#Palm City Farms | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dabisbratz · 9 months ago

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𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

himbo!reader , farmer!au , strangers/friends/lovers , meet - cute , inaccurate farming techniques , lawyer!nanami , slow burn , depictions of injury ( minor burns ) , check - ins , dumbification , vaguely implied age gap (~5 years) , hand kink , inexperienced reader , light feminization , blowjobs , anal , mating press , fingering , hand-holding , praise , degradation , slut - calling , dirty talk , spit / drool , under-negotiated kink , aftercare

w.c; ~ 13.8k

sonny says. . . naaamiiii !!! {cry} {cry} mbaby :c can ybelieve s’is mfirst nami fic ?!?! just tbe clear, the reader’s size or height isn’t explicitly stated, but he’s vaguely hinted toward bein/appearin physical stronger than nanami.

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

When he wakes up, Kento expects sunlight peeking through greenery— warm, yellow rays of light that dance and flicker across his eyelids. Warm, yellow beams that caress his cheek like the knuckles of someone tender, the palms of someone sweeter. It’ll overwhelm him at first, so bright and unapologetic as his eyes adjust and focus, but he’ll quickly crash, pupils constricting as the disturbance dwindles. And, suddenly, the star’s saturation will be comforting. It’ll be like a second. Just slower paced, peaceful. He expects the rustle of leaves, connected to strong branches and even stronger roots that dig into deep, rich soil. He expects to roll over in his temporary bed, breathing gently beneath shade, shielding his eyes from the welcoming invasion and blanketing him in a seamless flow of cool air.

When he wakes, Kento expects to hear the chirping of birds. It’s never quite enough to hear them in Tokyo. The strum of wind as it tickles his nose and pushes him forward. The swaying of grass— the smell is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, as it makes his head swim while crystal drops glide across its surface — a coarse underfoot of greenery that prickles the souls of his feet.

Tranquility by his side, urging him to get out of bed, chirping in an excited voice as it tugs on his wrist. He expects solitude, rolling its tangerine eyes and tapping its foot impatiently, “This is the break you’ve waited twenty-seven years for.”

But, instead, he finds himself clutching his chest, his heart beating with an unfamiliar pace that isn’t so calm. His body feels cold, like he’s been submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, unrelenting and ruthless as wave after wave crashes into his ribcage. The static in his ears grows louder and louder, ready to combust and burst his eardrums. Instead of the rustle of leaves, the cruel hustle and bustle of city life storms forward against his chest, shoving him back and forth. Back and forth, to and fro, against his body as his knuckles turn white and his vision starts to spot. Back and forth, as he comes undone.

It’s been so long, he’s not quite sure just how to unwind.

He starts off slow, swallowing air in desperate heaps until his legs relax, spreading toward the cushion arms of his faux-velvet chair. Then he flexes his fingers, draws them into tight fists and releases the digits until the shaking has stopped. Sips his complimentary white-wine with newfound steadiness, and tries not to choke when the intercoms ring,

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

It’s a quaint little village, your district, where everyone knows everyone and the news is always, no matter where you are, city-wide. Stone-clad pavement and moss decalled windows, there’s a small blanket of achroous fog further north of town square. Yet, despite that, there’s an ever growing city of greenery and agriculture. With a small population and himself being the only passenger to unload at the station, it seems to be a lot busier than he’d originally thought. Street-food stalls and vendors, selling freshly baked goods and syrupy, savory sweets. It’s not like Tokyo, no, there’s no rush. No pushing or shoving, no overcrowded lines, no smells of smoke and burnt coal.

In fact, the air is rather crisp— the further his legs take him, the more apparent. No longer are his lungs breathing in the stench of sickness or body odors, no longer is he pushing past the fortunate, just to shove the unfortunate. And, admittedly, it’s a bit of a culture shock— but it’s not unwelcome. Regardless, Kento keeps his suitcase close, pushes it forward, sidestepping polite smiles and local shop owners.

He basks in it. The genuine nature to it all, the healthy glow of the atmosphere despite the steam, the fog, the chill to the air. He considers this a luxury— the closest to a vacation he’ll get, even if he’s technically ‘on the clock.’ Still— he soaks in the sights of hugging trees, of mossy roads and cobblestone streets. The colorful banners that jump with life, the lanterns and yellow-lighting that illuminates the day— he’s sure at night they’re even more wondrous. And, oh, the smells. Not at all like tokyo— there isn’t an overwhelming mixture of perfumes and colognes, no fast-food chains competing through aromatic smells, no heavy scents of tobacco littering the air. It's crisp, it’s ripe.

He almost takes no offense to the collision against his side— nor the screeching sound of surfaces grinding against each other, nor the loud and abrasive cry of the man bumping into him, accompanied by the crack of an apple’s core against the ground.

“Woah,” Warm breaths pan down the base of his neck, even warmer hands wrapping around his bicep with strength Nanami is sure shouldn’t be normal for a typical, everyday civilian. He involuntarily grunts, a deep sound that rumbles in his throat and earns an eager, yet apologetic chuckle. “You alright? Y’almost went flyin’!”

His brows furrow quizzically at that. First— he’s certain it’s the latter who nearly lost an arm and a leg with his tumble. Second, he hadn’t expected such a youthful, bouncy voice from the very stature shadowing acast him. Not even a bit, it doesn’t match the muscle straining through thermal clothing at all, let alone the sheer square feet of area being taken up by one person. Blocking his vision almost completely, standing straight— at an angle— that blocks a stall for fresh produce and flaky, steaming bread. The goods speak for themselves, crusted over in golden brown mountains and cloud-like, moist cross-sections.

Swallowing, Kento nods, eyeing the poorly drawn sign for fresh bread. Drawn in sharpie, the prices are written in big, bold, red letters. Endearing, almost, the curve and loop of each letter and number— the lines of each to-scale doodle of bread. Nothing like Tokyo, not nearly as artificial, not perfectly clean-cut. Not so cookie-cutter. There’s some personality in it, as juvenile as it may be. And it’s a shame, really, how promising the stand looks. Apples that shine a golden shade of red, bread that’s glazed in a sweet, sticky layer of yellow molasses and savory honey. And though he’d love to indulge, Kento has yet to label himself as the type. “Great, thank you.” Is all he says, pulling his suitcase along the perimeter of the stand.

Some other time, then.

The days are long as they are hard. The sun has yet to fully set, and still, the Earth pulls and pulls to weigh it down onto your shoulders. The sky is painted in hues of orange and purple, strokes of tangerine and lavender roaming past your bird's eye view. Your back pops as you stretch, arms tensing against the woven basket of leftover harvest, shiny red fruits aligned with the horizon and reaching toward the tiny glimpse of departing stars.

Where blossoms grow from tiny seeds, and orchids dance in gentle breeze— beds upon beds of farmland and agriculture drape the outskirts of the farmstead. Though the weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up its seasonal chill, and the clouds have begun to dissipate into the sky. . . The well-received proof of your hard work is still something to behold.

“—ome any minute, now,” You’ve heard it all before, your mother gossiping to her farmer-wife friends as she nurses sweet teas and tangerine tiramisu under her calloused, warm hands. You’d been a mere two steps away from where she sits at the open-island kitchen, shoes tipped in the illuminated speckle of celadon clearing just adjacent to the sliding, front, cedarwood door. “Said so, at least. Did you hear. . . ” Windchimes sing in welcome, soft and mellow as the door opens and shuts behind you, socked feet slipping from boots to warm, fuzzy slippers.

“M’back, Mama,” You mumble, half-humming along to the tune of muffled windchimes the further you walk, arms hoisting the overflowing basket up to your chest. A sweet sigh, then pitter-patter of fleece against parquetry, and the discovery of a sweet, cherry-red ladybug walking along your knuckles, leads to the basket securely placed on a free countertop. There’s a quirk of her brow, something of a gentle question— more of a suggestion— not completely committed to keeping two conversations at once. How’d it go?

“No luck sellin’ today,” your voice buds, small and soft as your eyes trail the curves of a particularly large waste of an apple. An evident pout on your lips, then a quiet huff of air.

Farming has been your whole life, really. It’s what you’re best at, good at. Ever since you were young, barely tall enough to push away tall-grass— barely strong enough to pull out weeds, you knew it was yours. Something special, gravel crumbling and breaking beneath heavy, solid boots and rubber tires. The remnants of small, flying rocks, pelting into each other and leaving behind white, gray smoke as your tractor comes to a slow, gradual halt.

“But I met someone new!” That peaks her attention, nothing short of a gasp coming from a pair of lips—identical to your own— and here come the questions. Was he blond? Oh, I knew it! Did he buy anything? Well, why not? Was he tall? Thought so. . . How about handsome? Come on, now. .

“He was . . hmm, pretty.” Is how you’d like to put it, raising a finger to the air in finality. Truth be told you don’t remember much about his appearance— it was more so his demeanor. He’d bumped into you— you think— and yet, there was something so smooth about him. Not even his slicked hair, wavy at the end and curved just right to frame his face and bleed into the bristles of his blond undercut. He’d carried on like it was nothing, still polite, even admired your handiwork on your stall’s banner. A sweet thing of a stranger.

“You’re so easily impressed,” The smile dusting your lips curls into a wee, nasty little frown. That’s just not true. “A good thing, too, you’ll have to like our new neighbor.”

Her voice melting through one ear and out the other like freshly harvested honey has your throat tied into a thick knot, stuck right at the base of your neck and only growing in size. Hands thrumming against the granite countertop, your body leans inward.

“Neighbor?”

“Mm,” She hums, landline trapped between her ear and sweater-clad shoulder. You’re not entirely sure if it’s toward you or her friend, either way, her conversation stays ambiguous. “I heard he’s some fancy lawyer. You think he’s defendin’ the Hasaba girls from last year?”

That’s something to think about. Two little girls who’d been found locked away by some sort of— police officer, was he? Perhaps something more authoritative, and taken into his personal care. You wouldn’t be surprised if it became legalized— you’d only met that man (Suguru Geto, was it?) in passing, but his stature seemed dead-set on protecting those girls.

There’s a muffled gasp on the other line, crackly with static as a finger twirls around the phone’s coiled, mint wire. The rest of the conversation goes unheard, slippered feet carrying you to the large, alcove window that displays just enough equal farmland and neighborhood housing. And, sure enough, as if on cue, it’s not hard to make out the lines and shadows of the ‘ fancy ’ lawyer, his fluid silhouette effortlessly carrying luggage and— what looks to be— a box of books. Documents, perhaps.

“You didn’t— how come you didn’t say nothin’ ?!” Your excitement has you toppling over, limbs every which way as your face presses into the glass window. When you’re stuck in a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s something exhilarating about having a new neighbor. And he knows nothing.

There’s a quiet mumble that roughly translates to: ‘You didn’t ask.’, but it’s filtered out by the sound of your full-footed stomps. You opt to keep your slippers, racing toward the neglected basket, mind completely set. “I’ll be back, Ma!”

The path along your house isn’t dangerous, but it is harsh on bare feet— inured by heavy boots and pick-up trucks.. Still, it goes completely ignored as you carry the heaviest basket of goods you own, anxiety twisting and turning in your stomach— bunny hops into your chest and stomps and stomps and stomps. You’ve carried yourself past the intersection of the cobblestone path, a lot more smooth the closer it gets to the large, usually untouched, rental home. The lights are off— save for the dim, yellow glow of a small porch lamp resting above an unsullied, sleek and wooden rocking-chair. When there’s no one to inhabit the home, it’s always been comforting to look at— but now? .

Cold would be one way to put it. Your feet are cold, your arms are cold, your hands are cold, and you’re stood at his front door— frozen. Scared is another.

Even so, you’ve always been told you’re the ‘bravest boy’ in your whole district. Cry-baby habits and all.

