Chapter Text
Bad habits aren’t always bad.
Some are simply things we never really knew how to give up… or never truly wanted to.
In the warm dimness of the bedroom, their breaths are still searching for each other.
Film’s lips brush Namtan’s first, hesitant, as if asking permission to return to a place where they have already lived a thousand lives. Then the kiss deepens—slow, languid, almost painfully sensual.
Their tongues meet again with a familiarity that aches, rediscovering one another. Film lets out a soft moan into Namtan’s mouth—a fragile, surprised sound, heavy with everything they have never said out loud.
Namtan doesn’t rush anything.
She lets Film take the space, the time, the control.
Her hands glide over warm, damp skin, tracing curves she knows by heart: the hollow of her lower back, the softness of thighs already trembling.
Film straddles the strap-on, her shaking thighs tightening around Namtan’s hips. Namtan’s hands, firm and possessive, guide her slow, deep movements, as if any sudden thrust might shatter the fragile balance of this stolen night.
Film’s lips seek Namtan’s in a muffled, almost guilty kiss.
At first hesitant—do we even have the right?—then deeper, more desperate, as if they were silently making up for every night they slept back to back.
Namtan slips a hand into Film’s hair, draws her closer, and murmurs against her mouth, her voice rough and teasing:
“Don’t make a sound, teerak…”
The word slips out on its own. Teerak. It returns like a forbidden caress.
Film moans despite herself—a low, soft, almost broken sound—when Namtan gently nips the lower lip she knows so well, then trails down her neck, brushing each sensitive spot she mapped out years ago with her teeth: just beneath the ear, that place that always makes her shiver beneath her.
“Shh…” Film breathes, cheeks burning, half-embarrassed, half-amused, trying to hold back another sound.
Namtan lifts her eyes, a crooked smile playing on her lips—not mocking, not triumphant. Just tender, a little roguish, with that knowing glint that says I still know you by heart, even after all this time.
“I can’t help it,” she whispers against her skin, her voice vibrating with restrained laughter.
“You’re still so sensitive here… and here…”
She punctuates each word with a small bite, followed by a soothing swipe of her tongue. Film arches and presses her hand over Namtan’s mouth, smothering a silent laugh.
“Nam!”
Namtan gently catches her wrist, kisses the inside of her palm, then murmurs, eyes sparkling,
“Then behave… or I’ll keep going until you beg without a sound.”
Film blushes even harder, bites her own lip to keep from laughing, and leans in to kiss her—a slow, deep kiss that says everything they still don’t dare speak aloud.
She underscores her words with an upward motion, deliberately rubbing the tip of the strap-on against Film’s clit on every descent. Film’s moans grow stronger, her hands gripping Namtan’s shoulders as if to anchor herself.
If that were all… Namtan would flip Film without hesitation, pin her to the mattress and take her with fierce intensity, nipping her ear and whispering promises of pleasure that would make her tremble head to toe.
Inside, Film feels full. Completely. Heat floods her, a mix of vulnerability and raw desire that makes her head spin. Namtan begins to move—tiny circular motions of her hips, slow, almost imperceptible, sending a shiver through Film that makes her waver.
Then she slides a hand into Film’s damp hair, gently pulls her head back to bare her neck, and murmurs in a low, commanding voice,
“Look at me.”
Film opens her eyes, breath ragged. Their gazes lock. Namtan’s is burning, possessive, almost predatory; Film’s is drowned in pleasure, wordlessly pleading.
Namtan deepens the roll of her hips just slightly, and the rhythm settles in without a word.
Film moans, unable to look away, her hands gripping Namtan’s shoulders tighter as the pace becomes slow but relentless.
Eyes fixed on Film’s, Namtan slowly tightens her hands on her hips and takes control without tipping her over. Film stays on top, still straddling her, but now it’s Namtan who dictates the rhythm: firm, deep thrusts, precise and unyielding.
She straightens slightly, pulls Film closer, and buries her face in her chest. Her mouth closes over Film’s left breast in a slow, confident suck.
Film moans louder, head thrown back, fingers knotted in Namtan’s hair.
Suddenly, in a breathless, trembling voice,
“Slowly…”
Namtan freezes at once, releases the nipple with a soft wet pop, and looks up, worried.
“Did I hurt you?”
Film shakes her head, breath short, cheeks flushed, a shy smile forming.
“No… my back just hurts a little.”
Namtan blinks, surprised, then a wide smile—teasing and tender—lights up her face. She slides her hands to Film’s lower back and massages the sore spot with slow, expert pressure, resuming a much gentler, almost caressing rhythm.
“Poor baby… we’ll take it easy then,” she murmurs against her warm skin.
But Film, playful despite the ache in her back, tugs gently yet firmly on Namtan’s hair—just enough to make her lift her head, just enough to say you think I’m going to let you control everything?
Namtan lets out a soft, amused groan that vibrates against Film’s chest.
“Oh… you want to play it that way, huh?”
Her eyes gleam. Without another word, she moves—smooth and sure—lifting Film slightly by the hips and carefully turning her onto her back, never breaking their intimate connection, the strap-on still deep inside her. Film lets out a small surprised sigh, half pleasure, half relief as her back finally sinks into the soft mattress.
Namtan settles between her open thighs, takes Film’s hands and gently pins them above her head, fingers interlaced, held in a grip that’s both tender and possessive.
She leans in, captures Film’s lips in a deep, hungry kiss. At the same time, she drives her hips forward—harder, deeper. Film moans into her mouth, a muffled, burning sound.
