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kbwrites · 5 months ago

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Devotion

synopsis: Sukuna discovers Uraume’s hidden desire for his wife. Amused and intrigued, he twists their devotion into a dangerous game of seduction and control, where loyalty, lust, and power collide..

⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x f!reader, nsfw, slight Uraume x reader, power play, sukuna being sadistic, voyeurism

⚝wc: 3.2k

⚝a/n: guys am I slowly turning into a Sukuna glazer? Is that what’s happening?

“Uraume.”

“Yes, master?”

“Have you had…lovers before?”

Ryomen leaned forward over the dining table, his crimson eyes sharp with mischief, resting his chin lazily on his hand. One of his upper arms reached for the delicate porcelain cup, lifting it to his lips as he took a sip, all while gauging Uraume’s reaction with predatory precision. Uraume, ever composed, took a deep breath—perhaps steadier than expected, but not beyond Sukuna’s notice.

“No, my lord. I am only loyal to you.”

Sukuna could only chuckle darkly at his most trusted advisor’s iron resolve.

“Surely you’ve been attracted to someone before.”

It’s subtle, but Sukuna noticed how Uraume’s body tensed at the question.

“Thats…”

His eyebrow quirks in amusement, the thought of them finding interest in anything other than servitude absolutely intriguing.

“Oh?” He purrs “Tell me Uraume, who’s captured your interest?”

Uraume pauses, their mouth slightly agape about to answer until the doors to the dining hall swing open.

“Good morning~” You yawn strutting into the grand hall. Ryomen’s ears perk up at the sound of your voice. You were draped in a black silk robe, loosely fitting to reveal your cleavage. He didn’t miss the way Uraume suddenly went rigid, their spine straightening as though an unseen force had pulled them taut.

“My lady..” Uraume says quietly, bowing deeply, far lower than usual. There was a slight tremor in their voice, one that would be imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sukuna, it was as clear as day.

Something flickered in Sukuna’s eyes—something dark, cunning, and hungry. He was beginning to connect the threads. Uraume’s abnormal stillness, their faltering words, their body language—how had he not seen it before?

As a light bulb switched off in his mind. Sukuna’s eyes darken as his mind swirls with ideas.

“Good morning, peach.” he purred, his voice a rich, velvety drawl as he pushed his chair back slightly, creating space between his thick thighs. You settle between him, his lower arm wrapping securely around your waist. Your fingers plucked a few of the fruits, and with a mischievous smile, you lifted them to his lips. Sukuna’s eyes gleamed as he accepted your offering, his lips brushing your fingertips as he took the grapes from your hand, savoring the taste.

“Did you sleep well?” he hummed, his voice a rumble that reverberated through your body, his grip on your waist tightening.

Uraume was trying so hard to maintain their composure, but Sukuna was a master at unraveling even the most tightly wound strings. He didn’t miss the lingering gaze, the subtle admiration—the longing in Uraume’s eyes as they glanced at you.

You smiled softly, nodding as you fed him another grape. “I did.”

The room felt charged with an unspoken tension. Sukuna’s gaze flitted between you and Uraume.

“Uraume was just about to tell us something…” Sukuna chuckled, his voice a deep, velvet purr dripping with dark amusement.

“Weren’t you, Uraume?”

The words rolled off his tongue like a challenge, low and sultry, and Uraume flinched ever so slightly. Their mouth opened, but no sound emerged, their composure threatening to crack under the weight of Sukuna’s relentless gaze.

Uraume’s adams apple bobbed as they swallowed hard, their hands clenching at their sides. They looked as though they were standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to jump or retreat. Their gaze flicked to yours—full of something raw and unspoken—before they quickly averted their eyes again, their face flushing.

“Yes…” Uraume managed, voice tight. “The preparations for the festival next week are complete. I thought it would be a good outing for you, my lady.”

You perked up, Ryomen knew how much you loved going outside the castle. And even though he despised being among the general public he never chastised you for it.

He shifted in his chair, his arm still wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you just a little closer against him.

“An outing…” Sukuna mused, his voice low and thoughtful, malicious intent danced in his eyes. “How delightful.”

“Would you come this time Ryo?” You asked, eyes turning up to him with that innocent, pleading look he could never refuse.

His gaze flicks up to Uraume. He saw the way Uraume’s shoulders tensed, the way they remained painfully still. Sukuna could feel Uraume’s silent plea—don’t come. Don’t make this harder than it already is. But Sukuna, ever the sadist, felt the opposite.

His lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as he looked down at you. “How could I say no when you ask so sweetly, peach?” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble.

༺═────────────═༻

As the days slipped by, Sukuna’s amusement only deepened. What had once seemed like gestures of loyalty and respect from Uraume now held a different meaning altogether. The signs were there—delicate and unspoken, but there nonetheless.

He watched closely, sharper now, how Uraume’s hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary when adjusting your robes, or the way their fingers brushed your skin with a softness that would have seemed impossible for a being so devoted to carrying out the King of Curses’ bidding. Uraume, so effortlessly deadly, became something else entirely when in your presence—gentle, careful. As though you were made of glass. And Sukuna saw it all.

Of course, Ryomen Sukuna knew how captivating his wife was. You were beauty incarnate—graceful, magnetic, and utterly enchanting. He had always reveled in the way your presence could command a room, how your smile could make the world feel warmer. It wasn’t lost on him how others admired you, but he had never paid it much attention. You were his. That had never been up for debate.

The thought of his most trusted advisor being captivated by you was both amusing and intriguing. To think that Uraume, who had stood by his side through countless battles, who had remained steadfast and loyal through the bloodiest of wars, was not immune to your charm—it was almost laughable. But it was more than that. It was a game, a deliciously cruel game that Sukuna couldn’t resist playing.

༺═────────────═༻

It was bath time, the air thick with steam, curling up in soft tendrils around the marble walls of the grand bathhouse. You and Sukuna sat on opposite ends, your legs grazing one another beneath the surface. Uraume carefully washed your hair, applying the perfect amount of pressure when scratching your scalp.

Sukuna watched from his end of the tub, his crimson eyes half-lidded as he observed the way Uraume tended to you—so gentle, so precise. It was the kind of attention a lover would give, not merely an attendant.

You, of course, were oblivious. Your eyes were closed, soft hum of contentment escaping your lips as Uraume’s deft fingers massaged your scalp. The warmth of the bath relaxing you, Sukuna could see the soft smile tugging at your lips, unaware of the turmoil that brewed just beneath the surface.

“Uraume?” You question softly “Did those oils you ordered from Kuroshiki arrive yet? I think Ryo would like them today.”

“Yes…” Uraume says snapping out of their daze “I will fetch them right away my lady.”

“Bathing with fragrance oil? You really do spoil me” Sukuna says smirking.

You leaned closer to him, your fingers lightly trailing along the edge of the tub as you spoke, voice soft and inviting. “You seem… distracted as of late, my king,” you murmured, “I wish you would tell me what was occupying your mind.

A dark chuckle rumbled from his broad chest as he shifted slightly, adjusting his position as his crimson eyes traveled over your face, lingering on the way your wet hair clung to your skin and how the water caressed your naked form beneath the surface.

“My dear,” he purred, his voice low and smooth, “If I’m distracted, it’s only because of you.” He let the words hang in the air, his gaze darkening as he watched your reaction, the tension between you palpable.

Your lips curled into a slow, teasing smile, and you raised a brow, tilting your head as you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest.

Ryomen’s hand shot out, snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against him, your breath catching in your throat as you found yourself pressed up against his chest. His other hand trailed lazily through the water, his fingers skimming along your thigh just beneath the surface. Your heart raced, the warmth of the bath and the heat of his touch intertwining, making it difficult to think clearly.

“And you, my queen…” Sukuna’s voice rumbled with a dark edge, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as he spoke. “What has been occupying your mind?”

Your breath hitched as you felt his lips graze your skin, the sensation sending a wave of heat through you. You tilted your head slightly, allowing him better access to your neck, your lips parting as you replied, your voice soft and laced with desire. “Only you, my king. Always you.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl. “I like to know where your thoughts are.”

Just as the moment seemed to deepen, the door to the bathhouse creaked open. Uraume entered with their usual calm, carrying a small, ornate jar of oils. The soft clink of the jar being set down on the table was like a loud intrusion into your private world. Uraume cleared their throat, the sound sharp in the silence.

“My lady, my lord,” Uraume announced quietly, their eyes briefly meeting yours before darting away, their cheeks flushing slightly with the strain of maintaining composure.

You pull yourself away from your husband back to your side of the tub, smiling politely.

“Thank you Uraume.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as he observed Uraume. His earlier pleasure was replaced by a simmering frustration, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the timing of the intrusion.

They bowed respectfully, eyes fixed on the floor as they took their leave. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell into an uneasy silence.

As the two of you settled back, Sukuna’s thoughts were already racing ahead. He decided he would push Uraume’s resolve to the breaking point, manipulate their emotions, and watch with dark satisfaction as their carefully constructed façade crumbled. Sukuna was eager to see how far he could push his most loyal servant before they fell apart.

The morning light seeped through the dark curtains of your shared bedroom. Sukuna sat up, his muscular back pressed against the dark mahogany headboard as he watched you.

His eyes, sharp and intent, traced the curve of your body as you slept. The way your body stirred against the black silk sheets, the fabric of your sleep robe slipped off your shoulders—revealing more and more of your skin with every rise and fall of your chest. His own arousal growing at the mere sight of you.

He leaned down to you, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone. One arm snaked up to your chest, slipping under your robe to caress your breast. You whimpered in your sleep, squirming under his large hands.

“Ryo?” You question, eyes still closed as you feel the warmth of his palms set fire to your cool skin. Your body responding to him almost instinctively, heat pooling in your core as his touch deepened, awakening a familiar hunger within you.

“Awake already, peach?” he murmured against your skin. The sound of his voice alone—low, gravelly, and undeniably seductive—vibrated through you, making your breath hitch.

You hum as your back instinctively arches into his touch.

“Don’t you have… ahhh. Meetings in the morning?”

“Mmm.” he purred in acknowledgment, peeling the robe off of your body. “It can wait. There’s something far more… compelling… that’s caught my attention.”

Your body shivers slightly as Ryomen removes the covers, he drinks in the sight before him. Removing his mouth from your neck, before dipping his head between your legs.

He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of your dripping cunt. Ryomen flattens his tongue, the wet muscle circling your bundle of nerves. His two upper arms hold your thighs in place, nails digging into the plush flesh. The room fills with your sleepy moans and whimpers as The king of curses slurps up your essence. He latches onto your clit, sucking while his tongue swirls.

You grab tufts of his fluffy pink hair between your manicured fingers, tugging gently. He looked up at you through half lidded eyes, smirking against your cunt as you grind against his face.

You felt the pressure building in your core, Sukuna felt your heart quicken—continuing his ministrations. Just as you felt the dam about to break.

Knock knock

Ryomen let out a low growl, the vibration rumbling through your cunt. He reluctantly tore his face away from between your legs.

“What is it?” His voice laced with venom.

“It’s me, my lord.”

He pauses, gaze flicking between the door and your panting form. An idea pops into his mind.

“Come in.” Sukuna muses, his voice smooth and deliberate.

Your eyes shot open, widening in shock as the doorknob slowly began to turn. Panic flooded your veins, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what he intended. You tried to push against him, but Sukuna’s grip was ironclad, his body pinning yours down against the silken sheets.

“Ryo, please!” you whispered urgently, your heart racing as you felt the weight of the moment closing in on you, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. But your pleas only seemed to excite him further. Sukuna’s smirk deepened, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips.

Uraume stepped into the room, eyes respectfully downcast, holding a scroll of parchment.

“My lord, I—”

But the words died on their lips the moment they finally looked up. Uraume stopped in their tracks, their eyes widening in disbelief as they took in the scene before them.

“Ah, Uraume!” Sukuna drawled, his voice full of amusement. “You may speak.”

“I-if this is not a good time—“

Ryomen chuckles, his hand snaking up to give your tit a gentle squeeze. Rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. You bite back a whimper.

“Nonsense! Continue.” He says, gaze never leaving you.

Uraume glances at you, their eyes raking over your form. They had dressed and bathed you countless times. However nothing could quite compare to the way your skin glistened with sweat, chest heaving as you tried to regain a steady heartbeat. They way your eyes were nearly black, glazed over with pleasure. They shouldn’t feel this way… they couldn’t and yet it was impossible to ignore the growing heat, the tightening coil as Uraume saw you in your most vulnerable state.

“Speak, Uraume,” Sukuna commanded again, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He relished in the discomfort radiating from his loyal servant, the way their breath quickened and their hands trembled ever so slightly at their sides.

“U-Uraume… you don’t have to listen to him.” You manage to mumble, trying to separate your rational mind from the pleasure your husbands fingers were giving you.

“Oh? But darling Uraume wants to see this.” He purrs. “Don’t you Uraume?”

They want to go, to turn on their heels and walk—no run quickly, and far away from the both of you. But every movement—every verbal protest failed to ever come to fruition. All Uraume could do in that moment. Was watch.

Watch as you writhed under their master, as your supple skin they so tirelessly cared for was marked. As your aching cunt was toyed with, as the saccharine moans fell from your plump lips.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you glance at Uraume, who watched intently as Ryomen gathered the wetness from your folds and his index finger was slowly swallowed by your walls. The lewd noises your sloppy cunt uttered as he pumped slowly into you—like sweet music. He grinned maliciously as he felt you clench around his finger. Despite your earlier protest—he knew you were enjoying this as much as him.

You bit down on your lip, stifling your moans as he curled his finger up to your sweet spot.

“Don’t hold back, peach…” He hums as he inserts another finger. “Let them hear how good it feels.”