The door opens before you can knock, and all you can register is brown. Brown wallpaper— the beige type, just barely meeting the requirement. Patterned with old, vintage looking floral prints. Brown, sleek wood of a bannister— steps that lead down into the living room, but are visible from the front door. Brown eyes, such a specific shade. When exposed to the light they almost look gray— green?— but as he stands before you, there’s nothing but molten chocolate and burnt honey-candy. A brown leather belt, securing crisp slacks and an equally crisp button up. You expect to see brown loafers, but—

Fuzzy slippers, brown and soft and cute. Little black buttons for eyes, and two floppy, fluffy ears— reminiscent of a bunny.

“Oh. . . Can I help you?” You’ve heard it before, his voice, but it’s even more striking than ever. It’s easy to forget the voice of someone you’d just met, but there’s something so. . distinct about it. He’s got a slight accent, too, something Tokyo-adjacent— you’ve always wanted to visit for longer than the feeble four hours of a busy work-trip.

“Mhm!” Pretty lips spread to their best grin, pulling at your cheeks until the babyfat wells up. “Well, no— um, actually. .” Brown eyes are expectant, but calm and patient as they watch you fumble over your words. Your fingers tremor as the basket is thrusted forward, heat blooming in your cheeks. “These— This is for you!”

“Ah. . .” Pink lips part, cupid’s bow prominent. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his front door closing with a slight click— right in your face. For a moment all you can do is stare, eyes boring into the dark, chestnut wood of the rustic front door. Staring until it’s gone blurry, eyes bubbling with fresh, unshed tears. And, nearly spilling over like an overflowing faucet, they gather before you can blink them away— fat and thick and embarrassing.

“Um. . I like your sli—slippers.” Fully aware you’re speaking to an unmoving door, you can’t behind yourself to walk back the moss-decalled path home. It’s not so cold anymore, your bones having rung out in the, metaphorical, hot sun until they’ve dried completely and— now it’s warm. Warmth in your nose, stinging as you sniffle and bite down a hiccup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mahogany shifts, offset by a deep rumble of a voice, smooth like velvet in comparison to the sharp, slow creak of door hinges, “Here.”

Dam rebuilt almost immediately, your body straightens. Him again, this time his eyes trained on what he holds in his hand. Brown and gold like sweet honey and, by God, it’s the most crisp set of yen you’ve ever held in your life. His fingers dance with fluidity you’ve never seen before, counting through each slip until he’s deemed an amount satisfactory— there’s a slight patch of hair on each of his knuckles, an array of veins that cascade into his forearm. His fingertips look a bit rough, but his nails are glossy and clipped. Even his cuticles are pushed back, just enough to look healthy and natural.

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know it’s rude to tip, so I left the exact change,” You blink. Once, twice— again, lips parted like a fish, fresh out of water. Then he’s hoisting the basket from your trembling hands, eyes downcast. “Next time, don’t give out things you worked for, for free,” Right where his eyes dip, his monolid, there’s a small mole— cute and circular, and had you not been studying the curves of his face you wouldn’t have noticed it. “You should wear a coat, too.” And, like a schoolboy, you can’t help the flurry of butterflies catching flight in your stomach.

“Yes, Sir,” Pearly whites biting at the fleshy, pink insides of your cheek have your lips puckered, pensive and sweet as you clutch the money to your chest. “Sorry about earlier— um, if it’s okay, I could help with your boxes?”

He leans forward, careful enough to keep the respective bubble of space between the two of your bodies, glancing at heavy, book-piled boxes labeled ‘N.K.’ The woven basket creaks under the weight of his chest, but it stays in one place nonetheless. “That?” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, just mail. Must’ve arrived before I did.”

It’s a bit awkward, really. Anticipation nips at your fingertips— you’ve never really had to work so hard to continue a conversation. You’ve never had to think about it either, if the words were coming out correct, if anyone was comfortable with your presence.

“Oh,” You breathe, subconsciously leaning closer. Perhaps it’s a miracle he hasn’t actually shut the door in your face, and— right. Your hands move to wipe away any streaks from your cheeks, a small sniffle ringing in the air. “Sorry f’I bothered you. I live, um, closest to the windmill. Yknow, just up the path from here. . . ?”

You haven’t known him for long, but you just can’t consider him comparable. Maybe it’s your heart speed-running past any other rational thought, maybe it’s the blooming heat in your chest, maybe it’s the shiver of winter trailing down your spine. You find yourself desperately hanging onto his every breath, only ever beaming when he shakes his head.

“Kento Nanami,” Tense shoulders relax with a deep inhale, the sweet smell of chocolate stuffed bread filling his nostrils. All that trepidation washes away, hushed under the breeze of Kento’s slow breaths. “Did you make these yourself?”

The door creaks, quiet and welcoming as Nanami extends an arm, stepping aside. Once his eyes finally settle on you they harden, just for a moment, as if he’s finally noticed the pull of your eyes— the crystalline seam tightlined around your waterline, the bright red strain of veins peeking behind your lids. Still, he says nothing, until you’ve introduce yourself with watery tremors.

“It’s cold, and you came all this way without a jacket?” Your eyes trace the vapor floating into the air as he sighs, irises dancing along the edge of your bare forearms. “Come in.”

Your muscles straighten up under his gaze, rippling until rigid as you eagerly nod, “Y’don’t think we could share some of that bread, d’you?”

The best time to farm, you’ve learned, is just after sunrise. The sun rests her head on grassy hills, still groggy and not quite awake yet, herself. But you are, suited up in your boots and overalls, not a single lantern in hand. That’s the first plus, natural lighting of the rising sun. The sweet, dim bath of light that paints the path from your home to your plantation in molten gold.

Then there’s Kento. You’d think he never sleeps, but you’ve seen it. Ritualistic, in a way. For the last two weeks, you’ve watched him go about his day. See, the window of your bedroom leads straight into his study, where he prefers a dimly lit lamp over the bright fluorescents. It’s almost hard to tell when he comes and goes, seeing as whenever you look, there he is. Sat in a swiveling chair and hunched over his desk, writing something in a notepad and skimming through— what looks to be— more documents on his computer.

You can only tell he’s going to bed once there’s a sigh, a pinch to the bridge of his nose before smoothing out his eyebrows, then the discarding of silver-frame, rectangular reading glasses. The lamp stays on, as if he knows he’ll be back in less than seven sleeping hours— which you think, for him, translates to roughly thirty minutes.

And, though he can’t see you, you always make an extra effort to wave up at his study, just before starting up your tractor.

You never expected him to wave back. You never expect his eyes to trail from your face to your supplies. And you, most certainly, never expect him to join you. Two thermal mugs in hand as he makes it over the small hill from his home to your own, past the thorn bushes and vacant tangerine trees. Hot chocolate— piping and rich, it coats your tongue in its sweetness and splashes against your lips with comforting warmth.

“Mm!” You hum, blowing through the small gap between the thermos and its sealed lid. You’d assumed your scarf, wrapped snug around your neck, would do the trick— keep you warm enough — but this seems to actually hit the spot. Sticky accents from remnants of unmelted marshmallows, its fluff clings to the corner of your lips. And Kento, nursing his own mug— though it contains tea— looks up to watch you grin, shards of tiny sugar crystals clinging to your pouty bottom lip.

“Hold still,” all but purring, his thumb swipes at your lip, wipes away the stickiness until they’ve parted— breathless. His eyebrows furrow with concentration, as if it’s a practiced habit, absentmindedly licking his thumb clean with one smooth, quick dart of his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Your breath circulates into the air, a swirl of white that dispels almost immediately. Your thoughts are cut short, breath stuck in your throat, eyes wide and glazed over with astonishment. “It’s— huh?”

“Sweet,” he chimes, lips curling around each letter. He’s beside himself, nearly forgetting who he is until the clear of his throat and a resigned grumble. “I can’t fathom how you manage to drink. . . radioactive waste from a cup.”

His humor is dry— something you have to think over for a moment before smiling against the lid of your cup. Kento notes how you smile— with your whole body— eyes closed tight and teeth on display, shoulders bunched and your stride much more bouncy. He tries not to smile when you giggle, hiding the lower half of your face behind the piping mug as your shoulders brush against his own. With each step the closer you get— to both the blond and your truck.

“It’s good,” Your voice lifts at the end of the statement, feigning offense as you lick your lips. Soft tongue against soft lips, Nanami partly wonders if you naturally taste as sweet as your preference for drinks. “M’not bein’ mean about yours!”

“I'm not being mean,” He corrects, a silent apology laced in his tone— just in case — and your knowing gaze lifts from his cup to his eyes, blazing bright and beautiful. He basks in your attention for a moment, like the gentle rays of a sun-swept island. Had this really been a vacation— no carry-on cases— he would’ve considered booking a flight to Malaysia.

First, he’s buckling you into your seat— it seems you’d forgotten, then he’s reminding you to put on your gloves, despite having bare hands of his own.

“You do this for a living,” is his justification, though you deemed it more a reason for him to wear the protective gear. “You wear them.”

And, now, he’s listening intently as you explain the mild inconvenience that is the technicalities that come with farming. He learns of your affinity to animals. Your slight, biased preference for gardening. The way your nose wrinkles when you think too hard, and the way you often forget what you were saying as you say it.

Though the scenery outside the passenger seat window is beautiful— valleys of faded green and brown, a light fog dusting the air. The symphony of crickets and cicadas, and of course, the sunset making its round up the horizon, teetering along the age of the Earth as it paints each and every blade of grass in its light.

He helps you out of the car as if you haven’t done it yourself a million times, careful not to spill your drink in his other hand. He’s awfully tender, too, his thumb absentmindedly circling the glove-clad skin of your knuckles as your hand squeezes his own. The door slams shut, and he doesn’t miss your expression twist as you whisper a small ‘oops, sorry!’ to your precious truck before unloading supplies.

Kento can’t name a thing— he’s out of his depths, here, but he helps anyway. He carries it down the never-ending row of cabbage and radish, watches his step despite nearly dismantling at least three dozen budding vegetables simultaneously. And you don’t yell at him once, instead offering words of sweet encouragement until you’ve found the place to start, dropping your assortment of tools and buckets.

“M’kay, ‘Nami,” He watches you drop to a crouch, warmth blooming in the apples of his cheeks. It’s not just the suggestive position, nor the way your pretty eyes look up at him from there— but it’s how sweet you say his name. . going as far as to give him a nickname, too.

Still, it manifests through the twitch of his eye, which you don’t catch onto, as he kneels alongside you.

“‘Nami—”

“No. It’s pronounced Nanami.” He interjects, his grip tight along the base of unsavory, frostbitten weeds— at least, that’s what he sees you doing anyway. Almost too tight, heavy and thick hands flexing, you can see the bend of his knuckles as his fingers dig into the roots.

“Na,”And, the smell of dirt, it’s so strong, the earthy undertones invade your nostrils and have no intent on stopping. . . “—na,” Raw, natural. His palms press in at the sides, thumbs stroking at the soil as he feels around for growing stems. For a moment it’s silent, save for the crackling radio beside you. Your pretty lips part, and sweetly, you’ve sounded out his name. “—mi.”

A puff of air leaves his lips, a scoff of a chuckle, and he’s giving a slight nod, quietly whispering the syllables of your name in acknowledgment. “Mhm?”

He doesn’t miss the way your lips split into a wide grin, weeds absentmindedly disregarded for a moment as you giggle, “I already knew that— I just said it!”

“Mm,” He agrees, though he’s not entirely sure you did. Then his heavy fingers tap your wrist— gentle, barely even a tap, but it gets you back on track— picking up the dead weeds. Kento watches, your hands gingerly plucking them free from the root, mastered and effortless.

Your fingertips dig into the soil, palms sticky and damp, littered with defrosting grass along each ridge and defining line. There’s so much care in your fingertips, and with every successful pull your eyes ignite. Like a cute, overgrown puppy. “Good. You’re a smart boy.”

“Y’think m’smart?” And, though your shoulders bunch up— a bit more bashful, you’re shaking your head. “I mean— I knew that already, too,” and it washes away as fast as it arrives, replaced with genuine exuberance. “I tell m’self everyday!”

