

“Is there any way to slow it down?” you ask, voice thin “Just a little?”

Chopper hesitates “I can give you medicine to ease the pain. But it won’t stop the petals.”

You nod. That’s enough. For now.

He wraps your wrist where you’d scratched it raw from coughing.

“You need to tell the others” he says softly.

“I can’t.”

“Y/N—”

“No.”

He looks at you, torn between doctor and friend. But he nods.

For now, he’ll keep your secret.

At lunch, you barely touch your food. Sanji notices right away.

“You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” he asks, kneeling beside your chair with a plate in hand.

You blink “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Nami says across the table “You look like a ghost.”

Usopp leans in “Have you been throwing up or something?”

Your grip tightens on your fork “Just tired.”

“You keep saying that,” Luffy mumbles with food in his mouth “You said that yesterday, and the day before that, and the—”

“I said I’m fine!” you snap.

Silence falls.

You don’t look at anyone. You stand quickly, chair scraping back.

“I’m sorry. I just... I need some air.”

You rush out before they see your hand fly to your mouth.

You cough behind a crate on the lower deck. Violet petals. Tiny thorns. Blood.

You shake as they fall into your palm.

Someone walks by above you, and you press your mouth shut until your lungs burn. You can’t let them hear.

You slide down to the floor, heart pounding.

You can’t keep this up much longer.

That night, Zoro knocks on your door.

You don’t answer.

He opens it anyway “Hey. We need to talk.”

You sit on your bed, facing the wall.

He walks in slowly “You’ve been avoiding everyone. Something’s wrong.”

You don’t move “I’m just tired.”

“That’s not gonna work anymore,” he says “Your voice is weak. You’re pale. And you’re breathing weird.”

You say nothing.

Zoro narrows his eyes “Did someone hurt you?”

That makes you laugh. It’s a broken sound “No. Not someone.”

He waits.

You finally turn toward him, eyes glassy “I think I’m sick, Zoro.”

He steps closer “Sick how?”

You look down at your hands. But you don’t answer.

Not yet.

He understands and leaves you alone.

It’s been weeks.

You’re coughing more now. Petals come in waves, in your sleep, in the middle of meals, behind closed doors. You can barely hide it anymore. Chopper’s running out of ways to explain your pale skin and shaking hands.

Then one afternoon, Law steps onto the Sunny.

The crew cheers, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Heart Pirates. But you don’t move from the railing. Your body feels too heavy.

Zoro notices.

So does Chopper.

Later, Chopper finds you in the infirmary, Law just behind him.

He stares at you for a long moment, then sighs “Chopper told me everything. Including the petals.”

Your breath catches.

Chopper looks hopeful, desperate even “He thinks he can do the surgery. It’s risky, but it might work.”

You go cold “The memory one?”

Law nods “I can remove the infection. The petals. You’ll survive. But you’ll forget everything tied to the person who caused it.”

You don’t even have to think.

“No.”

Chopper gasps “What? Y/N, you’re dying.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper “I don’t want to forget him.”

Law watches you carefully “You’d rather die than let go?”

You nod.

There’s a pause. Then Law gestures for Chopper to leave the room.

He does, slowly.

Now it’s just you and Law.

“I don’t do emotional attachments” he says, leaning against the wall “But even I know this is stupid.”

You laugh bitterly “Yeah. It is.”

He folds his arms “You sure he doesn’t feel anything for you?”

“He made it clear,” you say, staring at the floor “He sees me as a friend. That’s all.”

Law raises an eyebrow “You asked him?”

“Of course, I'm dying... I asked if he could ever see me as more. He said I’m a great friend. That’s it.”

He doesn’t reply for a moment. Then quietly, he says, “You should tell him about the disease.”

You look up sharply “No. That’s the one thing I won’t do.”

“Why?”

Your voice cracks “Because I don’t want to be loved out of pity. I want it to be real. Not because I’m dying.”

Behind the cracked door, someone stands frozen.

Zoro.

He hadn’t meant to listen. He was just walking by.

He wasn’t trying to find you. Not on purpose.

But now your words are echoing in his head, and they won’t stop.

“I don’t want to forget him.”

“I want it to be real.”

He feels like something is unraveling in his chest.

Suddenly, memories flood in. You watching him train. Laughing at his jokes. Smiling when you thought he wasn’t looking. Bleeding silently.

And him, brushing you off. Pushing the feelings down. Because love was a weakness. A distraction. Something he couldn’t afford.

But now you're dying, and it’s his fault you’re alone.

He presses his hand to the wall beside the door.

“Idiot” he whispers.

He doesn’t even know if he means you or himself.

Zoro doesn’t sleep that night.

He leans against the railing of the upper deck, sword resting by his side, your words stuck in his mind like a thorn he can’t pull out.

“I want it to be real.”

“I don’t want to forget him.”

He tightens his grip on the hilt.

He doesn’t understand everything about emotions... hell, he usually avoids them altogether but he’s not dumb.

He heard enough to know what this is.

Enough to know you’ve been dying quietly, and everyone’s been hiding it from him.

The next morning, he finds Chopper in the kitchen, alone, fiddling with a pile of vitamins and bandages.

Zoro crosses his arms and speaks flatly “What’s wrong with her?”

Chopper freezes “W-Who?”

Zoro just stares.

Chopper sweats “You mean…uh…Nami? I think she had a cold last week—”

“Y/N” Zoro says, voice sharp “Don’t play dumb.”

Chopper drops the spoon in his hoof “Oh.”

Zoro leans in, towering over the small reindeer “I heard Law talking to her. I heard enough. Now tell me everything.”

Chopper swallows “I-I promised not to—”

“Chopper.”

“I—I mean—she’s—”

He folds immediately “Okay! Okay! It’s Hanahaki!”

Zoro stiffens “Hanahaki…?”

“She’s been coughing up petals for weeks. She’s in stage two, probably. Her lungs are already getting worse. If she doesn’t get surgery, she’ll—” Chopper gulps before continuing “She’ll die.”

Zoro goes completely still.

“And it’s because of—” Chopper shuts his mouth with both hooves.

“Because of what, Chopper?”

“I—I can’t say that part—”

Zoro crouches down, voice low “Is it because of me?”

Chopper's eyes fill with panic.

“That’s a yes.”

“Zoro...”

He stands up suddenly, knocking over a chair. His jaw clenches.

Chopper reaches out “Please don’t get mad at her! She didn’t want to say anything. She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want to make you feel bad—”

Zoro turns away, fists clenched “She’s dying and she’s worried about me?”

“She loves you,” Chopper says quietly “But she’d rather die than force you to love her back.”

Zoro doesn’t answer.

He just stands there, breathing hard and then he walks out.

Fast.

Not toward you.

Not yet.

He needs to get his head straight because for the first time in a long time, Zoro is afraid.

Not of losing a fight.

But of losing you.

You’re sitting alone in the small reading room on the Sunny, legs tucked up beneath you, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A book is open on your lap, unread. The words blur. Your head throbs.

You’ve been coughing all morning. You can taste iron in the back of your throat.

You hear the door open and close behind you.

You don’t look up “Chopper, I already took the medicine—”

“It’s not Chopper.”

Your breath catches.

You look up.

Zoro.

Standing there, arms crossed. Shadows under his eyes. A strange look on his face — like something sharp and unfinished.

You blink slowly “What do you want?”

He walks forward. No swords. No usual swagger. Just…Zoro.

“I know” he says.

Your stomach drops.

“I know everything. Hanahaki. The petals. That it’s because of me.”

You go still.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” you say quietly “Not like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want your pity.”

He sits across from you. His eyes are unreadable.

“You didn’t want to tell me... but you told Law?”

You wince “Chopper dragged him in. Said he could save me.”

Zoro stares at you for a moment. Then “You turned down the surgery.”

“Yes.”

“Because you didn’t want to forget.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

You speak first “I asked you once if you saw me as anything more than a friend. You said no.”

“I said you’re a great friend,” Zoro says “But I didn’t say no.”

You freeze “That’s not what it felt like.”

He leans forward “I didn’t answer you honestly. I didn’t want to answer.”

You whisper “Why?”

His voice is low “Because I was scared it would mess everything up. You’re... you’ve always been close. If I let myself feel something else, I thought it would get in the way.”

“Of your goal,” you say “Becoming the world’s strongest swordman.”

He nods once “I told myself there was no room for anything else.”

Your hands are shaking in your lap.

“And now?” you whisper.

Zoro hesitates. For the first time in forever, he looks unsure.

“I don’t know,” he says “But when I heard what you said to Law… that you’d rather die than forget me… I realized I don’t want to lose you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“I don’t know if I deserve this,” he says “But I want to try. If you’ll let me. I should’ve said it before you ever started coughing.”

Zoro’s confession echoes in the small room.

You sit there for a long moment, stunned, heart beating so fast it hurts more than your lungs.

But the pain in your chest doesn’t stop. In fact, it starts to burn.

That isn’t supposed to happen.

“I…” You swallow hard, forcing your voice to stay calm “Can I ask something?”

Zoro looks at you, still tense “Yeah.”

You grip the blanket tighter around your shoulders “Do you actually mean it? Or are you just saying that because you don’t want me to die?”

He flinches.

You nod slowly “That’s what I thought.”

Zoro opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“It’s okay. Really. You don’t have to feel guilty. I’m... glad you care. But you don’t have to pretend to love me. That would hurt more.”

His jaw tightens “I’m not pretending.”

You give him a sad smile “Zoro... if this was real, the petals would’ve stopped by now.”

You cough hard. A violent shake rips through your chest, and something wet and warm fills your palm.

You look down.

A full, red flower lies there, soaked in blood.

Your fingers tremble as you wipe it away, turning your face from him.

“See?” you whisper.

Zoro doesn’t say anything.

He just leaves.

He storms through the Sunny like a blade cutting through mist.

Straight to the infirmary.

Chopper and Law both look up from the counter.

Zoro slams his hands down “Why isn’t she better?”

Chopper blinks “Wh-What?”

“I told her. Everything. I confessed. So why is she still coughing up flowers?!”

Law stands slowly “Did she believe you?”

“What?”

Law narrows his eyes “Hanahaki is rooted in emotion, not logic. You can say whatever you want but if she doesn’t believe it in her heart, it won’t stop.”

Zoro’s throat goes dry.

“She thinks I said it out of pity...” he mutters.

Law’s voice drops “Then her body still thinks it’s unrequited.”

Zoro swears under his breath.

Chopper tugs at his sleeve, eyes big and worried “Zoro, she’s getting worse. No matter what I give her, the petals will start to grow into her lungs. They’ll wrap around her ribs. After that...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Zoro steps back.

He’s never felt so helpless.

“I’ll fix it” he says, turning toward the door.

Law raises a brow “How?”

Zoro doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know yet. But he’s sure of one thing, this time, words aren’t enough.

The sun is setting. Gold light spills over the deck of the Sunny.

You sit alone again, wrapped in your blanket, watching the sea blur into the sky. The petals are getting worse now, they come up more easily, more violently. You can feel them in your lungs even when you're not coughing.

You don’t know how much time you have left.

You don’t hear Zoro approach.

He stands beside you silently for a few seconds. Then, without a word, he sits down.

You look at him. His expression is unreadable. Focused. But his eyes are storming.

“I’m not good at this” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

He pulls something from his waist. A worn cloth. He unfolds it slowly.

Inside is a small charm. Hand-carved wood, shaped like a sword crossed with a flower.

Your breath catches.

“I made it back on Wano,” he says “Took me three days. I almost threw it out. Thought it was stupid.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just the charm.

“I didn’t know why I was making it. I told myself it was just something to pass the time. But I carried it with me every day since.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

Zoro finally turns to you.

“Because I didn’t just come here to say something this time. I’m here to prove it.”

He places the charm in your lap.

Then Zoro kneels.

Your heart skips “Zoro—what—”

“I’m not asking you to believe me because I said I care,” he says, voice rough “I’m asking you to believe me because I was a coward, and I missed my chance, and I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continues “Not because I feel guilty. Not because you’re sick. Because I’ve loved you longer than I was willing to admit.”

Your eyes well with tears. You shake your head “But... Zoro... why didn’t you—”

“Because I thought I couldn’t afford it” he says “But I realized... what’s the point of becoming the world’s strongest swordsman if you’re not there to see it?”

Your lungs seize.

You cough.

A petal falls into your palm.

Just one.

Small.

Thin.

You stare at it.

Zoro sees too. And for the first time you see hope in his eyes.

It’s slow.

You still wake up coughing sometimes but not with blood anymore. Not with full blossoms tearing your throat raw.

Now, it’s just a few pale petals, thinner than paper. Some mornings, none at all.

You’re healing.

And every time you wake up, Zoro is there.

Not hovering. Just close. Training. Napping with one arm slung over a chair. But always there.

He doesn’t say much. He lets his presence do the talking.

One night, you sit outside the infirmary, wrapped in a jacket that’s obviously not yours, too big, too warm. Smells like steel, sweat, and something familiar.

Zoro’s jacket.

He comes up beside you, leaning against the wall.

You glance at him “Still watching me?”

“Still making sure you don’t keel over,” he says “It’d ruin my day.”

You laugh softly “Chopper says the petals might stop completely soon.”

He nods “Good.”

You look at him “Do you remember what you said? On the deck. About… me seeing you become the world’s strongest swordman?”

Zoro doesn’t look away “Yeah.”

“Do you still want that?”

“More than ever.”

You swallow “And… do you still mean it? What you said about loving me?”

Zoro turns to you fully.

“I’ve said a lot of things I didn’t mean in my life,” he says “But that wasn’t one of them.”

Silence.

Then you reach out, fingers brushing his hand.

“Zoro?”

He meets your eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

His answer is a quiet but firm “Yeah.”

You lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away.

He doesn’t.

His lips are warm. Dry at first... hesitant. But then you feel him tilt toward you, just a little. And his hand rises to rest on your back.

It’s not perfect. It’s a little clumsy. But it’s real.

And when you pull back, breathless and flushed, you cough but not a single petal falls.

Zoro watches you, eyes searching.

When he speaks, his voice is low “Guess that’s one way to test if it’s real.”

You smile “Feels pretty real to me.”

It’s been days since your last petal.

Chopper checks your lungs every morning now with his stethoscope and a hopeful smile, and every time he hears nothing but clean, healthy breathing, he squeaks in joy and flails his little hooves around.

You owe him everything.

Which is why you're now crouched outside the kitchen with a stack of pink cupcakes, a tiny hand-sewn thank-you card (drawn with crayons), and one extremely annoyed swordsman beside you.

Zoro crosses his arms “I still don’t get why I have to be here.”

“Because you helped me live,” you say, balancing the cupcakes with exaggerated care “And Chopper basically didn’t sleep for a week watching over me. We’re doing this together.”

Zoro grumbles “I could’ve just said thanks.”

You grin “And yet, here you are. Holding a party hat.”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“You will wear it.”

He grunts again but doesn’t argue further.

You knock on the door.

“Chopper! Can you come out here for a sec?”

He waddles out, sleepy-eyed, blinking up at youmand freezes.

His eyes go huge.

The cupcakes are stacked with pink frosting, each topped with tiny candy flowers. The card is messy and full of stickers, and you made sure to draw you, Chopper, and Zoro in crayon (Zoro has three swords and a frowny face, just for accuracy).

Zoro groans beside you.

“Thanks for helping me” you say brightly, holding it all out “We love you, Chopper.”

Chopper’s cheeks go red “Wha—whaaa?! I—I—I was just doing my job! Y-You didn’t have to—!”

Zoro, looking like he’d rather be stabbed, mumbles, “Thanks, you tiny doctor.”

Chopper makes a noise. A mix between a squeak and a sob.

He bursts into tears, flinging his tiny arms around your leg and Zoro’s knee at the same time.

“I’m so happy you’re not dead!!!”

Zoro looks at you, completely frozen.

You just smile, slip the party hat onto his head, and whisper “Told you this would be worth it.”

[mintyys-blog]

its 1am and im feeling like i wanna hurt ngl, could i rq what the mark variants would feel and act like about an s/o whose begging their mark to kill them cause they'd rather die by his hands than at all. Like it could be because of an illness they have with no cure, that they got tired rotting from the inside out or a wound so fatal, they'd rather end the moment quick with the touch of the man they love being their last memory. Some of the marks would probs be angry, angry that they'd ask him to do that, and angry at himself cause he WOULD do that for them, because he loves them sm to save them and not let them live through that pain.

Go haywire teehee🩷

HEADCANONS | when the variants s/o asks for them to kill her

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: death, blood

MAIN MARK

You were trembling in his arms, your skin cold and clammy as your breath came in uneven, shallow bursts. The poison was spreading too fast—no cure, no chance. You had hours, maybe less. Every second hurt more.

“Mark… please.” Your voice cracked, fragile and desperate. “I don’t want to die in agony. I don’t want to be scared. Just… if I have to go, let me go feeling your touch. Your love. Please.”

He froze.

“No.” His voice broke instantly. “Don’t ask me to do that. Don’t—don’t put that on me.”

Tears fell hot and fast down his cheeks, his grip tightening around you. “I’m supposed to save you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“You can’t save me this time.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his shoulders shaking as the reality crashed into him. You watched him wage war with himself. He wanted to scream, to fly you to every corner of the planet looking for a miracle, to rip the sky apart and demand a god fix this.

But he looked at you. At your pain. Your soft smile. Your love.

“I love you,” he whispered. And when you nodded, whispering it back, he made the most devastating choice of his life—for you.

MOHAWK MARK

The throne sat empty for three days.

No one dared speak his name.

Not even the strongest commanders, not the most fanatical advisors, dared disturb the silence that settled over the empire like a funeral shroud.

He had killed before—millions, easily. He had ended rebellions, wiped planets clean for less insult than a raised voice. He had ruled with blood and iron, his will absolute.

But this…

You were different.

He’d killed many in his lifetime. But this was the first time it cost him.

The blood on his hands was always red. But yours—yours—never washed off.

He stayed in your shared quarters. Your clothes were still folded. Your cup, still half-full. There were claw marks in the walls from the moment he screamed after it was done. A scream so loud, the mountain palace cracked at the base.

The bed was untouched.

He couldn’t bear to lie in it alone.

But he did sit beside it every night. The necklace you always wore was wrapped around his wrist like a chain.

He spoke to you sometimes.

“They think I’m weaker now.”

His voice was a low murmur. Not for show. Not for command. Just a man broken and trying to sound like he wasn’t.

“They’re wrong. I’m worse. Because now I know what it’s like to lose something sacred.”

The empire kept functioning.

Ships launched. Treaties enforced. Fear kept order. But the Emperor didn’t smile. Didn’t rage. Didn’t breathe fire.

He was quiet now. Efficient. Cold.

But every month, like clockwork, he flew alone to the edge of the galaxy. Where he scattered your ashes into the rings of a planet no one lived on. Where he could speak without eyes or ears, and just be yours again.

Where he could kneel.

And whisper, over and over, like a prayer carved into his soul: “Forgive me.” “Forgive me. “Forgive me.”

SINISTER MARK

“No.”

You were coughing blood, your limbs barely working, but you looked at him with the same soft eyes you always did. You reached up, touched his face.

“Please. It’s time. And I want it to be you.”

His eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might break something.

“You think I’m just going to let you go?” he growled. “After everything?”

“I’m not asking to leave you,” you whispered. “I’m asking to let go of the pain.” He stared at you like you’d betrayed him. His voice was low. Dangerous.

“I would burn this world down to keep you breathing.” You shook your head gently. “But would you let me suffer just to keep me alive?”

That made him still. Utterly silent. His expression softened, just a fraction. And for the first time in his life, he looked powerless. “…You don’t get to ask me for this,” he murmured. “Because I’ll do it. And I’ll never be whole again.”

His hands trembled as he held you. He kissed you like it was the last piece of his soul. Then his voice, rough and raw: “Close your eyes, love. Let me take the pain now.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

“You will not ask me that again,” he growled, blood staining the ground beneath you both. Your wound was too deep, your organs too ruined.

You were dying, and he couldn’t stop it.

“Mark, please,” you rasped, barely able to hold your head up. “I’m not scared of dying. But I want it to be you. I want… your eyes to be the last thing I see.”

His hands clenched into fists. He’d survived galaxies, killed kings and conquerors. He broke civilizations. And now the one thing that mattered—truly mattered—was slipping away, and all he could do was kneel there, useless.

“You think I can live with that?” he hissed, but it cracked, sounded too human for the warrior he pretended to be. “You want me to carry that weight?”

“I want you to set me free.”

He sat still for a long moment. Breathing heavy. Eyes wild. Then, slowly, reverently, he held you close. His kiss was deep—full of pain, of goodbye, of love unspoken for too long.

“…I’ll carry it,” he whispered. And when he did it, it was quick, gentle. The most merciful death the galaxy’s deadliest weapon had ever delivered.

PRISONER MARK

You were lying in the cell with him—two prisoners, one broken by the world, one by their body.

The infection was eating you alive. A slow, painful thing. The med-tech had failed weeks ago. You were tired. You were done.

“Mark,” you croaked, head resting against his chest. “I need to go. But I don’t want it to be cold. I want you to be the last thing I feel. Please.”

He held you tighter.

“No,” he said immediately. “I won’t hurt you. Not again. Not ever again.”

“You wouldn’t be hurting me,” you whispered. “You’d be freeing me.”

He shook, trembling like a wounded animal. His eyes were wide and terrified. “I see blood every night. I see you dead in my dreams already. I can’t—I can’t make that real.”

“You’re not a monster.”

“I was. I still am.”

You cupped his cheek, coaxing his gaze to yours. “But I trust you with my life… and my death.”

He cried, silent and breathless, as he wrapped you in the softest hold you’d ever known. And when he finally gave in, it was a mercy so tender it broke him completely.

He whispered your name for hours afterward. Like if he said it enough, he could call your soul back.

OMNI MARK

You laid on the marble floor of his palace, the stars of ten conquered systems glittering outside the windows. You were fading fast, a cosmic illness unraveling your body cell by cell.

He knelt beside you, his hands coated in your blood.

“You’re asking me to kill you?” he asked, cold and calm, but his eyes were wild. “Me? After all I’ve done to protect you from death?”

“I trust you more than anyone,” you whispered. “Please. I don’t want to suffer.”

“You would rather die by my hands than linger one more hour?” he asked, not angry—but stunned. You had always been his soft spot, his love, the tether to what little humanity remained.

He exhaled sharply, the sound more like a growl.

“You would make a god kneel to death.”

He looked away.

“I’ve ended worlds that insulted you. I’ve slaughtered armies for you. And now… you want me to say goodbye?”

“Just hold me. Just… hold me, and make it fast.”

He gathered you up like you were made of glass, pressing his lips to your forehead, your brow, your lips—each kiss slower than the last.

When he did it, it was with the same hands that tore stars apart.

And for the first time in centuries… he wept.

[grayandthyme]

Something like Easy | 1

masterlist | next chapter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

synopsis: in a small Texas town in early 2002, a young English teacher is barely keeping it together. her car is barely drivable, her students are restless, and her lesson plans are falling flat. though, a shitty car leads to an unexpected carpool arrangement with her next-door neighbor, Joel Miller, a single father with a quiet drawl and a soft spot for his daughter.

warnings/tags: each chapter will have separate tags.

no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'ma'am' on occasion, domestic fluff, slow burn, tension, maternal fluff, bonding over sarah, dialogue heavy.

w/c 8.3k

2002

Coffee pot. Turn it on. Turn on the damn coffee pot. Shit—grab the other bag. Lipstick. Where’s the lipstick? Did you brush your hair? What were you going to pack for lunch—too late now. Way too late. Shit. Coffee. Just turn on the coffee pot.

You were late. Not just a little late—thirty solid minutes behind. You should’ve left long ago. You should’ve been in the classroom by now, setting up, printing handouts, doing everything you promised yourself you’d stay on top of. But the alarm had gone off at five, and your hand found the snooze button. Again. And again…. Six, maybe seven times.

You tore through the house like a storm, leaving disarray in your wake—papers, bags, a half-eaten granola bar. Coffee splashed into a tumbler. Fingers dragged through tangled hair. You shoved open the car door, tossed everything inside, slid into the seat, and went to start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it... ?

Brrssshk.

The engine tried. It coughed. It gave up. No ignition. Just that hollow, broken sound.

No. No, no, no. The car can’t be dead. Not today. Did you leave a light on? Is it the battery? Or the engine? It's practically an antique—twenty years old, if not older.

Fucking antique.

You slammed your palms against the steering wheel, more theatrics than solution, but it was something. Something to relieve the stress coiled in your stomach.

It wasn’t even eight o’clock. And everything had already come undone.

"Trouble?”

The voice was low, rough around the edges—one of those gravel-laced laughs that came from somewhere deep in the chest. You glanced toward the next driveway over.

“Been a hell of a morning,” you said, eyes landing on your neighbor—and his daughter.

Sarah. She’d been in your class since the semester started, the quiet one who always raised her hand and turned things in early. You recognized her face the moment roll was called back in January.

The girl next door. Her dad was around your age, blue-collar, kind, and easy to be around. The kind of man who knew his way around town and made it a point to invite you over whenever there was too much food. Nothing complicated.

Just… neighborly. Yes, neighborly.

“Good morning, ma’am!” Sarah called out, already halfway into the passenger seat of the truck.

“Morning, Sarah,” you replied, offering a quick smile—one that lingered just a little longer when it shifted to her father.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed and shoulder propped casually against the truck, “… since you’re both headed to the same place, I can give you a ride. Tight squeeze, but it’s better than being stranded.”

There was something calm about the way he said it. No pressure. No teasing. Just an open door when you needed one.

“I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Miller,” you said, exhaling a laugh that scraped out more nervous than light. “If I don’t show up soon, I think they might just about fire me.”

It took a moment to gather your things, every motion feeling slower than it should. The weight of the morning still clung to you. But when you climbed into the truck, the world felt just a little more manageable.

The fit was snug. His truck—an old Chevrolet C/K 10, dark blue and time-worn—smelled faintly of wood and sun-warmed fabric. It was dirty enough to show the dust of long days and dirt roads, but not enough to be neglected.

You sat in the middle—knees brushing lightly against his, careful not to crowd Sarah. The cab was quiet but not tense, broken by the hum of the road and the occasional rattle of something loose behind the seat. Screwdrivers, maybe. A toolbox.

“Are we going to go over the reading chapters today?” Sarah asked, turning from the window, her voice gentle and curious.

“Chapters five and six,” you replied, straightening the collar of your shirt, which still felt slightly wrong after the rushed morning. “Did they bore you?”

It wasn’t the question of a teacher, not really. Just a sincere check-in—human to human.

“I liked it,” she said, smiling. “I like the bird."

Her gaze drifted back out the window, toward the wide fields stitched with fences and the occasional slow-moving cow. You liked that about the countryside. Never saw cows when you were a kid.

Joel’s voice chimed in, warm and casual. “You guys are readin’ a book?”