Uraume’s breath hitches again, body tensing even more as they watch your every move from the sidelines. Sukuna’s gaze falls on your hand, gripping the silk sheets for support. His eyebrow quirks as another idea pops into his head.

“Hold her hand, Uraume.” He commands softly. Their eyes widen briefly before following his command. Uraume’s hand wraps gently around yours, intertwining fingers. Their breath is heavier now, cheeks flushed with color.

You finally make eye contact with Uraume, looking up at them through half-lidded eyes. You had never seen them like this, such hunger in their dark pink gaze. Looking upon you with pure lust. It made your cunt clench even more around your husband’s fingers.

Ryomen continues his assault on your sopping hole, pumping in and out relentlessly. Every time his curled digits brushed against your g-spot you feel the all too familiar pressure building in your lower abdomen.

“Ryo! m’close…” You whine softly looking down at him. He only grins in response glancing at his advisor.

“Don’t tell me.” He growls “Tell Uraume how you feel.”

Tears now pricked your eyes, the overwhelming sensation proving too much for you. You look up at Uraume through wet lashes.

“U-Uraume… I’m fuckkk gonna cum!” You whimper, they don’t respond—instead squeezing your hand tighter as they struggle to breathe.

Sukuna smirks as his wife and most trusted attendant share the intimate eye contact. His own cock twitching in excitement.

“Uraume…” he hums in mockery “She’s right on the edge, should we give her what she wants?”

Their eyes flit between you and Sukuna, feeling dizzy with pleasure. You looked so needy, so desperate for release. They couldn’t deny you any longer. They needed to see you come undone.

“P-please Uraume.” You choke out—hiccuping as fat tears rolled down your face. “Can’t take much more!”

Uraume lets out a shaky breath, their gaze never leaving yours.

“Y-yes! Please my lord!” Their voice almost matching your own desperation.

And with one more thrust of his thick fingers your body shakes. You cry out in pleasure. Writhing as Uraume’s nails dig into the flesh of your hand, holding your hand in a vice grip. A gasp escaping their lips.

Sukuna slowly removes his fingers from you, bringing them up to Uraume’s face teasingly before sucking them clean of your slick. A silent reminder that you would always be his.

Sukuna and Uraume fix their gaze on you, sprawled out on the sheets, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He glances over at them, noticing how their lips were parted. How their eyes were glued to you. As if they dared to blink you would disappear.

“She’s beautiful… isn’t she Uraume?” He purrs, lightly tracing the curves of your body.

“Yes master… she is… perfect.”

#kbwrites #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #uraume #uraume x reader

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solxamber · 3 months ago

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One Date and a Lifetime: Leona Kingscholar x reader

You have chosen Leona! ; aka the times Leona-i-don't-care Kingscholar puts in effort for you;

1k masterlist ; Prologue

You never thought Leona would actually take this date seriously. Honestly, when you first call him, you half expect him to suggest, "Let's just take a nap or something." Instead, his voice is low and smug, almost purring through the phone.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up later. Be ready.”

And just like that, he hangs up before you can ask for specifics. Typical. You're prepared for some half-hearted effort involving him dragging you to a secluded spot to nap under the stars or something like that. But then, a knock sounds at the door of Ramshackle, and there stands Ruggie with a bouquet.

“These are from Leona,” Ruggie says with a grin that’s two parts mischievous, one part disbelief. “He told me to get the ‘good ones,’ whatever that means. I charged him double, by the way.”

You take the flowers, cheeks warming, trying not to feel too charmed by the fact that the laziest lion you know thought to send you flowers. “Compensation good?”

“Let’s just say I’m eating like royalty tonight.” Ruggie winks before scampering off, probably with plans to milk his housewarden’s generosity for the rest of the week.

When Leona finally arrives at your doorstep, you're stunned into silence. He’s dressed to kill, sharp black slacks, a sleek button-up rolled at the sleeves. Effortlessly regal.

"You..." You blink. "You’re somehow even prettier than usual. How is that fair?"

He grumbles, averting his gaze, but you catch the way his chest puffs out just a little. “Tch. Cut it out.”

“Admit it—you love the compliments,” you tease, looping your arm around his as you step outside.

Leona scoffs but doesn’t pull away. “You gonna keep flattering me all night, or are we leaving?”

And so begins the wildest date you could have imagined: Leona, the notorious nap king, escorting you to a local festival, of all things.

You glance up at him as you stroll through the brightly lit stalls. “I thought you hated crowds.”

“I do,” he replies, but then adds in a gruff mutter, “It’s fine if it’s with you.”

Your heart skips a beat. You're lucky he looks so good because you might’ve fainted on the spot otherwise.

At one of the stalls, you spot a mountain of cotton candy, pastel pink and blue fluff that looks like it’ll melt if you so much as breathe on it. You buy a stick and tear off a piece, holding it up to Leona.

“C’mon, try it.”

He eyes the sugary fluff suspiciously. “That’s just sugar and air.”

“Exactly. Now open up.”

With an exaggerated groan, Leona leans down, and you pop the piece into his mouth. His brow furrows as he chews. “Way too sweet.”

But the next time you hold up another piece, he still eats it, grumbling under his breath about “sugar addicts.” You don’t miss the tiny, fond smile that sneaks onto his face, though.

As you continue through the festival, you spot a prize stall lined with plushies, including a little dragon that immediately catches your eye.

“I need that,” you say, determination sparking.

You try... and fail. Repeatedly. Leona watches your attempts with a smirk, arms crossed like he’s enjoying the show.

When you lose for the fifth time, he sighs dramatically. “Move.”

He steps up to the game and, with one smooth flick of his wrist, nails it on the first try. But instead of the dragon plush, he gives the attendant a lazy grin. “The lion.”

When he hands you the lion plush, you stare at it, confused. “What happened to the dragon?”

“Lions are better,” Leona says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “No debate.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. It’s ridiculous, but it’s him, and somehow that makes it perfect.

Later, when he takes you to an absurdly expensive restaurant, you raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure about this? It’s... kind of pricey.”

He gives you a flat look. “Order whatever you want. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

So, naturally, you do. And the food is fantastic. Leona leans back in his chair, watching you with a lazy smirk as you happily dig into your meal.

When the date winds down and Leona walks you back to Ramshackle, the night air is cool, and you instinctively rub your arms. Without a word, Leona shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

You clutch onto his arm with a grin, snuggling into the warmth. “Thanks, Leona.”

He shakes his head, amused. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Of course you do.” You laugh, leaning against him. “Oh! Did I tell you what Ace and Deuce did earlier today? You won’t believe it.”

He humors you as you chatter away, recounting the latest shenanigans. “So, Grim decided to ‘supervise,’ which really just meant eating half the snacks while Ace accidentally set off the fire alarm—again.”

Leona snorts softly. “Idiots.”

“Yeah, but they’re my idiots.”

When you finally reach Ramshackle’s doorstep, you turn to face him, a little reluctant for the night to end. On a whim, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, hugging him tightly before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Leona freezes for half a second, and when you pull away, his expression is somewhere between surprised and utterly smitten.

“Goodnight, Leona,” you say softly, watching as he blinks down at you like you just shattered every lazy expectation he had about this date.

He clears his throat, looking away, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah... night.”

As he turns to leave, you can’t help but feel like you’ve just unlocked a whole new side of him—and you kind of love it.

You’ve been talking about this video game figure for weeks. Every time you hang out with Leona, he hears about it. Well, "hang out" is a generous term—he naps on your lap or leans against you, and you yap his ear off about how amazing the game is and how this figure is the holy grail of limited merch.

“I’ve been doing everything,” you rant one day, lying next to him in the botanical garden. “Crowley made me do ten extra assignments this week. I even agreed to clean Grim’s litter box without arguments—twice! But it’s worth it. If I get that figure, my life will be complete.”

Leona, who’s half-asleep with his head resting on your shoulder, cracks an eye open. “That good, huh?”

“Yes, that good. There are only ten in the world, Leona. Ten.”

He grunts, shifting a little to get more comfortable. “Better hope your luck’s good, herbivore. Sounds like a lotta effort for a toy.”

“It’s not a toy,” you huff dramatically. “It’s a collectible figure, and it’s the coolest thing in existence. Just wait—when it drops tomorrow, I’m getting it.”

And yet, the universe doesn’t care about your efforts.

You stare at your phone screen in disbelief the next day. The site crashes, the countdown ends, and the figure sells out in 0.2 seconds flat. You refresh. Then refresh again. But it’s gone—snatched from your grasp like a mirage in the desert.

“No... no, no, no.” You sit there, devastated, as the weight of your failure sinks in. After all the work, all the chores, and all the emotional speeches to Leona, you’ve been denied. The limited-edition figure remains forever out of reach.

By the time you see Leona later, your mood is somewhere between tragic despair and begrudging acceptance. You find him lounging in the garden again, his favorite napping spot.

“Didn’t get it, huh?” he asks, his voice carrying that lazy drawl as you flop down beside him.

“Nope,” you sigh, resting your forehead on your knees. “All that work, all that hope... and nothing.”

Without another word, Leona pulls something from behind him and chucks it onto your lap.

You blink. Then blink again.

It’s the figure. The figure. THE limited-edition figure you’ve been pining after for weeks.

“Leona???” you squawk, holding it up like it might vanish into thin air if you let go. “What—how—why—?”

He just shrugs. “Still the second prince, y’know.”

“You—" Your jaw drops. “Did you use royalty status to get me this figure?!”

“Yeah.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he just asked the palace cook to make toast instead of pulling strings for a rare collector’s item.

You gape at him, torn between disbelief and giddiness. “Leona... that’s cheating.”

“So?” He leans back with a satisfied smirk, clearly amused by your reaction. “You wanted it, didn’t you?”

You can’t help it—you burst into laughter, clutching the figure like it’s the greatest treasure ever gifted to you. “You’re impossible.”

Leona tugs you down beside him, trapping you in his arms. “Yeah, yeah. Now quit yappin’ and let me nap.”

Still grinning like a fool, you curl into him, giggling into his hair. “You’re way too good to me, you know that?”

He huffs, but there’s no hiding the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hand rests lazily against your back, warm and grounding. “Hmph. Lucky I like you.”

And just like that, he drifts off into sleep, his arms snug around you. And you? You lie there, feeling like the happiest person alive, hugging your figure close while Leona naps against you, his soft breaths the perfect lullaby.

The first sign something is wrong comes when Grim tries waking you up for your usual chaos-filled day.

“Hey, get up, henchhuman! We’ve got things to do!” he says, poking your cheek with one of his fluffy paws. “It’s already late! If Crowley gets mad, I ain’t takin' the fall!”

Normally, you’d groan and roll out of bed—or at least threaten Grim with chores—but today? All you can manage is a weak grunt before you flop back onto your pillow like a defeated pancake.

“Henchhuman?” Grim nudges you again, this time with more urgency. You crack one eye open just long enough to see his ears flatten in concern. “Oi, don’t ignore me—what’s wrong?”

Your head is heavy, and it feels like your bones have melted into jelly. You try to say I think I’m dying, but all that comes out is a sad, congested whimper.

Grim’s eyes widen, and suddenly, he’s a blur of blue fur and panic. “You’re dying!” he yells, as if confirming the worst-case scenario. “Don’t go toward the light, henchhuman! I’ll be right back—stay alive!!”

Before you can reassure him—or at least remind him that people don’t die from mild fevers—Grim is already out the door, paws skidding against the floor like a tiny tornado.

Somewhere across campus, Leona is enjoying a particularly satisfying mid-morning nap in the botanical gardens when an absolute menace of a furball barrels into him.

“HEY, YOU! Lion guy!” Grim shouts, climbing onto Leona's chest. “Get up! Henchhuman’s dying!”

Leona cracks open one bleary eye. “Dying?” he repeats with a skeptical grunt, already half-expecting Grim to be overreacting. “Probably just overslept.”

“I know the difference between sleeping and dying!” Grim shrieks, paws batting at Leona’s face. “They're burning up, can’t even sit up! You gotta do something!”

Leona grumbles under his breath, but he’s on his feet before Grim can push him again. The usual lazy slouch is gone, replaced by swift, purposeful movements.

By the time he strides into your room, Leona has already called his personal doctor, much to Ruggie’s dismay (“Do you know what time it is?! Do I get paid overtime for this??”). Leona doesn’t care. He’s moving fast—like a lion with a mission.

It’s a blur after that. You vaguely register a cool hand against your burning forehead, Leona’s voice a low rumble beside you. The doctor checks your pulse, takes your temperature, and declares it’s just a fever with some exhaustion thrown in. Nothing dangerous, but definitely enough to flatten you.

“Hah.” Leona lets out a short sigh of relief, slumping in the chair beside your bed. “Told ya Grim, not dead.”

“Yeah, well…” Grim’s still pacing at the edge of your bed, tail twitching in frustration. “They looked dead, okay?! How was I supposed to know?”

“You weren’t. That’s why I’m here,” Leona says flatly, though his tone is less irritated than usual.

The next few hours pass in a fog of sleep, soft voices, and the occasional pressure of something cool against your skin. Ruggie swings by every now and then to drop off food, grinning as he deposits soup and medicine like it’s some kind of delivery service.

“Man, if I knew babysitting was part of my job description, I’d have charged extra,” Ruggie teases, setting down a tray.

Leona just rolls his eyes. “Get lost, hyena.”

Despite his usual snark, Leona is surprisingly attentive. He makes sure you drink water, feeds you spoonfuls of soup even when you mumble protests, and keeps an arm draped lazily around you when you shiver. If anyone asks, he’ll say it’s just because you’re annoying and need constant supervision.

