#7 frames was too fast...

[moxyphinx]

SIUAN SANCHE + channelling

[phlesbian]

"you look like a vampire" aka dan loosing his chill

[amegeddon]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT

I WAS NOT READY FOR THE WAR WITHIN QUESTLINE

I HEARD DE COOKED BUT I DIDN'T REALISE IT WAS GONNA BE A GOURMET FEAST HOLY HELL THAT WAS AMAZING???

I have also heard the story gets EVEN BETTER from this point on so oh my god I'm very hyped for that. Just a shame mhwilds is out in a few days since it's 100% going to eat my attention lol

[jessiescock]

I hate those super fast hard cut tiktok recipe videos like it doesn't actually tell you the recipe and it's super stressful to watch. now im hungry and have a vagueish idea of how i could make that food myself but not rlly

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ02. MOAN FOR THE CAMERA

pairingᝰ.ᐟ lee heeseung x fem reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, grinding, praise kink, soft dom! heeseung, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 2/9 completed!

──

it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?�� he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

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[gojover]

the courtship affairs of a common man

summary: nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, you’re used to getting what you want—and your next business venture? winning him over.

⇢ pairing: secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, desk sex, protected sex, angry sex, slight dirty talk), office romance au, grumpy x sunshine, profanity, alcohol consumption, parental pressure to get married, corrupt corporate companies, implied misogyny—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 17.9k ⇢ art credit: pinterest | read on ao3 here.

Nanami Kento is a man of routine. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you). 

If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, it’s 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.

It’s when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still haven’t arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.

At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isn’t the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but there’s an undeniable itch in his chest—a quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.

The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.

He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.

If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they don’t comment. The building’s lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entrance—heels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful “Morning, Nanami!”—is absent.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.

That means something must have happened.

Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times—and then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.

“...Nanami?”

He clenches his jaw. “Where are you?”

You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if you’re shifting under blankets. “Oh, shit.”

“You overslept,” Nanami states.

“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Maybe?”

Nananmi doesn’t sigh, though he wants to. You’re an excellent CEO—brilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.

There’s more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. “I might be a little hungover.”

“Of course you are.” His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.

“Listen, it was my friend’s birthday—”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Okay, mother.”

Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. “I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’ll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. I’ll be there in twelve.”

There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, “...How do you know where I live?”

“I fill out your paperwork,” the secretary says.

Another pause. “This feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“You list it under the company address.”

“Well, I could be lying.”

“Are you?”

Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, “No.”

Nanami does not have the time for this. He’s already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patience—though formidable—is starting to wear thin. “Stay put. Drink some water. Don’t make it worse.”

You hum. “Define worse.”

“Don’t make me regret my employment here.” 

There’s a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driver’s seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.

Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.

There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in time—barely.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, “Gentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?” and Nanami Kento gets fired.

He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.

By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.

The door swings open, and you are—well. Exactly what Nanami had expected.

You’re standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.

“You look awful,” he says.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake and—God help him—what appears to be a sequined tiara. 

He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.” He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

You scratch your cheek. “Um. Last night?”

He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. “Cheesecake doesn’t count.”

“Rude. That cake was expensive.”

Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. “Drink all of it,” he instructs.

“You sound like my mom,” you say, squinting at him.

“Yes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldn’t have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.”

“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “The board meeting.”

Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. “Yes,” he says, “the one that starts in thirty-five minutes.”

You suck in a breath sharply. “I need to shower.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t have time to do my hair.”

“You’re wearing it up.”

“I don’t have time for makeup.”

“You keep a bag in your office.”

You scowl. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. “Yes.”

You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.

By the time Nanami drags you into the office, you’re at least functioning. He’s made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.

And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.

To your credit, you’re holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didn’t know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

The board members—a collection of old money, new money, and at least one guy who definitely inherited his position from his father—watch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.

Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.

“—and as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments in—” You pause. Nanami notices it immediately—a brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.

You’ve forgotten what you were saying.

To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, it’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign. 

Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Member—the one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration—leans forward. “Miss CEO,” he says, adjusting his gold watch, “before we move forward, I’d like to address something.”

“Of course,” you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.

Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. “While we appreciate your insights, I have to ask—” a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effect— “what exactly is your long-term vision for the company?”

The room stills. It’s a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuver—an underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if you’ll crack, so to speak.

You, as always, rise to the occasion.

“My vision?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. “That’s an interesting question.”

Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.

You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “If I had to sum it up, I’d say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesn’t crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.

“Because let’s be honest, gentlemen—” (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) “—we could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesn’t leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.”

Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. You’ve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like you’ve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouth—likely to challenge you—but before he can, Nanami steps in.

“Further details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,” he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. “You’ll find that the CEO’s approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.”

Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.

The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.

Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessary—though, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.

“You know,” you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, “I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re already on the subject of outdated models—”

Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.

“—I’d love to discuss our executive compensation structure.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. There’s a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. He’s not sure what you’re trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.

“Compensation structure?” Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if you’ve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.

“Yes,” you agree. “As you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.”

One of Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes twitches. “I see. And what exactly do you propose?”

“A more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures we’re reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.”

“That’s a… bold suggestion.” Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.

“Oh, I know.” You flash him a blindingly fake grin. “But that’s what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?”

The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.

“We can table this discussion for another time,” he offers. “Let’s return to our key agenda items.”

Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to you—where you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers. 

You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.

“You’re mean,” he says plainly.

You grin, unapologetic. “But you’re still here.”

Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesn’t deny it. You’re right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you don’t self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.

Nanami Kento isn’t blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work. 

Yet, here he is.

Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when you’re thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.

Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when you’re amused versus when you’re irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.

Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t worry about you, shouldn’t be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.

Nanami isn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limit—

You were trying. 

Maybe that’s why he stays. Not because you’re impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybe—just maybe—that belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.

He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. “Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes,” he says, already turning towards the door. “Try not to fall asleep before lunch.”

“No promises,” you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.

The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you don’t greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms. 

“For yesterday,” you explain. “Thanks for picking me up even though it’s not a part of your job.”

Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. It’s soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if it’s some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.) 

Then, he looks at you. You’re already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches it—the way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were yesterday. It’s an offering—but more than that, it’s you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.

He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. “It was never not part of my job.”

“Huh?” Your head snaps up.

“Looking after you.”

Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. “That’s not in your job description.”

“It should be,” he says, shrugging.

Your expression flickers—just for a second—before you roll your eyes. “Great. So I’ve officially become a liability. Good to know.”

“You’ve been a liability since day one.”

“Wow. You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?”

“I’m simply stating facts.” Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.

Your lips press together, like you’re trying to fight off a smile. “So?”

Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. “Acceptable.”

“Oh, shut up. You love it.”

He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. You’ve recovered from yesterday’s series of meetings. You’re smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.

“You have a meeting at ten,” he reminds you.

“I know.”

“And a working lunch with Legal.”

You make a noise of protest. “Not the suits. Again.”

“They have concerns about the expansion,” Nanami says mildly.

“They always have concerns.” You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. “I swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.”

Nanami hums noncommittally. It’s not an argument he’s inclined to entertain—mostly because he knows you’ll win, and you’ll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “You have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.”

You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. “Can’t I just—skip?”

Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. You’re still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isn’t looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. It’s ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.

He clears his throat. “I rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because you’ll need the break.”

You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks you’ll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. “...Okay.”

The ten o’clock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about “synergy” and “maximising operational efficiency.” Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows you’re not actually absorbing any of it—your attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal. 

(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)

When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.

Nanami sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.”

“But you could,” you say, all mock innocence.

“I won’t,” he answers.

You heave a sigh. “You’re heartless.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing.”

“You have twenty minutes before your next meeting,” Nanami says instead. “Eat something.”

“Okay, boss.”

Your secretary rolls his eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”

You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal team’s working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you. 

See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.

Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. You’ll survive.

You don’t know that. You narrow your eyes at him.

You do survive—just barely—through an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You haven’t written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when you’d shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.

“I deserve a reward for making it through that,” you mutter.

Nanami flips through his schedule. “Your reward is not getting sued.”

“That’s a terrible reward,” you retort, scrunching your nose.

“It’s an important one.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” you say, but there’s no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.

“I do,” Nanami says, without missing a beat.

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. It’s only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it again—the way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.

You’re preoccupied. Not just with work—no, he’d recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.

Nanami doesn’t pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and don’t immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. “What’s on your mind?”

You turn to him, mildly surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been distracted all morning,” he says evenly.

“It’s nothing serious,” you say, a little softer than usual. “Just… something personal.”

That’s more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesn’t push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, “Do you need anything?”

“I—” Your fingers still against your arm. “No. I’m fine.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in prying. He’s spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. It’s not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too well—or, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when you’re on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like you’re physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesn’t comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.

It’s strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. He’s always known his role in your life. He’s your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when you’re too caught up in your work to remember.

Still. 

There are moments like these—moments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised. 

It’s a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesn’t.

Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.

His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—the minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.M—and the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. It’s black, strong, and exactly the way he likes it—no unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.

Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really. 

Still, he picks up. “What?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like you’re working up the nerve to speak. “Hey, um— Are you busy?”

“It’s my day off.” Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.

“I know,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little different—softer, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isn’t used to you hesitating. “That’s… actually why I called.”

His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. “What do you want?”

“Okay, first of all,” you say, defensive already, “I resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.”

“That is the only time you call me.”

“...Okay, fine. That’s fair.”

Nanami sighs again. He swears he isn’t the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. “What is it?”

There’s another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movement—maybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes. 

“There’s a flea market today,” you say, but there’s something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. “I, um… I wanted to go, but I don’t really have anyone to go with.”

Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.

“So,” you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isn’t used to, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna come with me?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. It’s his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesn’t need. 

He exhales, already regretting this. “What time?”

“Be ready in an hour?” you ask hopefully. “Dress casual. But, like, not too casual.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he says.

“Wait—”

Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, he’s enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, he’s been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. It’s fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. You haven’t made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You’re ready, but you’re too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re waiting outside, but you’ve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesn’t. (Unfortunately.)

Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.

You’re waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. You’re wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?

Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being led—against all better judgement—towards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.

You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if he’d go anywhere else. The man doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.

When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. “See? This is nice,” you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. “Better than sitting in a meeting with Legal.”

Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.

“Tell me,” you muse, lips curving. “Have you ever been wooed in a flea market before?”

He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: ‘...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue…’

Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. “Is that so?”

You nod solemnly. “A most admiring countenance,” you repeat, tapping the page. “That’s what it says. I think that’s a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.”

He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “You do realise that’s from a romance novel.”

“Oh, I’m very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you do—teasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.

“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. “And if I say it’s working?”

You blink. For once, you don’t have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for something—anything—to indicate that he’s joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.

You shift, looking back at the book. “Then I’d say I need to find more material,” you mumble. “Something more compelling.”

He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. “Of course.”

You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. There’s a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfume—light, familiar. You’re so engrossed in your search that you don’t even notice. 

“This one’s nice,” you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. “‘To be looked at with such devotion… it is a wonder she could bear it at all.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Nanami doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. 

You brighten instantly. “So you are being wooed.”

He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. “Just buy the book.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his briefly—just the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesn’t know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.

“You’re a very easy target,” you say, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that you’ll follow. You fall into step beside him. “Hey, I wasn’t done talking.”

“I know.”

“You’re so rude.”

“You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stalls—one selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.

Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. “Not getting one?” he asks.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I like the idea of having one, but I don’t think I’d wear it often enough to justify it.”

He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move. 

You wander through the market together, stopping here and there—laughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesn’t trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)

By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversion—not because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.

Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring it—nothing good ever comes out of late-night calls—but then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. It’s a Sunday night, and he’s already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesn’t need whatever nonsense you’re about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.

A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. “What?”

“Nanami,” you say, pathetically slurred.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“No, listen, listen,” you insist, voice wobbly. “I have—a problem.”

“Of course, you do,” Nanami says. “Where are you?”

“At home.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end, like you’re rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you don’t have the coordination to escape from. “I made it home all by myself. I think that’s really impressive. You should say you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so mean,” you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, “I think I’m dying.”

Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. It’s barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distress—pathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.

Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.

Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the mess—your shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-stride—before you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“You came,” you breathe, eyes wide. “My saviour.”

He frowns. “Why is your door unlocked?”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Why are you mad?” You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like he’s the one being unreasonable.

Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. “That’s for being careless.” He folds his arms. “How much did you drink?”

“Mm. Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Enough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,” you clarify, solemn. “Does that help?”

“No.”

You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.

Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to sober up.”

“I don’t wanna sober up,” you whine, trailing after him.

He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. “What’s your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friend’s birthday party?”

You snort. “Don’t be silly, Nanami. You’re the only friend I have.”

He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. “You’re kinda good at this,” you mumble.

Nanami doesn’t bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. “It’s just tea.”

“No,” you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. “Like. Taking care of people.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. It’s not like it’s hard to take care of you—you stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.

He asks, “What happened?”

You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “Huh?”

“You don’t drink like this for no reason,” he says. “What happened?”

Your lips purse. You look like you’re debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, “My parents want me to get married.”

“What?” 

Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. “It’s stupid,” you grumble. “They want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like that’s something I can just do.” You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t wanna get married.”

Nanami swallows. There’s something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if you’re afraid of being forced into something you can’t escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about this—tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, that it’s your life. But he knows that’s not what you need right now.

Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.

“You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “No one can make you.”

You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re so nice to me, Nanami.”

“I really am.”

“I should marry you,” you say seriously.

He pulls his hand back immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “You afraid you’d fall in love with me?”

Nanami levels you with a flat look. “I’m afraid you’d forget that we ever got married in the first place.”

You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.

“I mean it, though,” you say, softer now. “I don’t wanna get married. Not to someone I don’t love, or ‘cause my parents think I should.”

Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, “Then don’t.”

You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid. 

Nanami inhales slowly. “Now drink your tea and go to bed.”

You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, “Will you stay?”

He hesitates. It’s late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at you—tired, drunk, a little lost—he knows he won’t be able to leave until he’s sure you’re okay. “...I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.

The board votes. 

Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Baby—who has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutes—glances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app he’s scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You don’t move.

Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. “Well, that’s that. We’ll move forward with drafting the initial—”

“Wait,” Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. “Are we seriously doing this?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. Foolish of him. “Is there an issue?”

An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. “Zen’in Industries.” You say it like you’re testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. “That’s the best we could do?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. “They’re the most viable partner given the timeline.”

“That’s debatable.”

“The most viable approved partner,” Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. “We’ve reviewed the alternatives.”

“You reviewed them wrong,” Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.

Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it either.”

“This decision was made with careful consideration,” Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. “Miss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.”

Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.

You tilt your head. “Right. And pragmatism is why we’re aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, let’s see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, and—oh, my favourite—potential ties to organised crime?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. “Those cases were dismissed.”

“They barely avoided a federal indictment,” you say.

Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. “Zen’in’s big. They’ve got resources.”

Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, that’s how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, “They also have a history of—how do I put this politely—being absolutely terrible.”

Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a bit—”

“Am I wrong?”

Secret Tattoo raises a hand. “Would now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?”

“That was an isolated incident,” Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.

“Was it?” you ask. “Because my notes say it happened twice.”

Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Twice?”

Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. “Miss CEO, I assure you—”

“No, really, help me understand.” You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because last I checked, we weren’t in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.”

“This partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we can’t achieve alone.”

“Uh-huh. And remind me again, what’s the exact rate we’re aiming for? Because if you’re simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I don’t know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.”

Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Bodies?”

“Metaphorically,” Charcoal Pants says weakly.

You click your tongue. “Probably.”

“The decision has been made.” Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepper’s patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.

Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediately—the way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. “Fine,” you say coolly. “If that’s what the board wants.”

Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.

Your fingers uncurl from the pen you’ve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.

“Well.” Your voice is calm, but only barely. “That was fucking awful.”

“You handled it well,” Nanami says.

You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “I shouldn’t have had to handle it in the first place.”

That’s fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesn’t work. “I knew they’d pull something,” you mutter, “but Zen’in? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?”

“It’s a strategic decision.” He knows it’s not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway. 

You drop your hand and turn to him. “Say that again, and I’ll replace you.”

“I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

You sigh, but don’t argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They don’t care about anything outside the bottom line. 

“I don’t want to work with them, Nanami,” you admit.

He already knew that. But hearing you say it—softer now, tired—settles something heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “You won’t do it alone,” he says simply.

Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. “Guess we’re stuck with this mess, then.”

“Seems that way.”

“If I’m suffering, then you’re suffering with me.”

“Unfortunate,” Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesn’t mean it.

You guffaw, tension easing—slightly. He can tell it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. You’re angry. Not just irritated, not just frustrated—angry. It’s not just about the board’s incompetence. It’s Zen’in Industries.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Nanami says.

“God, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?”

He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.

At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice place—not overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanami’s particular preferences. He hadn’t put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom. 

Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.

You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.

To you.

To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if you’re trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.

You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to this—when it comes to Zen’in Industries—your anger is not just professional. It is personal.

Nanami doesn’t like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.

He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.

No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.

You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, “Did you know that I was in a relationship with Zen’in Naoya?”

Nanami freezes. His brain—normally so methodical, so efficient—comes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesn’t set it down or react outwardly—but he shifts in his seat.

Zen’in Naoya.

He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zen’in family—one of those Zen’ins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but he’s read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.

He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.

“Nothing to say?” you ask lightly.

Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of you—the one who pretends you’re fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating. 

“You never mentioned that before,” he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.

You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It never came up.”

Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your fork—this is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zen’ins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.

He breathes out slowly. “And now it has.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Would you like me to tell you about our first date?”

Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, “No.”

You hum, feigning disappointment. “It was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.”

Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary. 

“I was nineteen,” you continue. “Very stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.”

Nanami’s fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesn’t like the insinuations of that. “You’re not now,” he says.

“No, I guess not.” For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, “So, now you know.”

Now he knows. Nanami doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, “Eat your salad.”

You laugh. It’s a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.

 “Miss CEO,” one of the Zen’in representatives—a wiry, balding man who sweats too much—says, visibly struggling to remain polite, “surely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.”

“Fair,” you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Nanami—who has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiations—already knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.

“Well,” you say. “I just think it’s funny—”

Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.

Balding Man shifts in his seat. “Funny,” he repeats cautiously.

“Mhm,” you hum. “I just think it’s funny that, in your latest revision, you’ve somehow—” you tilt your head— “conveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.”

“That was an adjustment made to account for—”

“—what, exactly?” you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Because as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, I’m sure that’s just a simple oversight, right?”

Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration. 

You are doing this on purpose.

This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that don’t even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked for—just to make them go through the process of re-drafting it. 

And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zen’ins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.

“We can revisit that clause,” Balding Man says tightly.

“Oh, we will,” you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set up another review meeting.”

Nanami finally steps in. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, voice clipped.

Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost. 

“Excuse me?” Your voice is deceptively calm.

Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. “Dragging out negotiations benefits no one.”

Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. “I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.”

A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanami’s fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, he’s the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, you’re mad at him? Fine.

Nanami sets his jaw. “I’m only saying what needs to be said.”

The corners of your mouth turn down—just a fraction—before you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, “Let’s wrap this up.”

Nanami doesn’t allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you don’t push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zen’in representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

“That was productive,” you say, standing up.

He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. “It could have been productive three weeks ago.”

You don’t even look at him. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. “You’re making my job harder than it needs to be,” he says.

At that, you finally glance at him. “Then maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re doing theirs.”

The words are like ice—controlled, but cold enough to cut. Nanami’s fingernails dig crescents into his palm. “You’re dragging this out for no reason,” he says evenly.

You hum, turning towards the door. “If you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.”

That stops him in his tracks. You don’t wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides. 

You’re shutting him out. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.

It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.M—black for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, there’s no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.

“Nanami,” you say.

He doesn’t look up. “Yes?”

“Did you forget something?”

He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. “I assumed you wouldn’t need my help with something so simple.”

There’s a long, brittle pause. He knows you’re looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. “Hope your schedule’s clear,” you say, voice like glass. “You’ll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.”

“Fine.” His mouth tightens.

He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition report—still missing a key section—has no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.

“Did you think this was acceptable?” you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanami’s hands are still on his keyboard. He doesn’t look up. “The section on profit restructuring is incomplete,” you add.

“I assumed you’d prefer to review it yourself,” he says, “since you were so insistent on final approval.”

“Correct it,” you say, voice low. “And put it on my desk by the end of the day.”

Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. “Of course.”

Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before you’ve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Actually—” he begins.

“I don’t need clarification,” you say flatly, not even looking at him.

“It’s important to avoid miscommunication,” Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.

Your smile is thin. “Then stop talking.”

Nanami’s mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like he’d rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesn’t care. You’ve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, he’ll stop bothering to clean up your messes.

He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanation—overlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesn’t look up from his tablet.

“I thought you handled scheduling,” you say.

“I must have misunderstood your preferences,” he says without inflection. “Since you’ve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.”

You stare at him. He still doesn’t look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.

Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit together—out of habit, perhaps—but the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart like it’s personally offended you. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, “Taste this.”

“I’m allergic to it,” Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.

“You’re not allergic to chocolate mousse.”

“I could be.”

You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesn’t look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that you’re angry. He hates that he’s angry. Most of all, he hates that he can’t stop himself from pressing harder.

The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanami—already at the edge of his patience—starts to cut in. “We already—”

“I think it’s important to clarify the terms,” you say smoothly, before he can finish.

Nanami’s gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. “There’s no need to clarify anything.”

“Just making sure,” you say, flashing him a bland smile.

Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. “If you want to manage everything,” he says quietly, “I’ll stop bothering to give input.”

You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, “Maybe you should,” and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.

Nanami hears the clock ticking.

It’s past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.

It’s quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observes—the tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows you’re frustrated. You’ve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.

He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath.

“You should take a break,” he tells you.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been working non-stop for—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Yes, clearly. That’s why you’ve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry, are you the CEO now?”

“Are you trying to sabotage your own company?”

“Oh, fuck off, Nanami.”

“Gladly,” he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. “Maybe then you can stop wasting my time.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. “I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” you say sharply. “God forbid you actually have to work for a change.”

Nanami’s expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you actively making it harder for yourself—and for me.”

“And here I thought handling me was part of your job description.”

“I don’t mind doing my job,” he says icily. “I mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things don’t go your way.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” you say, chin lifting. “If you hate working for me so much, why don’t you just leave?”

“Maybe I should.”

You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows he’s gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.

“Do it, then,” you say coldly. “Walk out. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to stay.”

You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks you’d be the sun. Nanami doesn’t say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until he’s right in front of you. “Don’t—”

“Or what?” You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. “You’ll finally stop pretending to care?”

Nanami’s hands curl into fists. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. “Stop trying to make sure my company doesn’t go fucking bankrupt, or stop—”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“No,” you say, breathless with rage. “You know asking for help means I can’t handle everything myself, and—”

“You’re so stubborn,” he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You’re impossible to work with right now.”

“I am under pressure!” you yell, whipping around to face him. “You think I’m being difficult on purpose?”

Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. “Then what the hell is this?”

Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you don’t let them fall. “My parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, I’m trying to close a deal with my ex’s company because of my stupid board of directors—never mind the fact that the Zen’ins engage in borderline illegal practices—and I have to sit across their representative and pretend I don’t know Zeni’in Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

“Then do something, Nanami,” and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanami’s chest tightens.

You’re an anomaly in Nanami’s perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. He’s built his life around that certainty—disciplined and unwavering.

But there’s you.

You, who he can’t predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easily—stern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you. 

You are the only thing in his life that doesn’t fit into a box. And yet, somehow, you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away, now.

Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at you—eyes flashing, chest rising and falling.

You’re close—close enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where they’re braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. There’s a flush creeping up your neck, and your eyes—God, your eyes—burn into him like they’re trying to carve him open from the inside out.

Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you can’t take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at him—really look at him—and whatever thread of control he’s holding onto snaps clean in two.

His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You don’t pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.

And then you’re moving—closing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanami’s hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.

It’s messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.

Nanami’s head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.

You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him again—slower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanami’s hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.

Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanami’s resolve shatters.

He kisses you deeper.

Nanami doesn’t think—he’s past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. You’re breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.

His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.

Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.

“May I?” he asks, a little bit hoarse.

You nod. “Yes,” you breathe out.

That’s all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. “So wet for me already.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Did you need this that badly?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like he’s savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.

“Oh, my God—Nanami—”

He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. He’s focused, the same way he is with everything else—this time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, “Stay still.”

Then, he’s back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until you’re gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open. 

“Nanami—Nanami, I’m—”

His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.

“Come here,” he tells you, and this time, he’s the one who sounds pleading.

He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue. 

Nanami’s breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath him—forehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.

He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. He’s already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour this—savour you.

“Are you on the pill?” he manages to ask.

You nod, desperate and frantic. “Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

“Bend over,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until you’re facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.

“You’ll let me have you like this, won’t you?” His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. “Spread your legs for me.”

You do, and Nanami’s breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where you’re still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasing—but he’s barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Nanami—” you gasp out.

He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. “God,” he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re so—”

He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.

“So tight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.

He watches the way you take him—how you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Nanami—” Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. “Let me—”

You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.

He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.

His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. “Let me take care of you.”

He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to you—lifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. “Nanami,” you say.

“Yes?”

“We’ve ruined all the contract papers.”

The office feels too quiet the next day.

Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isn’t on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.

The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about this—about you.

But it’s impossible not to. Especially when you’re right there.

He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when you’re focused.

You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.

Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.

He should be able to handle this. He’s an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like it’s a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch you—to brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.

It’s getting unbearable.

It’s not just the memories of last night that haunt him—it’s the aftermath. Because you’re acting… normal, and that’s the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.

This morning, you’d handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. “Morning, Nanami,” you’d said, bright and sweet.

His hand had twitched. “Morning.”

You’d walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting. 

But the worst part is that he’s not subtle about it. Not at all. It’s a problem.

Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a second—and in that half-second, he’d managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.

“Are you okay?” you’d asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.

Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. “Fine.”

You’d smiled at him, amused. He’d looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.

Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. “Did you get the email from Gojo?” you’d asked, leaning slightly over his desk.

Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last night—the feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when he—

“Nanami?”

“Hm?”

“The email?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You’d looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then you’d shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s being so obvious, and that’s unacceptable.

“Nanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?” you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.

“Of course,” he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.

Your desk is neat, everything in its place—except for the book. It’s placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. It’s the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when you’d read out a few sentences in an attempt to “woo” him. He hadn’t expected you to actually read it.

Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, loose—like it’s been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. There’s a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:

‘It hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear of confusion—it was love. Had always been love. And how foolish he’d been, not to have known it sooner.’

Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when you’re tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.

How had he not known?

His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.

You’re still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.

Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourself—because you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?

You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smile—small and soft, easy as breathing. Nanami’s throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way that’s starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.

Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.

It hits him that night, when he’s in bed and thinking about you. You’d said that Zen’in Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone that’s charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.

You pick up after two rings. “...Hello?”

You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, it’s almost midnight. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yes, but—” he hears you yawn— “it’s fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. It’s rare that you call me first.”

“Yes, well.” Nanami’s cheeks burn. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“That night— The night we—” Nanami feels his entire face heat up. “The night we argued,” he settles on. “You mentioned that Zen’in Naoya stole your intellectual property.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. “That was a long time ago,” you say quietly.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I have time,” he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.

“It was when I was still with Naoya,” you say carefully, like you’re trying not to give away too much. “I was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something I’d been preparing for months. And I—I made the mistake of showing it to him.

“He said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.”

“And no one said anything?” Nanami questions.

“People noticed,” you reply. “But it’s the Zen’in family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?”

“What happened with the pitch?”

“It tanked. Naoya didn’t bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldn’t answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliating—for both of us—but I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoya’s. His uncle’s practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.”

Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. “You should’ve told me.”

You huff out a laugh. “I didn’t know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zen’ins—before my dad retired and handed me his company.”

The Zen’ins hadn’t been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zen’ins’ reputation is tainted—financial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.

But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly. 

“This isn’t just a business deal. Right?” he asks you. He understands, now, why you’d made negotiations with Balding Man—Zen’in Industries’ representative—so difficult. You’d tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.

You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. We can figure this out.”

“What are you thinking, Nanami?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zen’in Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of it—board records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.

“Do you think,” he says, “you can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?”

It happens quickly after that.

Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. It’s almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things work—no paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.

Nanami digs through your company’s internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesn’t add up. Zen’in Industries’ supposed “internal R&D” was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. That’s not just suspicious—it’s impossible.

He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepper’s office, quiet requests to “streamline” the internal approval process. He finds—perhaps most damning of all—a forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.

Need to close this by Q3. Zen’in Industries’ team will take over full oversight post-merger.

The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.

He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore account—small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.

A shell corporation owned by Zen’in Industries.

Nanami doesn’t hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasn’t just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.

Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zen’in gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the framework—and the financial fallout.

Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.

You’re surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?

“Nanami?” you ask, setting down your bag.

He slides a folder towards you without a word. 

The next day, the partnership with Zen’in Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)

When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you out—because he has, officially, let the fact that he’s in love with you sink in—it is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because you’re clearly out of his league. You’re charming (you always are), and he’s witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. It’s perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.

Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laugh—a little nervous, a little delighted—and agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesn’t complain. You’re charming (you always are), and he is… passable. He doesn’t embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears you’re married to someone who’s the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.

(He’s accounting for margin of error, obviously.)

Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. You’ve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepper’s departure. An excellent sign.

Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A professional. He’s closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.

The door swings open before he can decide. “Nanami?” you say, blinking at him.

His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He’s completely blank.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. He’s prepared for this.

“You look serious,” you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. “Is this about work?”

“No.” His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. “Would you—” He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. “Would you like to have dinner with me? As a date.”

You don’t say anything—not right away. Instead, you snort.

Nanami’s eyes snap open.

You’re covering your mouth with your hand, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.

“Are you…” Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Are you laughing?”

“Oh, my God,” you wheeze, tipping your head back. “You— You’re asking me out?”

“That is… generally how this works,” he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.

You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanami’s heart sinks. He’s about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity. 

But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. “Nanami Kento,” you say, breathless, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to get you to notice me?”

“...What?”

You groan, wringing your hands together. “I have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.”

Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what you’ve just said.

You hold up a finger. “First of all—the book.”

“The book?” Nanami echoes, very intelligently.

“Yes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didn’t have to, so I figured you might feel the same way ‘cause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you don’t have to, and no one’s forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so much—too much, probably, and—”

Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.

“You,” he says, “talk too much.”

Your mouth opens—to protest, probably—but Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.

Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth. 

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Was that the best case scenario?”

“Birds are singing,” he says. “Angels are weeping.”

“Stock market?”

“Remains to be seen.”

You grin and pull him down for another kiss.

Nanami’s apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are you—curled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.

The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. There’s a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because he’s been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but you’d smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.

The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where you’d turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.

“Tea,” he says, handing you the mug. “Drink.”

You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.

“We’re meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?” you ask, resting the mug on your knee.

“Are you turning into my secretary now?”

“No,” you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. “Just so you know, I’m marrying you whether my parents approve or not.”

“Noted,” Nanami says.

“Good.”

“Why are you asking me?”

You shrug, a tad playful. “I don’t know. Thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

He makes a quiet sound—something like a laugh, though softer. “That would be difficult.” His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. “I lost them a long time ago.”

You smile like that means something. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. He’ll pick it up later, after you’ve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you in—warmth and honey and ginger.

“We have work tomorrow.” He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.

You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I am your work, Kento.”

Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.

Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.

⇢ a/n: as per usual, thank you to the inimitable @mahowaga for listening to me ramble about this fic & helping me out whenever i got stuck. this fic is pretty much dedicated to her. thank you for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!

[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel make a mess of things—again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie. Age gap. Breeding kink. Period mishap / mentions of blood (!) Eepy Joel is eepy but always down to hit it raw 🤝 Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—for complete content warnings, please read this post!

Word count: 11.5k

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Things changed.

You woke up snug in someone’s arms and didn’t move.

You couldn’t blame the warmth or the comfort of the bed—yours was a Twin XL, and your sheets were all tangled through your limbs in crude, haphazard fashion—for why you had. You just did. Like breathing, the decision not to leave this time around was as reflexive as it was freeing.

You buried your nose in an old, familiar neck and inhaled.

Joel.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

That voice was childlike and selfish: Don’t leave me here.

For once, you weren’t the one pushing him away; you were begging him to stay and let the scent of him linger on a little while longer in this too-small bed, in this too-cramped dorm, on this too-cold campus in a town over two thousand miles away from the one you called home.

He’d already spent every minute of the weekend here—Parents’ Weekend, of all things. After the initial shock and consternation of his surprise visit wore off and you’d finally had The Talk about what this thing between you was, you’d accepted that Joel loved you. You accepted that you loved him back. And not a second had passed since the end of that night where you didn’t want to be by his side. It hurt to think he’d be leaving you so soon, so of course, he’d offered to extend his stay to Monday.

The motel Joel had booked wouldn’t let him add an extra night, though, so that was how you ended up here: in the confines of your altogether new-and-nice-but-ridiculously-tiny dorm room that you shared with your roommate. Lucky for you, Aly had slept over at a friend’s. Unlucky for Joel, the only bed you had to offer him might as well have been built for a nine-year-old—his hulking frame nearly swallowed the whole thing, and his weight all but toppled the mattress off its risers. You’d only laughed your ass off a little when you saw it happen.

“Me and my old back need Tempur-Pedic, sweetheart,” he’d grumbled in your hair before drifting off to sleep.

“Tempur-Peepaw,” you’d murmured back, and could’ve sworn you felt his grip tighten while you nodded off too.

Now, your gaze was darting to the only source of light in the room—a digital clock between your bed and Aly’s.

5:11 A.M.

Why the fuck were you awake?

Your stomach hurt. Your head ached. You could’ve easily attributed both to the heaping plates of seafood you’d downed with Joel, Aly, and her family the night before. Dallas had picked the last place you went out to eat, and of course, his choice was fucked. While he swore up and down that this was the spot for him and his friends, the rest of you were wary of how hygienic the restaurant’s practices were. You all had felt a little queasy afterward.

But no, this wasn’t nausea you were feeling right now. It was worse, almost. There was a churning in your gut, an airiness in your head, and a searing warmth between your legs, too hot for even your box fan to combat.

You swallowed hard and stared into the darkness.

Were you…

No, no you were not.

No way were you horny at 5 AM.

But you most definitely were.

You hated yourself for it.