His left hand rested on top of the steering wheel. The right tapped absentminded rhythms against his thigh.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” you said, returning the smile. “It’s good for students to read allegorical satire. Helps them start asking questions they didn’t know they had.”

He let out a short breath of a laugh. “Never heard of it. Never read it. And, don't ask me what a fuckin' allegorical is.”

You glanced over. “You’d probably like it more now than you would’ve in school.”

“Back in school,” he said with a smirk, “I wasn’t much for readin’. Could barely sit still long enough to get through a page.”

“Most people can’t. Not really,” you said. “It’s a skill you grow into—if life lets you.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just thoughtful. But no one was in a rush to dive in, the morning still clinging to your consciousness.

The road stretched out ahead, light and cracked, under a sky washed pale by morning sun. A few questions bounced between father and daughter, easy and familiar, their rhythm well-worn. You listened more than you spoke, content in the quiet, in the soft country drawl of their conversation and the hum of the road beneath you.

It was peaceful.

You didn’t feel like a guest. You didn’t feel like a burden. And for a morning that had begun in chaos, that was saying something.

The school crept up on the horizon—its brick walls catching the morning sun, buses already lined along the curb. In a blink, the truck eased to a stop at the front.

“Hey,” you said, your hand pausing on the door handle. “I really appreciate this. A lot.”

Joel turned toward you, eyes meeting yours with a brief, searching look—like he was trying to read something unspoken in your face. Then he smiled, easy.

“My kid can’t learn if you’re not there to teach,” he said.

Touché.

He cleared his throat, almost like he hadn’t meant to say the next part. “What time do you get off? I’m usually back around three to pick Sarah up.”

“Three forty-five. I’ve got bus duty,” you said with a faint shrug. You glanced toward Sarah, who was a few steps ahead, idly rolling a small rock under her sneaker, waiting.

“How about dinner as a thank you?” The words came out lighter than you expected, almost airy—your fingers fidgeting at the strap of your work bag.

Was that your heart picking up a little?

Get a grip, girl, oh my god.

Joel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised—not put off, just maybe not used to being on the receiving end of offers like that.

“You cook?” he asked, a teasing note there, but gentle.

“Only on days when my car dies,” you deadpanned, smiling.

He let out a low laugh, hand brushing over the back of his neck. “Alright then. Deal.”

Sarah glanced back at you both with a curious tilt of her head, then turned toward the school doors.

You stepped back onto the sidewalk, the truck rumbling into motion behind you. And for a second, you let yourself watch it pull away—feeling just a little more awake than you had an hour ago.

The school day wasn’t bad. In fact, it moved with a kind of ease—fluid, almost gentle. Most of your students stayed on task, heads down in their books, pens scribbling half-heartedly in the margins. The lessons were simple: annotation, discussion, light analysis. Theories floated through the classroom like soft echoes, some half-baked, others surprisingly sharp. It was steady. Predictable.

At lunch, you slipped into the cafeteria like a teenager sneaking out of class, leaning across the counter to charm an extra salad out of the lunch lady. It wasn’t great—but it filled the space, the kind of space that had been gnawed open earlier that morning by a dead car and a voice that wouldn't leave your head. The space that was only filled by rushed coffee, and no breakfast.

That voice.

Rough around the edges, like a match dragging across gritted paper. Those dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing. And his arms—tendons of muscle flexing casually beneath a worn t-shirt.

Distracting.

But he was a parent. Your student’s father, specifically.

That made it all feel dangerous in a way that wasn’t thrilling. Like walking a little too close to the edge of a cliff, one you’d promised yourself you’d never climb too high on.

Still, the thought lingered, and it crept in between stacks of ungraded essays and half-finished lesson plans.

By the time dismissal rolled around, you were decaying. Bus duty was its usual slow, aching pace—standing beneath the heavy Texas sun, watching yellow buses puff clouds of smog into the air. Your sundress, collared and ironed just hours ago, now clung to your skin like a second, far less glamorous skin.

You adjusted your sunglasses and scanned the parking lot, squinting through the thick, warm air. A familiar blue truck rolled into view, crawling forward beneath the glare.

And there he was.

Joel Miller, one arm hanging out the window, looked just as effortlessly composed as he had this morning.

You hated that. And also… didn’t. Maybe.

He pulled up slowly, the engine humming low. Sarah hopped out from the group of kids, waving once before trotting toward the truck.

“Still standin’, huh?” Joel called, his voice lazy and amused.

You arched a brow. “Barely.”

He chuckled. “You still up for that dinner?”

Were you? You weren’t sure if it was sweat or nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

Ugh, you're so fucked. Why did you offer that in the first place? Could have sent yourself into a nice, cooled, ice cream rotted binge on your couch.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah,” you said. “I think I’ve earned some of your air conditioning.”

Joel leaned across the center seat, hooking his finger in the door and opening the passenger side. “Then climb on in, teach'. Let’s get you somewhere you can breathe again.”

The ride back was nice—windows rolled down, the late afternoon air sweeping in to soothe your sun-warmed skin. It carried the scent of cut grass and hot pavement, of summer sweeping into the Spring semester. It was roughly mid April. Your sundress fluttered at the hem, and you leaned into the breeze like it might cool something deeper than just the sweat on your back.

Maybe it'll blow away your stress along with it.

Sarah had launched into a breathless recap of her day somewhere around the end of the school parking lot. Now, she was mid-rant—animated, scandalized—telling a story that involved two classmates, an on-again-off-again relationship, and a betrayal. Middle school drama.

“They’re eleven—You're eleven,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the open air.

“You better not be datin’,” Joel cut in from the driver’s seat, voice rough with playfulness. He flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror with a practiced kind of ease. “You’re too young to be dealin’ with heartbreak.”

“Ew, Dad,” Sarah groaned from the side, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “No. God.”

You laughed—genuinely—and shook your head. “The things I’ve overheard from these kids will always blow my mind,” you said, flipping your sunglasses up to rest on your head. “They talk like they've lived three lives already.”

Joel smirked, hand resting casual on the wheel. “Middle school’s a war zone now. Nothing like when we were that age.”

You nodded. “Now it’s pager beeps… sneaking their iPod into class… myspace…"

Sarah cringed, visibly. Old people.

He let out a low whistle. “I’d never survive.”

“Mmhhmm,” you hummed, softly. And for a second, you both just listened to the road.

The sky was shifting now—smeared with burnt orange, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows on the dashboard. The quiet between stretched, not awkward, not strained.

“Home’s just ahead,” Joel said, his voice gentler now.

You turned your head, looked at him—really looked this time.

“I can bring wine,” you said. “Figured it was safer than tryin' to cook with a power tool…” Lacey accent slipping off of the edge of your words.

He chuckled, the sound deep and raspy. “Good call. I’ve got ribs that need finishin' on the grill.”

Sarah practically cheered, a dramatic, “I love when you make ribs!”

“Then it’s settled,” Joel said, pulling into the driveway with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times—but today, it felt different. Like a routine just slightly rewritten. You're an extra character, perhaps.

You stepped out of the truck and into something that, maybe, wasn’t so routine at all.

It didn’t take long—just enough time to slip home, peel off the sundress that had long since clung to your skin, and breathe for a minute in the stillness of your space. The kind of stillness that only exists in the hours of the afternoon, when the light comes in low.

You changed into something casual—soft. Nothing bold, nothing inappropriate. But not something you’d ever wear to teach sixth graders about symbolism either. The fabric settled gently over your arms, still chilled from evaporated sweat, the heat of the day finally breaking.

A bottle of wine—cheap, screw top, a last-minute grab from the grocery store last week. A Tupperware of homemade cookies from a restless baking spree the night before. Some fruit, slightly bruised but still sweet, collected into a bag you tied off with a ribbon you found in your kitchen drawer. It was an offering, of sorts. Not extravagant. But thoughtful.

Honest.

Shit, did you want to impress him?

As you locked your door and stepped back into the fading gold of afternoon, it occurred to you how strangely normal this all felt. Like you’d done it before. Like you might do it again.

Hoped you'd do it again.

You made your way next door, your arms full, your heart doing that quiet, uncertain stutter it sometimes did when life shifted just a little out of its usual orbit.

Joel was already on the back patio, sleeves rolled, one hand gripping a pair of tongs as he turned a rack of ribs with practiced nonchalance. The scent hit you before you even rounded the house—smoke, spice, a hint of char.

He glanced up as you approached, and gave a nod like you were right on time.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, the side of his mouth lifting. “We don’t mess around when it comes to ribs in this house.”

You held up the wine and the cookies like a peace offering.

“Well,” you smiled, “I figured I’d at least try to earn my keep.”

Dinner was simple, but good—the kind of meal that stuck to your gut and made the world feel a little smaller, maybe your pants too. Joel plated the ribs with a quiet sort of confidence, tossing a bowl of greens beside the meat like an afterthought.

Sarah had eventually taken her plate to the living room, sprawled on the floor with a tv-show humming from the television, volume low enough to let the hum of cicadas sneak through the open screen door.

You and Joel stayed outside, the patio lights strung overhead flickering to life as the sun dipped low. The wine was already half-gone between the two of you, and the fruit sat untouched on the table—sweating in the heat.

“You always cook like this?” you asked, moving around food with your fork.

He huffed, almost sheepishly. “Only when I’ve got a reason to. Usually it’s just whatever Sarah’s willing to eat without a fight.”

“She’s a good kid,” you said, tone softer now. “Sharp. Thoughtful. Sometimes I catch her looking out for the other students when she thinks no one’s watching…”

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed like he was weighing something. “She likes your class. Says you don’t talk to ‘em like they’re stupid.”

“Well, they’re not,” you replied. “Even when they act like it.”

That earned a low chuckle, his head tipping back, the sound rattling in his chest.

The silence after it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavier.

You glanced at him—really looked—and felt that slow, creeping awareness settle in again. The line. The complication. The tension that had existed ever since this morning when you’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The stares between bringing the mail in, or doing yard work in the summer.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, after a pause too long to be casual.

You blinked. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, then shook his head slowly. “I dunno. Most teachers I’ve met don’t come over with cookies and wine. Or talk about books like it’s gospel. Or…” He stopped himself there, jaw working as he looked away.

You swallowed. Your fingers fidgeted with the stem of your wine glass. “Or…?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered, voice lower now. “Or make me wonder if it’s a bad idea to enjoy the way you laugh.”

That silenced the evening air. Even the bugs seemed to pause.

Fuck.

You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the warmth or just exhaustion, but your voice came quieter than you meant it to:

“She’s your daughter. I’m her teacher.”

Joel’s gaze lifted, met yours. Steady. Serious. “I know.”

You didn’t look away.

“Doesn’t make it go away though, does it?” He said, almost a whisper.

The porch light buzzed above you, moths circling like they knew something you didn’t.

From inside, Sarah laughed at something on the TV. A reminder. A tether.

You stood, smoothing your flannel, suddenly aware of the way the night had curled itself around you.

“I should head home,” you said, not moving just yet.

Joel didn’t try to stop you. He just nodded once, like he understood exactly what you meant—and also didn’t. He didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

“Thanks for dinner,” you added, voice a little shakier than you wanted.

He looked up at you then, and his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for showin’ up.”

You turned to go, your shoes quiet on the worn patio boards, when his voice caught you—gentle this time, like it didn’t want to startle you.

“Wait—”

You stopped, half-glancing over your shoulder. The wind fizzling out against you, carrying with it the scent of smoke and sugar, and something that lingered between the two of you.

Joel stood slowly, one hand running along the back of his neck, the other dangling at his side, “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed it,” he began, already cautious, already apologetic. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, I know. But I gotta run down to Tommy’s place. His breaker’s been out since Tuesday and he’s useless with wires.”

You don't question who Tommy is, guessing you'll find out sooner or later.

He smiled faintly—just enough to take the edge off the ask. “Figured it’d only take me half the day. Was wonderin’ if maybe you could… keep an eye on Sarah?”

Your brow arched, not from offense, just surprise. “You want me to babysit?”

He huffed, shaking his head like that word didn’t sit right with him. “She’s eleven. Barely needs watchin’. Just someone around. Someone she trusts.”

Questionable.

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because it suddenly made everything feel a little closer, a little less theoretical. You weren’t just a neighbor now. Not just her teacher. This was something else.

No, this is something entirely different.

“She’s welcome to come to my place,” you said finally, voice careful. “I’ve got air conditioning, cable TV, and leftover cookies. That should be enough to keep her entertained.”

Joel’s mouth lifted into a genuine smile. Not cocky. Not performative. Just grateful.

“I appreciate it. Really.”

You gave him a look—measured, but warm. “You're lucky I like her...”

“Have her knock around ten?”

He nodded, and for a second it felt like something else passed between you. A thank you, unspoken.

As you finally stepped back toward your own yard, his voice floated out behind you—low, but not uncertain.

“Night.”

You paused, smiled without turning. “Night, Joel.”

. . .

Ten came quicker than expected. The morning had been gentle—sunlight pouring through the kitchen window as you swept the floor barefoot, your coffee gone lukewarm on the counter. Cracked the windows to let in the breeze, the sound of birds and distant lawnmowers carried through the air. You’d even lit a candle, something citrusy and clean.

You weren't doing this for her, per se, but it did help spur your motivation.

When Sarah knocked, it was exactly on time.

She stood on your porch with a small canvas tote slung over her shoulder, the strap nearly sliding off. “I brought homework and bracelet stuff,” she announced, stepping inside like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Good,” you smiled. “I’m making you do all my grading.”

She laughed, setting her things on the coffee table and plopping down on the floor. Out came the beads, a half-finished paperback, and a spiral notebook with messy notes in the margins. She settled quickly, legs crossed, humming softly as she untangled some elastic string.

The morning unfolded easily.

You sat on the couch, red pen in hand, a pile of essays to your right, and your planner open on the cushion beside you. The rhythm of your work was slow but steady. Sarah didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t strained. Every now and then, she’d ask a quiet question—about the reading, or if you liked a certain color pattern for the bracelet she was working on. You answered without looking up, then looked up anyway.

She was comfortable. Focused. There was something familiar about it, something that softened you without asking permission. The quiet company. The peacefulness of just being in a room with someone, no performance required.

You caught yourself looking around once, eyes drifting across the living room: the soft sunlight over the coffee table, the slow spin of dust in the air, her bent head over a half-tied knot in the string. Coiled brown hair that was messily tied up. It hit you how still it all felt—how whole.

The thought unsettled you. In a good way. In a scary way. One you felt like you might not deserve.

Sarah looked up, suddenly, like she felt you were thinking. “Do you think I should make one for my dad?”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch. “Would he wear it?”

“Probably not.” She twisted the beads between her fingers. “But he’d keep it.”

“Then yes. Definitely.”

She nodded, satisfied.

You went back to your grading, and the clock kept ticking. The day crawled in that slow Saturday kind of way. And still, neither of you felt any rush to break the moment.

Around noon, you made sandwiches—simple ones. Toasted bread, turkey, tomato, a bit of mayo, nothing fancy. You called Sarah to the kitchen, and she wandered in with a half-finished bracelet still looped around her fingers.

She stood beside you while you cut the sandwiches diagonally, eyes following the knife. “You always eat lunch this late?” she asked, biting into a pickle from the plate you slid her way.

“Only on weekends,” you stated. “School days, it’s usually whatever I can sneak between grading and yelling across the room to keep kids from doodling that damn S in their essays.”

Sarah snorted. “Justina wrote about teen vogue in her book report last week.”

You gave her a look. “You’re kidding.”

“Swear.”

You both laughed and sat on the barstools at your little kitchen island, legs swinging absently under the counter.

Halfway through her sandwich, she asked, “Did you always wanna be a teacher?”

The question came out of nowhere, but not in a challenging way. She just sounded curious. Genuinely interested.

You chewed thoughtfully, then gave a shrug. “I think I did. I liked books. I liked figuring people out through how they wrote. And… I liked the idea of being someone who noticed things when no one else did.”

Sarah nodded like she understood that more than someone her age probably should.

After a beat, she asked, “Do you like it?”

You leaned your elbows on the counter and looked at her—really looked. Tan skin, freckles. “I do. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it’s too hot and no one read the chapter. And someone’s crying in the bathroom. And another kid’s sneaking cheeto puffs under their desk… I still like it.”

That made her smile. Not just polite—but full, like she was letting you in on something private. “You’re good at it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She twisted her straw around in her drink. “You don’t talk down to us. You don’t act like we’re stupid… And, you're funny."

“Well,” you said with a small grin, “…. some of you are suspiciously smart.”

She took a long sip of her juice. “Do you have a family?”

You paused—less because of the question, and more because it reminded you how rarely you got asked anything personal by your students. It just wasn't the type of thing they were curious about.

It was obvious you lived alone.

“Not really,” you said gently. “My family’s kind of scattered. A few phone calls here and there, but I’ve made my own little version of it along the way.”

Sarah looked at you. Not pity. Just a kind of knowing. “I think my dad’s doin’ that too.”

You didn’t say anything to that—just reached over and gently nudged the plate of cookies toward her.

“Eat another, that’s your payment for getting deep on a Saturday.”

She giggled and took one. “Deal.”

. . .

The night had crept in without warning. You hadn’t even noticed the sun setting, not really. One moment, the room was bathed in gold, and the next, it was all deep, dark, and warm lamp light. The hum of your box fan filled the background as Lilo & Stitch played on your TV, slightly fuzzy.

Sarah had curled up beside you with a blanket around her shoulders, popcorn long abandoned. At some point, she’d pressed a throw pillow into your lap and laid her head down on it without a word. It felt natural.

Like this wasn’t new.

You sipped from your mug of tea, still warm in your hands. The weight of her head on your lap wasn’t heavy—just present. Comforting. Her hair smelled like cheap shampoo and sun—like Joel clearly didn't know what hair products to buy for her—like maybe you'd have to fix that too.

You watched the movie for a while, but your eyes kept drifting to her instead.

She looked peaceful. Deep asleep, breath even, lashes soft against her cheeks. You reached for the remote slowly, lowered the volume down to a murmur, letting your other hand rest loosely on the arm of the couch

It made your chest feel oddly full. Not in a heavy way. Just full.

You liked it. You liked this.

And then came a knock. Soft. Three times.

You looked toward the front door and instinctively glanced at the clock. A little past ten.

The door creaked open before you could get up—Joel stepped in, gently closing it behind him as he spotted you on the couch. He didn’t speak at first. Just took in the sight.

Sarah, asleep. The dim TV light flickering across the room. Your hand halfway frozen mid-sip.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake her.”

“She’s out cold,” you whispered with a soft smile. “Movie night hit harder than expected. It was a rager.”

He walked in a few steps, careful like the floor might creak too loud. His eyes moved from his daughter to you, then back again. “Looks like she made herself comfortable.”

You nodded. “She’s good company, don't worry.”

Joel’s mouth tugged into a soft smile. The kind that didn’t flash—it just settled there. “You’re good with her,” he said after a moment. “I mean—I knew that already. School and all' but this…”

He looked down at his boots for a second, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping over a line just being here.

“I appreciate it,” he added, quieter this time. “Today. All of it.”

You swallowed and nodded, fingers curling around your mug, “Of course.”

There was a pause then. Just long enough for it to stretch a little. He looked like he had more to say, but didn’t know how to frame it.

“I can carry her out,” he offered, voice still soft, stepping forward.

You nodded and gently began to shift. “Let me help.”

Joel leaned in carefully, one arm sliding under his daughter’s legs, the other under her back. She stirred only slightly, murmuring something in her sleep as he lifted her with practiced ease.

She fit into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. A practiced ritual. Love and devotion.

You stood nearby, arms crossed gently over your chest, mug long discarded, watching him adjust her in his hold.

He looked at you—really looked.

“Maybe next time,” he said, “we make it dinner and a movie.”

Your breath caught, just a little. Then you smiled, faint and genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Maybe we do.”

Joel nodded once, Sarah curled against his chest, and turned to the door.

But it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the first page of something. Quiet. Earnest. Real.

He was halfway down the walkway when you spoke—quietly, but with enough clarity to carry through the still evening air.

“Joel?”

He paused, turning just slightly over his shoulder. The porch light spilled a golden hue across his back, catching the faint tousle of Sarah’s hair as she slept, her head tucked close against his collarbone. Hair slightly messed from the long day of wearing a hat.

You stepped forward, one hand bracing the doorframe. You weren’t sure exactly what gave you the nerve—maybe it was the way he looked standing there, solid and warm in the night. Maybe it was the weight of Sarah’s sleepy trust still lingering in your lap. Or maybe it was just the ache of wanting company.

“When you put her down,” you said, voice quieter now, “… you can come back. If you want.”

Joel tilted his head. Not in surprise—more like consideration.

“I’ve got whiskey,” you added, your tone lighter, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth, “Might not be top shelf, but it’s not the worst.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there holding his daughter, looking at you like he was seeing something he didn’t know he needed to find.

Then came a nod. Slow. Sure.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

You watched him go, the weight of that promise hanging in the air even after he disappeared down the drive.

Ten minutes stretched, but not in a bad way. You rinsed your mug, straightened a blanket. You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t change your clothes or fix your hair. This wasn’t a date—it wasn’t anything like that.

And still, your heart thudded a little when the knock came again.

You opened the door, and there he was—no daughter this time, no arms full of responsibility. Just Joel. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair a little tousled, eyes softer than you’d seen them all day.

“I brought glasses,” he said, holding up two tumblers from his own kitchen. “Didn’t know if yours had dust in ‘em.”

You grinned. “You don't take me for a whiskey girl?" The jest came out easy.

The two of you ended up back on the couch—poured the whiskey, handed him a glass, then settled back with your knees pulled up beneath you.

At first, it was small talk. Work. The heat. The horror that was sixth grade social dynamics. You laughed more than you meant to. So did he.

And then, somewhere between the second to third pour and the second silence that followed it, the mood shifted—not heavy, just quieter. The kind of quiet that stretches like a soft duvet, not a wall.

Joel swirled the whiskey in his glass. “She adores you, y’know.”

Your brows lifted. “Sarah?”

He nodded. “You’ve only been her teacher for a little while, but… she talks about you. More than I think she realizes. Always been a little cautious with people. But you? She lets her guard down… and I'm sure I'll never hear the end of tonight.”

You exhaled, your fingers tracing the lip of your glass. “She’s easy to care about.”

Joel glanced at you, then looked down at his lap, his thumb rubbing the base of the tumbler. “So are you.”

That stopped you.

Not because it was forward. But because it was honest.

You didn’t answer, not at first. Just let the moment hang there, warm and undemanding.

Then you gave the softest response you could manage, your voice barely above the hum of the fan:

“You didn’t have to say that.”

He looked over. “I wanted to.”

Another pause. Your legs shifted, stretching out toward the edge of the couch, and Joel turned slightly to mirror you. Closer now. Not touching. But close enough to feel it.

You lifted your glass between you. “To honesty, then.”

He clinked his against yours. “To whatever this is.”

And you both drank.

. . .

Sunday settled heavy over the neighborhood, the heat of the day finally loosening its grip as night crept in through the windows.

It's hot as fuck, per usual.

You’d spent the day on the phone—tow truck, auto shop, then the shop again. No answer. Then one more call that went straight to voicemail.

The car wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were you.

By early evening, you were pacing your Livingroom barefoot, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt as you weighed your options. The silence in your house only made it worse.

You weren’t stranded, not really. You could call a Taxi. Call a coworker. Figure something out.

But you didn’t want to do any of that. It costs money. It costs social awareness you lacked with your older co-workers.

So you grabbed your keys—habit, really—and crossed the short driveway barefoot, the concrete still warm beneath your soles. You didn’t knock immediately. Just stood there for a second, hand raised, heart giving a small, stupid thud.

Then you knocked—three soft taps.

It didn’t take long.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulder like he’d been doing dishes. He blinked at first—surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar rasp curling around the word like warmth.

“Hey,” you echoed, then glanced down, “I—uh—I hate to bug you, especially two nights in a row, but I think my car’s officially given up on life.”

Joel leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “That the same one you tried to nurse back to health Friday?”

“The very same,” you sighed, arms crossing in mirror of his. “I’ve called the shop three times today, and nothing. Was hoping you might have a mechanic, some advice? A brand new supercar?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I know a guy—used to work with him. He’s good, won’t try to fleece you.”

Relief bloomed in your chest, enough to make your smile genuine. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Lemme grab his number,” Joel said, pushing the door open wider in invitation. “C’mon in. You might as well get comfortable while I dig through the drawer.”

You stepped inside, that familiar warmth of his home wrapping around you. There was something about the smell—cedar and clean laundry and something that felt lived-in. Sarah’s backpack was dropped by the couch, her sneakers nearby. Brown paint clung nicely to the walls.

Joel wandered off toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Want some water? Or whiskey again?”

“Water, please. I’m trying not to turn into a problem,” you called back, a small jest.

He returned a minute later with a glass in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

“Here’s the number. Name’s Eli. Tell him I sent you, he’ll probably bump you to the front of the line.”

You took both, fingers brushing his—barely. But it was enough to send a small jolt through your system.

Easy, girl.

“I owe you,” you said, softly.

He looked at you then, for a beat too long. Not in a way that asked anything from you. But in a way that made your stomach flutter and your breath slow.

“Nah,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

A silence fell. Not awkward, not pressing. Just… open. You stood in his living room, water glass sweating in your palm, and felt that strange comfort again—like you belonged there more than you should.

You cleared your throat gently. “I, uh… I’ll let you get back to your night.”

Joel didn’t move. “You don’t have to rush off.”

You raised a brow inquisitively.

He shrugged, one hand running down the side of his neck. “Just sayin’. Sarah’s already asleep. It’s quiet. I’ve got a couch and a half a pizza left in the fridge.”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “Is that your way of asking me to stay for dinner?”

“I’d say it’s more of an open invitation,” he replied, eyes soft, “No pressure.”

You lingered in the doorway, fingers curling tighter around the cool glass in your hand. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you—like you were someone who mattered. Like this quiet exchange, wrapped in casual tones and easy smiles, meant more than either of you wanted to admit.

But your mind pulled elsewhere. You had a stack of unfinished grading waiting at home, a lesson plan to finalize, a classroom to reset before Monday at eight. As much as you wanted to sit back on that couch with him, legs tucked beneath you and the low hum of some old movie playing in the background… reality tugged at your sleeve.

Fuckin' reality.

“I’ve got papers to grade,” you said softly, your voice an apology more than anything. “And a few things to prep for tomorrow. My classroom’s a mess and the kids are expecting answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet.”

Joel gave a small nod, not disappointed—just understanding. “Yeah,” he said, that low drawl, “Duty calls.”

You smiled faintly, setting the glass down on the kitchen counter. “I wasn’t expecting to be here this long, anyway.”

“Didn’t seem like you were in a rush,” he offered, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“No,” you agreed, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I wasn’t.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting the silence fall again. At the door, he opened it for you, the night air brushing cool against your skin.

“You’ll let me know if the car gives you more trouble?” he asked.

You looked back at him. “Promise.”

