𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[mooishbeam]

༻❁༺ 𝒊 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ༻❁༺

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐞┊𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫┊𝟐𝟏

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢'𝐬 𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭, 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨'𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐠, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐠

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐨𝟑

🀣 𝐰𝐢𝐩┊𝐓𝐁𝐀 ❁ 🀣 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬┊𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 🀣 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱┊𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧!

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐜┊Country Honey (Toji/Reader)

˗ˏˋ𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆´ˎ˗ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬. :𝟑 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢'𝐬 #𝟏 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Caught Under the Mistletoe

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

♡ synopsis: alone on christmas, you spend the night with your equally lonely coworkers. of course, your office crush nanami kento wants to party, too. he's a mystery, yet you can't help wanting to be around him. with a little help, can you beat the odds and finally confess?

♡ wc: 8.0k

♡ tags: fem! reader, jjk au, office au, misunderstood nanami, friends to lovers, corny gojo (as usual), praise, switch nanami, whiny whipped needy nanami, lots of overstim, manhand|ing, öral (f!receiving), mäting press, nanami cums quick, multiple órgasms, basically vanilla

notes: im almost a month late for my christmas fic i am sooo sorry! hope everyone had a happy holidays. did i finish this fic or did this fic finish me? who knows :P comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

“Hey, watch your step!”  

Gojo barely catches your calf before you trip off the chair you’re dancing on. You fail to realize your heels are sinking into the fabric. Fortunate for him to be there—the tipsy girl isn’t doing herself any favors twirling on a spinning office chair, but liquid courage has its perks. You’re narrowly balancing a drink in your hand—plain whiskey—while Gojo attempts to keep his swishing in the short glass. His efforts must’ve looked like a game to you, because you’re giggling and patting his arm as if he were an exaggerating child.  

The rest of the office is in an uproar, loose paper scattered about and documents gone unfinished. Some dancing, others chat over burgundy wine or dark liquor. There’s an awful Christmas song playing in the background, but most are too drunk to hear it. You can almost listen to jingle bells above your belligerent assistant manager addressing his qualms about the boss in a haughty manner; ivory shirt unbuttoned, gut spilling out of his too-tight pants as he raises his glass in protest for a pay raise. The two usual troublemakers you seldom speak to are having a concerning amount of fun with the copy machine and their bare rear.  

You’re not without fun though, pencil skirt straining on your thighs while you jump and sing an unrelated song bouncing around in your head. If your boss were here, heaven only knows the trouble you’d be in. Luckily, he isn’t here. Every year, your boss took paid time off to spend time with family during the holidays.  

The other losers with nothing to do spent their Christmas at the office.  

Sometimes you spent so much time at the office you began to consider it home. And so you’d bring a little piece of home with you, holding a high spirit for the holidays. Red and green festivities kept the joy alive, regardless of the depressed groans and sighs you became accustomed to during shifts. You’re still young, still somewhat hopeful about your future career. You put your heart into decorating the department.  

Well, you and Nanami, of course.  

“Santa’s little helper” is what you called him, to which he adjusted his glasses and begrudgingly agreed. He agrees to most of your plans, unless they involve outrageous pranks or a possible HR violation.  

When he first arrived to the building, he exuded such a quiet energy you sometimes didn’t notice him on the clock. When the lights dimmed for the day, and you strolled past his cubicle, a bright blue light casted long shadows. His silence was almost intimidating, and though most people made it a point to avoid contact with him, it felt unfair to you. You made it a point to get to know him, even if it were sometimes overwhelming or tedious—popping your head in during crunch time or offering him a snack. He eventually responded in kind. Not the kind that spoke out of obligation, but genuine respect. You haven’t learned much about him since you met him, and he won’t openly indulge, but you make attempts anyway.  

You’ve been messing with him the entirety of December. More ‘elf-on-a-shelf’ like, leaving mysterious Christmas trinkets for him to find in his cubicle. A tiny Santa here, a gnome there, gag gifts hidden in his metal drawers. You still remember him opening his briefcase to find a small porcelain reindeer standing up on his folders. And let’s not forget when he sat down after a water break and instead of a whoopie cushion, a traditional Christmas song reverberated across the hallway.  

You’ve both done well, spending too much time after hours putting a tree up, blossoming with multicolored ornaments and shapes in no particular theme. Garlands with waxy red berries hang from the fluorescent ceiling lights and removable winter decals are stuck on every wall, next to the inconvenient rainbow bulbs. 

Nanami denied the addition of a mistletoe, to your utter dismay. He truly embodied the little helper role, tending to your every request with an accompanied sly comment or concern. Unfortunately, it didn’t subdue the increasing feelings you already have for him. Within your delusion, you’re even starting to believe he might be flirting with you—ridiculous, right?  

If stone-cold Nanami were flirting with you, you’d probably die on the spot. There’s no chance though, and you’re fine with crushing from a distance. At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself to maintain a friendship.  

He makes it hard, though—incredibly hard. It’s difficult right now, as he leans against a wall away from the crowd, teal button-up taut against his torso, wearing a Santa hat at your request. Nanami, who regularly keeps up with his appearance, looks somewhat disheveled from the alcohol.  

You’ve finally learned something about him; he can’t handle his liquor.  

He won’t show it, but while he maintains the same stoic expression, strands of hair hang over his somber eyes, and his glasses aren’t perfectly perched on his face. The buttons pull at the fabric, and he heaves heavy with his sturdy arms folded underneath the chest, bunching his spotted tie. The light makes it worse, catching on the veins peaking from his skin. You could trace every tendon corded around his forearms, thick hands swirling a shot glass. It’s smaller in comparison to his palm, and you watch his fingers trace the rim of the glass. They look delicate and manicured, but equally rough. How they’d study the curves of a body, snake around a lovers head as he pulled them close. Wrapping his fingers around-  

“You’re drooling” Gojo blurts. You snap your head to him, and he laughs heartily before smacking your back. “Shhh-tt!” You wave a hand over his mouth, but the wide grin he’s sporting goes beyond your reach. He gets in close, not bothering to cover his mouth for the gossip.  

“Go tell him.”  

“Wha- hell no” you shake your head, stepping down from the chair nursing your dwindling drink. You refuse to hear the absurdity he’s proposing. “Why not? Perfect night, ain’t it?”  

You throw back what little is left in the cup and set it on a random coworkers desk. “How so?”  

“Christmas Eve. Lots can happen, y’know?” He presses his hand to the sides of your head and turns your attention back to Nanami.  

“Lotsss.” You swat him—luckily Nanami was engrossed in the contents of his glass. “Fuck you” you whisper, semi joking. He laughs. “Cmon, me and the guy are cool. Let me wingman.”  

“No.”  

“Why not?”  

“Why would I ever let you wingman when you can’t even get a date yourself?” He clutches his chest, feigning pain, “Ouch!”  

“I’m fine with us just being friends, okay?”  

“Pfft, clearly not. I just caught you eye-fucking him.” You roll your eyes, shooing him off mid-conversation. Gojo may be right, but it couldn’t happen today. It wasn’t worth confessing, especially with his gift tucked away in your bag. Life would become too complicated too fast.  

You’ve sobered up some from the harsh reality of your situation. Being sober sucks. However, you’ve neglected to check on Nanami since the party started, and now might be a great time. You walk in his direction, steering your eyes from Gojo’s smug expression.  

Nanami catches you approaching and nods, sleeves busting against his bicep. His brown sugar eyes are half lidded, and a light glow dusts feverishly over his ears and neck. His chiseled bone structure appears gentle with a pinkish blush. You hold your breath, afraid you might divulge the thoughts searing your tongue with sin.  

“How’s my little helper doing?” you ask, leaning against the wall beside him. Your bodies ghosts against each other, never fully touching, always in two separate worlds. You don’t expect his gaze to follow you, and you’re slightly surprised when you turn to him and he’s staring.  

“Pretty good,” his voice permeates like fine bourbon, deep and intoxicating to your hazy ears. He speaks in his usual rigid manner despite the drink. You could listen to him talk forever—embarrassingly so, as you got written up for talking frequently in his cubicle. “All thanks to Santa.”  

“I’m glad. Did he get you everything you wanted for Christmas?” you smile.  

“Yea. She did.” She. You brush it off—a slip of the tongue. It’s hard to trust what a tipsy person says, anyway. You press your nails to the corners of your mouth and pull upwards.  

“Then be happy!”  

“I am” he responds. Blunt. You sigh dramatically.  

“Hmph. But you never smile.” He watches you close, and your nerves cause you to fiddle with the paneled pattern on the glass. So much for wanting his attention.  

“Would you like me to?” There’s no humor in his tone. Did you want him to smile? Of course. But you desire the genuine satisfaction of a pure, unfiltered smile. It means nothing if you have to force it out of him.  

You turn your head from him with a pointed nose. “Nope. I want it to be genuine when you do.”  

Facing him again, you accept the challenge, “I’ll get you to smile!”  

There’s a subtle perk in his brow, and faint creases form at the corners of his drooping lids.  

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, an octave lower. It spurs a feeling within you that crumples your resolve too fast. Breath catching in your throat, the air is suddenly stuffier than before. You grip the glass for dear life, attempting to compose yourself, but you can’t when he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in existence. You watch the way his eyes flick across your face; your eyes, then your nose, down to the curve of your lips, moving quicker as they travel down. You swallow thick, unable to avert your gaze, unable to stop the heavy rise and fall of your chest. You must be imagining it. Or maybe Gojo’s right, what’s the harm in-  

“(Y/N)! Get over here and drink with us!” your assistant manager yells from another section.  

It breaks you out of your trance, and you turn on your heels towards the sound, just enough to hide the blush pooling over your cheeks. “Comin’!”  

•••  

The night has simmered into occasional chatter, with most of your coworkers leaving to go barhopping or get a head start on their hangover. The stragglers—a few employees, you, Gojo, and Nanami—packing up to leave.  

You’re throwing your coat over your shoulders, running to your cubicle to hopefully catch the last bus. Before you can grab your briefcase, a flicker of something shiny draws your eye. You pull your drawer open; a miniature snow globe with two fluffy penguins inside wearing festive hats and scarves, flippers stretched as they gather snow. You shake it up and watch the artificial flakes spin in the liquid. A smile unconsciously beams on your face, even more when you notice a yellow note tucked on the underside. You peel off the tape and unfold the post-it note.  

“Your turn  

-Nanami”  

A bland note from a serious man. Even so, your heart feels full to the brink of bursting. You reread the note over and over. You wish you could’ve witnessed big, intimidating Nanami buying the minature from a toy store. Unintentional poker face pointing at tiny penguins. The image sends you into hysterics. Once you’ve had enough of gushing over the same two words, you tuck it in your wallet, a place you won’t forget, and gently put the gift in a safe compartment in your bag.  

You can already hear Gojo from the elevator; he gets loud when he’s drunk, and unfortunately he’s a lightweight.  

“Cmon, you’re taking too long!” he drones, holding the elevator.  

“Okay, okay!” You shuffle inside. You’re a bit sad that Nanami left before you could say goodbye, but you still have the opportunity to give him his present on the next shift. Gojo leans on handrail, button up popped to his stomach.  

“So, no one’s gonna make a move, huh?” He pity’s you in his smug, know-it-all attitude, “it’s so embarrassing watching you two.”  

You have half the mind to refrain from reminding him about when he broke down midday in front of Geto’s house, begging him to take him back. He gets emotional about it. “It’s not as easy as just saying ‘hey, I’ve liked you since I’ve met you. Please don’t think I’m weird’.”  

“Whatever. Guess this must be the life of people with no game. I feel sorry for you, y’know?” You scoff. If anyone has game, it isn’t Gojo.  

“I don’t see you getting laid tonight.”  

“Spoke too soon, sweetheart. I’m fucking a pretty girl after this. And you’re going home,” he peers under his glasses, “dickless.”  

“You’re such a little-“ The elevator dings, opening into the company lobby. Some people are mingling by the sofa. Nanami’s at the front door, putting his beige trench coat on with his briefcase at his side.  

You’re about to step out when Gojo intercepts you, walking ahead first.  

“Na-Na-Mi!”  

“Satoru.” you angry-whisper, trying to grab him. But he dodges your attack effortlessly and glances behind, mouthing ‘shut up’.  

Nanami turns to Gojo, not exactly peeved but surely not happy to see him. They’re two opposites, and you could tell that Gojo quickly got on his nerves. “Hello.”  

Gojo puts an arm around him, and you watch him visibly clam up. “So formal! The boss isn’t here, you can speak normally.”  

“This is how I speak. Also, happy holidays.”  

“Mhm, mhm. By the way, my friend (Y/N) here wants to-“  

“Also wish you a happy holiday!” you chime in, speaking through your teeth. More like screaming, as you try to grab the attention of Gojo’s massive ego, to no avail.  

“Riiight. Anyway, Nanami-“  

“Shouldn’t we all start heading home?” you add, itching to run from the situation. You zip your coat, but Gojo won’t let you go that easily.  

“We should! In fact, Nanami, (Y/N) doesn’t have anyone to walk her home. She lives far, and you know how dangerous it is for a woman to walk alone at night.”  

You feel your eye twitch. You might actually kill him tonight.  

“I’ve got a date tonight so I can’t do it. And I know you have nothing to do so-“ Nanami side-eyes him, then turns to you. For a second, his gaze seems to soften. You smile, mostly as a silent apology for Gojo’s rambling.  

“Would you like me to walk with you?” he asks kindly.  

“…If you don’t mind.”  

“I don’t mind at all” he’s quick to retort.  

“Great! No time to waste then!” Gojo proclaims. He brings his other arm around you, guiding both of you out the sliding doors and into the cold darkness dotted by frosted streetlamps. He steps back from the throuple and brings Nanami close, practically smushing you together by the arm.  

“See ya!” he waves.  

Nanami surveys the path, giving you ample opportunity to glare at Gojo. He never cared, dopey grin on his face as he mimics a sexual act with his hands. Then he walks in the other direction, leaving you to deal with the situation he created. The bus is long gone.  

“Are you ready?” Nanami says, directing you to the inside of the sidewalk.  

“Yea, let’s go.”  

Snowfall cascades in blooming white sparkles amongst the icy sky. It drapes the parked cars in sheets of powder, and the tips of your shoes in frost. The solid breeze through your pantyhose creeps into your bare legs. Cold, but not uncomfortable. You luckily brought earmuffs, but Nanami isn’t as fortunate. Checkered scarf draped around his coat, you can’t tell if his ears are red because of the chill or tipsy after effects. He looks at you, unaware of the red patch on his nose.  

“Sorry about Gojo” he says.  

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”  

“If you’re too cold, I can call you a taxi, instead.”  

“No worries, I’m fine. Are you cold, Rudolph?” you snicker.  

He unconsciously touches his nose with pinkish fingers. “Is my nose red?”  

You stop in your tracks, “Come, I can fix it for you.”  

Nanami obeys and kneels down to your height, eyes fixed to the concrete gradually collecting more snow. Flakes dance around you, towering amongst his hair and sinking in the woolen scarf. You gently bring your hands around the fabric and loop once around his neck. Your knuckles graze his winded jaw in the process—soft and cool, a bit of stubble you barely noticed. You tuck the fringed end pieces into the loop, close to his nose where hot breaths warm your hand. The back shimmies over his head in a balaclava style to hopefully shield him from the icy onslaught.  

“Done. You should get warmer now.” He stands straight with a soft mien. Nanami always shared an easy stare. Yet the same easygoing stare now causes your face to burgeon unimaginable colors.  

“Thank you.” The ghost of a smile sweeps his lips, so quick you can’t decide if it’s a fluke or not.  

You continue treading through the snow, hands stuffed in coat pockets, legs stiffly shuffling together to preserve any heat. It’s quiet for some time—you’re afraid you’ll overstep. In-depth conversations weren’t often had, and you’re unsure of how to proceed without being pushy.  

“Is work getting easier for you?”  

“Yes. The workload is manageable and I’m making good progress with reports this month. I can get ahead of next month’s fiscal documentation.” Refined and straightforward. A natural born salaryman.  

“You’re always talking about work” you glance at him, “I’m curious, what are your hobbies?”  

When he doesn’t speak, you immediately go into damage control. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”  

“I bake…” he mutters, a discovery that persists in the space. Nanami is the last person you’d expect to enjoy baking. You half expected him to reply with something mundane like filing taxes. It warms your heart to imagine him in an apron pressing cookie dough through gingerbread molds. He had that endearing quality about him.  

“Really? What’s your favorite thing to make?”  

“Double chocolate chip cookies.”  

Your mouth gapes, “Wait…remember when I stole those cookies from you on your break? You made those?” You recall the confectionary treat and the way it melted in your mouth. You practically stalked his lunchbox for days hoping he’d bring more.  

“Yes.”  

“Oh my god, they were so good!” you chirp, “why didn’t you say you made them?”  

“…I’m not too confident in my abilities yet.”  

“They were amazing, you should be proud” you say, gazing up at him. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the lack of space between you two—arms brushing, shoulder leaning on him a bit. You’ll tell yourself it’s because of the cold. Just this once.  

“If you enjoy them so much, I’ll bring some next time.”  

“I’ll hold you to it.”  

He gives you a faint nudge, calling your attention. He doesn’t seem bothered by the extra weight on his body. “And what do you like to do outside of work?”  

“I read a lot. I write occasionally.”  

“Any specific genre?”  

“No, not really. I’ll read anything if it interests me.”  

“I’d like to see what you write sometime. You have a creative spirit.”  

You recognize it clear as day. The upturned curve of his dry lips, wrinkled eyes sweet and gentle in the dim amber lighting of a street lamp. Freckled by the reflection of steady snow, they appear sparkling as they bore into you.  

“Thanks” is all you manage to choke out.  

“I didn’t know you walk this way.”  

“‘Cause you’re always doing overtime”, you hesitate before you add, “you should give yourself a break once in a while. Take care of your health more.”  

“It’s nothing to worry about.” But I’m worried. It’s meant to be reassurance, but reassurance can only go so far when there’s noticeable eye bags. You step in front of him, spinning to make eye contact.  

“Before we split, don’t go. I want to give you a present.”  

“You don’t have to do that.”  

“Of course I do! We’re friends, aren’t we?”  

Nanami sighs a laugh. “Yes, we are.” He holds the sides of your earmuffs, pressing them tight to your head. Almost as if he’s ensuring you don’t get too cold. “I feel bad now. I haven’t gotten you anything.”  

“That’s okay. Walking with me is enough.”  

“Then could I walk you all the way home?”  

The answer leaves your mouth before you can think, “Sure!”  

You pause, deliberating on your urge to extend the invitation. Nanami regards you closely, watching the minute muscles in your lips twitch as your words come to fruition. You avert your eyes. If only he knew the effect it had on you.  

“It’s p-pretty cold out here. Maybe if you want, you could come inside. Just to like, get warm, y’know?”  

Something flashes in Nanami’s gaze. Brief like other times, yet this one feels darker—full of incomplete emotions you’re not ready to decipher yet. He’s generous with smiles tonight.  

“If you’ll have me.”  

Back at your apartment, you’re fishing for the key in your never-ending purse. You’re somewhat thankful for its disappearance since it gives you time to compose yourself. You’re hoping the state of your home is acceptable to his standard. You hook the key ring under your pinky and pull it out.  

The door, embellished with a Christmas pinecone wreath, creaks open into the narrow entryway. 

“Please come in.” He obliges, following after you as you drop your bag on the cluttered hall tree. You’re too distracted tucking your shoes properly in the rack, aligning them meticulously where it doesn’t count. Then you notice his footsteps came to a halt.  

Unlucky for you, you forgot about the shiny object you’ve had dangling at your entryway since December arrived. It slips your mind sometimes when it’s so out of reach, inches above you. But for Nanami’s height, it draws his attention instantly.  

A pine and cedar mistletoe sprouting red berries hangs from the ceiling by a red ribbon. Meant to be a joke for Shoko when you smother her in excessive love. Meant to complete the other holiday decorations littering your apartment.  

What it wasn’t meant for, was the impulsive invitation to your crush. You stare at it, to which your eyes wander to Nanami, also staring at it. He’s lingering, then he looks at you, amused grin tugging at his lips.  

“Uh, ignore that!” you stammer, a nervous tick in your tone.  

“Were you expecting someone?” He’s already removing his hat and scarf.  

“No, it’s just a silly joke between me and Shoko.” He watches you intently. You have to get used to the laidback version of Nanami, for the sake of avoiding a heart attack.  

“I can take your coat!” you divert, but he dodges your grasp. “No need. You’ve had a long day.” He places it on one of the pegs.  

“Well, make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything to drink?”  

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”  

You quickly scuffle to the kitchen. A tall glass of water to subdue your pounding heart. It’s the fault of your own body, psyching you up to believe that for a second, Nanami might be reciprocating your interest. In a way, conversing with him was easier when you had no expectations, no indication of “like” on his end. You aren’t even sure what like means from his perspective.  

When you leave the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread with an arm resting on the back of it. He shifts in his seat, beige slacks taut on the fat of his thighs. You run to grab the cyan felt gift box from your bag and return to the living room.  

Plopping down, it’s pretty cramped for the span of two people. It's not this crowded when Shoko comes over, but what did you expect when Nanami’s wingspan is twice the size of yours. With your back on the armrest, your knees are inches from his.  

You hold out the box towards him. “Here you go, I hope you like it.”  

He grabs it, feeling the material. Then he glances at your giddy face before opening it. It displays a polished gold chronograph watch with brown leather trim. The ivory velvet interior contrasts against the gold-toned dials, and he marvels it with shock.  

“This was expensive” he says, examining the sub dials like fragile glass. It definitely was, and you did a few overtimes for it, but you won’t tell him that. “I hope you didn’t go through any trouble to get this.”  

“You deserve it. You do a lot for everyone. And you’ve tolerated my nonsense all month.”  

“Thank you isn’t enough for something like this. I’ll do what I can to repay you.”  

You splay your palm. “Aht aht, don’t even think about repaying me.”  

“I’m covering your lunch for the rest of the year” he states, matter-of-fact. You don't correct your touching knees. 

“I won’t let you.” A chuckle escapes through his nose, features softening along the edges of his chiseled cheeks. 

“Then how about those cookies?”  

“…I’ll take that” you beam, “and, I want to be your test subject for any desserts you make in the future.”  

“Whatever you want.”  He slides the watch out of the display and gives it to you. “Would you like to put it on?”  

You unlatch the gold buckle and align the brown straps on his wrist. Fine blonde hair covers his forearm and you couldn’t fit your hand around his wrist if you tried, but you manage with two. “It fits perfect.” 

“How’d you figure out my wrist size?”  