You kicked your foot in that muted self-loathing and huffed—you couldn’t move much else with Joel’s body blanketing yours. But you stirred what you could. It wasn’t fucking fair. You knew yourself, and you knew your body, and you would bet a million bucks that this feeling wouldn’t ebb until you’d thoroughly fucked yourself or someone else to a toe-curling, earth-shattering climax. In the next fifteen minutes.

Joel was fast asleep.

Your hands were currently plastered to your sides under the weight of one of the man’s big, tanned, hairy arms, and you didn’t have a hope of moving it more than an inch without waking him. Your gut twisted in despair.

I. WANT. TO. FUCK.

“Shut up,” you silently chided the fiend between your two shaking, slick thighs. And—oh fuck, were they wet.

This was like your own personal hell, not having access to the release you so desperately needed. Not having Joel to roll over with a knowing, crooked grin and a ‘Missin’ me already, honey?’ before a hand dove under the waistband of his boxers to retrieve what you wanted.

No, he needed to sleep.

He had a two-day drive back to Texas, and it would be unspeakably selfish for you to ask for dick right now.

But you needed reprieve from this awful feeling.

You’d rub your legs together. Dull the ache. Take a worn edge of your comforter and hump the thing like the world was ending today. That wouldn’t be weird.

It also wouldn’t be possible, you learned within minutes.

Try as you might to grind your hips and your desperate cunt through cotton without disturbing the man beside you, you quickly realized that the effort was fruitless: you couldn’t make a single seesaw motion back-and-forth without shaking the whole fucking bed. The old thing creaked and screamed worse than the one in the motel.

While need blossomed in your belly and your head swam with unsated desire, your mind hummed with new ideas.

Stupid ideas.

You shifted in place. Joel grunted and hugged you closer. Ordinarily, your heart would’ve melted at the gesture, but in your present bearings, with these pressing urges, you wanted nothing more than to push it straight off. The thought was slowly taking shape in your mind’s eye that maybe you could pull this off—perhaps you could get off without Joel’s noticing if you just…slid down.

If you slunk under his bicep and ever-so delicately pulled your right arm out from underneath his ribs, if you got his leg to stop draping so heavily over your thigh, you could slide down further. Try not to jostle him much.

It was doable.

With the right maneuvering, you could sneak off the bed.

Pleasure beckoned. Success was well within reach when you scooted your butt down the mattress and past the python-grip of Joel’s upper body. Before you knew it, your ass was gliding down, down, down, and then your torso was twisting, your knees shakily planting themselves closer to the foot of the bed. You sat up.

And as soon as you did, the first thing that greeted you through the darkened room was a wide, toothy grin.

“Climb on then, cowgirl,” came Joel’s gravelly invitation.

In the otherwise biting chill of the room, you felt your cheeks burn a hundred degrees. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” you hissed back.

Those words were followed by a little smack to his arm. Joel took the hit in stride and simply stretched both hands behind his head on the pillow, eyeing you lazily.

“I was. ‘Til you started humpin’ my leg like a dog.”

“I did not.”

Your nostrils flared, and your words nearly rose to a whisper-scream. You still couldn’t make out Joel’s expression in the dark but sensed that it was smug.

“Did too.”

“Did n—”

“Baby, this was what the bed just felt like.”

To illustrate his point, Joel rocked his hips the tiniest bit. With the force of two thrusts, the whole frame screeched like a banshee. It seemed you’d been too horny to hear it.

“That’s not—” you started, voice tight.

“Just admit it. You needed to cum.”

He might as well have stuck his tongue out after.

You would’ve been irked beyond words if you’d had half a mind to channel the feeling. As it was, though, your brain was fried off a fucking need like no other, and your limbs were driven on pure impulse. You couldn’t be bothered to carry on this petty fight with your peri-geriatric partner right now; you needed release. So, hanging your head in shame for no longer than a moment, and working your panties down your legs while you did, you finally nodded.

The movement was slight. You’d only tipped your chin up once before those instinct-driven limbs were clambering quick to straddle Joel’s lap. He was lying supine on the bed, but you couldn’t see much else. You felt his smile stretch bigger as you lowered yourself onto him, though.

He was tired, you could tell. You normally weren’t one to rebuff an offer to have Joel inside you, no matter the hour, but this felt greedier than usual. You felt needy.

Which was why you didn’t immediately reach for the bulge in his boxers when you’d first mounted him.

Instead, you reached to touch yourself.

You were soaked as you’d ever been.

“I— I can get myself off in a minute,” you found yourself stammering out the second your index and middle fingers connected with your wet, throbbing clit.

And it was true. The sensations you felt were so sharp they almost stung, with sparks igniting across your lower half in just one brush against that pulsing bud. You’d scarcely completed one circuit with your fingers when Joel’s hands were gliding up to find your hips, grip firm.

He swiftly adjusted your seat. Made you rub him harder.

Amusement tinged his voice while he mumbled, low:

“Only place you’re gettin’ off is my cock, got that?”

You hated how quickly you nodded in response.

Okay. He was letting you be selfish. He wanted to help quell your thirst, no matter how early it was or how long of a drive he had. That realization only made you wetter.

You were practically dripping between the legs when Joel slid his boxers down and let his cock spring free.

You knew what to do. You didn’t need his assistance, but still, ever the caretaker, Joel palmed your backside with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He guided your heat to his tip, and in the dim, dull gloom of your dorm room, you could feel him watching. What his eyes couldn’t see his mouth elucidated in words.

“You ready for me, baby?”

He nudged just the head between your weeping folds and let you take the lead. You whimpered. “Yes, daddy.”

Desperate as you were, you didn’t wait for the right moment to move. You didn’t bother readying yourself, because you already knew what you needed. You sank down, and your walls parted without protest. You took him in and gripped him tight and all but choked Joel’s length with the soft, hot, and needy clutch of your body.

“Fuck, honey—”

“Feels so good,” you panted, lips parting as he filled you. You rolled your hips and whimpered again. “So— oh—.”

Your words split on a shriek. You hadn’t even meant to let it out, but the stretch of Joel’s girth felt unusually tough. It almost hurt. But, rather than shy away, you leaned into it. You braced your knees and bore down harder, relishing the sting of his throbbing cock as you slid up and then collapsed again. Pleasure surged through your veins.

The bed groaned and creaked. Your motions didn’t slow. Joel grunted, feeling you clench again, and in an effort to curtail his own need, evidently, starting kneading at the flesh of your thighs. He moved them inward, touch soft.

“Hon,” he breathed, tone just as gentle, “you’re soaked.”

You were restless, too. You anchored your knees a little deeper and leaned back, allowing Joel access to the space between your thighs that was sticky-wet with residue. He swept his fingers through your nectar and thumbed at your clit. You whined with hypersensitivity.

You felt delicate everywhere. Joel was so big inside you, stretching your most precious, sensitive parts and making room for himself. He was throbbing. Leaking. Reaching up and smearing your own wetness across your face while a grin no doubt spread across his own—‘There’s a good girl. Ride my cock. Take what you need, baby’—and you could tell he was just as invested in your pleasure as you were, if not more. He relished whatever remnants of your arousal he could find and praised you with it. You wished you could see him while he did it all.

If light wouldn’t allow you that view, you would take matters into your own hands, you quickly decided. Prying your lower half off of Joel with a grunt and a sigh, you squeezed his legs. You patted his thighs, gently.

“Need you closer,” you mumbled. Your hands slid up his front, and you smiled when you felt him snag your wrists.

Joel pulled you up. Kissed your palms. Kissed your cheeks. Drew you into his lips and, at the same time, flipped you over so that he was on top. His shaft was slippery as it bumped and rubbed between your folds, and you couldn’t help but let out a moan into his mouth.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he said, panting.

In answer, you took the base of his cock in one hand and guided it closer to your center. Joel rutted his hips, and his length pushed up—it glided across your lower belly, smearing the plane of skin with your combined fluids.

He was teasing you. Canting his hips as if fucking someplace deep in your cunt. Biting back a laugh.

“You dick,” you breathed out, both a warning and a momentary reprieve from the severity of wanting.

You gripped his cheek with the same hand that had just held his length and drew him closer to your face. You kissed him and wrapped your legs around his hips, knowing the effect it would have. Joel grunted.

And, though you knew it would amuse him to no end to have you begging for his cock, you also guessed that he wasn’t quite as resilient as he made himself out to be. He couldn’t keep grinning forever—the second your legs nudged him back and the tip of his dick notched in, again, he moaned in pleasure. It ended in a whimper.

Joel was just as fucked-out and desperate as you.

You couldn’t see his full expression, but you could sense it would show he was right on the brink, same as you.

You kissed him deeply. You let his length glide back inside your needy cunt, squeezing every inch of the way.

“Gonna cum for daddy now? Make a mess of this cock?”

In a breath, you could tell he was already there. His balls began slapping rhythmically against your ass, and his stomach muscles clenched. Tufts of grey and black in that thatch of wiry hair at his base kept rubbing your mound, prompting you to squirm and beg for more.

“I-I’m close, Joel,” you told him. Your toes curled.

The bed frame all but shrieked beneath the weight of your body and his, now that Joel was on top and delivering thrusts hard and fast. You braced yourself.

If the bed broke, it broke. You’d gladly pay to have it fixed. Explaining the unusual charge on your student account to your dad was a separate question, though.

“Fuck,” you keened, just as a stroke to your most sensitive spot inside had stars flashing before your eyes.

“Right there,” Joel grunted, going again. “Just like that.”

His forearms bracketed your head, and his face was close. His thrusts were relentless. The little tendril of pleasure coiling up through your gut was just then beginning to take root—two more thrusts and it felt fit to burst. Your arms wound around the back of his neck, and your breaths sped up while Joel kept plunging in and out

In and out.

In and out.

“Gonna let me cum inside?” Joel grit through his teeth.

You nodded, braindead as you’d ever felt before.

“Gonna let me breed this pretty little cunt?”

Oh, fuck.

You came. You didn’t have a say in the matter. It simply swelled and flowed and expelled like a water’s stream, coating the front of Joel’s stomach and your own as well. Your eyes rolled, stomach clenched, walls pulsed and squeezed and flooded your whole body with pleasure.

At the tail end of the sensation, and only dimly grazing your present cognition, you felt his spend unload in ropes. They painted your insides and sent your head spinning, half-feral with the idea of him marking you in this risky, forbidden way. You wanted him spurting so far up your body you could taste him in your mouth. Your hips rolled one more time and your lips brushed with his.

“I— I love you. Fuck, I fucking love you,” Joel groaned.

His cum continued to pulse out from his tip.

“I love you, too,” you panted back.

When Joel collapsed, you feared the bed might split right down the middle with the force of it. Dizzy with pleasure, bliss, and more love than you thought was possible for just one person, you didn’t worry for long. You stroked the back of Joel’s head, silently thanked the bed frame for lasting as long as it had, and inhaled the man’s scent.

It was gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he left.

You weren’t going to think about that now.

Instead, you locked your legs tight around his hips and held him as close as you could. The head of his cock nudged somewhere deep inside you, and his face tilted sideways. Joel nuzzled your cheek. He kissed it softly.

“You alright, honey?” he checked in.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t a total lie.

You felt as content as you could be laying between the soaked sheets of your bed with Joel draped overtop. For several minutes, you did just that: laid back and emptied your head of any thoughts of leaving. You hugged him. Buried your face in the crook of his neck and sighed.

Alright, get up.

Go to the bathroom.

It’s 6 AM and you’re about to cry.

Attempting to get out from under Joel and off the bed proved futile—you would’ve had better luck punching a hole through a brick wall—but luckily, he eased up. He let you stand from the bed once he decided he’d doled out a sufficient number of kisses, then you rose on shaky legs.

You flicked on the light. You rubbed your too-tired eyes.

And just as you were about to scour the floor for some clothes and get ready to head outside, you heard a strangled sort of noise from the bed. You paused.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Hey, uh, honey…”

You turned.

FUCK.

Your bed looked like a crime scene. Joel was trying to sit up, though it seemed he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, as half the fucking mattress and sheets were all but soaked through with blood. Your stomach turned.

No. No. Your period wasn’t due for another two days. You hadn’t been caught off guard with a bloody mess like this in years. And in front of Joel? All over Joel, from his groin to his chest to his neck to his chin—you’d been touching him a lot in the dark—and now he was looking on at you in muted horror? You didn’t want to know what you looked like. You wanted to hurl yourself out of the window, if it meant you didn’t have to face the repercussions of this. Joel must be disgusted.

“I am…so sorry.” Your words came out mostly muffled through your fingers. Your hands shielded your face.

Before you could think, you were stumbling toward the sink. Your eyes were burning. He’s leaving. He’s leaving now, in an hour or two, and the last thing he’ll have to remember you by is your menstrual blood on his dick.

Just shoot me.

Make it quick.

“Sweetheart?”

Again, Joel’s voice was soft as he approached from behind. You had a hand towel thrust under a spray of water that was slowly going warm, and your bottom lip was clamped between your teeth. Your fingers trembled.

“Baby…” He said it like a harsher-spoken word might fairly split you in two. That only made you feel worse.

You still weren’t thinking completely straight when you yanked the towel out, wrung it once, and then turned to Joel, almost smacking him in the belly with it as you did.

Scrubbing his blood-smeared tummy seemed like the most logical course of action to take in the moment, so that was what you did. It was just that small matter of having your hands shaking so much you could hardly hold the towel that made it tricky. And Joel’s own warm, callused touch closing in over your fingers, squeezing.

“Hey, look at me,” he urged you gently. You wouldn’t, or couldn’t, so he tilted your chin up to his to make you meet his gaze and momentarily halt your motions.

His eyes were far too soft for a man drenched in blood and preparing to take a thirty-hour road trip that day.

The smile was too sweet for someone leaving you here.

“This is so embarrassing,” you blurted out, heart clenching. “I’ve— it’s never happened…like that.”

With a man, yes. On the person you love, even more so.

You were about to try and start scrubbing the blood again, wanting to rid yourself and him of this mess, when Joel’s smile stretched wider. It seemed almost like a grin.

“Honey, you’re fine,” he said, reassuring. Pressing at your wrist again. “It’s just a little blood. We can rinse off in the shower. Wash the sheets. No need to be embarrassed.”

Easier said than done.

Your brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry, Joel.”

The man in front of you took the towel from you then. He tossed the rag in the sink and cupped your likely-blood-smeared cheeks in his hands before meeting your gaze. His palms were warm. His eyes, as usual, were soft. Kind.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly.

With words like those and a look as serious as his, you couldn’t help but relent. Your muscles relaxed. In the glance you stole toward your floor-length mirror, you might’ve caught a glimpse of your own tousled, bloodied exterior for a second, but that memory didn’t last long.

Joel was reaching for a bigger towel. Wrapping you up. Grabbing another for himself and then nudging you over to the door, where you knew you’d need to sneak out and down the hallway to make it to the communal bathroom. Silently, you cursed yourself for opting to live on-campus that year, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Behind you, Joel secured a bright pink, polka-dotted towel around his hips and tried not to smirk.

“Never thought I’d be doin’ this again,” he murmured.

You shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Sneak out of any other girls’ dorms lately, Miller?”

Joel eyed you right back, undaunted.

“Yeah. About a decade before you were born.”

And neither one of you possessed the sense to control it: you had to laugh, and Joel had to elbow you playfully and tell you to respect your fuckin’ elders, kid, and your amusement only grew as you approached the door. His arm hooked around your neck before pulling your back against his chest. Your giggles turned to squeals as he nipped the skin just below your ear and kissed you in a manner more akin to tickling. You begged him to quit, but the grin on your face said you wanted it. Joel gripped the doorknob in his free hand and was about to pull it back, when the thing jumped forward, at you both.

The door opened, and light from the hallway poured in.

“Wh- oh! Hey. Woah. Hey.”

Dallas Ingram’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, but a smile was as quick to form. He eyed you both—up and down.

And almost as swift as his smirk was to appear:

“Gettin’ busy, huh?”

You stared back slack-jawed, covered in blood, and frankly wanting to die a little bit as your roommate’s brother looked on with the biggest, dumbest grin.

Evidently, your undercover skills needed some work.

Despite your best efforts all weekend, Dallas had come to learn that you and Joel weren’t actually stepdaughter and stepfather by the end of breakfast early Saturday morning, and it wasn’t because his sister had snitched. He’d seen Joel smack your ass en route to the bathroom in the dining hall and swiftly surmised that there was more to the story than either one of you were letting on.

He hadn’t been shocked to find you and Joel in your dorm that morning after Aly had asked him to stop by and pick up her gym bag, but he had seemed relatively intrigued by the blood. He’d asked if you and Joel had been fighting or fucking—or both—and you’d rolled your eyes so hard they’d nearly hit the back of your skull. Joel had looked like he either wanted to deck the kid or laugh with him. You suspected by the smirk that ensued it was probably the latter. His face had still flushed a little bit.

Now you were showered, dressed, decently groomed, equipped with enough tampons and pads to supply a city, and perched in the passenger seat of Joel’s Bronco.

“Take a left in half a mile. Onto Kirkland,” you dictated.

Joel squinted to see your phone screen.

“That ain’t right,” he replied.

He made a pass for the phone. You pulled it out of reach.

“I know where I’m going, Joel,” you said, directing his gaze back to the road. “I’m here every other weekend.”