The blond catches it anyway, gaze unwavering, even as your own struggles to keep contact. Nanami’s eyes are remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who’s positioned so utterly relaxed. . Crouching just as you are, but with smooth shoulders and lax biceps. Still, they’re visible through the silk fabric of his button-up, but he seems used to it. Tufts of blonde hair, slightly unruly and disheveled— swept back with gel, yet still set off in a flurry of gold by the back of his head, as if he’d rolled around in bed and decided to lounge about instead of retouching it.

Cozy.

“I do,” The sun dawns down through thick, gray clouds, framing his bronze locks— and with his lips slightly parted and his skin picking up a peachy glow, he looks almost seraphic. “What were you saying?”

“Um,” You pause to rethink through the last hour, warmth blowing past your cheeks as a particularly nippy gust of wind rushes by. “. . We sell ‘em, the weeds! That won’t be for a few days, sometimes we keep ‘em for cookin’, but . . . these aren’t any good.”

“Too many?” He asks, as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s learned in his vacation here, by far, despite having learned that just a few days ago.

“Too many!” Pretty lips part into a wide grin, and perhaps that’s the conclusion to Kento’s sightseeing.

౨ৎ

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to.

With your black on black attire— a large, knitted sweater, a black bomber atop it, dark jeans to match, a hand-woven gray scarf wrapped around your neck, and white sneakers that carry a cream-colored accent in its threading— it’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Where are we going?” Is his first question— but there’s so much more he means to ask. Since when do you dress so nicely? Do your parents know you spent extra farm money on those shoes? Is it bad to feel the urge to hold you closer, just so no one gets any ideas?

Nonetheless, checking the silver-plated Rolex along his wrist with the slight tussle of his lapel-collared trench coat, just before popping open the passenger’s seat of your truck, he ignores the growing thought.

“You’re always locked up in your house,” Twisting your keychain covered keys into the ignition, the truck starts up with a gradual rumble. You’ve figured something was wrong with the oil for quite some time now, but it’s never been enough to start any problems. “Don’t y’wanna have fun?”

That doesn’t entirely answer his question, nor does it ease his mind— a vacation this is, yes. But it’s also paid, and he’s technically on the clock whilst being here. Still, he nods just once, the clench of his jaw apparent in the faint valleys of muscle just below his ear. Though, he supposes he could say the same about you. Every day you wake up, harvest, water crops, feed your animals, clean out troths and shovel up feces. He’s not even entirely sure if that’s your idea of fun— but he hopes not.

Kento doesn’t expect you to be such a great driver. Smooth turns and a gentle ride— even with cobblestone streets and gravel trails. You get carried away when you talk, too, hands moving about and your gaze trailing to his eyes every few seconds. He has to remind you— “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” “Don’t look at me, look at the road,” — but Kento would be lying if he said it weren’t endearing.

It’s almost like you can barely function without basking in his presence.

“If it were warmer,” You swallow, finally stopping to catch your breath after the last fifteen minutes of rambling. The car slows down to a halt, an overhead traffic-light flashing a bright, crisp shade of red. “We could’ve went apple-pickin’ . . . or even oranges!”

You take the time to fully face him, eyes trailing up his dark trousers and gray turtleneck— it bunches at his chest, and you’re sure without his trench coat it’d be just as strained around his biceps.

“What do you do when it’s cold?” He muses, ducking his head to watch the passing of trees and inner city shops.

“Hm?” You hum, but before he can repeat the question you beat him to it. “Uh, we have this lake— it’s the first to freeze over when it’s cold. . ” So quaint, his eyes gloss over pedestrians as they live amongst themselves. Walking their dogs, sharing a drink at an outdoor bar, couples huddled close together for warmth. The sidewalks are clean and clear, there’s a polite, happy bounce to everyone’s step. Fairy lights blink in every other window, casting a sweet, bright hue along the streets below it. Kento understands it all, despite it being much more. . comfortable. . than Sendai. “And, when it’s completely frozen, we skate on it!”

It feels like home. A gentler, cozier version of it.

“I’m sorry—” The blond clears his throat as he turns to actually look at you, having fully processed your words. “Skating?”

“Are y’scared?” Nanami tries to ignore the burning of his throat when you laugh at his silence— a pretty, featherlight thing of a giggle that only progressively makes it harder for him to catch his breath.

“No,” He grumbles. He’s actually done it before— his younger, studying ‘coworkers’ had a knack for dragging him around outside of work hours— and he wasn’t free from it, even in winter. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobora, perhaps the three only people who could have him willingly risking a fractured disc.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Nami!” The car turns into a short trail, decalled in various signs and brightly colored symbols. “I can help you, m‘kay?”

Four people.

He nods anyway, save you the meltdown, and lets you drag him out the car once you’ve found a good place to park. He’d think it was illegal had there not been a sign for it, let alone communal skates in varying sizes. They’re in good condition, too. A small wooden bench— decorated with moss along its sides, he brushed his fingertips against it by accident— keeps him steady, but when he looks over to you, you’re already walking around with untied skates.

“Come here,” He beckons, voice soft and fond as he quirks a finger in your direction. He watches you fumble, nearly tripping over your own legs as opposed to your laces, but you make it over to him anyway, thigh against thigh. You brace yourself when he pulls your legs over his lap, shifts in his seat and tightens them just enough— “It’s not hurting you, is it?”— to fit comfortably.

“Thank you, ‘Nami,” He can hear the sincerity in your voice— as if he’d saved your life. Your breath pans across his face, warm and minty as you shake your head, “Doesn’t hurt. . .”

He offers a gentle pat to your knees once you’re fully set, softly dropping them back down as he leans to tie his own. It’s a quick process— not as tedious as the knotted up, tattered ones back home— a much more nice change of pace.

The ice, though, is considerably worse. He surmises it’s because it’s relatively untouched— if the whole village of Sekichiku had done two laps over it still wouldn’t have been enough to leave a noticeable dent in the ice— so his skates have nowhere to grip. You, though. . .

You’re much more graceful on ice than on land. A slow turn here, a quick twirl there, you could skate laps around him if you so choose. But you don’t, instead holding onto his wrists as he stiffly skates forward. Kento’s nose is nipped with pink, matching the particular shade of his lips as they part in concentration. The shade dispels down his cheeks, and you’ve never seen his face so. . . soft.

“Say, ‘Nami?” You huff, holding his wrists as you move in a slow, clockwise circle, turning you both. “When’re you leavin’?”

The truth bubbles in his throat, tougher to swallow than he’d originally thought it’d be. He clears his throat, avoids the question, and instead of freeing his wrists altogether, he holds your hand. You’re pouting when you slowly swivel to his side, his heart somersaulting almost painfully at the cute, wee frown to your lips. “Hey,” you whine, caught off guard but still pleasantly surprised, squeezing your palms against his own. “What’re you doin’?”

You’ve always been undeniably sweet. Kento thinks back to your basket of goods. The sweet, savory, aromatic flavors of bread, meats, cheeses, chocolates. How you have it to him so sweetly, no questions asked. There’s no ulterior motive to your demeanor, either. It’s peculiar to have someone so. . dependable. Someone to easily lean on, someone so— hospitable.

You’re perfect.

“I've never—“ He pauses, watching smoke dispel form your lips. An intimate position, he’s in— close enough to hear your breaths, holding on tight enough to feel your pulse through your fingertips. “Noone has ever done this for me. Thank you.”

“What, take you skatin’?”

“Support me unconditionally.” He pulls away before you can say anything in response, relishing in the thought of your pulse speeding against his knuckles as he stiffly skates back toward regular land.

The ride home is smooth, but quiet. And once you get there, hunger overrides your hospitality.

You like Kento’s rental— its kitchen is spacious and just big enough to support the mess of pots and pans that come with baking. It’s warm and inviting, the stove works great and the oven even better. Its heat burns a little brighter, but nothing you can’t handle.

Pain au chocolat — chocolatine — and meringue cookies; they’re a pain in Kento’s ass. Not even something he’d try to attempt without you there— he’s happy to watch you whisk away and laugh at his disgruntled faces. A “taste-tester”, you’d called him, scooping one sugary accessory after another onto the pad of your fingertip and asking him to try.

You weren’t lying. You really do know how to bake— flour dusted skin and all. Twisting raw dough into pretty sculptures of bows and braids, scored surfaces of x’s and o’s, light layers of warm butter that seep into soft, risen dough. And when it bakes, oh, how sweet the smell of aromatic bread is to Nanami’s stomach.

Studying the contours of a pretty face— baby fat rounding your cheeks as they pool into a sweet smile, pearly whites displayed brighter than the moonlight leaking through the floral curtains. Your laughter is wholehearted, hands gripping the hem of Nanami’s fleece shirt, body tipping toward his chest as your giggles dispel into the warm, brown-sugar baked air. For a moment he mentally swoons, something of a comforting coo, eyelids heavy and blanketed with the same baking powder littering your handsome face. He relishes the warmth, which leaves just as fast as it arrives, and suddenly you’re reaching into the oven without your cute, fluffy puppy-patterned mittens protecting your hands.

“Wait,” His tone is harsher than intended, solid and thick, and you— the sweet, softheaded boy that you are, don’t entirely deserve the worried look on your face that melts into sharp, hot pain.

“Ouch!” Your elbow smacks into Nanami’s calf as you flinch, fingertips raw and numb— still pulsing from the fresh burn. The man crouches down, knee to ceramic, palm to your warm shoulder, and suddenly your wide eyes are glittering and gleaming. Had the smile from your face not been growing, he’d have been appalled. “‘Nami, did you see that?!”

“Silly boy,” He sucks his teeth, pulling your clasped hands from your chest. Gingerly, he plucks out each finger one by one, runs the pad of his thumb along the burn sites. “You have to be more gentle with yourself.”

And, as if he’d declared to destroy your favorite equipment, your shoulders deflate. Hazel watches as tears well in your eyes in real time— with award winning speed, really— glassy and wet and oh, you’re so cute. It was just a small reminder, nothing too harsh— it could barely be considered scolding. Yet here you are, sniffling and averting your gaze. Eyes glossed over while your fingers instinctively curl over his own for comfort. Then a small, petulant, “M’sorry, ‘Nami.”

“None of that,” Soothing, it's gentle and soft as his thumb travels along the numb pads of your fingertips. And though it was already a faint sensation, you can tell his touches are deliberately featherlight and calculated, cautious. “Nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying,” You grumble, though his ears register the sound as a wet sniffle as you rub at your cheek with the back of your free hand. “I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” The breathy lilt tongue voice gives it all away, a tiny smile dotting the man’s lips. They’re entirely too enticing, a sweet shade of pink that dispels into the milky tan of his skin. Sheen and glazed with what could be spit, your lips part to mirror the same smile. Though yours is larger, his isn’t any less exuberant— luring you in one centimeter at a time until, inevitably, his breath ghosts along the expanse of your jaw— you can almost taste him.

His voice breaks through the thickened silence, “But it’s okay if you do.”

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

Floorboards creak beneath Kento’s feet, dimly lit ambient lighting placed around the office keeps it lit just enough to see ever so clearly— a small lamp angled above an open file, then the remaining trickle of light cascading over photos. Labeled, dated, clipped, and shipped to his front door just a couple weeks ago. Soon to be released, relinquished, deadlined.

His hair drips with cold water, tiny drops dripping down to the floor while others slither down his neck, and pool where his back dips, just slightly. He doesn’t tense when he sees you— his muscles remain just as relaxed as they were in the shower— and his eyes barely widen past the tired, lidded expression that paints his face every night, before he gets his studying done. But you—

You’re the opposite. Your shoulders raise to your ears, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the towel wrapped around his thick, slightly hairy forearm— it’s navy blue, with a brown, horizontal stripe across its fabric, and embroidered letters you can’t quite make out. An intelligible sound, then an unexplainable expression, and— there you are, tripping over your own tongue as your hands shoot to cover your eyes. Only unclothed from the waist up, Kento can’t help the amusement blooming in his chest.