“Remember when I asked for your help with a friend’s surprise gift?”  

“Ah, so that was a lie?” he grins. 

“Just a little one.”  

“Lying's bad for company morale.”  

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not at work right now, huh?”  

“Mhm.” Nanami reaches for his tie, drawing it loose with a finger. “Very good.” 

You slide your shoes off, perching your foot on the other one before sliding that one off, as well. There’s a numbing pressure eating at your heels. You rub the balls of your ankles, persistent aches from the nonstop dancing you’ll sooner feel tomorrow.  

“Does it hurt?”  

“I should’ve taken my shoes off when I danced” you sigh. 

He pats his thigh. “Let me help.”  

You blink. Once. Twice. Does he want me to...? You don’t have the heart to question it. Not when it’s working in your favor. 

“If...that’s okay.” You’re startled a bit when he immediately scoops your leg and hikes it over his thigh in a single motion. You stare at his solid, vein-woven hands encompassing the surface of your ankle.  

“By the way, I don’t ‘tolerate’ you. I had fun when we were decorating.”  

“Oh, really? It didn’t seem like it, haha.” You’re nervous laughing. Between the small confession and the affectionate thumb swaying back and forth, you’re flustered beyond belief. 

“I look forward to our conversations. I’ve never thought of you as a bother.”  

You’re sure he’s talking at this point. You know he is. Yet, the series of firm, delicate touches along your ankle dull your ears to everything besides the sound of rough pads moving rhythmically along nylon.  

“…Do you give massages often?” Nanami doesn’t look at you, transfixed on catering to your calf. He’s passed your point of soreness, traversing up your leg for the massage. His kneading sends your skin aflame. It’s a fervent intensity that starts at your trembling voice and ends in an embarrassing mess between your thighs. You can’t bear to meet his face. A pinkish tint to his knuckles, brushing the back of your thighs and scaling higher. 

“No. I’m practicing for you” he says, breathy and caught in a sharp wind. That’s when you notice his wrinkled collar, buttonholes straining from his tight breathing, and a burning glow poured over his ears and neck. His touches grow impatient, out of sync as if he’s trying to dig under the material to palm raw skin. “I’ll owe you more in the future.” 

The watch reflects bright in the headlights of your Christmas tree. Like you’ve laid claim to him. He’s wearing you on his arm.  

“You look great.” He pauses, finally turning to gaze at you. His glasses are off center, and his eyes—blooming and almost black—crave a certain unsatiable hunger, gnawing at his stomach with a feast just out of reach. He wouldn’t dare eat without permission. 

“It looks great…on you.”  

“You look great too” he whispers through a clenched jaw. Your breaths mingle in the space, thoughts going unsaid while somehow tainting the air with insistent need. You can't stand it. Can’t stand the way your thighs clench, searching to stave off desire. 

Nanami parts his chapped lips, then closes them. He swallows nothing, Adam’s apple bobbing. Restless. 

Every little action he performs elicits a sense of longing once buried in an unattainable sector of your heart. 

“Hah…please don’t look at me like that” he says, tense and on the verge of begging. 

“Like what?”  

“Like you want me.” It leaves his mouth. Another confession, syrupy and coated in a deep desire, pulsing in the very core of you. He relieves a shaky breath, a ticked jaw struggling to relax.  

“I do.”  

Nanami’s restless demeanor shifts fast, and the air he’d been saving escapes him entirely. He smoothly tucks his grip under your knees and pulls you close. You settle on his lap, chest to chest, hovering over him. Noses ghosting, threatening to concede. Boiling heat coils in waves in your gut, and your heart skips across your ribcage. He’s equally flustered, if not more. You feel the heavy bulge prodding your tights, enough to earn a muffled sigh. 

“You’re giving me false hope.” 

“I want you.” He places a hand behind your neck, another trailing up your curves. 

“Say it again” he mouths into you. They’re soft, languid with your own. You caress his face, enduring the way he tests your lips, nudging just to pull back. 

“I want-”  

Before you can finish your sentence, he crashes onto you. The well-mannered Nanami you knew stalks your tender lips with unbridled yearning. Chasing your mouth as if you’d vanish if he released. His lips turn slick from a succession of sloppy, uncoordinated kisses and you’re nearly suffocating. He doesn’t falter, though, choosing to devour your moans, your body, anything relating to the idea of you. He attempts to be gentle with the pace of a lover—but judging by the way he hurriedly hunts your mouth when you part for air, he’s missing the mark.  

His hands snake over your waist to the fat of your ass. Fondling through your clothes, you feel the true nature of his grip as pillowy indents fill the space between his fingers. You’ve found purchase in his golden locks, carding through his hair to pull him impossibly close. You’re light-headed, drunk off the pressure of his kiss, his touch refusing to leave your body. The only thing separating your embrace are the tiny moans and whimpers that follow them. Your body betrays you, clenching around nothing like a virgin having her first kiss.  

You’re both huffing once you break. Nanami licks his lips, savoring the taste, a crude groan beneath it.  

“You give me mixed signals” you pant.  

“Then allow me to make it clearer.” He throws his glasses to the side, skittering somewhere on the floor.  

Nanami dives back into your mouth, gliding his whiskey-singed tongue against yours. Unrefined, messily exploring your mouth in a manner of wet smacks. The sound goes straight to your sticky underwear, and you’re shifting uncomfortably in his grasp, to which he holds you sturdy on his lap.  

“Don’t go” he whimpers, drawing a fleeting breath. Blown-wide pupils bore into you, “I need you.” He licks a stripe up your tongue, allowing a trace of drool to slip amid you as he smothers you in French kisses. His mouth is hot, laden with a dizzying mix of alcohol and zeal, yet he cups your cheek lovingly. You’re slinking under his shirt, fumbling with the fasteners until they pop. Your one-minded focus ignores the buttons scurrying across the rug to enamor his ample pecs, flushed and plump in tandem with his husky build. 

You’re alternating against each other’s tongues, neither one of you willing to depart. Gorged on the whimpers you evoke as you cradle his plump chest. 

“Darling, please” he whines. 

He guides your ass along his aching bulge, stealing a satisfied moan from the depths of your mouths. You’d mistake it for a thermal water bottle if it didn’t twitch. Back and forth on his slacks, the seam bumps your clit each time you roll your hips, smearing the dribbling mess from your pantyhose. He leaves you to oscillate on the tensing fabric, pursuing a semblance of relief, jolts of frisson enveloping you.  

You withdraw from him to occupy the space on his neck. Splotching rough, spit-soaked kisses in blurs of red to match his tumid lips. He has a pretty, desperate voice, cracking when you suck on his pulse point. “Uhn, just like that—god.” He lets his head fall a little further, steering you in cycles. “Want more of you.” 

When he pulls you up, an evident gloopy trail follows the score of your tights, and you shy away from the scene. He kneads your plush thighs as he spreads them apart, pecks dotted on your cheeks. “Don’t be shy. You’re gorgeous.” 

Nanami supports your lower back while picking the buttons from your blouse. Or at least he’s trying to—his desperate limbs can’t latch on properly, and he inevitably snaps it down the middle. You discard it and he’s instantly on your breasts, licking and biting as he reaches for the bra clasp. You take it off yourself in fear of him breaking that too. 

His kisses linger on the swell, even when he talks through it. “You don’t know how long”, he gradually raises your skirt to your waist, “I’ve been waiting to touch you like this.” 

Nanami takes a nipple in his mouth, circling it recklessly. He indulges in the parts he’s desired for months, indecent with the tug of his teeth on your bud. A lewd stare, misted and still greedy for seconds. And it’s overwhelming; the constant pounding in your cunt, slobber coating your mound with him groping the other. It’s like he has multiple ravenous hands surrounding you, dancing over every crevice he can manage. Consuming you.  

And when the soft moans begin to leave you again, it’s driving him crazy. He picks you up and flips you to lay on the couch. He doesn’t back off for long, only to shimmy his shirt off and rend the belt from its loops. You forget to remove your own clothes, too busy gawking at the remaining attire—a loose tie, sock suspenders, and black briefs drenched in milky precome. He drops to his knees in a heartbeat, sharing a warm smile. Nanami really is adorable, and you’re facing a whirlwind of emotions from the contrast of his brimming underwear, and the hold that manhandles your legs on either side of his shoulders. 

His brows furrow, agitated with the nylon clinging to what he's lusting after. He grabs the front of them and easily tears it into elastic shreds. He doesn’t apologize this time. You aren’t bothered by it—if anything, it removes some of the pressure from your throbbing muscles. He promptly soothes it, wrapping around your inner thighs to feed his hands into the rips. 

“You’re so soft” he moans against the surface just as he paws it. A sigh and he’s immersing his face in the groove of your pussy, smudging open-mouthed kisses over your sensitive clit. The unfiltered contact sends a thrum through your body, though clamping your legs proves futile. 

“Ah, be patient” you joke, playing with his hair. He doesn’t spare a glance, webbed mess coating his lips, a thread from him to you.  

“Can I eat you? Please?” It comes off more like a formality than an actual question as he nuzzles into you, breathing in with a guttural groan. He slides the soaked cotton halfway, full range to admire your dribbling slit. You can tell he strives to pamper it slow, but Nanami doesn't possess the strength to tease or be composed. 

He treats your pussy as if it’s a separate entity from you, indulging and dragging his tongue in long, flat stripes. Nanami eats you for his own enjoyment, eager like a man starved. Slurping and swilling in loud, gratifying squelches. Low mmf’s vibrate against your arousal, but it’s hard to hear when you’re anchored to his face and he refuses to let go. A desperate tongue drinking your heady scent, oblivious to the honeyed fluids sluicing down his chin. He repeats small, calculated licks and continues to treat your squishy flesh like a pliable stress ball.  

“Fuck, it’s s'good—so, so good.” You learned something new about Nanami today: he can curse. 

Nanami embeds his fingerprints in your skin. Toying with the taste of you, stopping to swirl the relentless appendage around your swollen clit. The tip of his nose does part of the job for him. Your utmost efforts rely on the yank of his scalp, knot after knot collecting in a burning surge through your quivering abdomen. Cries croak in your throat, unable to emerge while he’s having a personal, filthy make-out session with your pussy. He fits perfect sandwiched between your juicy folds and he’ll make sure you know it. 

“’M so close” you moan. That’s something he does hear, because he instantly holds tighter, all attention directed to the trembling bundle of nerves. Pleasure builds quick, and when your legs start to shake, he takes that as a sign to delve deeper, sucking aggressively through the shudder. Your body caves and you’re reduced to ecstasy, rutting against his mouth with no control. He gladly accepts in kind. “Nanami.” You’re calling for him, and he hums inside, satisfied as he laps at the spasms. 

He comes up for well-deserved air, sweat sheen from his matted hair to the blonde tufts sitting below his bellybutton. Dopey, glossy grin on his face, he shirks out of the tights and places a kiss on the lips he missed so much. You taste yourself on his tongue. Then you feel a finger glide against your syrupy entrance. 

“Nanami, wait.” He peppers kisses down your torso where he returns to his knees.  

“I have to make sure you can take me, baby.” Another grazes, soaking in your essence with a few languid drags. One dips inside, quickly finding a home in your gooey walls. Tiny aftershocks mimic the slow drawl of a curling finger and you’re keening.  

“Mm, too much.” 

“I’m sorry.” He pumps a tolerable, sopping stretch. Adding a finger, “Be a good girl, okay?” 

You’re clinging to him, sucking him in hopes for more. Your pussy greedily eats it up despite the overstimulated smolder, a melting thump thump that contracts around him. He’s twisting his fingers in a c-shape, looking for little hints that he’s in the right direction, and you’re giving him everything he needs.  

His tender, loving stare settles on you. Lapping at your clit and pumping your g-spot while you succumb to the hazy pressure thawing your head. You’re melting in a frenzy of cries, simultaneously reeling and pleading for him. Nanami’s determined; imbibing the juices gushing from your vulva and tailing the frenetic buck of your hips. 

“Uh, oh shit, right there” you moan, and he speeds up.  

“Yeah? Right here?” You’re nodding nonsensically, whine peaking. Your back arches and he moves to your breast. “Let it out, darling. I got you. Come on my fingers baby.”  

The second he latches onto the nub you’re rendered silent, mouth shaped in an ‘O’ as you come hard around his fingers. He slows, milking your orgasm for all it has, careless of your shaking legs and tears gathering on your lashes. He pecks the corner of your eye, and you’re too caught up in your own sobs to see him lick his lips. 

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re showered in kisses and he rubs circles on your waist. You blink back the tears, meeting tongue and teeth in a carnal exchange. But you’re craving more, him and nothing else. You palm his erection and he groans. You can see the painful print of his entire cock through his briefs, angry tip peeking out ever-so-slightly. 

“Take it off” you whisper. You watch his eyes flicker, a moment of hesitation—you won’t let him. “Stand up.” 

Nanami obeys your command and quickly stands. You hook under his waistband and yank them off. His thick cock stands at attention, nearly smacking you across the face. It’s a bashful red to base, glazed fat head dribbling precome down his heavy balls. He looks like he’ll unravel at any second. You bring a digit to his balls and it twitches. Dragging it up the veiny shaft, gathering his salty mess to spread it over your held out tongue. He stifles a faint shudder. 

“Baby, let me put the condom on.” At least you didn’t have to worry about bringing your own. You wrap your hand around his head, enough tension to be sure he doesn’t find comfort. You rub a thumb over it and his breaths yield shallow. 

“Hm? Why?” you ask, batting your eyelashes as you deliver a small lick. He hitches. 

“D-don’t.”  

“You don’t wanna feel my mouth?” He bites his lip, probably thinking about your pretty face gagging with a mouthful of him. You know the real reason why he won’t, and it’s rather cute that he’d save his release. 

“I-I do. God, I really do. But I-” 

“But what...?” You swirl it once, and he can’t even handle that.  

“C-condom” he whimpers, almost pleading. “Condom...what?” 

“Condom please. Please.” 

“Go get it.” He makes sheepish haste to his coat, returning with a gold wrapper. He’s about to rip it but you stop him. 

“Give it to me.” You tear it open with your teeth and position it over the head. Rolling it over, pursuing it with tantalizing, soft kisses. You feel him pulsing against your lips until you’ve secured the condom at the base. He swallows dry and his stomach recoils on nothing. You enjoy his needier display. 

“C’mere sweetheart” you tempt, luring his body to loom over you. He pushes your legs back and spreads you wide. “I’ll take it slow.” 

His brows crumble, jaw wedged, angled at your pussy. It’s already soaking him and he hasn’t put it in yet. You do your best to make him ease up, a hand placed over his. But as it dips into you, Nanami’s chewing his lip, going haggard before it ever started. He stops completely, an effort to compose himself even when he’s growing stiff and melty at merely the tip.  

“Just g-give me a second” he stammers, and you stay still while he slides the first inch into your creamy, chubby cunt. Stretching and clenching around him in a sappy sluice, he has to pause again, quivering in place. “Fuck-“  

Nanami moves a few inches and his hearts beating out of his chest. Foggy, sensual weight sticks to the edges of his brain and coils in his leaden sack.  

“I-I don’t know if…” A mouthwatering, snug fit, pulling him deeper. He’s grinding the rest in, but every time he gets a little further his throat bobs and he tenses. You’re molding to his length, encapsulating him in squelching fire, and he’s never felt anything like it in his life. Once he’s flush with you, he sighs, beating a fraction of the battle. 

He starts at an agonizing pace. It’s not doing him any favors—now he has to suffer through every sloppy drag, walls committing his veins to memory in a tight, addictive grip. He caresses your face.  

“I’m sorry. Bear w-with me” he whines, and you hold your hand over his. You’re not doing it intentionally, but watching him fall apart is truly a sight to behold—strands glued to his forehead, pussy-whipped fawn eyes lost in your warmth. You guide his fingers to your mouth and deliberately suck on them. Cruel of you, but it’s worth it for his wobbly whimpers, his delirious, thrumming cock. You know he won’t last.  

“No- Haaah, I can’t yet.” His hips lurch, and he holds back yet again. You lock your ankles around his back, giving him no room to fight it. He’s buried deep. “It’s okay, Ken. You can come.”  

Ken. Nanami loses it on the spot, coming instantly in a string of curses and delicate moans.  

“Shit- oh my god. Baby- oh, haa-ah-“ he cries, but his other thoughts spill out of him in soupy babbles. His movements stutter and you still milk him dry. He’s throwing his head back shaking and you gently massage his waist until he comes down. It takes some time.  

“You okay?” You feel him half-flaccid inside, and he’s panting on the shell of your ear.  

“I’m sorry” You brush the hair from his face.  

“Don’t be sorry about anything.” You kiss his forehead when suddenly your legs are being forced back.  

“Wanna keep going” he says, a hint of drool at the corner of his mouth.  

“Take a breather first.” He’s stuck in the irrational corners of his thoughts—every waking idea engulfed in the thought of you. He’s mumbling to himself, beginning to swing his discordant hips again. His voice cracks, body pushed past overexertion.  

“Call me Ken” he whimpers, sticky squelches meeting your bodies in a tangled, milky net.  

“Ken” you whisper, a flirtatious tint in your tone. He’s entranced by you. You’re touching foreheads, and he shamelessly mewls like a slut in your ear through every gooey plap.  

“How long have you liked me?”  

“Since we’ve m-met” he drones, finding a sopping rhythm. “I was scared. I thought- ah- you might not like me.”  

“So, you’ve been waiting for this?”  

“F-fuck, yeah. Ah- feels so good. Even better than my dreams” he prattles.  

You cup his face. “You dream of me?”  

“Uh-huh. Makin’ a mess of this pretty pussy. It’s so much better. So, so fucking good.”  

“Hold on.” He leans on the couch, legs bent on either side of you as he positions you like a pretzel.  

“Need it” he moans, slathered in your cuddly embrace. He’s hardening again, quick, and already skirting an addictive torture.  

He pulls out and drives his sack flush. It knocks the wind out of you, and you claw his back as he fucks with reckless abandon.  

Slurring a plethora of unhinged ‘more’s, he pistons inside, base to head, ass rippling against his savage thrusts. Every vast, violent stroke sends an intoxicating burn to your sweltering cervix. A while film bubbles at his sack where he’s pummeling, jaw slack and doe-eyed.  

Your toes curl, hypersensitive nerves teased and flipped, ruined by his adamant cockhead kissing your g-spot. You’re stretched past your limits, fluttering helplessly around him. His corrupted smile curves against your neck bursting with need.  

“Taking me so well, darling. I might come. C-can-hah-can I baby? Can I come for you?” He’s impossibly fast, funneling whines and nasty slaps. The rabid force bangs the couch against the wall and you’re at his mercy.  

“Mhm, g-go ahead Ken.” Waves of white-hot pleasure fizzle and spark on your skin, and you’re putty with the weight of him bouncing you.  

“Thank you, t-thank you-you’re so good t-to me.” He’s ragged, plummeting to the hilt. Your spasms sap him as he trembles, succumbing to your own orgasm. He grapples heavy, mean strokes, sticky laces bonding his tightening balls. Then he sobs, quaking until he comes.  

He doesn’t pull out. You’re both quiet for a while. On a descent, simply delighting in the comfortable silence. You join in another smooch.  

“(Y/N).”  

“Hm?”  

“Merry Christmas.” You glance at the time; way past midnight. He meets your gaze. After everything you did, you’re worried over one question.  

“Can we get to know each other?”  

He smiles, a kiss to your neck.  

“I would love to.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[mooishbeam]

Early mornings ran most peaceful for you. The distant chirp of rising birds, the lone Starskiff’s bumbling motor as it soars across the sky, a comforting breeze wafting through your hair. The pinkish rosy sky sent the midnight clouds to sleep, pouring the Xianzhou’s roofs in shimmering dawn light. 

It was one of the perks of being General Jing Yuan’s unofficial assistant. You committed to the activities you enjoyed all while working in the General’s own residence. His home hung above the rest, suspended in the throes of the galaxy, marking its existence in time and space. 

It’s so much more than you could ask for, and way more than you thought you’d ever receive. Truthfully, you believed your “house-sitting” business to be reaching a standstill. You hardly imagined it’d be the General requesting your expertise with a confident candor and dopey grin. 

The Dozing General conducted himself with pride and dignity, sacrificing his own life over the will of his cloud knights. You saw within him power only kings bore, possessing the ability to command a crowd. 

You saw more than just that, though. Dark bags, the few moments where his eyes flitted for half of a second, the armor weighing heavy on his back, silent mornings taught with tension and dread. The overworked, exhausting nature of never-ending paperwork and battle scars would naturally leave little room for housekeeping. Therefore, you did your best to make the bitter evenings pleasant. 

Your favorites were the lazy days, where you got to spend extra time with Mimi. Or wave-treading snow lion, as he liked to call her. The General isn’t good with names. 

The second mimi sees you, she’d roll on her stomach with the cutest doe-eyes you’ve ever seen from lion. Enticing you, you can't resist petting her. It’s like she knows the impact her cuteness has on you. Loafing in the courtyard, ripe with overgrown vines that wrap around the pillars and crimson pagoda roofs. You lazed the mornings away, digging in her fur as she purred and purred. The vibrations traveled through your hands often. Ivory fur filling the space between your fingers, puffing fits of lion hair on your cleaning clothes. A brighter white than the General’s hair, though rougher. You hoped his was softer. 

The General showed his face on occasion, when the sun’s radiance demanded attention. Never beyond mannerly greetings. Never beyond simple small-talk wrapped in a dainty bow of professionalism. Sometimes he’d appear with tea in hand, discussing the lengthy schedule in store. Other times, you existed in the quiet together. You wanted to ask about his preferred tea, how he met Mimi, why he didn’t sleep in on days off. 

Why he didn’t ask for help. 

Yet, you couldn’t manage to break the carefully built barriers separating you from the nonchalant facade. It was usually the ladder. 

Today was one of those days, using Mimi as a lower back rest as you corded your hands through her fur. She knows her strength, big, fluffy paws pressing gingerly on your knee as she attempts to make biscuits, careful to retract her claws. Her purring travels like an engine, and you use the other hand to provide the chin scratches she deserves. She curls around you, lovingly flicking her tufted tail on your thigh, and you laugh at her ability to behave like a kitten in the body of a 300-pound animal. 

The opposite door slides open, releasing a draft along the bonsai. 

Jing Yuan leans against the side wall. It’s apparent he’s exhausted, or he wouldn’t have approached you in this harrowing state. The long embroidered robe he wears to bed is in disarray, one side slumped from his shoulder to expose the hearty physique befitting of a General of his caliber. Satin pants hang dangerously low on his hips, one leg caught on the heel of his foot. 