“I’ve been here, too. You go straight on Prescott, take a right by the bank, keep going past the food trucks—”

“No, no, this is Putnam. You’ve got it all fucked up.”

You pointed out a street sign as if to say, ‘See?’

“That ain’t the same one we saw comin’ in.”

“It is. Open your eyes and maybe we’d—”

“My vision’s just fine, kid. Seriously—”

“Seriously? We’ve been circling!”

“It’s called finding the right—”

“—HERE, RIGHT HERE—”

“That ain’t th—”

“Miller!”

The Bronco barreled right past Kirkland Street, along with the diner the two of you had been trying to find for the last twenty minutes. Every time the navigation on your phone had directed you one step closer to the spot, Joel had insisted that his memory served him better.

It hadn’t.

You missed your turn for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, and you were one wide, jerky U-turn away from just throwing yourself out of the moving vehicle. That was how bad Joel’s navigational skills and your level of frustration were at the moment. Add to that a stabbing pain in your stomach and you were truly ready to jump.

Joel cut the wheel and headed back in that direction.

“‘M’sorry,” he said. He glanced your way, where your knees were pulling up to your chest on a particularly tough cramp, and he reached for you. Squeezed your leg. “I’m sorry. That was on me. I should’ve…listened to you.”

“No shit.”

You winced—in pain and in shame for sounding so mean.

“I mean,” you returned, quickly recovering yourself. “Sorry. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

Watching Joel’s side profile, you saw his lips twitch.

“‘S’alright. I like you feisty.”

You bit your tongue.

Sure, he did.

You were just then pulling into the parking lot of your favorite brunch spot in town, and the air outside was cold. The tips of your toes still prickled at the memory of a crisp, frigid trek from your residence hall to the car, and for a moment, you dreaded going inside to eat at all. You wished your body had timed its monthly implosion a little better and your last hour with Joel wasn’t spent in half-agony and agitation, but that was life, you reckoned. With a resigned sigh, you reached for the door handle.

Your boots were back on the floor and about to heave your body out when Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait here,” he murmured.

He motioned for you to stay.

You turned to ask why; the driver’s side door was already slamming shut behind him. Through the windshield, you saw his broad, hunched form round the front of the car. He paused a moment to draw his jacket tighter about himself, and shortly sidled up and swung your door open.

He offered his hand to help you out of the Bronco.

Then, to your surprise, he retracted it even faster.

His eyes had just landed somewhere inside and flashed with recognition, as if remembering something big. Joel reached in, past you, mumbling softly—‘Shit, I meant to give you these earlier. Forgot I even bought ‘em’—and he looked contrite. He opened the glove compartment and tugged out a box. Before you could try and ask what it was, Joel had its contents out. He stepped closer, casting a quick look over his shoulder and frowning.

“Here, why don’t you scoot over? I’m gettin’ you cold.”

He gestured to the wind overhead and moved in nearer like he meant to climb in. You slid across the bucket seat, not entirely sure of what he intended to do, but let him shut the door after himself again and go in all the same.

Shortly, Joel held up what looked to be a heating pad.

His gaze flitted to your stomach, and he nodded once.

“When I first got here you mentioned you were expectin’ your— your, uh…time of the month soon, so I went out and got these. Forgot I bought the pack of ‘em. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s frown grew, as if chastising himself. You blinked.

“If you just lift your shirt a bit…maybe tuck it right—” He pinched a belt loop to tug the denim out from your waist. “—under the band here. I don’t know if it’ll stick, but—”

His words trailed off in your mind—you’d caught a glimpse of what was stuffed in the glove box along with the heating pads, and you saw a trove of other items: Advil, chocolate, your favorite trail mix, saltines, jerky, fucking chamomile tea, like he knew exactly what you needed. All because you’d said in passing—actually, right before you’d begged him to finish inside you Friday night—that you were going to be starting your period soon.

And you’d just chewed the poor guy out for his driving.

You blinked some more, not saying a word because you didn’t know what else to tell him, and your throat ached.

Thank you for being sweet.

Sorry I’m so damn mean.

Please don’t leave me.

Slow, steady breaths warmed your cheeks, and a hand tugged your shirt up. Another touch smoothed the heating pad over your belly. Joel wriggled your waistband a second, trying to fit the thing snug underneath it, and all the while, you said nothing.

“I had to text my brother. That’s how clueless I was.”

Joel breathed a laugh. It was soft and sheepish. In contrast to how taciturn you were, he couldn’t seem to keep quiet—like filling the silence with words might make him feel less nervous or awkward about this.

“He’s been seeing this girl, Maria. Well, Tommy’s always been better’n me—much better, I’d say—with, y’know, bein’ in touch with his feminine side, I guess. He’s had more girls than me, friends and girlfriends alike. Anyway, I just needed all the help I could get buyin’ this stuff, and he and Maria gave me advice on what to do. I hope it—”

“Miller,” you cut in.

“Yeah?”

Your breath hitched.

“Have you ever…had a girlfriend?”

The words tumbled out before you could rein them in. Joel had just finished pressing the heating pad flat across your stomach and was pulling your shirt back down when his gaze jumped to yours. For several seconds, it was his turn to be silent, staring at you.

Your insides burned like you’d doused them in kerosene.

“I haven’t…really…” he started again, speaking slow.

Why the fuck were you doing this? Why now?

“Would you…want me to be your girlfriend?”

For whatever reason, your voice cracked.

You hated the sound of that with everything in you, but it was too late to stop the surge of word vomit coming out.

“Even if I’m…mean, and I’m needy, and I— I— I can’t—”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s expression visibly softened.

“And I can’t show love like a normal person should. I don’t…know how to be good like that. Or receptive to affection. And just knowing that pisses me off so m—”

“You aren’t.”

“What?”

“Mean.”

“Wh—”

“Or needy.”

Joel’s gaze skated from your eyes to your lips, and in a fraction of a second, you could see something threaten to tempt his own. He looked back up instead, smoothed your hair out of your face, and then cupped your cheek.

“Kinda thought you already were my girlfriend, honey.”

It sounded like a confession and a stunt, almost—how could the man be so assured when a reality like that scarcely seemed plausible to you? He was fighting a smile as if he knew something you didn’t. He had to.

“And I love you, you know that?” He said it gently.

You blinked.

You still weren’t used to hearing it.

“You do?” Your voice was small for some reason.

For some reason, it was like you were a child all over again, wishing your father would reach out and hug you sometimes. Approaching adolescence and missing your mother. You’d never felt it, much less heard it from the mouth of someone else in a way that seemed weightless. Joel said it like loving you was as easy as drawing breath.

Then he said it again:

“I love you, sweetheart.”

You said it back, and meant it.

You said it another time while strolling hand-in-hand into the diner. Felt it rumble through Joel’s chest when you took your spot beside him in a booth by the window. Heard it in his tone. Sensed it with his looks. Tasted it on his lips, if only for the briefest of moments while you sat and picked out breakfast together. Your knuckles brushed and your shoulders bumped with damn near every other bite of the meal, but neither of you minded. There was comfort and security in every touch. There was home, and then there was Joel—even though Austin would stay 2,000 miles away as long as you stayed here, he was all you needed to feel safe and content right now.

You didn’t want him to leave.

Back on campus, standing in the parking lot behind the dorms, you told him as much. You hadn’t cared how sad or desperate it made you seem—you were those things—and when Joel hugged you tight, you didn’t regret saying it. He held you close and kissed the crown of your head.

And when it was time for him to leave, you could tell he couldn’t help himself when he leaned down even lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Grinning. You felt him.

You heard the words he’d murmured but almost couldn’t believe what he said when he’d said it. You’d discussed it some over eggs and cheesy grits that morning, but still.

It was scary.

Unsettling.

Maybe exactly what you needed, judging by that smile on his face when he finally leaned back and pulled away.

“Just…think about it, OK?” he said, tone encouraging, “We can take this as slow or as fast as you wanna go.”

You nodded that you would.

You knew this could wait.

But still, as you headed back inside and waved the Bronco off for another long spell of time apart—your boyfriend was going home, and taking a piece of you with him—your muscles tensed. Your stomach stirred with uncertainty just shy of a pain, and it wasn’t your cramps that you could reasonably blame this on now.

Your steps were slower; your legs were leaden. The impression of Joel’s last words were still fresh in your mind, and though the prospect was thrilling in some ways, in others it chilled you to your core. While you walked, his words echoed again and again and again:

“I’m ready to tell your dad whenever you are.”

Time passed, and the days wore on.

One minute he’d had you wrapped in his arms, and now you were gone. Every day. It felt like a weight, though nothing, no one, was there, and Joel found himself loathing it more and more with each passing day.

He called your phone more often than he should.

Without a doubt, you had a busy life in college. Finals were drawing close on the horizon, you had at least five different projects and essays and whatever the hell else those fuckass professors decided assigning last minute, and Joel wasn’t too much of a jealous man, but he also craved your time. Your touch. Your voice. When distance deprived him of your presence, he sought any means to be with you, even if it meant looking lame and pathetic.

He was.

He worked evenings. Whenever he saw your name pop up on his phone screen, he’d walk out on just about any task he had and take your call. He kept the old device in his breast pocket just so he could feel you when you did.

Joel Miller was in way too fucking deep, and he knew it.

So, in an effort to curb the fixation, he took to housework during the day. Real, manual labor. It wasn’t for his own home but his granddad’s, and it had been something he’d promised to do for years—him and Tommy both.

The old man had been gone for over a decade now, but the home had stayed in the family. It was in a constant state of disrepair, rarely saw a hint of human life outside of the occasional visit from either brother just to ‘go and check the place out,’ but he and Tommy knew they’d have to do something about it soon. Inspiration just hadn’t struck for what that ‘something’ might be.

Today he was cutting grass. Cleaning out gutters. Pulling weeds—lots and lots of weeds, the sheer mass of which he hadn’t been able to fathom at first glance of the yard.

And he felt a little guilty for just how bad he’d let this place get over the years. The fact that it had taken him an all-out infatuation with a girl he couldn’t get his head or heart off of just to haul his ass over here and work.

Something rustled in the bushes. Joel groaned.

And just as he was about to cup his hands around his mouth and shout, ‘GET THE HELL OFF’A MY PROPERTY!’ you called. He picked right up.

But he couldn’t help the huff in his voice on ‘Hello?’

“Everything alright?” You sounded confused.

“‘M’fine. Just tired of fighting this beast.”

“Beast! What beast?”

“This fuckin’ rat.”

He heard you pause, as if trying to recall when the last time you’d seen a rat yourself, and then you laughed.

Joel momentarily brightened at the sound of it.

“Yeah? Is my big, strong man scared of Stuart Little?”

And then his frown was back. He nearly rolled his eyes.

“I am not,” he returned in protest. He stalked over to the bushes where the sounds had just come from, and he shook a few errant branches. Hard. “Go on, get out!”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

Joel could hear your chuckle through the line. He didn’t need to see your face to know it had broken into a grin.

“Funny. Y’ever consider bein’ a comedian, sweetheart?”

“I’ve toyed with the idea. Now what the hell have you got going on with a rodent on your granddad’s property?”

“It ain’t a rodent.”

Another pause.

“Well, what’s—”

Joel didn’t hear the rest. He’d just shook the bush as hard as he could, and out flew the beast he’d been after. It scrambled on its paws and hightailed it across the yard

“AND STAY OUT!” he yelled after it.

Now you were invested. Your stifled giggling had turned to queries—‘What the fuck are you doing, Miller? What is it?!’—and Joel scarcely had the energy to answer. His back hurt. Hell, it ached. And his knees weren’t doing so hot either. At length, he turned to face wherever that damn critter had gotten off to, and he squinted out into the mid-afternoon sun. It was cold, but his efforts had worn him out. Warmed him up. He’d broken a sweat.

“It’s just…a dog,” he heaved at last.

A little gasp sounded through the phone.

“A puppy?!” you squealed. “Joel, you bastard!”

Joel scowled. He wished you could see it.

“Why am I a bastard? She’s trespassin’.”

“It’s a goddamn dog, Miller! C’mon.”

The man wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Yes, it was a dog. A yellow blond beast of a thing that tore out and around the farmlands like he owned every acre of it and shit exclusively in his backyard. He’d stomped through four big, soggy gifts of this kind in the last week alone. He was sick of the thing, and determined to find out who she belonged to.

“Is she OK?”

Your voice was soft. Joel had to do a double take.

“OK? ‘Course she’s OK, she’s got a big, pretty yard to drop shits in, a loud and yappy bark to wake the whole—”

“Food, I mean. Has she eaten? Is she coming back?”

Now Joel really had to take a beat. Were you sympathizing with the beast he so despised?

He put a hand on his hip. He winced, instantly, feeling a strain in his back the size of Texas itself. He slowly lowered the hand and started off to the house.

“I don’t think you’re hearin’ me. This creature is ruining my property. My grandfather’s property—just soilin’ it.”

“Because you and your brother have done such a bang-up job of keeping that place fit for human habitation.”

“Hey,” Joel huffed, “I’m tryin’. Been here all week.”

“I know.” You took a second yourself. Probably smiled. “I’m just teasing. I’m glad you’re out there to fix it up.”

Then, before he could reply, you were jumping back in:

“So, what are you thinking of naming her?”

By now, Joel was approaching the back porch. The toe of one boot had just struck the bottom step, all molded, old, and rotten straight down to the tufts of grass below. He halted in place and shifted his phone to the other ear.

He frowned deeply.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I naming her’?”

“All that screamin’ and hollerin’ you’re bound to do while you try and evict this poor thing from your property. Might as well give her a name if you’re gonna yell.”

“You yell at me plenty and rarely use my name.”

“That’s not true. I do use your name.”

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t count.”

He was walking up the steps now. Hearing them groan and creak beneath the weight of his body and hoping the porch wouldn’t split in two before he reached the door.

“I’m serious, Miller,” you continued, unfazed. “Give her a name. Leave out some treats. Let her get comfortable enough to where you can check her collar, or else pick her up and take her to the shelter. See if she’s chipped.”

Joel didn’t have the heart to tell you that most dogs out here didn’t have little luxuries like microchipping, and the odds of finding this thing’s owner that way were slim to none, but he also just wanted to say something sweet. Ease your mind before changing the topic to more important things—like when you planned on coming home and how he could persuade you to make it a day or ten sooner. He heard the screen door slam shut behind him, and he was heading straight for the sofa. He sighed.

“Alright, sweet pea. Why don’t you think of some names for me, and I’ll start asking around the neighborhood if anyone knows whose she is. How does that sound?”

“I’ll need to meet her first,” you answered shortly.

“What?”

Joel dropped to the couch and kicked off his shoes. On the other end of the line, he heard shuffling, like you were preparing to relax a bit yourself. You cleared your throat.

“Yeah. Can’t fairly name a dog I haven’t even seen.”

“I’ll send you a picture if I catch the little shit.”

“Nope. Gotta be in person. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. And we ain’t keepin’ her.”

“We’ll see about that, dickhead.”

“Honey.”

That last word was both a term of endearment and a warning—‘We are not, under any circumstances adopting this dog.’ For some reason, as he said it, the protest already seemed futile on his lips. Like you weren’t hearing a syllable of what he was saying.

“Okaaaaay.”

“Sweetheart.”

Another warning. Another beat of silence.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his grip.

For a second, he was confused. Who the fuck would be texting him other than you? His brother and friends were all serial phone call fanatics—too Boomer-adjacent to use texts as a common form of communication. He pulled his phone from his face and put you on speaker. He swiped his thumb down to snag his new notification.

And nearly choked on the spit in his mouth.

You’d texted him. He’d opened it.

Attached to the message you sent were several different pictures of you, all in various states of undress. They were taken seconds ago, if Joel had had to guess.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

His cock was already hardening in his jeans. He could hear you stifle a laugh across the line but didn’t care.

“Weird name for a dog, but I’ll take it,” you said.

Mutts were the furthest thing from his mind.

He wasn’t shy to tell you as much as his hand slid down to the button and zip of his pants and undid them both.

“Put on the…the…Face…book,” he muttered, low.

“The what now, Joel?” you cackled back.

“The Face-whatever. Video call. Wanna see your face.”

“FaceTime, Miller. FaceTime.” You were teasing now.

You should’ve known damn well a man as old as him wouldn’t know what the fuck a FaceTime was, but you poked fun anyway. Joel reminded himself to make you pay for that later, and then took his cock in his hand.

He let go to spit in his palm. He grabbed it again.

“Put those pretty tits on FaceTime or I’m tellin’ your old man all the sick, depraved things you’ve been lettin’ m—”

“You’re insufferable, Miller.”

He grinned to himself.

“You love it.”

He knew you couldn’t argue with that. In a minute, he heard you sigh, felt you betray a little smile of your own as you got to shifting around in place again. Preparing.

“I’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

“Won’t need but five, sweet pea.”

His phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime.

Today was the day.

Well, almost the day.

Tomorrow you came home, but it was close enough to midnight now that Joel could pretend that it was today.

He was seated at a bar, both elbows planted on the sticky wet surface of a tabletop that was rarely cleaned. By now, he knew Mando’s sports bar like the back of his hand, and he could tell when certain staff weren’t around to clean spills. He could smell it, with the stench of a coconut-flavored rum wafting up to his nostrils and invading his brain. It took him back to his college days. Meanwhile, a mob of plastered bachelorettes were gathered six stools down and only getting louder.

“Kill me now,” your father grumbled beside him.