His eyes held yours for a moment too long again—warm and steady, like he saw straight through to the parts of you you kept hidden.

“Night, Joel.”

“Night,” he said, voice low. “Grade easy.”

You stepped out into the dark, your heart just a little heavier in the best way.

Back home, your papers waited. But so did the memory of the way he’d looked at you—not asking for anything, not needing to. Just seeing you. And that, somehow, was the part that lingered the longest.

. . .

Monday rolled in like a wave—heavy, gray-skied, and a little too fast.

You rubbed your eyes in the soft glow of your kitchen light, coffee in hand, toast forgotten in the toaster. It was too early, your body still half-asleep, and the stress of the week already sat on your shoulders like a full backpack. Ironic, right?

Your car still wouldn’t start, and the mechanic hadn’t gotten back to you over the weekend. The thought of repair bills danced in the back of your mind—bitter. Bills you might not be able to pay. Bills you know you aren't going to be able to pay.

At exactly 6:53 a.m, the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck echoed outside your window. You peered through the blinds and saw Sarah swinging her backpack onto her shoulder, Joel stepping around the truck to help her up with an ease that made your chest ache in some unspoken way.

You met them outside, travel mug in hand, your sweater pulled tight around you to fight off the last of the early morning chill. Joel gave you a nod as you climbed in—Sarah already chatting from the passenger seat about some comic she’d stayed up too late reading.

“Morning,” Joel said, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You alright?”

“As good as someone without a working car and a pile of essays to grade can be,” you muttered, flashing him a tired but honest smile.

He glanced over at you, one hand on the wheel. “You hear anything from the shop?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping it’s just the battery,” you sighed. “But knowing my luck, it’s probably the whole damn engine.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Just fact.

That small sentence landed heavier than you expected.

We’ll. As if this was shared. As if your problems were something he was already invested in. It was comforting, and terrifying all at once.

Sarah turned toward you from the passenger seat, holding up the beaded bracelet from the day previous. “If your car’s still busted tomorrow, I can make you one of these. For good luck.”

You smiled, genuine and soft. “How'd you know that's exactly what I need?”

The rest of the drive was quiet in that peaceful early-week kind of way—radio low, wind slipping through a cracked window, Sarah humming something tuneless in the front seat. Joel didn’t say much more, but you felt his presence beside you like a steady drumbeat. Reliable. Unspoken.

When the school came into view, you felt yourself straighten, the teacher version of you slowly surfacing.

But before you unbuckled, Joel’s voice cut gently through the quiet.

“After school,” he said. “We’ll go to the shop,"

"Together.”

You looked at him.

Tired, maybe.

A little stressed.

But steadier now.

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft.

. . .

The day was rough from the start.

Your first-period class barely looked up when you entered. Heads on desks, a few pencils half-heartedly scratching at papers. Jonathan Livingston Seagull sat untouched on more than one corner of a desk. You gave the same opening you’d practiced—about individuality, purpose, flying beyond expectations—but it landed with a thud.

By third period, someone asked if Jonathan was just suicidal, and another asked if they could switch to reading The Lorax instead. You scribbled a note to rework your discussion questions during your lunch break.

Damn kids.

Lunch came late and cold. The meat was… questionable. You ate a granola bar instead and skimmed through a few ungraded reflection assignments.

A few of them weren’t bad. Most of them wrote, 'he just wanted to be alone and fly,' in different ways.

Good observation. It's not like he's a fuckin' bird or anything.

The copier jammed halfway through printing your last worksheet of the day.

By the final bell, your nerves were strung tight. Your voice felt hoarse from repeating yourself. Your lesson plans for the next day were untouched. And your car was still out of commission.

You walked out into the bright Texas sun, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder, the heat already slick on the back of your neck. And there it was: the blue Chevy, idling quietly in the car line.

Joel gave you a small nod when you opened the passenger door. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” you said, sliding in. “I think the seagull’s going to be the death of me.”

He gave a low, amused sound—not quite a laugh. “Still on that book?”

You buckled your seatbelt. “Yep. Today’s takeaway was that he should’ve just stayed with the flock.”

Joel didn’t look over, but you could see the smile pulling at his cheek. “Not exactly the message, huh?”

“No. But I’m not sure anyone in my third period cares much about metaphors.”

He adjusted the gearshift and pulled away from the curb. His forearm rested lightly against the wheel, steady. You let yourself sink back into the seat, eyes half-closed against the sun filtering through the windshield.

“How’s the car?” he asked after a few moments.

You sighed. “We talked on the phone. Mechanic's ordering a part. Might be a few days.”

He nodded. “Well—I’ll be here.”

You glanced over, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “I mean, it’s not out of the way. Sarah likes the company. And I don’t mind.”

You looked back through the window, a small smile curling in despite the heat and the bad day. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

That made you glance over. He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just kept driving, a slight edge of amusement in his voice.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop the smile.

"Speaking of Sarah," you murmured as you settled into the truck seat, tugging your bag into your lap, "Where is she? Doesn’t she do a sport?"

Joel kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the open window ledge. “Yeah. Soccer. Practice runs a little later on Mondays. I'll swing back ‘round after I drop you off.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the pause.

“Soccer, huh. Is she any good?”

“She’s scrappy,” he said, mouth pulling into the start of a grin. “Got no fear. Don’t matter how big the other kid is—she’ll steal that ball like it’s hers by right.”

That made you smile. “Sounds about right. She’s sharp. Doesn’t say a ton in class, but I can tell her wheels are always turning."

Joel glanced over at you briefly, brow lifting. “Yeah? She don’t talk much about school, other than about you. I ask, but y’know—middle schoolers. Everything’s ‘fine’ or ‘I dunno.’”

“Well,” you said, chuckling, “… she was one of the only ones who turned in her seagull reflection on time. So she’s already ahead of the curve.”

That got a low, amused noise from him. He clears his throat, dramatizing, “She said that book was ‘weird but, like, kinda deep.' Her exact words.'

“She’s not wrong,” you replied, settling a little more comfortably against the seat. “Bird’s dramatic, sure. But you can’t knock his drive.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just drove, letting the warm spring breeze drift in through the window. Town rolled by, familiar and soft around the edges.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You got a second to breathe tonight, or you buried in papers again?”

You laughed under your breath. “A little of both. I always trick myself into thinking I can stay ahead. Then I assign open-ended questions and immediately regret it.”

“Rookie mistake,” he teased, lips twitching. “You’ll learn.”

“Oh, so now you’re givin’ me pointers?”

He shot you a side glance. “Hey, I know how to spot a burnout comin’. Seen it plenty. You teachers push too hard, too fast.”

You raised a brow, but the smile that crept in was genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” he said, then with a quieter edge, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with askin’ for help, y’know. For what it’s worth.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. You looked over, but he was already turning onto your street.

“I’ll keep that in mind too,” you said gently.

He pulled up in front of your place and let the truck idle.

“I’ll let you get to it,” Joel said, nodding toward your bag. “Unless you’re plannin’ to school me on seagull philosophy.”

You laughed, reaching for the door handle, “Careful, I might. I’ve got quotes.”

He smirked, voice low and teasing, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You stepped out, the truck door closing behind you with a soft clunk. As you walked up your porch, you glanced back.

He was still there. Engine still running—but he didn’t pull away until he saw you fully enter your house.

Shit.

This is going to be the start of something pretty dangerous, huh?

author note:

omgheyyyy... guess who is hooked to this idea (me, it's me). i think this is going to be my first thorough series. very slice of life and fluff heavy. eventual smut chapter... and ofc it'll lead all the way up to outbreak because angst, and I'm evil? maybe okay anyway thoughts r appreciated...

comment for next chapter tagging.

[mononijikayu]

almost like being in love — nanami kento.

“You know, baby. People are intrigued about you.” you said, voice light, teasing. “I think you’re starting to develop a fan club in my silly circles.” He looked over, one eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. “Oh really? Do share.” “After the show, a girl in the bathroom asked if you were single. I told her you were married. To your job. And possibly to me, if I ever get you drunk enough near a temple.” He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a polite cough. Hard to tell with Kento. “Was she disappointed?” he asked after a beat. “Crushed. Said you had the quiet mystery of a yakuza lieutenant and the haircut of a disappointed private school teacher.” “I’ll take that as a compliment, darling.”

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 fic that was once again commissioned by @nanamin-chan, so please thank them!!! this was so fun to write because this is just another continuation of the nanami au in the actor's au. this is just romance, everyone. this is just fluff. so, enjoy it!!! i love you all!!!

masterlist

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the good life ― masterlist.

THIS IS NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND’S SORT OF PLACE. But he likes seeing you perform, more so now that you finally were a full–time comic. He told you before, together means together.

Nanami Kento meant that quite literally, and rather seriously. After all, he meant it when he said he’d be happy to be the concept of every other joke you write and make. 

The jazz bar in Shibuya was its usual dim-lit self, smelling of shochu, yakitori grease, and dreams deferred by too many company meetings. A place where lost all the poets and tired office workers gathered to forget the trains they'd already missed, to drink themselves to a pounding headache in the morning.

You were on stage for the nth time this week, by a great popular demand no less. Beautifully poised in heels you hated but wore religiously, gripping the mic felt like a second pair of chopsticks. 

It looked almost like you belonged there. You stood there like you belonged there, stood there like you were a shining star leading the way into this world. Ever so natural. Familiar. Slightly dangerous when misused.

There he was, as present as ever. Your boyfriend, Nanami Kento. Front row. Always in that tan suit, always punctual. Like time owed him something.

Your boyfriend looked expensive, as always. You didn’t know if he was wearing Gucci or Dior, though. And in some ways, it made him look out of place in such a rowdy space.

He sat with that straight–backed posture, like he’d come straight from a boardroom and not from filming some drama where he played yet another emotionally constipated genius detective.

He was sipping another shot of highball. Untouched plate of edamame. Watching you like you was a particularly intricate Noh performance.

You exhaled into the mic, smiling brightly. "Good evening, everyone. Hope you’re all enjoying your drinks and your snacks. And for the salarymen here tonight—don’t worry, I’m not about to talk about your boss with the beer bill on the company tab. That’s what group dinners are for.”

Light laughter. A few heads bowed knowingly. Kento didn’t laugh. But his caramel eyes merely shifted as much as the edge of his lips did. That was his version of clapping, you’ve learned. In public, your boyfriend has a lot of need to maintain appearances, after all.

“There’s this guy I know." you tilted your head slightly toward the front row. “Someone who comes to every single one of my sets. Every single one. Quite the dedication, no? It doesn’t matter if he’s been working for twenty hours straight or covered in fake blood from a shoot. Tan suit. Scotch in hand. Expression like a banker attending a funeral.”

The audience chuckled, and someone in the back shouted “kakkoii na!” which made you grin.

“I asked him once, ‘Why do you keep coming?’ You know what he said? ‘Because it's the only time I see you exactly as you are.’ Which is either the most romantic thing ever said in this country... or a veiled insult. Still undecided about that, folks.”

Kento raised his glass slightly, just once. A toast? A warning? Hard to say. But you do know it attracts you more to him than before. 

“But honestly….” you went on to say. “Being with someone who’s so calm, so steady, so… emotionally economical… It's terrifying. Like dating the concept of wa itself. Harmony, order, beige interiors.  It’s a whole thing.”

That got them. A big laugh, especially from the women. “You start thinking you’re the chaotic one. You drop your train card, misplace your umbrella, say something vaguely inappropriate in front of his co–stars. And he just blinks like you’re an unexpected side dish. Not unwelcome. Just… surprising.”

Now even your boyfriend Kento smiled. At least barely. The audience didn’t see it. But you did. And it was better than a standing ovation. That made you realize your set is pretty good. You tailored it to intrigue him after all.

“And yet, you should know, he’s dedicated.” you said, the laughter softening. “He never misses a show. Not one. I told him once he was my emotional support audience member. He just nodded, like I’d finally said something worth filing away.”

The crowd was quiet in that rare, good way. Not awkward. Reverent. Like they'd just been handed a small truth wrapped in a joke. You tilted the mic slightly. “If he ever does miss a show, you’ll know. Either I’ve finally pushed him too far... or he’s dead. Which, knowing him, is the more acceptable excuse.”

Roaring laughter. Applause. Even Kento laughed. Though he did so ever soundlessly, shoulders shifted once. You filed that moment away like a pressed flower between the pages of your memory.

You wrapped up the set with a joke you made up on the train and stepped off the stage. The bar noise rushed back in. The clatter of ice, the low thrum of jazz, someone arguing with the bartender about plum wine.

And there he was. Waiting, as he always did. Glass in hand. Tie slightly loosened but still too perfect. He didn’t go and immediately praised you. He never did, that just isn’t his personality. Instead, he handed you a bottle of water, gently tapped the top of your head.

He murmured to you lovingly. “You paused too long before the wa joke, you know that?”

You smiled. “It was still funny, wasn't it? You smiled!”

“Now, now, a lip ticking up isn’t always a smile, darling.”

“I’m still counting it to be one. That’s my rule!”

He shakes his head at you, finally smiling. “Little dominatrix, you.”

“As I should.” You winked at him, drinking the water.

The evening streets of Shibuya were still humming by the time you stepped outside. Neon signs flickered like cigarette lighters in the dark, and couples passed by hand in hand. You were sure some were freshly in love, others just trying not to argue before the last train. 

The night air had that specific Tokyo chill to it: clean, quiet, and filled with possibility if you let it in deep enough through your lungs. Nanami Kento walked beside you, not behind, not ahead. Beside. Just like always.

He didn’t say anything at first, and you didn’t need him to. His presence was its own conversation. You could hear the rustle of his coat as he adjusted the collar, the soft clink of the ice in his highball glass still echoing in your memory.

He was warm and quiet, and the silence between you wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things he would never say unless prompted like a reluctant contestant on a quiz show.

You reached the corner near the bookstore that stayed open too late, the one you both liked, him for the solitude, you for the gossip magazines. He glanced at the window but didn’t stop. You didn’t either.

“You know, baby. People are intrigued about you.” you said, voice light, teasing. “I think you’re starting to develop a fan club in my silly circles.”

He looked over, one eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. “Oh really? Do share.”

“After the show, a girl in the bathroom asked if you were single. I told her you were married. To your job. And possibly to me, if I ever get you drunk enough near a temple.”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a polite cough. Hard to tell with Kento. “Was she disappointed?” he asked after a beat.

“Crushed. Said you had the quiet mystery of a yakuza lieutenant and the haircut of a disappointed private school teacher.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darling.”

You both turned the corner. The convenience store buzzed behind you like a cicada that didn’t know it was out of season. The conversation faded again, but not awkwardly. Kento had a way of folding you into the quiet. 

With him, you didn’t need to fill every space with words. Sometimes just walking next to him made you feel whole. With your arms almost brushing, your strides naturally in sync. It was enough to make the whole day feel worth it.

Then, after a while, he said, “You write your set differently when you know I’ll be there.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked straight ahead, not even a hint of a smirk. “There are lines you hesitate on. Jokes you aim directly at me. You don’t do that when I’m out of town.”

“So… you do watch the recordings.” Your brows furrowed, intrigued. “Did you subscribe to receive my content? If so, thank you for the money, baby.”

“I like to study my blind spots.”

You stared at him. He didn’t flinch. “I can’t tell if that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” you murmured. “Or the most Kento thing.”

“Both.”

You stopped walking almost instantaneously. He took a few more steps before realizing you’d not been walking with him and instead, paused a few steps away.  When he turned back, you were smiling, crooked and full of disbelief.

“I write differently because you’re the only person I’m scared to lie to, baby.” you said. “Even on stage.”

He tilted his head slightly, then stepped back toward you. Not dramatically. Just... close enough.

“I like the truth, my darling.” he said with suave. “You know this.”

“Even when it’s messy?”

He nodded. “Of course, I do.”

“Even when it’s about you?”

“I prefer it.”

You let out a breath, unsure if you were annoyed or completely undone by him. “You are quite a man.”

“I’m glad you like that.”

“Hm…You are truly….” you said, stopping yourself as you smiled, shaking your head. “You are the most frustratingly stable man I’ve ever met.”

“And yet.”

“And yet, my baby…..You’re amazing.” you echoed, stepping forward to walk again. “You never miss a show.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked beside you, as always. But this time, his pinky brushed yours. Deliberately. Barely. Like a secret. You couldn’t help but feel your cheeks turn red at how tightly his touch brushed on you.

And you thought, Maybe love in Tokyo doesn’t need grand gestures. Maybe it just needs presence. Precision. And a man who never misses a show. Even when the train’s delayed, the shoot runs long, or the punchline might cut a little too close to home.

You laced your pinky with his.

He didn’t look at you.

But he didn’t let go.

IT’S INTERESTING HOW YOUR HOME HAS BECOME MORE HOMELY SINCE YOU STARTED DATING KENTO. Your apartment smelled faintly of citrus-scented floor cleaner. It was sharp and clean in that way that almost tricked you into thinking everything was under control. That tricks you into thinking that chaos was not born in your life. That there was something softer beneath it.

The ghost of the candles you’d lit two nights ago remained unsettled in the abstract goo against the current flames that burned. They’d burned down unevenly on the kitchen counter, flickering over your half–hearted bowl of instant ramen, a quiet, silly attempt to romanticize solitude. 

The scent still lingered ever so flagrantly, so still like a flower undoubtedly strident against the wind. Something so acutely warm and vaguely floral, like amber and smoke, clinging to the air like memory.

The lights were low, dim enough to soften the edges of the space, to make the piles of mail on the counter and the dishes in the sink blur into obscurity. Shadows pooled gently at the corners of the room. 

Jazz murmured lazily from the Bluetooth speaker, the saxophone winding through the quiet like a thought you couldn’t quite hold on to. Mingus, maybe. Or Coltrane. Something you’d put on because it made the silence feel less lonely.

Your shoes were kicked off in the genkan, one lying half-turned on its side, the other nudged against the wall like it had simply given up halfway to the rack. It was the kind of careless placement that said: I live here.

Not performatively. Not as a curated space for guests or social media. But really live here, feel it with all the life it could offer, all the life you could give it. With all the uneven rhythms and soft chaos that came with it, of course.  

The couch was slightly dented where you’d spent the last few nights curled up in the same corner, laptop balanced precariously on your knees, sometimes writing, sometimes watching old films you'd seen too many times before. 

A rather comfortable blanket was thrown across the cushions in that deliberate yet accidental way. It was the kind of arrangement that only looks artful when you’re too tired to care.

Kento’s coat was folded over the back of your far flung armchair, ever so meticulously, of course. You could see his suit tie was draped over the edge of your couch, hanging like it had fallen asleep halfway through trying to relax. 

He sat beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the massive sofa, a glass of Nikka whisky in his hand, fingers curled around it the way he did everything. It was quietly ever so controlled, and restrained, perhaps measured even. Just like your boyfriend’s entire person was.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked comfortably under you, your own glass resting lazily on your knee. The precious ice had long melted, leaving behind a diluted pool of amber at the bottom. The music from the party had faded into a distant hum through the walls, but neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

There was a kind of peace in it that only the two of you would understand. In the way you simply were together, no demands, no expectations. Just two people sharing the same breath, the same silence. 

You could feel his presence more than see him, the quiet gravity of Nanami Kento seated beside you, close enough that the air between you seemed to pulse with unspoken words.

It started slow. Barely anything, at first. A brush of his long fingers against your shoulder. It was casual, almost accidental. Your hand slid down, fingertips grazing the inside of his wrist where his pulse beat steady and sure. 

The small, almost imperceptible movements spoke volumes, sentences of longing written skin to skin, against yours. It was too strong, too magnetic. It was something that even all the words in the world can’t explain to you or him.

Everything about your chemistry was as boundless as the deep expanse of the sea, thunderous in the world of troubles. Nothing else could matter in that, even if you were caught in the most dangerous beaconings of a troublesome storm. 

Your desire, your pleasure, your need for each other was far more loud than all of it, far more powerful than what they think they could put between you or him. Nothing could separate you, you knew that. If anything, you could only want to stay stronger, beside each other. On each other.

A glance a little while later and then it became more than that. You found him looking at you like you were the only person in the world worth seeing.  Like you were the only person that could ever be the apple of his eye. You felt your lips part for a moment, looking back at him.

In an instant, your lips melted against his in an outstanding kiss. At first, it was soft. It always starts out that way. It was like a whisper, a question neither of you had the courage to ask aloud. His lips met yours with the kind of careful tenderness that made your heart stumble. 

But the second your hand threaded lightly into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the slow flex of muscle beneath, the kiss deepened. Firmer. Hungrier. It always ends up being something that drives you both to drown in the pleasure of the other.

Like every kiss you'd shared before, it built the way an argument does when neither side wants to win. If anything, pleasure dictates that both of you must lose. In this quiet battle of rhythm and stubborn, aching affection, there must always be surrender to the wiles of desire. 

And desire between the two of you, it was subtle, magnetic, and once it started, there was simply no stopping it. That’s just how it was when two people are willing to love each other into the depths of pleasurable madness. 

Your mouth tasted faintly of whisky and laughter, the easy, sun-warm kind that only ever happened when you were around him. His tasted like patience, like something deeper and more endless than you could ever hope to name. It was smoky and sweet all at once, carrying the faint, intoxicating notes of the highballs he'd sipped earlier at the bar.

When he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further, you caught that ghost of flavor again. All too smooth, warm, and utterly Kento. You made a soft, involuntary sound against him, and he responded in kind, a low hum deep in his chest that you could feel rumbling against your palms as you clutched at him.

One kiss turned into another. And another. It was an endless loop that you both couldn’t stop. Nothing was going to stop you both from taking and taking. Each one of those kisses saying more than words ever could: Stay. Want you. Need you. I love you.

Your glass slid forgotten to the side, a soft clink against the table as your hands found their way up his chest, memorizing the shape of him again, grounding yourself in the solid, steady reality of Kento.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction of an inch, his forehead resting lightly against yours, both of you breathing each other in. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a silent promise.

"You’re dangerous, aren’t you, pretty woman?" he murmured, voice low and rough, sending shivers dancing down your spine.

You smiled, breathless and a little dizzy. "Only for you."

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world to show you exactly what you meant to him and you realized, in a quiet, resounding way, that he really did.

But you knew that it was not going to last long. But even in the dullness, you know that your boyfriend liked having something intriguing, to keep the flames of passion burning.

Soon enough, it was messy in the way only sober-enough kissing is, all too intentional, all too knowing. His hand slipped under your shirt, not greedy, just certain. Yours tangled in his hair, already a little mussed from the night. You tugged lightly. He hummed, pleased with it all. You’d forgotten the song still playing.

You could barely come up for air. But when you finally did, your faces were beautifully flushed towards each other, your breath falling into his collarbone like a confession. Your lover leaned his head back, caramel eyes closed, chest rising slowly. He was a happy, fulfilled man indeed. And you liked seeing that.

And then, just like that, he asked, “Would you like to move in together?”

You blinked. Pulled back just enough to see his face. No smirk. No nerves. Just that classic Nanami Kento stillness with a dash of nonchalant. Like he’d asked if you wanted to order another drink to be poured on his drink.

“Did you hit your head on something when I wasn’t looking?” you asked, eyes narrowed. “Because that was a tone shift.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, darling.” he said simply. “For a while. It just….makes sense.”

You sat up, heart thudding now. Certainly not from the kissing, not from the whisky but from the quiet way he said for a while. Like it had been living in him. Like it wasn’t a sudden idea, but a decision that had already been made. He was just offering it to you now, carefully wrapped in calm.

“You don’t joke about things like this, Nanami Kento.” you said, half–teasing, half–terrified. “You’re going to be talking about what my shoe closet looks like.”

“I don’t joke about something this serious, darling. You know. Especially about the shoe closet.”

You stared at him. He stared back. You looked away from him, pursing your lips as you began to daydream about what he was saying. You don’t daydream too much, for your own sake, of course. But when you do now, it consumes you.

You begin to think of what your days could look like. Your shirt was crooked, and his button–up was half undone, and the air was thick with possibility and the slight scent of his cologne. You thought about your small closet. 

His endless collection of ties. Your bright violet toothpaste. His expensive golden razor. The quiet mornings. The very occasional arguments that always ended in silence and leaning in. The space between you and him, shrinking.

You bit your lip. “If I say yes, will you be freakishly neat and reorganize my spice rack alphabetically once again?”

“Only if you want me to.”

You paused. “...And you’re sure you’re not asking because the whisky made me seem extra charming tonight?”

“You are always charming, my precious darling.” he said, with no irony. “And I’m asking because I want to come home to you. I mean, it’s nice to see you when I get home.”

You tilted your head at him, studying his face in the low light. You always did that when you didn’t quite trust the size of the moment. You held it up to the light like jewelry, trying to see if it caught the right kind of sparkle.

And then, as naturally as anything, you looked at him and sighed. “Well….you’re already always in my apartment anyway. Unless you’re sleeping in your trailer.”

That got him. He laughed. You could hear it reverberating in your ear. It was a soft, deep thing that cracked through the room like thunder far away, the kind that rolls more than it rumbles. Kento didn’t laugh easily. So when he did, it always felt like it belonged to you.

“Yeah, exactly.” he said, tilting his glass, warm caramel eyes still on yours. “It’s more homely than mine, comfortable beyond words.”

You smirked. “Homely? That’s a diplomatic way to describe the leaning bookshelf, the chipped kettle, and the constant state of sock–on–floor.”

“I like it here, darling.” he said. Simple. No room for embellishment. “It’s…..way more sunlight than my godawful apartment.”

You laughed at him. You leaned forward and plucked his glass gently from his hand, setting it down with yours on the coffee table. Then you tucked your legs under his, leaned against his shoulder.

“That's an interesting form of thought.” you said, playing with the hem of his shirt. “You’re saying all this time you’ve been camping out here like some beautifully stoic squatter, and now you’re just formalizing the situation?”

“I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial merger.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “That’s the most you thing you could possibly say, baby.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he murmured. “You have all the good coffee. And a much better pillow.”

“Obviously, I splurge on myself.” you said, chin tilted up to meet his gaze. “I have taste, after all.”

He nodded, slow and serious. “I did notice. You chose me.”

You paused. Damn him. You weren’t the romantic one. Not really. Perhaps that’s why none of your relationships have panned out the way you wanted it to. You were the wisecrack. The getaway car. The girl with the enraging punchline. 

But the way he said things, there was just enough softness behind the deadpan, like the words had passed a board meeting of his thoughts before being released and you couldn’t dodge it. It’s also safe to say that you didn’t want to. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” you whispered. “Let’s do it. Let’s live together.”

He didn’t smile wide at those words. Kento didn’t go wide all the time, you knew that. But there was a shift in his bright eyes, a stillness behind them that deepened the more he looked at you. It was like a weight over his shoulder had dropped at anchor.

He squeezed your hand once and started caressing your fingers. Kento then leaned in, his mouth brushing yours. It was slower than the first time you’ve made out tonight. It was passionate but it was more reverent. It was like he was kissing the idea of a home rather than a person. 