He doesn’t seem to realize, however, as his hair nearly obscures his eyes, serving as a makeshift sleeping mask for the dreams he rarely has. Snow white curls spill down his back, hints of a red satin tie holding on between the strands. 

You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t seem to realize you’re there in the first place. He’s already nodding off, wind passing through his bangs to expose his lidded eyes. 

“Good morning, General.” His head snaps up, and he tries to be discreet about peering through his hair to no avail. 

Jing Yuan tangles his fingers to pull the hair back from his face. Blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes, he adjusts to the morning glow. 

“Mhm, a fine morning, indeed.” He doesn’t mean it. It sounds rehearsed, noncommittal within the chain of grunts and deep whirrs of fatigue. The creases in his smile are shallow today. 

“Would you like me to prepare some tea?” 

“No need” he utters, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off the inevitable. “I’ll be leaving shortly.” 

“Any business you must tend to today?” 

“Not necessarily, but it would do me best to return to the Seat of Divine Foresight just in case.” You’re unaware of the frown forming on your face. Even on days off he worries about the state of the loufu in his absence. It’s hard to imagine the amount of responsibility. 

“If you must” you respond, cagey words laced with worry. It’s better not to pry for your sake. 

“I see you’re having fun with wave-treader” he drawls. 

“Shes been good all morning.” You pet her head and she leans into your palm. 

“I’m glad.” 

“She loves just laying here like this, such a well-behaved kitty.” Mimi stands, stretching on her hind legs with a sturdy yawn. 

You fight back the smile peeking at the corners of your lips when the General yawns right after her. He rubs the back of his head, “She’ll start to think she’s a kitty if you coo at her this often.” 

“I can’t help it, you should see the way she gets me. She’s doing it on purpose!” 

He releases a breathy laugh caught in the chambers of his restless body. “You’re easily swindled.” 

“I guess so.” You open and close your hand, bearing the feeling of losing your hand in her mountains of fur, “petting her calms me down.” 

“That’s why you pet her?” he asks, and you’re knotted in thought at the question. You remember the first time you saw her; how friendly she was as she immediately coiled over your frame and nudged her immense skull into you. 

“Mm, part of the reason. Her hair’s beautiful too, it shines like tassel silk in the sun.” You barely recognize you’re rambling on. 

“It reminds me of yours, General.” 

You pause. Stuck for what feels like an eternity. The embarrassment within you blooms in a sudden, almost paralyzing moment. You’ve shared an inside thought, and you can't bring yourself to look up at him. You suck in your lips, lost for words from your sudden mishap. 

Slowly dragging your eyes up his disheveled state, he’s already staring at you. Crescent moons—mirth plays at the creases on his eyes. 

“My apologies, General, that was unmannerly.” 

His half-baked gaze is fixed on you, gentle eyes spurred by golden sunrise, flecks of nutmeg and honey. A gaze so encompassing and sweet your ears burn like the summer heatwaves on Amphoreus. Even Amphoreus can’t compete with the heat collecting in your stuttering breaths. 

“I-“ 

“Would you like to try?” 

“…I’m sorry?” 

“I said, would you like to touch my hair? Perhaps you’ll receive the same calming energy.” 

You’ve imagined it pacing back in forth in your room, conversing with yourself on the logistics of asking your employer for a potential head pat. It’s been a reoccurring thought since you’ve met him. Soft, almost feathery in appearance as they curled around his chiseled jawline and kind laugh lines. 

You’ve weighed the pros and cons of even asking such a question, If you could reach beyond the rigid professionalism. And now it’s being handed to you with no consequence. It’s practically a trap. Though, you wouldn’t mind going down for the reward. 

You’re tumbling over your sentence, “Y-yes. I mean, yes please.” 

With confirmation he sways to you, stiff and unrefined, unknown qualities of your general. His bare feet slap the stone pathway, robe tie gone to the wind. 

The closer he gets, the more anxious you become. Jing Yuan coming to you for a head massage is like a dream you would’ve repeated in the dead of night, kicking your feet in the air. Now that he’s stopped in front of you, you can’t contain your excitement, buzzing in your kneeling position. He kneels down with you, satin bunching on the floor, leaving little to the imagination. He brings his arms to his sides, waiting. You gladly hold your palms out and he drops his head. 

As if he were in a trance, his forehead meets your shoulder and remains there. A flurry drapes onto your torso and you flinch, face submerged by the thick, untamed mane. No longer Mimi, but the General himself. 

You’re extra timid. You steadily brush your knuckles against his locks. The way you imagined, downy and dense like low lying clouds in a deadened fog. Only luxury products could produce his healthy texture. Hibiscus? Mint? You can’t tell, but it sure smells like it. A fresh, slightly floral scent envelops your nose. You nudge a bit closer, far from tactful. Fluorescent hibiscus haunted by a rainstorm. You inhale deeply, savoring the aroma, when you hear his husky snicker buried underneath. 

“I appreciate the compliment.” 

“Sorry.” 

You move towards the top. Thick from root to tip, curls forming in every which angle. You test the waters and gently scratch his scalp. When he doesn’t react, you continue to trace your nails along it, light pressure, similar to the movements provided for the lion's care. You slowly move from the beginning of his hairline to the end of his scalp, guided by the curve of your fingertips. 

A deep, guttural hum escapes his lips, rumbling in his chest. It travels against your skin. You’re beginning to see more parallels between him and Mimi than you’d like to admit. His arms relax, lowered like cinder blocks at his sides, and you slowly begin to feel the full pressure of this heavy man resting on your shoulder. 

The weight of his burdens is released by your touch, and you feel it dissipating within the pleased sighs and breathy murmurs, eyes shut in pure surrender. Even his lashes curl beautifully, kissing the highs of his cheekbones, blessed by the gift of basking amber. You knead and press at the wispy strands on his temples with scrunches of snow. 

“Mm. That’s good” he says, whisper-light. 

You massage his scalp between your fingers. Taking breaks to smooth the entwined curls. Mimi rests her head on the garden stones, with the rest of the space being furnished with comfortable, safe silence. Picking at the red ribbon until it pulls loose, more hair spills like a blizzard against his fair back. 

“General?” 

He doesn’t reply. The heaving rise and fall of his chest challenges your balance, but no response. “General, are you awake?” You say it quieter this time. If he were to drift asleep, let it be the fate of Lan. 

“Hmm?” he mumbles. 

“Would you like me to tie your hair for you?” 

“That would be nice. Thank you.” 

Your greed gets the better of you, pretending to reach a strand intended for the ponytail just to immerse your fingers in the soft bearings of his nape. An indistinct hum in response is enough for you to keep going. The hairs gentle here, and you’re unhurried sweeping your hands over it. You grab a small bundle of hair at the back of his head and collect it in the neatest ponytail you can manage in this spot. You fold the ribbon around it and pull tight in an acceptable bow. 

Absent-minded touches tuck the stragglers behind his ears. His face warmed, you’d check his temperature if you weren’t also burning up. With his hair tied properly, you can see the hair on his muscles, leading further to the tufts peeping over the waistband. You quickly avert your gaze. 

“I am done.” 

It takes a minute for him to register. “Thank you” he sighs. He’s finding the strength to pull himself out of sleep, raising his head when your hands suddenly ghost behind his back. Not pressuring, but reassuring. There’s a red patch spread across is forehead. 

“However, if you are still tired, I would be honored to stay here while you rest.” He regards you, mischievous grin tugging on his mouth. A laugh puffs from his nose, and he turns his cheek to lay on your shoulder again. He relaxes into your embrace, to which he closes his eyes. 

“Then 5 more minutes wouldn’t hurt.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Welcome Home, Kento!

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

♡ synopsis: nanami can't wait to return home to his wife and kids. little does he know, there's a lot of love waiting for him behind the door.

♡ wc: 2.4k+

♡ tags: nobara and yuji are your children, fanon, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, salaryman AU

notes: took a break on the capitano fanfic im working on cause domestic kento got me acting unwell i miss him and need him so bad. canon break but idc nobara and yuji are his kids and no one can tell me otherwise. art by getoad on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

Nanami Kento’s work seemingly never ended.  

Caught between meetings and printer jams, the small talk he endured with simple one-word answers, and the folders piling on his cold metal desk in a cramped cubicle, he was exhausted. Air conditioners blew frigid in the office, making small accidents unbearable. 

The only warmth he experienced throughout his shifts was the art exhibit on the back wall and a wooden frame, sitting not too far from his grasp. Next to the bulky outdated computer was a picture frame of you, sweating radiance despite the fluorescent wall lights, hair disheveled with tired eyes in your hospital gown. You’re holding a newborn Yuji, chubby with a soft hint of pink fuzz on his head. A one-year-old Nobara chose to nestle next to you through the blood and amniotic fluid sticking to your hands. Somehow smiling—blearily, but still smiling so hard your eyes practically close. 

The scene was not pretty; it burned into his memory, committing to the wrinkles in his brain so that he’d never forget your screams and undying strength. Even the grip on his hand, imprinting the wedding band into his skin when you forced a final push. He never averted his gaze, stroking your wet hair and kissing your throbbing temple; if he could alleviate some of your struggle for a moment, share in your pain for a second, he’d do it ten times over. You’re the mother of his children, after all, his wife and soulmate. 

He met you at a small bakery on the corner of a forgotten street after a double shift. Back turning in knots, cranky as ever with permanently furrowed brows. And when he’d order his favorite pastry—a chocolate eclair—only for it to disappear in the hands of another customer, he was downright irritated. Turning to the offender, the kinks in his muscles suddenly melted at the sight of your apologetic smile. Your apology dissipated in his ears, not managing to reach his cognition as he studied your stunning glow in the dim yellow lighting of that cafe.  

Before you could finish your offer to buy him double, his mouth moved ahead of his mind; “Would you like to sit together?” 

That was forever ago, though. Prior to him falling in love, to your laugh breathing life and color into him once again. To you becoming the soul reason he clocked in every day at a dead-end job he settled for. He was putty in the palm of your hand, but could you blame him? You were his salvation from the bitter, grey world he walked alone for years, and now even the sun felt warmer with you around. 

So, when days become thoroughly tedious such as this one, his eyes tend to wander. Once, twice to his watch, then to the countless drawings from Yuji and Nobara stuck to the cubicle. Yuji and Nobara were two sides of the same coin, regardless of the weekly sibling rivalry where he had to stop them from tearing each other’s hair out. Nanami wasn’t a man who chose sides which usually resulted in him taking both drawings from their art competitions, to the dismay of the sore winners. 

The old Nanami Kento would’ve hunched over the desk, mindlessly typing away past his shift ending, until his buzzing lamp was the sole light left in the office. Currently, he was dying to go home, nearly dreaming of seeing your faces, your “welcome home” as he opened the door. His printed tie is lax around his neck, shirt unbuttoned a little too low with an ankle crossed over the other knee, like nothing matters besides holding you at the end of the day. The digital clock rings, breaking him out of a trance and knocking the pen he’d been fumbling with out of his hands. 

Immediately he starts shoving papers in his briefcase, some crumpling and folding at the edges. He throws his suit jacket on, clocks out with the same vigor and heads for the door. 

“Nanami, wait a second!” his boss hollers from his office. He steps out, and Nanami barely spares him a glance.  

“We’re short-staffed right now, I’ll need you to stay behind-” 

“No.” 

His boss stands dumbfounded, and it takes a few business days for him to register that his demand was denied. He brushes his balding combover and clears his throat, “Excuse me?”   

“I’m going home to my wife.” 

“This isn’t up for discussion-” Suddenly, Nanami shoots a glare that stops him dead in his tracks. His legs are glued to the floor, like the senses of prey in proximity to a vulture. He appears to be his standard nonchalance, but with the way his jaw clenched, and his eyes bore through him, perhaps retracting his words was the best decision for his safety. 

“U-understood. Have a good weekend.” 

The city streets are serene following sundown, a calm breeze picking up rustling leaves that began to fall. He checks his watch again; just in time for dinner. He hurries up the townhouse steps of the brick building and clicks his key into the mahogany door. 

“Ahhh!” 

“Yuji, come here!” 

“Wahhh, black flash!” 

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are on, and blankets are thrown haphazardly around the floor. The television plays an obnoxiously loud cartoon, but it’s evident none of them are watching it based on the army of colorful toys piled on the couch, and a suspicious stuffed wolf plush sitting on the stairs with its head lopsided. An odd lone cookie lays half-eaten on the floor, and the kitchen counters are strewn with crumby flour and sticky batter. The faint aroma of something sweet lingers in the entryway. 

The best part is you, his wife, chasing after Yuji and Nobara in his dirty button up teal shirt with the sleeves rolled up. You’re all dripping in water, trailing sodden footprints around the house. Nobara comes around the kitchen island in a bath robe and towel headband, bunny ears bobbing as she drags a leash toy behind her popping plastic balls of rainbow pigments.  

Yuji, on the other hand, is completely naked minus a comical formation of bubbles around his lower half. He’s chasing her with a toy car foaming with soap and it soars in the air as he laughs and chants sound effects, “bam, black flash!”, pretending to launch it at her. The lot of you are circling the kitchen island, chaotic laughing and shrieking as Nobara’s toy bangs into the stools and cabinets. Just then, a wind-up robot taps Nanami’s foot and falls over. 

“Yuji stop chasing her!”  

“Ahhh!” 

“RAHH!” 

He’s never felt more at home in his life. 

He drops his briefcase, shrugs off his jacket and shoes and joins in. Yuji may be able to evade your grasp, but Nanami was an entirely different beast. You finally manage to intercept Nobara and scoop her in your arms, shaggy robe eclipsing her small cherubic pout. Nanami rushes around the corner and snatches Yuji upside-down, tiny damp feet pressed at his chin with his arms dangling in the air. Amid the chaos you hadn't noticed him, but when your kind eyes meet, a bright smile warms his cheeks, like the first time you met—he's smitten all over again.  

“Daddy!” Nobara screams. 

Yuji squeals and struggles wildly in Nanami’s hold. “I win” he declares. 

“Noo you don’t, not fair!” He tries to escape but Nanami has an iron grip, and you place Nobara on the counter while you get Yuji. He passes him off to you, “Sorry, you’re covered in water now.” He tilts your chin and plants a chaste kiss, skimmed traces of yearning. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve been missing you all day.” 

“Really?” He hates when you ask that, because truthfully, he misses you incessantly. It borders on obsession. The second you leave his sight, he’s wondering when you’ll return, if he could go with you, should it be a family outing, should he follow you? He’ll stir in the thoughts that totally encompass you; you, you, you, until you come back to him. 

“Of course, my love.” Yuji grumbles an annoyed noise and tucks his head in your neck. “Trouble in paradise?” he adds, a tinge of sarcasm. You giggle, brushing the drenched strand of hair from your face, “Yuji really fought the bath today.” 

“Black flash!” he yells, firing his baby fist in the air. Nanami makes a feigned noise of pain to throw his head back and clutch his heart. “C’mon now, let’s finish up” you tell him. As you’re dragging him down the hallway to the bathroom, his defiant wails fade to silence. 

Nanami cleans up the disarray with Nobara’s help. She throws the toys in the toybox, a proud look on her face while Nanami stacks the blankets in a lump on the couch and sweeps the crumbs from the floor. He felt a bit guilty putting a damper on the fun, but winding down the kids for bedtime was most important, and Nobara would gladly change into her dinosaur pajamas if that meant she could spend some time with dad.  

Yuji arrives as a tired, messy-haired but less stinky version of himself, wearing an alien onesie. You’d clearly won the great bath war. 

But a growing scent floods the kitchen, mild smoke emitting from the stove skillet. 

The skillet? 

Shit. 

“Ohh, no no no”, you run to grab a spatula and remove the skillet from the burner. The pancake facing you seems unharmed, perfect even with a nice fluffy texture. You fan the smoke away with a kitchen towel and Nanami approaches you. He looms over the pan, “Pancakes?” 

“Yeah, Yuji wanted pancakes and Nobara wanted chicken nuggets. So, we did both” you say, scraping the underside of it. The crackling of something crispy doesn’t do much to ease your doubts. “Looks good to me-” 

You flip the pancake, and it’s fully burnt.  

Solid black with a thin trail of smoke billowing. You both stare at it in silence. Then you look at each other, and Nanami bursts out laughing. Tears collect at his eyes, and he’s doubled over with his head on your shoulder, a hand around your waist. You sigh in defeat, “Does it still look good to you?” 

“I’ll eat it if it makes you happy.” 

“I’m not trying to kill my husband.” He hums and kisses your cheek. “I’m sorry, I tried to have dinner ready for when you got home. Lost track of time.” 

The last thing he’d want is for you to feel bad about such trivial matters. He hugs you from behind, whispering in your ear, “Don’t worry, it’s enough. Everything you do is enough.” Yuji abruptly hits his leg, and he peers down. “I wanna hug mommy too!” 

“Get in line. She’s my mommy right now” he teases. You giggle when Yuji tries to wedge between your bodies, and Nanami holds his head back like a bull charging at a fence. 

When they’re done eating their chicken nuggets, and he convinces Yuji that celery tastes better than pancakes, you snuggle up for the night. Weekends lasted later into the night, but regardless they had to stay on schedule. It was his favorite part of the week, where you dimmed the lights, he lit the fireplace and crowded on the floor of a striped blanket fort in the middle of the living room. Yuji rested his head on a pillow with his favorite wolf plush while Nobara laid on your stomach. 

“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf” you start, holding the book with one hand. Nanami always opts to sit outside of the fort. One, because he’s too tall for it. And two, he likes to see your face reading peacefully in the rare tranquility of a hissing fireplace. You were so gentle and nurturing that at times he found it hard to pull himself away from your face, sinking in pure adoration. 

“One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and”, you wind up your hand and tickle Nobara. “Pop! —out of the egg came a tiny and very. Hungry. Caterpillar.” You tap her nose in line with the words.  

Nanami understood why the kids enjoyed your story time over his monotone one. He couldn’t get past the first page before Yuji started to complain and Nobara began to space out. “He started to look for some food” you dance your fingers down her spine like a caterpillar would, and she faintly smiles. 

Yuji normally falls asleep first, snoring like a grown man as he drools into the pillow. Then Nobara will drift quietly, to the point where you barely realize she’s dreaming. Then you, fighting sleep as you gaze up at Nanami, forcing yourself to make conversation in a half-groggy state. Your hair is jumbled and the shirt you stole from the hamper bunches at your waist. Here, he feels fulfilled. Irrevocably whole. 

“How was your day, sweetheart?” you drawl. His heart flutters at the pet name, caressing your face with his thumb. “The usual” he replies, just as soft and tender, “it felt longer today.” 

“Mm? Why?” He picks up on a croak in your voice, a sign you’ll be sleeping soon. “I couldn’t wait to come home.” 

A pleased noise rumbles at the back of your throat. “Let’s go to the beach. It’ll get too cold soon.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Mhm”, you run your hand over his, leaning into his touch, “maybe we could invite Gojo and his kids.” 

“Hell no, that guy’s a nutcase.” You laugh, hushed and weak. He kisses your forehead. “Goodnight, my love.”  

“No, I’m not sleeping yet” you groan in spite of closing your eyes. “Then what are you doing, right now?” 

“Mm. Just resting them.”  

He smirks, aware of what happens right after that. He kisses your nose, then your velvety lips. He can’t shake the fact that he’d found someone like you, someone who’d love him unconditionally, accept his flaws and dry humor and stand by his side under any circumstances. It almost felt undeserved, like that bakery incident should’ve earned him a slap to the face instead of your sweet nature, swelling his heart and pulling him deeper. His only treasures, laid in front of him in a cozy cuddle pile.  

Before he could get up to turn the lights off, a soothing utterance of your voice, words he’d been waiting for since he opened the door. 

“Welcome home, Kento.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[mooishbeam]

ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎『♡』 Ode to Rue

♡ featuring: pianist!sunday x reader

♡ synopsis: In the dazzling Penacony Grand Theatre, a fallen angel known for his haunting performances captivates you with his music.

♡ wc: 3.3k+

♡ tags: slight angst but mostly fluff, sunday pianist, canon-divergent

notes: I highly recommend you listen to La Solitude during the piano scene. It was my inspiration for the fanfic. its been a while so im a little rusty, pls forgive me :( thank you all! art by snifflesmp4 on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

song link (Spotify): La Solitude

The Penacony Grand Theatre hangs like a thoughtless prayer in the deep expanse of dark and starlight. Gossamer hangs from the bronze halo, tethering the theatre to the sparkling planet it threatens to ascend from. It is just as outstanding, however, covered in stained glass and benevolent sculptures, with a pair of angel wings that rise above the domed roof.  

Seeing it up close, you can barely pick up your slacked jaw. Nothing like you’ve seen before, an attraction that stands as the centerpiece of Golden Hour and commands the attention of all who encounter it. You’re reluctant to tear your eyes from the telescope, enraptured by its elegance. Still, residents walk by as though it were the dim alleyways of the Fading Echoes. The muffled voice behind you utters something you don’t quite register. Dainty layers of your cream petticoat brush against the unusually slick concrete, and you push your knees together as you squat to match the angle of the telescope. You can hardly contain your excitement.  

Because today would be the day you witness the renowned pianist in action.  

The rumors carried itself back to Belobog. You seldom cared for gossip, or the dwindling appeal to venture away from your warm manor into the bitter cold. But even the maids began to wonder.  

The talebearer tended to the kitchen as she spoke. A nameless angel, who must have descended from heaven, had been driven to madness by a catastrophe so devastating he could not prevail against it. Caught in the midst of a dying planet, he turned to music to expel the torture wracking his shattered mind. She claimed to have seen it, the room of the pianist. Walls etched with forgone prayer, a rushed and messy verbal overflow. There were said to be crosses methodically placed around those prayers, with sickening, glowering eyes that seemed to judge your every waking move. Music sheets haphazardly scattered with compositions he’d never finish, scores that could never be.  

Penacony, the planet of festivities, home to the Charmony festival. It made your eyes roll to indulge in such frivolous matters. On either end, you had no one to accompany you, and so you never attended. But the prospect of witnessing his madness in action piqued your interest, and ever since you’d been calling the theatre, hopeful for a reservation.  

The angel was unpredictable, though, sometimes choosing to cancel at the minute of his expected arrival. He was not without criticism, some enraged at his pure disregard towards the audience. After each show, he disappeared behind the curtain and left without a trace. Others said he appeared to loathe the very thought of being onstage. It made you all the more interested. To have such varying perceptions meant he had a gift far greater. To hear his genius was the highest privilege.  