“It’s a deduction based on a defendant’s failure to answer. . or appear, in some cases, to a lawsuit or court.” Nanami’s eyes trace the part of your lips behind your palm as your brain processes (though, he doesn’t think that’d be the correct word for it) his words. They purse, quickly, tight lined, until parting again— once more, with less confidence. With each step he takes (long strides that make him appear as if he’s almost floating) he grows closer, strands of freshly washed angel hair sticking to his forehead.

“. S. . ure!” You smile and nod in faux understanding, fingers curling toward the dip of your hairline, eyes peeking through cracked fingers. From there, beneath your palms, an uncomfortable warmth blossoms from your throat up, settling in your cheeks and sprinkling across your nose— sweltering and tingly.

Kento tuts, a soft noise, and you watch as he inhales a deep breath, pine eyes perusing through the space between your fingers for eye contact. “. . . Don’t worry about all that.” And, as if he can feel the high voltages slamming against your heart, his tongue darts out to moisturize his lips, and his eyes fall to your chest. He sits aslant to you, legs spread wide with the occasional sway of his knee— but nothing too sudden. You’re made all too aware of his half-naked proximity, purportedly close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the room— to smell the sweet undertones of vanilla, musk, and earl gray tea residing in his skin. In a low rumble he speaks, pulling lotion free from the drawer to your left. “Silver lining is: I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Even as he leans forward, closer and closer, he doesn’t cage you in— even if your chest aches at the loss.

Your heart demands the conversation die after that. Beating so rapidly you assume it’s stopped, silence freezes the air as your hands slowly drop to your lap. Lips pulled with woe, darling eyes low and sodden in an instant. Shoulders dropped just enough to sound a sharp creak in the swiveling chair you’re sat in, your lashes clump with fresh, unshed tears. And, in a lapse moment of murkiness, Kento’s lips twitch into a frown of their own.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, as if afraid your response will confirm it— he’s what’s wrong. His choice of words— wrong. Thin brows furrowed, the dip of his chin has his lips ghosting your cheek.

“. . . Nothin’.” It’s worse. He’d expected tears— maybe even an exchange of fiery words— but instead you’ve shut down, hands balled up in the fabric of your flowy pants, denim bunched up and draped over your thighs. Completely silent, staring at nothing and everything— all in between— all at once.

“Nothing?” He echoes, a silent suggestion for more. The rumble in your ear is almost too much, for a moment you assume you’d conjured it up with your imagination. Too close, too bare, too blunt, too warm— too fleeting.

“Mhm,” When your gaze meets, his heart plummets to his stomach. “Nothin’.” Words rush to his tongue before they can catch up to his brain, and. . you look so . . sad. He’s never seen you so defected— nor had he thought the concept of giving up existed for you. So headstrong, determined to make things work, gears always shifting into overdrive when you can’t make something out. You’ve gone as far as to create your own definition— this isn’t you.

“It’s. . . inevitable,” Kento’s voice softens, dropping to a quiet whisper between just the two of you. “But not for a while,” Then shifts his weight back, pulling away as he speaks in some sick sort of oxymoron, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will.” Grumbling, you’ve always been an open-book.

“Not forever.”

“. . . Ever,” You grunt, choosing to ignore the stern quirk of his thin brow. You’re a bit of a brat— Kento sees that now— behind the pouty lips and soft eyes, behind the large smiles and intimidating prowess. “When are you goin’?”

Nanami treads carefully, fingers wrapped around the closed bottle of lotion. With a snap it clicks open, and a generous amount is pumped into his palms. The smell is neutral and muted, but clean and fresh.

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to. An unexplainable feeling, adjacent to panic, rises in his stomach as he lies, “Six weeks, at least.”

“Nami…” Ignoring the deadline he’d just given you, you ask, “D’you like your job?”

You watch his posture relax, as if the previous conversation was just as emotionally taxing as it was for you, for him. He sighs, pauses to think for a mere second, then shrugs. “I like its structure.”

“Oh.”

“I like helping people, too.” He adds, much more sincere. Your eyes trail the lotion as it’s rubbed into his biceps, his shoulders, his forearms. His fingers flex and muscles ripple, skin bouncing beneath his fingertips, and light traces of hair at his knuckles raising.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on his veiny hands. You suppose, in a way, your jobs are similar. You, too, help people out— you provide fresh food and crops, you herd cattle and brush the hair of healthy horses. A very hands-on job— it’s rewarding. “Me too. I— I like helping too. And. . .”

His fingers twitch, almost as if they can feel your gaze, but Kento makes no effort to move them.

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

“I—” With trembling hands you lean forward, clasping Kento’s smooth knuckles against your palm. He’s just as warm as he looks, skin soft and sheen. His fingers flicker in your hold, straining as they tense— silently, asking, ‘what?’ as an increasingly overwhelming urge to keep Kento close washes over you.

It’s moments like these you’d wish you were better with words. To weave them together into something pretty, like a basket made for carrying fresh harvest. To pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Some that sound soulful and genuine, yet effortless and forthwith at the same time.

Moments like these, where your breath is stuck in your throat and with every rise and fall of his chest you think you’ve lost some more— he’s taken it all from you— you wish you knew just what to say, to do, to bring that air back.

To have him melt at your words the way you do at his actions, to have him feel the same exact thing when your heart clenches in your chest like a rag that’s been wrung out to dry. Without trying, without straining. You wish you were smarter— better at this, as you lean so far from the chair it begins to squeak in protest.

You’re sure there’s better people in Tokyo. With better educational backgrounds, with cleaner jobs. People who have it all together, who have different skills and assets— who don’t stick to one thing simply because they have a natural born talent for it. People who are prettier, more handsome— perhaps more his type. People who have aligning career goals and paths— more accomplishments.

Sweeter, kinder. With softer hands and an easier understanding of city life.

People who are better with words. Who can weave them together into something pretty, like a closed case with no loose ends or dead leads. Who can pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Who can make their confessions sound soulful and genuine, effortless and forthwith at the same time. All within the heart of Tokyo.

People who aren’t you.

Nanami stands, shuffling over to fix the documents you’d ruined— of course you did— but his face hasn’t changed from his usual tight-lipped expression. Sometimes it’s hard to read him, and it’s times like these you really wish you could.

“I like you,‘Nami.” You whisper to yourself, quietly pouring your heart out with each spoken letter.

And, with a snap, your world goes crumbling down. Increasingly silent, the world stops as you hit the floor and Kento’s chest stills— the soft, quiet beat of his breaths gone quiet, as if it were a mere memory to begin with. The backing of his swiveling chair falls with you, right to the floor, clattering much louder than the sound of your tense body, and—

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you have the wrong idea.” His voice is strained. Uncomfortable.

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

Despite your humiliating attempt to hold onto it, time flies by. Locked away in your room— your only source of comfort being an occasional knock on the door from your mother and the weight of your blanket as it remains overhead. You’ve counted the seconds— tripped over your thoughts after reaching 1,633– started over again. You’ve listened to the pitter-patter of rain against your windowsill, peeked out from your cocoon to bet on a race between the raindrops.

You’ve thought about Kento, of course. So much it plagued you, made your chest uncomfortably tight— until all you could do was let out a humiliated groan all over again. It’s a timeless cycle, and yet, it grows closer to his leaving date.

You haven’t spared a glance toward the actual outside, even when your window overlooks his own study. You’re sure everything’s out of sorts now— weeds overtaking the farm, plants dried out or overwatered, any blooming vegetation snipped at the bud before it could bloom. Tough luck, they’ll get over it.

And, God, has your family tried. Through gentle words and offers of food, through soft praises that fell on deaf ears. Through frustration, too, anger laced in the sweetest yell of ‘where’d my smart boy go?’

Your eyelids feel heavy and thick. No longer swollen with tears or bloodshot with dejection— just heavy, simply tired. Sleep is all you’ve done these days, yet it feels like your body can’t get enough. Fifteen hours a day leave you straining for more, three hours a day leave you exhausted. You can barely remember when you last left your bed— for the bathroom, never for a drink— and even when your frown deepens as you think about it, you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

You can’t bring yourself to fix anything as of late, if it can even be fixed.

You were stupid for thinking he’d feel the same, anyway. A man like ‘Nami— a man like Nanami— so smart and so distinguished. So. . opposite of you, to think you’d fall anywhere near the same line as him. . is laughable, really. Even more so when you consider his upbringing. He doesn’t mention it much, and you try not to pry, but you consider his lifestyle quite traditional and cookie-cutter. You hadn’t even asked if he liked men.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

His rejection physically pains you, a quiet sniffle and suppressed whine straining your vocal cords. Your nails dig into the fleshy, cushiony part of your palm. You can hear the pitch of his voice — rumbling and deep, you hear the shakiness of his breath—so deeply uncomfortable, cold with disgust. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

A knock to your door startles you awake, eyes wide open as your cocooned body flops around in bed. Still, you barely make an effort to respond, dry lips parting to form a garbled groan.

“Your. . . friend was at the door,” It’s your mother’s voice, but softer and pleading. For a moment your heart twists, eyebrows pinched as you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth— you can’t remember the last time you’d seen her face without slamming a door in it. “Looked tired, so I gave him some coffee. . .”

A bitter, disconcerting ‘so?’ nearly leaves your mouth— something so unlike your usual self, it makes you want to borrow deeper into your sheets and never leave. Shame. She doesn’t expect you to crack the door open. You shake your head, even if she can’t see you, only breaking your stubborn resolve when knocks once more, and slowly, you scuttle around the mess of your bedroom to unlock the door. Your eyes carry dark circles and heavy bags as your gaze pierces straight through her. Then, a shaky breath and barely audible whisper, “. . . S’it Nanami?”

Her aged smile is soft and thoughtful as she leans into the doorframe— something you haven’t seen in a while, and your eyes prickle with warm tears once more. “Between you ‘n me, you’re in much better shape.”

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

You don’t bother changing from your pajamas— they’ve always been so baggy to support the muscle you’ve grown over years of lifting heavy produce and working with truckloads— and now you’re grateful for it. Something to hide behind if you need it, and your fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of your long sleeves for comfort. Once you get downstairs the two of you depart, and a gentle rub to your shoulder blades is all your mother offers before finding solitude on her own, just a few rooms away if you need her.

And— she was wrong. Of course, he looks tired. You can see it in his shoulders— they’re all wound up and tense, like they’d been when you first met. Sure, his jaw is tightened and you can hear the grind of his teeth against one another despite keeping your distance— but he still seems put together, albeit lacking his usual combover or corporate style of clothing.

It hurts to know he does well without you, as selfish as it may sound.

“Hi,” You mumble, rubbing at your face with the palm of your hand. Your voice crackles with disuse, rumbling and garbled in your throat. “Nanami. .”

“Hi,” He echoes, your name heavy on his tongue as he stands, leveling out the shared eye contact. Just Nanami. For a moment he’s at a loss for words— and it’s odd, typically he has an answer for everything. You remember asking why he’d buckle your seatbelt before his own, and his answer was always the same. You remember asking why he likes what he does— and they’d all circle back to enjoying the small things in life. His Kento’s lips part, taken aback by the loss of his nickname, but they close into a tight line with registration. Perhaps you’re just. . too much.

“I lied to you,” He begins, and your heart leaps to your throat. He clasps his hands together, resting soundly by his thighs as his head tilts downward, a silent plea. “And, for that . . . I’m sorry,” Kento releases a breath, hands coming undone to swipe away stray, gold strands of hair. “Don’t feel obliged to accept, I just— I like y— I want to show you something.”

It’s odd. The look on your face makes him want to scoop you up, to cradle you in his arms and hold you tight. And yet, he can see the cogs turning in your brain, the gradual loss of your frown and faux steel in your eyes as you shrug— he can’t even distinguish if you’re being reluctant or stubborn. Nonetheless, Kento smoothens the fabric of his coat, and makes a small, polite gesture to the door.

“Okay.” Your fist rubs sleep from your eyes, steps heavy and dragging along the floor as you slide your feet into brown bunny slippers— the same ones he’d worn when you officially met.

Stepping into the cold, crisp winter air, you both ignore the tremor to your bottom lip, “What were you gonna. . ?”