When you finally come to, it’s because something warm and heavy is curled against you. You blink a few times, head still foggy, and realize it’s Leona—completely sprawled across the chair next to your bed, but with one hand tightly clasping yours.

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him. Carefully, you nudge closer, nestling against his arm. The movement stirs him awake, his golden eyes blinking down at you groggily.

“You awake now?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“Barely,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

Leona grunts, but the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles is answer enough.

Just as you’re about to fully enjoy the peace, a loud, dramatic voice cuts through the moment.

“Finally!” Grim bursts into the room, leaping onto your bed. “Took you long enough to wake up! I thought I’d have to hire a priest or somethin’!”

You chuckle softly, the sound a little scratchy. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

“Pfft! As if.” Grim crosses his arms, looking away with a huff. “I just didn’t wanna be stuck with Crowley as my only companion. He’s useless.”

But despite his words, Grim scrambles onto your lap anyway, curling up against your chest with a grumble. “Don’t get sick again, okay? It’s a pain.”

You pet his fur, grinning as you feel him relax. “Okay, okay. No more dying.”

Leona shifts beside you, rolling his eyes. “What, am I invisible?”

“Shh,” you murmur, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Just let me enjoy my two favorite cats for a minute.”

Leona huffs, but there’s a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I'm not a cat. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

You grin back at him, and for once, you don’t need words to say thank you. He knows.

You like to think of yourself as a strong person. Someone who can hold their own in this chaotic, magic-ridden school where everything from magical accidents to actual ghost attacks is a typical Tuesday. You’ve handled your fair share of weird situations and even gotten through them without embarrassing yourself too badly. But… you are still a magicless human. And that’s a fact you can’t change.

So when three tall, muscle-bound Savanaclaw students corner you in a dimly-lit corridor on your way to visit Leona, your heart sinks.

"Where ya headin', little herbivore?" The biggest one grins, flashing sharp teeth that remind you just how much worse your day could get.

“Leona’s been hanging out with you a lot, huh?” another one sneers, blocking your path. “Think that makes you special or something?”

"Maybe they've got some kind of deal with him," the third one suggests, his voice dripping with mockery. "How about you tell us what’s really going on between you two?"

Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. No way are you going to let them see how nervous you are. "How about you back off before you embarrass yourselves?" you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

The tallest one leans in, his grin widening. “Look at you, acting all tough. Too bad there’s no magic in that mouth of yours.”

You force yourself to hold your ground, though your fingers twitch toward your pocket. You really don’t want to bother Leona, but… well, desperate times. With a quick, discreet motion, you send a single SOS text.

You: Cornered. Help.

The three of them are still jeering at you when you hear footsteps approaching from behind. Slow, measured, and heavy with the kind of weight that makes everyone in the hallway tense.

"Oi," a familiar, low growl cuts through the noise like a hot knife through butter.

All three of them freeze. You glance over your shoulder—and there he is. Leona Kingscholar.

He stands at the end of the corridor, his usual lazy posture replaced by something much sharper, much more dangerous. His emerald eyes gleam with a warning, and a sly, predatory smile spreads across his face.

"Seems like I showed up just in time." His voice is deceptively calm, almost bored. “What do you think you're doin'?”

The boys shift uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances.

"Just… chatting," one of them stammers, the earlier bravado leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

Leona steps forward, leisurely, as if he’s in no hurry—but there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes the air heavy with tension. His presence fills the space, demanding attention and submission.

"You must be real stupid," Leona drawls, "if you think you can mess with what’s mine."

The tallest boy blanches. “W-We didn’t mean—”

Leona’s grin sharpens, all teeth. "Didn’t mean to what? Annoy me? Make me waste my time on some sad, third-string rejects?"

They flinch, shrinking under the weight of his words. Leona isn’t yelling. He doesn’t have to. His authority is clear—absolute.

One of them mumbles an apology, and the others nod hurriedly, ready to slink away. But Leona’s not done.

“You ever try this again,” he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr, “I won’t just kick you out of Savanaclaw. I’ll bury you so deep, nobody’ll even remember your names.”

The boys scatter without another word, practically tripping over each other to escape.

Leona watches them go with a snort, then turns his gaze to you. His sharp expression softens just a fraction, the predatory edge giving way to something lazier—something almost… fond.

“You good?” he asks, as if he didn’t just verbally annihilate three guys on your behalf.

Your heart is racing, but not from fear. No, this is something else entirely. Something far more dangerous. You’re not sure when it happened, but you are completely, utterly smitten.

“Yeah,” you say, trying—and failing—not to sound starstruck.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you tease, a grin tugging at your lips.

“Like you’re impressed.”

“Oh, but I am.”

He grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, but you notice the faintest hint of color creeping up his ears. “Tch. Idiot.”

You laugh softly, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks for showing up, though.”

Leona shrugs like it’s nothing. "I told ya—just call me when you need me."

That does it. You feel yourself practically glowing at the simple promise, the quiet reassurance beneath his words.

You lean toward him, your grin widening. “What if I need you right now?”

He smirks, draping a lazy arm over your shoulders. “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.”

You let yourself melt into his side, the earlier tension gone like a bad dream. The two of you walk off together, his arm comfortably slung over you like it belongs there.

And, in that moment, you’re pretty sure it does.

The assignment in front of you is a nightmare.

You’ve been staring at the same page for what feels like hours, your head throbbing with frustration. You chew the end of your pen, tapping your foot anxiously against the floor. Why did you leave this for the last minute? Why does it feel like every word on the page is written in an ancient, cursed script meant specifically to drain your soul?

Meanwhile, Leona is draped over you like a weighted blanket, his head resting comfortably on your shoulder. You know he’s napping because of the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing. This man has zero care in the world.

He’s been napping while you’ve been spiraling. Because of course he is.

You mutter curses under your breath, willing the assignment to finish itself. But the numbers swim in front of your eyes, and your breaths grow shorter, more unsteady. Panic claws at the edges of your mind.

Leona stirs. He shifts just slightly, cracking open one eye to glance at you. “Oi,” he grumbles. “Stop breathin’ like you’re about to pass out.”

You ignore him and grip the pen tighter, heart pounding, trying to push through the stress. That’s the worst part about this assignment—if you don’t finish it, your grades will nosedive, and Crowley will never let you hear the end of it.

Suddenly, Leona's hand slips out from around you and snatches the pen from your grip. "Gimme that."

You blink as he pulls the paper closer.

"Leona, what are you—"

"Shh." He flips through the pages like they personally offended him. His eyes scan the questions with the kind of effortless ease that makes you want to scream in frustration. Without so much as a sigh, he picks up the pen and starts writing.

You can only sit there, dumbfounded, as his neat, surprisingly elegant handwriting fills in the answers you’ve been struggling with for hours.

"Wait—are you actually doing my homework?" you ask, staring at him in disbelief.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, the barest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Told ya. I'm a senior. This stuff’s easy."

"Easy for you, maybe."

“Then why didn’t you ask me earlier?” he drawls, finishing the last answer without breaking a sweat.

You blink at the completed assignment like it might disappear if you look away. "I… didn’t think to."

Leona rolls his eyes and tosses the pen onto the desk with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Next time, just ask. I ain't gonna let you stress yourself out over dumb stuff.”

And that’s it. Just like that, all your anxiety evaporates.

You turn to look at him, utterly smitten once again. "You're ridiculous."

He leans back, resting his head against your shoulder again with a satisfied sigh. “Yeah, yeah.”

You let yourself melt into him, the earlier panic now a distant memory. His warmth, his steady breathing, the way his arms rest loosely around you—it all feels so easy. So right.

For a moment, you just sit there in silence, the peaceful kind that feels rare and precious. The assignment is finished. The world isn't ending. You don’t have to do everything alone.

You tilt your head to rest against his, your smile soft. "Thanks, Leona."

"Mm," he hums, already halfway back to sleep. But his hand gives yours a lazy squeeze, a quiet reassurance that makes your heart skip a beat.

The day passes in a haze of warmth and peace, your stress long gone. And you realize something: being with Leona feels like this—like having someone who makes the hard days bearable, without needing you to say a word.

And yeah, you could definitely get used to this.

You've thought about asking him for weeks. Maybe even months. But every time the words start forming, you chicken out. You’re this close to accepting that you’ll just live in relationship limbo forever.

It’s safer. No awkward conversations, no heartbreak. Just… endless naps together, weird dates that may or may not be dates, and him doing sweet things without ever calling them what they are.

But tonight, as you sit curled up in his arms, watching the stars from a balcony in the botanical gardens, it feels like the moment. Leona is lounging beside you, one arm slung lazily around your shoulders, the other resting on your leg like it's the most natural thing in the world. His warmth is comforting, grounding, and for once, you let yourself think: Maybe, just maybe, this is real.

You take a breath, steeling yourself. If he laughs or acts indifferent, fine. If it ruins everything—okay, not fine, but you'll survive.

“Hey, Leona?”

He hums, eyes still half-lidded. He’s relaxed, probably thinking about nothing except how long it’ll take for him to drag you back to bed.

You clear your throat. “What are we?”

Leona cracks one eye open, giving you a lazy look. “Huh?”

You shift nervously under his gaze. “Like… What is this? Are we—” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “—a thing? Or… I mean, are you—do you even like me like that? Or—?”

He stares at you for a second, blinking slowly, like a cat woken from a nap it didn’t want to leave. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

You feel your courage start to wither, but you force the words out. “I mean, I thought… We never really said anything official. And I don’t know if this is, you know—” You wave a hand. “Something? Or if you’re just putting up with me or—”

Leona makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, like you just asked him the dumbest question imaginable.

“You really thought I’d let you hang around me this much if I didn’t want you?” he says, giving you a flat, incredulous look.

You blink at him. “So… we’ve been dating this whole time?”

He just stares at you. “...What else did you think we were doing?”

“Oh my god—” You slap a hand over your face, torn between relief and secondhand embarrassment. “I thought you were just vibing.”

Leona snorts. “Yeah. Vibing with you. Idiot.”

Despite yourself, you laugh—a little breathless, a little giddy. It’s so absurd. All this time, you’d been worried about asking him where you stood, and he just… assumed you knew.

Leona rolls his eyes but shifts slightly, turning to face you. His gaze is softer now, and the usual laziness in it is replaced by something raw and unguarded. His hand, rough and warm, cups your cheek.

“Listen,” he mutters, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “I’m not good at sayin’ stuff like this, so don’t make me repeat it, okay?”

You nod, holding your breath.

“I love you.” The words slip out easily, like they’ve been waiting there all along. “Don’t care what anyone says, don’t care what they think—I'm not good at a lotta things, but I know I want you.”

Your heart stumbles. For a moment, the world feels too quiet, too small. You reach up to cover his hand with yours, warmth spreading through your chest.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, like it's the easiest thing you've ever said.

Leona's lips twitch upward into a faint, self-satisfied smirk, but there’s something vulnerable in the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s not used to getting what he wants.

“So,” you say softly, “are you my boyfriend now?”

He gives you the look—that deadpan, long-suffering stare, like you’ve just asked him the dumbest question of the century.

“Then what the hell else would I be?” he grumbles.

You can’t help it. You laugh—bright, free, and maybe a little too giddy. And before you can stop yourself, you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips.

The kiss is soft, warm, and it lingers just long enough to make your heart race. He tastes like mint and the faintest hint of something earthy, something that feels like home. His hand slides down to rest at the small of your back, holding you close like he has no intention of letting you go.

When you finally pull away, you grin at him, still breathless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well.” He smirks, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” you whisper, and this time, it’s him who leans in.

And just like that, the world slips away, leaving only the two of you—wrapped in warmth, in laughter, in everything you never knew you needed.

Leona saunters into your room, hands in his pockets, tail flicking lazily behind him. “Hey, Falena and his family are visiting today,” he says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You blink at him from your bed, mid-scroll on your phone. “You mean the King and Queen of the Sunset Savanna are visiting.”

Leona shrugs. “Yeah. Same thing.”

You sit bolt upright. “Leona, that’s not the same thing! Those are literal royals!"

He raises an eyebrow, already amused. “I’m royalty too, you know?”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “But you’re my boyfriend!”

Leona’s smirk grows as smug as the desert sun. “Exactly.”

Oh no. He’s loving this way too much.

Despite your protests, you're soon standing next to Leona at the main entrance, sweating bullets as Falena, his wife, and Cheka step through the doors. They’re all gorgeous and elegant, the epitome of royal perfection. You’re about to pass out from nerves, but Leona? He looks like he’s two seconds away from falling asleep on his feet.

Cheka spots you first. “UNCLE LEONA!” he shrieks, barreling straight for his favorite uncle—and by extension, you. Before you can brace for impact, the little lion cub is already latched onto your legs.

“You must be the one Leona told us about!” Falena grins warmly, stepping up beside his wife, who’s equally radiant. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”

You gawk at him. “Wait... Leona talks about me?”

Falena’s wife smiles knowingly. “Quite a bit, actually.”

You shoot Leona a look, but he just rolls his eyes. “Don’t get weird about it.”

Meanwhile, Cheka, still latched to your leg like a koala, looks up with big, bright eyes. “You’re my favorite person now!” he declares, squeezing your leg tighter. “After Uncle Leona. But you’re mine after him, okay?”

Leona huffs out a laugh, amused by the possessive cub. “Tch. Good luck, kid.”

“I’ll fight for you!” Cheka promises dramatically, like you’re a prize to be won at a carnival. He even makes little fists, shadow-boxing an invisible opponent. “I’ll become a strong lion and beat all the bad guys!”

You try (and fail) to hold back a laugh. “Well, I look forward to it.”