You deepened the kiss this time. Not messy. Not urgent. Just right. And somewhere between the quiet of the room and the cool press of his palm against your lower back, it dawned on you now.

Kento hadn’t missed a show, he never had any intention of doing something like that. And now, he wasn’t going to miss the mornings after, either. All at once, you found yourself falling in love all over again with him. 

Later, the jazz music had slowly faded into silence, and the only sound was the rustle of his shirt as he took it off, careful, like he was folding it at the dry cleaners. He never left clothes in a heap. Even here, even now. You found that annoying once. Now it made your chest ache a little.

The two of you now laid there together on the couch soon after your joyous kissing, your legs tangled, your head tucked under his chin, the quiet holding you both like an extra blanket. This sort of silence comes ever so many times after blissful desires being fulfilled between the two of you.

“Where would we live?” you murmured, voice soft from the edge of sleep. “Here? Yours? Or are we doing the whole… new place, new life thing?”

He was quiet for a moment, long enough you thought maybe he’d dozed off.“Here, if you’re comfortable. Your place feels lived in.”

You chuckled. “That’s a poetic way of saying cluttered, don’t you think?”

He didn’t deny it. “But it’s better here despite that.” he added, looking at you tenderly. “You laugh here. And I adore that.”

You blinked, suddenly too awake. You tilted your face up to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“You laugh the most in this space, darling.” he said. “You’re yourself. You come home and sigh, and drop your keys like you’re shedding a persona. It’s honest.”

Your throat tightened, because it was true. And because you hadn’t even realized he noticed. You were always laughing, but this doesn’t mean it’s always as genuine as people think. But when you’re here in this space, comfortable and without prying eyes — only Kento’s eyes watching you, you become the truest form of yourself. 

“I can bring my coffee maker too.” he offered to you. “And we can trade the bookshelf for one that doesn’t threaten to collapse every time you breathe near it.”

You snorted, pushing lightly at his chest. “Don’t touch my bookshelf.”

“But it leans like it’s in debt.”

“It’s got character!” You defended. “Besides, I got it for free.”

“$500 dollars is not free.” He raised an eyebrow, the edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And so do unstable men, darling. Doesn’t mean you bring them home.”

You laughed at these words, louder this time. It echoed even towards the  other side of the kitchen walls. He smiled for real then, the kind he didn’t give to paparazzi or co-stars or anyone on set. The one he saved for you.

You shifted up to straddle his lap, your hands settling on his chest, warm and solid beneath you. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” you whispered, more a realization than a question.

He nodded. “I’ve never been more certain.”

“And what if I’m a terrible roommate?”

“You already are.”

You gasped, dramatic. “Rude.”

“But, it’s not the worst thing in the world.” he said, brushing his thumb against your jaw. “ I like that you’re my terrible roommate. And I’d rather trip over your shoes for the rest of my life than spend another night in a trailer with lukewarm green tea and no you.”

You stared at him. “You know you just tricked me into a lifelong lease, right?”

He kissed your temple. “No trick. Just a very long–term investment.”

You sighed. Surrendered. Sank into him. “You’re too much for your own good, you know that?”

“So are you.” He says, amused, eyes full of love. “But I love you anyway.”

Outside, Tokyo city central buzzed on with its neon lights, distant traffic, another weekend folding itself into the city’s rhythm. But inside, your little apartment held a different kind of electricity. The kind that came not from what was said, but from what had already been decided.

And if love wasn’t about staying through the chaos, the mismatched cups, the jokes that landed late and the ones that cut too deep, then what was it, really? 

YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH THIS CURRENT SITUATION. Finally you and Kento got a day off where your schedules aligned. So, on this random day, you both embarked onto every facet of Tokyo Metropolitan in order to go house hunting together. 

The real estate agent you got was all perfect. Too perfect, actually. Dressed in that crisp, tailored suit that looked like it came straight out of a movie. His hair was combed back like he was auditioning for a role in a historical drama about upper–class finance bros. 

You had half a mind to ask if the place came with a butler who could direct you to your inevitable panic attack. But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself trying to lock in and focus on making sure you had good water heating for your showers.

“You two are looking for something cozy?” the agent asked, smiling so professionally it made you suspicious.

“Cozy and comfortable.” Kento said, cool as ever. “But with enough space to store all her shoes.”

“I don’t have that many, baby.” you shot back, nudging his arm.

He gave you that tiny, unspoken smile, one that the agent can’t see. Only you saw it. It was the kind that you couldn’t figure out if it was because he was genuinely amused or because he had found a way to subtly insult you without actually saying anything. Either way, it was frustratingly attractive.

The agent beamed. “Ah, yes, of course. We’ll aim for something with great closet space then, yes? A walk–in? Maybe two?”

You looked at Kento. “Are we living in L.A. now? Do I need to start measuring the walk–in closet for a vanity?”

Kento was silent for a beat. Then, with the kind of dry humor only he could pull off.“You could definitely use a vanity. I’ve seen your makeup bag.”

“I heard that.” you muttered.

Meanwhile, the agent was nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. A vanity. We can definitely make that happen. What about an open-concept kitchen? Something with a large island? Perfect for cooking together.”

You and Kento exchanged a look. A silent agreement passed between you. “Yes, that would be good.” Kento said smoothly, “I’ll do the cooking, she’ll do the eating. Well, when we have the time.”

“Hey!” you protested.

“I’m just saying, darling.” he continued, mirth in the corner of his eyes. “You’re more of a ‘delivery’ person.”

You threw a playful punch at his shoulder, but the agent didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy mentally planning the layout of your future life in a house that, as of right now, was just a pile of well-choreographed words.

“So, here’s the first place for you both to view.” the agent said, gesturing grandly as if he was presenting you with the last plot of land on Earth. “A beautiful two–bedroom townhouse, open space, natural light pouring in through those big windows. I know you both like that.”

You stepped inside. The place was nice, in that “too perfect, too clean, not a single imperfection anywhere” kind of way. The walls were white, the floors were polished wood, and there was one of those fancy glass showers with no curtain, because apparently, that’s a thing now. There was a room that could be a study, but you both knew it would be more of a “catch–all for all your stuff you don’t want anyone to see” room.

“It’s……interesting.” you started, trying to be diplomatic. “Very... minimalist.”

“Minimalist?” Kento raised an eyebrow, stepping into the living room. “It’s like they took everything from a showroom and put it into a place with no soul.”

The agent smiled, clearly too trained to let the comment rattle him. “Ah, yes. We can certainly add some personal touches. But the layout is ideal.”

You looked at Kento, who was already over by the window, staring out at the view like he was plotting a great escape. “It’s fine, really.” you said, but there was a hesitation in your voice. “It’s just... not us, you know?”

“Yeah, I agree.” Kento said, voice low but sharp. “It feels like someone else’s idea of a home. Not ours.”

You didn’t even have to say anything. You just knew. He knew. This was a ‘try again’ kind of place. The agent was already leading you to the next property, which was thirty minutes away from this place.

Neighborhood was quiet so far, which Kento liked. You just don’t know how they’ll like you afterwards when you make ridiculous jokes out loud to practice your sets. You were very loud after all. And that also happens more so, when Kento becomes too enamoured with you.

“We’ll have to move fast here.” he said, eager, “I’ve had quite a bit of interest in this one. A lot of competition.”

Kento turned to you, eyes twinkling with barely-contained sarcasm. “Oh good, maybe we can start fighting for it. Really amp up the drama.”

“Great, great.” you said, just as mischievously sarcastic. “I can finally get that dramatic screaming match in before we settle in. A few raised voices, maybe throw in a wine glass for good measure.”

Kento chuckled. “Perfect. Maybe the house will actually start to feel like home then.”

The agent led you to the next house, which was a bit further from Tokyo Metropolitan. But it’s not too bad. It was a slightly less–polished version of the first, but with more charm.

A real fireplace instead of the fake one that gave you heartburn just by looking at it. It felt... real in a way the last one didn’t. It was imperfect. But it had character. The kind of character you could shape, add to, make your own.

“Now this one, it's intriguing.” Kento said, the corners of his mouth turning up. “This feels like it could work.”

You walked through the rooms together, each step you took feeling a little more like it was yours. The light was warm. The space felt like it could hold both of you for as long as you both lived. It could fit your shoes, his ties, your inevitable pile of random things that just seemed to find their way into your life.

And when you looked at him, when you caught his bright caramel eyes across the room as he traced his finger along the edge of the counter, you realized something important.

You weren’t looking for perfection, that was for sure. You weren’t looking for minimalist or an open–concept kitchen with a huge island. You were looking for something that felt like it would fit you both. Something you could grow into, something that would hold your laughter, your fights, your quiet mornings.

“So, baby…..what’s on your mind?” you said, slipping your hand into his. “What do you think? Are you willing to share a closet with me?”

Kento looked at you for a long beat, then cracked the smallest smile. “I already do.”

“Well, that settles it.” you said, “I’m sold then.”

The agent looked confused, probably waiting for some big, final decision or maybe an overexcited explosion from both of you. But you and Kento were more calm about this than he probably thought. Yet you know that sometimes it’s not about the house or the grandeur of it all. It’s about what you bring into it.

You turned to the agent, smiling. “We’ll take it!”

“Do you not want to hear about the amenities—”

“Your pamphlet had the information and I read it on the way here.” Kento says, cutting the agent off with a suave look. “We’ll take it.”

“A–ah, I see….well, alright.” The agent rubbed the back of his head, flustered and confused.

You turned to the agent, who was still awkwardly waiting for some sort of real answer, and grinned. “Wrap it up for us, okay?” you said, voice as sweet as it could be. “We’ll take it. Seriously.”

The agent blinked, clearly not expecting you to make the decision so quickly. “You’re... sure?”

You nodded, a little too casually. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not perfect—but it’s good. It feels right. Right, Kento?”

Kento, who had been silently nodding in agreement for the past minute, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure. It’s got potential. And I like that I won’t have to climb over a pile of shoes every time I come through the door.”

You shot him a look. “You’re one to talk. Your shoes multiply like they have a life of their own.”

He shrugged with that calm, nonchalant smile of his. “What can I say? I’m a high-maintenance guy.”

The agent was looking between the two of you, still a little confused but clearly relieved that you were on the same page. “Well, in that case, I’ll start drawing up the paperwork.”

You smiled, standing a little straighter now that the weight of the decision had settled into your chest. “Great. Let’s get this over with so we can go drink to our terrible, amazing decision-making skills.”

Kento leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as reality settled in. “We own a house together now.”

You beamed at him, almost jumping in his arms, giggling. “We own a house together! Oh, I’m so happy, Kento!”

“I think I’d rather make this place a home with you than spend one more minute pretending that’s what that other place was.” He says, placing a kiss on the temple of your head. “This is our home now.”

You sighed dreamingly, smiling. “Our home….”

“The packing is going to be crazy, though.” You whistled, looking around. “Oh, that’s where the bookshelves could be!”

Kento chuckled beside you. “You’re going to need a lot of whiskey for that.”

“I’ll bring the whiskey if you bring the moving boxes, baby.” you quipped, playfully nudging his side.

He grinned. “Deal. But you know, you’ll be the one organizing everything, right?”

You gave him a look of mock horror. “Are you trying to start a war, Kento? Because that’s how wars start.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Fine. But I’ll do the heavy lifting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you say now…”

Kento’s eyes twinkled with a touch of mischief. “I’m a man of my word.”

The agent watched you both banter, clearly fascinated by the easy chemistry between you two. He cleared his throat, snapping you back to the task at hand. “I’ll get everything started for you. You’ll have the paperwork to sign by tomorrow. Congratulations, you two. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Thanks so much.” you said with a smile, “We’re excited. It’s gonna be great.”

As the agent left, you both stood in the empty living room for a few moments, letting the reality of it all sink in. “You know, baby. Half of this was a nightmare.” you said, finally breaking the silence. “When I woke up this morning, I was kind of dreading this whole process. But now that it’s over, it feels…” You trailed off, glancing around the room.

“Easy?” Kento offered, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” You nodded, leaning against him. “Easy.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “So, what’s next?”

“Next?” You raised an eyebrow. “Well, we’ll need to unpack. And then maybe—”

“Then maybe we can do something.��� he interrupted with a soft laugh. “You know, we can  celebrate with a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine and a night on the couch, just the two of us. No packing. No organizing. Just... us.”

You looked up at him, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “That sounds perfect.”

And for once, you didn’t think about anything else. No performances, no deadlines, no next steps in the grand plan. It was just him, and the apartment, and the future you two had already started building, one whiskey-fueled kiss at a time.

“Alright, alright.” you said, looping your arm through his. “Let’s go home.”

“Home….together.” Kento repeated softly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like the two of you were just visiting your lives. You were living them. Together. Forever and forever. 

YOU ALWAYS ENJOY VISITING THEM. Regular people will think that it’s weird that you enjoy the company of Kento’s family, especially his ex–wife’s presence. But you do, you do enjoy it. And you aren’t ashamed of it. They loved you just as much as you loved them, after all.

The moment you stepped into his ex–wife’s house, you knew it was going to be a night. Not a “pass the soy sauce and let’s be civil” night—no, this was shaping up to be a “smile through the tension, eat too much, and pray no one brings up that thing from 2018” kind of evening.

The air smelled like grilled miso eggplant and inevitable chaos. Gojo Satoru answered the door in socks that said “Sexiest Dad Alive” and a kimono robe that was 100% not his. He still looked like a beautiful man, a ridiculous man just the same. And not your type. 

But you know you can’t judge that much. You’re dating a man with a reputation like Kento as well. You smiled at him, greeting him. He grinned like a man who just knew he was going to stir the pot and was already preheating the spoon.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the power couple of the year.” Gojo declared, smiling brightly. “Come in! We’ve been emotionally preparing.”

Kento rolled his eyes so hard you heard it. “Can we go one night without theatrics?”

“You married a woman who schedules her sarcasm, Kento–kun.” Gojo shot back. “Clearly, you like theatrics.”

You patted Kento’s arm. “He has a point.”

“He spent years yearning for her too, you know.” Kento whispers.

“But you married her first, so….” You snicker at your boyfriend.

“Okay, what is this topic?”

Kenshin and Keiko were already on the couch, each with a plate of food and an expression that screamed, “We are only here for the drama.” Nanami Keiko was mid–bite with her lasagna bowl when she spotted you both.

“Oh god, you’re here for dinner!” Keiko said through a mouthful of snacks, eyes widening as you and Kento stepped into the living room. “Is this the dinner where you announce you’re getting a dog? Because I’m prepared to cry.”

“Is that how you greet your father?” Kento asked, raising an eyebrow at her, all dry patience and faint exasperation.

“Hey, it’s not too bad, Dad.” Keiko said, grinning as she brushed crumbs off her sweatshirt and stood up from the couch, “I thought it was just going to be a regular dinner, Dad. You didn’t say there’d be announcements. You’ve trained me to expect stoic silence and miso soup.”

You bit back a laugh, shrugging out of your coat as Kento exchanged a long-suffering look with the ceiling. “She’s gotten more dramatic since the last time.” he muttered. “My daughter, a doctor at the hospital but a menace at home.”

“It’s in the blood, isn’t it?” you said, grinning at him. “Just like her father.”

“Don’t encourage her, darling.” he replied, but the twitch of a smile betrayed him.

Keiko walked over and gave him a quick hug, the kind that started sarcastic but ended sincere. “How was your trip here?”

“Rather long, really.” he said, placing a hand on her back briefly. 

Kenshin raised a brow. “But isn’t the trip only one hour max? I mean, even shorter if there was a bullet train.”

“Someone on the train was watching a drama at full volume.”

“Ah.” Keiko nodded. “Yeah, Dad hates that.”

“Dad’s better than me, I would have been crashing out.” Kenshin retorted, shaking his head.

“Did you ask them to turn it down?” she asked.

“I put in earplugs, [name] gave it to me on the way.” he said flatly. “And mentally rewrote the last act.”

Kenshin raised a brow. “What was the show?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You just saw the show an hour ago!”

“Well, it was that forgettable.”

“You’re such a dad.” Keiko said with a sigh.

“I am your dad.”

“I know. That’s why I said that.”

In the corner, Gojo Satoru popped his head into the room, already holding a beer and smiling like he knew exactly what chaos was about to happen. “Is this the dinner where you tell us you’re engaged? Or moving to Okinawa to open a soba shop? I need to mentally prepare.”

“It’s not that dramatic, you know.” you said quickly, laughing.

Gojo tilted his head. “You sure? Because Kento–kun here looks like he practiced something in the mirror.”

“He always looks like that, Gojo.” Keiko said. “Even when we were kids he was like that!”

Kento sighed. “Can we just sit down for dinner like normal people?”

“Sure, sure.” Gojo said, winking as he took a sip of his beer. “Right after you make your Very Important Announcement.”

Kenshin, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop from behind his phone screen, immediately perked up. “Wait, no, no. This feels bigger. This feels like living together level big.”

Keiko gasped, dramatically clutching her chest like a kabuki actress mid-tragedy. “You’re moving in together?! That is a dog-level announcement!”

Gojo pointed at her with his beer. “Told you. I can smell news. I’ve been around press conferences.”

Kento sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can everyone please stop shouting?”

“Seriously, Dad?” Kenshin’s eyes widened. “You’re moving in together? Wait, [name], are you pregnant?”

You and Kento froze in sync like a badly rehearsed improv duo at Kenshin’s statement. You were about to say something after recovering from shock but Kento’s ex–wife, bless her well–moisturized soul, appeared in the doorway with a bowl of tsukemono and the timing of a sitcom character.

“What’s this about living together?” she asked with a smirk that said I already know but I want to see him squirm.

You cleared your throat and elbowed Kento gently. “Well, funny you should mention it…”

Kento, ever the man of zero dramatic flair, stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and said flatly, “We’re moving in together.”

You turned to all of them, with wide eyes. "But not pregnant! Just clearing this out now. Not pregnant!"

Keiko blinked. “Wait, is this serious this time? Like genuinely, seriously happening?”

Kenshin choked on his drink. “Does that mean I can have Dad’s place?”

“Absolutely not, Kenshin.” Kento deadpanned. “You have your own place.”

“Wait, wait.” Gojo said, grinning like a man who just got handed a new toy. “You’re officially cohabiting? As in, toothbrushes next to each other? As in, shared Netflix password?”

“I’ve had his Netflix password for months, don’t worry about that.” you said sweetly. “But thank you for your concern.”

Kento gave you a look. “That explains the K-dramas in my watch history.”

His ex–wife laughed, which might’ve been the most surprising part of the night. “Honestly, I’m thrilled for you. He’s less grumpy since you started dating. Which is a miracle, because I thought his base setting was ‘dissatisfied salaryman.’”

“Still is, if we’re being honest.” Gojo Satoru whispered behind his hand, then dodged a kick from Kento under the table. “That sorcerer salaryman role never left your head!”

“Did you guys buy a new place or is one of you moving in together?” His ex–wife asked.

“Well, we decided that it was going to be my place originally but…..we’ve discovered we’re two maximalists with a dream and my apartment is not gonna fit all the shoes and his ties.” You say, with a grin on your face as she laughed. “We got a new place.”

Keiko grinned. “I’m just glad you got a new place. Dad’s current place sucks, you know? It’s basically a makeover show waiting to happen.”

“You’re right, it definitely sucks!” 

“Seriously, though.” Kenshin added. “If you live in Dad’s apartment, you’ll come home one day and your books will be alphabetized by emotional trauma.”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough.” Kento muttered, setting down his chopsticks. “Can we eat without treating this like a roast?”

“No, never.” everyone, including you, replied in unison. Kento rolls his eyes as everyone giggles.

You leaned into Kento, whispering, “You know, for a guy with two kids, an ex-wife, and a Gojo in his life, you’re taking this really well.”

He sighed. “This was a mistake.”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Too late. I’ve got the closet rights now.”

Gojo raised his glass. “Well, we should celebrate. Go on, raise your glasses! To shared closets and questionable life choices!”

And just like that, the tension broke. Laughter filled the room. Food was passed. Kenshin asked if he could borrow your air fryer. Keiko tried to sell you on a shared Spotify family plan. Gojo tried to emotionally adopt you again.

And Kento, stoic, stable, secretly soft Kento. He just smiled that small, rare smile he saved for moments like this. Surrounded by family, chaos, and a woman who laughed too loud and wouldn’t let him alphabetize her spice rack.

Home wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t calm.

But it was his.

And now, officially, it was yours too.

Later that night, full of soy sauce and feelings, you found yourself wedged between Keiko and Gojo on the couch like some unwilling member of a variety show panel. Gojo was enthusiastically showing you a video montage of Kenshin’s high school stage play performance. Kenshin, from across the room, was groaning into a decorative pillow.

“Stop acting like you weren’t brilliant.” Gojo said proudly, pointing at the screen where Kenshin delivered Hamlet’s soliloquy with all the intensity of someone discovering existential dread and acne at the same time. “I mean, for an information science major, this is not half bad!”

“I think I stuttered somewhere around here….”

“But that really doesn’t matter in the long run, anyway! You held off your own despite that. Good job!”

“Though, the wig looks off.” Keiko whispered under her breath. “Where did you buy it?”

You nodded at her. “Yeah, this looks like you pulled it together from the shower drain!”

Kenshin blushed. “Look, I tried to style it myself but failed!”

Meanwhile, Kento stood in the corner of the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and looking like a man watching his dignity dissolve into miso soup. His ex–wife leaned against the counter beside him, sipping her wine and trying not to laugh too obviously.

“You look like you’re regretting life choices.” she said, sipping with a knowing smile.

“I’m not, I promise.” Kento replied quietly. “I just didn’t realize how... loud everything was.”

“You always forget.” she said, nudging his arm. “Then you end up in a room with all of us and remember why noise–canceling headphones were the best thing you ever bought.”

“I guess.” 

“I’m glad for you taking this next step, you know?” She says to him with earnest eyes. “It’s good that you finally got your shit together.”

“Hm, I’m glad for that too.” He crossed his arms, whispering under his breath. 

Across the room, you were now trying to explain to Keiko and Gojo how you and Kento managed to choose an apartment without passive-aggressively breaking up at IKEA. For a moment, Kento and his ex–wife stopped what they were doing and looked at you.

“This was for the best.” Kento whispered, almost breathlessly. “I’m happy we’re friends, our kids are alright with this. And we’re happy.”

His ex–wife smiled. “I’m glad we feel all the same things.”

Keiko looked genuinely impressed. “You mean you agreed on furniture? Like, voluntarily?”

“Well, not really.” you said, “I said mid-century modern, and he said, ‘functional’ and then we bickered like children. But, we finally met somewhere between emotionally repressed and tragically tasteful.”

Gojo snorted. “So, beige.”

“Very beige, unfortunately.” you said to him.. “But with the possibility of color. Eventually. If Kento has a glass of wine and I cry about the lighting.”

Kenshin piped up from the other couch. “So basically, you guys are domestic now. Gross.”

You shrugged. “Deeply domestic. I saw him fold laundry last night with reverence.”

Kento, hearing that, called out: “Because you washed a red sock with my white dress shirts.”

“Oh please,” you said. “They’re barely pink. They're a millennial blush.”

Keiko whispered, “God, you guys are already like an old married couple.”

“We’re working on it even more than before.” you said proudly, raising your tea like a trophy. “Just watch!”

Eventually, the night started to wind down. The kids cleaned up dishes without being asked (a rare planetary alignment), Gojo offered to pack you both some leftover tamagoyaki “for energy” and Kento's ex–wife hugged you warmly by the door.

“I’m happy for you, both of you.” she said again, softer now, so only you could hear. “He’s better with you. Not different—just...better.”

You blinked, a little surprised by the lump in your throat. “Thanks. That means a lot. I really love him.”

“I know, I know.” she said. “So do I. Just... in a way that makes me happy he’s yours now.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just squeezed her hand and tried not to get weepy over pickled vegetables.

Kento reappeared with both your coats and your leftovers packed like they’d been engineered by a Tetris champion. He kissed the top of your head. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Always.”

Gojo shouted from the living room, “Text me when you get home so I know he didn’t alphabetize your bookshelf while you weren’t looking!”

“He already did!” you yelled back.

Kento groaned. “You said it looked better.”

"It's not like I'm denying that, baby."

"Well, you might as well have."

You waved goodnight, stepped out into the chilly Tokyo evening, and slipped your hand into his. And for all the teasing, the noise, the unsolicited parenting advice from Gojo Satoru. This was what it came down to. Two people, moving in together. No fanfare. Just leftovers, pink shirts, and shared keys.

Home was no longer a place. It was walking down the street with him beside you, bickering about sock colors and furniture shapes, and knowing—without a doubt—you’d do it all again tomorrow.

YOUR SET WAS PRETTY GOOD TODAY. No, no. Scratch that. It was great. One of those rare, glittering Tokyo nights when everything just clicked. The mic felt like an extension of your arm, the spotlight hit you like a confession from someone you’ve secretly hoped would crack, and the crowd? 

The crowd was yours. Eating out of your hand like you were handing out free matcha Kit Kats and emotionally healthy communication. You were flying. Every punchline landed smoother than a shinkansen on a clear track. 

Your timing was tighter than your vintage Levi’s after a full wash and a late-night conbini run. Even the new material hit, especially the one about Kento’s deep, unsettlingly sexy relationship with organization.

You leaned into the mic, grinning. “So I live with this man now—yes, thank you, I know, I deserve a medal. And I’ve learned something: he doesn’t just organize the fridge. He curates it."

People start to laugh, but you shush them. "Oh, this is no joke, people. The soy sauce is labeled ‘fermented umami solution’ and it’s filled next to a vision board and a bottle of yuzu that has better lighting than I’ve ever had on a Zoom call.”

That earned a full-blown ripple of laughter. Someone in the front row clapped spontaneously, which was a bit much, but you’d allow it. You were willing to get what you were gonna get with that joke, you knew.

You pushed on. “And I opened the vegetable drawer, once—and found a mood calendar. With stickers. Stickers! Tuesday’s daikon was feeling introspective, Thursday’s was gassy but resilient. The carrots were listed as ‘optimistic but emotionally reserved.’ I haven’t touched a vegetable since. I’m afraid I’ll mess up the vibe.”

There was a sputtering sound from somewhere in the back, someone choking on their highball. You paused dramatically, then dropped the kicker. “And he doesn’t just store things, okay? He gives them purpose. I caught him whispering to a bottle of sesame oil. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ He goes—dead serious—‘Encouraging it to fulfill its potential.’”

The room exploded with that one. Even someone at the bar had to steady themselves on a stool. That has pleased you quite a lot. You giggled, moving about to reset in order to get into  another joke.

You glanced sideways, second stool from the left. There he was once again. Nanami Kento. One elbow on the bar, tie slightly loosened, whisky in hand, that signature calm stretched across his face. 

He wasn’t laughing out loud, as always, because of course not. But there was the twitch. The barest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth like a secret only the two of you shared. You’d hit the mark. The audience knew it. You knew it. And Kento? Kento knew it before you even picked up the mic.