Not at all hard to spot, set alight by the glow or orange lanterns, it’s your farm. Oh, it’s much prettier than you could’ve ever imagined it. So clean, with pristine rows and neat placements of fresh soils. You can actually walk through it, as opposed to tip-toeing around like you used to. The air is crisp and fresh, just like you’d remembered it— but it feels better than before. And, dotting the horizon, fireflies dance into the night sky and blend into the twinkling stars. You don’t remember the last time you’d seen them— vision occupied by tall grass or obstructed by rusty tools. You could almost cry. Your breath catches in your throat, a gentle breeze brushing along your forehead and digging into the fabric of your clothes— yet you feel light and warm.

He did all this for you?

“Are you cold?” You blink hard, vision blurred with tears as Kento’s hand grasps your shoulder. “You’re shivering.” He’s quick to shrug off his coat, barely even flinching when the fabric dips into fresh mud, and loops it around your form with steady hands.

“M’okay. .” He frowns, barely visible, and the slight protests of being strong enough to tough it out die on your tongue. But it’s true, you don’t feel cold— not internally, at least. You feel light yet heavy, warm and airy. Heat pokes at your skin, ignites in the apples of your cheeks and trails down your throat. “. . . Thank you, ‘Nami. . . For everythin’.”

‘Why're you saying it like that?’ He wants to ask. As if it’s some sort of sick, roundabout way of saying goodbye. His movement stutters, lips curled into a small ‘o’ before reverting back to its usual, thin line; and he speaks, “I don’t just like you.”

Your fist tightens in his coat, fabric twisting to accommodate your grip.

“I. . admire you. Your strength, your weakness. Your baking. . Your smile, too,” He sighs, quiet and cautious. “Your laugh. I regret not telling you before. At first, I thought you were impulsive, and somehow abrasive, bu—”

You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings— you laugh when you’re happy, scowl when you’re angry, mope when you’re sad. So it’s no surprise to feel you smile; wide and unapologetic. It’s no surprise to feel the tremble of your fingers as they release his coat and land on his biceps. To feel the slow, shaking breath of air he releases at your silence— hearing his own slight sniffle at the nippy, cold breeze. You’re nervous, lips twitching as his chin dips, bashful as his lips intertwine with your own.

A kiss.

"’Nami," Laughing into his mouth, it meets the sound of your lips continuously meeting in breathless, heavy harmony. His lips are plush, soft and sweet, hungry and hasty, everything and nothing and all things in between. “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you.”

You feel it now— the warmth enveloping his chest, the hard hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "Shit," He whispers, incredulous, and before slowly pulling away, cradles your handsome face between his calloused “I like you too.”

౨ৎ

Kento owns silk pillows. You can tell they’re imported from home— as they disturb the uniform colors of the crisp, cream comforter set blanketing his bed. It’s the first thing you notice, head sinking into the fabric as your eyes flutter closed, thoughts and breaths stolen with each wet, heavy kiss being pressed against your lips. His breath is hot and heavy, small groans and grunts leaving his parted lips, and— he tastes of chocolate.

“Kenny—” You gasp, but the sound of his name on your lips only eggs him on. Hot heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your tummy, so deep, something you’ve never really felt before. It tingles, almost, right through your thighs and straight to your cock, plumping up with each passing second. And his hands, god, are so quick and skilled— shedding you of your clothing as if he’s done it a million times before.

“Kenny,” You repeat, much whinier than before, tiny sounds leaving your lips as you squirm in his hold. “Mm, wait,” and his response is barely committal, a low hum that melts into a breathy sigh as your bare skin is exposed and your leaking cock springs free against your tummy. He coos, peeling the sticky fabric of your underwear free. Cute.

“Use your words,” Kento mumbles against your skin, running his hands along the silky smooth skin of the back of your thighs. “I know you can, you’re a smart boy.” You squirm with every touch, plush skin bouncy as you press your thighs together, cock sliding by your navel. And, even when you hide, he can see the precum smearing against your stomach, the tightening of your balls, and, now, your exposed hole winking back at him.

Fuck.

“Mm, don’t look,” You’ve barely convinced yourself, a choked out moan leaving your lips as his big, warm hand wraps around your cock and pumps. “That’s— oh, embarrassin’!” Slow, at first, trailing up the sensitive shaft and rubbing circles into the overly-sensitive head. Until his hand is slick with precum and his own spit, until your thighs are convulsing and you’re close to covering yourself in your own cum. Until you’re sobbing, pulling at his wrist with weak, clammy hands.

“I know, sugar. I know,” And the stifled cry you've been hearing belongs to you. “Feels good, hm?” His free hand grazes down your waist, thumbing at the dip between your hip and your thigh, then cupping the soft, plush skin of your pecs. “Feels better than your own hand, doesn’t it?” Kneading until your nipples harden against his palm, soft skin swelling around his fingers. And, oh, how pretty you are when you cry, overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and incoherent babbles leaving your swollen lips.

“Uh— huh, yeah,” Is barely breathed out, and Kento watches pre leak over his knuckles. Creamy and thick, sticky and sweet as your hips rock back and forth, to and fro. You just can’t help yourself, greedy boy, fucking into his fist like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and— oh.

It is.

“Messy boy,” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own— damp and sticky. Your hand, preoccupied with fisting his sheets, is grabbed, and all you can feel is slick, hot heat. “Fuck your fist for me.”

“Wh- Huh?” It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to your hands, wrapped tightly around your cock as your hips buck— whines high and loud in your throat, keening like a puppy. It’s not at all paced, not like Kento, just pure desperation and need as your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull. Warmth rises in your face as your legs instinctively part, tingles spreading through your body and needy moans filling the air. Wet and sloppy, your hand is slick and soaked.

He travels lower, lips trailing down your throat, your collarbones— pausing at your chest. He watches the rise and fall, the slight bounce of your pecs as you pant like a dog. Pretty buds hard and sensitive, a gentle suckle is enough to make you arch from the sheets and keen.

“Good boy, that’s it,” You have the urge to get on your knees, to present all your holes to him, to spread yourself open with your fingers- fucking them in and out, in and out, just for Kento. It’s all too much, thinking of what’s next, what’s happening now, what’ll happen later.

Nanami lifts his shirt over his chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits as he keeps it pinned between his teeth, and you have no other choice but to flutter your lashes, watching as his pants are loosened and his cock springs free. Big. Thick and long— and, it seems his tan has traveled to his cock, too. Blushing at the tip, the sweet color of mocha, it disappears the further you look down. Curved, too, slightly past his belly-button and heavy against his navel. It's humiliating, the way your mouth waters almost immediately.

It’d feel so good weighing down on your tongue, fucking your throat fast and rough, making you gag and sputter— choking on your own tears and groans.

“Wanna. . I want. . .” You squirm where you lay, whining high in your throat as you find nowhere to hide— nothing to put your face against, nowhere to bury the drunk, hazy expression on your face.

“Want what?” He murmurs, pretty eyes trailing along the curves of your face before he places a sweet, soft kiss along the edge of your jaw. You take the grip on your waist as a slight indication— Kento’s patience is slowly waning.

“V’never. .” Your lips part into a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as his large hands travel along the expanse of your chest. “I wanna. . . feel you in my throat.”

The smart man he is, Nanami, never misses a beat. Pink lips splitting into a small smile, his thumb rubs circles against your skin. Still, you can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against your thigh, hard and almost leaking. “That’s ambitious, sugar.”

You don’t register scrambling up by your elbows, nor the amount of time it takes for your fingers to fail at wrapping around his cock. Your thoughts are muffled and hazy until a quiet chuckle sounds above you— rumbly and deep, and— ah, Kento’s hand is guiding your head back as he pulls your hands free. You’re panting for it now, mouth dropped open as the slurp and slick noise of his cock tapping against your tongue drops straight to your stomach. You could cum from this alone, without even a single glance toward the ache between your thighs.

"M'gonna be so good, promise, know I can do it! Want it, Sir," A clear habit of rambling when you’re nervous, a soothing coo leaves Kento’s throat. His tip smears along your pillowy lips, sticky and salty as pre paints your chin.

“Shit,” He groans under his breath, fisting his cock to ease the ache in his balls. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you. Gentle, remember?”

You don’t. You can barely think, let alone recall something from another day. But you nod anyway, eyes glued to his cock as it bobs to and fro— pretty and weeping. You bet it’ll feel so heavy, weighing down on your tongue and nearly crushing your throat as you gag around it. He’ll taste good, too, salty and sweet as he buries his cock down your throat. With your nose pressed into the blond of his pubes, and his balls slick against your chin as they tighten and clench.

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

With a whiny nod you take his tip into your mouth, pink tongue over your teeth. In your head, it’s much easier— you can sink down to the base no problem— but in practice. . . You sputter and gurgle, leaning into the gentle touch caressing your cheek as your tongue traces the pulsing, thick vein cascading down his shaft. Through your pathetic whimpers and whines he mumbles— but it falls on deaf ears.

You stick out your tongue, cute and pink, latches onto your bottom lip, slicking his slit as he blinks down at you, pupils blown and wide as he praises you, voice smooth and buttery.

Through your own jittery, inexperienced suckling, his tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail of creamy pre between them, as his dick slides in and out your hot, wet mouth. Spreading heavy along your tongue, swallowing around the head as his thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as they strain to keep still.

“‘Nami’s dick is heavy, sweetheart,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way his balls are clenched tight, his hand morphed into a fist— careful not to grip your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum, down his thighs. “And you’re taking it so well.”

Running your tongue along his big, veiny cock, his head falls forward— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock fills your empty mouth, stuffing it full like a pre-lubed fleshlight, his balls slapping against your chin in sticky, wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until your noises are sloppy and loud. “That’s it, good boy, take this load down your pretty little throat. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Kento’s hand holds you close, until you’re buried against his pubes, until your throat is squeezing and contracting and wrapped plush around the thick shaft of his dick. You can feel it, each and every twitch and throb, each hit, sticky rope that paints your mouth as he cums down your throat, ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You’ve done so good, such a good boy, marked for Sir, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before he pulls you off.

You’d rather he paint your face, but you trust him, swallowing the bitter, salty cream as he whispers gentle praises.

“You’re perfect,” Kento mumbles through heavy gasps, rubbing away the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. Such a sweet, pliant boy, leaning into his touch as he gently pushes you back down, off your knees.

Now he’s got you folded, knees bent back in such a slutty, shameless display. The blond squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his beading, shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. Yeah, that’s good, how it slips and slides with rhythmatic pumps. You’d like to imagine that’s how it’ll be when his cock is inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, sliding against your velvety walls until he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum.

“Spit,” he says, gentle at first, but hardening as your poor, pitiful attempt at spitting down your own cock turns into gurgles of drool and incoherent moans. He grips your jaw, angling it just right— till you’re resting back on your elbows and have enough space to land a warm, wet glob right down the slit. “Good boy. Look at me, pretty. Like this.”

You watch as he spits down onto his own cock, runny and wet, which stands as a reminder of its own. His fist is so big, but it’s not nearly enough to swallow his cock down. You watch it pop free from his tight grip, loud squelches with each and every movement. Every time he throbs, pulses, shifts— you hear it all.

“That’s it, atta boy, my good little cocksleeve,” You— it must be you, there’s no one else he’s speaking to. Still, with your hand squeezing your throbbing shaft there’s not much you can say, airy little moans and sweet, high gasps leaving your pouty lips as you buck— up, up, up. A thin trail of drool slips down your chin, warm and wet and— oh, that’s nice— trailing down your cock. “That’s it, stick your tongue out.”

You really do play the part, tongue on display as you fuck your fist silly, bumping slits with the blond. Soft and sticky, loud and wet squelching until his own large, warm palm envelops both your cocks, bumping and grinding and sliding so messy. You nearly burst into hysterics when the warmth is gone, and Nanami’s gaze tears away from the pre oozing between your shafts. “Ask Sir for more, angel.”