Falena claps his hands together, his grin brighter than the savanna sun. “Since we’re all here, how about a walk around the grounds? It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Nope.” Leona’s arm is suddenly wrapped around your waist, dragging you closer to him. “We’re good right here.”

Falena and his wife exchange that look—the kind that says they’ve been married long enough to know exactly what’s going on.

“We’ll leave you two alone, then,” Falena says with a chuckle, patting Leona on the shoulder. “We’re happy for you, Leona.”

His wife nods, her eyes twinkling. “Very happy.”

You open your mouth to protest—Wait, this isn’t what it looks like! We’re just standing here! I’m not even sure what’s happening!—but the words don’t come. You just sputter and blush as Leona tugs you closer, looking far too pleased with himself.

“See?” Leona murmurs smugly, lips quirking into a grin as you bury your face in your hands. “Told you it wasn’t a big deal.”

You groan into your palms. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His grip tightens just a bit, his voice low and lazy as ever. “C’mon. Admit it—you like having a royal boyfriend.”

You peek through your fingers, cheeks burning. “Leona...”

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Say it.”

You glare up at him, flustered beyond belief but unable to hide the smile creeping onto your face. “...Okay, maybe I do.”

He hums in satisfaction, practically purring. “Thought so.”

And just like that, he pulls you into a lazy, one-armed hug, as if holding you is the easiest thing in the world—and honestly? It kind of is.

The moment the news breaks that you’re dating Leona, you know it’s going to be a thing. A very loud thing. Ace and Deuce are the first to get wind of it, and honestly, you almost regret ever telling them.

“Leona Kingscholar?!” Ace yells, gaping like you just told him you were moving to Mars.

“Why??” Deuce adds, equally stunned. “Are you okay? Blink twice if you're in danger.”

“Isn’t he the guy who naps literally everywhere?” Ace squawks. “Like, you’re really dating a guy who falls asleep during fights?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Ace. I am.”

“Not to mention he’s scary,” Deuce mutters. “What if he, I don’t know, kicks you out of the relationship because it’s too much work?”

“He’s not going to ‘kick me out,’ Deuce.”

Ace leans in conspiratorially, wiggling his eyebrows. “Have you thought about what happens when Riddle finds out?”

Deuce pales. “Oh man, I’m not telling him.”

“You’re definitely telling him.”

“No, you tell him!”

“Do I look like I have a death wish?” Ace scoffs. “I can already hear him screaming something about ‘poor romantic judgment!’”

Meanwhile, Jack is sitting with his arms crossed, brow furrowed. “I don’t know why you’re all acting like this. Housewarden Leona’s actually cool if you get to know him.”

Ace stares at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Jack, the man once threatened to ‘accidentally’ kick me into a bush because I sneezed near him.”

“Yeah, because you sneezed on him.”

“It was allergy season!”

“Uh-huh.” Jack shrugs. “Still deserved it.”

Before you can jump in, Grim waddles in, arms crossed like the world’s smallest mafia boss. “I don’t care who you date as long as you’re still my henchhuman. Priorities, ya know?”

“Gee, thanks, Grim.”

Then, from across the room, Epel starts cackling like a madman.

“Oh, Vil is gonna lose his mind when he hears about this!” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Leona’s the exact opposite of Vil’s whole life philosophy. This is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Ace adds, smirking. “It’s like watching two completely different wildlife documentaries crash into each other.”

Before you can stop him, Sebek jumps in, indignant. “I cannot believe you would choose that lazy lout over the Young Master!” He practically growls the words.

“Sebek, Leona is—” you try to reason, but Sebek steamrolls right over you.

“He sleeps through his classes! He’s rude! And worst of all, he doesn’t respect Master Malleus!”

You sigh. “Sebek, you can’t date someone based on their respect levels for Malleus.”

“You should!” Sebek declares, crossing his arms dramatically like a lawyer who just delivered the winning argument.

Before things spiral further, Jack mutters, “Leona’s not rude. He’s just… efficient with his energy.”

“Efficient? He calls that one freshman ‘footstool,’ Jack,” Ace deadpans.

“Maybe it’s a term of endearment,” Jack grumbles defensively.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. The whole scene is chaotic—Ace flailing, Epel wheezing, Sebek looking personally offended, Deuce still white-knuckling through the idea of telling Riddle—and somehow, it’s perfect.

Because deep down, you know something they don’t.

Even though Leona doesn’t show it, even though he hates doing anything that even smells like effort, he cares. He really does. Whether it’s texting you to remind you to eat, draping his jacket over you when you forget yours, or waking you up from an accidental nap with your favorite snack—he makes sure you know.

You just smile quietly to yourself, heart warm. And when Ace notices and nudges you, asking what’s got you looking so smug, you just shrug.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, already counting down the minutes until you can see Leona again.

Because even though the man drives you up the wall and naps like a professional, he’s yours. And that makes all the teasing worth it.

1k masterlist ; Main Masterlist

i know lions don't purr but in my delusions, leona does. work with me here

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #leona x reader #leona x you #twst leona #leona kingscholar x you #leona #twst leona x you #1k event

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theomenmedia · 2 months ago

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Top 10 Movies To Watch This Diwali

Dive into the festive spirit with our Top 10 Diwali Movies ! From heartwarming family reunions to epic tales of good vs. evil, these films are your perfect Diwali companions.

Check out out top 10 picks right here: https://www.theomenmedia.com/post/top-10-diwali-films-that-light-up-your-screen-with-festive-joy

#Diwali #Lights Camera Diwali #Diwali On Screen #Bollywood Diwali #Festival Flicks #Movie Marathon #Diwali Special #Diwali Movies #Festive Flicks #Cinema Celebrations #Shah Rukh Khan

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porcelian · 3 months ago

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TRICKS, TREATS, & TOGETHER

PAIRING: jason todd ✗ gn!reader ;

SYNOPSIS: going treat-or-treating with your boyfriend and his little brother ;

ANON ASKED: “ Idea: Jason and Reader take Damian trick-or-treating and get mistaken for as his parents. ”

WARNINGS: none ! ;

WORD COUNT: 0.7k ;

NOTES: i regret keeping up with the “” ..

── .✦ MASTERLIST ; NAVIGATION.

THE EARTHY SMELL OF PUMPKINS WAFTS IN THE AIR. The manor is covered in decorations, inspired by the festive season of fall and the ‘spooky’ feeling of Halloween, as Dick puts it. Small ghost and orange-white candy cut-outs hang from the ceiling, spiderwebs and pumpkins littering the floor.

Speaking of pumpkins, Jason’s hand is covered in it. Mandatory ‘pumpkin carving’ session, Steph said. He tries to grip the makeshift knife to finish carving the angry triangle eye of the pumpkin, but his efforts fall short again.

He was hesitant to join in on the festivities, but after you were invited, you practically dragged him over to the manor.

“Seriously, Jason?” Tim deadpans, looking over Jason’s poorly carved pumpkin.

“It looks so miserable,” Duke says, stifling a giggle.

Jason playfully grins as he flicks pieces of pumpkin at them. “Good to know my struggle is entertaining for you guys.”

You chuckle, the sound a sweet melody to his ears.

You were with Alfred, baking his signature desserts that everyone knows and loves. The sweet smell catches the attention of everyone near the table; Steph already looks ready to pounce for the first bite with Cass right behind her.

You walk in with a plate full of cookies, little ghosts painted on them with frosting. The silly faces remind Jason of his family's failed attempts at carving them.

Tim stands up, waltzing near the plate. “I’ll take this one. Looks like it’s calling my name.”

"Excuse me? I literally saw it first." Steph’s cheeks puff up.

“You saw it, but I claimed it. There's a difference.”

Before either of them can grab a bite, you sneakily hand one to Damian.

He stares at the offering before taking it in his hand.

“C’mon, taste it. It’s a special recipe that Alfred and I came up with.” You smile.

Damian takes a bite, pouting before a small smile forms on his face. “It is acceptable.”

“Told ya.”

A chorus of groans comes from the rest of the family. Jason chuckles as he moves closer to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around your frame.

“Losing sucks, doesn’t it?”

“You lost too, Babybird,” Dick playfully rolls his eyes.

“That’s what you think.” You hand him the second cookie, which he bites into, looking all too satisfied.

“Halloween doesn’t seem all too bad,” Damian comments. “It is my first one, and I am satisfied with it.”

That catches your attention. “Your first Halloween? Have you ever gone trick-or-treating?”

“No, I have not.”

You turn to face Jason, an unspoken request hanging in the air. He looks at you, then at Damian, a soft smile forming on his lips. “Guess we’re going trick-or-treating, then.”

Damian looks at both of you, a faint hint of surprise in his eyes. “That seems rather childish.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you laugh, ruffling his hair gently. “It’s all part of the experience. Besides, you’ll be with us. It’ll be fun.”

Jason smirks, wiping his hands clean of pumpkin bits. “I’ll get my jacket.”

*****

The three of you stroll through the streets of Gotham, the night alive with the chatter and laughter of kids dashing between houses. Damian, dressed as a mini vigilante—because, of course, he refused to wear anything else—keeps a straight face, but there’s a lightness in his step that betrays his excitement. Jason walks beside you, his hand finding yours, and you can’t help but grin at the relaxed atmosphere.

As you make your way from house to house, collecting candy in the little pumpkin bucket Damian insisted on carrying, a couple of neighbors smile warmly at the three of you.

“Such a cute family!” one older woman comments, handing out candy to Damian. “Enjoy the night with your little one.”

Both you and Jason freeze for a moment before bursting out laughing, much to Damian’s annoyance.

A faint pink blush covers Jason's cheeks, one you notice as you intertwine your fingers with his—a silent promise. Someone just referred to you and him as parents, as a family. The thought brings him a solace he didn’t think he could feel.

“We are not—” Damian starts, but you quickly pat his head.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll get you more candy,” you tease, winking at Jason.

“Should’ve brought the Batmobile stroller,” Jason adds, grinning as Damian glares up at him.

“Both of you are insufferable,” Damian mutters, but there’s no hiding the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as the three of you continue your night.

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celestemona · 4 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ — TANGLED FATES

pairing: kinich, kaedehara kazuha, wanderer x reader

cw: soulmates! au. characters may look ooc. approximately 3k words. no pronouns mentioned though "my lady" is said in kazuha's part. fluffy, angsty, lovely. not beta-read.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

Kinich

Kinich had always felt a subtle pull toward something—or someone—just beyond his reach.

From the moment he was born, the thread that connected him to his soulmate had been a delicate shade of translucent red, often fading to the point of nearly vanishing. It was a constant reminder of the distance between them, a tangible sign that his soulmate was far away, perhaps even in another nation.

The people of Natlan revered the concept of soulmates, believing that every thread was woven by the hands of fate itself. Kinich, however, was not the type to wander beyond his homeland in search of this elusive connection. The rugged beauty of his tribe, the thrill of hunting, and the camaraderie of his people grounded him. He found comfort in the familiar rhythms of his life, though sometimes, during quiet moments beneath the canopy of the trees or while gazing at the stars, the thought of his soulmate would flutter in his mind like a restless bird.

Yet today was different.

As Kinich navigated the vibrant festival of the Scions of the Canopy, filled with laughter and the smell of roasted meats mingling with the sweetness of ripe fruit, he couldn’t shake a strange sensation. He glanced down at the red string on his finger, and to his surprise, it was brighter than he had ever seen—deep crimson, like the fiery sunsets that painted the sky at twilight. The sudden vibrancy sent a jolt of energy through him, and his heart raced with possibilities. For the very first time, it felt that his soulmate was closer than he had ever imagined.

The thought barely settled in his mind when a commotion broke out nearby. Kinich turned to see a crowd gathered around the bungee jumping platform, a popular attraction that had people leaping into the air with exhilarating abandon. The sight of the participants soaring through the sky brought a fainted smile to his face—until he noticed one figure preparing for a jump.

His heart seemed to stop as he caught sight of you, your hair whipping in the wind, laughter mingling with the cheers of the crowd. You appeared fearless, but as the countdown began, Kinich noticed something off: the rope seemed frayed, a dangerous instability in an otherwise thrilling endeavor. Panic surged through him as the countdown reached zero.

Before his mind could catch up to his body, he reacted. The faintest snapping sound echoed in his ears as the bungee cord gave way—a horrified gasp echoed from the crowd, but Kinich was already in motion. With a practiced flick of his grappling hook, he shot toward you, the hook catching a solid anchor just as you fell.

In the heartbeat between falling and impact, you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist, jerking you from the void. Time seemed to slow as the world spun and your eyes locked onto his—the man who had saved your life.

Kinich landed gracefully with you in his arms, his grip steady and reassuring as if it were second nature. As the adrenaline pulsed through you, your heart raced not just from the near-death experience, but from the realization that your strings—both of yours—were now glowing vividly, a striking red.

The connection between you was undeniable, even if the situation was surreal.

“That was... close,” you murmured, still catching your breath, your voice trembling with disbelief.

Kinich’s usual nonchalance wavered momentarily as his eyes lingered on yours. He gently set you down, his hand brushing against yours as the string on his pinky tightened, pulling you two together subtly but magnificently. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he said, his voice low but calm, the faintest trace of amusement playing on his lips.

You couldn’t help but smile, even through the lingering adrenaline. “Maybe a little of both.”

He let out a quiet hum, stepping back slightly but not breaking eye contact. “Seems I’ll have to keep an eye on you, then.”

Before you could respond, a pitched voice cut through the air. “No! I though you’d finally gonna get yourself killed, Kinich. Shit! It seems I was wrong again.”

Kinich’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he muttered under his breath, “You wish.”

You blinked, wondering where the voice came from and noticing the sudden change in his demeanor, but before you could ask, Kinich’s focus returned to you. His intense gaze softened as he extended a hand, offering it to you with an unexpected formality. “It seems fate has brought us together in the most dramatic of ways.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing. “Seems that way. And here I thought I’d get a thrill from jumping, not falling.”