The set closed with a bang. Applause burst like confetti. You bowed to everyone, continuing to thank them. You were glowing, buzzing, alive as you waved back away to them.  And then you saw him.

Near the exit. Holding a bouquet of slightly wilted pink roses like a man hoping flowers could make up for... well, everything. You feel like you are gonna puke. Why would he even be here? Your stupid ex. “There she is!” came a voice behind you. 

You turned to where you heard the sound, and there he stood now. Your ex, this close to you. Everything felt like this was the human version of a paper cut that never quite heals. Holding flowers, because of course he was.

You remember why he was the Ex, with a capital E. The guy who once ghosted you after introducing you to his cat like that was a serious milestone. The one who once told you your ambition was “charming but exhausting” which is exactly what people say right before they buy a motorcycle and move to Kyoto to "find himself."

He was standing there. Holding flowers. Actual flowers. Like it was a school recital or a K-drama. Roses, of course, classic, dramatic, and completely impractical. You hated how you had no way around him on this stage design.

“Hey.” he said, with that familiar crooked smile that used to make your knees weak but now just made you want to check your emotional firewall.

You blinked. “You lost? Because I know a good therapist who can help you find closure.”

He laughed. “I came to see your set. You were great. Really. Like... better than I remembered.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks…..Are you still ghosting your therapist or have you finally learned how to communicate in full sentences?”

Behind him, like a silent film villain with perfect posture, Nanami Kento was watching. Calm. Cool. And terrifyingly still. The kind of stillness that said I am not jealous, I am just evaluating the best time to throw this man into the river without disrupting public peace.

The Ex offered the flowers. “Thought I’d bring these. To say I’m proud of you. And sorry. For… y’know. Stuff.”

You crossed your arms. “Stuff? Wow. Really digging deep into that emotional vocabulary, huh?”

Kento finally walked over, not fast, just… decisively. Like a slow-motion threat in a beige trench coat. “Evening to you.” he said to the Ex, voice polite but with the undertone of someone who can fold a person like laundry. “Can I help you?”

The Ex straightened up, suddenly remembering that Kento existed and that he was, in fact, built like the kind of man who can deadlift emotional baggage and you, if necessary. Unfortunately, he is still a man who wants a woman.

“Just dropping off some flowers.” the Ex said quickly. “Friendly gesture, if you will.”

Kento nodded slowly. “They’re nice. But she’s allergic to cheap apologies and filler greens.”

You nearly choked on your laugh. But you knew you couldn’t stop it for so long. So you try to make it about coughing. The Ex looked between you two, clearly realizing he was very much not the main character anymore. 

“Who are you anyway?”

“Isn’t it obvious who I am?” Kento retorted back at him. “I’m the guy she’s using as her material. That means I’m her boyfriend.”

“O–oh….wait, you’re dating this guy? And you moved in together?”

You nodded at him, snickering. “Hm. Why, you want him? I’m sorry, he’s one of a kind. I cannot share.”

“That’s—”

“Is there a problem with that?” Kento asked, raising a brow.

“No, no…not at all……Right. Well… good luck with the whole moving-in thing. Hope it works out.”

“It already is.” you said, plucking one of the roses and handing the rest back to him. “Here. Take these home. Maybe give one to that rice cooker you never committed to.”

He walked off, bouquet tucked awkwardly under his arm like regret wrapped in cellophane. You turned to Kento, who hadn’t said much after your former lover left, but you knew he didn’t have to. His hand brushed yours, tenderly touching you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled. “Better than okay. That was almost fun.”

Kento raised an eyebrow. “You call that fun?”

You slipped your arm through his. “I call you fun. That counts, right?”

He looked at the rose in your hand. “You know that doesn’t match the rest of the flowers I got you last week.”

“I know, I know.” you said, smirking. “Yours will always be the prettiest, baby.”

Later that night, after your ex had limped out of the club like a man who’d just realized he’d missed the last train of a relationship he never really understood, you and Kento were back at your apartment, settling into the warm, familiar space that had become yours.

Kento poured the sake into the cup. He poured it ever so slowly, deliberately, as if he was pretending to focus on the glass in his hand, but you knew better. You could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers were wrapped around the glass, not in their usual composed manner, but a little... tighter. A little more tense.

You raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He didn’t look at you, still focused on the sake, as if contemplating its entire existence. "I'm fine."

You leaned in, amused. "Sure? Because I’ve known you long enough to know that ‘fine’ is a word you only use when you're pretending everything's fine, and we both know that's never true."

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. "It’s just… you’re not really the only one with an ex who’s got unfinished business."

You blinked, surprised. "What does that mean?"

He gave a half-laugh, half-grumble. "I just think it’s… interesting, that’s all. How he—" He gestured vaguely with his glass, "—just shows up like that. After everything. And, I mean, flowers? Really?"

You couldn't help but smile, trying to mask the laugh bubbling up. "Are you jealous, Kento?"

He shot you a side-eye. "No."

"Uh-huh."

He looked away again, his tone cool but laced with something slightly irked. "I just think it's... unnecessary. All that 'sorry' talk. Like he’s trying to rewrite history, thinking he can come back in with flowers and make up for all of it. It's... a bit much."

You raised an eyebrow. "It’s flowers, Kento. Bad ones too, if I’m being honest. You know the kind you give when you’ve ruined someone's day. He was just trying to do something... nice."

He paused, then, slowly, as if to measure his words, he added, "Yeah, I just… didn’t like the way he was looking at you. Like you were his."

You blinked. “You’re seriously telling me you’re jealous of my ex right now? He’s an ex for a reason.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I’m not jealous, okay? I’m just saying it felt… off. Like he thought he had some claim over you. And you’re mine. You’re with me."

The way he said it, in the quiet, intense conviction in his voice had all but sent a little shiver through you. Nanami Kento, the man who was always the picture of control and composure, suddenly looked... vulnerable.

You set your glass down and leaned toward him, giving him a teasing smile. “You know, for a man who’s so secure, you’re acting like a guy who’s a little nervous.”

Kento didn’t look at you this time, his eyes focused firmly on the bottle of sake as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. "I’m not nervous. Just… protective, I guess."

“Protective?” You laughed softly, though there was a warmth in your voice. “You? The guy who’s basically a walking Zen garden?”

“Even Zen gardens need boundaries, you know.” he shot back, finally meeting your gaze.

That made you pause, the playfulness fading into something a little deeper, a little more real. Kento was never the type to show this side of himself. Not to you. Not about him. But here it was, this quiet, unspoken vulnerability, wrapping around the edges of his usual stoic demeanor.

You smiled, reaching out to touch his hand gently. "Kento… you don’t have to worry about my ex. He’s history. The past. You're my future. You’ve been that since the first time we walked into a room together and you didn’t even flinch when I accidentally spilled coffee all over your suit."

He half-smiled at that, the edge of tension softening. "That was a lot of coffee, and you did look very sorry about it."

"I did. But the thing is…" you trailed off, leaning closer to him, your voice soft but clear. “You’re the one I’m with now. You’re the one who’s here. The only one I need to see at the bar. The only one I need to come home to. So, please don’t start getting territorial over cheap stupid bouquets. They’re not worth the drama.”

Kento’s eyes softened, and he took your hand, squeezing it lightly. “I know. It’s just… I’ve never been good at sharing what’s mine.”

You smiled, feeling the warmth spread through you. "Well, good thing I’m not his to share anymore, right?"

“Right, alright….” he muttered, still a little grumpy but now, with that tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t expect me to be the one handing out flowers when you’re on stage next time. I’d rather just sit there and admire you from the back of the room.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, a little teasing, a little sweet. "I like it when you're watching me. But just so we’re clear, you’re the only one who gets to see me like this. No bouquets necessary."

Kento’s expression softened, that flicker of possessiveness melting into something more tender. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And as you both settled back into the quiet of your apartment, the soft sound of jazz filling the air, you realized that maybe Kento's little moment of jealousy wasn’t insecurity at all. It was just another layer of how deeply he cared.

Maybe next time you’d share a toast to that.

SO FAR IT WAS A SUCCESS. The housewarming party was everything you’d dreamed of and more. Or, more accurately, everything you didn’t know you needed. Nanami Kento and you had put so much thought into the place. Well, mostly Kento had, with his meticulous nature and borderline obsessive attention to detail. 

There were minimalist touches everywhere, but it still felt warm. Your bookshelves lined the walls, filled with everything from manga to self–help books you’d never read.

There were candles, of course, because Kento liked them in a very “this is an art form” way. Even your kitchen, where you both spent more time than you probably should have lately, was a model of perfect order with an impressively organized spice rack.

Still, there was a sense of life in the place. It wasn’t just a showroom. You live here now. Together. For as long as you both are together, this was now home.The thought sent a little rush through you every time you passed by the key bowl by the door, or caught sight of Kento, elbow-deep in the fridge, reorganizing a jar of miso.

And now, you were standing in your brand new living room, a smile on your face wider than you could ever remember. The champagne flute in hand, bare feet on the cool marble, loud bright music echoing through the marble. You were surrounded by a familiar chaos of castmates, ex-co-stars, and industry friends who had somehow become real friends. Maybe even family.

Gojo Satoru, in a linen shirt so white it probably had its own lighting crew, was dramatically trying to convince Kenshin and Keiko, fresh from their busy days at their workplace, that you'd installed a karaoke machine just for tonight.

“I’m telling you, it’s voice–activated. You just say ‘Whitney’ and it boots right into I Will Always Love You.”

“That’s a lie, Gojo–san.” Keiko said flatly, sipping from her spritzer. “You know that Dad isn’t a big fan of karaoke.”

“Bold accusation for someone who couldn’t hit the bridge in ‘Chandelier’ last Christmas party, kid.” Gojo shot back with a wink. “At least I hit the high note in ‘Rolling In The Deep’ beautifully.”

 Kenshin snorted. “She did better than you trying to moonwalk in socks.”

“Hey! That moonwalk was really damn good, you know that!”

The blonde young woman snickers into her drink. “Yeah, good enough to burn your eyes out.”

A few feet away, Nanami Kento’s ex-wife, now a working chemist, was diplomatically trying to keep her boyfriend Gojo Satoru from hyping up Yaga Masamichi’s children into performing a full musical number before bedtime.

“Satoru. They just finished preschool. Let’s not start casting Matilda tonight.”

Kento himself leaned casually against your kitchen island, deep in conversation with Ayaka, your friend from college who’d gone on to become a theater critic with a cult podcast following. The two of them looked like they were comparing notes on a Shakespeare revival no one had asked for.

Meanwhile, your next-door neighbor, whom you met literally five minutes ago when he showed up uninvited and somehow on the VIP list, was explaining, unsolicited, the real top five sushi places within the Tokyo Metropolitan. Loudly. To no one.

“I’m telling you, Sushi Marufuku is good. You wanna eat fish that changes your life? You go to this little spot in Hakkoku. That’s even better! But of course, Harukata is better! The chef doesn’t even speak, he just stares at you until you cry.”

You offered a vague smile and politely drifted away. You caught sight of Kento again, now at the bar, his tall frame still and watchful, a glass of something amber in hand. That familiar, quiet smile tugged at his mouth as he scanned the room, equal parts fond and faintly exhausted.

You made your way to him, pausing just long enough to catch Gojo Satoru once again. You found him amid a debate with your older brother, who had somehow become his favorite person to antagonize at this moment. But you were sure it was because of the alcohol. Most definitely.

“What do you mean ‘No one’s seen her perform in weeks’? She’s a comedian, not a shaman!”

Your brother arched an eyebrow. “Same thing, isn’t it? Both deal in spirits.”

Gojo cackled, practically doubled over. “Okay, that’s good. Write that down. I’m using it for my new comedy.”

Finally, you reached Kento. He turned as you approached, giving you a small, secret smile. “Are you surviving this, baby?” you asked, tipping your glass toward him.

He clinked it on his own. “Just barely. Your friends are… vibrant.”

“You are about to definitely more certainly marry into it, I fear.” you teased him. “Though, I’m the same with your family, don’t you think?”

“True enough, I suppose.”

You laughed, leaning into his side as Gojo’s voice rose again, daring your brother to duet with him on Total Eclipse of the Heart, Kento’s ex–wife trying to calm him down. Keiko is trying to stay away from the drama, while Kenshin was having fun playing with the little kids of your other neighbors. 

“This is our life now, huh?”

Kento glanced around at the glittering mayhem, then down at you. “Yeah, it is.” he said, brushing his thumb lightly along the rim of your glass. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Well. Maybe minus the other neighbors, especially the one talking about the sushi.

You nudged Kento with your elbow, leaning in close enough for only him to hear. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, this?” You gestured around the party with a grin, voice teasing. “All the people who’ve seen us at our worst?”

He raised an eyebrow, his usual composure settling into something lighter. “I’m fine. They’re your friends. And I’m pretty sure they like me.”

“Just pretty sure?” You shot him a look.

Kento gave a mock shrug, then smirked, his eyes softening. “Okay, I’m sure. But I’ll never tell Gojo that. He’ll start calling me ‘Best Man’ at every event and then we’ll never hear the end of it.”

You laughed, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s already gotten my family’s approval. Can’t take it back now.”

That’s when your cue hit. You had promised a little something extra for the evening, and you’d already prepared. You grabbed the mic that you’d had set up in the corner earlier and called out to the crowd. 

"Alright, everyone! Time for a little entertainment. Get ready to experience what you didn’t sign up for!"

The room went quiet like someone hit a mute button on a particularly rowdy dinner party. Everyone turned their attention to you. The wine glasses half–raised, chopsticks mid–air, Your brother and Gojo stopped bickering, your future step–children turned to pay attention. Kento’s ex–wife was already smiling from ear to ear about this.

You glanced over at Kento, who raised his glass to you with that signature Kento nod: respectful, restrained, and just the tiniest bit indulgent. You winked at him and stepped into the spotlight, or well, the stretch of living room rug between the couch and the bookshelf that you had declared your “stage” for the night. Your mic was a pair of chopsticks. Commitment.

You cleared your throat dramatically. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here until Keiko decides we’re too embarrassing to be seen in public with.”

She booed from the couch. “Too late!”

“Alright, alright.” you said, tightening your grip on the chopsticks like they held the key to comedic transcendence. “Let’s ease into this. Like Japanese politics.”

Kenshin snorted. “This is gonna be so funny.”

“So I walked past a konbini the other day because obviously, I needed a snack, some affirmation, and maybe a reason to keep going and I saw an entire aisle dedicated to face masks. Not the regular kind. Skincare masks.” You say, motioning to it as if trying to get them to imagine it all. 

“I mean imagine it. A whole aisle. One promised to make me look like a dewy beautiful drama lead who cries aesthetically in the rain. Another one said it was infused with horse oil. Horse. Oil. I held it up and said—out loud, to no one in particular. ‘I am not emotionally stable enough to glow like a racehorse.’”

Snickers could be heard from the corner of the room, giggles being heard in small echoes. “And this obaachan is next to me. She has this full perm, orthopedic sneakers, not a hint of irony—she nods solemnly, like I had just spoken her truth. She goes, ‘Hai ne… too powerful.’”

“That feels like a fever dream!” Kenshin suddenly said, way too loudly.

“Yes, it did feel like that. I was slapping myself, trying to think about how this is just some imagination.” You immediately sprung to reply to his sudden words. “But she handed me a juice box, so it was real. So now I guess we’re friends. We didn’t exchange numbers, but I feel like if I ever get arrested, she’ll be there. Just slowly walking into the police station with a hot pack and a sense of purpose.”

A few laughs. Gojo Satoru clapped once, dramatically. Kento was sipping his wine, not laughing, but you could see the smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. Like your jokes were a private show only he had the key to.

“Recently, though, I’m gonna tell you something that isn’t a fever dream. And it’s my ex showing up to a show, you guys.” you continued. “Which I usually try to avoid mentioning, but listen, when your ex shows up to your show with flowers like he’s the emotionally repressed lead in a Taiga drama, you have to mention it.”

Keiko whispered something to Gojo and they both cackled to each other. “He stood there like, ‘Hey, remember me? I was once almost good at loving you but got distracted by kombucha brewing and fear of commitment.’ — ladies, don’t lower your standards! You deserve better than this!”

More laughter. Your brother raised his beer in salute, as if he was happy about the fact that you were trashing your ex. He does in fact hate your exes more than you did. He doesn’t think anyone is worthy of you, after all.

“And now, let’s talk about my current, well beloved boyfriend. You know who he is.” you said, pausing for effect, nodding at Kento’s direction which earns some whistles and laughter. “I live with a man who arranges the fridge like a Zen garden. Like, there is intention behind the yogurt placement. Once, I moved a bottle of mirin and he looked at me like I had kicked a bonsai tree.”

Kento’s lips twitched. The corner of his eye creased. “I’m serious!” you said. “Last week I asked him why the carrots were stacked like architectural models and he said, and I quote, ‘They deserve a sense of structure.’ I live with a man who gives motivational speeches to root vegetables.”

The laughter rolled now, warm, loving, the kind of laugh that knew you and loved you anyway. You turned to Kento, your voice softening just enough for him to hear over the ripple of joy in the room. You smiled at him.

“But here’s the thing, everyone.” you said. “I’ve never been more grateful to live with someone who takes the time to make sure everything has a place. Even when I’m a mess, even when life’s messy. Because when everything’s upside down, he’s still there, calmly rearranging chaos into something beautiful.”

Kento didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. He just raised his glass again. Ever so silent, certain, his gaze steady and full of that quiet, impossible affection that said, I know you. And I’m not going anywhere. And for once, you didn’t need a punchline.

Laughter trickled out as you glanced over at Kento. “But he’s a silly man, I should let you know. I caught him one time whispering to a bottle of soy milk. I asked him what he was doing. He looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I’m encouraging it to taste better.’”

Laughs were echoing in the living room harder than the first time. “I know, I know, that’s going to hit hard for many of you. But he adores cow milk better. That’s my boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen. Every time I buy groceries, it’s like I’m attending a TED talk on cow milk and soy milk, which is better. And you know what,  I’m not even mad about it."

The room was laughing now, everyone relaxed, including Kento, who had an amused glint in his eyes. You leaned into the mic and continued as you looked him in the eye. You smiled into the mic and moved to the center.

"But you know what? It’s cute. I mean, yes, I could get used to it, but at least it’s not like my ex, who once called my fridge a ‘cold cave of disappointment.’ I mean, yes, maybe my ramen wasn’t art, but come on, cold cave of disappointment? I’m not keeping a shrine to my failed relationships, but if I did, that’s where he’d live. But of course, no offerings. He doesn’t deserve it—no, no, the ramen. He deserves the ramen!”

The laughter of the guests continued to spread through the room, with even Gojo cracking up in the back. You glanced over, and there he was, leaning casually against the wall, wearing that too-cool-for-school grin of his.

“But seriously, it’s great." you said, softening a bit. "This house? This life? I couldn’t imagine it with anyone else. My heart’s here. In every perfectly organized drawer, in every misused soy sauce label, in every meal we eat, misaligned veggies and all."

Kento’s smile softened, and you could see the pride in his eyes, like he was somehow more in love with you than he was five minutes ago. That look? The one that said this is everything? Yeah, it was one of your favorites.

You finished your set with a wink, your voice light. "So, that’s my set tonight, folks. I hope you like it. And if you ever need a tour of my fridge or a lesson on how to turn miso soup into a vision board….Hit me up!"

Applause rang out. The room cheered, and Kento raised his glass in your direction, a little glint of admiration in his eyes. You’d killed it and even better, you were doing it together. Your home. Your life. His subtle, hilarious quirks. Your set. It was yours.

As the cheers faded, Gojo grabbed a mic from the corner of the room, grinning wide. "Alright, alright, but can we all agree that Kento’s spice rack deserves its own reality show?"

People started to laugh and clap about that. Soon after, your brother and Gojo had taken over the high platform with their ridiculous conversation and soon enough, they were going bar for bar with their little jokes. You were certain you had to step in, but people were entertained by it. You were sure you didn’t need to go and butt in.  

The party carried on long into the night, the music louder, the laughter thicker, the drinks more free–flowing. People drifted in and out, some chatting, others getting a little too competitive over the karaoke machine Gojo Satoru had definitely bribed someone to set up.

But, in the end, it was the kind of evening that didn’t require anything more than what was already there: good friends, good vibes, and, for once, a sense of complete contentment.

You and Kento found a quiet spot near the window, where you could see the city lights flicker in the distance and settled in with a couple of fresh drinks, just the two of you. You propped your feet up on the coffee table, your glass in hand, and looked over at him. He was still wearing that little smirk, the one that said, I’m happy, but I won’t admit it out loud unless you make me.

“Not bad for our first official housewarming, huh?” you said, nudging him with your foot.

Kento looked over at you, his expression softening. “It’s perfect.” he agreed quietly, his voice just loud enough to reach you over the hum of the party. “I never thought I’d end up with a karaoke machine in my living room, but I can’t say I’m upset about it.”

You laughed, your gaze flicking over to where Gojo and your brother were holding court near the mic stand, belting out some questionable rendition of an '80s ballad. “Yeah, well, you know Gojo. He probably brought it as a gift so he could claim he gave it to us. I’m just surprised my brother’s ended up galavanting with this too.”

Kento snorted. “I can’t believe you let him talk you into letting him sing.”

“Let him?” You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t let him. I was overruled. My brother, the kids, that weird sushi neighbor. Besides, people don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned back, and you watched as his eyes softened, his focus shifting slightly, like he was remembering something in that quiet way he did. “It feels… good, though. You know? Having everyone here. Having a place of our own.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “It really does. It’s like this little world we’ve built. I know it’s only been a few months, but it already feels like home.”

“It is home.” Kento said, taking a sip of his drink. His bright caramel eyes met yours, steady and sincere. “No matter how many parties we throw or who shows up, this? You and me? This is it.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him gently. The kind of kiss that lingered, not out of need, but out of sheer love and comfort. It was quiet, soft, and full of the promise that came with being exactly where you were meant to be.

The sound of Gojo’s off–key singing drifted over to you, and you pulled away with a playful groan. “I don’t think he’s ever going to stop, is he?”

Kento chuckled softly. “No, I don’t think so. Not with your brother matching his energy.”

You grinned, settling back into your seat and stretching your legs out again. “Well, as long as he doesn’t try to sing the theme song from Titanic again, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Famous last words, darling.” Kento teased, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

But the night was still young. The kind of young that shimmered on the edge of something golden and half-remembered, perhaps even half–scripted, half–spontaneous. Outside, the city blinked against the horizon like a marquee of dreams. 

Inside, your living room was pulsing with off–key harmony and champagne bubbles. Gojo Satoru and your brother had officially hijacked the room fully and were deep into a dramatic duet of “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey.

Gojo Satoru crooning with Broadway flair, your brother several beats behind but making up for it in raw enthusiasm. Their voices rose and fell, mercifully more passionate than precise, echoing through the high ceilings and off the framed posters from shows you’d done, characters you’d once been, versions of yourself you’d already shed. 

You looked around for a moment. You saw the laughter, the glasses raised in mid-toast, the glittering sprawl of people who had seen you fail, fly, weep in dressing rooms, triumph at wrap parties and realized it didn’t matter how loud the music got. Or how chaotic the night became. Or how many costume changes life had in store.

What mattered was this: you were here. With Kento. With your people. In a home that wasn’t just beautiful, but real.  A home that felt like the beginning of something lasting. A home where you were truly, eagerly, happily, loved.

You turned, catching Kento's profile in the warm light. You could see his brow relaxed, his lips curved just slightly in that soft, almost secret smile he reserved for private moments. His glass was nearly empty, but he hadn’t moved to refill it. He was simply… still. Watching you.

“Kento…” you breathed, your voice so low it was almost lost in the noise.

He looked at you immediately, like your voice was a cue only he could hear. Your eyes locked with his, and something inside you lit up. Something you always felt when he looked at you like this. Like he saw you, not just the version that ended up on screen or the one polished for press tours. Just you.

“Let’s escape this little madness.” you said, eyes wide and shining. “For a little while.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, slow and sure. There was laughter in his mischievous caramel eyes now, but something else too, something quieter, warmer. He knew that look in your face.

“And what do you want to do instead?” he asked, voice low and intimate, meant only for you.

You looked away, your cheeks blooming pink under the chandelier light. “You know that already, baby.” you murmured, bashful. “You know I don’t have to say anything.”

There was a beat, a pause in the air, in your breath, in everything. And then he stepped closer. He closed the space between you like it was the easiest thing in the world. His arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you. His other hand rose gently, fingertips brushing under your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.

His voice was velvet. Firm, but tender. “Then use your words, my darling.”

Time stopped. It always did, when he looked at you like that. And maybe the music was still playing, maybe Gojo was now standing on your coffee table yelling about encores while across your brother, who was banging his head, maybe someone had just broken a glass in the kitchen. But all of it faded.

Because Nanami Kento was looking at you like he already knew the words you hadn’t said yet but was going to make sure you said them anyway. He knew you too well, your lover. He knew too well that your desires for him will never change.

EVERYTHING FELT SO DESPERATE. Nanami Kento kicks the bedroom door shut behind you, his hands already tugging at your clothes. He pushes you against the wall, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. You respond eagerly, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting, leaving marks on your skin. You gasp, your head falling back against the wall, giving him better access. His hands roam your body, squeezing and caressing, leaving trails of fire in their wake. 

Your loving boyfriend lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, his body covering yours as he settles between your thighs. You groaned at him in pleasure.

"I've been wanting to do this all night, my darling." he murmurs, his lips trailing down your chest. "To strip you bare and worship every inch of you."He looks up at you, his caramel eyes dark with desire. "Tell me you want this, pretty, pretty darling.”

"I want this, I want……" you breathe, your voice heavy with desire. "I want you, Kento. All of you."

Kento's eyes flash with hunger at your words. He sits back on his heels, his hands going to the hem of your shirt. He pulls it off slowly, his eagerly hot gaze roaming over your exposed skin like a fire burning ever so vibrantly in the moonlight. 

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, his fingers tracing the swell of your breasts. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the valley between your breasts.

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your lace bra straps down your arms. He unhooks the clasp with a flick of his fingers, freeing your breasts to his greedy gaze. He takes a moment to admire them, before looking into the other diverse essence of your precious skin. 

"Perfect, utterly perfect." he whispers, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them pebble. He takes one into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the hardened peak. You arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

Kento's mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. His hand slides down your stomach, popping the button on your jeans and tugging the zipper down. He slips his hand inside, his fingers brushing against your core through your underwear. You gasp, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more contact.

"So wet already, my……" He murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. 

He pushes your jeans and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. His fingers trace your folds, parting you, exploring you. He circles your clit with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm.

"Kento, my baby…..please…." you beg, your voice strained with need. He smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Please what, pretty darling? Tell me what you need."

Kento lays back on the bed, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you. "Come here, my pretty woman." he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. 