Namtan smiles against her lips, murmuring between wet kisses,
“Mmm… Film…”
Another thrust, more rhythmic. Then another. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting fill the room, soft but impossible to ignore. Namtan gradually picks up speed, feeling Film tighten around the strap-on, hot, pulsing, on the edge of breaking.
The pleasure rises too fast, too strong. Film bites her lip to keep from making a sound.
Namtan gives her no respite—hands held captive, rhythm controlled, alternating between slow, deep thrusts that make Film tremble head to toe and small, precise circles that drive her wild.
Between kisses, she whispers, voice rough,
“Go on… let yourself go, teerak.”
Film arches, fingers clenched in Namtan’s, and finally loses herself—an orgasm long and intense, almost silent, betrayed only by her trembling and the tears of pleasure at the corners of her eyes.
Namtan slows gently, draws out the last waves, then finally releases her hands and pulls Film fully into her arms, forehead to forehead, breath mingling with breath.
“You’re still so beautiful when you come without making a sound,” she murmurs with a soft, tender laugh.
Still panting, Film gives her a weak tap on the shoulder.
“Shh…”
Namtan carefully disengages. Film smiles and wraps her arms around her again.
The warm silence of the room settles in. Namtan nestles against her, head tucked beneath her chin, fingers tracing lazy circles on her skin, as if her body refuses to believe this moment is real.
Film stares at the ceiling, a dreamy smile on her lips.
“Don’t you find it strange?”
“Strange how?”
“This…”
Namtan thinks for a second, then smiles, tender and a little teasing.
“That I still give exceptional orgasms to my ex?”
Film blushes and throws a pillow at her.
“Nam!”
Namtan catches it with a half-laugh, mindful of the little boy sleeping nearby.
“Film…”
She kisses her forehead, then her nose, before finding her lips—one slow kiss, heavy with memories.
“Again.”
Film lets herself be flooded by that warm nostalgia, by Namtan’s heat that seems to cover everything, erase everything. Namtan’s mouth works wonders on hers, on her skin, on every part of her already giving in.
She deepens the kiss, fuller, more possessive, swallowing Film’s muffled moan and drawing it out until Film goes soft and pliant, limbs heavy, heart racing.
Then she pulls back, breath short.
“Nam… are you leaving before dawn?”
Silence stretches.
“Promise, teerak.”
Film doesn’t know whether it’s a promise to leave…
or to stay a little longer.
The day isn’t really awake yet when Film senses something change in the air.
A sound.
Not an adult sound.
A rustle.
Then… small footsteps.
She opens one eye. Then the other.
And panic hits.
Namtan is still there.
In her bed.
Way too there.
Film bolts upright and shoves her.
“Nam—you didn’t leave!”
Still half asleep, Namtan tumbles out of bed with a dull thud.
“Oof—”
She lies there for a moment, sprawled on the floor, hair a mess, blinking as if the world just slapped her.
In the hallway, a small voice approaches.
“Mae…”
Film switches instantly into survival mode. She grabs the first pair of sweatpants she finds, pulls them on backward without thinking, snatches a T-shirt—hers or Namtan’s, who knows—and turns back to the bed.
“Bathroom. Now.”
Namtan finally understands. She gets up silently, gathers her clothes in a hurry, shoves half of them under the bed, and slips into the bathroom just as the bedroom door handle turns.
Kawin appears.
Two years old.
Hair sticking up.
Stuffed toy dragging on the floor.
“Mae…”
He clambers awkwardly onto the bed. Film scoops him up at once.
“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”
Kawin snuggles closer, eyes heavy with sleep.
“Mmh… yeah…”
“Mama coming?”
Film kisses his forehead and hugs him tighter.
“Mama’s coming for breakfast. I called her.”
Kawin’s little eyes light up.
“True?”
“Yes. But for now, Mae’s going to make breakfast.”
She says it a bit louder on purpose.
“Mae’s going to make food.”
In the bathroom, Namtan gets the message loud and clear:
Get out of this damn bathroom. Your son is waiting.
She looks at her reflection.
A purplish mark at the base of her neck. Very visible.
“Great…” she mutters.
She hears the small footsteps moving away, Film’s gentle voice soothing Kawin as they head to the kitchen.
Namtan dresses in a rush—well-practiced routine: grab her things, keep quiet, climb out that damn window as if she’d never slept with her wife—well… ex-wife—in their own house.
A few minutes later, she rings the doorbell.
The front door opens.
“Mama!”
Namtan smiles at once, crouches, and opens her arms.
“Hey, my little frog.”
Kawin throws himself at her without hesitation.
Film sighs without even turning around.
“I told you…”
“I know,” Namtan replies softly.
Kawin tilts his head, studying the mark on Namtan’s neck.
“Mama… mosquito?”
Film freezes, then improvises, very serious.
“Yes. A big mosquito.”
“Very big,” she adds. “It took up the whole bed. But it’s nothing.”
Namtan smiles, feigning innocence.
“The big mosquito was very happy last night.”
Kawin furrows his brow, thinks very hard, then nods solemnly.
“Mmmh…”
Film rolls her eyes, then shoots Namtan a pointed look—one that clearly says really?
Namtan smiles, still innocent, bends down, plants a big kiss on Kawin’s cheek, then gently sets him back on the floor.
She exhales, amused.
“You fell asleep against me…”
Film gets a brief, hazy flash—memories blurring together, familiar warmth, murmured words against her skin. She blinks it away.
Namtan shrugs with a disarming smile.
“I tried.”
Film mutters, mock-accusatory,
“You didn’t really fight it.”
Namtan tilts her head, smiling.
“You’re my favorite trap.”
Kawin is already at the door, tugging on his mother’s sleeve.
“Eat.”
Film and Namtan exchange a silent look before moving together toward their son.