“Mm, waitwaitwait, don’t— don’t stop,” You keen, stumbling over your tongue. Your brows pinch, eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Kenny— Sir, please.”

“Good boy,” All but purring, his hands roam along the plush, round mounds of your ass. “Yeah,” His dick slips between the slick skin of your perineum, dragging along the sensitive skin— the head of his cock catching on your rim when his thrusts turn too eager. “You’re a good boy, asking like that.”

“You like grinding on Sir's cock don’t you? Getting me all wet. . .” Just as warm and wet as he’d thought, cooped up in his office and fucking into his fist, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, shallow rut forward. Your balls bounce and twitch, slick and shiny with a mixture of pre. Your moans, so pretty, high and nasally— incoherent and blabbering. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. And his grip, once gentle and steady, leads down to your ass, keeping it spread as he slides the big head of his cock along your pretty little rim, again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your fucked out haze you try to think; you want him to ruin you.

A knot tightens in your tummy, tingling in your balls as your thighs tighten and your legs tremble— fuck, you’re cumming, hard and all at once, it catches you off guard and a choked squeal is knocked from your throat, rope after rope spraying along your own chest.

“I—” You sob, cock convulsing against your tummy as Kento groans. “I didn’t mean to— didn’t know, m’sor—”

He hushes you, a low growl in his throat as his eyes roam up your tummy, past your hard nipples and land on the splatter of cum collecting between the plush hills of your pecs. “S’okay, it just felt too good, mhm? I bet your pussy feels so good, baby— perfect, pretty little pussy swallowing up my cock.”

You don’t expect him to say that— that’s the last thing you expect, eyes rolling back in your skull as you moan, wholehearted and slutty. With the wet squeeze of lube along your bottom half, slicker and sloppier than ever before, your hole winks back at him. Your perfect, pretty little pussy. “That okay, sweetheart? Can Sir pound this hole till it aches for him?”

Your response is barely coherent, garbled sounds and babbling that roughly translates to ‘please’ as thick fingers prod at your tight, puckered hole. Your loud moans are hushed as Kento leans down, close to your ear. His fingers slide against your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with them and connecting to your puffy rim. They feel so big, so long and thick when he taps them against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Gonna get you ready for Sir’s dick, gonna finger that cunt nice and slow, get that sweet boy-hole stretched out.”

“Kenny,” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach forward to press his fingers closer, a tiny gasp leaving your lips as your entrance is breached. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the man takes the opportunity to slip his fingers right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks the digits deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Can take it, pound it, Sir.”

“Look at me, watch me, sugar. Watch Sir fuck this little hole full.” You squeeze your eyes shut for as long as the reluctant, bratty little part of your brain lets you before staring down into hazel. Until his fingers have you seeing stars and rocking back into them like a cock hungry slut, you’ve never felt more full until his cock kisses your insides, leaving you sloppy and open and full.

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelch and slap of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. Your knees over his shoulders, Kento hauls your body up, and with a tiny, wee and pathetic ‘ah!’ you follow suit, your cute little hole clenching and fluttering around his thick, leaking cock.

“Give me a little more, just a little more of this pussy,” You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the blond pistons his hips, a bruising grip on your waist that only gets harder as he grinds his cock down into you. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. You can’t take it, hands scrambling to grab at something, anything that’ll keep you from screaming.

Pounding into you, your head falls back as you take it, nice and slow, stretching you out— fast and rough, steady and patient— Kento groans above you, bullying his cock inside, grinding while your hips squirm. Mouth open with an unending stream of moans, he breaks you in, turns you into his good boy— his perfect fleshlight. Wet little hole clenching and spasming, his weight pins you down as your greedy hole milks him for all he’s worth.

“Cummin’, Nami, s’too much— M’can’t—” Whining and crying, his touches go right to your head as much as they do your puffy hole."Kenny," you whine, long and pitiful, a pout of a noise that hits him right where you want it to, just as his cock does inside of you. You whine again when your rocking turns into frantic overstimulated grinding, reveling in the stretch of his cock and the rub of your prostate. He groans, thick and gravelly, hands coming up to squeeze at your chest.

“I’ve got you, c’mere, hold Sir’s hand,” He chokes out, feeling it too. The tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are hard and deep, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. “So good for me,” You never want it to stop, not the pump of his cock, not the drag of his tip against your entrance, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. Your grip on his knuckles is tight, nails digging into the skin of his hands. “That’s it, such a pretty boy, cumming on my cock.”

A searing knot of pressure grows in your stomach, filling as you bear down on his cock and sob on your whimpers. For a minute you think you’re going to pass out, everything going dark as you spurt all over yourself, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chin and splashing back on the blond. He makes you ride it out, offering hard, shallow thrusts to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few sweet, tender kisses to your sweaty jaw.

౨ৎ

You wake with a small moan, limbs racked in small aches as your body melts into silk sheets. It smells like him: warm, cozy, and comforting, like a hug. Grateful for the dim, ambient lighting of his bedroom, your eyelids flutter open slowly, and there’s not much to adjust to. You’re clean— its the first thing you notice, a faint scent of soap lingering on your skin as your aching body scrambles for Kento’s warmth.

“I’m here,” He says behind you, hairs on your neck standing straight as you blink at him. Carrying a glass of ice water and a plate of meringue cookies— whisked perfectly. Cute, cloud-like spirals that sit on a porcelain plate— the same ones he watched you make, a smile pulls at your cheeks. “Hungry?” The muscles of your biceps flex as you push yourself up, body subconsciously leaning toward the blond until he’s sat next to you, his touches gentle and fleeting.

He feeds you a cookie, watches your teeth sink into the sweet, then wipes away the remnants of sugar from your lips. So tender, your heart flutters when he takes a bite after you— an indirect kiss.

He swallows, throat bobbing, lashes batting against his high cheekbones, before parting his lips, “I was thinking of extending my stay.”

The room feels ten times brighter, ten times louder, and yet, your heartbeat overpowers it all.

“I like you,” The words tumble from your mouth, almost as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart and building you back up. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “I more-than-like you, Kenny.”

And, without missing a beat, Kento answers truthfully this time.

“I love you too.”

4K notes · View notes

gladiatorcunt · 5 months ago

Text

- # GIVE A FLY SOME HONEY !!

all roads lead to death valley

cw: southern setting & accents, sui ideation/thoughts, protected sex (are you proud of me), dead dove ending and undertones, sort of ambiguous, virgin cowboy!anakin x virgin afab!reader, ROTS coded!anakin, r2’s a horse, the force is in place of the christian God and is referred to as such at times, star wars being a fictional franchise in a star wars au fic, weird mix of a farm and a ranch, spanking, clit slapping, biting, reader’s inner freak has some crazy thoughts, mentions of humiliation and collaring/choking, anakin murders somebody (one scene of violence), what a heat advisory and the south’s sex education does to a mf, implied plus size and neurodivergent!reader, kidnapping????????????, mention of drugs, reader has a lot of internalized shame about where they’re from

wc: 4.2k (unedited)

what if instead of star wars it was called 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 wars

consider commissioning me!

Your unlucky streak rears its ugly head yet again. June was already shaping up to be a hot month, and your junkyard car wouldn’t start. You’re used to driving long stretches of road with nothing but livestock in fields to gawk at, it comes with the territory. But you couldn’t afford gas and decided to push your luck on the way back home, nevermind that the drive would be at least 20 hours. Moving to the city had its drawbacks, the road trip to and back being one of them.

“No, no. Come on, please work. Do you need me to fucking sing to you or something?” You groan, fruitlessly twisting your key in the ignition over and over.

Nope, “Tough shit.” Your engine mocks, death coughs sputtering out one after the other.

“ ‘You havin’ trouble?” A masculine voice shouts from behind you.

You get startled by the sound and gracefully slam your head up into the roof of the car as you turn around. You must look like quite the sight, clutching your now throbbing head and stumbling out of your broken down hand-me-down car on a long open road. Once you’ve blinked enough to adjust to the harsh sunlight, your eyes land on a tall muscular figure riding a horse. The clip clop of the horse’s dirty hooves on the gravel pierce your ears but the gentle sway of the man’s fluffy hair softens the blow.

“Um…. yes, sir. I am actually. My…. my car won’t start and I’m all out of gas.” You burn with embarrassment as you get through your explanation, trying your hardest not to throw up from the sheer social anxiety.

“Well that ain’t no biggy, I think I can help with that.” The man cocks his head and hops down from the horse, a white stallion with a few faded black-gray spots here and there. “Stay here, R2.”

You’re standing there dumbly, ignoring the tiny rocks digging into your shoes and the pounding in your skull as the cowboy wanders up to you. The sun bounces off his dark hat in a way that gives him a sort of halo, and you gape like a fish when he tips it down at you in a silent greeting, reaching out to shake your hand after. The silver spurs on his boots reflect sunlight directly onto your face, so you miss his open palm the first time.

His hand is rough, you can feel numerous old scrapes and cuts when you accept the gesture. But it’s so much bigger than yours, and there’s strange heat coming from his skin that you’re hesitant to pin on the southern summer sun. Too handsome, in a way that just can’t be possible, you quickly swipe a fingertip over his ring finger during the handshake and The Force must be looking out for you because there’s no ring. Not that you’re seeking anything out, but in the town you’re from, you’re lucky if anyone makes it past 18 without having a baby and getting hitched as a result.

Anakin tinkers away at your car for over an hour, finding more problems than just a lack of gas. Eventually he determines that you’ll die in this heat before you can back on the road, so he asks you to accompany him back to his ranch and he’ll send out one of his employees to bring your car around. You try to show him that you’re listening by ‘hm’-ing and nodding every so often, but it’s hard to rip your eyes away from a very attractive man bent over and sweaty while he’s fixing your car. You definitely do not want to cry when his flannel lifts up as he wipes the sweat on his forehead away with his greasy hand, revealing the slight softness over his muscles.

Since your car was no longer an option, Anakin grins as he gestures towards his horse, “R2’s a good horse, won’t give you any trouble. He likes to make a lot of noise and has an… acquired sense of humor, but I reckon we’ll get back just fine.”

He has you practice getting off and on the horse for a good while, the next step is letting you adjust to the feeling of being on one. You’d be embarrassed that Anakin’s having to teach you how to ride but his hands curl around your waist, keeping you steady and whispering in your ear to not be so stiff. Horses can smell fear after all, it’d suck to not only have your car be broken but your bones too. It’s a scene straight out of a cheesy romance novel, the kind that’s a tiny yellowed book sold almost exclusively in run down gas stations with a cover not far off from a porno.

Your cheeks are burning the entire way to the ranch, you relax as much as you can on an animal that’s a few hundred pounds of muscle with a searing hot body pressed right up against you from behind. It doesn't take long to get to your destination though, and before you know it sprawling fields bracket a mid size homey wooden building. There are some smaller pens for the cows to stay in and you follow their movement as an employee unlatches the gate and leads them out towards the left most field.

“They gotta switch pastures every so often.” He informs you, urging his horse into an energetic trot, “And it’s a good rule of thumb to have about an acre per cow.”

You tighten your hold on the reins and try not to focus on your fear of falling off. The pace of R2 isn’t one that you struggle to match but then again this is the first time you’ve ever ridden a horse in a long time. You’ve always been too skittish to do it regularly, and when you moved you got rid of the hobby entirely. You take a deep breath and let the horse’s movements travel through you, coming to enjoy the gentle jostling as you go. Anakin keeps his hands around yours on the reigns, making sure you don’t panic and seize up. R2’s not really beginner friendly unless he likes his rider, he has a tendency to just whinny and take off when the spirit moves him.

“The Force has done me good and given me a nice house on nice land, but it don’t mean nothin’ if i’m all by my lonesome. Ever since my dad passed and my ma’ died a few years after that, the workers and the cows are all I got, plus R2 of course.”

All right, he sinks into the jargon a little too much, but the way the sun accentuates the scar on his cheek makes it a charming quirk. You want to lick his teeth when he smiles, you think, before blaming it on an oncoming heatstroke. You’re no better than a man in this moment, and if you had seen him soaking up all of the attention in a crowded room in a bar you’d have no business being in, you like to think that you could pull him. You play with the slightly waxy feel of the leather reins, allowing the sensation of coarseness in the stitching to overpower any coherent thought.