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands grip your waist, guiding you onto his erection. You sink down slowly, a moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. His fingers dig into your hips as he helps you find a rhythm, lifting and lowering yourself onto his length. 

From this angle, you can feel every inch of him, hitting places that make your toes curl. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, your hair falling around you like a curtain. Kento's hands roam your back, your sides, squeezing and caressing. 

He leans up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and biting gently. The dual sensations send shockwaves of pleasure through your body, building the tension in your core. You could only feel yourself losing it, mewls leaving your lips little by little.

Kento's hands slide down to your bottom, squeezing and kneading the flesh. He helps you move faster, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, you look so hot like this, pretty." he pants, his eyes glued to where you're joined. "Riding me like you own me."

His words send a thrill through you, emboldening you. You could only try to sit up straight, arching your back, your hands sliding up to cup your breasts. Moans drifted from your lips, over and over as you grinded against him. Kento's eyes widened, his pupils dilating with lust.

"Yes, just like that, pretty darling." he encourages, his voice hoarse. "Show me how much you want it."

You circle your hips, grinding down onto him, chasing your own pleasure. Kento's fingers dig into your hips, his grip bruising as he meets your movements thrust for thrust. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pleasure building to a crescendo. 

Kento's movements become more urgent, more desperate, as if he's chasing his own release. His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive nub in firm, deliberate strokes. The added stimulation sends you hurtling towards the edge.

"Kento!" you cry out, your voice breaking as your orgasm crashes over you. Your inner walls clamp down on him, pulsing and squeezing as waves of ecstasy wash through you. Kento follows soon after, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you. 

He groaned your name, the sound rugged and raw, his body shuddering beneath you as he found his release, every muscle in his body drawn tight before he finally surrendered to the moment. The world blurred at the edges. 

All that remained of the two of you was just heat and the desire to keep each other close to touch. It was the breathless way he clung to you as if he never wanted to let you go that felt almost like a drug to you.

You collapsed against his chest, utterly spent, your limbs tangled with his. Your skin was slick with sweat, every inch of you humming with the fading embers of pleasure. Your heart hammered wildly against his, the two of you breathing in tandem, the rise and fall of your bodies syncing like the closing lines of a well-rehearsed scene. It was all too perfect, all too inevitable.

Kento’s arms immediately wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you even closer, as if to shield you from the world beyond this bed, this night, this feeling. His palm found the small of your back, his touch tender now, his fingers tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin. You could hear the soft rush of his breath in your ear, feel the thrum of his heart still racing beneath your cheek.

For a long, quiet moment, neither of you moved. There were no words needed, at least not yet. Just the silent conversation of two bodies finally still, two souls finally at peace. In a little while Kento pressed a kiss to the top of your head, slow and reverent, like you were something sacred.

“You’re incredible, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion but so full of affection it made your chest ache. He tightened his arms just slightly, as if to reassure himself you were still real, still his.

You smiled against his skin, your lashes fluttering shut. “So are you.” you whispered back, your voice thick with sleepy warmth. 

Your face is buried in the crook of his neck. Kento's hand traces lazy patterns on your back, his touch gentle and soothing. The room is quiet, save for the soft sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

You can feel Kento's heartbeat slowing beneath your ear, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He shifts slightly, pulling the blankets up over you both, tucking you in securely. His arms wrap themselves around you even tighter. Exhausted, you let him.

“I really love you so much, you know that right?”

You could feel Kento’s heartbeat slowing beneath your ear, the frantic rhythm easing into something steady, calm — like a lullaby meant just for you. His chest rose and fell in a soothing cadence, and when he shifted slightly, it was only to tug the blankets up around you both, cocooning you against the cool night air. His arms tightened around you, firm and protective, like he was anchoring you to him.

Exhaustion tugged at your limbs, but you let him do it, let yourself be held, let yourself rest in the certainty of him.

For a moment, the only sounds were the distant, muffled laughter still echoing from the party downstairs, and the soft, rhythmic hush of Kento’s breathing. The world beyond this room — the chaos, the music, the endless expectations — felt a million miles away.

Then his voice broke the quiet, low and rough with honesty:

“I really love you so much, you know that, right?”

The words were simple, almost casual  but they landed with the weight of something life-altering. You blinked slowly against his skin, your chest tightening, not in fear, but in the overwhelming vastness of what you felt for him in return.

You nodded against him first, too full to speak for a second. Then you tilted your head up, catching his gaze in the dim light and god, the way he was looking at you, like you hung every constellation he’d ever wished on.

“I know.” you whispered back, your fingers tracing soft, aimless patterns along his forearm where it wrapped around you. “And I love you, too. So much.”

A slow, genuine smile broke across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, made him look younger than his years, almost boyish in his relief. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he was breathing the moment in, letting it fill every empty space inside him.

“Good…..That’s good to hear.” he murmured against your skin. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You chuckled softly, feeling yourself melt even further into him. “Good.” you echoed, your voice small and sure. “Because I don’t want you to.”

He pulled you closer still, if that was even possible, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like something precious. Like you were the beginning and end of his whole world. Like you were everything to him.

“Go and sleep now, my darling. Let them all party their hearts out.” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you did. Because he did. As the moonlit night continued to drift into the brightness of a city that does not sleep, you both found yourselves the ones asleep. You both happily drifted off to dreamland, wrapped up in each other and the quiet, unshakable promise of everything you were building together.

[five-rivers]

chromatophore

@jackdaw-sprite

For Dannymay 2025, day 6: transformation. I'm late!

.

The ribbons were the first sign, a vibrant magenta against the dark greens, snowy whites, and subtle blues.  It wasn’t a color often seen in the Far Frozen, even if it was common among other polychromatic denizens of the Ghost Zone.  There were hundreds of them, tied together in huge, arcing loops.  

The sight made Danny pull up short.  

“What is it?” asked Tucker over the Fenton Phones.  They liked to come with him to his check-ups.  They seemed to think that if they didn’t, he’d skip his appointments.  

(Just because he missed one–)

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  “There’s something about the color magenta in the Far Frozen, but I can’t remember exactly what…”

“Can you remember approximately what?” asked Sam, also in the Specter Speeder.  

Danny hummed uncertainly.  “I know that doors colored magenta are dangerous, and Frostbite told me not to go through them,” he said, finally.  “But this is a lot more than coloring a door magenta.  I don’t know if it means something different.”

“Great One!”

Danny rotated around the axis of his navel to see a yeti approaching.  That was odd.  They usually didn’t meet him this far out.  Not after the first couple times, anyway.  

“Hi!” he called, waving.  “What are all the ribbons for?”

“Stay there!” shouted the yeti.  “I will come to you!”

Danny nodded, then relayed the yeti’s words to Sam and Tucker, who couldn’t hear him from inside the Speeder. 

“Great One,” said the yeti, by way of greeting, once he got closer.  “My apologies.  We knew you would come soon, but we did not know from which direction, so I was set to watch.”

“Icespear,” said Danny, now recognizing the yeti.  He was one of the Far Frozen’s warriors, and one of the only ones who would still watch when Frostbite was training Danny in the arena.  “What’s wrong?  Why is all this stuff here?”  Danny gestured at the ribbons.  

Now, while he would like Icespear to tell him that it was all in preparation for a festival or something similar, Danny sincerely doubted that was the case.  

“The Far Frozen is under quarantine,” said Icespear, tiredly.  “Two weeks ago, one of our merchants caught the white death, and it has since spread rapidly through the village.”

“The white death?” asked Danny, alarmed.  “That sounds bad.”

“It is,” agreed Icespear, “though it is not quite as dire as you imagine.  Many ghost illnesses have the word ‘death’ or something similar in them.”

That… sounded like something ghosts would do, honestly.  

“I guess my appointment is canceled, then,” joked Danny.  His smile felt weak on his face and quickly fell off.  “How bad is it?”

Icespear’s muzzle twitched up, exposing teeth.  “Bad.  For most, even if they were willing to break the quarantine, they couldn’t.  The white death lowers core temperature.  Some of the worst off are freezing solid.”

“Is there anything I can do?  I mean, I’m not a doctor or anything, but if there’s something I can get you…  Aspirin?  Antibiotics?  Cough syrup?”

If it came to it, Danny would be… Well, saying he’d be okay with robbing a pharmacy was vastly overstating things, but if it meant the difference between someone in the Far Frozen surviving or fading, he’d do it.  

“Yes.  In fact, I have a letter for you from Chief Frostbite.  If you will read it, I can answer any questions you have.”

Icespear reached into the sash that held his kilt-like garment in place, and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Danny.  Danny slid his thumb under Frostbite’s blue ice seal and opened the letter, drifting back towards the speeder so Sam and Tucker could try to read over his shoulder.  

“He wants me to try and get this plant, then?” asked Danny.  “It’s a cure?”

Icespear shook his head.  “Nothing quite so miraculous.  It is only an ingredient, but we have all the others.  It is only that moly tinctoria is the most difficult of the ingredients to get, since the Painters consider it sacred.”

Danny nodded.  People were always weird about sacred things.  “So, how do I get it from them?”  He scrunched up his nose.  “They probably won’t sell it for anything within my budget, so am I going to have to fight them for it?”  That felt worse than knocking over a pharmacy.  Pharmacies had insurance and stuff.  Sacred stuff usually couldn’t be easily replaced.  

“Oh, no,” said Icespear.  “No, we’d prefer to have good relations with them.  When we tell them what it will be used for, they will be willing to let us harvest it.  However…” Icespear sighed.  “They require that anyone who is to touch their sacred herb undergoes a purification ritual, and we yetis are unable to do it.”

Danny frowned.  “Why?”

“We have fur,” said Icespear with a shrug.  “Their paints do not stick to us very well, and when we do, the shape of the brushstrokes is warped.”

“That sounds sort of… discriminatory?” said Danny, making a face.  

Icespear shrugged again.  “They have always been willing to let us try.  It just doesn’t work very well, and each person can only do it once.  And, I understand that the rite is important for practical reasons as well as spiritual ones.  They are often identical here, in the Infinite Realms.”

“What happens if you don’t do the ritual?”

”I fear I do not know,” said Icespear.  “But the Painters are very insistent on it.”

“Okay,” said Danny, re-reading Frostbite’s letter.  The shakiness of the writing showed that Frostbite wasn’t feeling well, himself.  “Sam, Tucker, do you want to do this, or should I take you guys home first?”

“We’re sticking with you,” said Sam, obviously unamused.  

“Okay, okay,” said Danny.  “I was just asking.  This is probably going to take longer than my appointment, after all.  I don’t even know which way to go…?”  He looked up at Icespear questioningly. 

“That is one reason I am coming with you,” said Icespear, “and why I have this.”  He pulled out the Infi-map.  

“Wow,” said Danny, reaching towards it.  “I thought it was locked away, after, um, the incident.”

“It would be the height of foolishness to have something like this and not use it in our hour of need,” said Icespear, twitching the scroll away from Danny’s outstretched hand.  “You are still banned from using it, however.  I will be directing us.”

Danny let his hand drop, disappointed.  The Infi-map was still one of the coolest ghost artifacts he’d encountered.  “What are the other reasons you’re coming with us?”

“Security,” said Icespear, “and to make sure everything goes smoothly.  There have been disruptions in the past.  Thefts, mostly.  The plant is a valuable one, as well as being sacred.”

“Well…  Do you guys have any questions?” He turned slightly towards the Speeder, inviting Tucker and Sam to weigh in.  

“What’s in the ritual?” asked Sam.  “That seems important.”

“I’m not as familiar with it as some,” admitted Icespear.  “I was chosen mainly for my good health and fighting ability, given that I will be carrying the Infi-map outside our borders.  But it is my understanding that the main portions of it are ritual body paint, a bath, removing the paint, and incense.  It is not a physically taxing ritual, merely difficult for us.”

“Alright, then,” said Sam.  “I just wanted to make sure that it didn’t involve cutting off a finger or human sacrifice or something.”

“Sam!  These guys are our friends.  Our allies.”

“Lady Sam is wise to be cautious,” said Icespear.  “Many otherwise innocuous rites and customs could be dangerous to you, Great One.”

Danny made a face.  “But nothing in this one, right?”

“Not that I know of,” said Icespear.  

“Great,” said Danny.  “Let’s go.”

.

In a typical example of how ghosts liked to theme themselves, the entrance to the Painter’s Realm looked like an art gallery.  If an art gallery had decided to turn itself into an avant-garde piece of artwork itself, splashing multicolored and in some cases eye-searing paints all over the front, then painting over that with layered dots and curlicues.

Icespear went in right away, through the glass door, to negotiate with the Painters.  Danny stayed outside, for the moment, to help Sam and Tucker land the Speeder on the thin strip of land in front of the building.  

“Do you think those are supposed to be nazars?” asked Sam, climbing out of the cockpit and pointing at the nearest wall.

“Do I think what is what?”

“Nazars.  You remember, the eye beads.”

Danny looked at the wall, and he could see what she was saying.  The dots on the wall were concentric, solid circles of dark blue, light blue, black, white, and ghost green, in no particular order.  

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  “They do look sort of similar.”

Icespear returned and motioned them inside.  Standing next to the largest painting inside, a big, abstract one, was a thin ghost whose haircut made her look like a paintbrush, which was probably the point.  

“Who is it that wants to harvest?” she asked, frowning at the three of them.  

“Me,” said Danny, raising his hand.  

She looked him up and down.  “To complete the ritual, you will come to the deepest of our depths, where we will paint you.  Then, you will go to the chamber of cleansing, where you will be sealed while you bathe to remove our paints.  When you finish, we will judge your work, and if it is satisfactory, we will allow you to harvest what is necessary.”

Danny nodded.  “That seems pretty easy,” he said.  “I mean, I got the impression that some parts were tricky.”

The ghost nodded.  “Some would say so, but occasionally, it is the simplest things that are the most difficult.”  She looked at Sam and Tucker.  “You are welcome to observe, like Icespear, but you must not interrupt the cleansing, or else the Far Frozen will have to seek out a new proxy.”

“Got it,” said Tucker, while Sam nodded. 

“Very good.  I have sent word ahead to our best artists, and they will meet us there.  Follow me.”  She looked at Tucker's PDA, and added, “No photography.”

As Tucker sulkily put away his PDA, the ghost flew briskly into the gallery, somehow looking even more like a paintbrush with her legs pressed together and her toes pointed. 

As they followed her, the gallery became… older.  At first, it was just that the exact nature of fittings on the walls began to look more old fashioned.  Then, the style of the paintings shifted.  Cigarette smoke permeated the air for a short time, then dissipated.  The walls changed, too, first just in the texture of paint, then in substance and decoration, the moulding going from minimalistic to a work of art in its own right. But that passed, too, and soon those palace-like walls became castle-like, illuminated by torches, then simpler, cruder, paintings losing perspective, then briefly regaining it in plaster painted directly on the walls.  They continued, and eventually, they were walking down a bare stone tunnel, the paintings on the walls lit only by the ghosts’ own glow.

This tunnel opened into a larger cave.  There were people there, ghosts, all of them dressed in white artist smocks, with paintbrushes in their pockets.  A stream, a tiny trickle of water, ran through the room, starting as a waterfall high on the cave wall, near the entrance, and running out an exit on the opposite side.  

One of the white-robed ghosts stepped forward.  “You wish to be cleansed, so that you may harvest our sacred herb?”

Danny flinched slightly at the word ‘wish’ (you never knew when Desiree might be around) but said, “Yes.  Um, is there something special I need to say, or–?”

A younger-looking ghost with purple paintbrush pigtails giggled.  “It's not that kind of ritual,” she said.  “The one where people talk a lot and everyone has to say exactly the right thing.”

“Oh,” said Danny, “okay.”

“But we do need your consent,” said the other ghost, “because you'll need to strip.”

“So you can paint me, right,” said Danny.  He considered the chilly temperature of the room, then the number of painters that were girls, and decided this would be unpleasant.  He looked over at Sam.  

“What?” she said.  

Danny raised his eyebrows.  

“Are you serious?  I’ve seen you naked before.”

Everyone had seen Danny naked before, courtesy of Vlad.  Yeah, Danny had done that first, but Vlad had started it.  Sort of.

Sam rolled her eyes and turned away from Danny, crossing her arms as she did so.  “Are you going to make everyone else turn around, too?”

“Um,” said Danny, looking at the ghosts.  There were a lot of 

“That won’t work, I’m afraid,” said the ghost that seemed to be the leader.  

Danny sighed.  “Okay,” he said.  He started unzipping his suit.  

“I’ll leave it to you,” then, said the thin, suited… receptionist?  She left, flying back towards the more modern part of the Painters’ Realm. 

Danny rolled his suit off his body, the plasticy fabric sticking to itself before dissipating into gaseous ectoplasm, and took off the clothing beneath it.  “It’s okay that I stay in ghost form, right?”

“You should,” said Icespear.  

“Yeah, it’s pretty cold in here,” said Tucker.  “Stay ghosty, stay toasty.”

“I’m colder as a ghost, you know,” said Danny, amused, even as he took off his undershirt and underwear.  It was cold, but nowhere near as cold as the Far Frozen.  The main discomfort was the dampness and the breeze.  And, of course, the star-shaped death scar in the middle of his chest.

Sometimes, he forgot it was there.  He never saw it, after all.  He rarely needed to take off his clothes in ghost form.  

“Yeah, exactly,” said Tucker.  

While Danny undressed, the Painters started their preparations.  About half of them had mortar and pestles, and the other half pulled dried plants, rocks, little colorful pucks, and other things Danny couldn’t immediately identify.  They crushed them, turning them into fine powders, then passed those powders on.  Some of them were, to Danny’s surprise, set on fire, making plumes of fragrant smoke.  Others were mixed with water, turning them into paints and inks.  Danny saw blue, green, white, black.  

The painters nudged him into the center of the room, to stand ankle-deep in the small stream.  Bowls of eye-stinging incense were passed under his nose, then arranged in a rough circle around him.  Then, the Painters approached with their paintbrushes, circled Danny once, clockwise, then stepped forward, past the bowls of incense.

Danny felt the brushstrokes in cold wet lines against his skin and tried not to feel apprehension.  Yes, he had volunteered for this, of course, but it was still unnerving, making him feel vulnerable, even though he had access to all the powers he usually had.  There was a sense of disorientation, too, as the room filled with smoke and frigid water swirled around Danny’s ankles.  It made his skin feel tight, electric.

At first, each brushstroke made his skin flinch, but he grew used to them, and as he learned to be more still, the Painters started to do more detailed work, layering the initial blobby shapes with finer, smaller ones.  He felt dots, spots, curlicues.  They were building up patterns, paint on top of ink, like the ones on the walls outside, the ones that Sam said looked like nazars.  On his skin, Danny thought they looked more like the spots on a leopard, or an octopus.  

The pigtailed Painter bounced up in front of him, her mortar of paint in hand, grinned, and painted a stripe across his nose, pausing to make the ends wider than the middle.  The ghosts that followed her added to her work, emboldened.  Danny got what felt like artificial blush stickers and a series of improbable freckles.  

The paint smelled.  Not badly, exactly, but strongly, dancing on the edge of unpleasantness.  For some reason, it made his mouth water, and he had to swallow.

Some Painters knelt to paint layered rings around his fingers.  One lifted one of his feet after another to paint his soles and toes, even though he had to put them back down in the water a moment later.  

But what they didn’t touch was his death scar.  They avoided it, outlined

Between the layered spots of paint and the scars, his skin was still visible, but it seemed oddly colorless in contrast, like it had borrowed some conceptual quality of invisibility without actually being invisible.  Combined with the tingly, too-tight, too-dry, almost too-hot feeling, and the sensation of the paint drying, it made Danny feel like he wasn’t supposed to be in his skin.  

Then, all at once, the Painters stepped back.  

“You must now enter the chamber of cleansing,” said the leader.  “We will seal the way behind you, and you will not be able to leave until you have removed all the paint from yourself, or failed to do so entirely.  Your friends will not be able to come with you.  Do you understand?”

“I won’t be able to leave until I’m clean,” said Danny.  “Or until I really screw things up, somehow.”

“Close enough,” said the Painter.  They gestured to the other opening in the cave wall, the one that the stream flowed into.  

Danny glanced back at Sam and Tucker.  Tucker gave him a thumbs up.  Sam’s back was still turned, but she must have sensed his eyes on her, because she waved her hand at him.  “Good luck,” she said.  

“Thanks,” he said, before walking towards the exit.  Around him, the Painters picked up the bowls of incense, then set their remaining paint on fire.  The act made him pause, but they just lined up behind him, so he shrugged and continued.  

He wanted to scrub the paint off.  It was making his skin feel itchy and weird.  

Walking down the stream, however, proved strangely difficult.  He stumbled over small rocks and his own feet, swaying into the close walls every so often, but flying seemed improper, and probably not all that much better, with how narrow the tunnel was.

Soon, the tunnel ended in a small, bulbous cave with walls worn smooth and round, like a bubble of stone.  There were niches carved high on the walls, and the Painters put their burning bowls of incense and paint in them - or did the paint count as incense, now that they were burning it?  Danny wasn’t sure.  The smoke they produced was colored, too, although not always the same color as the paint. 

Otherwise, the room was full of water, its floor completely covered.  When Danny went to stand in the middle, it came up to his waist.  

One of the Painters pulled a bundle of washcloths from one of the niches and handed them to Danny, before leaving.  Danny watched them go, wondering how they were going to seal the room.  There wasn’t a door they could close, or a rock they could roll in front of entry.  

As he thought this, the walls shuddered and pinched, the entryway sucking in on itself, then smoothing over until it looked like there had never been a door there at all, and the walls of the room had always been an unbroken circle.  

Well, that was one way to do it.  

Danny dipped the washcloths into the water and began to scrub.  The wetness, cold, clean, and thin, not like the viscous and sometimes gritty paint, was sitting against his skin. 

At first, some of the painted color dissolved and peeled off into the water, leaving clear trails, sinking in swirls, twists, and spirals.  Then, the dots shrank, the outside paint wearing away faster than the centers of the dots.  But the underlying ink layers, nearly flush against his skin, seeping into his skin, were a different story.  None of the layered dots Danny scrubbed away came off entirely.  The amount of paint coming off into the water slowed, then stopped.  Danny thought that, maybe, some of the dots got bigger when he wasn't looking at them.

Danny doubled down, leaning against one of the walls to get at his feet more effectively. 

The water was getting higher.  There must have been a source for it, other than the entrance.  Cracks in the stone? 

Danny paused in his scrubbing and considered the situation.  He floated up out of the water, hoping to get a better view of the paint spots.  They were flatter, but they were still there.  Blue, black, white, green, different shades layered on each other in a variety of orders. 

The smoke was thicker up here, near the ceiling, and Danny found himself dozing, suddenly sleepy.  He blinked back awake when he dipped into the water. 

Oh.  That probably wasn't good.  He went back to scrubbing.  His skin felt raw, but also like it needed to be peeled off, bit by bit, section by section.  He ducked himself under the water, hoping to soothe the sensation away.  No luck. 

He reemerged.  The water was up to his shoulders, now, the whole lower half of the room submerged.  

And, Danny noticed, it was speeding up. 

The smoke was thick enough and drowsy enough that he kept finding himself with his eyes closed.  He felt worn and exhausted without having done much of anything. When he dozed, he had snatches of dreams, more impressions than anything.  Or, maybe, they were better termed hallucinations. Memories of brushes on his skin, which turned into fingers, poking, prodding, scratching. 

He didn't need to breathe in ghost form the same way he did in human form, but he heaved in long, slow, smoke-flavored breaths, panting.  Colors scintillated behind his eyelids, more saturated, more vibrant than they should be.  

It would have been nice if someone warned him the incense was hallucinogenic.  Or maybe it was the paint, acting through his skin.  Either way…

The water reached the level of the niches, briefly lifting the bowls.  The bowls were too heavy to float for long, though.  The small waves Danny was making swamped them, and they sunk, extinguished.  

All at once, the water drained out of the room, and Danny with it.  The door was back.  He sprawled in the small stream as water backwashed into it before sloshing back out.  He pushed himself to his elbows as ghostly glows fell on him.  

Danny looked up at the Painters, Icespear lingering behind them, and Tucker far in the back, then down at his still-painted limbs.  “I'm sorry,” he said, ashamed.  He couldn’t even clean himself right.  He was such a screw up

“Whatever for?” asked the leader.  “You have completed the trial.  You have proven that you are worthy. ”

“But I couldn't get off all the paint?” said Danny, confused. 

“Well, you wouldn't be a very good canvas if the paint just washed right off you,” said the pigtailed ghost.  “We're Painters, not window-washers.”

“Not quite the way I would put it, but not incorrect.”  The leader of the Painters offered Danny her hand. 

“How do I get it off, then?”  Danny, feeling a little noodly, took their hand. 

“Time will– Oh my.”  

The marks on Danny's skin had changed, moving, contracting and expanding, reminiscent of the movement of iris and pupil.  Danny blinked at it, faintly appalled. 

“Chromatophores!” said the pigtailed ghost, delighted.  “When was the last time someone got those?”

“Over a century,” said another of the ghosts.  “You really must be true of heart.”

The leader ghost, meanwhile, ran her finger up Danny's arm, and he watched in disquieted fascination as the robes of color followed its path like they were water on a shower door.  “Your skin hasn't just accepted the color, it has incorporated it.”

Danny, a little overwhelmed, flitted over to Icespear, hiding half behind him. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing much.  You just won't be getting rid of those,” said the pigtailed ghost, cheerfully. 

Danny looked up at Icespear.  

“I am no doctor, Great One.”

Danny made a squeaky, wheezy noise and looked down at his arms again.  The patterns moved and pulsed in a way that just screamed anxiety, the colors expanding and contracting, like the hallucinated colors behind his eyelids.  Looking at them made him feel dizzy. 

He paused.  Had the colors behind his eyelids been hallucinations?  Or were they just on his eyelids.  

“Well!” said the Painter.  “I expect you’ll want to be shown where you can harvest, yes?”

“Yeah,” said Danny.  “Yeah, just, let me get dressed and talk to Tucker, first.”  He turned around to face his friend.  “How bad is it?”

“You look kind of like someone poured a bucket of paint over you.  Artistically!” he added, looking over Danny’s shoulder at the painters.  “Or like those really poisonous octopuses?  I bet Sam will be into it.  She loves poisonous stuff.”

Danny blushed.  He saw colors move across the corners of his eyes.

“Ooh,” said Tucker, tracking something across Danny’s chest and face.  “You’re not going to be able to hide anything, like that.  That’s worse than if you had cat ears.”

“Please don’t give the universe ideas,” said Danny.  

“But it would be hot,” said Tucker.  

Danny stared at him.  It was Tucker’s turn to blush, the tips of his ears going darker than cherries.  

“You know,” said Sam, “I’ve been waiting here not looking at anything for forever.  Some updates would be great!”

“Let’s just–” said Danny.  He shook his head.  “You know, if this carries over to human form, I’m going to scream.”  He transformed.  “Well?” he asked, not quite willing to look down at his arms.