A gentle chorus whispers from the hypnotic depths of the arena. “My lady.” You turn your head to face the voice, yet your eyes remain glued to the lens, as if the music will cease to exist should you avert your gaze.  

“The show will start soon.”  

You’ve taken your plush seat front row, beyond the crimson portiere and into the theatre. The seats are occupied by impatient, rather loud elite. Pocket watches and monocles, ridiculous top hats that earned a soft snort under your breath. Their attire wasn’t made for a place such as this, but you couldn’t say much yourself. It is more akin to a house of prayer than an outlet simply for singing. Decorative columns with lavish scripture rose to the ceiling where they came together at the corners to form the shape of a sun. Your eyes trail up, to the embossed medallion art of flying doves chasing the never-ending cycle of day. In the middle, an opulent chandelier dangles thousands of twinkling diamonds and dimly lit wax candles.  

“Marvelous” you gasp, panning to the stage before you. Rows of long, bronze organ pipes line the back wall, framing the massive stage. A divine glow peaks from behind the curtain, spearing slivers of warm, glimmering light.  

This space is incomparable to any opera house you’ve attended in Belobog. You feel unworthy to speak above a whisper. It’s almost sacred, crawling with benevolent structures and hymns you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to decipher—meant to find you instead.  

You’re restless with anticipation bouncing around in your churning stomach. Its halls play a generic tune as more are seated. A million questions run through your mind. Who was he? Were the rumors true? What horrors did he see? Who was his teacher? You weren’t afforded the smallest of glimpses. Even the gaudy posters promoting the show didn’t show his face, choosing to represent him with a pair of angel wings. He must’ve declined a photo shoot. A pianist…who hated the piano? Or maybe it was the lack of tact, or genuine appreciation for the music. The pictures that received more attention for the scarcity of the show than for the soul of the symphony.  

You’re fiddling with your gown when suddenly the lights fizzle out, leaving only the meager glow of the chandelier above. Hitches, then nothing. A silent audience in the wake of a brighter stage. It reflects in your eyes, an unshakable longing reaching just behind the curtain. The same pit you felt, at the foot of a frosted cathedral on your last shred of hope; the deadly hands of a loving Aeon.  

The tableau, adorned in gold trimmings and tassels, begins to waver, and your breath tugs like molten iron in your chest. It begins to scale upwards into the cornice board, offering sight to the set.  

A simple, black piano with a stool to match takes center stage. You hear an audible sigh. A snicker. You wait, glossy eyed, infatuated by the sight. It’s truly barebones, no ball peonies or accompanying ensemble. Everything he needs awaits him. Everything he has exists on that stage.  

The spotlight casts onto the piano, spurring dust particles.  

The right curtain moves slightly. If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t have noticed the hooded angel come into view. It’s eerily quiet as the audience is hushed quickly in his presence. A few vague murmurs here and there, but nothing more. Hardly the footsteps of the angel, stepping in airy, elegant movements across the stage. Had you closed your eyes, it’d be lost to the background.  

He’s burdened by a navy hood, draped across the expanse of his laden shoulders. You can’t remove your eyes from the hovering blessing bobbing behind his head between movements. Black gloves embellished with gold and silver rings arranged so they wouldn’t clink. He walked with professionalism unexpected of just a pianist. The cloak seldom flared by his stride, though when it did, you caught the dark patterns of his boots, a garter taught on his thigh. The faintest strands of grayish blue peak from under the hood, soft and silky.  

One foot after the other, silent and orderly—comfortable with being invisible.  

As expected, he doesn’t regard the crowd. He smooths his cloak under his thighs and takes his seat in front of the piano. The minute details surrounding him worked with intent. A calculated click to his side releases a book with intricate detail, similar to his halo, with an eye on the back cover. A songbook? Notes? You can’t tell. However, the moment he places it on the rack, it fans open on its own. The front cover slams against the piano, and you’re stunned to see the pages flicking wildly, a mild radiance on the edges. The sound of paper fills the air. Then it stops.  

He brings his slender fingers to his hood, and in one fell swoop, the fabric slips away.  

The empyrean feathers of once cowered wings unfurl at the taste of newfound space. Broad, downy wings extend like a stretch, as if preparing to fly. The canary-colored spotlight enacts a seraphic air onto the pianist. Half of his face is lost to obscurity, but you still study his perfect ivory skin, drawn to subtle pinkish hues near his eyes and downturned lips. His hair spills over his shoulders, meeting with fluffy wings now comfortable on his sides. He wore an expression both content and lost, a soul far removed from the scene before it.  

Suchlike a painting you think. Whether it be the growing swell in your heart or unforeseen heat, his presence itself was breathtaking. You’ve seen art reminiscent of this in the Everwinter City Museum, oil paintings of angels in effortless beauty. Divinity just out of reach.  

His long lashes flutter for a second, and you watch his chest heave deep before expelling an extended breath. You hold yours.  

His eyes close. The audience goes deafeningly silent.  

He starts. Near machine with zero hesitation, a graceful melody waltzes to the keys summoned by lissome hands. Sweet, airy in tune as it graces the walls of the opera house.  

It evokes a childlike dream. Carefree summers, a vacation with no winter, planets with no struggle. You marvel the way his wrists roll over the keys. Refined, fluid, but commanding. Deserving of honor. His expression never changes, but his eyes—stirring with vibrance, like he was coaxing notes from the harmony itself. Captured by song, weaving a tapestry of forgotten memories.  

Still, there’s a harsh end to them, a teetering peak that keeps you on edge. Pads confidently moving under the swift turns of the music. The piano seems to come alive on its own, unbroken as the emotion pours from his veins to the object. Each high point, a reminder of a dream's eventual death, a memory lost to the throes of time.  

Suddenly, the deep clashing of the piano raises the hairs on your skin. He slams with graceful power, a note that should be out of place. It sends shivers up your spine.  

Your mind is heavy. You feel it in every sense of the melody. In the crooks of your walls, buried in the cracks where no one could see it but you. You saw him, filling your world and becoming of nothing. The knot that crumpled in your throat at the gravestones of your family, or the corners of the home you became accustomed to as you isolated yourself from the world. The tears you rarely shed for the sake of your family name, only allowing them to fall when a blizzard hammered against the windows loud enough to subdue your wails. Desperate for the kind words of anyone who’d spare a glance. You’ve tasted it countless times. A pitiful, bitter drink.  

Inexplainable, profound sorrow.  

He’s faced it, too. His wings appear stiff, flared and fire-scorn. Taut with the tension in his fingers. Alone and forgotten, dancing across the piano with such aloofness, shouldering the weight of the notes. A pause in between, and you shifted to the edge of your seat unconsciously. His fingers were methodical, searching for an answer he hadn’t fully discovered, finding belonging on the notes. This was his signature way of scribbling. There was no fated wall or room of eyes, nor the frantic manifestos of a madman. The piano was his journal—seeking meaning in the music.  

You aren’t sure what draws you to him. If it’s the chaos of his song, the unnerving focus, breathing in the melody for a second time. Wrapping himself in a sound of pure calamity, and somehow looking beatific and at peace, as if whatever he’d given up on was already somewhere underwater, out of reach and destined to drown.  

You understood now, why the audience was the most insignificant part of the performance. He played for no one. It was a a prayer to the choir, the last crumbling wish of a fallen angel.  

The crescendos landed harsh, unfinished, dying brutally in your ears. Tortured overtones ran soft, unexpected and fleeting before another crash. War across the keys, fighting a battle he wouldn’t win. On the piano there was bloodshed. And in this moment, he shares that war with you. Your eyes swelled before you could notice, splitting goosebumps across your skin.  

He throws his head back, letting his wings droop as he plays. Trailing his digits from the highest octave to the lowest, slowly closing his eyes once again. His posture reads of a Greek tragedy—falling from the sky, allowing fate to capture him or embrace the awaiting darkness. Was there anything left for an angel forsaken by an Aeon? Who could the fallen turn to for comfort?  

There’s a pit in your stomach.  

He throws both hands on the keys for the final crest, a booming sound sending vibrations through the floor. A dreams end.  

Then it’s quiet.  

His head returns to its rightful place, hanging low past his shoulders. Poised hands slump away from the piano, and the book closes to mimic.  

Hood coming up over his head in the aftermath, and he slumped away from the piano.  

He takes the book and tucks it back on his side. He stands, and the audience erupts into cheers. He flinches at the sudden noise. Pulling his hood over his head, he uses his fluffy wings to shield his face. Whistling, praises, and pleads for an encore can be heard from the whole interior. You barely hear it, muffled to the chatter around you.  

Because you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision, resemblant to a small child with a scraped knee. In this noise, no one can hear you cry. It didn’t matter anymore, reputation or not. You needed to cry.  

But you swear you see it; a single tear trailing down his cheek, below his pouty lips, dropping with a shimmer. It couldn’t be a trick of the light. You find yourself staring past his wings. His eyes were Baltic amber, spiced honey with warm hints of midnight brilliance. Your heart skipped a beat.  

He steps away from the spotlight and exits just as fast, to the tragic dismay of an applauding crowd. 

He was but a stranger. Gone as he was, gone as you knew he’d be, your mind rejected it. A ridiculous impulse tests your restless legs, pushing you up out of your seat.  

You needed to know something, anything about him.  

His name.  

You’re on your feet quick, barely picking up your dress as you skip steps towards the hallway. The gem encrusted hair pin securing your updo slips to the floor when you whip your head towards the back exit. You don’t bother to go back for it. A hairpin was replaceable; this is a once in a lifetime opening.  

Pushing the exit, a fit of cold graces your shoulders. You forgot your coat in the theatre. It may be cold, but it’s not Belobog. You keep running around the end of the building, skirts picking up in the wind, a cool breeze biting your tear-stained cheeks. You stop in your tracks.  

A small boy with a head full of hair looks up at the man with a halo. You watch as the black gloves you studied carefully hand a stack of coins to the child. He flashes a gapped tooth smile, and the hand interlaces through his hair, ruffling it.  

You approach steadily. You’re clammy now. Struck with the chance, you can't formulate a string of words to save your life. The conversation shifts into focus.  

“Run along, now. It’s getting late” he says. That glacé, somber cadence stops you in your tracks. A voice befitting for an angel. The sentences elude you. You’d forgotten what you came to say. Aeon's help you.  

The child skips away, and you’re trained on him until your eyes snap back to the man now observing you. His eyes. On you.  

“Oh…um, sorry…” You can’t maintain the gaze imparted onto you. It’s much more intense without hundreds of eyes doing the same, even with his face somewhat obscured.  

“My apologies miss, was I too loud?” He asks with a courteous hand to his heart, tender voice sticking to your brain like thick pools of honey.  

You shake your head wildly “Ah, no! I’m sorry,” you hesitate, unsure if you should divulge your recent attendance. Granted, you understood how weird it may come across to search for the performer post-show, but it was too late for you to retreat. “I was just at your performance.”  

“Ah…” He pans to the floor, lashes fluttering underneath the street lamp. This version of the pianist is unsure, a confidence reserved for the stage. Then he regards you for a second, unmoving. “Was it enjoyable?”  

Enjoyable…that wasn’t it. It was suffering, a beautiful torture for those who’ve survived hell. You have to physically bite back to words, and yet they pour out of you.  

“It was lonely” you blurt, rubbing your arm to soothe your awkward disposition.  

His eyes widen briefly. You watch his flushed lips part and close. He felt human again. He, too, could be lost for words. When he doesn’t speak, you continue.  

“I am also…”  

“…going through things.” His earrings dangle in the wind, and you feel like a fool right about now for wasting his time. You manage to look everywhere but his face. Two studs on his left wing and lustrous curls meeting around his neck near a thorny choker. Such beauty should be forbidden.  

“The only way to go is forward. I hope you will do the same” he lilts. You gaze into his eyes.  

“Have you uncovered…what you’re searching for?”  

He pauses a long while, wind picking up in the space between you. You aren’t sure if he recognizes that he’s touching his book cover. “Not yet. There is a long journey ahead of me, lined with plenty more mistakes. But I’ve been given a second chance. I will do what I’ve set out to do.”  

It’s an answer enough for you. You nod, leading into a half-curtsy. He interrupts, “May I ask you…is there something you found within my music?”  

You aren’t sure. It could’ve been nothing at all. Or maybe the winter snow was worth treading, if it met unlatching from those hopeless shackles. “I don’t know. I think I’d have to find it within myself first.”  

His eyes crinkle and his lips curve into a cloying smile. The gentle undertones in his face burn rosy tonight, resembling a blooming carnation. “That’s a great answer.”  

Heat creeps upon your ears, and you look away, a slight crack in your throat. “I’m assuming you won’t play again, then? Since, your journey…”  

“Yes. That is correct.”  

Sad but not surprised, you’re grateful for this opportunity alone. “Alright, then”, you clasp your hands together, “May the Aeon’s guide you to safe planets and safer skies.”  

“You, as well” he smiles. You toy with your fingers, ashamed to ask for extra beyond this.  

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind?”  

“Sunday.” An odd name. So odd you believe it to be a lie. Nevertheless, you accept it.  

“Okay. Goodbye, Sunday.” You return a grin before turning on your heels.  

“Goodbye.”  

You’re walking back, but footsteps are coming towards you. When you look, a royal blue tweed restricts your eyesight. It binds you, heavy and warm to stave off the chill. Sunday puts the cloak over your body. He’s inches away from you, securing the tie near your neck. The light peaks behind his halo, streaks of gold aside the night kissing his delicate features. You feel his breath on your frosted nose, hot despite the air. He smells of salt and sugary pudding. Thankfully, the weather prevents your blush from being too obvious.  

“And do be careful tonight. It’s rather cold…” his voice trails off, waiting for you to catch the hint.  

“Oh! I-it’s (Y/N).”  

“It’s rather cold, (Y/N)” he puts an emphasis on your name. Each syllable, smooth and undeniably gratifying from his lips. He pulls the hood over, a finger ghosting against your cheek as he retreats. “Sweet dreams.”  

He leaves this time, never looking back.  

The ill-fitted garment about your shoulders. Heavy on your heart like a stone. You breathe into it. Salt and toffee pudding. Something blooms in its barren embrace.  

Pleasant, snug and all encompassing. Yet bittersweet. A final farewell to no destination.  

A hug. A hug is what it was.

[mooishbeam]

OMG BRO I THOUGHT YOU DELETED YOUR ACC I GOT SO SCARED, been trying to find you, but couldnt rememebr your user name and only remembered your dan heng and tartarsauce man fics amd wanted to reread but couldnt find you so i paniked and after a week of searching I FOUND YOU ♡

Kind regards,

✨️Ehe✨️

Hehe HIIIII welcome back <33

[mooishbeam]

Welcome back! I’ve missed your writing

Thank you, darling! Glad to be back 💗💗

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Welcome Home, Kento!

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

♡ synopsis: nanami can't wait to return home to his wife and kids. little does he know, there's a lot of love waiting for him behind the door.

♡ wc: 2.4k+

♡ tags: nobara and yuji are your children, fanon, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, salaryman AU

notes: took a break on the capitano fanfic im working on cause domestic kento got me acting unwell i miss him and need him so bad. canon break but idc nobara and yuji are his kids and no one can tell me otherwise. art by getoad on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

Nanami Kento’s work seemingly never ended.  

Caught between meetings and printer jams, the small talk he endured with simple one-word answers, and the folders piling on his cold metal desk in a cramped cubicle, he was exhausted. Air conditioners blew frigid in the office, making small accidents unbearable. 

The only warmth he experienced throughout his shifts was the art exhibit on the back wall and a wooden frame, sitting not too far from his grasp. Next to the bulky outdated computer was a picture frame of you, sweating radiance despite the fluorescent wall lights, hair disheveled with tired eyes in your hospital gown. You’re holding a newborn Yuji, chubby with a soft hint of pink fuzz on his head. A one-year-old Nobara chose to nestle next to you through the blood and amniotic fluid sticking to your hands. Somehow smiling—blearily, but still smiling so hard your eyes practically close. 

The scene was not pretty; it burned into his memory, committing to the wrinkles in his brain so that he’d never forget your screams and undying strength. Even the grip on his hand, imprinting the wedding band into his skin when you forced a final push. He never averted his gaze, stroking your wet hair and kissing your throbbing temple; if he could alleviate some of your struggle for a moment, share in your pain for a second, he’d do it ten times over. You’re the mother of his children, after all, his wife and soulmate. 

He met you at a small bakery on the corner of a forgotten street after a double shift. Back turning in knots, cranky as ever with permanently furrowed brows. And when he’d order his favorite pastry—a chocolate eclair—only for it to disappear in the hands of another customer, he was downright irritated. Turning to the offender, the kinks in his muscles suddenly melted at the sight of your apologetic smile. Your apology dissipated in his ears, not managing to reach his cognition as he studied your stunning glow in the dim yellow lighting of that cafe.  

Before you could finish your offer to buy him double, his mouth moved ahead of his mind; “Would you like to sit together?” 

That was forever ago, though. Prior to him falling in love, to your laugh breathing life and color into him once again. To you becoming the soul reason he clocked in every day at a dead-end job he settled for. He was putty in the palm of your hand, but could you blame him? You were his salvation from the bitter, grey world he walked alone for years, and now even the sun felt warmer with you around. 

So, when days become thoroughly tedious such as this one, his eyes tend to wander. Once, twice to his watch, then to the countless drawings from Yuji and Nobara stuck to the cubicle. Yuji and Nobara were two sides of the same coin, regardless of the weekly sibling rivalry where he had to stop them from tearing each other’s hair out. Nanami wasn’t a man who chose sides which usually resulted in him taking both drawings from their art competitions, to the dismay of the sore winners. 

The old Nanami Kento would’ve hunched over the desk, mindlessly typing away past his shift ending, until his buzzing lamp was the sole light left in the office. Currently, he was dying to go home, nearly dreaming of seeing your faces, your “welcome home” as he opened the door. His printed tie is lax around his neck, shirt unbuttoned a little too low with an ankle crossed over the other knee, like nothing matters besides holding you at the end of the day. The digital clock rings, breaking him out of a trance and knocking the pen he’d been fumbling with out of his hands. 

Immediately he starts shoving papers in his briefcase, some crumpling and folding at the edges. He throws his suit jacket on, clocks out with the same vigor and heads for the door. 

“Nanami, wait a second!” his boss hollers from his office. He steps out, and Nanami barely spares him a glance.  

“We’re short-staffed right now, I’ll need you to stay behind-” 

“No.” 

His boss stands dumbfounded, and it takes a few business days for him to register that his demand was denied. He brushes his balding combover and clears his throat, “Excuse me?”   

“I’m going home to my wife.” 

“This isn’t up for discussion-” Suddenly, Nanami shoots a glare that stops him dead in his tracks. His legs are glued to the floor, like the senses of prey in proximity to a vulture. He appears to be his standard nonchalance, but with the way his jaw clenched, and his eyes bore through him, perhaps retracting his words was the best decision for his safety. 

“U-understood. Have a good weekend.” 

The city streets are serene following sundown, a calm breeze picking up rustling leaves that began to fall. He checks his watch again; just in time for dinner. He hurries up the townhouse steps of the brick building and clicks his key into the mahogany door. 

“Ahhh!” 

“Yuji, come here!” 

“Wahhh, black flash!” 

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are on, and blankets are thrown haphazardly around the floor. The television plays an obnoxiously loud cartoon, but it’s evident none of them are watching it based on the army of colorful toys piled on the couch, and a suspicious stuffed wolf plush sitting on the stairs with its head lopsided. An odd lone cookie lays half-eaten on the floor, and the kitchen counters are strewn with crumby flour and sticky batter. The faint aroma of something sweet lingers in the entryway. 

The best part is you, his wife, chasing after Yuji and Nobara in his dirty button up teal shirt with the sleeves rolled up. You’re all dripping in water, trailing sodden footprints around the house. Nobara comes around the kitchen island in a bath robe and towel headband, bunny ears bobbing as she drags a leash toy behind her popping plastic balls of rainbow pigments.  

Yuji, on the other hand, is completely naked minus a comical formation of bubbles around his lower half. He’s chasing her with a toy car foaming with soap and it soars in the air as he laughs and chants sound effects, “bam, black flash!”, pretending to launch it at her. The lot of you are circling the kitchen island, chaotic laughing and shrieking as Nobara’s toy bangs into the stools and cabinets. Just then, a wind-up robot taps Nanami’s foot and falls over. 

“Yuji stop chasing her!”  

“Ahhh!” 

“RAHH!” 

He’s never felt more at home in his life. 

He drops his briefcase, shrugs off his jacket and shoes and joins in. Yuji may be able to evade your grasp, but Nanami was an entirely different beast. You finally manage to intercept Nobara and scoop her in your arms, shaggy robe eclipsing her small cherubic pout. Nanami rushes around the corner and snatches Yuji upside-down, tiny damp feet pressed at his chin with his arms dangling in the air. Amid the chaos you hadn't noticed him, but when your kind eyes meet, a bright smile warms his cheeks, like the first time you met—he's smitten all over again.  

“Daddy!” Nobara screams. 

Yuji squeals and struggles wildly in Nanami’s hold. “I win” he declares. 

“Noo you don’t, not fair!” He tries to escape but Nanami has an iron grip, and you place Nobara on the counter while you get Yuji. He passes him off to you, “Sorry, you’re covered in water now.” He tilts your chin and plants a chaste kiss, skimmed traces of yearning. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve been missing you all day.” 

“Really?” He hates when you ask that, because truthfully, he misses you incessantly. It borders on obsession. The second you leave his sight, he’s wondering when you’ll return, if he could go with you, should it be a family outing, should he follow you? He’ll stir in the thoughts that totally encompass you; you, you, you, until you come back to him. 

“Of course, my love.” Yuji grumbles an annoyed noise and tucks his head in your neck. “Trouble in paradise?” he adds, a tinge of sarcasm. You giggle, brushing the drenched strand of hair from your face, “Yuji really fought the bath today.” 

“Black flash!” he yells, firing his baby fist in the air. Nanami makes a feigned noise of pain to throw his head back and clutch his heart. “C’mon now, let’s finish up” you tell him. As you’re dragging him down the hallway to the bathroom, his defiant wails fade to silence. 

Nanami cleans up the disarray with Nobara’s help. She throws the toys in the toybox, a proud look on her face while Nanami stacks the blankets in a lump on the couch and sweeps the crumbs from the floor. He felt a bit guilty putting a damper on the fun, but winding down the kids for bedtime was most important, and Nobara would gladly change into her dinosaur pajamas if that meant she could spend some time with dad.  

Yuji arrives as a tired, messy-haired but less stinky version of himself, wearing an alien onesie. You’d clearly won the great bath war. 