“There are safer thrills,” he answered, his hand still holding yours dearly. “One that doesn’t involve falling from cliffs.”

You bit your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hide a smirk, the soft flirtation in his voice making your heartbeats go faster. “Oh? Like what?”

He let his gaze linger on yours, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. “Perhaps we’ll find out together.”

The red string between you entwined, as if urging the two of you closer. For the first time in a long while, Kinich felt more than just duty or the thrill of a adventuring—he felt the warmth of something that had been distant for too long.

And for you, the world around you seemed to quiet as the only thing that mattered now was the connection between you and the man fate had quite literally sent to catch you.

Kaedehara Kazuha

From the moment of birth, the faintest whispers of your soulmate begin to form in your mind, weaving through your thoughts, and growing clearer with time. The voices aren’t constant, but they drift in and out, as if carried on a breeze, reminding you of the presence of someone far away yet intimately close. Sometimes, it's a word spoken aloud, a laugh shared with a friend. Other times, it’s a fleeting thought, as private as a breath. And from childhood, this voice becomes an indelible part of your life, a companion whose face you have never seen but whose soul you know deeply.

Kazuha was still a boy when he first heard the voice. He was playing alone in the gardens of his family’s estate, surrounded by the quiet rustle of leaves and the gentle murmur of the wind. And then, as soft as a whisper, he heard it—a voice that wasn’t his own.

It was delicate, like the sound of water trickling over smooth stones. A voice so pure it carried the sweetness of a lullaby. At first, he thought it was part of the wind, some trick of the breeze, but as the days went on, the voice returned. Sometimes it sang, sometimes it hummed a tune that was unfamiliar yet soothing. And when it spoke, Kazuha listened, enchanted by the rhythm of the words, even if they weren’t meant for him.

Years passed, and the voice became a familiar presence in his life. He learned to recognize its tones—the way it brightened when it was happy, or softened when the person behind it was lost in thought. Even when he left the security of his childhood home, embarking on his wandering journey, the voice followed him. It was a constant companion, a tether that connected him to something beyond the world he knew.

The voice belonged to an opera singer from Fontaine, though Kazuha would only come to know this much later. As children, you’d hear each other speak, often unaware of the impact your words were having on the other side of the world. You’ve been singing since you were small, your voice a bright light in the waterside streets of Fontaine, and Kazuha had come to love the sound of it—first as a soothing melody in the background of his thoughts, and later as a force that brought him comfort during his travels. He could sense your emotions through your voice—the joy you found in your craft, the occasional frustration in your rehearsals, and the quiet moments when you’d murmur your thoughts to yourself.

You, too, had been listening to him. From the first haikus he had whispered into the wind as a child, to the quiet contemplations of a young man growing into his own. Though Kazuha was never one to speak much, the moments when he’d recite poetry or talk to the wind were enough to fill your heart with a sense of companionship. His voice, calm and steady, was a comfort to you as you navigated your own world of art and performance.

Neither of you knew exactly who the other was, but your voices had become a part of each other. Even without a meeting, you had grown up together—two souls connected by the invisible threads of fate.

As Kazuha grew older, his understanding of the voice deepened. He’d often find himself drifting off to sleep, only to wake with the faint echoes of your songs still lingering in his ears. He marveled at how perfectly your voice blended with the world around him—the wind, the sea, and the rustling of leaves in the forests he wandered. Your voice had become a song in the symphony of his life, and he cherished it.

For you, his words were like the poetry he often whispered to himself—a gentle, constant reminder that somewhere out there was someone who understood the world the way you did. You often wondered what he looked like, what kind of person could speak so softly yet carry so much meaning in his words.

Years passed, and though your connection remained strong, you never rushed to meet. There was no urgency, no desperation. Just the quiet understanding that one day, you’d find each other.

It wasn’t until Kazuha’s travels led him to Fontaine that your worlds finally began to merge. The hydro nation was a place where the beauty of the arts and the depths of the sea intertwined. Kazuha had no intention of seeking you out immediately. He had learned patience long ago and trusted that the wind would guide him when the time was right.

But as he wandered the streets of Fontaine, drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, he heard your voice again—clearer than it had ever been. This time, it was no distant whisper but a melody that floated on the air, rich and vibrant. You were rehearsing for an upcoming performance, your voice filling the opera house with the same beauty that had once echoed in his dreams.

He stood at a distance, watching you from the shadows. You were every bit as graceful as your voice, your movements fluid and elegant. Your presence commanded the space around you, yet there was a softness to you that drew him in. You were speaking with one of the directors with enthusiasm as you discussed the details of the upcoming opera. And though you didn’t know it, the man you had shared your thoughts with for so many years was standing just a few feet away, watching with quiet reverence.

Kazuha’s heart swelled as he took a deep breath, allowing the wind to guide him forward. It was time.

With the same grace that had carried him through countless battles and journeys, he approached you, his steps light and unhurried. When you turned, eyes meeting, the recognition was instant. The voice that had been a constant presence in your lives was now matched with a face.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. It was as though the world had stopped, leaving only the two of you standing in the fading light of the afternoon. And then, with a soft smile, Kazuha spoke.

“My lady,” he said, his voice as gentle as the breeze that stirred the air around both of you. He took your hand in his own, bowing slightly as he lifted it to his lips. The soft kiss he placed on the back of your hand was filled with all the quiet emotion he had carried with him for so many years. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

Your smile widened, warmth rosing on your cheeks. “The honor is mine. I’ve heard your voice for so long… I almost thought I was dreaming when I heard you recite your poems for the first time.”

“As did I,” Kazuha replied, his crimson eyes soft as he gazed at you. “Your voice has been with me for as long as I can remember. Hearing you sing now… it feels as though I've been waiting for this moment my entire life.”

You laughed softly, the sound as musical as the voice he had come to love. “And I’ve been waiting for you. I always wondered when our paths would cross.”

“They were bound to,” Kazuha said, his tone warm. “The wind always carries us to where we are meant to be.”

With his and your hands still gently intertwined, you stood in the heart of Fontaine, the city alive with the murmur of art and life around them. But for the two of you, the rest of the world had faded, leaving only the echo of the voices that had connected you for so long.

In that moment, you knew that your journey—though long and winding—had led you both exactly where you were meant to be. Together.

Wanderer

In Teyvat, the concept of soulmates wasn’t something everyone discussed openly, but it was an unspoken truth understood by all. It was a tragic but beautiful reality for those people: no one ever dreamed—at least, not until they met their soulmate. The first and only dream a person would ever experience was a shared one, an intimate meeting with their destined one. This dream wasn’t bound by time or place, often filled with subtle moments, quiet connections, and profound understanding. But the dream itself didn’t mean immediate union. Many spent years after their dream searching, wondering when—or if—they’d ever cross paths with their other half in the waking world.

And not all believed they deserved a soulmate.

Wanderer had learned of the legend when he was still known as Kunikuzushi, back in the early days when he was newly formed and still discovering what it meant to exist. He hadn’t thought it applied to him, a puppet—a hollow being without a true heart, someone who was neither human nor divine. But one night, long ago, when he was still innocent and full of hope, he had a dream.

In that dream, he met you.

It wasn’t a vivid or wild vision. It was quiet, serene. You walked in a vast wheat field, your steps so rhythmic as if you were dancing between invisible trails that only you knew where it’d take you. Your back was turned to him but the sound of your laughter was a song that played like a lullaby in his head. When you looked up, your eyes meeting, something inside him stirred—a sense of calm, of being understood without words.

There were no grand gestures, no spoken promises. Just a glance, a soft smile, and a feeling that warmed him from the inside out. You were real, and for the first time in his short existence, he felt connected to something outside of himself.

When he woke, the memory of that dream stayed with him, lodged deep in his mind like a forgotten melody. He tried to dismiss it, thinking it was some strange byproduct of his flawed creation. How could he have a soulmate when he wasn’t truly human?

Years, centuries passed, and Kunikuzushi became Scaramouche, and Scaramouche became Wanderer. He fell deeper into darkness, fueled by bitterness and anger. Yet, despite the walls he built around himself, the memory of the dream never fully faded. It lingered in the back of his mind, sometimes emerging in his quietest moments, like a long-lost hope he didn’t want to admit to. He believed that dream was lost to time, and that he had been undeserving of it. He had resigned himself to solitude, pushing away any notion that he might still have a connection to someone out there.

But everything changed the night he wandered the streets of Sumeru.

The night was calm, and the air was thick with the fragrant scent of flowers. It was one of those evenings where the city was still alive, bustling with life even under the veil of darkness. The marketplace glowed softly in the distance, filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter. Wanderer had no purpose being there, only walking aimlessly, his mind drifting between thoughts.

Yet, for reasons he couldn’t explain, the memory of that dream began to surface. The image of you, twirling in a field, returned with startling clarity. He could almost see the light in your eyes, feel the quiet comfort of that moment. His steps slowed as a strange, almost magnetic pull tugged at his chest, drawing his attention toward the marketplace.

And then he saw you.

You stood at a vendor’s stall, your profile illuminated by the soft lantern light. His breath hitched. It was as if time stopped. You looked exactly as you had in the dream—your presence both familiar and startling. He blinked, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. After all this time, how could you be here?

You turned slightly, inspecting some trinket on display, completely unaware of him. The world around him blurred, all the noise fading into a distant hum as his focus remained solely on you. He felt his heart—did he even have one?—thunder in his chest.

A storm of emotions raged inside him. He hadn’t prepared for this. Could this truly be real? After all he had done—his mistakes, his hatred, his isolation—was it possible that fate hadn’t given up on him? Was he still deserving of a soulmate?

He found himself rooted to the spot, too stunned to move. He couldn’t approach you, not yet. How could he, knowing what he had become? A part of him was relieved, though—relieved that you existed, that the dream hadn’t been a cruel joke. But the hesitation that lingered was undeniable. What if you saw him for who he truly was and walked away? What if, after all these years, he was no longer the person you had dreamed of?

You moved away from the stall, and at that moment, your eyes swept over the crowd, casually scanning the area—until they locked onto his.

The recognition was instant, like a spark between two halves of a long-separated whole. You blinked, clearly processing what you were feeling as if the dream had come flooding back to you all at once. The same quiet understanding he had felt in the dream now passed between you in reality. Your expression softened, and though you seemed uncertain, you didn’t look away.

You took a tentative step toward him, your curiosity was evident. His heart raced again, the walls he had built around himself suddenly feeling fragile as if a single word from you could shatter them entirely.

And then you spoke.

“I saw you once upon a dream,” you said, your voice gentle, filled with the same warmth and wonder from the dream. There was no accusation in your tone, no judgment—just simple truth.

He swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, yet none of them made sense. All he could manage was, “Did you?”

You nodded, your gaze unwavering. “I thought it was just a trick of my mind, but… seeing you now, I know it was real.”

He stood frozen, a mix of doubts, disbelief, and relief swirling inside him. The person he had dreamed of, who he thought was forever out of reach, was standing in front of him. And you remembered him.

His voice was quieter than he intended when he finally spoke again. “I never thought I’d find you.”

You stepped closer, a soft smile forming on your lips. “Neither did I. But… here we are.”

The warmth in your eyes was something he hadn’t felt in so long. It made the walls around his heart tremble, threatening to crumble. He wanted to say so much, to explain the years that had passed, to tell you how unworthy he felt—but none of it mattered in that moment. You were here, and you had dreamed of him, too.

Perhaps, despite everything, he still had a chance at something real. Something good. And for the first time in his long, fragmented existence, Kunikuzushi felt a flicker of hope.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #kinich #kinich x reader #kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kazuha x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #wanderer #wanderer x reader

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trulyumai · 1 month ago

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jealousy within

—: pairing - caracalla / wife! reader

—: synopsis - all you wanted was to mingle, dance a little and talk to someone who wouldn’t yell or berate you. You hadn’t meant to anger your husband, or cause the death of an innocent man.

—: warnings: anger, violence, talk of death, gutting, grabbing.

You didn’t mean to upset him, not really.

Making an already emotional— somewhat unstable, emperor jealous wasn’t the smartest move. But it was the one you chose and decided to execute.

Of course, festivities began quite early. Caracalla himself had arranged the time, the place. Geta didn’t have the energy to spare to fight about such things, he only nodded along with a tight lipped smile, eyes glancing from his boasting brother, to you, always quiet, always watching.

And that’s where it really began, with you, watching. Seeing Caracalla mingle and dance with these strangers— claiming that they adore him, honor him. It was a farce, almost everyone was scared of the short haired ginger, more so than geta at times. He would flick his temper on and off with a quick switch— almost was an impressive feat until a vase would find its way smashed into your backside.

All you wanted was to join. Have a dance or talk of your own, it didn’t occur to you that Caracalla would be watching, sizing you up and down or threateningly pushing past other citizens to get a glimpse of you dancing with the happy stranger.

“It would be my honor, my lady.” The man’s hand, from who you signaled to earlier and approached, reached out for you, happily accepting your request in mingling, not even bothering to question such a request.

For who would deny their empress a dance?

“You look lovely today, my empress,” holding onto the softly robed man, you laughed. “Wanna know something?” Hearing a hum, you continued. “I think you’re the first to compliment me tonight.”

The man let out a low pitched gurgle, shock filled the spaces of his face before words overtook him. “That musnt be,”

Others danced around you, giggling and enjoying the carefree scene.

“It is!”

“Then they are all fools, my lady. For you look absolutely radiant tonight.”

You would have replied politely, if not for the voice of your husband cutting through the space.