“No, you’re good,” said Tucker, giving him a thumbs up.  “You might have some more freckles, though?”

“Okay,” said Danny.  “Screaming later, then.  We’re coming, Sam!  We are coming, right?  The plants are up there, somewhere, right?”

“Yes,” said the lead Painter, bemused.  “Your friends can come, but they can’t touch anything.”

“Okay.  These plants aren’t going to turn me weird colors, are they?”

“Not permanently,” said the Painter.  

That was, probably, the best Danny was going to get.  He inhaled deeply, enjoying the lack of smoke, then let his breath rush out in a giant sigh.  He went ghost again, because even with his t-shirt and pants, it was chilly in the cave.  With the new transformation, he regained his suit.  A noise of disappointment escaped his mouth when he saw that there were black and white copies of the ‘chromatophores’ on his suit.  

He was going to be really upset about this later.  After the Far Frozen was cured.  

Tucker gave him a double thumbs up.  “Trust me,” he said.  “It looks good!”

Danny gave him a flat look.  “You said I looked like someone dumped paint on me.”

“In a good way!”

“Great One,” said Icespear, “I hate to hurry you, but we are on an errand of some importance.”

Danny blushed again, and nodded.  “Sorry.”  He shook himself, then flew up the tunnel.  

Everything would be fine.  Probably.  

[kier-with-a-k]

LAST NIGHT - M.S.

A/N: first fic! Omg I'm so happy to share this! I hope y'all enjoy this one!

Warning: death, angst, I think that's all

Not proofred!

--- Y/N's POV ---

It’s 6:59 PM, and I’m walking into a club. A little early, I know — but you can’t really blame me. I cough into my hand as the sharp scent of alcohol hits me like a truck. The place isn’t alive yet, but a few people are already scattered around, nursing their drinks and waiting for the night to begin.

I’ve convinced myself I’m going out tonight. No backing down... not that I really can. A week ago, they told me I only had one week to live.

And today... today is the last day.

---

7:00 PM.

The clock on the wall flips to 7:00, and my chest tightens. I don’t know if it’s this tight top cutting off my circulation or something deeper.

Everything feels off — like I’m floating outside my own body, watching someone else live my life. None of this feels real.

I wander the club, heels clicking against the floor, until my eyes land on a man sitting alone.

He’s strange-looking — not in a bad way. Attractive, even. But there’s something about him that feels... unraveling.

I adjust my tight black leather skirt as I walk toward him. Normally, I don’t dress up. But tonight... I kind of have to.

He’s surrounded by empty bottles, and judging by his slumped posture, he’s been drinking for a while.

I open my mouth to speak —

“He—”

“Go away,” he cuts me off sharply, voice flat.

Not exactly a "talk to me" tone.

Who the hell does he think he is? But since it is my last day on Earth... I decide to be a little menace.

My lips tug into a smirk.

“Day drinking, huh?”

“Day drinking? It’s fucking 7:05 PM.”

I grin wider. “Didn’t think you were gonna talk to me, Mr. Grumpy.”

He groans — it’s sharp, but weak at the edges. Tired.

Silence falls between us. Ten seconds pass before I sit beside him like I belong there.

I scan the crowd. The club’s still relatively tame, but the bitter smell of liquor clings to the air.

“What do you want?” he asks suddenly, snapping me out of my people-watching.

I turn to him, studying his face.

His eyes are impossibly blue — the kind that pull you in. But they’re ringed with dark circles, and his skin looks pale under the low lights.

He looks exhausted.

“What do you want?” he repeats, more impatient now.

I cough — louder this time. He notices.

“You know you really shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. That same voice — weak, but not soft. Like a storm he’s trying to keep inside.

I grin at him. “You seem really concerned.”

“I don’t care. Do whatever you want with your life. Just leave me alone.”

---

7:30 PM.

It’s been half an hour since I sat down next to him. He still hasn’t said much.

I glance at his outfit again — plain white button-down, creased and slightly damp from sweat and spilled whiskey. The collar is askew, like he stopped caring halfway through the day. Or halfway through life.

“You look incredibly sad,” I say, folding one leg over the other, letting my heel dangle off the tip of my toe like I don’t notice how bold I’m being.

He scoffs, takes a long breath. Doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Nope,” I pop, “just when I’m around people who look like they need saving.”

He shoots me a glare — the kind meant to cut. But the edges are dull. There's something in it that almost feels… curious.

“And what makes you think you’re the savior in this situation?”

I shrug, leaning in slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. “Because between the two of us, I’m the one still standing.”

He glances at the empty glass I took from him earlier, eyes narrowing. “You're annoying.”

“And you’re not nearly as scary as you pretend to be.”

He laughs — bitter, sharp — and then it softens. Just a little.

There’s a pause. A shift. Like the air decides to press closer.

“You wanna play a game?” I ask.

He raises a brow. “What kind of game?”

“A stupid one. Since, you know…” I trail off. I don’t say since I’m dying tonight, but it hangs there between us like invisible ink we’re both pretending not to read.

I smile, more playfully this time. “Let’s see who can make the other fall in love first before sunrise.”

He stares at me, like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You think love is something you can win?”

“No,” I whisper, “but it’s something you can fake. And I want to see who fakes it better.”

He studies me — eyes lingering too long. “You’re messed up.”

“And you’re intrigued.”

His lip twitches. The tiniest crack in the armor.

“Fine. You’re on.”

---

8:00 PM

The club is louder now. Bodies are moving, the lights pulsing in time with the bass. Everything feels warmer — hazy in that almost-too-much kind of way.

He’s dancing.

Matt — I finally got his name in between shots and half-laughed insults — stands across from me, smirking as the music swells. His sleeves are rolled up, collar loosened, and there’s a dangerous sort of charm to the way he moves. Confident but chaotic.

I laugh at something he muttered in my ear — something about me being a menace with a god complex — and slide my hands up his chest, fingers playing with the edges of his collar.

“You’re getting soft on me,” I tease.

“Please,” he says, brushing his fingers along my waist like he’s barely touching me. “If I’m getting soft, you’re the one making it happen.”

My breath hitches — just slightly — but I recover fast.

“Still convinced I’m gonna fall first?” I ask, head tilted.

He leans in closer, lips ghosting the shell of my ear. “I already saw the way you looked at me five minutes ago.”

“That was pity,” I lie.

“That was interest,” he counters. “And it’s mutual.”

We’re dancing closer now. Closer than I expected. My hands find his shoulders, and his hand — warm, grounding — settles on the small of my back.

It’s dangerous, this thing we’re doing.

But for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I don’t feel like I’m dying.

I feel alive.

And that’s exactly what scares me most.

---

8:52 PM.

He says he’s getting us drinks. I nod, watch him weave through the crowd like he knows exactly where he’s going. I should’ve followed.

A hand grabs my wrist. Not gentle. Not familiar. Just... rough.

“Hey,” some stranger slurs, reeking of vodka and something sourer.

I try to pull away. I say “no.” Once, then louder.

And that’s when I see him — Matt — storming back toward us like the floor itself is shaking beneath him.

“Let. Her. Go.”

One swing. Then another. Glass breaks. Someone yells. There's blood on someone’s collar — maybe his, maybe not.

We’re thrown out before I can even process what happened.

---

9:10 PM. Outside the bar.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, heart racing as we stumble into the cold night air. “You just... punched that guy!”

“He touched you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

“You got us kicked out!”

“I don’t care.”

I stare at him, shaking my head, still panting from the adrenaline. His lip is bleeding. I reach up without thinking and wipe the corner with my thumb.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world not falling apart.

“I’m not losing this game,” he says.

Neither am I.

---

9:45 PM.

The hotel room is shitty. One flickering lamp. A mirror that’s probably seen too much. One bed.

I sit on the edge, legs crossed, watching him toss the room key on the desk like he’s been here before.

“We’re really doing this?” I ask.

He shrugs, tugging off his jacket. “Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m dying. What do I have to be scared of?”

His eyes flick up. That word again. Dying.

I see it hit him — not like a truck. Like a slow realization that burns.

He doesn't say anything. Just crawls into bed beside me, leaving a full foot of space between us. It's weird. The restraint. Like he's scared of touching something that won’t be there in the morning.

---

10:30 PM.

We talk.

Not flirt.

Not tease.

Talk.

He tells me about his brother. About the hospital bills. About the pawn shop he robbed and the camera he didn’t know was there.

“I'll turn myself in tomorrow morning,” he says.

I tell him how my lungs are slowly giving out. How I spent months pretending I had more time than I did. That the world’s too loud and I’m too tired.

“You don’t look sick,” he whispers.

I laugh bitterly. “That’s the worst part.”

There’s a silence between us, thick like molasses.

And then — he inches closer. Our hands touch under the covers. Just barely. But it’s enough to make my heart ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I whisper. “Right now it feels like breathing.”

---

12:02 AM.

I don’t know when we fell asleep. I just know his arm’s around me and his breath is in sync with mine.

There’s something sacred about it — like we’re stealing hours the universe didn’t want to give us.

He mumbles my name in his sleep.

And for once... I wish I had more time.

--- Matt's POV ---

5:58 AM

Something’s off.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels wrong — not peaceful, not soft. Just… wrong.

I blink awake slowly, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much everything else. She’s still beside me, her body curled into mine like she never planned to leave.

Her head rests against my chest. I can feel the weight of it. But… not the warmth.

“Hey,” I whisper, voice thick, cracking in my throat. I shift a little, brushing her hair from her face.

She doesn’t move.

Something in my chest snaps.

“Hey,” I say again, louder now, sitting up. My hand goes to her shoulder, gently shaking. “Come on. Don’t do that.”

She stays still.

My heart is thudding. Loud. Stupidly loud. I press two fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

Her lips are parted — barely — and I swear I can feel the absence of breath like it’s trying to suck the air out of the whole room.

“No, no, no—” My voice starts to crack open, sharp and raw. I shake her harder now, panic drowning me. “Don’t do this. Please don’t fucking do this.”

But she’s not waking up.

She’s not here anymore.

And it’s like the world is splitting in half.

---

I pull her into me, arms wrapped so tightly around her that if holding someone hard enough could bring them back, she'd be breathing again. Her skin’s cold. Not frozen, but that kind of cold that feels like the start of forever.

“I didn’t mean to win,” I whisper against her hair. My chest is shaking.

“I didn’t want to win.”

I keep rocking her. Back and forth, like that might keep time from moving forward. Like maybe if I just don’t stop, I can undo the sunrise, the sickness, the silence.

“I was supposed to go to jail,” I choke out. “You were supposed to— You weren’t supposed to leave first.”

She looks like she’s sleeping. Like if I just say the right thing, she’ll open her eyes and tell me to shut up and stop being dramatic.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t.

So I stay there. Holding her. Talking to someone who can’t answer. Crying so quietly the walls can’t hear it.

Because even if it was a game,

even if we only had one night,

I lost something I didn’t know I needed until it was already gone.

---

A/N: YAY! I'm really proud of this work! I hope you cried... Cause I did!

Thank you to these divas who helped me!!! @sturnsblogs @oopsiedaisydeer

@bambisturns @sturns-mermaid

Deviders from: @bernardsbendystraws

[bidisasterevankinard]

Captain Buckley?

based on my this idea

Buck is trying to enjoy his family, friends, people close to his family and, most importantly, Tommy being around him right now happy about new life. He really does. But the soft broken place of his heart where Bobby lives still aches. Hard.

But he tries. He smiles at everyone, hugs his nephew, Jee. Promises his favorite girl he’s loving her no less than before. 

He laughs when baby boy Han makes a mess of his hirt and he’s happy to have spare in his jeep. 

He’s trying to find happiness in what he still has. And he feels it's helping. He’s still not enjoying it as much as he could have been, but he does enjoy it enough.

He still can’t stop feeling like Bobby’s ghost is watching over them smiling.

Buck hugs Tommy closer. He needs to feel himself stay in now, not dissociating yet again.

His phone rings and he wouldn’t answer, but he knows the number from LADD HQ and he would never let it unanswered. 

The backyard is pleasantly quiet and empty, everyone is around baby boy Han and new parents.

“Firefighter Buckley,” he answers, hoping he’s not getting fired for something. 

“Good afternoon, firefighter.”

“C-chief Simpson,” Buck straightens as if the Chief can see him. The trainings are his intistics now.

“I hope I’m not taking you away from a shift?” man asks but Buck knows even if he was on shift he would find time to talk to the man. Everyone would.

“N-no,” he coughs, hating his stutter as never before, “It’s my day off.”

“Good,” on the line some papers are moved, “I’m sure you know Captain Gerrard is retiring next month and after captain Nash’s tragic death,” Buck can feel his nails bite  his skin in the fist. He hopes it’s short enough not to draw blood, “it’s even harder to find the leader of the team who can take after him and be a good person for that role. Not gonna lie, our first choice was firefighter WIlson as she has way more experience in the field and experience as interim captain, but she refused the promotion. That’s why we move to second. You.”

Buck tries to swallow, but he can’t.

Him taking over 118? Now? So soon after Bobby? And he won’t lie he started to think he never would as Hen would take over and he eventually would move. 

He finds his voice. It sounds so stoic and professional; he is surprised it’s him speaking. 

“Can I have time to think? Not gonna lie, I’m surprised. Captain Nash thought I’m not ready.”

“Really? It surprises me. Because in his last three years reviews he was making notes about your growing leader skills and how you would makew a great captain.”

Buck doesn’t know what to say.

“Maybe he just wanted to protect you from all the cons of it and give you time to get more experience in field. But he believed in you, son.”

Buck almost cries.

“But, of course, take your time to talk to your family, partner and friends. Can you answer till Monday?”

It’s Friday today.

“Yes. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

“Good. Have a good day, firefighter.”

“Thank you, Chief. You too.”

Buck doesn’t know how long he is here, breathing the air and hoping to hear Bobby’s voice giving him the answer to that question, telling him what to do. Wind stays loud but no Bobby’s voice comes. Maybe that is his last lesson from the man? To finally knows what he does and owns his decision to himself and others if they turned out to be wrong? What is the point of trying to find people’s support if they will blame him in everything anyway?

This way he would at least proudly own his mistakes and consequences.

______ here I have two variants of the ending

1)

“Here you are,” strong, warm hands hugs his waist. “I've been looking for you for half an hour.”

Tommy kisses his neck.

“Sorry. Needed some air.”

“Something wrong?”

“Chief Simpson called. He wants me as a captain of 118.”

__________

2) Eventually he comes inside. His face musr still look strange because Chim asks him from all over the room.

“Buck where you were and what is with your face?”

Looking around the room, he finds Tommy’s eyes, “Chief Simpson wants me as next captain of 118.”

[hummingbird24220]

The Ace Effect (Part 2)

One Piece x Reader

You were trying to be scientific about this. Objective. Measured. Data-driven. But science had failed you. You’d run every test, logged every variable, and the conclusion was clear:

Portgas D. Ace was too hot.

An adorable, freckled, emotionally catastrophic hottie.

He smiled too easily. He leaned too close. He listened when you spoke like you were explaining the secrets of the universe—even if it was just about your favorite pasta shape (it was cavatappi, for very good, very passionate reasons).

So, you’d decided to distance yourself.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Physically.

You now spent most of your time in enclosed spaces, like the crow’s nest. Or the fridge. Or the bathroom with a blanket over your head.

Robin had stopped offering you tea. She just slid you calming herbs and whispered, “Breathe.”

Currently, you were hiding in the observation room with your notebook, furiously scribbling page after page:

“Romantic Threat Assessment: Portgas D. Ace”

Smile lethality: 9.5/10.

Freckle density: unreasonable.

Sweat glisten under direct sunlight: I’m suing.

Eye contact duration average: 3.7 seconds. Heart rate spike detected.

Potential danger to emotional stability: catastrophic.

You were about to add “Dangerous himbo energy” to the weaknesses column when the door creaked open behind you.

You froze.

“…Y/N?” a voice called.

It was him.

Of course it was him..

You slammed the book shut like it owed you money and spun in your chair. “Hi! Hello! What a surprise! How did you get in here?!”

Ace blinked. “The door was open.”

You nodded. “Right. Doors do that. Open. Yes. Physics.”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, smiling that smile—the one that turned your brain into pudding.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I—I haven’t—I mean I’ve just been—researching.” You grabbed a paper nearby and held it up. “Did you know swordfish can swim up to sixty miles per hour?”

He tilted his head. “That’s cool. But you’re kinda sweating.”

“No I’m not,” you lied, absolutely glistening.

He sat on the bench beside you, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, watching you with infuriating softness. “Y/N,” he said, voice low and sincere, “are you okay?”

You looked at him, really looked, and the truth fell out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“No. Because you keep smiling and talking and being shirtless and I think I’m in love with your stupid face and I hate it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Okay,” Ace said slowly, blinking. “That’s a lot. But… good?”

You frowned. “Good?”

“I was worried you were mad at me or something. But if it’s just that I’m too hot, I can work with that.”

Your eye twitched. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re adorable.” He grinned and poked your cheek. “You drew me with a flower crown on Slide 14.”

You gasped. “You looked through my slides?!”

“I had to! Sanji said there was a whole chart of me kissing a sword and I had to know.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Kill me. Please.”

Ace chuckled and tugged your hand down so you’d look at him.

“You wanna know my favorite slide?” he asked.

“…Is it the one where I seduce a sword?”

“Nope.” He tapped your nose gently. “It’s the one where I’m standing next to you. You look happy. I like that one.”

Your heart tried to explode. You coughed like a dying Victorian child.

He stood up and offered you his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something totally unscientific.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He grinned. “I dunno. Sit under the stars. Hold hands. Maybe kiss a little.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered diving out the window. Then, slowly, you took his hand.

Later that night, Robin passed by the deck and spotted you both under a blanket, giggling like kids, faces close in the moonlight.

She sipped her tea and murmured to herself with a smile:

“…Hypothesis confirmed.”

-

You’d hidden the folder. You swore you’d hidden it.

Labeled innocently as “Botanical Thermodynamics (DO NOT OPEN),” it was buried three subfolders deep in your cabin’s desk drawer, under your more boring research—like “The Migratory Patterns of Sea Chickens” and “Cloud That Looks Like Sanji.docx.”

So of course, Ace found it.

You came back from the galley with snacks—for bonding, nothing suspicious—and froze in your doorway.

Ace was sitting on the floor of your room, cross-legged and wholly entranced by the contents of your secret folder. Pages everywhere. Scribbled notes. Diagrams. Charts. Several graphs comparing the ratio of shirtlessness to your heart rate. A few pie charts. A Venn diagram titled “Ace’s Personality: Golden Retriever vs Arsonist” with a big overlap labeled “Dangerous to My Sanity.”

He looked up.

Your soul left your body.

“Hey,” he said, grinning, holding up a page. “So, quick question—how did you get this accurate of a sketch of my back muscles? Did you use mirrors or…?”

“…you were napping,” you croaked. “And I made estimations based on your shoulder width. And science.”

“Hmm.” He flipped the paper over. “Didn’t know science used glitter pens.”

You screamed internally.

Ace shuffled the pages again, pulling one out like it was damning evidence. “Also, this one? The flow chart titled ‘Why Ace is Probably Flirting With Me (But Also Might Just Be Nice)’—very thorough.”

You snatched it, horrified. “That one’s a draft!”

“Sure.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Y/N, there’s a six-page case study in here comparing me to various fire-based deities.”

“They’re thematic parallels! It’s literature!”

He held up another sheet. “And this?”

You groaned. “That’s Slide 12. The Compatibility Matrix.”

There were at least 23 names on it. Sanji, Zoro, Robin, the sword again, one very romantic dolphin you met on that weird island. All color-coded. Each had stats listed beneath: chemistry, aesthetic, emotional synergy, cuddle probability.

Yours was at the bottom.

Labeled “Me (Accidental Participant??)”

Next to it:

“Blush Index: Catastrophic.”

“Response Time to Flirting: Delayed.”

“Viability: Unknown.”

“Risk of Heart Failure: Elevated.”

“Desire to Kiss: Redacted.”

“Hair Compatibility: Excellent.” (underlined twice)

Ace didn’t say anything for a moment.

He just looked at you.

Not laughing now. Not teasing.

“...So,” he said, voice quieter. “I’m not imagining this, right? This… thing between us.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, “according to the data—”

“I don’t care about the data,” he said softly. “I care about you.”

The room spun.

Ace scratched the back of his neck, glancing at one of your messier pages. “You’ve been overanalyzing this so hard you forgot to just… feel it.”

You blinked. “That’s not very scientific.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “but it’s honest.”

He was in front of you now, close enough that your brain short-circuited.

“I like you,” he said, simple and devastating. “Freckles, flirt crimes, and all.”

You swallowed. “Even the page where I tried to calculate what your hugs would feel like?”

“…Especially that one.”

You blushed so hard your ears burned. “I labeled it ‘Theoretical Warmth.’”

He leaned in, smiling. “Want to make it empirical?”

You stared.

Then nodded.

He pulled you into a hug—warm, safe, a little too perfect. Your knees nearly gave out.

“New variable unlocked,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” you squeaked.

Outside, Robin passed the door and paused.

She heard muffled giggling. A thump. A very undignified squeal.

She sipped her tea with a knowing smile.

“…Hypothesis upgraded,” she murmured. “To fact.”

-

Sanji found the folder two days later.

You were still reeling from The Hug. Ace had gone back to his own ship for a few days to handle “logistical stuff” (you didn’t ask; you were too busy trying not to combust every time you remembered how warm his arms were).

So when Sanji burst into your room holding your Ace Compatibility Research Binder 2.0™, cheeks pink and eyes wide like he’d just found holy scripture, you didn’t even try to lie.

“Have you seen how detailed this is?” he gasped. “Y/N. Y/N. You measured his SMIRK RADIUS. You calculated the gravitational pull of his hip dips.”

“It’s called dedication to the craft,” you muttered, snatching a loose sticky note labeled ‘freckle constellation patterns (my death is imminent)’ and shoving it back in.

Sanji placed a reverent hand on the binder.

“…Can you run a compatibility chart for me?”

You blinked. “With who?”

He gave a suspicious shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Hypothetically. For science. Maybe the hot marine waitress in Shells Town. Or, you know—” (he looked away dramatically) “—anyone who finds me devastatingly attractive but emotionally complex.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you mean you?”

“I always mean me,” he said proudly.

You sighed.

Then grabbed a pen.

It became a thing.

You and Sanji, hunched over the table like mad scientists, surrounded by half-eaten snacks and glitter pens, arguing over whether eye crinkles or jawlines were a higher compatibility asset. The charts grew. The equations got complex. You started adding variables like “voice timbre” and “mid-battle sexiness.”

He brought you coffee. You brought him lipstick-stained rating stickers.

At one point, Robin passed by, saw the two of you laughing with ink on your faces, and whispered to Chopper, “I think they’ve finally snapped.”

Zoro just muttered, “I told you they were weird.”

The folder became… massive.

Color-coded.

Tabbed.

Glossy cover.

You laminated it.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was everything.

And then.

Nami found it.

She flipped through it once.

Then twice.

Then closed it.

And threw it off the ship.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” “MY DATAAA!” “MY HEART MAPS!!” “MY MIDRIFF METRICS!!!”

You and Sanji leapt over the railing like widowed scientists. You held each other in grief. Sanji sobbed dramatically. You actually considered diving in after it until Brook gently pulled you back.

“It’s over,” Nami said, brushing off her hands. “You two need help.”

“But it was a work of art,” Sanji sniffled. “You don’t understand. We mapped emotional compatibility by season!”

“I was a (Starsign),” you whispered, glassy-eyed. “Ace was a Leo. It made sense.”

“It’s literally astrology,” Nami deadpanned.

“SCIENCE,” you hissed.

That night, sitting on the deck in a towel like a war survivor, you stared up at the stars and sighed.

“…I think I was using science as a shield.”

Robin hummed beside you. “Mmm. Defense mechanisms often wear lab coats.”

“I spent so long trying to define it. To label it. Ace makes me feel like I’m on fire and floating all at once, and I kept trying to call that a chemical reaction.”

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s just… chemistry.”

You looked at her.

Then stood up, shaky but determined.

“No more analysis. No more charts. No more math.”

Robin sipped her tea. “How revolutionary of you.”

You turned toward the edge of the ship—and right on cue, Ace was arriving back, hopping from his little boat, a wide smile on his face and wind in his hair, like the universe had heard your dramatic declaration and queued his entrance.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly. “I missed you.”

You didn’t say anything.

You ran.

And then jumped.

Straight into his arms.

He caught you effortlessly, laughing against your shoulder as you clung to him like a starved scientist to the truth.

“No more variables,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

“No more equations,” he agreed, cupping your cheek.

You kissed him.

It was messy.

Uncalculated.

Absolutely beautiful.

Somewhere, Sanji sighed longingly as he watched from the kitchen window.

“…I should’ve laminated my feelings.”

-

The folder—the last folder—sat in Ace’s hands like it was ticking.

Nami stood over you both like judgment incarnate, arms crossed, hair glinting like fury under sunlight.

“You promised,” she said to Ace. “We’re putting this weird phase behind us. Burn it. All of it.”

You looked up at him, heart cracking like paper held too close to a flame. “It’s fine,” you said, voice small. “She’s right. It’s time to move on. No more graphs. No more compatibility tables. No more glitter pens.”

Ace looked between you and Nami. Then down at the binder. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of data—he’d added his own notes in the margins. Compliments on your hair. A post-it that said “Y/N’s laugh: better than fire.” Another by your graph titled “Back Muscle Density vs Hug Quality,” where he’d written: “Can confirm. Hugged subject. Results: glorious.”

He smiled gently.

Then, very deliberately, pulled two pages out—your drawing of the two of you smiling, and the back muscle chart—and tucked them inside his vest.

Nami narrowed her eyes.

Ace grinned. “Sentimental value.”

You sniffled. “Scientific value.”

Nami rolled her eyes. “Whatever. The rest goes.”

He nodded. And then, with a flick of his fingers, fire danced across his knuckles. You both watched as the paper edges curled, then ignited, flames licking away hours of analysis, overthinking, insecurity.

You stood beside him, watching it burn.

Not sad, exactly.

Just… letting go.

Your fingers brushed his.

You didn’t pull away.

That night, you sat side by side on the deck, legs swinging off the edge, bare feet over calm water. The sea shimmered with stars, and the moon painted his freckles like constellations.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Feels weird. Like I’ve been wearing goggles for so long, and I finally took them off. Everything’s clearer. A little blurrier, too.”

“Real life usually is.”

You glanced at him.

Ace was leaning back on his palms, head tilted toward the sky, hair wind-tossed, and you were ruined. By him. For life.

“You kept the drawing,” you said, nudging him lightly.

“I like how you drew me smiling,” he said. “And the eyelashes you gave yourself. Accurate.”

You flushed. “Shut up.”

“I also kept the back muscle graph,” he added. “For… fitness purposes.”

You laughed. “Of course.”