But a growing scent floods the kitchen, mild smoke emitting from the stove skillet. 

The skillet? 

Shit. 

“Ohh, no no no”, you run to grab a spatula and remove the skillet from the burner. The pancake facing you seems unharmed, perfect even with a nice fluffy texture. You fan the smoke away with a kitchen towel and Nanami approaches you. He looms over the pan, “Pancakes?” 

“Yeah, Yuji wanted pancakes and Nobara wanted chicken nuggets. So, we did both” you say, scraping the underside of it. The crackling of something crispy doesn’t do much to ease your doubts. “Looks good to me-” 

You flip the pancake, and it’s fully burnt.  

Solid black with a thin trail of smoke billowing. You both stare at it in silence. Then you look at each other, and Nanami bursts out laughing. Tears collect at his eyes, and he’s doubled over with his head on your shoulder, a hand around your waist. You sigh in defeat, “Does it still look good to you?” 

“I’ll eat it if it makes you happy.” 

“I’m not trying to kill my husband.” He hums and kisses your cheek. “I’m sorry, I tried to have dinner ready for when you got home. Lost track of time.” 

The last thing he’d want is for you to feel bad about such trivial matters. He hugs you from behind, whispering in your ear, “Don’t worry, it’s enough. Everything you do is enough.” Yuji abruptly hits his leg, and he peers down. “I wanna hug mommy too!” 

“Get in line. She’s my mommy right now” he teases. You giggle when Yuji tries to wedge between your bodies, and Nanami holds his head back like a bull charging at a fence. 

When they’re done eating their chicken nuggets, and he convinces Yuji that celery tastes better than pancakes, you snuggle up for the night. Weekends lasted later into the night, but regardless they had to stay on schedule. It was his favorite part of the week, where you dimmed the lights, he lit the fireplace and crowded on the floor of a striped blanket fort in the middle of the living room. Yuji rested his head on a pillow with his favorite wolf plush while Nobara laid on your stomach. 

“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf” you start, holding the book with one hand. Nanami always opts to sit outside of the fort. One, because he’s too tall for it. And two, he likes to see your face reading peacefully in the rare tranquility of a hissing fireplace. You were so gentle and nurturing that at times he found it hard to pull himself away from your face, sinking in pure adoration. 

“One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and”, you wind up your hand and tickle Nobara. “Pop! —out of the egg came a tiny and very. Hungry. Caterpillar.” You tap her nose in line with the words.  

Nanami understood why the kids enjoyed your story time over his monotone one. He couldn’t get past the first page before Yuji started to complain and Nobara began to space out. “He started to look for some food” you dance your fingers down her spine like a caterpillar would, and she faintly smiles. 

Yuji normally falls asleep first, snoring like a grown man as he drools into the pillow. Then Nobara will drift quietly, to the point where you barely realize she’s dreaming. Then you, fighting sleep as you gaze up at Nanami, forcing yourself to make conversation in a half-groggy state. Your hair is jumbled and the shirt you stole from the hamper bunches at your waist. Here, he feels fulfilled. Irrevocably whole. 

“How was your day, sweetheart?” you drawl. His heart flutters at the pet name, caressing your face with his thumb. “The usual” he replies, just as soft and tender, “it felt longer today.” 

“Mm? Why?” He picks up on a croak in your voice, a sign you’ll be sleeping soon. “I couldn’t wait to come home.” 

A pleased noise rumbles at the back of your throat. “Let’s go to the beach. It’ll get too cold soon.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Mhm”, you run your hand over his, leaning into his touch, “maybe we could invite Gojo and his kids.” 

“Hell no, that guy’s a nutcase.” You laugh, hushed and weak. He kisses your forehead. “Goodnight, my love.”  

“No, I’m not sleeping yet” you groan in spite of closing your eyes. “Then what are you doing, right now?” 

“Mm. Just resting them.”  

He smirks, aware of what happens right after that. He kisses your nose, then your velvety lips. He can’t shake the fact that he’d found someone like you, someone who’d love him unconditionally, accept his flaws and dry humor and stand by his side under any circumstances. It almost felt undeserved, like that bakery incident should’ve earned him a slap to the face instead of your sweet nature, swelling his heart and pulling him deeper. His only treasures, laid in front of him in a cozy cuddle pile.  

Before he could get up to turn the lights off, a soothing utterance of your voice, words he’d been waiting for since he opened the door. 

“Welcome home, Kento.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[mooishbeam]

𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐔𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞!

Hello!

Firstly, I want to apologize for my absence. A few things have happened since I stopped writing, and the accumulation of all these instances kinda made it hard for me to feel motivated enough to write. That along with social media distractions.

Not sure if this happens to any other writer, but once you're in a writing slump it's verrrry hard to get out. The ideas/brainstorming were easier than the actual writing aspect and combined with my semester burnout I didn't feel up to write any expansive stories.

This resulted in me taking an unannounced (and honestly unanticipated) hiatus, and before I knew it, it'd been 8 months since I updated the account!

I don't want to make any other promises going forward, just because life happens, and I don't know if I'll end up getting burnout again. But for now, I hope to post a couple fics soon, and I hope you all enjoy. My most recent fic Country Honey was kind of an experimental piece to make me feel interested in writing again (though it took a VERY. LONG. TIME).

In regard to Devourer of Souls and Those He Cannot Stomach (Toji/Reader), I'm not sure if I'm interested in the concept anymore, so it will remain as TBA.

HOWEVER, these are the plans I have for the next fics (in no particular order):

Fruit of the Holy Spirit (Sunday/Reader) - Honkai Star Rail

Knights Do Not Dream For a Flower Blossomed by Carnage (Capitano/Reader) - Genshin Impact

Rockstar AU (Wriothesley/Reader) - Genshin Impact

Jiaoqiu/Reader - Honkai Star Rail

Pantyhose Kink (Nanami/Reader)

Bar Breakup (Gojo or Tartaglia/Reader)

Toji Fluff

This is what I have for now. The list may continue and I may adjust certain things. Hopefully you'll enjoy these, and I can't wait to share them with you guys! Thank you for waiting for me!

Have a good day!

[mooishbeam]

hey!! i just want to check in on you!! is everything alright? how are you doing? i love your fics sm and i noticed you haven’t updated your blog in a while!! have a great day :)

Hiiii :)

I am doing well! I am going to post an update soon, and I apologize for the long unannounced hiatus, but I hope to start posting semi-regularly soon :3

Hope you had a great day!

[mooishbeam]

YOUR FICS ARE SO GOOD ITS LIKE ACTUALLY INSANE. THE ELOQUENCE, THE STRUCTURE, THE PLOTS. AGSJAJAJJAJA ITS SO SO GOOD. Please never stop writing dude

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!! ♡♡♡

I try to improve my writing with every post since I'm still a relatively new writer. I hope to continue to improve, and I hope you'll keep enjoying the fics hehe :3

[mooishbeam]

Just discovered your account and OHMYGOD your writing is amazing. I love the way your descriptions are so vivid but without overwriting and feeling dragged out. I'm such a sucker for long fics too but yeah

I just had to tell you !! 💕

Found you through your Pantalone fic and now I'm a fan woooo

Thank you!!

YESSS ANOTHER PANTALONE LOVER it was definitely a passion project bc i fear i am a bit obsessed with him but eeeeee ty :333

[mooishbeam]

I love your besotted fic so much 😭 are you going to write a part 2? :)

Thank you :33

I don't think I'll be writing a part 2 just because I mainly focus on one-shots, but there will definitely be more tartaglia fics in the future :)

[mooishbeam]

I LOVE YOUR TARTAGLIA WORKS SO MUCH I REREAD BOTH OF THEM LIKE TWICE OMG I DONT EVEN KNOW HOW TO SAY IT LIKE ITS SO WELL WRITTEN OMG😭🫶

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! I have a couple plans for more tartaglia content I love my pookie wookie bear

[mooishbeam]

hellaurrrrr, i love your fics!!!! will you update anytime soon?

Hi!! Hehe I just posted a fic (8 months later....) I will post an individual post soon but thank you for waiting :33

[mooishbeam]

Mademoiselle, your Childe fic was so ✨delicious✨.

I gobbled it up so fast.

💖

Thank you so much!! I really appreciate it, haha it took a while so I'm happy ppl like it

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Country Honey

 ♡ featuring: ranchhand!toji x richgirl!reader

 ♡ synopsis: a spoiled, wealthy college senior is forced to spend her summer at her father’s rural farm as punishment for her reckless behavior and slipping academic performance. unbeknownst to her, a bigger storm awaits just around the corner.

 ♡ wc: 16.5k+ (AHHHHHH)

 ♡ cw/tw: afab!reader, enemies to lovers if you squint, hurt/comfort kinda sad toji, feral toji, spanking, overstimulation, edging, sadism/masochism, throat fucking, cock worship, m/f receiving, doggy style, degradation kink, brat taming, dumbification, reader is a spoiled brat a lot of the time

notes: oh god, where do i begin...i know ive been gone for so long. firstly i want to apologize, and secondly ill explain my absence in a second post. not proofread so i apologize, honestly i shouldnt have tried a long fic for my comeback bc it took way too long to finish, but either way i hope you all enjoy! art by moonlessoul on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

“Almost there.” 

The sleek luxury car your dad drives grumbles at a rocky pace over an evidently gravelly road. If you can even call it a road—rather the patchy fragments of flattened dirt eroded by heavy traffic from a forgotten time. It’s a path shrouded by southern live oak, canopying its leaves and spearing sharp rays of summer daylight through the sunroof.  

You’re feeling every second of this bumpy ride. The wheels hop over an unsteady rock and your knees jab into your sternum. You’re pressed into an unfortunate position, with your legs pinched to your chest and the bright pink suitcase you insisted on bringing sandwiching you to the leather seat. You struggle to wiggle to a decent side that spares your sweltering face from the sun, but the other seats are also occupied with your luggage. And the front seat. And the trunk. 

Maybe that’s why you were brought here in the first place. You’re well off to a sickening amount and you’ve made no efforts to conceal your wealth. Your dad sacrificed his golden years to foster an agricultural business in the rural south, and now you reap the rewards of his labor. You know it and spend it as such. You’ve collected a textbook of names throughout the years—spoiled, bratty, coddled, pompous—each insult savored more than the last. You embraced being a spoiled rich girl and all it had to offer. Top notch schools, waitlisted parties, designer bags, and just about any opportunity you could get your greedy hands on.  

High school left like the wind and before you knew it, the 4.0 extracurricular weapon you used to be devolved into a nightlife college senior, more invested in the extravagant yacht parties than your academic probation. It was a risky misstep, but you didn’t have the heart to care when your dad could easily pay your way to graduation. At this rate you’d be a couple years behind your peers. Your dad wasn’t having any of it. 

The festivities stopped. No unlimited debit card and especially no spending. This could possibly be your final senior summer, and instead of celebrating with friends you’re making up for your transgressions. The worst part is the rural retreat he’s currently driving you to with no sign of civilization for miles.  

You could die right now. 

“How much longer?” You drawl on the last syllable, flicking your phone on and off in hopes that a bar or two will magically appear in the top right. He glances at you through the rearview mirror, a tinge of southern, "Just a few more minutes.”  

You let you phone fall from your limp hand and lean your head against the open window. Nothing but ancient trees and the occasional berry bush. You’re not sure if you should be more upset by the consequences of your actions or the actual actions that roped you into this mess. Instead of ruminating on your mistakes, you allow your eyelids to droop in the oppressive warmth. 

“We’re here darling.” Your eyes shoot open. So soon, and surely not after the forest you’d been traversing moments ago. You’re able to scoot up more, the sound of stone-pathed roads rattling in your ears. You tuck your knees underneath you and lift yourself up now that the terrain was smoother, poking your torso out the window. A bane of light strikes you immediately, and you blink away its brilliance to reveal crystal blue skies. 

Your mouth shapes an ‘O’, and you push your designer glasses over your forehead. “...No way” you gawk, taken by the view your father cultivated. 

This is nothing like the previous tunnel, and certainly nothing like the skyscrapers you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s an endless expanse disrupted by stone and crowded with overgrown wheat, bobbing in the mild breeze. They travel up the winding hill, ducking under wooden fences to border the farmhouse. The two-story ivory home exudes simplicity, strung with hanging pothos that wrap around the spacious porch and decorative shuttered windows painted like strawberries. From your limited view you notice the large red wooden barn peeking out behind the house, and a dirt trail leading to productive areas; a small stable, cattle, and other farm animals coexist in a sector made for their comfort. Beside the home is the largest Magnolia tree you’ve ever seen, with branches extending over the pitched, fabled roof and overhanging eaves with sweeping petals. It’s purposefully overgrown and homely, a humble size incomparable to the mansion you were raised in. 

Your father pulls up to the oak gate with a tattered sign overhead: Welcome to Pleasantview Farms.  

The lack of security, never mind the lack of extravagance, is astonishing to you. It’s unexpected of your father—the man that required you have a designated butler all throughout secondary school. “You never told me about all this” you yell from outside the window, still gazing at distant rolling hills of dewy grass. “You never asked” he chuckles, and turns onto another hill leading up to the house. You look beneath you; patches of flowering weeds fighting their way past the pavement. 

He parks in an open plot half occupied by a wheelbarrow, packed to the brim with haybales. “We’re here.” He turns the car off and steps out to open your side. Your luggage slams onto the dirt before you do, and you yelp.  

“No, it’s gonna get dirty!” He laughs and brushes specs of soil off your precious bag. “And if it does, you’ll be alright pumpkin.” You groan and attempt to get out without sacrificing your hot pink slides, when your first foot gives into silt. You scream and stumble onto dry earth, leaving your phone behind to *splat* in the mud. You kick off the mud barely clinging to your shoes until you catch a glimpse of your glittery phone charm on the floor. It takes you a second to process the mud-covered device slowly descending, but when your brain synapses finally link, you expel an ear-shattering shriek. To which your dad stifles a smile at the dramatic performance. 

He picks it up and wipes the debris on his ivory shirt. “One more reason for you not to have it” he says and tucks it away in his pocket while you’re struck with a permanent look of horror. 

The front door swings open, and you turn to see a thin older woman. Slightly older than your father, her face is gentle and creased with living. Her hair fades from light gray to dark brown at the very tips, tied neatly into a bun with a coiled band. She removes her pale-yellow gloves and stuffs them into the back pocket of her bleached trousers, jogging up to you. “Good afternoon, Annie” he smiles, and she stretches a wide grin that nearly shuts her eyes. “Hello, sir. Is everything alright?”  

“Yup, just kids being kids” he snickers and plants both hands on either side of your shoulders. “This is my daughter.” 

“Good afternoon” you meek, devastated and contemplating the status of your phone. She audibly gasps and grabs your hands, and you jolt. “You’re even more beautiful in person. I’ve heard so much about you.” It’s like she’s studying your face with the way she gazes into your eyes, to which they fall onto your cheeks and hair. You’re not one to shy away from flattery, but the direct compliments spread embarrassment across your ears. 

“Keep her company while I get these from the car, will you? Maybe show her around.” She nods, and leads you on an impromptu tour through the house.  

“There isn’t much to see ‘round here, but I’ll try to make it interestin’ for ya” she jokes. The entryway is quaint, keeping nothing but rubber boots covered in dirt and farming tools used for today’s workload. “This where we keep what we need for today. S’just better to pick it up from the front.” You nod.  

Further in, the hallways are decorated with baby pictures of you at various photoshoots. On the left side, she shows you a pastel green kitchen embellished with colorful floral paintings above the handles. Annie talks with her hands, “This is my domain. Damn near painted the whole thing. Took a lot of convincin’, but I got it eventually.”  

“Do you live here?” you questioned. “We all do!”  

“All?” 

“Mhm”, she hums, “Me, Terrace, Lionel, and...” she trails off at the end. You’re surprised that they’re living where they work, and even more surprised that she’s all smiles while doing it. “Do you...like living here?” 

“Of course! Pays well, lots'a vacation time, and everything’s compensated.” You tilt your head slightly, “Where do you guys' sleep?” 

“We got our own place out back, all of us. Sweet deal, huh?” she says, patting your back. “And who was the other person that works here?” you ask. 

Annie waves off the idea, stating “You don’t have to worry ‘bout him, he’s not really the talkin’ type.” 

Perhaps it was her bluntness or her motherly cadence, but you quickly became comfortable with her presence dragging you around like a lost puppy. She showed you the living room that appeared to be vomited on by all things antique and vintage, and the bathroom tiled an ugly orange pattern. She led you outside, where a garden blossoming with peonies and hibiscus was trimmed carefully to adorn the pebbled path and fit around the barn. Far-out past the back gate you saw what you assumed was their living quarters, separated from miles of tillage. 

By the time she finished her grand tour, you made it upstairs together to regroup with your dad. The second floor was reserved for your bedrooms and attached bathrooms. Entering your room, there’s nothing special about it. It seems like your dad attempted to buy things similar to your style, but couldn’t quite figure it out. You weren’t expecting much of anything considering this was your first—and most likely last—time being here, but it’s truly mediocre. “Whaddaya think pumpkin?”  

“I love it” you choke out a lie and plop onto the red plaid bedding. Your luggage is lined up by the dresser, and you have quite the unpacking session awaiting you. Annie leans on the doorway. “I’ll let ya get settled in. We can do more in the morning.” Your dad leaves with her, and when you’re left alone stewing in the reality, you fall back onto the comforter. 

One day is entertaining, you’d even call it an enjoyable experience. But the entire summer? You spend the rest of the day emptying out suitcase after suitcase, and turn in under the heavy blankets starving off a midnight chill. 

You’re up before the crack of dawn, contemplating what you’ll wear as if that matters while you’re shoveling shit and carrying chicken feed. You throw on something impractical either way—a plaid button up tied to crop, tight denim shorts, and a brand new pair of shiny cowboy boots you just couldn’t resist buying when the trip was announced. You stomp your way to the back porch and are immediately hit with the bittersweet scent of humid pastures and last night’s rain within the tepid wind. It’s utterly quiet besides the distant echo of cattle and pigs, cicadas humming an airy tune. Your eyes latch onto the barn, slightly parted with a dim light going on the inside.  

You recall what Annie said to you during the tour when you asked what’s in the barn: “I suggest you leave it alone, nothin’ worth lookin’ at in there.” Her clear avoidance intrigued you, and the more she dodges actual answers the more curious you become. You tread carefully on the path so you don’t alert whoever or whatever’s inside. As you plant one weightless foot over the other, you stop.  

A deep, gritty voice; thick like the bark of an ancient redwood. He grunts then *chop*, followed by something solid rolling on a prickly surface. Another thick groan and another *chop*. You get closer to the barn and slide across it, practically dragging yourself against Annie’s wishes.  

*Chop* 

You clutch the side of the parted door. 

*Chop* 

You peak your head in. The two story barn houses an array of soils and tools used for farming on the bottom, and clumps of hay piled high at the top. 

The older man with a mop of inky hair hangs his head low, honed in on the objective beneath him. The sharp end of the axe steadies above his head, then cuts through the air as it lands deep within the stump. He goes for another swing, beads of sweat meandering between his pecs, down the carved muscle of his abdominal and disappearing below his chiseled v-line. He digs his thick calloused fingers into the crevice and splits it. It’s as if his physique was crafted by careful hands, weaving marble like silk only Roman gods could mimic. 

Your entirely distracted by the unexpected scene before you when the silence is cut by a clatter. His breaths are sharp and purposeful as he kicks it off the stand and trudges to the uncut pile of logs. You watch him with wandering eyes, taking mental notes of scars hiding underneath the fine hair spread across his torso. This isn’t the grumpy old man you imagined when Annie spoke so brazenly about him. 

He hasn’t glanced at you once, despite standing right in front of the post he’s chopping on. It’s slightly aggravating. You’ve never had to ask for anyone’s attention before. You bathed in wealth, just enough to make even the snobbiest trust-fund kid turn his head. He must be blind. So, you wait until he comes to his senses, tapping your foot with your arms crossed over your chest.   

And you do that...for a while. More than a few minutes pass, and you’re still standing here. You stir in the silence and methodical chopping, feeling flustered at how needy you look waiting for a man's response. A piece of wood—more important than you? Impossible. In a last-ditch attempt, you clear your throat rather dramatically. Nothing. A log rolls by your foot and the older man walks up to you only to kneel down and grab the wood before going back to his task. Heat creeps onto your cheeks. Are you fucking kidding me?  

“Are you hard of hearing, mister?” you finally ask, batting your eyelashes at him. It’s a deep contrast to the irritation boiling in your stomach, so much so you have to choke back the vulgar words bubbling at the surface.  He glimpses you with frosted olive eyes and swings the axe over his head. In a mild country accent he replies, “No.”  

“...Oh.” You’re struck with palpable quiet once again. You’re fixed to the floor, struggling with something to say that doesn’t start with ‘fuck you’. As you’re about to open your mouth, he speaks.  

“Heard ya the first time.  If ya wanna talk, use your words.” You stare in utter disbelief. Was it audacity or straight stupidity? You can’t imagine anyone disrespecting their employer’s child, let alone commanding them.   

“Excuse me?” He tosses the last log in the pile.  

“Hm? Should I do it in a way you’ll understand?” he brings his fist to his lips, clearing his throat as you did.  There’s a glint through that frost, the twinkle of an obvious shit-stirrer. You’re pissed no doubt, but the corner of your lip twitches at a challenge. 

The most important tool to a wealthy family is humility. You can’t be too self-centered or prideful to strangers, dropping hints of sugary kindness as to not sour your perception. Perception is truly everything. Even so, the flowered words you’ve been taught to wield with grace wilt at the sight of him. 

“Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?” You scoff, plopping down on the stump. He wipes his dirt-dusted hands on the back of his overalls, straps dangling at his thighs. “Not sure what ya mean.” 

“From what I’m getting, you’re a grumpy asshole. That description sound correct?” 

“‘M only an ass when trust-fund kids call me like I'm a dog.” 

“You know, the way Annie talks about you I thought you’d be some geriatric old man on his death bed! Turns out you’ve still got a couple more months in you—congrats!” 

He laughs, “‘Preciate it. If I’m correct you must be papa’s spoiled little brat from the big city?” 

“Mhm. Don’t worry, this was your first offense so I’ll let it slide. Remember to get on your knees when you apologize.” He pretends to ponder the idea, “Think I’ll pass. You can pick up one ‘o them bags up though and bring ‘er up to the field.” 

You pause for a second, blinking. Instantly you double over with snorting laughter, the kind that tints your face and gathers tears at your lashes. You’re even clutching your stomach from how funny it is. When you come up from your fit, he’s there with his arms crossed under his chest. That’s when you realize he wasn’t joking by any means. You gape in disbelief, a chuckle still caught in your throat. 