“She does, doesn’t she?” It was almost painful— how quick your neck snapped back to look at the man.

“My liege!” The man seized back, arms now deflated at the sides while a sweat dotted across his brow. “It’s an honor to see you so—“

“An honor, Really?” Caracallla wasn’t known for his patience, it was becoming obvious of such a thing. A wide grin had spread across his face, a golden tooth gleamed against the candlelight and wild hair splayed around the golden robes he chose for tonight’s banquet.

“An honor that must be, to dine in my halls, eat by my side and court my woman!”

“N-No, your majesty I wouldn’t dare!”

Caracalla tssked, slow and mockingly. A hand guided its way to your back, until it slithered around the bend of your waist. “I wonder… are you as good at fighting as you are with running your mouth?”

“I—I am no fighter, my— my liege, but an apprentice for Sir Tomund.”

Loud and harsh, the shorter emperor called out. “Sir tomund!”

A skinny, scrawny man with more wrinkles than hair pushed his way through the gawking citizens.

Answering with only a raise to the head, Caracalla went on. “Would you be utterly ruined if, let’s say your, “esteemed,” apprentice found a new way of living?”

The elder man wanted no trouble, especially from the likes of a man such as Caracalla. Unpredictably was the game and only he could play it so well. There would be no winner but the ginger haired emperor.

“No, your grace. I would find another.”

Caracallas grip left you, both hands were now splayed out in front of him as if he was welcoming a deity into his arms.

“Just as I thought. Come, little apprentice, the guards will show you to your new quarters!”

Now desperate the man moved closer, his eyes wide with newfound fear, tears began to gather at the crevice of his lids.

He was utterly terrified.

“Please—no! My lady, say something, please!”

All eyes now soaked up your figure. Standing just beside your husband, wringing your hands in a nervous motion. “I—I,” with so many eyes upon you, anxiety creeped up your spine with a slow, cold drag.

Caracalla awaited your answer, almost wanting to open your mouth for you and claw out the words himself. Gods how he hated waiting, especially for such trivial things that were destined for death anyway.

“What she means to say,” butting in, the Emperor cackled to himself, thinking of a new way to torture the boundary stepping man.

“Is, you have two choices. You can fight in the ring—die an honorable death!” Cheers and hollers cried out, signaling the love of the coliseum.

“Or you can die here, tonight. Be gutted by me and mopped up for everyone to see.”

Bringing a hand up to his chest, you lightly pushed against it, garnering the attention of the babbling man— If only for a second.

“My love, he didn’t mean it. Please, let’s just retire for the night, leave this nonsense alone—

“Retire?! After he touched you, whispered those honey dew words into your ear like he had the right!” A fire was lit in the emperors eyes, one you had seen many times before.

Such a flame was only lit by the promises of blood. Caracalla had already made his decision; the stranger was to die.

It would be your fault.

“Please, please no, I never meant for this!” No matter how much the man wailed and cried out, the guards were already signaled for. There steps were heavy and calculated, only stopping mere inches from you and the emperor.

“Seize him.”

“No!” Grabbing the man, they pushed him to his knees, scraping the flesh against the concreted floors. They didn’t move or flinch when the stranger rebelled against them— shoving and pushing his way towards potential freedom.

But no matter how much the man fought, the guards gripped remained.

His fate remained.

Turning, Caracalla hummed to himself, he found the corner of the room, where dormant spears and swords lay for customary shows and fights that get displayed in the hall.

With a finger on one of the old handles, his hands tightened around the blade. It lifted easily against the strength, pulling out of the sheath with a gleaming glow.

Caracalla turned again, only his eyes were on the clean weapon, in awe of its violent nature and sharpness.

“I want you to do it,” by the gods, surely he wasn’t serious. “I need to see you do it.” Your husband urged, practically pushing the blade in your shaking hands.

“Please,” he begged. With glossy eyes, caracalla finally looked at you, truly looked at you.

Only you could differentiate madness and desperation. Notice the way his skin got all clammy, notice how his lips couldn’t stop quivering.

He was just as scared as you, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Do this for me. Do this for me and I’ll know you weren’t lying. I can believe you!” He urged, already planting his palms upon your shoulders, facing you towards the downturned citizen.

It seems you just couldn’t catch a breath. Your chest heaved up and down, you felt so hot— so cold at the same time. The white robe clung to your skin with a purpose, making everything itchy and tight while a static shot up your back.

“Do it. Do it, pretty wife.” His voice was low now, lips brushing against your ear tentatively.

And so you did.

You swung for a critical spot. Hoping—praying the man wouldn’t have to suffer another blow.

A giggle, mean and high sounded out just by you, almost too loudly because of it’s proximity.

“Again!”

Swinging, your hair came undone. The once clean and elegant braids were now loose and unturned. With more and more swings, blood began to mat at the tips, spatters ran down your neck and arms, covering the majority of skin with a rich and thick maroon.

You must have blacked out after the fifth or sixth swing. Because when you came to, the crowd was gone. The body wasn’t in shambles in front of you, nor were you even in the same room.

A blackened chamber lay in front of you. Your body was tucked into a king sized bed and a cotton robe had entranced your being.

Startled by your sudden movement, a hand shot up from the bed, placing itself upon your tummy.

“What is it?” A groggy, deep voiced caracalla mumbled. His other hand rubbed against his closed eye, smudging the sleep from his vision.

“W—what?”

“Go back to sleep, wife, im too tired for these games today.” Flipping over, your husbands back now took up your sight. However he was still close, the back of his legs grazed against yours in habitual confidence.

With a hunched form you grabbed at your hair, searching for the remains of blood to coat your hands and memory. It didn’t. There was no stain to be seen, no red chunks to pull out and weep about.

And that would have eased your mind, relaxed your eyes just enough to find an ounce of sleep, if not for your occasional robes laying haphazardly on the marbled floors, caked in a dark— coagulated heap of blood.

#x reader #fanfiction #caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla #caracalla x you #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x you #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator x reader #angst #anger #jealousy

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mooishbeam · 4 months ago

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『♡』 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.

#jjk toji #jjk x reader #jjk #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut

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girlrotterr · 16 days ago

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☆ 𓈒 ݁ I wanna hold the hand inside you. ๋ ♩ ⋆ ݁

ellie williams x ballerina! reader Summary: Ellie, an art school dropout working at a bookstore, has a habit of sketching strangers she encounters. One day, she becomes captivated by a rising ballet star practicing at a nearby theater. a/n: Happy holidays, my angels! I'm endlessly grateful for your support and kindness. To show my appreciation, here's a festive little fic to celebrate the season! 🎄

The first flakes of snow swirled against the inky sky, catching the amber glow of streetlights as if they were performing a pirouette in the winter night. Ellie slouched on her stool behind the counter, her gaze drifting to the frost-rimmed window. Outside, the world carried on with its holiday bustle—carolers huddled under lampposts, the tinny strains of their song barely audible over the rush of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from passersby. She dragged the edge of her sleeve across her face, smudging lead further down her wrist, and stared at the half-finished sketch in her notebook.

The shop was quiet, except for the soft hiss of the radiator and the muffled strains of an old jazz record spinning in the corner. The Christmas tree, barely taller than her arm, stood crooked in its stand, its few ornaments glittering under strings of mismatched lights. Ellie wasn’t much for festive cheer, but it had been her boss’s idea—a “charming touch” to draw in customers. So far, it hadn’t worked.

The bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden against the quiet. Ellie glanced up, expecting the usual—a hurried shopper looking for last-minute gifts, maybe another student trying to trade old textbooks for cash. But the figure standing in the doorway was neither.

You hesitated there, framed by the frosted glass, the soft glow from the streetlights catching on the gold buttons of your coat. Snow clung to your hair, melting into shimmering droplets that slid down your scarf. Something about the way you stood—poised yet uncertain—caught Ellie’s attention. You stepped inside, the sound of your boots muffled by the threadbare rug, and the door swung shut with a gust of icy air.

Ellie straightened, wiping her smudged fingers on her jeans. Your eyes flicked around the store, tracing the shelves with a kind of deliberation that made Ellie’s skin prickle. You moved with a grace, like you carried some secret rhythm only you could hear. A dancer, Ellie thought, though she couldn’t explain how she knew.

“Can I help you?” Ellie’s voice came out rougher than intended, the words blunt in the stillness.

You blinked, startled, your gaze snapping to hers. For a moment, you didn’t speak, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your coat. Ellie noticed the way your hands moved, smoothing invisible creases, your knuckles brushing against the buttons as if trying to iron it out.

“Yes,” you said at last, your voice soft but steady. “I’m looking for an old choreography journal. I heard this store might have it.”

Ellie arched an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. “Choreography journal? That’s pretty specific.”

You nodded, your expression earnest, and Ellie sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “Right. Follow me.”

You trailed behind her as she wove through the maze of shelves. The air smelled of aged paper and pine, and the faint hum of the jazz record followed you into the back corner of the shop. Ellie scanned the spines, her fingers grazing over faded titles until she spotted it—a leather-bound journal, its edges worn with age. She pulled it free and turned, holding it out.

“This the one?”

Your face lit up, a smile breaking across your features so suddenly and so vividly that it hit Ellie like a sucker punch. “Yes! Thank you,” you said, your voice breathless as you took the journal from her hands, cradling it like something fragile and precious.

She watched as you moved toward the counter, her fingers itching to grab her sketchpad. She didn’t know what it was—maybe the light catching the curve of your cheek, or the quiet determination in your eyes—but she felt the urge to capture it before it slipped away.

The bell jingled again as you left, the journal tucked under your arm. Ellie sat back down, her fingers already moving, charcoal sweeping across the page in quick, confident strokes. She sketched the tilt of your head, the fall of your coat, the way you had looked when you first stepped into the shop, snow still clinging to your scarf.

When the drawing was done, Ellie stared at it, her chest tightening.

“Should’ve said something,” she muttered, closing the notebook with a sigh.

Ellie’s hands drummed absentmindedly against the steering wheel, the engine’s hum matching the rhythm of her thoughts as she drove down the dimly lit streets. The Christmas lights that adorned the lampposts casted a muted glow over the pavement, reflecting off the windshield in streaks of red and green. She flicked her gaze over to Jesse, her best friend, who sat in the passenger seat with his head tipped back, looking up at the sparse stars through the cracked window.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were starting to like this cold," Ellie teased, her lips curling into a grin.

Jesse smirked but didn’t reply right away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. After a beat, he looked over at her, his expression softening. “It’s not the cold that’s got me in a good mood. It’s this whole, ‘helping out with your job’ thing. Plus, I get to spend some time with you before I clock in at mine.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "You mean the part-time gig as the world’s most underpaid stagehand?"

Jesse chuckled. “Hey, I’m getting better at lifting things.”

The two of them shared a laugh before the silence settled comfortably between them. Ellie had never been one for big plans, but Jesse’s spontaneity had a way of keeping things interesting, even on cold winter nights like this one.

Pulling into the theater's lot, Ellie parked in the space closest to the backstage entrance, and Jesse threw open the door with a flourish. “Wanna come inside for a bit? They’re rehearsing for The Nutcracker, and I don’t feel like sitting around alone.” He raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve got nothing better to do.”

Ellie shrugged, her hand on the door handle. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got a couple hours to kill anyway.”

The two of them walked inside, greeted by the familiar hum of stage lights and the distant chatter of performers. The backstage area was a chaos of costumes, props, and stagehands rushing about in preparation for the evening’s rehearsal. Ellie had seen it all before—Jesse working his second job, moving props, fixing lights, and usually getting caught in the drama of the theater. But tonight, she didn’t feel like hanging around the cluttered backroom, so instead, she followed Jesse down a narrow hallway, where the low murmur of music seeped out from beneath the door to the rehearsal space.

The room was filled with dancers—some stretching, others running through pirouettes, all wrapped in the familiar warmth of motion and music. Ellie leaned against the wall just inside the door, watching them with a quiet sense of awe. The elegance in their movements, the sharp precision of each turn and leap—it was a world so different from her own, so alien in its grace.

But then, her eyes caught you.

You were at the front of the group, gliding effortlessly across the polished floor, your body flowing in perfect synchrony with the music. There was something magnetic about the way you moved, something Ellie hadn’t been able to shake since that first moment she saw you in the bookstore. She hadn’t known it then, but seeing you now, so focused, so composed—her heart gave an unexpected thump.

You paused mid-step, adjusting the position of your arm as the instructor called for the group to repeat the sequence. Ellie’s breath hitched in her chest as she watched you. She didn’t know much about ballet—hell, she didn’t know much about anything that required that level of discipline—but she knew that you were a star in the making. And something about you standing there in that moment made her feel like an outsider, unsure of whether to approach you or simply watch from a distance.

Her fingers twitched, the urge to capture you on paper bubbling to the surface before she could stop herself. The sketchbook she always carried with her was nestled in the crook of her arm, the familiar weight comforting in its presence. Without thinking, she pulled it free, the pages flipping open with a soft rustle, and she found the nearest bench, settling down with a practiced ease. The dancers continued to move in their own world, their rhythm uninterrupted by her quiet intrusion.

Jesse, oblivious to the change in the air, slapped her shoulder as he walked by, his voice laced with his usual lighthearted teasing. "I’m gonna go clock in."

Ellie gave him a sharp nod, her focus already elsewhere. “Go do your thing.”

He gave her a crooked grin before disappearing into the back, leaving Ellie alone with her sketchbook and the image of you in her mind. Her pencil hovered over the paper for a moment, and then she was moving, sketching you in a flurry of strokes.

The movements were swift but careful, each line drawing out the fluidity in your form—the arc of your arm, the curve of your body as you turned, the elegance in the tilt of your chin. Ellie’s hand moved instinctively, following the rhythm of your dance in a way she never had before, as if the beat of the music pulsed through her own veins. The sketch began to take shape quickly, a blurry but vivid impression of you.