Joel hadn’t meant to say yes when he’d invited him out.

In fact, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight, but your dad was unimaginably persuasive. He’d also offered to pay for Joel’s drinks at the bar, so really, this was just an opportunity to exercise his liver with an old friend, for free. Nothing dangerous about drinking with the guy whose daughter he was secretly dating.

Nothing dangerous at all.

Joel swallowed another draught of his jack and coke and stared harder at the wall of spirits in front of him, like a long enough look might save him from having to talk.

He’d never felt more awkward around his friend in his life. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or just confess.

Hey, man, I’m in love with your daughter, by the way.

We’ve been having filthy phone sex for weeks now.

Regular, old fashioned fucking for even longer.

“I need to take a leak,” Joel told him instead.

“Really? That’s your fourth piss in the last hour, Miller,” your father observed, almost clinically. He was drunk. “Sure you ain’t got one of them…UTIs, or whatever?”

The man had a smirk on his face when he said it.

He went on: “Catch a little somethin’ from whatever girl you screwed on vacation a couple weeks back, maybe?”

Of course, he meant the time he’d visited you at school.

Of course, he didn’t know it was you he’d gone to see.

He would, eventually. Not now. Not here. Not with eight of the most obnoxiously intoxicated women flailing limbs and lip syncing to Shania Twain just a dozen feet away.

When Joel returned from his bathroom break—another stupidly long pit stop like the last three taken before it—one of the octet had wandered over. She moved closer to him. Joel had only just slid onto his barstool and ducked his head to drink when a voice broke in, high and shrill.

He ignored her. Like the sound hadn’t even registered for him, he completely disregarded the wasted twenty-something, though it was obvious her eyes were on him.

“Ain’t feelin’ too friendly tonight?” his friend ribbed him.

Your dad didn’t seem to be seeing her either, while her fingers splayed over her hips and she slurred something more about needing some of that Southern hospitality.

Joel could smile. Nod his head.

That should get his friend off of his back.

But the moment he did, it was like a siren went off.

“Why don’t you buy her a drink, Miller?!” the man barked.

And Joel declined. Didn’t even lift his gaze in the girl’s direction and took another sip of his drink, hoping that she would leave. She did, eventually, but only after your dad had bought her and her friends a round of green tea shots, and the group had shrieked with satisfaction. His friend grimaced, but Joel could tell he was also amused.

“Never seen that before,” the man hummed.

“Seen what?” Joel took another swig of his drink.

“Never seen you so disinterested in gettin’ ass, Miller.”

Joel cringed hearing that. Not just on account of you, but knowing how crude your father could get when he was drunk. How forthright and unfiltered he’d become.

“Yeah. Just not that into…that,” Joel finished lamely.

“I’ll bet.”

His friend flitted a look from him, to the bachelorettes, to him once again. He seemed to appraise him in his seat. Then he leaned in closer and bumped Joel’s shoulder.

“Hear the way she screamed when I bought ‘em drinks?” His grin was smug. “Think she’d sound the same if y—”

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Joel said suddenly. He turned toward his friend, then nodded to the group. “Eager as you are to get some tail, go tell ‘em hi.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt. His tone was clipped, with an edge that said that he was annoyed with this conversation. Admittedly, he was, but he didn’t need your father asking why. He took a slow, steadying breath.

“Because I’m a taken man, Joel Miller. You ain’t.”

Right.

Right.

Fucking his ex-wife’s best friend was a real special thing. One could only imagine how well that would turn out.

Without thinking, Joel glowered down at his drink.

“Shit. You’re empty,” his friend slurred a little. “Sadie?”

Sadie, the bartender, had their drinks replenished in a second—she knew her regulars and didn’t talk much.

Your dad could learn a thing or two from her, Joel mused.

Then, as if reading his mind and deciding to push his luck even more for the hell of it, the man spoke again:

“Don’t worry, Joel-y. I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”

He was sneering faintly. His breath smelled of whiskey.

“Oh yeah?” Joel shot back. Sharp. “Get where?”

He couldn’t help it.

Too late to channel his own inner-Sadie now.

His companion raised his glass to his lips and smiled.

“A relationship, Miller. With the woman you love.”

“And here I thought you just liked fucking her.”

A silence stretched after he said that, and Joel couldn’t tell if it was his friend taking his time with his cocktail or really resenting his words. He hadn’t meant to be rude.

Well, no, maybe he had.

Maybe he was tired of talking about Helen like that ‘relationship’ they’d had wasn’t the reason his friend’s marriage had gone up in flames decades back and you’d grown up most of your life without a mother. Joel didn’t have the whole story—couldn’t fully gauge what had taken place all those years ago, or why she’d left—but he could guess that this wasn’t the right move for your dad.

Or for you.

Just knowing what he knew, and what he’d failed to do when his friend had first told him, was enough to piss him off. Which was why he went on, futile as it seemed.

“You really think it’s love…with Helen? I didn—”

“Yeah. I do.”

His friend’s reply sounded a little barbed, at last.

There it was. The first tinge of annoyance—a rare sight for a man as indefatigably cheerful as your father—almost made Joel smile. He could see how he really felt.

His friend was clearly drunk now.

As the man’s emotions had a tendency to take wild, arcing swings whenever the drinks had gone to his head, it appeared he was nearly there. He’d eased off on the nonsense about Joel’s hypothetical sex life and directed the discussion inward. Joel could handle these musings.

For the first time, he leaned in closer and spoke lower.

“Last time we talked, you said Helen Foley was a fling.”

His friend’s eyes widened the slightest bit. He swallowed whatever whiskey was in his mouth and shook his head.

“You don’t…Don’t even say that.”

“Say what? That was all you.”

Joel’s gaze goaded him on, and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. It felt like the right thing to do, though, given how otherwise tight-lipped his friend had been about his former mistress and the fact that he was flaunting it now. As drunk men often liked to do.

“I never said she was a fling, Miller. I just…”

Another shake of his head, eyes glazed.

“Just what?” Joel pressed.

“I just said I liked her. A lot.”

“You said you liked the sex.”

Joel was being crass. Crude, like his friend had been before. He knew it would provoke a reaction out of him.

And just moments later, Joel’s wish was nearly granted.

Your dad blinked. He cleared his throat and tapped his now half-empty glass on the bartop before peering up.

“You’ve got it wrong,” your dad said, low. Hoarse.

“You said—”

“I say a lot of stupid shit, Miller. You know that.”

He did.

“So what is it then? Is the sex that good that—”

“No.”

“And it wrecked your whole fucking marriag—”

“Don’t,” your dad cut in, again, harsher now than before.

His speech was slowed, sluggish, and palpably agitated. The whiskey had hit his brain. He wasn’t as in control of the words flowing out of his mouth; Joel could see it.

“So you don’t feel guilty at all for cheating with her—”

“Because I loved Helen first!”

In spite of the raucous din of the bar all around them, your father’s voice carried surprisingly fast. Loud. Sadie cocked her head from a sea of new patrons huddling in at the entrance, lifted one brow, and scanned them briefly, as if trying to tell if a fight might be brewing.

It wasn’t. Your dad just got loud when he was plastered.

And once he started something, he had to keep going. Joel was listening, but he had to admit that the drinks were beginning to affect him, too. He set his down.

“What are you talking about?” he asked him.

Your dad dropped his glass with a little more éclat.

“I’m saying,” he started. Pausing to swallow once more. “I knew Helen first. I loved her first. This was before…”

He swallowed again, and Joel could see the effort there.

“…before I ever even met Amy. I swear.”

Amy. Now that was a name Joel hadn’t heard in awhile. It had been mostly an unspoken rule between them both never to bring up his ex-wife’s name, much less mention her like this. But there he went. Six drinks in and he was reminiscing on your mother. Joel felt trouble simmering.

“But you and Amy were married—” he started, slower.

“Exactly eight months before our daughter was born,” his friend grit out. Something like ire flashed in his gaze. “How’s that for one big fuckin’ coincidence, huh, Miller?”

Joel hadn’t even thought about it. He hadn’t known your father or mother back when they were first married—though Tommy had worked with the former, and had been friends with the couple a bit longer than he had.

Joel had only seen the ugly end of the marriage. It never occurred to him to inquire when—or how—it had started, just that it pissed his friend off whenever Amy became a topic of discussion. Mostly, it was in the context of regret

He saw that again, presently.

“Nobody even knew that was a thing because we were…casual. And real private about it, for a little while. Then the pregnancy came outta left field and I thought I was doin’ the right thing, y’know? Gettin’ married and growin’ up and all. But Amy wasn’t ever really in it any more than me. She knew I’d always be in love with somebody else.”

Helen?

Her best friend?

“Then why weren’t you with her?” Joel couldn’t hope to control the fervor that warmed his tone. He was enrapt.

He’d never heard this side of the story before.

His friend shrugged like it was nothing to him.

“Timing. Life,” he answered, duller. “We tried it out for a little while when she was in college, but Helen was so…young. And full’a big notions of gettin’ out of town, doin’ something else and stayin’ someplace else. I didn’t fit.”

He sounded deflated as he said it. He went on.

“I was damn near ten years older than her. I didn’t know the first thing about keepin’ a girl her age interested, or givin’ her what she needed. Had me mad for the longest time— which was why…I guess…” his friend trailed off.

“Amy,” Joel answered for him.

“Yeah. Amy,” your dad confirmed. Something more passed behind his eyes, though Joel couldn’t quite tell what it was. If he had to guess, he would say it was guilt.

The man kept going, evidently emboldened by his present state of intoxication and ready to say the worst. He ground his molars and rolled his lips like there was something bad he was itching to say, and Joel could only stare back. Wishing he was a little more drunk himself.

“I never meant it to be serious, Joel. I was young and dumb and trying to make the girl who rejected me jealous by screwin’ her best friend, and Amy knew it just as well. She knew I was sleepin’ with other people, too.”

His words were coming out quicker now. He planted one hand on the tabletop beside him, but he was facing him.

“Amy and I were both sleepin’ with other people, Joel.”

Then he paused a moment, and Joel wasn’t sure what the man was trying to say. Shortly, it dawned on him.

His eyes widened.

“You mean…?”

Your dad swallowed. Then shrugged. Then looked away, like he was suddenly ashamed of what he’d said. Knowing what it implied for himself, his ex-wife. For you.

“I’m— I’m almost positive she’s mine, there’s just…”

What? A possibility that you weren’t his daughter?

How could the man live with something like that?

Joel’s heart thudded a little louder in his chest. He wasn’t sure why; it just felt like something strange and momentous and bizarre for him to know before you.

Did you know?

“Does she…” He found it harder to finish his sentences.

Your dad’s eyes darted back to his. He blinked rapidly.

“No, no. God, no. I’d never tell her somethin’ like that,” he answered, fast. “It— it don’t even matter now, she’d always, always be my little girl. I just found out years after there was a chance she might be…someone else’s.”

Someone else’s.

Suddenly, Joel didn’t feel like he was fit to be told any of this. He felt like he was intruding. For your father to confess all of this—sharing such heavy news—it was all he could do to keep his blinking and breathing in check.

“See, Helen was never ‘the other woman.’ Amy and I were long checked out of our marriage before we ever split, and we…I mean, I went back. To Helen. I loved her.”

Your father paused again.

“I still love her, Joel. We tried making things work again, back then, too. We’d grown up a little bit. But my divorce was too new, my daughter was too young. It— it just didn’t happen. But now she’s here, and she wants to try again. I want to try again, and see if maybe— I dunno.”

“But then…” Joel thought of you. “Your daughter.”

“She thinks I’m the piece of shit who blew our family up on account of some affair. And I’m fine with her thinking that, if it keeps her from diggin’ into the past and learning her mom and I weren’t— that I might not be…”

Joel closed his eyes a moment. He sucked in a breath.

This was the last thing he needed to learn the night before you were supposed to be coming back home.

How could he tell you something like this? Should he?

It almost seemed as if the walls were closing in, and he was faced with the same dilemma as he had before—cope with a lie or cause more pain by telling you the truth. But now it really didn’t feel like his place to tell. It felt heartless and cruel to even bring it up, and somehow worse if he didn’t. If he withheld the truth from you again

And just as he’d endeavored to get his head around the idea, to try and make sense of it, a new bomb dropped.

“But if she ain’t mine, at least I’ve got an…idea of who the father might be. Silver livings an’ all,” his friend said. The smile he flashed him was as weak as it was sardonic.

“Who?”

“There were a few—rumors, I mean. Nothing for certain. Just heard she was seeing Dave York and Javier Peña…”

Those made sense. Joel knew the guys from work.

“Marcus Pike and that dude who used to live a little ways out of town—Ezra something, I forget. You remember?”

He didn’t.

Joel was racking his brain for names, and the last two sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place their faces.

“Dieter Bravo, that actor guy…Reed Richards—shit, it’s been a minute since we talked to him, ain’t it? Damn.”

Your father kept rattling off names like this was the most normal thing in the world—he’d probably done it often over the years—but with each new pronunciation, Joel felt himself growing sicker. He didn’t want to hear more.

But he’d have to, unless he made up an excuse to leave.

Another bathroom break might do the trick.

Okay, he could slip out easily that way.

Just as Joel was clearing his throat and preparing to make his fifth restroom announcement of the night, he had to stop. He heard another name drop from your dad, and he almost choked. Then he did choke, in a second.

“And Tommy, maybe…”

“Tommy?!”

The lone word punctured the air like a strangled breath—it came from the labor of his own two lungs, at hearing his brother’s name raised in connection with all of this.

What could Tommy have to do with any of that?

“Yeah,” your dad answered, nonchalant at first. Then, seeming to recollect his senses as he realized what he’d said, he smiled sheepishly. “I mean that’s—that’s a long shot, Joel. I heard some whisperings Amy and him might’ve gotten on and hooked up once or twice back then, but it was nothing serious. The odds of him bein—”

“Your kid’s father?!” Joel spit the words out like poison. He couldn’t help it. His heart had jumped to his throat.

He couldn’t be hearing his friend correctly.

He had to have been mistaken with that.

Joel’s brain short-circuited momentarily. It felt like his heart had leapt from his throat to his head and he could sense every sick, throbbing pulse of the thing thrumming sporadically through his skull. It was deafening to him.

Your father was continuing on, but it was hard to hear.

“…Tommy must’ve been, what, twenty-two? Same as Amy. I think they had some mutual friends besides me—must’ve been a casual thing. I don’t think he even knew we were hooking up back then, too. I don’t blame him…”

The man might as well have been speaking French, because Joel didn’t understand the first fucking thing coming out of his mouth except ‘Tommy’ and ‘Amy.’

His brother and your mother.

Having sex? When the fuck had that happened?

There had to be some misunderstanding. No way could his baby brother have done something like that and not…

Fuck. It had been twenty-two goddamn years since then.

What if he didn’t remember?

What if he couldn’t remember?

What if—oh, fuck, there was no fucking shot.

“Don’t look so shocked, Miller.” Your father grinned, and for the first time in a while, through the bulk of this whole conversation, it was genuine. He thought this was funny. “You know Tommy got around back then. Shit happens.”

Then, as if to rib him again:

“What, you scared of bein’ my kid’s uncle or somethin’?”

Joel was ready to throw up.

No, not ready—he was going to retch.

Jack and coke could’ve easily taken the blame for that, but anyone with half a brain and an ability to see the situation for what it was would’ve known better.

Joel knew better.

He had to shake his head. Say something. Otherwise he would be stuck, staring at his friend and looking as if he might spew chunks all over the front of his shirt at any given moment. There was no way you two were related.

“Hey, if you are, I’d say you’d make a damn good uncle anyway. You and her have been close for awhile, right—”

Time to vomit.

Time to leave.

Time to abandon any scant sense of self-respect and simultaneously lose the last six drinks he’d consumed into the closest sink or toilet. The room was spinning.

‘Gotta…piss’ was all he remembered saying. That should’ve been enough. If it wasn’t, well…that was no longer his problem. He was gone in the next second.

In his semi-drunken state, it amazed Joel just how far he was able to disgorge his dinner. As he expected, it was mostly liquid. It was like the second he stepped into the bathroom, all bets were off, and he was heaving like he was on the brink of death. What the fuck was all that?

This didn’t feel real. Wiping his mouth, running the sink, watching the liquid trail down, down, down until there was nothing left for him to see but a concave block of porcelain staring back. Its surface was surprisingly bright, shiny, and slick. It made him want to barf again.

But this was no time for fucking around.

If anyone needed to be spilling their guts now, it was someone else. Joel couldn’t rest until he reached him.

So, pulling out his phone with sweat-damp, noticeably shaky hands, he blinked harder. He focused his gaze. For the first time in what now felt like years, he turned the device on without the intention of texting, calling, or FaceTiming you. He scrolled through his long list of contacts until he reached the name, then winced.

This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t real.

He dialed the number and grew nauseous all over again.