“Wait…you’re serious?” He walks over to one of the sacks and tosses it at your feet. “Well, get to work. I’ll show ya where to put it.” You purse your lips when a giggle slips, “Do you really think that’s gonna happen? Must be the age catching up with your brain.” 

“I think it is gonna happen cause yer in my area. If you wanna be here, you’re gonna work. Nothin’s free ‘round these parts.” You hop off the stump and stand in front of him. Unfortunately, your attempt to size him up fails as your crane your neck to meet his gaze. “You can’t make me do anything. In fact, this is my property, and you’re here to do your job. So go do it” you terse. 

“Nah, that’s not how this works. You’re on the farm now, not some bullshit country club you go to on weekends. Take yer ass to that bag and pick it up.” 

You feign a pout, “Isn’t a pretty girl in your presence enough hard work already?” 

“Not when she has so much mouth. The pretty ones know how to shut up.” 

“I wouldn’t have so much mouth if you didn’t back talk.” He gets in close, only inches away from your face. 

“Either go pick flowers, whatever girly shit you do, or do what I tell you to do.” 

“I’ll tell my dad you’re forcing me into manual labor.” 

“Aww, go ahead” he mocks with a smirk. He walks towards the door, wrapped in golden sunlight. Curious, you try tugging on the sack and nearly face-plant over the weight of it. There’s no way he expects you to carry it on your own. He turns back around, laced with mirth. 

“By the way, name’s Toji. Welcome home, sweetheart.” 

“Go do it yourself since you’re so good at it! You egotistical, selfish, brutish-” 

“Pompous ass instigatin’ little-” 

“-Callous disrespectful pig!” 

“-Brat.”  

The words topple over themselves and you both can’t get a full sentence in as insults are hurled like physical objects. The few days you’ve spent on the farm so far have been nothing short of hell, specifically around Toji. You’ve never worked this hard in your life; then again, that’s not saying much. He'd disregard your lack of general strength and enthusiasm. Sometimes he’d hold the underside of the bag to take some of the weight off, to which you often added “why don’t you just grab the whole damn thing?” A smirk and curt response were simply “Nope.” 

Most days you merely dragged a few bags to the pick-up truck and spent the rest of the day lounging around the garden. You’d stumble into the kitchen, a bead of sweat barely manifesting on your brow, and complain to Annie about Toji’s evil plan to make you contribute. 

Today is no different and you laze on the chair with your back bent over it, groaning in theatrical agony. Annie sits across from you funneling blueberry muffin batter into a silver muffin tin. “Yea, yea, I hear ya” she jokes.  

“Annie, do something” you drawl. She throws her hands up, “Can’t. Thats on you, now.” You scrape the side of the bowl and pop a blueberry-dipped finger in your mouth.  

“Don’t eat raw egg, hun” she says, turning her back to put the tray in the oven. You unconsciously take another swipe, then the door swings open. Heavy cowboy boots trail to the kitchen, and you glance at the doorway. Toji leans on it with his hands in his pockets, white tank sprinkled with grass blades.  

“Shit” you mumble.  

“’M lookin for ya and here you are stuffing your face.” 

“The girl neva worked a day in her life an’ you want her to be your assistant” Annie jests.  

“’S about time, ain’t it? We’re not done yet. C’mon.” You let out another reluctant groan and follow behind him. “This is bullshit, nobody does this on a normal day.” 

“Yea, nobody you know.” 

In front of the wheelbarrow bags upon bags are filled to the brim with juicy red apples and the truck is just a few feet away. Your eyebrow twitches imagining the weight in your arms. “You can go fuck yourself if you think-” before you can finish your sentence, a bag is dropped into your arms that briefly sends you to the ground. Toji picks up two and flings them over his back. “What? Too weak?” He walks to the truck, ignoring the glare burning holes in the back of his head. Too weak, my ass. You definitely couldn’t beat him in a fight, but you damn sure wouldn’t let him talk down on you after proving your competence. You pull it up and haul it backwards, not without a few mild choice words. 

“Jerk.” 

The pungent odor of slurry and trough feed overcome any habitable air near the pig farm. The clothespin you have clamped around your nose barely blocks the smell. It’s the middle of the day, rays rippling heat off the stench and sending it for miles. Your cowboy boots struggle to sit upright on the uneven terrain blanketed with mud.  

You don’t dare to open your mouth and complain in fear of it invading your sinuses. It’s your fault for nagging endlessly about the “back-breaking” work Toji forced you to do. your criticisms were met with some rendition of “suck it up”, and arguing only went in circles. Consistent arguing—from the moment you woke up to the last minutes of your shift, where you mouthed off one too many times for his liking. When you threatened to find another shift with someone else, he laughed in your face, a “good luck” drowning in derision.  

 Eventually Terrace got word of your grievances and offered part of his work to you. You accepted too soon without consulting Annie, happy to just rub it in Toji’s face that he’d be on his own carrying the bags. Simply the concept of it—Toji hunched over and covered in sweat with heaps of cargo—satiated your pride, and you’d count the days until he groveled and begged for your help again. 

Except that’s not the case. As you fight the urge to sink into the mud a seed of regret grows in a more reasonable part of your mind. You could ask for your position back, where he’d probably be waiting with that shit-eating grin of his and “I told you so” written all over his face. Or you could be stubborn and prove whatever point you’re trying to make. Stupidly headstrong, you swallow the urge to vomit and plod into the pig pen.  

The squelch of damp earth and God-knows-what underneath your boots is enough to make you sick. You’re balancing two full buckets of pigswill on either side of you, resisting the lack of steadiness that causes you to lean unfavorably. It’s no help that there’s filthy pigs all around you, snorting and trotting along. One bumps into the bucket and you shriek; your foot goes airborne and impending doom flashes before your eyes. Luckily, you gain stability and plant it firmly into the ground with an awful bubbling noise. The mess has soiled your boots coming up to your calves, and you frantically check for mud-to-skin contact. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it’d definitely be the end of your day. Suddenly, a whistle from the other side of the wooden fence grabs your attention. 

“Go on then, pig queen!” Toji yells, elbows propped on the edge. His accent gets thicker when he yells. He’s not affected by the smell in the slightest, and it almost looks like he’s breathing in extra hard to taunt the shortage of oxygen reaching your brain. 

“Fuck you!” you yell in a nasally tone. He adjusts his cowboy hat, “I’d focus on what’s in front of ya. Wouldn’t wanna slip in shit, right?” You scoff and continue to the troughs.  

You can’t imagine how Terrace, let alone anyone does it—from the constant clamor of livestock to sinking in pools of muck for hours. There’s dirt on your knees, clothes, in places you never imagined dirt could reach. The pigs seem excited as you place the pails on the rim, whereas you exert a long sigh for the fulfilled trek. They come running in unison as if something triggered in their brains, pushing past each other to get there first. Once they’re emptied, a partial weight lifts from your shoulders. You shoot an arrogant sneer at Toji, and watch the corner of his scar tip up just a little. You’re still pinned to the side, and a wet snout gently prods your exposed leg. It tickles and you laugh at its cluelessness. “Hey, I’m not on the menu.”  

As you slither out the crowd, a sneaky puddle attempts to take you out. You cling to the embarrassment, to Toji standing right there ready to mock you. You won’t give him the satisfaction. From there you take careful steps, one cautious foot after the other. Toji meets you around the entrance, and you’re about to reach the gate. You’re oozing confidence now; you might even brag to your father about the effortlessness of it all, that living on a farm is nothing, that you were able to accomplish anything— 

Slip. Crash! 

You’re knocked clean off your ass, so fast it doesn’t register until a few blinks pass. You hold a breath and the blurriness fades.  

Brown. It’s on your face.  

It’s truly everywhere—mud sloshing around in your boots, seeping into your clothes, sticking to the crevices, your fingers intertwined in the mass below.  

The emotion you try to stifle boils over into a horrified squeal, a tune that exceeds the pigs. And you scream and scream. Once for the mud and twice for the death of your designer boots. You’re so entwined in your own screams that you barely catch the laughter a few feet away.  

It’s him, doubled over with a practically red face. “I get you wanna be one of the pigs but you don’t hafta roll in it too!” Toji chortles. He can’t contain himself, wiping the tears on his glove. 

Your ears feel hot. “Shut the fuck up and get me out of here!” 

“Relax, relax. Gimmie a second.” The footsteps get further away, and you stumble to the gate to open. It doesn’t matter now that the damage is done, and you look like some terrifying swamp monster from myth. The lower half of you could only be concocted in a child's nightmares. 

Something snakes in the trampled grass, then it pauses. “Here.” Sooner than you can turn your head, you’re blasted with water. It rains on you like a thundershower and you cover your face from the assault. Denim weighs heavy, and your hair sticks to your face. You feel the dirt washing off, but now you’re soaked in a mixture of water and sodden debris. Wet, you’re spitting out water and treating your fingers like windshield wipers. The hose finally drops, and your eyes trail from the hand to the face.  

That shit-eating grin. 

“No need to thank me, miss piggy.” 

Your lip twitches. Should you kill him? Absolutely. Is it worth it? In this moment, yes. You’re doused, dirty, nose blind, and no longer hanging on to your act of humility. You have to get him back, at least once. It doesn’t matter if you have to wait all summer for it, creeping in doorways for the perfect time to demean him. There’s no level playing field—either your way or nothing. A smile stretches across your face. 

“You’re so right, darling. Now let me show you just how much I appreciate you.” You saunter to him, and he awaits with open arms. Before he can grab you, you dodge him and snatch the hose from the ground.  

Aim and fire, full force directly at his face. The blast knocks his hat off and into the air, swaying in the balmy breeze. His arm falls short of snatching it, plopping into the pen to blend with shit. You can’t hear the muffled curses he spouts, but damn is it satisfying to silence him. Then he reaches for you to which you promptly escape his span. You take time hosing down any remaining dry spots, and once the hose is down, he launches. You yelp and return to his face, and the abruptness makes him slip. Right into the mud you just shook off, he lands butt-first. It splatters his cargo pants and creates polka dot patterns on the white tank stretching to accommodate his frame. “You little-” 

Another burst of water. He tries to stand on slippery foundation and quickly falls, earth splashing back on him. You understand why he was laughing so hard and you can’t stop giggling at the misery of inescapable rain showers.  

“Looks like you needed some too! I can smell you from here!” you laugh. His snicker comes off more conniving than it should, and you brace for whatever hell you’ll have to pay later. He bolts up, and you make a run for it. Just when he thinks he has you, he slips again.  

“Poor grandpa! Someone get his life alert!” you cackle, dropping the hose and sprinting for the hills. You’re too afraid to turn around when you know for a fact he is mere feet away from capturing you. You cut through air, nothing but crumpling grass and laughter carried by the wind. It’s exhilarating...fun?  

You're confused by your own actions. You smell horrible, your hair is sticky, disgusting slop clings to you like a second skin, the sun is only baking the scent, and your self-proclaimed rival is chasing you.  

You should be mortified, and somehow, you’ve never felt better. 

Motes of dust scatter within the golden hue of mornings wake. The window’s cracked open, and remnants of last night's chill carry through sunrise. You’ve sat in this claw tub for way too long, melting in steam and lavender bubbles that slowly dissipate the longer you linger. A self-care day is what you need, especially after the “incident” that still makes your skin crawl weeks later. Simply your mud mask, waning candles, and rustling leaves. It’s rare you get silence like this nowadays, with Toji constantly on your back bickering about trivial problems.  

You can’t place your finger on what bothers you more, or if you’re really even bothered at all. Ironically, spending more time mulling over what you hate than actually hating him. You can mouth your contempt for him endlessly like an affirmation on deaf ears, but it never truly manifests.  

He’s annoying, selfish, crude, and disrespectful. 

Oh, and did I mention very annoying? 

It’s almost a bonding experience between you two; you’ve memorized the way his lips curve before a snarky remark, the deep crease on one side of his eyebrow when they furrow at something stupid you unintentionally did, his jaw clenching from held back words. His laugh—deep and resounding, unleashing a toxic mix of vomit and thrill in your stomach. You anticipate it, practice your insults in the shower for it, as if...you’re actually looking forward to it? 

You steep further into the fragrant bath, hoping you’ll somehow be sucked into an alternate reality where you don’t have to face those conflicting emotions. To your displeasure, the conflict is brought directly to you.  

A roaring engine disrupts your personal spa, and you jolt up. It sounds like a monster truck convention decided to congregate right below your bathroom window, and you definitely can’t relax under these conditions. You loosely wrap the towel around yourself and peer out over the windowsill. You can’t see a face, but you see that distinct cowboy hat stained over its silver conchos. 

“Hey!” you yell. No response, but how could you expect him to when the hood is propped up. He must be wrenching something inside judging by the way his back muscles methodically tighten. 

“HEY!”  

“TOJI!” That gets his attention and he squints above, wrench still in hand. “Oh! What are ya doing there?” 

“This is my bathroom you idiot!” 

He pans between the vehicle and your window. “Oops!” 

“Turn it off, I’m trying to have my beauty bath in peace!” 

  “Welp, can’t do anything about that now, can we?” He makes no attempt to turn it off, nor does he give you any more attention as he turns around and resumes working like nothing happened. 

You run downstairs completely haggard, mud mask hardly washed off with a pair of mismatched socks and a baggy shirt. The rumbling gets louder, and you don’t have the patience for appearances when you step into those clod-smeared boots.  

The screen door swings open and you march to the side of the house, towel bunched in your arms. 

He doesn’t regard you until you launch it at his face, which he promptly catches without looking. “Thanks, needed somethin’ to dry off.” He wipes the oil streaks from his face and neck while you stand there scowling. His eyebrows narrow. 

“What’s the problem now?” You should've predicted he’d say this, as every time a dispute arises over his uncivil actions he asks the same clueless question. 

“What...God, you’re so annoying sometimes! Do you not understand how it doesn’t make any sense for you to be here and-” He’s spacing off, scratching the side of his head with the wrench. It drives you up the wall when he acts like this. 

“Listen to me!” That triggers him back to the present, and the light flickers in his eyes just to deadpan you. “You done?” 

“No, I’m not done. Say you’re sorry” you command. He takes the hat off his head and places it on his chest. “My apologies, princess. I’ll be sure to call the company and let them know their machine is too loud for your prissy little ass” he smiles, coy and bowing. You nudge him and the wind rushes from his nose. 

“When you call them, let them know their piece of shit junk needs to be out of commission.” 

“Well, this piece of shit lasts a lifetime.” 

“What even is this?” You’re analyzing it, and it reminds you of the illegal three-wheelers certain people ride through the city. It has no seatbelt or roof, and a row of sharp spinning blades hooked to the back. 

“City girl’s never heard of this, huh? ‘Sa tiller. Gets the job done durin’ plantin’ season.” You step towards it, but Toji stops you from going further with his arm. “Don’t go near the blades.” 

“Obviously.” You shoo him and climb into the seat of tiller. You sink into the leather seat, lay back, and cross your feet on the wheel. Toji grimaces, but that subtle sign that you’re inconveniencing him eggs you on. 

“Get yer feet off the wheel.” 

“Mm, nah. It’s not hurting anyone.” 

“’S hurting me.” 

“Hmph, okay.” You switch your feet to the opposite cross, and he looks up to an invisible God, probably begging it to give him the strength to not throw you off. 

“What did I-” 

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the engine!” you scream. He sighs and hunches back over the hood. “Jus’ be quiet for me, have to finish this.” Funny how he asks for quiet in these deafening circumstances. 

You didn’t plan on watching him work, but you hate to admit it’s kind of interesting. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, sweat trickling down his temples from the apparent heat on the inside. This must’ve been what Annie meant at the beginning, about his silence and reluctance to speak unless being spoken to. The scars scattered on his bicep shift with the cranking wrench, and you can’t help but focus on it. They’re too deep to be cat scratches and healed with a bunched sheen under its darker edges. There’s one under his collarbone, too, peeking past his shirt neckline dark and jagged. Your mind wanders, for the past life he had—what was his family like, why does he choose to live here, why are there so many scars, what led him to- 

“You’re staring.” You snap out of it, to him wiping the excess oil on his shirt. 

“Sorry.” 

“Oh? Where’d that hospitality come from all of a sudden?” You can’t explain why, but there’s a solemn pit burning in your stomach. Perhaps you’d lighten up a bit, at least for now. “Appreciate it while it lasts” you remark. He grins and gets back to work. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Changin’ the ignition coil. That’s why she sounds like hell.” 

Your ears perk up, “She?” 

“Yup.” 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Nope.” 

“Can I name her?” He puts the replacement coil on, “Knock yourself out.” 

“Hmm…how about….Priscilla?” He can’t purse his lips quick enough to stop the laugh that escapes.  

“Hey! I think Priscilla’s a cute name” you add. “Yeah, for an old woman.” 

“No way, an old woman name would be something like ‘Gertrude’.” 

“Gertrude’s on the same level as Priscilla.” 

“Either way it’s fitting, isn’t it? An old woman for an old man.” His scar tips up. “Ha ha. Think I’m pretty fit for an old man, though.” 

Your eyes reluctantly snap to his chest muscles peeking through the shirt. “You manage.” He pushes the coil away from the flywheel. 

“Maybe Rosy? Oh, or Susie.” 

“Think I’ll just call ‘er (Y/N).” 

“Huh? Why my name?” 

“So when you make me mad, I can curse her out instead of you. Best part is she won’t talk back.” He tightens the last screws and shuts the hood. Immediately the banging stops, and the engine reduces to a whir. You clap sarcastically, “Nice job! You get a C minus.” 

“Why not an A?” 

“You’ll get an A when you stop pissing me off.” 

Sticky sunbeams melt and mold into your pores, stiff from the aftereffects of its suffocating warmth. The sky gives way to a heatwave, where shimmering hot sheets scorch the ground and ripple like a retreating ocean. Lionel taught you how to harvest fruit before the rooster’s crow, and you reaped the rewards of your labor all morning. You’re numbed to the moisture collecting on your face at this point, as its vicious, stuffy humidity swallows your breaths and envelops your bleary eyes. You chose to shut them over battling the sun, bathing in its essence. It would settle in the late afternoon and blend to a forgiving mess of sunset swatches, but in the meantime, you’d soak up a bronzing tan.  

You brought a blanket to the nearest tree you could find, an expansive canopy spearheading small manageable daylight. You’re leafing through the pages of a non-fiction novel you never finished with a makeshift flower bookmark tucked under your thumb. You occasionally stop to dive in the compensation for your earlier efforts; a basket of scarlet strawberries twisted around prickly stems. 

The book tugs from your grasp and you prop up your sunglasses, gazing at the perpetrator. 

It only takes a glance to notice how badly burnt Toij’s body is. Does he really need someone to remind him to apply sunscreen, a basic necessity, or did he get too wrapped up in his work again? Toji was, if nothing else, a hard worker. You caught yourself on more than one occasion observing him. You saw it in the way the other farmers freely asked for his help, and how he’d give it for nothing in return. He moved like the wind, stoic demeanor all consuming, to behave like the rough muteness he pushed upon himself. 

A rosy shade diffuses on the apples of his cheeks and clearly separates from the protected and unprotected parts of his flesh. Its shape outlines a tank top he must’ve been wearing with the bottom hiked up, bright rubescent pattern surrounding his surprisingly smooth pecs. You take a mental note to nag him about it next time. The smudged outline of your glasses reflects on his glistening lower abdomen and his chest heaves like a marathon in the desert.  

“What ya reading?” he asks. His eyes drag across the page. “None of your business” you retort, hazy and lax from summer’s embrace. He peers over the book and passes it off to you.  

“Don’t seem like the reading type.” He plops down on the grass with a basket of dirt and carrots, few contorted to an inedible extent. “Neither do you.” He digs his fingers in the basket and begins fishing out the deformed carrots. The usual banter, macerated by exhaustion, ghosts by with little intent. 

“If you’re looking for help, I don’t feel like it.” 

“I know.” 

You both don’t say anything for a while, taking in the warmth, the cicadas buzzing in a faraway tree, the brewing pause between your bodies, unsaid words binding you to selfish outcomes, depriving you of your deepest hunger. The book is no longer as interesting as you remember. You’re more inclined to watch the sunburnt farmer. 

He picks up another clump. Inching along the carrot is a ladybug. Toji regards it for a second with the same eyes that chop trees and drag metal. At first, he does nothing. Then you track the tip of his finger as it prods slightly, goading the ladybug onto it. He carries it with the same unwavering stoicism to a blade of grass, where the ladybug hops off and continues its journey.  

Speechless would be an understatement. Truthfully, he’s the last person you’d expect to act that way. Those battered palms, bruised and scarred, tattered with memories, could appear so gentle. Those same hands would afford the fragile beings of mankind a moment of mercy. Only you are granted the privilege of Toji’s micro movements; his shoulders slumping from their usual solidity, his eyelids relaxing, jaw unclenching. Is this what he wanted you to see? Is that why he came here, sitting in the shade of a rival you thought you had? You must be staring for too long because- 

“…What?”  

“Oh. Uh, nothing.” 

He returns to what he was doing.  

“It’s about the search for meaning in life. A psychiatrist's perspective.” 

“Your book?” He asks, sifting through the sod. 

“Yeah.” 

“So…did he figure it out?” 

“He believes that the primary human drive is not pleasure, but the pursuit of what we find meaningful.” He doesn’t react, but a curious part of you wanted him to respond. Tell you a story or spill his guts, lay bare in front of you so that you may latch on to something, anything that isn’t rumors or hushed whispers for the man unknown to everyone. He checks another carrot—it’s as if he’s looking past it, like a light switched off, engulfed in a reflection pulling him further and further. 

You point the tip of a strawberry to him and his attention diverts, “You want?”  

“Can’t. Hands full.”  

You eye them; thick and calloused, fingernails lined with soil, probably sore along with the rest of his body. You can’t bear to watch—surely not because you care, but because of your sudden aptitude to kindness.  

“Just come here.” He leans over cautiously, and the shock is palpable when you press it to his lips. He seems to contemplate the risk of poison for a second.  

“If I wanted to kill you, it would’ve happened already. Open.” He obediently parts his mouth, and you feed it to him. Toji’s eye contact stuns like a spell from a Greek myth—devastatingly enchanting and hard to disengage. Just when you think you have the upper hand, you’re quickly reminded that dynamic can easily change. He rolls his tongue over the bite mark and sucks the juices, and you can’t look away—you won’t. 

 It’s the sun. it has to be. It’s getting to you both.  