She glanced up briefly, just to catch the way your foot landed on the floor with a light thud before you floated effortlessly into another spin, and Ellie was back to the page, her pencil pressing harder now, as if she could make it feel more real. The slow burn of the sketch was intoxicating—each movement of your body translated into a new line, a curve, a shadow on the paper. There was something about watching you from here, at a distance, that felt so… personal, like she was drawing you in a way that words never could.

Her pencil moved faster as you paused in a stretch, your back arching in a way that made Ellie’s breath catch in her chest. A small frown creased her brow as she captured it, the lines growing more confident, more precise with every passing second.

You were beautiful.

Ellie bit her lip, feeling a warmth creeping up her neck at the thought. It was like you were a part of the drawing now, and she didn’t know whether that made it feel more real or less. She wanted to show it to you, somehow, but the thought of speaking to you—really speaking to you—sent a quick pulse of anxiety through her chest.

The dancers were in full flow now, the music swelling with urgency. They executed one complex sequence after another, their bodies bending and stretching with fluidity. But at the front of the room, where you were, the music seemed to swell around you, highlighting every intricate move, every flick of your wrist, every lift of your leg. You were the center of it all—focused, your concentration as sharp and precise as the form of your body, each movement a well-practiced line of choreography.

But then, in the middle of a delicate turn, it happened.

Your foot slipped.

It was almost imperceptible at first, a slight misstep—a mere second of imbalance—but it was enough to unravel the perfection of your movement. Your ankle buckled, the graceful arc of your body faltering. Ellie’s breath caught in her throat as she watched you lose control, your arms flailing for balance, but your foot twisted in a way that left you no choice.

You crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, the sound of your body hitting the hardwood echoing in Ellie’s chest. A sharp intake of breath escaped your lips as you caught yourself on your hands, but it was clear you weren’t going to recover quickly. For that split second, time seemed to freeze—there was only the sound of your pain hanging in the air, as still as the tension that gripped the room. Ellie felt her stomach drop, her hands instinctively tightening around the edges of her sketchbook as she kept her gaze locked on you, her heart pounding wildly.

The other dancers rushed to your side, their faces a blur of concern and urgency, but Ellie couldn’t tear her eyes away. She felt as if her whole body had gone rigid, her muscles taut with the sudden, overwhelming need to do something, anything—but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, her mind frozen with the image of you crumpled on the floor.

"Shit," Ellie muttered under her breath, her voice barely above a whisper as she clenched her jaw, frustration building in her chest. Her fingers, stiff with worry, drummed against the pages of her sketchbook, but she barely noticed the paper crinkling beneath her touch.

It felt like hours before Jesse reappeared, though it was only a minute or so later. He stepped lightly into the space beside Ellie, his shoes tapping against the floor. He scanned the scene in front of them, his eyes flicking over to where you were being helped up by one of the instructors.

Jesse plopped down next to Ellie, stretching his legs out in front of him and settling in with the ease of someone who had been here a thousand times before. His tone was casual, but Ellie could hear the concern that lingered beneath it, the weight of the situation finally beginning to register in his voice. "You good?"

Ellie’s focus was still completely fixed on you. Her mind was a swirl of confusion, worry, and something deeper she couldn’t quite place. She didn’t know how to process it, how to feel about seeing you like this. She’d watched you dance so effortlessly before. But now, this—this moment—felt different. “I don’t know… I think she’s okay, but—” She trailed off, her voice trailing behind the question, as she watched the instructor gently guide you off to the side. Your movements were slow now, the instructor’s arm around your shoulders, offering what little support you might need.

Jesse leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. He folded his arms across his chest, the casual way he settled back into his seat making it clear that this wasn’t his first time seeing something like this happen.

“Ohh, her. She’s a rising star, man. You wouldn’t know it from how quiet she is, but she’s a big deal around here. Preparing for The Nutcracker… it’s like, a huge role for her.” His voice softened as he spoke, but Ellie could still hear the admiration in his words, the way he seemed to know something more about you than she did.

Her brow furrowed, her thoughts racing in a dozen directions.

Jesse’s gaze shifted back to you as you sat on the bench now, resting your injured ankle. There was a brief pause before he continued, his voice quieter now.

“Last year, though… she had a huge setback. Bad performance, all the pressure got to her. She messed up, and it cost her. Big time.” He glanced at Ellie, gauging her reaction, before he continued, his voice more subdued. “She twisted her ankle during the performance. It’s been hard for her to bounce back.”

Ellie’s stomach tightened at the revelation, her heart sinking. “Are you sure she’s gonna be okay?” Ellie asked, her words tumbling out before she could stop them. There was a tightness in her chest now, a knot she couldn’t unravel as she watched you—still holding yourself, but now with a limp, a hesitation in your steps.

Jesse let out a long sigh, his expression softening with something like sympathy. “She’s tough. But… yeah. It’s gonna take a lot to get back to where she was before. The injury’s made it harder to balance sometimes. I think it messes with her head more than anything.” He paused for a beat, his eyes lingering on you, still sitting off to the side, the pain evident in your movements even though you tried so hard to mask it.

Ellie couldn’t look away. The sight of you made something inside her ache, something she couldn’t name.

Ellie walked into her apartment, the door creaking as she pushed it open, the familiar scent of stale air and dust greeting her like an old friend. The heater was a noisy beast that struggled to keep the cold at bay, but she couldn’t afford anything better, not when every paycheck was stretched thin between groceries, rent, and whatever scraps of art supplies she could scrape together. She sighed, a breath that carried the weight of the long day, as she kicked off her boots.

The floor was cold under her feet, but it didn’t matter much—everything in this place was a little broken, a little worse for wear. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it drop onto the couch, and peeled off her layers one by one. The thick sweater, the scarf she had wrapped too tightly around her neck, the faded jeans—she tossed them all aside like they didn’t matter anymore. She had long given up on caring about how she looked or how this place looked. No amount of rearranging could fix the fact that it was barely livable.

Ellie crossed the small living room to the heater, cranking it up to the highest setting, watching the way it sputtered to life with a half-hearted groan. The warmth was slow to come, but she didn’t mind the wait. She needed to lie down. She needed to close her eyes for just a moment before the thoughts crowded in.

She dropped onto the couch, sinking into the familiar, sagging cushions. The spot had molded to her body over the years, each depression a reminder of how many sleepless nights she had spent in this place—thinking, drawing, wasting time. Her sketchbook was always within reach, a constant companion even when she hated it, when the pages felt too full of the messy, unrefined parts of herself.

Ellie was a scrappy art school dropout with no grand dreams of gallery shows or fame. After her dad—Joel—had passed, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He’d been the one who held things together, who made sure she had everything she needed, even when things were hard. His sudden death shattered her world, leaving her with no safety net. Without him, there was no way she could afford the tuition. So she quit.

Her shifts at the bookstore paid for the crappy apartment, but it didn’t cover the bills, let alone the art supplies she burned through. Still, she kept coming back. It wasn’t the job she wanted, but it kept her from starving, kept her from getting evicted. Her fingers were always covered in ink and graphite from sketching during breaks, filling pages with fragmented portraits and half-formed ideas.

Ellie had been lying on the couch, the irritation of the thumping bass from next door creeping under her skin like an itch that couldn't be scratched. She'd pulled her pillow over her head, hoping it would drown out the noise, but it only seemed to make the thudding louder. The muffled music bled through the walls, a constant, annoying reminder of how small and stifling her apartment had become. She felt trapped—trapped by the noise, by the walls, by the life she couldn't quite get out of.

And then the moment came. Another wave of pounding bass rattled the floor, sharp and insistent, until Ellie couldn’t take it anymore. Her frustration built up until it was a tight knot in her chest, and before she even realized it, she was on her feet, storming out of her apartment without a second thought.

Her feet barely made a sound as she walked down the hall, her breath shallow, fists clenched. The door to the apartment was slightly ajar, as if inviting her in, and Ellie, in her agitated state, didn’t pause to knock. She pushed the door open, ready to confront the source of the noise, but then everything stopped.

You were there.

In the soft glow of the moonlight, you moved with a grace that stole Ellie’s breath away. The warm, golden light wrapped around your figure like a blanket, casting your silhouette in a soft, delicate glow. Your body spun through the air, each movement flowing effortlessly into the next, as if you were part of the rhythm of the world itself. Your form was fluid, every line of your body a quiet expression of something beautiful.

She stood frozen in the doorway, her chest tight as she watched. The world seemed to slow down around her. There was no harsh music blaring, no noise at all—just the sound of your movements and the occasional soft swish of fabric. The way you danced was mesmerizing, like you were lost in a world of your own.

Your focus was total, your expression one of quiet concentration, but it wasn’t just your skill that held Ellie’s gaze. It was the way you seemed to move so effortlessly, as if you were floating. You were lost in your dance, your body becoming an extension of the space around you. For a brief, fleeting moment, Ellie forgot everything—the irritation, the frustration, even the reason she’d come here. All that mattered was the way you filled the space with your presence.

God, you're everywhere.

Ellie’s heart thudded in her chest, each beat louder than the last. The thought hit her, unbidden and sharp: fuck, I can’t escape you. You were a constant presence, even if Ellie hadn’t fully realized it until now. In the bookstore, in the theater, in the quiet of her own apartment, and now here, in the soft glow of your world. It was as if fate had tied her to you, whether she liked it or not. And in that moment, Ellie couldn’t decide if she was terrified or intrigued by that pull.

You finished your spin, landing with the kind of grace that left Ellie almost breathless. The room around you felt smaller, quieter, as if your very presence had claimed it..

But then, in that instant, your movements faltered. Your eyes flickered toward her, and suddenly the connection snapped. Your gaze locked with hers, and Ellie felt a jolt run through her body, as if her entire world had shifted. The stillness of the moment was broken by the uncomfortable tension that now hung between them.

You froze mid-spin, your wide eyes betraying a mixture of surprise and fear. The tension in your body was palpable as you instinctively took a step back, your shoulders tightening, your lips pressed together in discomfort. Ellie saw the way you hesitated, a quick breath caught in your chest, as if you weren’t sure whether to move or stay.

You were scared. Unnerved by her presence.

Ellie raised her hands slowly, palms out in a gesture of apology, her voice coming out softer than she intended. “I—I didn’t mean to—your door was open, and the music… I just…” She trailed off, words tangling on her tongue as her gaze flickered over you, taking in the guarded way you stood, every muscle taut as if ready to defend yourself.

The silence between you stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in your apartment. Ellie swallowed hard, the warmth of the space and the sheer presence of you making her feel like an intruder in a world she didn’t belong to.

You folded your arms, your expression shifting from wary to something unreadable. The moonlight poured through the wide windows, catching on the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin. Your hair framed your face, slightly disheveled but effortlessly stunning, and the tension in your jaw made Ellie’s chest ache in a way she didn’t fully understand.

“Look,” Ellie started again, shifting awkwardly, her fingers curling into the strap of her bag. “I wasn’t trying to spy or anything. I live next door, and the music was… loud.” She winced inwardly at the weak excuse, the words sounding hollow even as they left her lips. Her frustration from earlier had long since dissipated, leaving only a raw mix of nerves and something else—something she couldn’t quite name.

“Loud?” you repeated, your voice soft but edged with incredulity.

Ellie nodded quickly, her cheeks burning. “Yeah. But, uh, you dance… really well. Like, beautifully well.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, your arms still crossed, but the sharpness of your gaze seemed to dull just a fraction. Ellie could’ve kicked herself. Compliments probably weren’t what you wanted to hear from the stranger who’d just barged into your apartment uninvited.

“Thanks,” you said finally, your tone clipped. But there was something in the way you said it—something quieter, almost hesitant—that made Ellie’s stomach twist. The tension in your frame didn’t ease, and you kept your distance, clearly not ready to let your guard down.

Ellie shifted on her feet, the urge to say something—anything—gnawing at her. “Right. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair.” She took a step back toward the door, but her movements were sluggish, reluctant. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, louder than the muffled music still playing faintly in the background.

She hesitated, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice quiet, almost shy, “you’re… incredible. I can tell how hard you work. ”

The tension in your face softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something Ellie couldn’t quite place crossing your features. But you didn’t say anything, just leaned lightly against the edge of a small table near the window. The moonlight caught on the curve of your shoulder, illuminating the quiet strength in your posture, the determination etched into the lines of your body even in stillness.

“Next time,” you said finally, your tone even but laced with a sharp edge, “knock.”

Ellie nodded quickly, a sheepish, almost apologetic smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Totally. Got it.”

Without another word, she slipped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut softly behind her. Ellie leaned heavily against the wall, running a hand through her unruly hair as she exhaled a shaky breath. Her heart was still racing, the image of you under the moonlight burned into her mind.

The faint glow of the Christmas lights bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, soft blues and reds dancing across the walls of Ellie’s small apartment. The space felt warmer than usual, though the heater sputtering in the corner certainly wasn’t responsible for that. It had everything to do with you being here—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a box of ornaments balanced in front of you, a soft smile playing at your lips as you unwrapped another bauble.

Ellie glanced at you from the corner of her eye as she worked to untangle the mess of lights in her lap. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught herself watching you, though she’d gotten better at not staring outright. You’d been coming around more often lately, showing up with little excuses to see her: a borrowed book you’d “forgotten” to return, a leftover pastry from the café near your place that you thought she’d like, even a random bottle of wine to “celebrate surviving another week.”

At first, Ellie had been cautious, unsure of what to make of your easy smiles and playful teasing. But slowly—so slowly she hadn’t even realized it at first—her defenses had begun to drop. You’d found a way to fit into the cracks of her life, easing past her guarded edges with a kindness that felt effortless.