Tommy Miller, answer your motherfucking phone.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING/DRAGONCOCK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dan heng, boothill, sunday

— warnings. — fem! reader, monsterfcking, size kink/size difference, needy boyz

⚝ — DAN HENG + dragon

dan heng was looking at you utterly enthralled—majestic in a way that almost feels untouchable or unable for you to grasp on. and ugh, he does have quite a bit of energy to burn, making himself get to work when he twists his fingers into your plump flesh, kneading your ass.

a much nicer detail was that his horns gleamed under the shadowed light in the bedroom, his tail flicking in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you rest your hands within his tousled hair, holding yourself close as dan heng pumps himself slowly at first, oh yes, quite sure of himself and trying to stretch your twitching, little cunt well enough in order for him to fit entirely.

the sheer beauty of the scales gathered on his chiseled body shimmer in a soft cascade of iridescence as they sought out to reflect in your tear-stricken eyes.

almost but not quite, only when he begins to pick up on pace, shifting his hips to find that spot which you've been aching for— making you feel like he embedded galaxies and trapped them beneath your skin, panting, moaning, growling at the things your milking cunt did to him.

and when his golden eyes meet yours full of lust, dan heng groans at the desperate squeezes and the tight contraction of your walls clamping for dear life— a quiet, steady kind of warmth seeping into your bones as his hands explore your body and pull you further into him.

he holds you, finding solace that despite his impossibly big size, you curl your back into him ever so slightly, like you trusted him wholly— your cunt melting within his shaft as his touch— when you allowed it, grew more desperate, his clawing hand brushing over your shoulder, fingertips ghosting over your wrist in passing as if he fears his strength might be too much.

⚝ — BOOTHILL + cyborg

despite the cold nature of his exterior, boothill's heart—if it could be called that— was as warm as any human's, if not more.

with a gentleness that contrasted his imposing presence, he leaned closer into your warm body, his hand, though metallic, tender as it cupped your cheek before he drove into you.

it's never boring with boothill, because you never know how he's about to handle you each night.

more gentle? or a little harder this time? do not be fooled, it always starts slowly, he doesn't want to actually induce any pain on your precious body, not when he was barely a human himself anymore, his frame long since altered to appear much different.

you bite your lip, urging yourself to fight back a desperate whimper as boothill strokes himself inside of you deeply, your slick long since smeared along the length of his hard, impossibly big cock— your skin shivering at the contrast of cold metal, warm touches, filthy kisses as you failed to keep quiet, your jaw dropping open from another blow rattling through your drained frame.

"feels so- so- good," you wince, squirming as much as you could, attempting to pull him in deeper by clasping your legs around his waist, "f-faster, please—."

your legs felt like jelly— and you knew damn well you won't last, but right now it's fucking insane. you give yourself to boothill as you're being spread open wide, while also being fucked stupid and satisfied, the blood ringing in your ears walking in unison with the fast blows of his hips connecting with your pulsing flesh.

⚝ — SUNDAY + monster

to your very pretty gaze, sunday looked like something out of an ancient legend, a being sculpted from the very essence of a myth which his beauty you'd tell children about before they'd head to sleep.

for outsiders the man might appear quite dangerous, although to you there was nothing terrifying about him.

not when you loved him so dearly.

beneath the guise of elegance and power, beneath the warm voice and charming smile, you were aware there was something else— something vast, unknowable, a presence that stretches beyond flesh, which sunday would show you a glimpse of whenever his scent and kisses lingered in ways your mind couldn't fully grasp on.

should you fear it? or him?

the emotions that he set free when he played with your chest to make you feel good, lapping at your erected nipples addictively, lapping and sucking until they pulse and ache— all for him to make your pussy throb and your thighs clench together in desperate hope for sunday to touch you there as well.

it's just so good when he did it, right?— despite him being so impossibly big and almost uncomfortable. yet the fullness, fuck, the heat, and sunday didn't really have the time to go all the way in yet, but you're definitely getting all of him soon.

the sneaky changes from teasing and slicking up into your pussy each next push was so fucking subtle that you couldn't pin point how he was able to be so good at this— you immediately succumbed to the pressure, how it kept getting better and better when there was a sudden moment when sunday slips in entirely, without warning, pressing his unbearably large shaft against your velvet walls as he gets past your ring of resistance, fucking you with ease.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[wosoarsenalwfc]

could you please right a leah williamson x chronic illness reader ( maybe epilepsy ) !! btw i love your work

aww thank you !! the story is below

your safe, i'm here

summary : you've been hiding your epilepsy from leah for a long time in fear that she will leave you, but when you have an episode, it only makes your bond stronger.

warnings : seizure, epilepsy, angst? to fluff.

The soft flicker of a film danced across the living room walls, painting both of you in warm shadows. Leah’s hand rested gently on your thigh, her thumb moving in absent, rhythmic circles. You had been dating Leah for a around 7 months now, but you still hadn't told her about how you had been dragonised with epilepsy when you were younger, the fear of burdening or losing her was too much to bare.

She had her suspicions, though, you could tell. The way you sometimes rushed off the pitch during Lionesses camps, how the medical staff occasionally pulled you aside for check-ups or quiet conversations. She hadn’t said anything at least not yet, but she noticed.

Right now though, you had felt it creeping in minutes ago, a distant hum in your skull, the strange tightening in your chest, like your own body was turning on you in slow motion. The movie’s dialogue became distant, fuzzy and the edges of your vision blurred.

You knew what was coming.

You shifted slightly and Leah’s eyes caught yours.

“You okay bubba?” she asked softly. Concern, but not alarm. Not yet.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just, just gonna get some water,".

You untangled yourself from the couch and stood. Too fast. The room dipped. You gripped the back of the sofa like a lifeline.

Leah started to rise too. “Hey, are you okay?”.

“Lee I'm fine,” you interrupted, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Really,".

You barely made it to the hallway. The bathroom was just a few steps away, and you needed to get there, needed to lock the door before...

The floor tilted beneath you. The cold frame of the door hit your shoulder.

Nothing.

Leah didn’t hear a crash, not exactly. But she heard something, a thud, a breath cut short.

She stood quickly. “Babe?”

No answer.

“(y/n)?” she called again, louder, already moving.

When she turned the corner into the hallway, she froze.

You were on the floor, collapsed on your side, limbs twitching in harsh, involuntary jerks. Your eyes were wide but unfocused. Your body didn’t look like yours, not the way Leah knew it. Not the way you held yourself with quiet grace, even in your worst days. This was different, frightening.

She dropped to her knees beside you, heart thundering in her chest. “Oh my god, hey, hey. I’m here, I’ve got you,".

She didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t even know if you could hear her.

For half a second, she reached toward you, but then stopped herself. Don’t restrain them. That was one thing she remembered from a first-aid course ages ago. Just keep them safe. Stay calm.

Her hands hovered. She moved the rug so your head was cushioned, cleared your arm from hitting the door frame. That was all she could do. That and wait.

The seizure lasted around two minutes, however to Leah, it felt like a lifetime.

When your body finally stilled, the silence was deafening.

You blinked once, then again. You were breathing hard, your body disoriented and sore. Your eyes glassy with confusion and the tail end of panic.

“Hey, hey,” Leah whispered, her voice shaking. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m right here,".

You turned your head slightly, wincing. “Lee…?” you managed to say weakly.

“Yeah, love. I’ve got you. You had a seizure.” Her voice cracked slightly. “It’s over now.”

Your body curled in, weak, trembling. The exhaustion hit all at once.

“I didn’t want you to see,” you mumbled. “I didn’t want you to —”

“Shhh. Don’t say sorry,”.

Leah moved closer, slowly, her palm brushing against your back. She was careful, waiting for your body to guide her.

You closed your eyes. “You’re gonna leave,".

The words were barely above a whisper, but Leah heard them loud and clear.

“What?” she breathed. “Why would I leave?”.

“I didn’t tell you,” you said. “About the epilepsy. About… any of it. I didn’t want to scare you off,".

Leah’s throat tightened. She didn’t know what she’d expected perhaps fear, maybe, or pain but definitely not this. Not shame.

“Babe, no, look at me,”.

She gently guided your chin up, her eyes locking with yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You were scared,”.

“Of course I was scared,” she said, her voice breaking. “You collapsed and I didn’t know what was happening. But I wasn’t scared of you, I was scared for you,".

You let out a slow breath, and she felt your body sag slightly toward her, trust blooming in the space where fear had been.

“I’ve had it since I was a kid,” you whispered. “Most people don’t know. Some freak out. Others just… start treating me like I’m made of glass. Or they leave,”.

Leah’s expression darkened, jaw tightening.

“Well, they’re idiots,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m in this. All of it, even the scary parts,”.

You blinked fast, tears slipping down without permission. “I didn’t want to be a burden,".

“You’re not,”. Leah’s voice dropped, soft and sure. “You’re the person I love. And I want to know everything, even the hard stuff, actually screw that, especially the hard stuff.”

She pulled you gently into her arms, holding you like something precious not fragile, but sacred, like something she would protect even if it meant danger for herself.

The minutes passed quietly. Your body was still trembling faintly, muscles twitching with post-ictal exhaustion, but you felt warm in her embrace.

Finally, she pulled back just enough to brush your hair away and cup your cheeks.

“I love you, babe, and when you’re ready, can you teach me what to do? Like, properly? So next time, I know how to help better?".

She pulled you into another bear hug as you nodded, and she let you hold on for as long as you needed.

[plethorawrites]

Would the Bat boys date someone older or younger?

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Bruce Wayne: Younger. I feel like this man needs someone younger than him to balance out how old he sometimes feels. He likes how easy it is to impress you and how excited you get over his stories or the "simple" acts like a five star dinner or 12 course meal. He likes how bubbly and energetic you are because living in Gotham hasn't completely sucked the life out of you the way it has to most people his own age. The media isn't surprised to find out he's going out with someone in their mid to early 20's, it's honestly expected but only a few people realize how genuine it is. That it's not because of the thrill of being with someone half his age that makes him love being with you, it's the gratification of finding someone so much purer, who reminds him of what his mission is really about— keeping people like you safe.

---

Tim Drake: Older. He wouldn't necessarily seek it out, or reject anyone his own age, but those relationships would definitely fall apart because he always felt some kind of disconnect. He would gravitate towards someone of more maturity who would take care of him, who he could be the little spoon with and have his hair stroked by or his tie (when he had to wear one) straightened. He had been forced to grow up fast, and was naturally to someone 6 or 7 years older at least, if not more. He knows being seen with you would make a splash and going out to public would make things way worse, but he doesn't care if the media calls him a 'cub' nearly as much as it bothers him when they say he has 'mommy issues' of when they call you a 'cougar' for going out with him.

---

Dick Grayson: Either. He honestly doesn't care about age, he'll find a way to play it up either way. This man wants to lord over you the fact that he's older than you. He likes knowing he has more life experience than you and that he can take care of you. You just have to deal with him always claiming seniority. But! If you're older, that's fine too. He can't wait to be your arm candy, to tease you for going after someone younger and playfully call you a 'mature older partner.' When the media finds out, no one is surprised. No one so much as comments on the age difference because he's his father's son and dating someone with a 8 year age gap isn't unexpected

---

Jason Todd: Younger. If he had an older partner, he would feel babied and that already happened enough with his family. But someone a couple years younger, maybe by three or four makes him feel younger too. Like being with you gives him back the time that was stolen from him when he was dead. He likes how sweet and kind you are, how easy it is to make you laugh. He fears, sometimes, how dark the city is compared to you and tries his best to shield you from it. But you can handle a bit of darkness, when it's from him.

---

Damian Wayne: The same age. He would refuse anyone younger and couldn't stand anyone older. The same age. You need to be born in the same year as him, at least. Preferably with six months, just to make the difference as small as possible. He'll still want to technically be older, though, so in every argument he can mention it. You're at the same stage in life, he likes that you seem headed in the same direction, that you'll (eventually) grow old together and neither of you will be without the other for long since you'll probably pass away in a similar time frame too. He likes that nothing either of you say is outdated to the other and never will be. He likes that he doesn't have to teach you and doesn't feel like you're trying to teach him. You're simply learning about life together.

[dirtypr0mises]

JUST LIKE THE TEXT I SENT YOU FROM THE BED ⋆ — b. eillish

in which; — after the entire breakup, billie is dangerously obsessed. you? not so much. she has to win you over.

billie x mean!reader (question mark)

cw; idrk.. playful bullying, teasing, intro to smut

yapyap; hey…. this is awk. it’s been a while, 7 months to be exact, (gulp). caelynn has been so stressed and i’m very sorry yall i will TRY key word…! anyways first time writing in a decade wish me luck..

walking past billie was her ex, you would’ve thought she would try to ignore her and drift her eyes everywhere but there, but the truth is, that’s all she could look at, everything kinda went in slow motion, the way her hair moved in the wind, the way she strutted effortlessly and confidently had billie in a chokehold.

billie looked at her for maybe a few seconds, it felt like years before she realized y/n was no longer in sight. she snapped back into reality and tried to go on about her day.

a few hours later, billie texts y/n a simple ‘hey’. read. ‘fuck’ she mumbled to herself, ‘why did i do that’. she grabbed her pillow and held it, staring at the wall until she felt a buzz right beneath her left thigh.

She hurriedly picked up the phone n saw y/ma name brighten across the screen, a big smile stretched across her face.

‘hey billie’ she texted back. they conversated for a while and the conversation ended with ‘I guess you can come over’

and just like that billie was back to her old ways. she immediately drove as fast as she could legally to the apartment which y/n resided.

she knocked on the door, smiling as y/ns face peaked through, soon her whole body was in the door frame, scooting so billie could come inside.

‘you look fucking great’ billie mumbled walking past her. ‘hmm?’ y/n hummed, and of course, billie lied her way through that too.

‘so what did you need?’ y/n said.

‘you’ billie replied.

‘you can’t just sit here and pretend like you did lie to me our entire relationship, and turn around and expect me to drop my panties as soon as you walk by, sorry billie, i’ve changed.’

an awkward silence thickened the air as billie just stared, a flash of seriousness beaming upon her face, she took one of y/ns hands ands softly kissed it,

‘y/n, i had no excuse to lie to you, or to treat you bad, i was just shitty. You might have moved on but i seriously want to make it up to you, any way.’

y/n blankly stared at billie. ‘any way?’

‘mhm’ billie smirked.

‘well i do have a massive load of laundry i don’t feel like doing, so let’s start there.’

billie’s annoying smirk quickly wiped off her face as she sighed, playfully dropping her shoulders as she walked to the laundry room, and of course she did the laundry, why wouldn’t she?

‘soooo what now?’ billie said as she pushed start on the washing machine, finally taking a breath of freedom.

in the course of 45 minutes, while billie was folding, washing, and putting away clothes, y/n had took a shower and ordered takeout, for two.

‘come sit down because your going to be drying and putting that load up.’ y/n said as she pointed to the couch as if it was golden treasure.

sure enough, billie did just that, sitting down on the couch and manspreading, fuck how y/n loved that.

y/n stayed a comfortable distance away, eating her food as ‘waves’ played on the tv.

‘eat hoe, i didn’t order two for nothing.’ y/n said, pointing to the box on the coffee table, billie slowly picked up the box and ate the food inside, very quietly. it’d had now been about an hour of eating and smiling, from awkwardness to jokes very quickly. the washing machine signaled it was done so billie walked to the machine, transferring the clothes from the washer to the dryer, coming to sit back on the couch.

manspeading again, billie sprawls her arms on the back of the couch, right over y/ns shoulder.

‘fuck you look good.’ y/n mumbled, audibly enough for billie to hear.

‘what was that?’ billie said softly, but in such a seductive voice it pained y/n.

y/n hummed to try to change the subject, in which billie softly put a finger under y/ns chin, making her look into her eyes.

‘i want all of you.’ billie said, her thumb brushing on y/ns lips before she moved her hand completely.

‘oh fuck you.’ y/n said

‘okay.’ and with that, their lips collided smoothly, billie’s hands pulling y/ns waist towards her and sitting her on her lap.

dundundun

[sunsherbet]

Got Milk?

In which you ask your neighbor to borrow a glass of milk for a recipe.

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

CW: None

You wish you could say this was a first for you.

That deep down you were some uber-responsible twenty-something who made their grocery list and checked it twice, but you weren’t. This was the third time this week you’d forgotten something from the grocery store and only realized when it was that exact ingredient your recipe depended on.

It wasn’t even like you cooked often. You were a habitual air-fryer indulger whose culinary portfolio consisted of elevated cup ramen and just-add-water pancakes. 

But your sister was coming over, and you wanted to surprise her with her favorite chili oil pappardelle pasta. Hence, you needed a few more ingredients than your usual frozen dinners required, one of which was milk—an ingredient you realized, as you looked in your fridge, you were completely out of.

The minute hand ticked loudly, and your head snapped up to glance at the cupcake-shaped clock, which was slowly approaching 8:30—giving you less than an hour to finish your meal.

With time counting down, you had two choices for getting the milk: First, you could run down to the corner store and hope the creepy cashier wasn’t working tonight. That normally wouldn’t have been a massive concern, but it was winter, which meant it was dark outside already. And honestly, your sister's pasta just wasn’t worth the risk of dealing with someone who gave you the shivers. That left you with the second choice: flashing your best smile and begging your neighbors for a cup.

To the right of your apartment were Mrs. Hyde and her wife—two sweet old ladies who smelled like vintage perfume and flabby wine. Unfortunately, they went to bed at 7 p.m., so that was out. On the left were Mikael and his daughter Erin, but you two never quite got along, so that wasn’t an option either. Which left the one who lived across the hallway. He was supposedly a 'charming young chap' (according to the Hydes) and had lived there longer than you, but you’d never seen him.