You flinch when his lips ghosts against your knuckles. Soft and slightly chapped. Sugary liquid pools at the plush center of his lips where your eyes linger for too long, and he licks that up too. It’s over as quick as it began. Then you’re stuck stirring in the disarray of your own deluded thoughts.  

His scar curls with a growing smirk. It’s a shallow cut, but sunken, nonetheless. You tell yourself it’s the weather when your thumb moves from the strawberry to his face. Languid, careful motions where the hollow of his cheek would be, like gaining the trust of a wild animal. He doesn’t budge, and you press it to the corner of his mouth. 

“How’d you get this mark on your face?” 

“Not important” he responds curt. 

“Why? I wanna know.” His jaw clenches, reappearing stiff and guarded. “Don’t push it.” 

You trace it, fixating, studying the feeling. You drag downwards, tugging it slightly.  

“…like someone cut you” you mutter. 

Suddenly, he stands up with the basket. His joy fades to indifference; eyes encased in a dense fog. You retreat to your side, and he doesn’t acknowledge you as he starts down the hill. 

“I-“  

“I have to get this to Lionel. See ya.” 

You’re given the back of him, receding into the distance. There’s a dull pounding in your ears, a twitch in your limbs that pleads for you to follow. But what would you say? What could you say? It doesn’t come to fruition.  

The space between you widens with each step. 

“-we’re expecting to see cloudy skies and storms for the re-” the portable radio buzzes in and out of connection, “-prepare for the weather by-”. Annie fiddles with the tuner to get it back on track. It crackles and scratches, but the connection can’t be regained, finally diminishing to static. 

You weren’t listening either way, huddled with your knees close to your chest on the window seat, resting your head as raindrops trickle down the glass and pitter-patter the windowsill. The trees bend to the will of the raging wind, and they’re being pulled every which direction. Ceramic settles behind you, and you crane your neck to Annie, then the novelty mug resembling an orange. You don’t reach for it, but you stare for a while, teabag bleeding burgundy under the millions of candles placed around. 

“Thank you for the tea.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

You’ve had a hard time sleeping lately. Conflictingly so, since you’d imagine more sleep would be had with Toji coming around less. It’s what you wanted. Him chasing you was exhausting, wasn’t it? His behavior, his manners, him—it was just a bother. You should be glad you haven’t seen him since the incident. 

If he pained you, why are you kept awake, fumbling with the covers, incessantly thinking of Toji? You put together witty remarks for when you cross paths again, new creative insults, schemes you’ll act out to piss him off—all of this for someone you tried to get away from for half the summer. You assumed a week would pass and everything would be back to normal. But one week turned into two, then three. Your stay is coming to a close, and as you reflect, you’re forced to reconsider the unspoken reality gnawing at your thoughts since the moment you first met. 

That you were free to be dirty, to curse, to learn, to get mud on your face and dirt underneath your fingernails. You could lounge in an outfit from days ago or dance in the fury of midsummer. You were stupid, but not inferior the way wealthy upperclassmen made you out to be. You had the freedom to be stupid. There were no hierarchies or social status between you—simply hard work and hostility. Somehow that, being tangled in the thorns of a never-ending war, felt better than the yacht parties you’d been accustomed to. 

He sets your blood aflame, but noting ignites a fire in you like Toji. 

Annie sits crisscross on the loveseat, warming her hands with the cup. You return her content smile.  

“Everythin’ alright, sugar?” 

“Think I messed up.” 

“Hm? How so?” 

“I feel like...I overstepped. Actually, I know I did, and I feel bad. Even though I think I shouldn’t.” 

Annie exhales a soft laugh, “Assumin’ this is about Toji?” 

You nod, and she traces the rim of the cup. “If ya don’t care about ‘im, don’t feel bad.” You don’t reply, and she continues, “Though...I have a sneaky suspicion you care more than you'd like to admit.” 

You bury your head further into you. “Feelings are weird” you mumble. 

“They defnintely are. But sometimes it’s good to listen to ya heart. Take it from an old lady.” 

“...” 

“When ya feel bad about somethin’ ya did, the best way’s to apologize.” 

You peek through your arms, “Has he ever told you? Like, about his life?” 

She wanders in thought, recollecting an old memory, “Nope. Youngin’ showed up on the farm one day all scratched up and been workin’ ever since.” 

If nobody knew, you wouldn’t expect him to comply with your demands. You’re conscious of what needs to be done, but doubt surfaces. What does my heart tell me? 

You start tying your boots and throw on a hoodie in a pile by the door.  

“Do you know where he is?” 

“Not a clue.” That’s fine. Today, you’d be the one chasing after him. 

The brunt of the storm smacks you in the face once the door flies open. “Careful out there!” she hollers, and you shut the screen behind you. Your fight or flight refuses to let go of the knob as the squall persists, invoking a shrouded sea of churning clouds and indigo, banging against the foundation of the house. You scale the side and notice the barn, no light inside. You go around the back and it’s the same, wheat failing to resist the storm. However, for a split second you squint and spot a flicker. It’s faint and the size of a firefly from your view, coming from the stables further down. There’s a chance it isn’t him, but you don’t have much room for hypotheticals.   

The safety of the overhang leaves you, and you’re in the middle of a downpour. Running, inching the line of being knocked off your feet from an abrupt gust. You’re submerged in seconds, but you don’t stop running. If your heart tells you to endure, then you will. Raindrops threaten to invade your eyes, whacking you repeatedly in the face, but you shut tight and go forward. The last stretch to the stable feels like clawing up a mountain. The flurry hauls your clothes, and your steps get heavier and heavier as nature batters the earth. 

Then the sleeve shielding your face grazes something solid. You glue yourself to the side of it and pry your eyes open. An oil lantern, shining bright in the dark. You shuffle around for the sliding door and slip inside. The interior is cozy, haybales piled wherever they could fit and a couple large wooden stables supported by beams. The power must’ve went out everywhere, oil lanterns casting dimly.  

Your instinct to breathe ceases when you see Toji. His cowboy hat is tilted back, paisley bandana tied loosely around his neck with an ear of wheat tucked in his teeth. He glances at the sound of the door slamming. You’re blanking, even after you mulled over those sleepless evenings. It doesn’t help that your heart won’t function properly.  

“...Hey” he says, a tone unrepresentative of his avoidance. He grins—in the exact way you like—and picks the straw out. 

You’re irritated he’s even attempting to talk to you as normal. 

“It’s rainin’. You should be inside.” He grabs his shirt and pats your face dry. You don’t complain; a musky scent of cedar and salt when you inhale. “I could say the same to you. Why are you out here?” you murmur through the cloth. 

“Horses get a little antsy when the weathers like this. Came by to calm em’ down.” He pets the blonde mane of one of lighter horses, covered in brown spots.  They look comfortable around him, loose lower jaw slanting to his touch. You’re forgetting how to talk. There he goes again, subverting your expectations. 

“What kind of horse is it?” 

“Spotted draft horse. She’s real gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

“She’s pretty.” He flashes his canines, “Her name’s Marie.” 

“Old woman name” you say under your breath. He laughs. “Wanna pet ‘er?” 

You’re shy but interested, shuffling closer to the stable. The tips of your ears blossom when his palm encloses your wrist, rough skin abrading yours. Then he guides you to the side of Marie’s neck. “You’re gonna pet here. Nice an’ slow, yeah?” he instructs, way too close. It’s silky, and you’re absorbed in the feeling of it on your fingertips. She neigh’s mildly and you jolt. Toji keeps you still. 

“Atta girl” he whispers, husky and painfully smooth in your ear. It fills your head like a shot of whiskey and a tipsy glow flows from your face. Your muscles tense, troubled from your anticipated apology and the unforeseen shift in feelings for him. There’s no way you can do this without stumbling. 

“I didn’t know you liked horses so much.” He lets go. 

“Yup. Used to have one.” You turn to him. His pleasant expression remains, but it’s solemn, bittersweet. You take a long breath and let it spill. 

“I’m sorry for what I did before. I realized I made you uncomfortable asking those questions. It won’t happen again.” 

He subdues his hum and he’s awkward in his stance, rubbing the back of his head like a guilty child. “I was never mad. I just...” He trails off. 

“Never mind that. Big man still pissed at you?” he asks, like mood switch occurred. If he won’t dwell on it, you’ll try not to either. You connect the dots to your father's pet name. 

“That’s what you call him?” you giggle. 

“Yup, since I got to the farm.” 

“I hope not, if he is I’ll probably never leave.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” It’s a humorless joke, wavering someplace unsure. 

“It would be if I never finished school.” 

“What ya majoring in?” You’re hesitant to say for the possible doubt he’ll display. You dance around the answer. 

“Promise you won’t laugh.” His expression contorts to confusion. “Fine...I promise.” 

“Humanitarianism.” He goes blank like a mannequin, and by the way his lip fights a flit he’s holding in his laughter as much as possible. 

“Forget it-” 

“I didn’t laugh. What ya gonna do with your degree?” 

“I want to help people.”   

He folds his arms over his chest, “But you don’t wanna help me?” 

“N-not that kind of help. Like, housing help, financial help. No one should have to work as hard as you...” 

“So, you wanna help old broke runaways like me, huh?” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I mean it’s admirable, darlin’, but I work here cause I want to. ’S a good gig, takes the mind off o’ things.”  

Your mouth moves before your brain, “...What things?” 

“Thought you weren’t gonna ask me shit like that anymore.” 

“My bad.” 

“I’ll give you what you want.” He locks the gate to the stable. Your blood feels hotter when he’s fixed on you.  

“Y’know...the thing about foster care is you’re never guaranteed a good home, or even a home at all.” Toji simpers out of place, out of tune like a broken piano. “I was one of the lucky few that got sent home to home. Got attached just to get thrown back in the same shithole with the other rejects. It hurt at first, but after a while you get so used to the feeling that you’re not wanted or needed. And when a foster kid grows out of the system and they throw your ass on the street, gotta get it however you can.”  Though he tells it like the casual reminiscence of childhood, you know better than that. 

“So, I taught myself to survive, no matter the cost and regardless of who it hurt. I’ve done some irredeemable shit. Held people at gunpoint, beat them up for money, stole their valuables, all the shit they worked hard for.”   

“I fought for food, shelter. Hell, anything I could get my hands on. I never killed anyone but damn sure got close, all for an overnight motel stay and sometimes a couple cigs.”  He ambles to you and you automatically back up. Your space is squeezed to capacity, and whenever you get a portion of relief, he seals it. You take a step; he takes one more. 

“You wanted to know how I got this, right?” He taps the corner of his mouth where the scar is. 

“I entered a fighting ring for money, the kind that trades boxing gloves for knives. And boy, was I desperate. He chucked that blade at my mouth and I crushed his throat, sliced him across the eyes. I bled for a while but it kept me full for a few days.” Your back hits the door and he cages you.  

“‘Ventually the wanted flyers started coming out. Thought about turning myself in, but what kind of asshole admits to his crimes? So, I kept running, running from everything. I can’t remember how long I went for. But then I ended up here.”   

Rain pelts the roof. You remind yourself to inhale and exhale. It’s a conscious thought, in and out, processing the secrets revealed. There’s nowhere to hide, yet you don’t feel unease—solely the faint pang of sorrow. Toji appears warm under the rich glimmer. The rugged contours meld to his lowered gaze, lips twisted in a frown you hardly recognize. He looks entirely different, disconnected from your quarrels. To you this feels like it should be an attempt at intimidation, but the way he's boxing you in screams loose and unsteady. A wounded beast bearing its fangs as a defense mechanism. His arms are corded in muscle and riddled with injuries, likely from the upsets, days of begging for food, wondering when his next meal will be or if he just consumed his last, where he will go to survive, how he will survive.   

“Are you scared now?”  

He’s a vagrant. He lived on the fringes of society, avoiding the law and committing horrific acts for his own benefit. He hurt people. Who’s to say he wouldn’t hurt you next? Annie was right. Toji is right. You need to be afraid.  

Instantly, his little quirks made sense. The barriers he built and his hesitation to speak, forbearing and tolerant in spite of the bruises. He was afraid of being thrown away again, to be the same teen casted to the streets—proven useless. 

You’re inches away. It’s unsaid, begging you to repel him. There’s no rationale in your actions.  

You stand on your toes and catch his lips in a kiss.  

Brief, charged with the comfort that got lost on your tongue. His lips requite yours and leave traces of bourbon. You didn’t know he drank. It’s so brief you linger in the aftermath of heat, hoping you can satiate your interest with two, maybe three more kisses. 

Your noses graze each other. His half-lidded eyes captivate you, freezing you in time, to plinking mist and airy touches, yearning on the brink of impulse. He hovers over your lips, shuddering on the expel. Then he withdraws. 

“Ya have no sense of danger.” 

You can’t think straight, haven’t been able to for some time now. “You’re not scary. Just annoying.”  

“...I'm glad.” 

He grabs his sherpa lined jacket off a haybale and wraps it around your torso. It’s far too big and pieces of hay poke your lower back. He pulls the hood over, “This should be good. C’mon, let’s get ya back in the house.” Toji opens the stable doors. Tiny droplets percolate at your frigid feet, and you stick your head out. 

Fog clings to the edge of the horizon. The storm ended, and the land washed anew.  

“Ouch.”  

“Careful, hun.” 

The sewing needle pricks your thumb from the other side of the glove again and you flinch, though you probably have tons of holes in your skin at the moment. You’re by no means the best at sewing, but it’s not like Toji could do any better based on the tears in the leather. You’re curled like a shrimp on the dining chair, weaving the needle through a heavy-duty fabric you found in the sewing basket Annie gave you. Floral pin cushions, yarn, thread, and bunches of fabric are splayed across the gingham table.  

It’s likely Toji would’ve slaved it to the bone and never ask for another pair, so when you got to your room and found them in the jacket pocket you felt inclined to assist. Plus, it’s a good distraction from the half-embarrassment half-shock you grieved from your boldness the other day.  

A draft pierces the chiffon curtains. It’s getting colder and the final day of your vacation has arrived, both short and torturously long. You think about the things that passed the time, the person that shortened your days to summertime laughter and mischief. Before the farm, you would’ve relished in a going away party with a performer and glittering spotlight. Yet, as cattle moo and land are tilled for the upcoming season, the profoundness of being ordinary is more pleasant than the former. 

You pull the last thread through the patch and admire your amateur mend, navy fabric accented amongst the mahogany leather. Vanilla and lemon permeate the house while a bundt cake rises in the oven. 

Annie hands you a few stationery notecards smudged with flour fingerprints. “Write somethin’ nice for ‘em. Don’t think they’ll be able to say goodbye before you go. ‘S gettin’ busier and busier nowadays.” You nod and start writing messages of appreciation for Lionel and Terrace, thanking them for putting up with your cluelessness.  

“Should I write one for you, too?” 

“You can jus’ tell me now” she beams. 

“Well, Annie, thank you for everything—for showing me around, cooking for everyone, making sure we’re all healthy and full. Most of all, thanks for treating me like family.” 

She tussles your hair, “You’ll always be family, honeybun.” 

Hooves on stone trot near the house and your heart skips a beat. You walk to the screen door and see Marie’s long mane, then Toji holding the reins. He looks like a true cowboy, double stitched western belt with a taut plaid flannel and chestnut cowboy hat to match his boots. You open the door and lean on the porch column. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” he calls. 

“Usually, guys say that when they have an expensive car.” 

“Well, this here’s an expensive horse. That good enough for ya?” 

“...I guess it’ll have to do” you say, continuing to Marie with a delicate caress on her neck. 

He holds his hand out, “Up.” 

“To where?” 

“Stop askin’ so many questions.” You roll your eyes and grab his wrist. He abruptly hauls your body weight over Marie and you squeak. It's higher than you thought and you struggle to adjust your legs in the right position on the saddle. 

“Might wanna hold on.”  

You scoff, “I can handle myself.” As soon as you say that, Marie breaks into a sprint. You would’ve flown off the mare if not for your flailing arms finding safety around Toji’s waist. “You did that on purpose, you ass!” you scream.  

“I have no idea what ya talkin’ ‘bout.” You can hear the smile when he says that.  

Hammered dirt belches behind as you leave a thick forest similar to the one you drove through for your arrival. It’s a scene from a storybook, carving through a colorful meadow bursting with wildflowers. They teeter in the headwind and so do you, hair whipping onto your face from the speed. The canopy that once enveloped you becomes a faint, fading outline against the sky and bushes shrink to specks. The landscape melts like an impressionism painting. 

Toji has expert control over the mare and his stature stands tall in spite of haste. You scale the hills, appreciating the natural foundation carving willowy trees, the miles of foliage, the cattails in a small sparkling river etched in a meandering bank. Birds sing their evening songs, and an animal rustles through the grass. Eventually you pause at the summit, immersed in a vast, unspoiled scenery stretching infinitely. Toji hasn’t said much, but neither do you.  

“I thought you’d wanna see this” he mutters. 

“How come?” 

“When ya weren’t working, you’d just climb to the hilltops and... stare. Never knew what you were staring at, but I assumed it was the view.” 

“You don’t see stuff like this in the city. It’s so peaceful here.” 

“It never gets old.” You look at him, corners of his mouth mellow. You recall the way they felt and butterflies involuntarily bloom from a deep pit in your stomach. 

You yank the hat from his head and try it on. “Hey, give it here.” You duck his grasp and push it down.  

“It looks cute on me.” 

“So what?” 

“You don’t think it matches my shoes?” 

“I think you’re a brat.”  

“Hmm” you say, feigning contemplation. “You should know, women don’t like angry old men. It’s so uncute.” 

  “Heh, really. I’m uncute?” he laughs. “Yeah, among a few other things.” 

“Well I’m sorry, princess, but you’re a real pain in the ass too.” 

“The feeling’s mutual” you retort. 

“...Is it?” You don’t have a remark for that. The sun recedes into the horizon, radiating burnt orange and red. He uses the reigns to guide Marie back in the direction of the farm. “I’ll miss the countryside.” The brim of his hat dips over your eyes and you don't correct yourself when you lean to his back, calmed from the rocking sway.  

Toji pulls the reigns at the stairs and gets off. You impassively accept his aid as he  

 scoops and sets you down.  

The buzzing porch light attracts moths with its fluorescence. Amidst the prolonged awkward silence and clumsy gestures, you’re searching for your soul’s response like Annie mentioned. Whenever you tried, the message got tangled on your tongue. Given another chance, it eludes you again. 

“I guess this is it.” 

“Yup” he agrees. 

“Try not to miss me too much.”  

He smirks, “I’ll do my best. Goodnight, little miss.” 

He left and it’s time for you to get some sleep. But you can’t. You’re wide awake, glued to the ceiling thinking about him like your life depends on it. Maybe the instigator in you was waiting for confrontation, or the truth hurts more than you thought it would. You sit up like you’re expecting something, like you just lost a long-fought battle. You need the last word.  

It’s a quaint home with tawny wood accents. Jacket and gloves in tow, you can’t formulate a single justifiable reason for being at his front door. You lie and tell yourself it’s to return his possessions, as if you ever cared, like his hat isn’t resting on your dresser. You knock twice. 

Toji unlocks the door wearing nothing but his jeans, hair shaggier than usual. “Look who’s here” he says, a tinge of shock and something sweeter. You shove the items to him. “Your jacket, and uh…your gloves were bad, so I sewed them up. Try to take better care of your things.” He slings it to the side. 

“Heh. Yes, ma’am.” 

“So…um.” 

“Is that all you’re here for?” Not in the slightest. You’re here to get something off your chest, right? You’re not even sure what you’re mad about anymore. 

“Y-yeah.” 

“Alright then, see ya in the mornin’.” The door slowly winds closed, but you interrupt, “Were you trying to insinuate something?”  

It stops and he cracks it further, smile growing. “Not tryin’ to insinuate anything I haven’t noticed already” 

You’re burning under his gaze. “Wha…I swear, your ego is insane. You should be grateful I’ve been so nice-“ 

“Your eyes tend to…” he regards you from head to toe, “…roam. You’re not as subtle as you think.” 

“Like I wanna look at you.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if ya did.” 

“God, you’re so far up your own-“ 

“You haven’t left yet.” His relaxed demeanor aggravates you, as if he's fully aware of why you’re here. He edges closer, chest inches away from yours, voice slow and gravelly in the dead of night. 

“There’s somethin’ you want, right? Ask for it.”  

Your pulse travels to your ears. Longing teetering on the cusp of fire. 

“Fuck this.” You turn to leave, when suddenly your arm gets snatched back and pulled into the room. The door shuts and you’re flung against it, though there’s no room to move when Toji’s pressed chest-to-chest. His breathing heaves, and you can feel it rising and falling laden with yours as he’s loomed over you. 

“What’s with the sass, huh?” he chides. His grip is bruising, but the small victory of a sinking composure sends a chill up your spine you’d rather not think about. 

“You started it, don’t act so innocent now.” You can tell he’s physically holding back, the shakiness in his little breaths becoming more evident. The wild blaze in his eyes eats you up with greed. 

“You really need to be taught some fucking manners.” 

“You’re gonna punish me?” You’re both at a whisper, too scared to speak the words you’ve been keeping to yourselves. 

“I wanna do so much worse.” 

“Then do it.” 

He holds your neck in place and you succumb to raw and unrestrained fervor. Rough, uncoordinated kisses being dragged over the expanse of your lips and you’re hardly able to maintain the pace. Your free hand curls through his tresses and pushes him deeper into you. He groans through those rushed, bruising kisses reddening your lips and immediately hunts for more.  

You didn’t expect Toji to be a gentle lover by any means, but it’s the way his mouth never leaves yours, a certain thirst that can’t be satiated no matter how much he drinks. You bite his bottom lip, teeth collide and he repeats the feast all over again. You can’t tell if he’s trying to savor it or devour you in one go.  

His hands snake from your neck to the fat of your ass, and he delivers a quick smack before hoisting you around his waist. Trails of spit connect where you part for air, but he swiftly chases it with tongue, pushing into your mouth and clouding your head. You intertwine, wet and feverish as it explores your mouth.  

He’s ruthlessly scouring fulfillment, drunk off the pleasure he finds in swallowing your moans and traversing your numbing lips. You’re sweating, hot in all the right places, and you return the favor with similar passion. Your lower back aches but he doesn’t give any inclination that he’ll let up soon, grinding on the delicate, sticky lace of your panties exposed from your hiked up dress.  

“Fuck, I can feel it through your clothes” he groans, lazily undulating his hips.  