“Why’d you name your horse R2?” You ask, ducking your head as you feel him guide the animal towards the stables.

“Oh uh, I was real wild over these sci fi movies from back when I was a kid. The hero had this robot called R2-D2, and I guess it just stuck with me.” He answers you with a shrug and a mild blush, curving his fingers around yours.

Your stomach warms at the feeling, but you refrain from returning the gesture, he probably isn’t even thinking that deeply about what he’s doing. He’s not obsessing over every square inch of skin that comes into contact with his own, not like you. You’re already missing the comforting weight of Anakin’s herculean body when he’s pulling the reins to stop R2 and hopping off, clamping his big hands around your waist and helping you down. You wobble for a bit and find your footing before you can pick up on how he momentarily froze in front of you, anticipating an easy opportunity to touch you again. Force, you really are stupid, bless your heart.

You glance up at him and start to say something but then you hear rustling in the bushes, Anakin must hear it too because before you can tug on his sleeve and tell him, he’s pulling his revolver out from its holster and striding off towards the sound. You’re quick to learn that he has a bit of a one track mind, especially when it comes to indulging the serpent twisting in between his ribs like a switchblade.

“I’ll be damned…”

You’re supposed to head inside and awkwardly linger around until your car is in good enough condition to get you back to Coruscant. The only thing is, you’ve now found yourself without your new security blanket, and your curiosity agrees with how much you don’t fucking want to speak to any of the people here without Anakin to hide behind. R2 loudly chuffs at you from his stall in the stables, either saying “That’s just how he is, leave him be!” or "What are you doing? You should obviously go after him!” You choose to believe it’s the latter, so you wander off into the distance, following Anakin’s lead.

You catch up to him quicker than you thought you would, and you have half a mind to scold him like a child if you weren’t catching your breath. All you can see is his wide shoulders because he’s hunched over something, your heartbeat quickens when you spot his gun being pointed at something. You circle around him to find a man squirming on the ground like a toddler, twitching every so often. Anakin seems almost enthralled by the desperate display, so he doesn’t notice you until you gingerly place a hand on his shoulder, soft and looking to soothe. Later you won’t remember the blood on the man’s temple or the matching stain on the muzzle of Anakin’s gun, because you didn’t witness that part.

He snaps out of it, turning his head to nuzzle his nose against your knuckles, “ ‘s alright, sweetheart, just a meth head too out of his mind to watch where he’s goin’. Had a knife with him, probably lookin’ to rob somebody blind.”

Your eyes flicker between him and the man, fully aware of how common stuff like drug addicts trespassing is and the old fashioned black and red ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot On Sight’ sign. You’ve grown up around guns, you’re more used to hearing them in a hunting or taking shots at beer bottles kind of way, but it’s not like Anakin’s the only one to have that kind of self enforced rule when it comes to his property. Still… killing a human man is different than making use out of a successful deer hunt, right?

“Maybe we should call the cops, he can’t hurt nobody like that…” You try to reason, casting a pitiful glance towards the cowering man.

There’s a scratch on Anakin’s face that’s still bleeding from the knife the guy had used before Anakin took it, it just barely missed his right eye, he could’ve lost it. You’ll ask to help him with it when you get back to the ranch, but you know that there’s no seeing to it right now. You don’t want to risk an infection just so you could brush your thumb across the wound, you’re not even sure why you want to, it’s like the urge just materialized in your head out of thin fog. Anakin gently shrugs your hand off and uses his free one to pull you against his chest, and it’s like you’re back on his horse, that same fear entwined with exhilaration like barbed wire. Your hearts are beating at the same pace, some folks say that’s how you know it’s love, that’s how you know it’s fate.

“You don’t got the stuff in ya to be a killer, that’s just fine, darlin’. ‘Cause I sure do.” His words dissolve into a previously unknown to you cold sneer.

Anakin clamps a burly, sweaty hand over your eyes as he empties the entire magnum into the tresspasser’s skull. The bright sun bounces off the brim of his hat, casting a shadow over his stormy eyes. He may not have let you witness the massacre, but you will never forget the sickening yelps the poor bastard gave to Anakin like prayer. And then he got put down in a more inhumane fashion than if he were a rabid dog. To your gracious host, there’s probably not a whole lick of difference. Between a wanderin’ sap and a deranged mutt, that is.

But there’s a far off expression on his face, maybe he was once at risk of having two bullets in his temple at the hands of someone unforgiving.

“Welp.” Anakin exclaims, making a point of slapping his thigh as he holsters his pistol. “Better head on home now, I reckon. Come on, honey, don’t want to lose you to the coyotes.”

It’s said like “kai-yohtes.” You balk at his teasing and obediently trail after him, a vulnerable duckling staying in line. The storm is hitting hard by the time you’re out of the woods, and you briefly wonder if the Angels up in heaven are gonna start bowling soon. A saying that got passed around in your family, when you and the ones before you would stare up in wonder and shiver in fear at the thundering purple skies as kids. You remember being surprised that one of the Angels’ bowling balls never fell down to earth, maybe it’d be somethin’ like a meteorite.

As is the case with many things, it’s easy to lose sight of the fresh corpse in the dry grass. Once you turn around and thread your finger through Anakin’s, dirtying them, it’s almost like that man never existed. There must be something wrong with you, sure the situation is so unimaginable that it would be hard to cope with, but shouldn’t you be feeling more guilt than you do? You feel bad, of course, but ‘easy come and easy go’ has always been the way of things in these parts. God giveth and God taketh away.

You’re back where you should be, a narrow dirt path going under a wooden fence to the ranch. Grand trees line the road forming a moss green canopy. A few workers are goofing off and playing a very amateur game of football, blissfully ignorant to the fact that Anakin can obviously see them from his place next to you.

It would be a peaceful place to die, a bright and clear afternoon-evening in the way that the world can only be when you’re about to leave it. That’s how you’d want it to feel, like you’re rowing a boat across the lake you used to go fishing at to see people you’d never thought you’d see again waiting for you. Fall leaves, blinding pale sun, a serene and calming quiet. You’d be the happiest you’ve ever been, skipping even though you never could as a kid. There’d be no sadness, only relief and a memento of everything that’ll only make sense when it’s someone’s turn to see you again. No buzzing from mosquitoes or chirping from crickets, only little lightnin’ bugs. Maybe you only get that kinda ending if you’re good, in the godly sense, if you come from something worth remembering.

Anakin raises an eyebrow and gently jostles you, and just like that your train of thought is derailed. He chalks it up to shock, and nods his head towards a clearing behind the building. A change of plans. You follow, as you are wont to do.

“That rat bastard had it comin’ to ‘im, hun.” He tries to reassure and squeezes your hand, imploring you to see reason. “The Force decided it was his time, sweet thing.”

You shake your head, not disagreeing, just in utter disbelief. “I just… most everyone in my life I've known that’s died did it when I wasn't there. I’ve never had to actually be there when they… you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” And that’s all he says, regardless of the truth.

It’s what you need, somehow he just understands exactly what that is. You’re starting to think that you certainly don’t have a damn clue. You look up at him again, really drinking in every facet of his entire being that you can latch onto and obsess over. You’re remembering why you were so anxious to get out of this sinkhole, it’s a miracle you ever got out of it in the first place. His hair’s all messy, dark curls strewn about like a windswept bale of hay. A storm is brewing in his eyes, like he could Earth to rotate in the opposite direction if he wanted it to. He works his jaw around in a weird way to get rid of the soreness after grinding his teeth.

It’s tantalizing, being the hand holding a man on the edge back from wreaking his God given havoc.

You dot a quick peck on his cheek, scrunching your nose up at the barest hint of prickly stubble.

His eyes widen, and the sun itself shines brighter. The cutest light dusting of pink spreads across his face, so he one ups you by pressing your lips together. It’s exactly how a first kiss should feel, a simple gesture that leaves you breathless and with more butterflies than a flower garden swarming in your tummy. There’s no fireworks, but you can hear wind chimes and birds singing as your lips glide together, the meeting of your tongues is so natural that you won’t be able to remember when his slipped through the seam of your mouth. You want to keen as he maps out your teeth, his spit has to have some kind of aphrodisiac in it.

Anakin works your jeans open and off your legs completely, his pupils expand when he sees your thick thighs in all their glory but he keeps himself from slapping them and acting like they’re the only part of your body. There’s an ever growing to do list in both of your heads, your combined inexperience brings a flurry of perverted ideas and porn scenarios to recreate with it, and you’re sad that you’ll very likely leave with none of them being fulfilled.

He yanks the collar of your tank below your chest, immediately leaving over to bite your cute breasts with all the grace of a rattlesnake. He doesn’t try to make any marks, he just wants to bite wildly and with reckless abandon, like he’s using your tits to self soothe. You’d do the same if he let you at his pecs to be fair, his chest is practically as big as yours if not bigger.

“This means somethin’ to me, hear that? ‘m always gonna remember my first.” He spits, clutching onto your bruised tit like he’s a split second away from sinking his hand into your viscera and dumpster diving for your heart.

He pauses pawing at your tits to reach in his back pocket and pull out a condom. It’s crumpled and the packaging is worn by rubbing against the denim of Anakin’s jeans, you can tell that he’s excited to finally put it to use. You’re glad that there’s some safety measures being taken, but your heart swoops in disappointment at the dose of reality. It’s the kind of thing that calls for the most diabolical, unhinged, strings of goopy fluid hanging from his balls as they slap against your rippling ass, raw sex. You don’t let yourself pout, Anakin’s making good use of the only working brain cell between the two of you. You scoot back on his lap to give him room to pop to button on his pants and whip his dick out. It makes a heavy ‘thwop!’ as it slaps against Anakin’s abs.

Your mouth waters at the sight, so thick with the just right amount of curve, it would scratch your throat perfectly. His hands shake harder as he rips the condom’s packaging open with his teeth and rolls it on his twitching length. You take a deep breath, finding comfort in the tense muscles on Anakin’s shoulders through his warm flannel. He curls a hand around the base of his cock and grasps it tightly, positioning it right under your empty hole. You’re lucky he didn’t have to tell you what to do, because working yourself down every inch would’ve been much more painful if you already needed to be taught a lesson. It’s weirdly sweet, the chaste pecks he presses along your nose and jawline as you adjust to what feels like a tree log forcing your tender folds to stretch around it. Your slutty body tries to twist itself in a pretzel with the way you’re swiveling your hips, trying to get more of Anakin’s dick inside of you when you’ve miraculously already swallowed him to the hilt.

“I want this pretty pussy weepin’ for me, I’m awfully sorry honey but i’m not stopping till it’s gushin’ all over me.” He speaks in between wet kisses up and down the column of your throat.

“Mmm- It’s okay, I want it like that, Ani. Promise- oh my god, so big.”

You make him feel like a man trying to outrun a forest fire only to get swept up in a tornado. Like there’s a fever in his brain that’s gotten into his blood, black tar dripping into his liver. Drives a man to drink so he can have a sliver of that feeling, that scalding need not even God could give you. There’s no finesse or coordination to anything, his lips frantically scurry along random spots on your upper body. His upward thrusts are heavy hitting and wrangle your breath out in stuttered gasps, he moves as if he were riding a horse, following only the imagined scent of old blood. Anakin’s cock is so big your walls could rip if he wasn’t always keeping a sharp eye on how much he’s bullying you. He doesn’t try anything crazy like fucking your cervix, it might shock you so much that you remeber exactly how long it’s been since he’s had your car “taken to the shop”.

His spurs dig into the dirt as he slaps your ass, the material of his gloves adding an extra bit of ‘umph!’ to the resulting sting. Anakin’s jeans are so warm against your ass that it takes a few more spanks before you really get the urge to bend over his lap and tell him to just have at it until you sob. You’re on an ecstatic high, living in the present with a near stranger’s dick balls deep inside of you. His eyes gleam gold when you make eye contact, and you find it so easy to fall down the rabbit hole, letting this man burn away all your responsibilities until he’s the last one left standing in a sea of ashes.

