౨ৎ ex-boyfriend's dad!nanami, half-asleep and groggy, can't wrestle the door open fast enough, the digital clock on the microwave stubbornly displaying a blurry 3:17 am. he can't fathom who'd be pounding on his door at this ungodly hour, but there you are, bathed in the faint glow of the porch light.
oh, he knows you. his son's girlfriend. he's seen you around, talked to you a handful of times. frankly, he can't wrap his head around what someone like you sees in his utterly unremarkable son.
you're undeniably beautiful. those short, playful skirts you favor do a remarkable job of accentuating the curve of your cute ass, a view he can't help but admire more than once, a secret indulgence that brings a flicker of shame.
your hair falls over your shoulders, a glossy curtain against the soft rise of your breasts. and unlike his son, you possess a genuine spark, an intelligence that shines in your eyes.
you're smart, too. he overhears snippets of conversations about your academic achievements, your post-college plans for the future. he knows you're destined for great things, he feels it.
tonight, however, a different set of emotions plays across your features. your eyebrows are drawn together in a tight line, your eyes wide and a little frantic, your cheeks flushed with an unexpected heat. you seem surprised to see him, as if you haven't fully registered he'd be here.
you’ve always liked nanami, though. what isn't to like? he possesses a quiet kindness, a gentle strength, and the fact that he's great to look at. clad often in a partially buttoned dress shirt, the sleeves pulled taut around his impressive biceps, sometimes paired with a tie (that you wouldn't mind having wrapped around your own neck…).
his gaze, a little guilty, slides down your body, taking in the tight, shimmering fabric of your party dress. the faint but distinct scent of alcohol that clings to you confirms his suspicions about your evening.
a soft “oh, shit,” and a mumbled apology escape your lips. beneath the surface of your distress, he detects an edge of anger. what fresh catastrophe has his son managed to work up this time?
nanami can't leave you standing there, a gorgeous, tipsy thing alone in the dark. it isn't the way he was raised, nor the values he’s desperately tried (and clearly failed) to instill in his disappointing offspring.
he gently guides you inside, his hand a warm pressure on the small of your back, firmly suggesting you won’t be driving anywhere tonight. your flushed cheeks deepen at his unspoken disapproval.
“what are you even doing here?” he asks, his voice a low, steady rumble as he places a tall glass of water on the coffee table, a silent directive to drink it all.
“forgot he… forgot he lives with you,” you murmur, a wave of belated embarrassment washing over you. how pathetic. you’ve actually thought… what? that your useless ex would be home? alone?
nanami settles beside you on the worn couch, his presence a quiet anchor as you haltingly recount the messy details of your boyfriend’s infidelity, the news delivered by the oblivious other woman.
“i thought he’d be at home, or something. you know, i hear from… from his fucking side-chick. she doesn’t didn't know about me, i can’t even be mad at her. he says he…”
your voice trails off, your thoughts momentarily lost as you become acutely aware of the casual brush of nanami’s fingers against your bare thigh. it starts innocently enough, a comforting touch, but then it lingers, a slow, deliberate path upwards.
you haven't registered how your dress has bunched around thighs in your agitated state, but he has. nanami's eyes flicker downwards, his tongue running over his lips.
“you can keep talking,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky sound that sends a shiver across your skin.
“um, well…” your eyelids grow heavy, your head tilting back against the plush headrest. “he just… he isn’t that great, anyway,” you whisper, unsure of whether to be slandering his son, while he's actively feeling you up.
you get an idea that he doesn't care much, though.
it feels surreal, confessing your relationship woes to your ex-boyfriend’s father while his hand is venturing further north.
before you can fully process the shift, his fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress, the cool touch sending a jolt through you. he nudges aside the delicate lace of your panties, his fingertips pressing against the slick heat between your legs. a gasp hitches in your throat.
“yeah? then why don’t you leave him?” nanami presses, his voice thick with a low groan as a soft whimper escapes your lips. his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you arch slightly.
your eyes flutter open, just enough to meet his intense gaze. “what excuse do i use to see you, if i do?” the confession hangs in the air, thick with an unspoken desire.
“shit, sweetheart,” he mutters, his words swallowed by the wet, squelching sounds that fill the quiet house. his fingers deepen their exploration, stroking and teasing the sensitive nub hidden within your folds.
you cry out softly, your hips lifting involuntarily as he finds a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you. he tastes the sweetness on his fingertips as he brings you to a shuddering climax, then another, and a third, each one pulling a desperate moan from your throat until you finally collapse against him, breathless and utterly spent.
you'd been planning to key that cheater's car, but now, in complete honesty, you might thank him. besides, fucking his dad is enough revenge.