Six months ago, when you first moved in, you’d baked some muffins and left them at his doorstep, but you’d forgotten to write a note and had been too embarrassed to try another introduction. So, this would be your first encounter with him. But it was an emergency, you swear! Otherwise, you wouldn't be bothering him with your trivial milk problems (even though they weren’t so trivial—after all, you'd already started the noodles and needed the cream base. Fast).

You grab a pair of neon Crocs, their bright contrast to your wine-red dress a jarring reminder of your frantic state, and rush out of your apartment, making sure to turn off the boiling water and secure the lid.

When you reach the door, you’re not sure why your heart is pounding in your chest or why your arms are covered in goosebumps. It’s probably just the nerves of meeting someone new, you decide, shaking yourself a little to readjust.

You curl your fingers to tap against the door, but just before your knuckles rap against the sturdy wood, it swings open. Standing in the frame is a tall guy with wire-frame glasses. He’s got a slimmer frame than his baggy plaid shirt can fill out, and a brown cardigan button-up rests just above his slacks. His bronze-like hair and matching doe eyes give you a not-so-subtle once-over, full of curiosity.

You jump in surprise, balancing yourself on the tacky wallpaper of the hallway. He quirks an eyebrow in a way that’s frankly adorable but you’re just a bit too stunned to fully appreciate just how attractive your neighbor happens to be.

“Can I help you?” 

“Uh, yeah, do you happen to have any milk?” 

He quirks his eyebrow again and this time you take note of the way his hair flops in front of it, “Yeah just not like grain or anything.”

You wave a hand in front of your face and shake your head, "Oh don't worry I'm not a hipster or lactose intolerant." The joke is rewarded with a small chuckle and you quickly decide it’s endearing. Dropping your hand from in front of him you stick it out, “Uh I’m your neighbor by the way. Not some random looking for milk handouts.” 

“I’m Spencer.” He provides, though he lets your hand hang between the two of you awkwardly, "Did you know the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering? It's actually safer to kiss."

Dropping your hand to your side you pucker your lips dramatically, and tease, “Are you asking for a kiss?” 

“W-What? No!” He leans back and you erupt into a giggle, shaking your head at his grimace.

“Well if you don’t want a kiss do you mind if I get that milk?”

“Yeah, of course, I can help you with your..?" He trails off, seemingly not knowing what to call your predicament.

But you certainly know what it should be called, and answer without hesitation, "My life or death dilemma? The reason for my current milk escapades."

Spencer seems to relax a bit more at your rambling, his posture less stiff and more calm, "Hm, seems like it's pretty important." He quirks an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame.

"Well, I did say life or death didn't I.” You look over at his watch and tap a foot impatiently, "Hey um I'm kinda in a rush, my sister is coming over and I'm not even half done with the stupid sauce. Though in my defense, I didn't know she was coming until like a week ago and I'm an avid cereal eater so the likelihood of me even having milk when she came over is slim to none - but I took the risk and now I'm milkless and totally screwed because cooking is hard and god I think I burnt the noodles for this stupid chili oil pappardelle pasta-which by the way I don’t even know how to make." 

Spencer is biting his cheek because he can’t laugh. He can’t laugh because it’s rude to laugh at someone he’s only just met, even if you’re blabbering and blushing and wearing adorable chartreuse platform Crocs. 

When you moved in across the hallway, Spencer Reid had admittedly looked into you. It wasn’t that he meant to be intrusive—it was just in his nature. He’d always been wary of new people, especially given his line of work. So when the long-vacant apartment finally filled and the scent of Yankee Candles began to waft through the hall, he might have asked Penelope to do a little digging.

Though her extensive report didn’t do justice to the person standing in front of him now. 

"Oh my god, you're laughing!" You exclaim, positively mortified at his audacity to laugh at you in this time of need.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He catches his breath after a moment and licks his lips with a flick of his tongue, "Maybe I can make it up to you?"

You smile but your foot is still tapping, "Do tell."

“While I’ve admittedly never made chili oil pappardelle pasta I’m quite quick to pick things up. If you need any help I could-?”

"Oh please thank you!" Letting out a sigh of relief you go to grab his hand, only pulling back when you remember his tangent about germs,  "She'll be here in thirty minutes so we have to hurry."

"Okay, let me go get the milk, and uh we can start."

"Thank you, Spencer.”

"Oh ... you're welcome."

You don’t notice the blush.

[suhlogic]

cold sweat [kim mingyu x fem!oc]

warnings: fwb, sexual tension, size kink, creampie, manhandling, daddy kink, overstimulation, mingyu is really touchy, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, fingering, unprotected sex , porn with little plot , body worship, pussy-eating, car sex , a bit of a self-indulgent fic

you and mingyu have been friends since your senior year of high school. the two of you were as thick as thieves, it didn’t matter if there was the risk of being separated in college— you two would always find each other during holidays and summer breaks in your hometown. but there was just one problem: you were falling hard and fast for the one and only kim mingyu. your mingyu who’s six feet and two inches tall of pure happiness and sweet disposition, the one who’d drop everything for you whenever you’re down, the person who was always cheering you on, and not to mention how handsome he is with his tan skin and prominently defined arms with his toned back as wide as the pacific ocean and those toned abs— but god, his smile and his contagious laugh that you could just constantly put on repeat no matter what time of day it is has you secretly pining away for your best friend. 

being physically intimate with him was not an uncharted territory  for the two of you, it just sort of happened one time when he came home drunk to your place and stumbled on your bed falling into a deep slumber as he cuddled you close in his hazy state. but you two never really brought up that night ever again, it did not matter if you two were sober or not, one of you would always offer cuddles and maybe a few stolen kisses in between especially when the both of you were stressed over schoolwork. it didn’t take that long for you to notice that mingyu was initiating them more often but repressed the thought that he could actually like you because you were just silly old you— always the best friend, never the girlfriend. but, little did you know, he fell first for you. of course he’d never admit that for the sake of protecting the friendship.

[10:00PM]

it was already late at night and you couldn’t stop tossing and turning in your bed so you decided to get up and shower to get ready for the 24/7 gym just near your apartment complex. after getting your things prepared, you decided to ring up mingyu to join you on your workout—or as he calls it, “gymscapade” for when you both get so stressed you need to work out a sweat. he picks up after two rings, voice clearly woken up from a deep slumber. “hey, what’s up?” he replies, “would you wanna go workout with me right now?” you ask, hoping he’s not too lazy in the confines of his bed on the other line.  “yeah, just let me get ready in a bit. call you soon when i’m there.” he says with a yawn. “okay, just meet me at the gym near my place just so i can get a good warmup.” you say as the both of you exchange your goodbyes. 

you make it to the gym not long after and decided to unzip your jacket halfway through your warmup. you were actually the only one in the gym since it was already quite late. while working up a sweat on the lat pulldown machine, you saw mingyu from the corner of your eye entering wearing  grey sweatpants and a compression tank top. he starts to warm up for a bit as you went to where he was, “what are you going to do today?” he asked, stretching out his arms. “i’ll just do a few upper and lower body workouts, maybe squeeze in some lifting too,” you say, as you take a sip from your water bottle. it never really struck you how handsome mingyu was until as of late, it just wasn’t in the books for the two of you to actually get together or even fuck at the very least but knowing how tiny and short you were compared to his huge, tall frame made you run a bit hot and wet down there. 

“care to spot me while i do bench presses?” he says as he takes off the dumbbells from the racks. you could barely lift what he pressed, it’s almost all-consuming seeing mingyu lay on the bench while you looked down at him as he lifted and praising him every time he’d do it. this position was not good for your health, all you could ever think about was him eating you out whenever he would moan out of exertion. you still had a few sets on the lat pulldown machine to go and asked him to spot you, to help you with your form since he was going to the gym longer than you have been. 

mingyu couldn’t stop looking at you. your hair up in a messy ponytail, wearing a cute workout set with just a pastel pink sports bra with tight-fitting compression shorts of the same color. you were so oblivious yet fucking obvious about how bad you wanted your friend to fuck you and he saw right through it. the way your skin would suddenly feel warm under his touch or how you’d hide the hitches in your breath whenever he was too close to you while he observes your workouts. as you were doing your set, he was behind you closing the gap between you two as he made sure you were feeling the burn in all the targeted muscles. as he lowered down to your level on the seat, your back brushed against his crotch and felt something huge and hard. “good girl, just one more and you’re done.” he whispered lowly in your ear as you exhaled when you let go of the bar in an upwards motion. 

as the two of you were helping each other finish workouts, he couldn’t help but gaze into your eyes with a hidden intent and leaned in for a kiss which made you set your dumbbells down on the floor with a loud thud booming through the room. it took you aback and you pulled away from the kiss, mingyu was shocked at your action and stared at you with wide eyes. “i’m sorry i couldn’t help it ever since that night i never stopped thinking about you.” he says, as you pulled him in closer and kissed him harder as your tongues became entangled. “jump,” he whispers as he starts to carry you. fuck, it was really hot seeing him take the lead and it made you weaker for him than ever before. he puts you down before you could even leave hickeys on his neck, “y/n, i’m not going to fuck you here, let me be a gentleman and take you back to my place,” he says with a mischievous smile, lips red and swollen from the steamy makeup session. 

both of you grabbed your things and went inside his car, the tension was hot and heavy as his hand were rubbing your thigh further riling you up while he drove through the quiet streets of the city with you weak and submissive under his touch.    it was something that set your insides on fire— seeing mingyu’s hand veins pop out from gripping the steering wheel hard resisting himself from pulling over and fucking you in the nearest empty parking lot he could find. as soon as the stoplight turned red, he looked over at you with a menacing smirk. “god, you just look so pretty and desperate for me, huh?”

you couldn’t help but be more turned on as you felt your core get wetter just because of his words and before you knew it, he was taking off your seatbelt for you and leaning in for a desperate kiss with his tongue exploring your mouth as if he had been waiting for this moment. “go in the backseat, now” he said in between breaths while still cupping your face, his usual kind and bright eyes, now filled with lust and a dominating gaze desperately telling you how bad he wanted this. as you made your way into the back, he followed suit and did not waste time taking off your bra showing off your huge boobs, its buds already hardened from the cold air. he smirked as you whined at how he took your nipples between his fingers and played with them, mingyu then sat you on his lap and felt his manhood through his sweatpants as you were just only left in your tight shorts that were clearly thin. “princess, you look so pretty like this. all naked and wet for daddy, huh?” he whispered as you began to grind your clothed pussy on his hard dick, just more wanting more from him. craving mingyu like he was the kind of drug you needed, so intoxicating yet so worth the risk. 

with lust-filled eyes, mingyu looked up at you and pulled you in for a rough kiss, tongues tied with one another. as he pulled away once more, he started to leave love bites all over your neck and chest not giving a fuck who sees it— all he knows is that you're his by day's end. his rough hands began to roam your body and unclasped your bra skillfully letting your huge tits be free. his mouth immediately latched onto your tit while his fingers began to rub the nipple in between the other one.

"fuck, daddy please i wanna feel you inside," you moaned. he just smirked as he began to flip you onto the backseat so he'd be on top of you. "patience, angel, good girls get to cum." he whispers through gritted teeth, grinding his hard cock on your pussy, still clothed yet the thong you wore hardly doing anything to cover the wetness. as mingyu goes down on you to take off your underwear, he leaves kisses on your stomach and hips, "god, you look so gorgeous fucked out for me, why didn't we fuck sooner?" he moans in between kisses. he inserts two of his fingers inside your dripping pussy, "so fucking tight for me, yeah, can't wait for my dick to be inside hm?"  he says as you could  just lose all sense of rationality with how good he is with his fingers. he then lowers his head down in between your thighs and eats you out, licking your clit as if he's a starved man. 

"daddy, please i'm so fucking close," you whine, tears of pleasure filling your eyes. mingyu proceeds to insert three of his fingers and fucked you faster with it, his long and thick digits began to curl inside, "you like being a slut for me yeah? who fucking owns you?" he moans, "you daddy, please.. gyu.. .more," you say as he coaxes you into your first orgasm. he takes out his fingers, your cum coating his fingers as he proudly licks and sucks them off with pride with a devilish smirk. "you taste so sweet, angel... " he says as you begin to claw at the waistband of his  sweatpants, desperate to feel his dick inside you. he smirks at how helpless you look and removes his bottoms along with his boxers, his hard, long dick standing in its full glory slapping against his chiseled abs,  as its girth makes you wonder how it could fit inside of you.

"will it fit, gyu?" you ask in a small voice. "oh, we'll make it fit, princess, i've prepped you enough yeah?" he begins to jack off his dick preparing to put it inside. "fuck, you look so small for me, all for me..so pretty spread out like this," he moans as he teases the tip of his dick in between your folds and slowly thrusts it inside of you. "fuck...my god gyu so fucking good, please...move," you whine as he begins to slowly move inside of you taking his sweet time to be inside of you. god knows how fucking long he waited to have you like this, you just looked so angelic and slutty under him, it took everything in him to not fill you to the brim with his cum right there. his hands tightly gripped your waist as he pounded into you faster, feeling how big he is inside, hitting the tip of your cervix. you put your arms around the nape of his neck as you pull him in for a passionate kiss, hands roaming around his toned upper back leaving scratches on it as your nails dig into its broad surface. 

you feel his thrusts get faster and deeper as he began to rub your clit helping you to also reach your second orgasm, "i'm fucking close baby, " he moans as his thrusts get sloppier. "cum..inside..me..it's okay,'m on the pill daddy"you whine out as you two feel each other's release, his cum mixed with yours dripping down your thighs. mingyu pulled out as he reached into the glovebox compartment for a box of tissue helping you clean up. "fuck...what just happened?" he asks, giggling. "we fucked," you laugh as he pulls you closer to him in the tight space with the steam-filled windows from the sex earlier. "so...i like you..a fucking lot," he starts as he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours and kisses your forehead, "yeah, i do too gyu," you smile as you pull him in closer for another kiss, this time full of love and gentleness. "let's go home and finish what we started, yeah?" he says while you two begin to get dressed up and drive back to his place for the night. 

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[wolvietxt]

💭 thinking about …

𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝖿𝗐 𝖺𝗅𝗉𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍!

pairing : deadpool x reader  warnings : groping (receiving from wade), yukio :3, mentions of reader being shorter than wade wc : 1.6k a/n : unedited, and i skipped out a few letters near the end😭

𝓐 = affection (how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?)

very very affectionate! all over you, 24/7, whether it be hugs or kisses. he’s super affectionate to pretty much everyone, whether it’s reciprocated or not, so with a partner, i think things would be 10 times worse (for the better) 💞

𝓑 = best friend (what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?)

pff you definitely went from friends to lovers! your landlord had dropped by to tell you that you had a new neighbour opposite you. you were very excited, and before you could even go over and say hello, he was already on your doorstep, box of cookies in hand. he told you his friend yukio made them. you invited him in, and soon became best buds pretty quick! he’s an extremely supportive friend, and while he can’t be there for you all of the time (because of missions and saving your entire timeline and stuff), he tries as hard as he can to! he’s an instant pick-me-up, his humour’s extremely comforting.

𝓒 = cuddles (do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?)

absolute lovebug! he’s all over you, and prefers that when he's in your presence he has at least a hand somewhere on you. he’s always creeping up on you, only to wrap his arms around your waist and rest his chin on the top of your head. you can expect a hand to be creeping up your shirt as he does so😭

𝓓 = domestic (do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?)

settling down isn’t really on his mind at the moment, and he doesn’t expect that it’s on yours. if you ever mentioned it however, he’d be happy to hear you out! you practically live together as it is, so he’s all for you officially moving in! he’s surprisingly a pretty good cook, peter seems to have taught him a few things over time! as for cleaning, he’s not terrible, but he really fucking hates it, so it’s usually blind al who takes up most of the cleaning responsibilities in their apartment.

𝓔 = ending (if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

he’d probably be breaking up with you if you got hurt because of him, or if he fears he may be putting you in danger :( he’d just be gone when you woke up the next morning, with no warning or any way of reaching him afterward

𝓕 = fiancé(e) (how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?)

not a stranger to commitment, and not opposed to it in the slightest! the thought of marriage isn’t really on his mind, he’s satisfied with you as his girlfriend. it’s not like he doesn’t want to get married, but he can’t wrap his head around why. the only thing that would change is he’d be able to call you his wife (which he does anyways)😭 but if you wanted to get married he’d be happy to comply!! 

𝓖 = gentle (how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

very very gentle physically! once he’s fully grasped the fact that your injuries do not heal within seconds, he treats you like you could break at any moment😭 emotionally… he’s working on it. sometimes his constant joking was at your expense, and occasionally hurt your feelings more than you’d like to admit :( but!! he’s learning to read the room, and he’s getting much better at it!

𝓗 = hugs (do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?)

loooves hugs so much. you’re lucky you feel the same way because it would be horrible living with him if you didn’t😭he’s hugging you as much as he possibly can!! he thinks he has some kinda curse so he tells you he can only get any sleep if you’re nestled into his chest and his arms are wrapped tightly around your frame. he will always greet you with a hug before anything else!! he gives really good hugs too :3

𝓘 = i love you (how fast do they say the l-word?)

he’s saying he loves you from your first day together! you’re walking back to your apartments after a cute day out and he casually blurts, ‘bye, love you!’ he looks embarrassed after, but it soon becomes an inside joke, and something he says to you regularly throughout your friendship! it was only until he whispered into your ear one lazy morning, ‘i’m in love with you’ did you realise the gravity of what he felt for you💞

𝓙 = jealousy (how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?)

doesn’t get jealous quick, but when he does it’s bad for whoever else is involved😭they are definitely being threatened by him!! his instincts are usually pretty good when it comes to stuff like that but yours are totally not. you can’t tell the difference to save your life between flirting and a good natured conversation, so his protectiveness can come in handy for you sometimes.