The silence that followed was warm. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just two people sitting together, a spark glowing softly between them.

Your hands found each other again, fingers interlocking naturally this time.

No fanfare.

No charts.

Just feeling.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “I think I like you.”

He smiled.

“I know,” he whispered. “I like you too.”

And under the stars, no graphs, no hypotheses, no research—just two hearts, fluttering and new—young love bloomed quietly. Sweet. Simple. And maybe just a little bit inevitable.

[6feathered6siren6]

Petals and Blades (Ronin x reader)

Author's note: I got really into animes that talked about flowers and their effects(apothecary diaries and snow white with red hair), wrote this out of my own indulge, hope you enjoy! o/

Tigger warnings:

Murder/killings

Poisons

Cringe?

Garden full of flowers. Bright, beautiful, but deceiving. Each one has a role in your garden, a role in your future. Deceiving your victims just like your own garden, dressing up like something else, deceiving them as something to be gawked at. Before their untimely death. But even some flowers have good medicinal effects. 

Finalizing your outfit for one last time, brushing out any wrinkles, pulling your hair a bit away from your face. A chime from your phone pulls you away from your thoughts, it was the server. Reminding you of the mafia game you were supposed to be at. A little guilty for not joining, but you have other things to do. A murderous party that will leave some six(6) feet under. You sent a quick ‘sorry not able to join’ text. Before you were able to clicking off the app, Ronin sent a dm.

goreboy: so whats keeping You away

goreboy: is it the Flowers

You never told any of them the reasons for your flowers. Nor what you do. 

User: No, I got a party tonight

User: Last minute

User: I’ll send pictures

goreboy: alright

goreboy: show How gruestic you Can be Darling

You see him joining the vc, joining everyone else in the server, leaving you alone to your own thoughts. You know he meant to show pictures of your outfit and excitement, not what's going to be the result of tonight. First you have to join a reunion with one other person. Someone you knew. 

They do say ‘karma is a bitch’ for a reason. 

-

You look at your ‘friend’ as they drink the tainted drink, they were horrible to you, toxic. Your relationships with your other friends were destroyed because of them, spreading lies about you. That you were the black sheep in this group, unable to gain another friend because of the rumors that followed you everywhere.

They turn their head towards you, continuing talking about their job. The dream job you wanted, but they took it from your hands, your now deathly tainted hands. Watching them cough, spitting out blood, their hands went to their shirt, clutching as if that could help. Falling off their chair as they continue coughing up blood, then giving out their last slow breath. It would be written off as a medical issue, as the flower you used had medicinal attributes so they say it was heart medicine gone wrong. Or that they stole and took them. After all, they have a friend that takes those types of pills, so they could have written them taking those away from her. 

Such a ‘tragic accident’. You step over the body, taking one last glance of your tormenter. You snap a couple photos before leaving. The first kill under your belt. And there should be another tonight, a task given to you. Passing a reflective glass, you fixed yourself, looking like you just left your place. 

Originally, you sold poisons to people. Allowing people an easy way to kill others, but the off chance people would ask if you could instead of them. You never accept it until tonight. A special case. They tripled your sell price and would buy more plants for you. So how could you say no. Especially to get your hands on harsher poisons. Hemlock will be in your hands, and you are ready for your money to skyrock after this plant. 

Lily of the valley, beautiful flowers, a plant of dangerous features. Poisonous even when touching uncarefully. You look at the bottle you have in your hands. A man will die from taking this. Might be slower than the one before you, but it will get the job done. Trick him in order to take this then in about 48 hours he will fall. 

And surprisingly it was easy. All you had to do was pretend that you were a worker and bring it to him. They all turn a blind eye, probably thinking you were a new worker. You at least made sure he took the first bite before you left. Turning away from him and leaving the building, you checked the server, they were still playing. Maybe by the time you got home, you would be able to join in for a game or two.

—

As you join the call, you hear Luca and Misaki fight with each other if Feli was the mafia. Luca was defending her while Misaki was trying to say she was. It was a bit entertaining after what you did today, something needed. You leaned back into your chair as you listened. 

“Oh come on, you can’t tell me that she isn’t, Luca!” Miskai yelled out again.

“Like I said, how could she, tell me Miskai!” He shouted, leaving Feli to laugh again. 

“To put a pin into that fight, I say it could be V. He’s awfully quiet.” Angel hummed, pausing both Misaki and Luca. 

“I told you before, I am not the killer, I am the doctor.” V spoke out, “I didn’t think whoever was the killer took out Ronin first.”

“Such a tragic death over all.” You could tell Ronin was enjoying the chaos. 

“Ronin, you are dead. You can not speak.” Vince spoke, “Now is everyone ready to vote?”

“It’s Luca and Feli, it has to be!” Misaki slapped their desk as they yelled. 

Everyone was quiet as you can assume that you were thinking. Interrupting their thoughts, “I say Luca. He seems guilty.”

Luca did a yell and a gasp, Misaki screamed from the surprise voice, and Ronin was laughing that you scared Misaki and Luca. Angel was laughing with him. 

A chuckle leaves Vince’s mouth, “I see you are back, do you want to join us this round or the next?” 

“This one, and I vote for Luca.” 

Luca groans again, “Not you too!”

You laugh as you join the chaos in games. Basking in the usual night of game night, with a bit of poison. 

–

You hummed as you watered your flowers, picking a few for a new idea and creation of poison. You played with petals with your new plant, the announcement of their deaths should be soon. Putting the watering can down and walking inside, putting the flowers into a cloth then onto your mini table near the door to your garden. Taking your garden apron and gloves off, placing them onto a hook, then getting your desk. Looking onto the news, and sure enough there it was. 

‘Food Nightmares: The Fatal Feast That Claimed a CEO’

So they claim it was food poisoning. Interesting… You hummed softly and you looked into your ‘friend's death.’

‘Thief's Fatal Dose of Stolen Medicine’ 

So they also wrote the way you thought it would happen. You copied the links and sent the photos of one kill into killer_shit. 

User: [link that goes to ‘Thief's Fatal Dose of Stolen Medicine’]

User: [photos of the corpse and one of a selfie with you standing in front of the body, winking and sticking your tongue out]

User: [link to Food Nightmares: The Fatal Feast That Claimed a CEO’]

User: Never trust your food with me XP

hitmeuppp: HUH?! READER?! 

hitmeuppp: JUST GONNA DROP THIS AND NO EXPLANATION?!

Ai Hua444: Poison? 

User: Yup, a garden full of them :)

User: I’ll send photos of my garden of poisons

hitmeuppp: YOU MAKE YOUR OWN?!

You laugh as Misaki raids your dms, messaging you so many questions. That they were shocked you killed people with plants and to teach you. Ronin was next to dm you. 

goreboy: shocker Darling

goreboy: poison Is your way of doing Things?

goreboy: no wonder why You are so attached To flowers

goreboy: make Me a delightful Drink then

You laugh at his text. 

User: I do make good tea, one that make you rest for days on end

goreboy: then Make me a cup

User: I’ll make you my best cup then

You lean back into your chair as he invites you into a call. You click accept as you watch him sitting there smirk, delighted.

“There’s the killer, so spill your guts, darling. Tell the devil your sins.” His head was on his hand, relaxed but he was captivated. He truly wanted to know. And you did, you told him how and why. He didn’t seem disgusted by it, more interested as you told your way of murder. “So it seems why your flowers are important, so dainty but murderous.”

You chuckle, “If it makes you like your favorite flower more, white lilies are a poison, causing at least digestive system issues to seizures, maybe comas, but important death if there's too much. The leaves and bulbs are what are important to poisoning.” 

“So knowledgeable, so poisoned, are there other ways plants affect others that aren’t so known?” He leans in, with so much glee. He wants to know what makes you favor flowers more than anything. Not just poison. 

Through the night, you brought flowers names and what they did. How they affect others, and even brought up that you sell the poisons. Ronin was interested in what flowers you grew and what flower that you got from your hefty paycheck. And if you sent him a bouquet of flowers to his purgatory, that was for only you to know.

[syndrossi]

Considering Rhaegar didn't initially like fighting and only decided to be a warrior after deciding that he must be a prophesied hero and would need the skills to back it up, now that he has Jon, a wonderful big brother who is the actual prophesied hero and they're in the past 200 years (200 years before the darkness is set to come forth from the far North), how does Rhaegar feel about practicing with the sword?

Is it still a responsibility he feels he must do, or has he come to enjoy it at all? Or will he keep it up because Jon likes it and shared activities are good for them? Or to avoid disappointing Daemon? When will Daemon get to learn more about Rhaegar's musically-inclined side, beyond the lullabies? He needs to hear that boy play a harp.

I just reminded myself that I want Rhaegar to sing a lullaby (the song of the seven!!) where Alicent overhears him... ahhhhhh.

Also: "In the moment, something about her had reminded him of his uncle for some reason. Her eyes, perhaps, which were a similar grey-blue." - Ch. 2

(Don't ask why I'm suddenly re-reading chapter two.) Anyway, do you see that? That CLEAR HINT??? Rhea reminds Jon of Benjen! Clearly, this is the Stark in her. From a Stark mother? Stark grandmother? Married into House Royce? Look, Jon and Rhaegar are clearly related to Cregan and that's all there is to it. They are cousins through Cregan's aunt. Great-aunt? I don't know, but the evidence is clear. They've got Stark blood in their veins SOMEHOW! 😂

Honestly, I think what bothered Rhaegar was less training in arms, but the implications: that there would be war, and he would be charged with leading it. He strikes me as someone who takes a lot of pride in excelling at what he does, and he did excel at arms. (And physical training can be a great time for creative thinking.)

It's an interesting dynamic now with Jon. He idolizes Jon to a degree, and aspires to be his equal. He can't be his equal without matching him in arms! I'm willing to bet that he had just started building a friendly competitive dynamic with Arthur before being Summerhalled, similar to Jon and Robb's. (A little taste of having a brother.) So I could see a playful version of that building with Jon instead, where he aims to match or surpass Jon, however impossible it feels at times.

Also there's an element of--not wanting to abdicate the heaviness of responsibility to Jon alone? He had been crown prince, and he had lived his whole life under the shadow of prophetic responsibility. Although the burden of it was lifted by hearing what Jon had accomplished, I don't think that mindset fully disappears. It's the promise of the birthday band, however much Jon conveniently ignores it to protect Rhaegar: we share our struggles together, we fight at one another's side.

Finally, we have Raymar. He and Jon would have dreamed of independence, of making a name for themselves. The most obvious way to do so it via knighthood. So although Raymar shared his love of books and learning, he also pushed himself in arms training for similar reasons: so that he and his brother could set out and perform heroic deeds together.

As for his musical side...Daemon still hasn't put two and two together here of "he has an incredibly beautiful voice" and "maybe singing/playing an instrument is something that he would love." 😂 It may honestly take the boys' things arriving with Ser Perkins for Daemon to have a meltdown about their "mysterious benefactor" (*cough* THAT RAT BASTARD HIGHTOWER *cough*) knowing more about his love for the harp than Daemon.

Or even something like your dream scenario, where he sings in front of Alicent and she arranges lessons for him with a harpist, and Daemon is ready to DAEMON SMASH for her presumptuousness but he can't because Rhaegar is deliriously happy about the harp he now has. (Yet ANOTHER Hightower's gifted harp... 😂)

But also, Daemon is not ready for Rhaegar to bust out the sorrowful songs he's drawn to. Pretty much all of his singing with both Jon and Daemon has been comforting lullabies. Rhaegar aiming to make someone weep is a godsdamned weapon.

And awww, the Benjen reference! That was added so much later than when I wrote the draft of the scene; I vividly remember editing it in. I forget if the goal had been to emphasize a potential Stark connection. (It's teased in another part as well with Elys's "touch of northern beauty" which is attributed to her mother.) It might also have been me showing that Jon has no great way of contextualizing a female/motherly relationship and so his default is to slot it into an uncle-style relationship instead.

I haven't done any family trees for the Royces/Starks yet to figure out how close or distant the boys' relation is.

[burntsora-deactivated20203]

dannymay 2025 again ! prompt 7 this time to make up for missed days. I'm slowly but surely catching up :')

DAY 7 -- Prompt: Blood Blossoms

author: burntsora

length: 2093 words (?! it's my longest one yet)

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65426710

only registered users can read it on ao3

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“Maddie, baby! Look what I’ve found in town!”

Jack swept himself into the living room, Danny and Jazz following out of curiosity. He seemed to have a bottle of something in his hands and was presenting it to their mother as a gift. She let out a small gasp at the sight of it. The two siblings investigated Jack’s hands to look at… a perfume bottle?

Danny moved a bit away. Something about it set him on edge, and he didn’t know what. Was it toxic? Or maybe he just didn’t like the smell? But they didn’t even use it yet, so that was unlikely too.

Their mother took it out of his hands with a soft look and planted a kiss on Jack’s cheek. “Thank you, dear. I haven’t seen one of these in years! I thought they stopped making them, considering how rare it is.”

“That’s what I thought too, but it seems there’s a few cultivations here and there to preserve it!” Jack raised his hand to scratch his chin in thought. “Maybe we could get them to lend us some for our research!”

Jazz narrowed her eyes, a bit more suspicious now that their parents’ work was brought into this unprompted. “Why would it help you two in the lab? What even is that?”

It was then that Maddie sprayed the perfume in the air and suddenly Danny understood a lot of things as what was once a mild discomfort turned into a searing pain by merely being near the fumes.

He took a step back, trying to appear nonchalant while holding his breath so no more particles would get in his lungs. It was much harder when he felt the need to cough and his throat and lungs burned.

“Blood Blossom perfume!” Chirped Maddie, not yet noticing Danny’s predicament. “The flower itself attracted us because of it’s anti-ghost properties, but the smell is delightful too, don’t you think?”

“Yes!” Exclaimed Jack. “And think of all the equipment we could make if we had our own Blood Blossoms growing in our home!”

Danny choked out a weak and raspy ‘excuse me’ before quickly stumbling upstairs and into the bathroom.

Once he got in and shakily shut and locked the door, he fell to his knees, coughing and wheezing as his entire respiratory system was being burned from the inside out. He could feel tears forming in his eyes and slipping free as he coughed and saw specks of red on his arms before immediately feeling something well up in his throat. He crawled over to the toilet and sat in front of it, coughing and retching as he felt something crawl up his trachea.

After what felt like an hour, he managed to cough out a wet semi-solid mass of what looked like burned and decayed tissue, covered in splotches of angry red interspersed with a dull, greyish flesh tone, and an equal (or probably) larger amount of blood.

The sight made him throw up again.

After the retching had ended, he shakily stood and went over to the sink, gripping the edges of the counter with which knuckles and blood-stained palms. The mirror showed the lower half of his face covered in blood, his nose leaking profusely and red spit dribbling out of his mouth.

He washed away the blood with shaking hands as he tried to breath through his mouth instead of his nose. He remembers Jazz saying that breathing through your nose calms down, but right now may not be the best time for that.

He jumped at the sound of knocking on the door before he heard his mother’s voice. “Danny? Are you ok in there?”

He froze, breathing shakily as he tried to think of an answer. “Y- yeah, mom. The perfume just- just irritated my throat, is all. Nothing to worry about, haha…”

“Are you sure? You don’t sound very good…”

“I’m-” He coughed as another wave of irritation hit him, though he tried to make it sound better than it was. He spat out blood into the sink and watched it swirl into the drain. “I’m alright, really.”

She stayed quiet for a few seconds before sighing. “If you’re sure… But let me know if you need anything, ok honey?”

Danny let out a sigh of relief before nodding, then realizing she (thankfully) couldn’t see him. “Yeah, ok. Thanks, mom.”

He listened and waited for a bit until he heard her sigh again and her footsteps receded before slumping into the sink again. He supped water into his hands and poured it into his mouth before swishing it around and spitting it out, trying his best to get rid of the copper and nickel taste that clung to his mouth.

After a few minutes of cleaning himself up with water and tissues and trying to look like nothing happened, Danny stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. He briefly remembered the bit of flesh that he coughed up and looked at the toilet that was now stained red on the lid. He couldn’t see the mass through the red of the water. He flushed the toilet and watched it swirl away. There was still a tint of redness, so he cleaned the toilet seat with a tissue and tossed it the water, and he waited until the water tank filled up before flushing again.

Danny took a few more deep breaths before he opened the bathroom door with a trembling hand and stepped into the hallway.

Once he entered the living room, the first person to rush to him was Jazz, checking him over to make sure nothing was amiss. The second person was Maddie with Jack right behind her.

“Danny? What happened, are you ok?”

“The perfume didn’t bother you too much, did it Danno?”

“Are you feeling a bit better?”

Danny coughed at the lingering residue in the air, causing them all to flutter in worry before he waved his hand to dismiss them. “I’m alright, it just irritated my throat.”

“That’s odd. None of us were too bothered by it,” said Jack.

Danny stiffened a bit, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck nervously. “Maybe I developed an allergy…?”

His mother looked at him with sympathy. “Oh, Danny. Why don’t you go drink some water and we’ll open a few windows to get it out.”

Danny nodded and headed to the kitchen, listening to the other three talk. Jazz asked their father where he managed to get this if it was so rare.

“One of those white-suited ghost hunters had some with him! It took a bit of persuading and a fat wad of cash for him to give me a bottle, but anything for my wife!”

Danny froze. Maybe this was a bigger problem than he thought.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Danny was on a warpath.

He was currently flying to Vlad’s Amity Park residence because he was the only one who had confirmed knowledge on Blood Blossoms. He was also the only one who Danny has seen use them.

He’s also not above poisoning Danny through his parents.

Danny phased through the wall and into Vlad’s study, murder in his eyes because Vlad had to know how bad of an idea the entire thing was but still went through it just because of his stupid fights with Danny. “What the hell is your problem?!”

Vlad dodged an ecto-blast shot towards him and glared at Danny, teeth bared. “Cheese logs! What’s the matter with you, boy!”

“What’s the matter with you, fruitloop?! I know your ideas are bad but his one takes the cake for being the WORST!” He punctuated his sentence with another blast towards the older man.

Vlad dodged again, shifting into Plasmius as he geared up for a fight and. “And what, may I ask, have I done to make you throw a tantrum this big.”

“Give Blood Blossoms to the GIW, for one!”

Vlad paused, his expression shifting into one of confusion. “I haven’t done that!”

Danny stopped throwing ecto-blasts, but still glared at Vlad. “And you expect me to believe that?”

Vlad sighed and went back to his desk, taking a seat and shifting back to human. “I’m not an idiot, Daniel. I know the consequences that would bring, and I’m a hundred percent certain it was not me. Did you even take the time to consider that they may have found it of their own accord?”

“How would they have found them if they’re an extinct plant,” Danny spat out.

“They’re not fully extinct. There’s a handful of small cultivations across the globe, and they grow much more commonly in the Ghost Zone. I thought you’d have known that by now, but I guess you’ve been more preoccupied with saving your little town than gaining any knowledge.”

Danny grit his teeth but floated to the ground, standing and watching Vlad. “So you had no idea how they got their hands on them?”

Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Daniel. I did not. Now I would appreciate it if you left. Knowing you, you’d try and take care of it as soon as you get out of here.”

Danny growled a bit but turned around to fly out.

“Wait, Daniel!”

Danny turned with a glare boring into Vlad’s face. “What.” His tone caused a chill in the air, Vlad retracted his outstretch hand a bit. A silence grew between them before Danny just clicked his tongue and moved to leave.

“Don’t get yourself caught.”

That made him pause. He turned around, only to find Vlad sitting at his desk as if he didn’t say anything. “If your status as a half-ghost got out, who knows what else they could find. I don’t want to be thrown under the bus for your mistakes.”

Danny stared at him again, more wary than angry this time. He left without another word.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Danny was not on a warpath this time, but it was very close.

He was flying to the GIW headquarters closest to Amity, and he was going to find whoever was involved with the sudden appearance of Blood Blossoms and throttle them.

He turned invisible and intangible once the building was in sight and phased inside, going through the research rooms until he found one that had a few plants growing inside.

Very familiar plants.

With a few small ecto-blasts, Danny destroyed the plants and the table they were on until they were nothing but metal scraps and ashes. He searched the room and destroyed anything he thought pertained to the flowers.

Actually, he could destroy anything related to ghosts here at all.

Danny couldn’t remember feeling as relaxed and content as he was right now, trashing the room and burning anything that looked slightly important with a smile on his face.

This was put into pause when an agent walked into the room, red faced with anger and steam coming from his ears. “You insolent brat.”

The man stomped inside, pulling out a weapon and pointing it at Phantom. “Do you have any idea how long it took to research all that? To grow the goddamn plant?”

Danny looked at him, deadpan. “Are you the lead researcher?”

“What does it look like?!” The man shook his gun as he yelled, spit flying out of his mouth.

Danny floated a bit away, slightly disgusted at that. “Does anyone else work with you? I can’t imagine you’re the sociable type.”

“I work alone. The facility doesn’t even know I work on this, considering it’s not authorized or legal because of how rare the stupid plant is. Which makes it all the more work to re-do all this after you DESTROYED IT!”

“Huh. Well, that makes this easier for me, at least.”

Before the man could say anything, Danny flew straight into him, overshadowing him in an instant. He whispered to the body, both out loud and into the brain directly.

You do not work with Blood Blossoms, and you do not know where to find them. Any work in this facility or any other is fraudulent and should be destroyed.

He let the words sink in before he floated out and left the man in a confused daze. He quickly left the building and started flying back home.

He learned that little trick a while back when he overshadowed a different GIW agent and saw the results. It’s proved useful so far, and he doubts that will change anytime soon.

Man, Sam and Tuck aren’t gonna believe him when he tells them what happened.

[grace5425]

tequila & card tricks

Pathetic.

That’s how you felt now—nerves twisting in your stomach, butterflies fluttering in a frenzy, sitting stiffly in the front seat of Stiles’s jeep while he casually sipped on a milkshake like the world hadn’t just ended last weekend.

Yeah. Pathetic.

You and Stiles had been best friends since before either of you could walk. That kind of knowing wasn’t just surface-level—it was buried deep in your bones. It was steady, unshakable, safe. He was your constant, your anchor. And somewhere along the way, without warning and certainly without permission, those feelings had changed.

What began as a quiet buzz in the back of your sixth-grade mind had grown into a full-blown siren. Loud. Inescapable. Every time the Stilinski boy smiled at you, looked at you, even breathed near you, your heart sprinted like it was trying to escape your chest.

It was always him. Always had been.

Lydia had thrown a party last Friday—nothing unusual—and of course, you’d gone. What was unusual, however, was the amount of alcohol you’d downed. Enough to leave you dizzy, giggly, and completely incapable of walking in a straight line by 2 a.m.

Stiles, ever dependable, had picked you up at 3 a.m. without hesitation. He’d driven you home with tired eyes and soft music playing through the speakers. And somewhere between a slurred thank-you and a clumsy goodbye, you’d leaned in and tried to kiss him.

And he’d dodged it.

Not harshly. Not cruelly. But he’d pulled away—gentle, awkward, clearly startled.

You’d both talked about it the next day, cheeks flushed and voices too loud to seem casual. You’d laughed it off, calling it “a drunken mistake,” agreeing to move on like it meant nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing to you.

To you, it wasn’t a mistake. It was rejection.

And that rejection had sat heavy on your chest for days now, pressing into your ribs, making it hard to breathe every time he looked at you like he was doing now.

“Think Coach’ll let me play tomorrow?” Stiles asked suddenly, his head turning toward you, catching you mid-spiral.

You coughed, startled, scrambling to shove your thoughts back into the locked drawer you kept them in. “Oh—uh—definitely. I mean… probably.” Your voice cracked slightly as you shifted in your seat, avoiding his eyes.

He raised a brow and placed his milkshake in the cupholder between you both. His body turned toward you now, attention focused, brow furrowed.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “You’ve been acting kind of weird the last few days.”

You opened your mouth, fully intending to lie. Say you were tired, or stressed, or just being weird because it was midterms or Mercury was in retrograde or something equally vague and avoidant.

But Stiles was looking at you with that soft, familiar concern, and your brain short-circuited.

So instead of lying, you started talking. Rambling, really.

“I’ve been weird because, well… okay, so you know that night at Lydia’s? Obviously, because you had to come pick me up, and God, sorry about that again, by the way—I was super drunk and probably annoying and rambling then too, which I guess is just my brand at this point—but the thing is…”

You paused for a second, realizing he was staring at you, expression unreadable.

“I didn’t kiss you because I was drunk. I mean, yeah, I was drunk, but that’s not why I did it. I kissed you—or tried to—because I have this… thing.”

Stiles blinked. “A thing?”

You nodded, hands flailing now. “A crush thing. On you. Like, a whole… long-term, slow-burn, hide-it-and-hope-it-goes-away kind of crush. Which it didn’t, obviously. It just got worse. Especially lately. So when I kissed you, or tried to, it wasn’t because of the vodka or the beer or whatever the hell Lydia put in that mystery punch—it was because I like you. Like, like-like you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “And I know it probably totally ruined everything, and you don’t feel the same, and I really don’t want to make things weird between us, but I couldn’t keep pretending like it was just some dumb mistake when it wasn’t, and—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Because suddenly, Stiles was leaning in—and kissing you.

Soft, sure, and completely unexpected.

Your words died in your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut. And for one breathless moment, everything stilled. The overthinking. The fear. The crushing weight of maybe.

He pulled back just an inch, just enough to whisper, “You talk way too much.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You just kissed me.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes crinkling with the beginning of a smile. “And I’ve kind of been wanting to do that since, like… sophomore year.”

Your heart stumbled.

“Oh,” you breathed, and then—grinning—“you like-like me back?”

He laughed, bumping your shoulder. “Yeah. I like-like you back, now come on, sleepover at mine tonight.

[terpia]

I've never seen a cough transcribed in this way, but I suppose it works??

[xxplastic-cubexx]

im with fam but i always thinka him so doodle time

[waitineedaname]

brought myself to tears thinking about luo binghe and his loneliness. during all the worst times of his life, he was alone. when his mother died, he had no one. when he was being abused on qing jing, he had ning yingying but there wasn't much she could do for him. in the abyss, he was alone. when he was grieving sqq for five years, he had subordinates but he didn't have anyone to hold him and comfort him

and it's that loneliness and isolation that xin mo capitalizes on. those feelings of loneliness and isolation make his self esteem worse and his emotional state more unstable, because deep down is a miserable and lonely child that wants to be held and comforted and love

luckily for him, all shen qingqiu wants is to hold him and comfort him and make him feel loved! I think post-canon, they'll spend a long time confronting those wounds left by loneliness, except now instead of having to bear it alone, sqq will be there to hold him in his arms and tell him I'm sorry you were hurting, I'm sorry you were alone, you never should have gone through that. and there's the promise that he won't ever have to be alone again because that's the promise sqq made to him. from now on, wherever binghe goes, shen qingqiu will follow

[whirling-star]

[Pull the strings and hear them ring]

“Puppet Scarf”