And Ellie, despite herself, had started to let you in.

The moments you shared now felt natural, unforced. Like when you’d taken it upon yourself to help her pick out a Christmas tree after learning she’d never had one. You’d teased her mercilessly about her bare-bones apartment, joking that she needed “at least one thing in here that screamed holiday cheer.” And she’d let you, because even when you were poking fun at her, there was something so warm and genuine in the way you spoke to her, like you’d known her forever.

“Ellie,” you said now, breaking her from her thoughts. She blinked, looking up to find you holding out a small ornament shaped like a snowflake. “This one’s cute. Front and center?”

She shrugged, the corners of her mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Sure. You’re the boss.”

You laughed softly, reaching up to hang the ornament near the middle of the tree. Ellie couldn’t help but notice how easily you seemed to fill the quiet spaces in her apartment, your presence bringing a lightness to the air that hadn’t been there before.

Tonight felt like another step forward, a bridge you’d both unknowingly been building.

Ellie stood beside you now, her hands tucked into her pockets as she stared at the tree. She was close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from her, close enough that her quiet presence felt like an anchor in the room.

“It’s… not bad,” Ellie said, her voice soft.

You turned to her, arching a brow. “Not bad?”

She smirked, her gaze flicking toward you. “Yeah. Not bad.”

You nudged her lightly with your elbow, grinning as you shook your head. The ease between you was palpable, the kind of comfort that only came after spending hours together—sharing stories, laughter, and the occasional comfortable silence.

Ellie’s apartment, once cold and cluttered, now felt warmer somehow. The pile of sketchbooks on the coffee table no longer seemed like a chaotic mess but a testament to the creativity Ellie carried in her bones. The tree, crooked and adorned with mismatched ornaments, added a glow that felt almost magical.

“Thanks, by the way,” Ellie said, breaking the silence. Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “For, you know… doing this.”

You looked at her, surprised by the vulnerability in her tone. Ellie was many things—sarcastic, quick-witted, and guarded—but moments like these reminded you of how deeply she felt things, even if she didn’t always show it.

“Of course,” you said softly, your smile gentle. “Everyone deserves a Christmas tree, Ellie. Even you.”

Ellie let out a soft laugh, glancing down at the floor. “Never really had one growing up,” she’d admitted, “Joel tried once, but it just… didn’t stick. Felt weird, I guess."

“Guess it’s time to start” you teased, your voice playful but warm.

Ellie glanced up at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you. The Christmas lights twinkled softly in the background, their glow reflecting in your eyes, and Ellie felt the faintest tug of something deeper, something she didn’t yet have the words for.

But as the silence stretched on, you glanced at your phone, noticing the time.

"I should probably head out," you said, your voice breaking the calm. Ellie looked over at you, blinking as if snapping out of her own thoughts.

"Oh, yeah. I didn’t mean to keep you," Ellie replied, a trace of reluctance in her voice.

You stood, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind your ear. "It’s fine. I’m just—" you paused, then smiled. "I’ve got to get back to the theater. You know, practice."

Ellie nodded, walking over to the door with you. She hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed, how easily it had slipped away in the comfort of your presence. It felt almost too good to be true, this—whatever it was between you.

Before you opened the door, you paused, turning back to Ellie. Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, everything seemed to quiet around you both.

"Hey," you said softly, catching her off guard. "I, uh, I know it’s short notice, but the performance is next week." You hesitated for a beat, your words coming out a little more uncertain than you’d intended. “I’d really love for you to come. If you’re free, of course."

Ellie blinked, taken aback for a moment. She hadn’t expected the invitation—hadn’t expected you to even consider asking her.

"Of course I’ll come," she said, a little more quickly than she’d planned, but the sincerity in her voice made the words ring true. "I wouldn’t miss it."

You smiled, the warmth in your expression spreading like sunlight. "Thanks. It means a lot."

With one last look, you opened the door, stepping into the cool air of the hallway. Ellie stood there for a moment, watching as you disappeared down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the stillness.

She stood there, frozen, for a beat longer than she should have, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.

Ellie sat on her worn couch, the edges of her sweater tugged absently as she focused on the task at hand. Her sketchbook lay open before her, its pages worn and filled with sketches that had been born out of moments stolen in the corners of her day. Some of them were hurried, some more thought-out, but all of them were tied to the presence of the girl who had so unexpectedly woven herself into Ellie’s life.

She looked at the sketchbook for a moment longer, her eyes tracing the lines of the last drawing—the one of you, mid-spin, your hair a blur, your focus sharp. The way your body seemed to stretch toward something greater, something just out of reach, resonated with her more than she'd care to admit. The way you'd looked at her that night, vulnerable but powerful, it felt like something she couldn't just forget.

Ellie’s fingers grazed the edges of the book, her mind racing for the right words, the right moment. She didn’t have much, but she had this. She didn’t know how to express what she felt with words, but a drawing? That she could do.

She pulled a strip of brown wrapping paper from a roll on the floor beside her, laying it across the table. Her fingers worked quickly, folding the paper neatly around the book, securing the corners with tape, the sound of the tape cutting through the quiet air like a small, deliberate movement. Ellie’s tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she carefully placed the final piece of tape in place.

The book, now wrapped, felt heavier than it had before. Maybe it was the weight of her unspoken words. Or maybe it was the anticipation of tomorrow—the performance, the moment where she'd see you again.

Ellie sat back, her hand resting on the wrapped gift for a moment. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional rattle of the windows from the breeze outside. She glanced over at the corner of the room, where the small Christmas tree flickered faintly.

She didn’t know if it was enough. She wasn’t even sure if you’d like it, but the thought of not giving it to you felt unbearable.

With a final glance at the tree and the city lights dancing through the window, Ellie slid the wrapped book into a small gift bag, adjusting the top with practiced care. It wasn’t perfect—her hands a little too quick, her movements too hurried—but it was hers. She picked it up, feeling its weight, her heart thumping a little faster than it should have.

Tomorrow. Your big performance.

Tomorrow, she’d give it to you.

The room was heavy with the weight of unspoken pressure as you stood in the center of the rehearsal floor. The mirrors reflected back not just your movements, but your fears, your frustrations, your self-doubt. The music swelled, a familiar, haunting melody that once had felt like second nature. But today, it sounded distant. Out of reach. Your foot faltered again. Just a small stumble, but enough to make your heart skip a beat, enough to draw the instructor's sharp, disapproving gaze.

"Again, you're off balance," the instructor said, voice cold, piercing the silence like a dagger. You clenched your jaw, trying to steady your breath. The words sliced through you, but you refused to let them break you.

You fought for this role. You had fought for months after the injury, after last year’s disastrous performance that still haunted you like a nightmare. You had pushed your body beyond its limits, rebuilt what had been broken, and now, you were here—fighting to keep this role, to prove you were strong enough. You were enough.

The music began again, faster this time, more demanding. You forced your body to move with it, the rhythm pulling at your every step. Each pirouette felt like it could crumble beneath you, each jump a risk you couldn’t afford to take. Your ankle, still fragile, sent a twinge of pain with each landing, but you fought it back, pushing through the discomfort. Your focus was sharp, despite the sweat beading down your forehead, despite the exhaustion gnawing at your muscles.

You would make it. You had to make it.

"Again!" the instructor snapped, crossing their arms. "You're losing control."

You swallowed hard, grinding your teeth, the bitterness of those words tasting sour in your mouth. Your legs burned, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn't stop.

You spun into the next movement, a leap that felt too high, too far—but you made it, landing with a soft thud that sent a jolt of pain through your ankle. But you didn't falter. You didn't let it show. You pushed through the sting, lifting your chin as you reset yourself. You had to prove them wrong.

But then, as the music paused for a breath, your instructor spoke again. Their voice, though calm, was final.

"You’re getting replaced."

The words hit you like a cold wave, crashing over you and pulling the air from your lungs. Your world seemed to tilt, and for a brief moment, everything blurred. Your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You forced yourself to meet the instructor’s gaze, but the sting of their eyes was unrelenting. The disappointment was clear, written in the subtle shift of their posture, in the way they avoided your eyes.

"What?" you whispered, your voice cracking, but the question hung in the air like a dead weight, swallowed by the silence.

The instructor didn't respond, just stared at you, impassive. You tried to steady your breath, trying to hold onto something, anything. Your pulse thudded in your ears, but you couldn’t let it break you. Not now.

But they didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Their gaze was colder than you’d ever felt it before.

"You're not ready," the instructor continued, the finality in their tone wrapping around you like a chain. "We can’t afford to keep you in this role. Your balance is off. We need someone more stable."

A dull ache spread through your chest, hollowing you out from the inside. Stable. They might as well have said you weren’t good enough. You weren’t enough, not after everything.

"Just... give me one more chance,. you found yourself saying before you could stop it. You stepped forward, but they didn’t flinch. Your hands clenched at your sides, your legs trembling beneath you, but you didn’t let yourself collapse.

But the instructor's response was curt. "The decision is final."

The air in the room thickened, the weight of it suffocating. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only felt your legs shaking as if the floor had disappeared beneath you. You had fought so hard, put everything into this role, this comeback. And now… you were being replaced.

The music that had once felt like a lifeline was now silent, and in its place was only the sound of your own heartbeat crashing in your chest.

"You're done here," the instructor added, turning away, leaving you standing alone in the center of the room, your body trembling and your breath shallow.

The silence stretched on, but it felt like hours. You stood there, fighting against the overwhelming rush of emotions—defeat, frustration, disbelief—and yet, a part of you felt something else, something deep and burning. You were not done.

The city’s stillness hung in the air, thick with the weight of dawn, as Ellie leaned against the railing of her balcony, her breath fogging up in front of her. The faint hum of the early morning felt too quiet, too empty for the chaos that had built up in her chest the past few days. But it was all muffled now, drowned out by the image of you standing there, on your balcony in the freezing cold. It was 5 a.m., and there you were, just... staring into the distance, your body wrapped in a sweater too thin for the chill that had already crept into the world around you.

Ellie’s mind raced, worry creeping in. She had seen you around for months now, your quiet, focused presence tugging at something inside her, something she didn’t want to admit. She could never ignore you, even from afar. And now here you were, vulnerable and alone in the cold, your shoulders hunched against the wind, and all Ellie could think about was how wrong it was. How you should be inside, getting rest before tonight—before everything hinged on tonight—and yet here you were, standing in the dark. Alone.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Ellie called, her voice cracking through the silence.

You jumped slightly at the sound, and when your eyes landed on her, it felt like a punch to the gut. There was something about you in that moment—lost in thought, distant, wrapped in the cold, but so incredibly... beautiful. It was in the way you carried yourself, how you seemed to light up even in the darkness. It was so raw, so vulnerable, it made Ellie’s heart tighten in her chest.

You looked confused at first, blinking at her, then a little embarrassed, as if you hadn’t realized how cold it was out there. “Just... thinking,” you said softly, your voice carrying a layer of fatigue that Ellie could almost feel.

“Thinking?” Ellie’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t stop the concern from bleeding into her tone, the need to pull you inside, to wrap you in something warm. “It’s freezing out here. And it’s... it’s 5 a.m., what are you doing?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze dropping to the ground, the quiet tension hanging thick between you both. Ellie could feel it, a thick pulse in her chest, like she was waiting for something—anything—to break the silence.

Then, she noticed the gift bag in your hand, something carefully wrapped, something she had almost forgotten about in the chaos of everything else.

“Shit,” Ellie muttered under her breath, stepping closer to the railing. She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but the words just slipped out. “I brought you something.”

You looked up at her then, surprised, as Ellie held out the gift bag. It was awkward—too much, maybe—but it was all she had in that moment.

“It’s—uh, it’s for the show tonight. You don’t have to open it now, though,” she said quickly, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to hide the sudden, nervous flush creeping up her neck. The words were tumbling out too fast, her chest tight.

You took the bag from her, your fingers brushing hers for a moment, and Ellie felt a spark of warmth flood her skin. She watched you, her breath coming a little quicker now, unsure of how to feel about this. You glanced down at the bag, your expression unreadable, before you pulled the tissue paper aside and peered inside.

Ellie’s stomach flipped as you pulled out the sketchbook. She hadn’t thought about how it might feel to have someone open it, not like this. Her sketching had always been so personal, something she kept to herself, but this felt... different. Watching you flip through the pages, her sketches of you—sketches she’d never planned to show anyone—made her feel exposed, too visible. She could hear the soft, surprised intake of your breath as you saw the drawings, but Ellie didn’t dare speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

“Ellie,” you said her name like a whisper, your voice catching in her chest. She met your eyes, her heart skipping a beat at the softness in your gaze. "This is... " There was a pause, and then your eyes darted up to meet hers.

Ellie swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The way you said her name, the way you looked at her—there was something in it that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t as awkward as it felt. That maybe, despite her nerves, it was okay.

“I…,” she muttered, her fingers twisting nervously. “I just... I wanted you to have it. You know, for the show.” She let out a small laugh, but it sounded more like a sigh. “I’ve been sketching you for a while now. I—uh, I wanted to give you something.”

You smiled, your lips curving up in the smallest, softest way, and Ellie felt her heart race at the sight. “Thank you, seriously.,” you said, your voice full of sincerity, and Ellie couldn’t help the flush that spread across her cheeks. It was too much, too real, and yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to say that,” Ellie muttered, shifting on her feet, her gaze avoiding yours for a moment. “I just wanted to do something for you. I don’t know, I just... figured you might like it.”

“Ellie," you said, and your voice was steady now, the uncertainty that had clouded your face earlier gone. “Let me perform for you.”

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