“S-shut up- ah!” Your stammering gets caught in a moan when the fabric presses against your clit just right. He wears a sleazy grin, moving slower to coax the barely audible whimper that escaped you a moment ago. “I wouldn’t mind if ya made a little noise” he husks. You’re shaky, trying to compose your trembling vocals threatening to call his name. In regular circumstances, you would’ve let yourself have it. But this is Toji, and the mischievous urge you reserve for him wants to shoot down his boosted ego. 

“Maybe you’re not doing good enough.”  

“Really...” Toji’s huffs a humorless laugh, and you have half the mind to acknowledge that you just fucked up. He enriches the kiss and movements get a little angrier, bulge rutting into you furiously.  

“Then I’ll make it so good for ya, darlin’” he rasps, “So good you’ll hafta beg me.” 

It’s impossibly big, and sliding against the aching mess restrained in his pants doesn’t quell your concerns. You swear you can feel the dim thump thump thump through it. 

You unlatch again, severing a trail of spit when you briefly make eye contact. They’re crazed, far and near at the same time and somehow sparkling the prettiest shade of hazel green. He immediately claims space on your neck. Sucking and biting, feral groaning between your pulse point that drums whenever his appendage glides along a sweet spot. His teeth graze harsh against your skin and you can feel purple and blue burgeoning like watercolor splotches on an untouched canvas.  

And he must be long gone, pinning you between the door and his haughty strength, spit glistening on your neck. You’re using whatever pride you have left to clamp your mouth shut, though it’s obvious to Toji as his lips curl when your breath stutters. He detaches with a wet smack, and you can't angle away from the onslaught of tender kisses along the underside of your jaw.  

He lifts you across the room, to the edge of his wooden platform bed draped in a deer pattern quilt. Your knees are wobbly on the descent and it hits when your feet touch the ground, almost slumping onto the mattress. Before you can, he grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head and holds you upright. 

“Stand straight” he barks, dangerously commanding. In one fell swoop, using one hand, he flips the buckle on his belt open and yanks it out the loops. His pants sag at his hips and the tent peaks with more room. He wraps the leather around your wrists and ties it over itself, securing tight—maybe too tight—at the end.  

“On your fucking knees.” You don’t drop on the first order.  

“Make me.” Typical—but he’s happy to guide you. He tugs your hair to the ground, and you thud onto the hardwood floors by your knees.  

You knew Toji was hot, stealing glances of his shirtless torso plowing in the summer rays—but God, he truly is alluring. Straight below him you get the best view of the veins winding down his lower abdomen, the planes of his abs shining in the already low light. Underneath his pecs, full chest pulling taut with yearning, unruly need. In no time he unzips his fly and kicks his pants at his ankles, revealing firm boxer briefs and a dripping, milky stain trailing to the side. Your eyes follow, where his throbbing cockhead peaks out, rosy brown with pearls of greedy precome dribbling down. You can’t resist staring, devouring the sight and adding onto the stickiness coating your inner thighs. You lean in and pepper a few kisses on his tip. He hisses. 

“Are you losing your composure?” you ask, reveling in his twitching abs. He grins, and you return the same, “Not yet. You’ll know when I do. I promise.”  

You lick a long, mouthwatering stripe on it and he rasps a groan. He’s quick to snatch your scalp and tilt up, forcing you to gaze at him. “Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me.” They appear darker, drunken. 

He tugs the boxers down and his cock springs out centimeters from your face, glistening and flushed. He taps it on your lip and smears the sheen. You don’t break eye contact as required, especially when you lick your bottom lip to taste him. 

 “Fuck, such a slut.” He prods at your mouth and you gladly open, closing your puckered lips around the bulbous tip. “Nice and open for me” he mutters. It’s partly a mutter, resembling a hoarse ramble as he slides the length of his veiny, thrumming cock past your cheek fat constricting around him.  

“Yeah, t-that’s it—fuck—just like that.” Your eyes water and beaded tears gather at your lashes, but he craves the back of your throat—he’ll make it fit if he needs to. You’re adjusting to his size, forcing yourself to accommodate him and hollowing your cheeks as best as you can, fulfilling a twisted desire to satisfy him. Your palate scraping his sensitive tip elicits a deep, gravelly moan that sends vibrations straight to your clit.  

“Mm, that pretty mouth taking it so well f’me.” You open your throat and allow him to push further, swelling a noticeable bulge through your skin. He’s straining your mouth to capacity, and it’s only when your nose meets his pubes and his balls are flush with you that you try breathing.  

It’s no use with his cock barreling down your throat. He keeps a firm grip on the back of your head, watching your body retch at the size of him for amusement. Then he pulls out and you dry heave from the sudden influx of normal air in your lungs. You’re soaked all the way through, hazy, hurting, but desperate for more. Too horny to remember your pride. What even is pride when you can’t tell the difference between drool and tears? 

You’re French kissing his dick as if he’s not there, slobbering and licking it up, rolling your tongue over his frenulum like an animal in heat. Shame will overcome you by morning; in the meantime, you’ll indulge, drain him so that he can’t fathom speaking the word “brat” again. You loll your tongue and he smiles. 

“I didn’t even fuck you yet and you’re already this bad?” He’s one to talk when his comebacks crack at the back of his throat, muscles sweaty and tense from your ministrations. “I’m a good man, so I’ll help ya out.”  

Without warning, he drives himself all the way down your throat. You gag, but he’s relentless. He has hands on both sides of your head and he puts his foot on the edge of the bed, angling himself to probe deeper in your throat. Laden balls slap your chin and an amalgam of sloshing and gagging bubbles from the inundated scene in your mouth. Obscene noises cloud your ears. You can only lean on the support of the bed and take every brutal, solid thrust. His groans accelerate, “You’re—hngh—droolin a little bit, huh, princess. Haah—is it t'much for you, hm? T-tell me baby, fuck.” 

It really is. It’s so intense; eyeliner smudged across your face, tears shimmering, drool coating your puffy lips and his cock rubbing your voice raw. He uses you like a fleshlight and your panties are soaked through. The twitching gets more apparent and he channels a string of curses as his hips lose coordination. “On your f-face or—ungh, your mouth. Choose darlin'.”  You respond by staying still, looking at him with what little eyesight you have through cloudy tears.  

“Such a pretty comeslut” he moans, “Don’t be wasteful—hah-ah—you’re gonna be soo fucking good and swallow it all, okay?” He might as well be rambling to himself, mouthing off on questions you couldn’t possibly answer. His bangs stick to his forehead, and he emits an endless measure of moans and curses at the precipice. Hips stuttering, legs quivering sporadically, “(Y/N), m’coming, coming—ugh, fuck—oh fuck.”  

You see the exact moment he disregards ego; head lulled back, lip sagging open while he chases the high. Guttural groans meander in the space, and he pumps enough come from his spit-soaked balls to coat your throat. You wince and fresh tears are stirred from the sheer amount you’re gulping. He lags and finally relaxes, twitching sensitively when you swallow with his half-hard length still inside. Then he shudders once more when he retreats. 

Toji leans down to kiss you, wrapping tongue over tongue. You’d hope the kisses soothe your chafed throat, but to no avail. It’s not ideal that there’s a tingle in your knees, and the same position made your legs go numb. Your wrists burn as well, diagonal lines creasing your skin around the leather. Luckily, Toji scoops you and sets you rather gently on the mattress. That’s the extent of his kindness, however, as he begins shredding the straps from your dress. They snap with a pop, the sound of money going down the drain. The luxurious silk is torn from you and you’re indifferent. There’s an unquenchable need for him—everywhere, under you, inside you, however you can achieve closeness. “I need you. Now” he grunts. 

He manhandles you on your stomach with your ass raised in the air. Cool wind brushes against the pounding fever between your legs, and the sopping lace hangs by a thread.  

“Shit, you’re wet.” It’s obvious from the outside, drenched fabric a shade darker, fused uncomfortably to your pulsing pussy and reflecting on your plush thighs. He won’t take his eyes off it; he stares like he can eat through them. He peels the fabric back painfully slow, watching it furl into itself. “These just get ‘n the way.” Some slick leaves with it and slides down his hand, then he absorbs the main course. 

Glistening, syrupy fluid blankets your pussy and forms cobwebs of mess around your inner thighs and taint. You’re so wet it’s uncomfortable, and you shift around on your knees trying to quell the inescapable throbbing in your clit. He spreads your cheeks apart, practically salivating, “Look at ya.”  

Your windpipe was ripped from you, but you can scarcely hoarse “Stop staring.” His hot laughter sends shivers through you, but he holds you still before you can move forward. “Aww, too wet for your own good?” 

“Must be so sensitive” he coos, veiled in feigned concern. The pad of his thumb hovers, damn near salivating. “Tell me where it hurts, darlin’.” He flicks gently over the bud and you flinch. “Here?” 

He rubs calculated, unhurried circles on it. It doesn’t suffice—it couldn’t, because each time you lean to his touch, he recedes just a little. Because of course he wouldn't let you satisfy your desires without paying first. It’s maddening to almost get what you want and fall short repeatedly. You whimper pathetically, and he teases, “I know, darlin’, I know.”   

“Hurry up already” you whine. He quickly lands a stern, stinging swat to your ass and you recoil. “No attitude. Had enough’a that.” 

He positions two fingers at your glossy entrance, “Want help? Show me how bad ya want it.” You should’ve told him to go fuck himself, or at least you would have if you weren’t trembling with carnal hunger. You turn back to him glassy-eyed and he smiles—sympathy won’t work here. So you slope over his waiting fingers and glide them inside. They’re thicker than you thought they’d be. A delicious burn around the ring of your cunt from your walls stretching, it takes some adapting to get used to it.  

Once you do, though, you’re bouncing on them knuckle-deep, coating his palm in juices sluicing down his wrist. He doesn’t move an inch, but he drags his digits in a ‘come hither’ motion that sends tiny sparks bursting through your body. The notion of fucking yourself on his fingers should’ve been obscene, but you can feel yourself climbing to the edge. You’re panting, wiggling your hips with buzzing stars in your vision at the way it scrapes and kneads your walls. “You can’t hate me that much. Suckin’ me up and I’m not even movin’” he taunts. 

You don’t realize how loud you’re moaning, how your pussy talks louder than you do, sloppily sliding and squelching. “Fuck—you’re so messy. Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothing mean to say?”  

“Hah-ah” You clench rapidly, heartbeat in your ears. Until your stuttering heart and legs get worse, and you’re losing momentum. Your muscles burn from the inside out like a tiring workout, and you can’t keep up the pace that would’ve attained ecstasy. Just like that, it’s ripped away from you. 

And you cry. 

Hot, frustrated tears spill down your cheeks and you stop moving. He removes his wrinkled fingers. One side of the mattress sinks near you, and he thumbs the tears from your blushed cheeks and nose, your dazed lashes and pouty lips. “S’okay.” He pecks the corner of your eye, prompting a tear he samples. “Done fightin’ me?” 

You nod absentmindedly. “What do you want?” It’s simple, but you make eye contact with him. Jaw clenched, huffing as if he’s battling his own assurance. Your eyes water again. “Please...” 

You can’t read his face, but he leaves the mattress. It’s eerily quiet.  

“Y’know just how to get me.”  

A shattered gasp dies in your throat when you feel a warm, cruel stripe from your clit to your taint. Once, twice, his broken puffs fanning the flames. Both hands spread your legs wider and he nuzzles your folds, placing open-mouthed kisses, savoring your arousal. Then he immerses himself.  

He put up a good farce for a while, but the crumbling began at his desperate, tangled tongue—ravenous and starving, he ate you like a decadent main course he’d never taste again. He was starved—slurping and sucking, releasing with a juicy smack and diving back in. He’s on his knees, grunting low at your drooling slit. He didn’t care about your quivering thighs, honeyed liquid building in layers on his chin, the weak cries you managed. None of it mattered. Because you—you were heady and sweet, and as he drowned in your scent, he wished to be breathless forever.  

“S’fuckin’ good—oh, fuck, make a mess on my face.” He swats your ass, pointed tongue massaging your clit while he gropes the doughy flesh. It’s pliable in his hands and it gives him something to anchor while he drawls lecherous swipes over your swollen gooeyness. “Ngh—p-please—close-” Your stomach turns knot after knot, damp with sweat and sensing a rapid euphoria surging all too fast. Your mistake for announcing it, because he focuses his attention on a self-indulgent make-out session with your clit. “Come. Come on my face, princess—” You start to spasm, and the vulgar noises coming from Toji disperse in your ears. 

“Toji” you moan, and sooner fall apart in his arms. White-hot pleasure courses through your convulsing cunt and a chain of violent aftershocks render you silent. What makes you even shakier, though, is that he doesn't stop. 

He cleans his plate, imbibing the perfumed essence gushing from you. He peppers kisses around your contractions, deaf to your croaked sobs. If you weren’t bound, you’d push his head away. You attempt to use your foot to nudge him off, but you didn’t expect to make a dent in someone his size. He intertwines his hands with your sweaty ones, calm thumb swaying back and forth; it would be comforting if he wasn’t ruining you at the moment.  

The intensity of his deliberate tongue only makes the aftershocks worse, and your hands start to jolt as you cry out, “Ahn--no more, p-please!” You feel his smile on your folds and he persists. His lapping gets more aggressive and so do your tremors, loud and unrestrained moans torn from you.  

He finally unlatches, landing a final smack on your puffy pussy. Your heads swimming in an infectious trance, but you’re undeserving of a break as you whirl behind you and see him pumping his flushed cock. It stands at attention and even seems bigger than before, colored deep with need pearling at the divot. 

“Need you or ’m gonna go crazy.” Toji keeps a firm hand at the base of your spine—it arches your back and shoves your words into the bed. He drags his bulbous head along your sensitive cunt, collecting the slick trickling onto the damp sheets before rimming the slit. A hint of fatigue crosses your face and he takes notice. “Heh, done already? We haven’t even started yet.” 

The image of him entering you for the first time burns into your memory; his brows are knitted, bottom lip tucked under teeth and his breath hitches. If you were fucked out, he was getting there. He presses into your spine like he’s trying to prevent himself from coming on the spot, paused but lingering. Tunnel visioned on your soaked, bulging pussy stretching around him, snuggling his leaden length like a heated blanket. And you drink in the pain, a dulcet blaze engulfing you as sore muscles clench and unclench.  

“You’ve been quiet, pretty thing” he muses, “Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothin’ mean to say?” With his veins adorning your walls and your mushy brain bouncing around in your head, you can’t bring yourself to talk shit. He pulls out completely, watching a mix of precome and wetness connect your bodies. 

Suddenly, he bottoms out. “Ahn--fu-ah!” It shreds a whimper from you and he mocks your cracking moans, though he seems to be breaking, himself. The sharp snap of his hips contacts skin-on-skin, earning each sloppy slap echoing in the room. His lips are parted, swamped in infinite, unbridled lust. The carnal itch he’d been holding off on for weeks seeps through, satiating his most indulgent appetite. “O-oh, God, shit, look at the m-mess you’re making.” He drives out to his frenulum and shoves it back in with no mercy, no sign of slowing down. Long, deep strokes leaving you slack jawed and teary. Every drag of his dick imprints his name on your tongue, heavy balls smacking your tender clit.  

“You hear that? Listen.” He goes quiet, to let the indecent plap plap plap’s resound. Your cheeks turn hot from humiliation. The side rail of the bed screeches the hardwood floors, and the belt buckle you’re secured to clicks occasionally.  

“You’re my filthy slut” he grins, striking your rouged cheek. He’s rough, but you weren’t searching for friendliness, neither of you did. At your core, you knew it—Toji bullying himself into your cervix is a poison you’d drink habitually. A poison so incredibly captivating, you’re burning just to feel his crowning ardor. 

He’s sandwiched between your swollen lips and he can’t get enough, virtually drunk from it. He winds another branding swat on your backside, then the other. The crackling fire of his hand thwacking delicate flesh merges pleasure with pain. “You've been such a brat all summer” he taunts, “Needed me to put you in your place, huh, you fucking slut?” Another mean swat, and he laughs crudely at you little gasp. “You like this shit, don’t you? Wanna be manhandled like a fucking whore.” Both cheeks are a severe fiery color, beginning to welt, but he resumes. And you’re drenching him. A creamy, gooey ring forming at the base of his dick, tracing translucent strings when he pummels your poor leaking pussy. 

“M’sorry, so s-sorry” you babble. Apologizing for what? You don’t know, but the delirium spills truths you should’ve voiced ages ago. You're utterly incoherent; you might as well stay silent. “Aww, I know” he cloys, soft and sultry compared to the angry strokes he’s delivering. Shockwaves burst and fizzle on your clit and you flutter around him. Your ass ripples against him, hoarse voice funneling strings of curses, scrotum pummeling your overworked bundle of nerves. You want to come so bad it hurts, and you find yourself arching a little harder, spreading your legs a little wider—just begging him to use you entirely, to melt, become his. 

“Pleasepleaseplease” you whimper, at the height of your intensity. Then sweltering, frenetic spasms suffocate Toji’s shaft as you ride the orgasm seemingly crashing into you. You shudder violently, pleading with your body to attain some level of poise. It has other plans, however, provoking you to flitting tears from dragged-out, toe-curling tremors. You grip him like a vice and he struggles to pull out, but when does he’s rubbing circles on your aching nub. You’re lost in a bottomless sensation, but you hear his voice in your dampened ears, “Mm, I got ya.” 

The pressure on your wrists lessens, and you realize you can move them freely. Your arms are numb returning to a normal position, and you support yourself on your feeble elbows when you feel your legs being parted again. In the fleeting instant you’re allowed to settle, the vast trail of his tongue laps at your shuddery cunt. "P-please wait—ngh, I can’t-” you wail, and you turn to the commotion to see Toji, growling and devouring your silken arousal.  

He’s absolutely corrupted, a feral glint in his blearily blinking eyes, chest heaving salaciously as he kneads your thighs. You paw at his hair, toiling to crawl away from his unsparing mouth but he follows. He releases you and you inch away from him. “Where ya goin’? Heh, tryna run?” he teases. You don’t get very far, because he grapples your waist and pulls you back. “Not done ‘till I say it’s done.”  

Then he’s climbing on the bed with you, and you can do nothing but snivel in protest as he maneuvers you to hike your leg over his. He lays on his side, locking you in his embrace and smears his cock between your puffy folds. “Am I being mean to you?”, he slides in with ease, savoring the sweet mess spewing on cue, “’M sorry, I’m just an ‘angry old man’, after all.”  

He pounds your chubby cunt with wild abandon. You feel each vast stroke pummeling your tumid core, squelching amidst your languid bodies. You can’t close your legs—as badly as you want to—and you’re forced to endure frantic twitching from your lit nerves. He strips your breasts of the flimsy lace bra and alternates among pinching your nipple and molding the valley to his palms. He twists it harsh and you muster a pathetic babble, to which he laughs—mocking and unhinged, “My poor baby, you can’t handle it anymore.”  

Anymore was an understatement, it was overwhelming—to a degree that you’d gone quiet, enveloped in vehemence. You're scratching up his bicep with the other tangled in the sheets, knuckles turned white and your head thrown back. You want to push him off, but you’re milking his stuttering hips, drawing him closer. It isn’t enough and it’s too much. “F-fuck, it’s so swollen” he moves from your chest to your vulva, “I can touch right? Y-yea, you don’t mind.” His intoxicating voice is at a whisper in your ear, laying like liquor in your cotton-filled mind. With his cock dragging against your walls and hammering your g-spot, mercilessly circling his pads on your clit, eliciting every short “ah, ah” from your swollen lips, you’re far from combative.  

He precisely rolls his hips and it’s unbearably hot, broken mewls fleeing you. Your mouth sags, drool shameless down your mouth as he kisses your cervix without trying. He wraps his hand around your throat, boring into your teary eyes. You can’t escape his overbearing presence, isolated from everything besides his eye contact. He is everything.  

“Who’s pussy is this?” He gradually squeezes tighter and you pule in response. Since that didn’t work, he accentuates the words with every tantalizing thrust: 

“Who’s” 

“Pussy” 

“Is this?” 

You narrowly choke out, “Your pussy”, and like something snapped his rhythm get faster, nastier. The asphyxiation reaches you brain and floods you, aswoon on a pillowy cloud. He’s faltering, pumps getting sloppier, “Thaaat’s right, ‘nd I’ll use this pretty pussy whenever I need.” His stomach flinches but he doesn’t stop chasing that high, eyes thoroughly glassed, “’N you’re gonna be a good girl and take it—ha, f-fuck—be a good girl, o-okay?” Your pupils retreat to the back of your head, and you arch off the bed as your body begins to tremble. He’s glued to you, “One more, let it out f’me. Please, fuck, I need it—hah—need you to come on my dick—”  

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you unravel. A stream of liquid coats the blanket and you’re speechless as you convulse uncontrollably, legs betraying you for strong spasms. You go limp but Toji props you up, bucking his hips when his own legs start to jolt. “That’s a good girl—Ohh yes. Y-you're so good f'me, princess. Coming—hahh—gonna come all over your pretty cunt—”  

His balls tighten, and he manages some slushy, vile pumps before he pulls out. He spurts all over your tummy and hypersensitive vulva, painting it in thick white layers. He persists, groaning until he’s fully hollow, emptying his sack in globs. His staggering pants and shaking reduce to hitching, and he relaxes your exhausted weight. You weep softly, clinging to him as he presses selfish kisses from your lips to your wet lashes. He caresses your cheek, sweaty and disheveled in the dim light. Then your eyesight starts to blur. 

Your sight peels back, permitting warm sunlight basked over the bed. It takes a split second to notice you’re resting on pillows not nearly as comfortable as yours, and the wood paneling was uncharacteristic of your assigned room. It takes another second to notice your galled throat, stinging backside, and the arm loose on your naked waist. You peer over your shoulder, to that mop of ink sprawled on the pillow. He looks peaceful, though you’re not sure how you slept soundly when he snores like a brute. 

You slip from his arms to sit up. The floor’s freezing, but by the time you get to stand you’re pulled back into the covers. Entangled in limbs, you gaze at Toji, who still has his eyes closed. His face appears softened up close. There’s a small scar near his hairline that you hadn’t spotted. You trace the scar, outlining it to the one on his lip. He nips your finger. 

“I wanna sleep” he grumbles. 

“Then you should’ve let me leave” 

“No.” You card your fingers through his hair, and he sighs into it. A fine gray strand peaks out amongst the rest. “You’re turning gray, old man.” 

“The way I had you last night, I wouldn’t say ‘old man’.” Your remembrance makes your ears hot and you clasp a hand over his mouth. He laughs and pecks it, “You’re leaving today. Let’s get you packed up” he muffles. 

Little did he know, you’d talk to your father that afternoon, asking to stay for a couple more months. The countryside welcomed you—and what a humbling experience it was. 

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