𝓚 = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?)

he kisses anywhere and everywhere on you :3 very often too! hmm i think he really likes it when you kiss him all over his face, although he probably won’t admit it.

𝓛 = little ones (how are they around children?)

very good around kids! he’s not usually the most patient man, but around kids it’s a whole other story!

𝓜 = morning (how are mornings spent with them?)

mornings are spent waking up late because you were both up well into the early hours of the morning doing whatever you were doing. mornings are spent groggily showering together as he yaps on and on about god knows what. mornings are spent eating yesterday’s leftovers for breakfast as you giggle over whatever absurd story he’s telling you💞

𝓝 = night (how are nights spent with them?)

nights are spent cuddled up on the sofa mumbling incoherent sentences into his chest as you’re straddling him, while he’s bingeing his favourite show. you wanna sleep so bad, and he’s not stopping you, but you would much rather fall asleep nestled into him than alone in bed! plus, you love when he moves you around while you sleep :3

𝓞 = open (when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

he’s very open right from the get go! but it’s harder to teach him to take things seriously :( he jokes about a lot of the things that he goes through, you presume as a coping method, but it’s really not healthy. he’s open to changing though, and slowly does after spending more time with you!!

𝓟 = patience (how easily angered are they?)

his patience is typically very short with most people (the exception being you, kids, and yukio :3) and it doesn’t look like that’s gonna be changing anytime soon😭

𝓠 = quizzes (how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

he tries so very hard but m’afraid he’s just not the best at it😭but that’s okay!! he has other strong suits! he remembers the very important things, but he could use some work remembering the little things too :) 

𝓡 = remember (what is their favourite moment in your relationship?)

hmm i don’t think he really has a standout moment but if he had to pick one, he’d probably say when you said you loved him for the first time :3

𝓢 = security (how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?)

sooo protective! he feels that you’re so fragile compared to him anyways, so he’d do his absolute best to protect you in every aspect he can! hmm as for you protecting him.. i think he’d like if you ever made an outward show of affection toward him when someone else was hitting on him in his suit. he finds it super hot :3

𝓣 = try (how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he tries very very hard! sometimes the result of whatever he’s doing doesn’t exactly reflect that, that’s okay!! it’s the thought that counts! 

𝓤 = ugly (what would be some bad habits of theirs?)

his self-deprecating jokes :(

𝓥 = vanity (how concerned are they with their looks?)

unfortunately he’s really quite insecure about them, it breaks your heart to see that he can’t see himself the way you see him :(

𝓦 = whole (would they feel whole without you?)

no no no not at all! misses you so much when you’re away, even if it’s just for a short while, even when it’s just a day or two, your phone is always blowing up with his messages, he’s constantly checking on you, asking if you’re okay, when you’ll be free to call! it’s so comforting to know that there’s someone out there who cares for you as much as wade does.

𝓩 = zzz (what is a sleep habits of theirs?)

he is a very very active sleeper!! you can expect to be kicked in the night😭and probably hear him whispering something random as he’s rolling over, taking you with him. his dreams are so insane, you wouldn’t believe him if he wasn’t basically acting them out as he slept😭

[kurogxrix]

4 Minutes

Dad!Mob!Bucky Barnes x Mom!reader

IN WHICH you and Bucky had limited time to spend intimately during the past few days, leaving you both extremely sexually frustrated. When your son’s occupation offers you 4 minutes of free time, Bucky’s damn adamant on making your legs shake in less than 3.

Warnings: SMUT, dry humping, P in V, quickies, kitchen counter fuck.

The sun had risen for around 2 hours now, and your husband had yet to leave the bed. You had thought that maybe he’d left for work after you had gotten up in the morning, because the mob was no easy job after all. Though after a quick check up on your sleeping son, you’d found his father in the same exact position, head in the clouds on your shared bed despite it already being 7 in the morning. 

The Alaskan King mattress draped on the luxurious bed frame made a man as huge as Bucky look so small, you couldn't even imagine what you and your son looked like when it was only the two of you lying down on it. The fluffy mattress was just so plushy and dreamy that you couldn’t even blame Bucky for sleeping in, so instead, you made use of yourself around the house. Sure you did have maids maintaining the mansion during daytime, but you were bored and there was clearly nothing better to do while waiting for your two boys to wake up. 

You quickly realised that your newfound occupation was not going to last, if it had even managed to start, because how could you clean a house that was already spotless? Yet again you had already gotten bored of it, so instead you found amusement in mindlessly scrolling on your phone. Your feet were fast to lead you to the kitchen, a path that was solidly traced deep inside your head. From the endless of secret midnight trips that you’d take to satisfy your cravings during pregnancy, you’d notice yourself finding an odd comfort in the expensive marble floor and matching countertops. 

Too entranced in the media to notice the heavy footsteps that were closing in on you, the bulky arms entrapping your waist surely did scare you at the moment, and you nearly let out a yelp as your phone escaped your grip. Thanking yourself for having leant against your kitchen counter, you turned around to glare at your husband. 

“Morning Malyshka, little trouble not runnin’ wild today?” Bucky rasped out, his hands still gripping onto your hips as if to keep him grounded. You found the smirk on his face less than amusing, and you reckoned that he was probably reliving the jumpscare that he had given you inside of his head, probably so proud of his little prank. 

“Lev is with his nanny right now, I didn't have time to see him earlier because apparently he’s been preparing a surprise for us. He did however ask through Grace for his papa and mama to be present in about 10 minutes.” you recalled the exact words that Lev’s caretaker, Grace, had spoken to you a few minutes ago. You’d told her this morning that she could head back home, given that apparently Bucky had taken a day off to stay at home. Though on her way to the door, she had been unfortunately intercepted by a freshly woken-up Lev, but she didn’t mind one bit. Your son was quite the charmer, nobody could resist those doe eyes of his. 

The smile present on your face as you spoke about Lev could only feed Bucky’s admiration towards you, if it was even possible to grow the endless love that he already held for you. Your ears caught onto the grunt that Bucky had let out in response, instead too busy taking in your outfit with those hungry baby blue eyes of his to even mutter out a proper verbal response. 

It had almost been too long since you both have had time to touch the other in a much more intimate way than you were currently doing, and it almost made you crave. Scratch that, you were past the point of craving, in fact you felt so deprived of it that you were ready to get down on your knees and pray for god to release you of the intense sexual frustration that you felt, but that sounded a little too vulgar. You knew that Bucky felt the same, that he’d spend way too many nights fisting himself in his office while your name fell in short groans under his breath. But work had been getting busy, and you had to care for things around your home while your husband attended those never ending meetings. 

Now would have been the perfect time to relish in each other, considering Bucky had no work 

Now would have been the perfect time to relish in each other, considering you were both currently alone and your son was getting safely watched over. But you feared that Grace was going to come fetch you sooner than your son had demanded, and the allocated time was not even that far from then. Nevertheless, you could read straight through Bucky’s mind as he gazed at you like some starving man. His cock painfully aching in the restraints of his plain boxers as he enjoyed the sight of you in nothing else but a white, oversized button down shirt and a pair of comfortable cotton panties. 

“Whatever you’re thinking of right now, cut it out okay? I’m sure that Grace said she’d come fetch us at 9:30, and look at the time now,” 

you pushed Bucky further back with two fingers on his chest, creating space between you both as you felt his intense stare burning literal holes through the thin fabric of your shirt. Bucky craned his neck towards the nearest clock, groaning in annoyance when the hands showed a clear 9:24.

When he looked back towards you, you had already turned your body back towards the counter. Leant against the cool marble surface with your phone in hands, Bucky had to suppress a groan at the sight of your ass in those tight little panties, right in front of him, ready for him to ruin. 

A surprised gasp left your lips as you felt large, warm palms engulfing your hips once more. This time however, you felt Bucky pulling your hips onto his, making your ass collide against his straining cock. You almost groaned at the feeling of his hard clothed length pressed up so tightly against you, the wet spot of precum staining his boxers already starting to soak into your own underwear. 

“C'mon doll, allow me just those 6 minutes of your time, I promise I can even make you cum in less than 3.” you could almost feel the smirk in his tone, his warm breath fanning your neck as his naked chest pressed against your clothed back. If he wasn’t already irresistible before, you sure as hell were a saint for not falling into the temptation of your smoking hot mob husband pleading to fuck you. 

You turned back to your phone instead of audibly responding, afraid of your mouth betraying you at the moment. You tried to swallow down a moan as Bucky’s large calloused palms slid underneath the oversized button down shirt that you were wearing, daintily caressing your smooth skin. Sure your eyes were pointed at the screen of your phone, but your mind couldn’t concentrate on anything else but the feeling of Bucky’s very hard boner still pressed against you. 

You couldn’t help your mind from running, not in the compromising position that you were in. You shuddered at the memory of Bucky’s cock stretching you out like no other, his wonderful length reaching the depths of your body as you rode him greedily after a day spent away from each other. It was a nasty cocktail of filth, concocted with drool, sweat and a couple of loose cuss words thrown here and there. 

He was nothing more than a tease, and damn did he know it. The way his fingertips grazed your skin, making you want to drop the act and beg on your knees for him to touch you properly. Once again, his hands met with your hips, except this time you had little time to react to your husband pulling you further back into him. 

You’d ended up completely bent over the marble counter, your chest flushed against the cold material of the table as Bucky palmed your ass greedily, as if it’d bring him pleasure. His other hand was gripping at your upper thigh for dear life, oftentimes running up your legs seductively, leaving you with shivers running down your spine. 

You dropped your phone once he’d started rolling your hips onto his, tired of pretending like you could actually focus on whatever was displayed on your screen as he manhandled you to his will. You forced yourself to remain quiet as he continued to roll your hips onto the bulging tent of his boxers, drowning in the sweet groans that he was letting out. Too desperate to care how loud he was being, Bucky tipped his head back in pure pleasure.

Never once did it occur to you how pleasuring dry humping could be, but yet again it could’ve been because of how sexually deprived you both were. You shrugged the thought of getting caught away, blaming it on the fact that since no clothes were being removed, you could easily play it off if anyone were to walk in. 

Bucky felt as though he could burst from the sheer clothed friction itself, but it was not enough, he needed to feel you. Fuck it, he was genuinely ready to drop to his knees and beg to fuck you like a hopeless man. He’d beg to eat you like a famished boy, hell, he’d wouldn’t even mind if you allowed his fingers only. 

Thick fingers ran down the seam of your panties, sneakily slipping under the elastic band to push the cotton fabric down to pool around your upper thighs. You turned around to yell at him, clearly he was not understanding. The clock flashed at 9:26 now, and your anxiety was peaking at every moment that the second hand moved. Your words got caught up in your throat as he brought his hand up to his mouth, lubricating three of his fingers with his spit before bringing a hand down to rub at your aching pussy. 

“Fuck detka, look at you all pretty and soaked for me.” Bucky almost moaned out, tongue lapping out to wet his slightly chapped lips. You didn’t even have time to process your husband pulling down his own restraints, thick and veiny cock slapping against his toned stomach with a satisfying wet sound. Precum smeared from his cock and onto the muscles of his stomach, leaving you shaking with anticipation.

“If you’re gonna do anything then you better do it now ‘cause we only have 4 minutes!” you rushed out the words, voice shying away as you felt him pushing the fat tip of his cock through your soaking folds. You moaned at the feeling, gripping the counter so hard until you could feel your joints straining. Bucky picked up the pace, pressing a hand under his cock to help slide himself faster between your lips. 

He was drenched by now, thick cock dripping with your arousal as his eyes gawked at the way his length disappeared between the both of your bodies at each of his thrusts. Time was waiting, and Bucky knew more than anybody else as he was facing the wall-mounted clock. The warmth of your hole was calling for him, waiting for him to stretch you out like he had done so many times before. 

Bucky gripped firmly onto the base of his cock that was twitching impatiently in his hands, teasing your entrance as he slid only the tip in and out. He bit down onto his lips in order to retain the series of filth that was bound to escape his mouth, his teeth were biting so hard onto the delicate skin of his lips that he was sure it had started bleeding at some point. “Fuck and would you look at that, S’like you’re trina suck me up doll,” he ran his mouth, unable to prevent the nasty roll of his words from escaping. 

Sweatdrops ran down his toned pack of abs as he eyed the way you squirmed from nothing else but his flushed tip, resisting the urge to just bury himself inside of you right now until you could think of nothing else but how stuffed you were. Though a quick look at the clock told him to stop resisting the urge, and that’s what he’d done. You were sure that the whole building could’ve heard the cry of pleasure that left your throat as Bucky sheathed his cock completely inside of you, leaving no space for second thoughts now that he’d gone all the way.

His cock twitched at the sound of your desperate whines, your hips grinding against his in a desperate need for friction. “Thought you were the one that didn’t want this, detka? What happened to that huh?” his tone almost sounded sardonic as his eyes trained on the way your hole greedily engulfed his cock, juices lapping all over his length once more as he slowly but surely pumped himself inside of you. You couldn’t even speak back to him, already too cock drunk from what he had yet to even give you. 

His grin grew at your silence, at least in coherent words, your whines only grew as the seconds passed. You both have had many quickies in the past, in between Bucky’s break as he had you on his desk, or hidden somewhere in a closet, you name it. Though none of them have ever been as desperate as this one, as needy. Finally deciding to ease your painful awaiting of pure pleasure, he gave into the warmth.

With the mix of his swift thrust and thick finger circling at your clit, it took you no time to lose grip over the counter. Bucky took notice of your sudden weakness, and as the caring husband that he is, dragged his arm up to wrap around your torso, locking you flushed with your back against his chest. The new position had your back arching for more, your sultry moans a clear sign that you were enjoying yourself. 

The tips of his middle and ring finger were laid flat against your clit as he ran teasing circles onto it. You felt your knees buckling as Bucky’s lips left sloppy kisses at the back of your neck, thankful enough for his incredible strength as he kept you standing by his own. Pride coursed through his body at the sight of you being so dishevelled because of him, the back of your head now pressed up against his chest as you leaned into him. 

Bucky’s knees were slightly bent to reach into you, bless his large frame and impressive height, he was quite literally hovering over you. It felt too good getting fucked right by such a large man, the size kink inside of you feasting from the way his large palm could swallow you up on its own. It didn’t take long for Bucky’s forceful strokes to falter, now in a sloppy pace as his own orgasm chased up to him. 

Yours hit you like a cold bucket of water, but in all the nice ways. Like a cold bucket of water but during the driest summer days. It only took you a final sharp thrust and the endless toying of your clit to send you over the top, your toes curling and fingers digging painfully into the arm holding your torso up as your orgasm washed over you. It was a loud and whiny one, but the sound of you coming only riled Bucky up more.

His clumsy strokes were a warning that he was coming shortly behind you, and after three last, hard and deep pumps of his cock, he was milked dry inside of you. The room filled with deep grunts and your exhausted panting, you shivered as your husband’s spent breath tickled the skin of your neck. 

“Fuck that was…that was- holy shit we needed that.” bucky stammered into the crook of your neck, a heartfelt chuckle erupting from his chest as he came down from his high. The short bucking of his hips finally stopped, and you could finally release your bottom lip from the painful tug of your teeth. The both of you stood there for a couple of seconds trying to catch your stuttering breathing as the clock ticked clean on 9:30. 

You could barely even cipher the first knock that was sent at the huge kitchen doors, before the knocking resumed. You and Bucky broke apart faster than you would’ve liked to, and you groaned at the empty feeling that he’d leave behind after pulling his softening cock out of you. Reluctantly, the both of you flung the little amount of garments that you previously had on, cringing at the wet feeling of Bucky’s dripping semen getting caught by your panties. 

“We’re coming soon Grace, tell Lev to wait in his playroom while waiting for us.” you yelled loud enough for your son’s nanny to hear, although with the amount of screaming that Bucky had put you through, you doubted she’d hear much with the way your voice would rasp. Her lack of response hinted at you that she’d heard your little altercation with Bucky, and you mentally cursed at the both of you for traumatising the poor woman. 

“Dunno about you but I'm not going anywhere near our son looking like this so you’ll have to go first while I shower,” you grinned mischievously as Bucky threw his head back in an annoyed groan, already knowing what was awaiting him in a few seconds. Though you both were more than aware of your son’s mood in the morning when you weren’t there, you just felt the need to tease him a little bit more. 

“You how tempered he gets when his momma isn’t there first thing to see him in the morning, but that’s what you get for being impatient now,” you grinned, running a hand down his stubble as you stood on your toes to give Bucky a chaste kiss that he tried to chase for longer than you would allow. 

Bucky’s baby blue eyes followed your every move as you sauntered away from him with a sultry sway of your hips, the button down shirt covering the majority of your panties but it was hard to miss the dribble of his and your arousal running down your legs shamefully. Running a hand down his face, he tried not to get lost in the shameful thoughts that he had of you running through his head, instead, he was too busy mentally preparing himself for the angry fit that your son would throw once he realised that his momma wasn’t there by his side to kiss him good morning yet. 

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this is my second smut written and i haven’t written one since 2021 so pls don’t judge LMAO😭