You don’t mind that he stops talking eventually, switching to gruff grunts and harsh yells. ‘Don’t be so stiff, let the movement roll through you.’ Anakin digs his fingers into the meat of your jiggling ass and delivers a final smack to both cheeks. You sigh in relief, but then you snap out of your cockdrunk haze to yelp at the cruel hit to your swollen clit.

“Need ya to keep squeakin’ sweets.” He orders. “Don’t want the townsfolk to think I fucked your brain out your ears.”

It’d be polite to make conversation with the people you meet when Anakin parades you around with his hat on your head later, something of a pre engagement tour. If the Force is good, you’ll be willing, because rope burn isn’t something you want to become your new normal.

“Chin up, buttercup,” He says almost bashfully despite how hard he’s pounding your puffy cunt, “We can get some ice cream at the fair after if ya like, make it a cute little second date.”

You whimper and harshly pull his hair, earning you a throaty moan and another slap to your clit, saying yes to him like you’ve already done a million times. You thought that the pure social anxiety of being around so many of Anakin’s employees would be nerve wracking, it’s nothing compared to having to speak to them AND keep their boss’s cum from oozing down your leg. Anakin’s discarded belt catches your eye when a sharp thrust sends your head falling back, and you picture the scuffed up belt buckle as the O shaped ring of a more traditional collar. The black stains from working on your car only add to the appeal, it scares you exactly how much you’d let the man fucking you with a cheap gas station condom get away with. You’ve already heard him kill a man, finding yourself in a relationship is pretty much the natural next step.

When he cums deep inside with a hoarse growl, there’s the sound of a bear trap slamming shut on an unsuspecting bunny rabbit. Your simultaneous orgasm is the tiny squeal it makes before it dies.

“I forgot to ask, hun, what stuffed animal do ya want me to win for ya?”

- faetreides 2024. do not repost, translate, or put my works into ai

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justlemmeadoreyou · 6 months ago

Text

1. prepping (restaurant owner!harry x chef!y/n)

summary: you landed your dream job as a line cook at harry styles' prestigious haus kitchen restaurant in chicago. the tough chef job demands focus, but it's really hard when your boss looks like harry styles.

words: 4.3k

warnings: nothing major in this one

Your palms were sweating as you gripped the steering wheel, driving through downtown Chicago towards your new job. You kept glancing down at the address on the printed directions, double checking that you were heading the right way. The last thing you wanted was to be late on your first day.

Ever since getting your culinary degree, you had applied to what felt like hundreds of restaurant jobs, desperate to get your foot in the door of a real professional kitchen. But very few places wanted to hire someone so fresh out of school with no actual experience.

Finally, after months of dead ends, you had landed a line cook position at Haus Kitchen - one of the hottest farm-to-table restaurants in the city. You could scarcely believe your luck when you got the call saying you were hired.

Haus was the brainchild of Harry Styles, international superstar singer turned chef. After his chart-topping solo music career, Harry had traded in artist life to pursue his lifelong passion for cooking. Using his accumulated wealth, he opened up Haus five years ago to rave reviews, quickly earning a well deserved Michelin star.

You vividly remembered watching Harry's transition from a pop idol to dashing culinary entrepreneur play out in the media. As a teenage girl, you had been obsessed with him during his One Direction days.

Your bedroom walls were plastered with Harry's posters and you had relentlessly played their songs, sighing over his tousled hair and pouty lips. Then as you got older and Harry went solo, your boyband crush evolved into more of an intense celebrity infatuation as he cultivated a cool, rebellious image.

There were countless gossipy blind items about his infamous hellraising, flings with models and socialites, and run-ins with the law. You had followed all the scandalous Harry headlines with rapt attention - from getting papped stumbling out of nightclubs with an endless parade of beautiful women to getting arrested for drug possession outside Soho clubs.

But finally in his late 20s, seemingly bored of rockstar debauchery, Harry had pivoted to reset his image as a knowledgeable culinary entrepreneur. You admired how he transformed from tabloid bad boy into a refined, successful businessman and chef.

He began studying haute cuisine under the tutelage of famous European chefs, traveling abroad to hone his skills further. While continuing to record new musical projects independently, Harry started establishing himself in the culinary world through guest stints on TV cooking shows and food/wine events.

With his brooding good looks, charming personality, and serious culinary chops, the world fell for Harry's new sophisticated image. Before long, he was the subject of breathless puff pieces in food magazines as "the sexiest Renaissance man in the kitchen." It seemed natural when Harry soon opened up his passion project Haus to capitalize on his popularity and love of food.

Now nearing your mid-20s, your teenage fannish obsession had cooled into more of an admiring celebrity crush. You had stayed aware of Harry's journey, but your priorities were focused on graduating culinary school at the top of your class and finding your own big break in the Chicago restaurant scene.

So when you landed a job at Harry's iconic Haus, it almost didn't feel real. Not only would you be working at one of the city's most exclusive spots, but under the same roof as a chef you had admired for ages.

Not that you expected to have any real personal contact with Harry himself, you reminded yourself as you merged onto the exit for downtown. He was an internationally famous mega-celebrity who had to have hundreds of staffers, not to mention being handsomely paid to just be the smiling face of the business while professional kitchen vets like Paul Thomason handled the day-to-day operations.

Still, you had to admit to yourself that a tiny part of you tingled at the mere idea of being in the same building as Harry Styles...hopefully catching a glimpse of that handsome, endlessly charming man in the flesh...

You shook your head dismissively and double checked the directions again, annoyed at getting so easily distracted. This was your big break, your first serious job in the industry. You needed to bring your A-game and focus, not dwell on silly celebrity daydreams.

It was your fantasies of becoming a respected chef that needed to take priority.

You pulled into the parking lot for the restaurant, double checking that you had the address right. The sleek, modern building had a neon "Haus Kitchen" sign glowing over opulent double-door entrances flanked by velvet ropes and cheerful outdoor seating areas.

Taking a steadying breath, you cut the engine and sat for a moment, giving yourself a pep talk. This was it. No more messing around doing coursework or labs - this was the major leagues with all the intensity of a real professional kitchen. You had to bring it all day, every day.

As you climbed out of your beat-up Honda, you smoothed down your spotless new chef's whites, making sure everything looked pressed and presentable. With your knife kit tucked under your arm, you walked towards the entrance with purpose, chin held high.

From the moment you stepped through the doors, it was like being transported into another world. The smell of simmering sauces, roasting meats, and freshly baked bread envaded your senses. Even hours before opening, the energy and hustle for dinner prep was palpable.

Off to the left was the main dining room you had studied photos of online - effortlessly cool with vaulted exposed wooden beam ceilings, brick accents, and casually modern decor. Pendant lighting glowed cozily over tables draped in white linens and rustic chandeliers hung over plush tufted leather banquettes. A lively bar area centered the space, stocked with top-shelf liquors and backed by a dazzling display of custom glassware.

In the distance ahead, you could hear the clamoring of the kitchen in full swing. Your stomach did a nervous flip - this was it. Taking another fortifying breath, you headed through the archway.

You emerged into a large, sleek open kitchen layout, all stainless steel and butcher block islands. Uniformed cooks were buzzing at their stations like a well-oiled machine under the barked commands of an older, stocky man you immediately recognized as Head Chef Paul Thomason.

Despite his gruff reputation, watching Thomason in action was nothing short of mesmerizing. He moved between stations with the easy grace of a conductor, sampling sauces, tweaking seasonings, and directing the workflow with gruff orders. There was no wasted movement or micro-expression as he continually tasted and perfected dishes, alternating between thoughtful contemplation and decisive action.

Though you had only seen Thomason in pictures and television appearances, his fierce focus and mastery were unmistakable. This was what true professional kitchen expertise looked like in the flesh.

Feeling like a mouse that had wandered into the lair of a lion, you hovered near the entrance, uncertain of what to do next. The kitchen team flowed around you in a choreographed dance, deftly ignoring your presence as they prepped and plated flawlessly.

After a few minutes of anxious loitering, the intimidating Thomason seemed to finally notice you. His grizzled features contorted as he scowled, looking you up and down through eyes squinted with decades of kitchen smoke exposure.

"You must be the new kid," he said gruffly, crossing his bulky tattooed arms over his broad chest. Even without raising his voice, Thomason had a rumbling bass that easily carried over the kitchen's clanging din. "Christ, you're shorter than I expected. Think you've got what it takes to keep up around here?"

You nervously clutched your knife kit closer while trying to not look as flustered as you felt. "Y-yes, chef!"

You swallowed hard, hyper aware of everyone around you now watching the interaction. "I, uh...I came ready to work as hard as it takes. Whatever you need from me."

Thomason grunted, squinting at you for another long moment in consideration. Then he jerked his head towards the back. "Get changed out quick and meet me back here in 5. I'll get you started on prep and we'll see what you're made of. Don't keep me waiting."

"Yes, chef!" you responded immediately, wincing at how high your voice had gone up an octave.

Without another word, Thomason turned and strode back into the controlled chaos of the line, immediately redirecting his attention to sauces and garnishes. Letting out a shaky breath, you scurried towards the changing rooms, heart jackhammering.

Well, you were officially in the thick of things now...

You hustled back out to the kitchen, trying not to look frazzled from your rushed change. A young Hispanic line cook spotted you and waved you over to his station.

"You the newbie?" he asked, not unkindly. When you nodded, he jerked his head towards the walk-in refrigerator. "Thomason wants you to start by breaking down some of the produce delivery for prep."

"Got it, thanks," you replied, eager to prove yourself. The line cook gestured you through the door into the immense chilled walk-in.

You blinked as your eyes adjusted to the cold, taking in the sights and smells of the impressive stockpile. Shelves upon shelves were stocked with an array of fresh seasonal produce - crates bursting with leafy greens, bushels of root vegetables, flats of vibrantly colored tomatoes, exotic fruits, and mushroom varieties you had only read about.

Your culinary school had humble basics for ingredients, nothing like the bounty of locally-sourced, meticulously selected provisions that Haus Kitchen demanded. You felt a thrill at getting to work with such an extraordinary pantry.

Respirating clouds puffed from your mouth as you scanned the inventory tagging system. You had been taught similar protocols in your food safety courses, but there was something exhilarating about putting that knowledge into practice in a real professional environment.

Grabbing a stack of plastic totes, you made a game plan for which items to start prepping first based on perishability levels and what would be needed for that evening's specials. Though you started out slow at first, you steadily built up a cadence of meticulously cleaning, trimming, and sorting into appropriate storage containers.

By the time Thomason stuck his head in to check on you an hour later, you had developed an efficient system and made solid progress through a mountain of deliveries.

The head chef grunted in approval as he inspected your neat stacks of prepped produce, crossing his arms as he looked you up and down with a critical eye.

"Not bad, kid," he rumbled. "Clearly know which end of a knife to use, at least. C'mon back out, got some protein fabrication for you to tackle next."

You diligently followed Thomason back out to the main kitchen, wiping some sweat from your brow with your sleeve. Despite the industrial cooling system, the heat blazing from the ovens and range tops made the open kitchen feel like a furnace.

As Thomason led you to a stainless steel butcher's block island, you couldn't help but gawk at the array of gleaming knives hanging from magnetic strips overhead. The blades were works of art - sleek, razor sharp, and clearly extremely expensive.

Gesturing you over, Thomason grabbed a boning knife and twirled it deftly before handing it to you. "Let's see how you handle breaking this down."

He gave the block a solid smack with his meaty palm, indicating for you to get started on the glistening slab of beef tenderloin before you. Taking a steadying breath, you gripped the bone-handled knife firmly and leaned over the cutting board.

"Yes chef," you murmured before carefully piercing the thick cut of meat, angling the blade with practiced precision from all your training.

Around you, the kitchen bustled with the usual rattling pans, sizzling ranges, and Thomason's occasional barked orders. But as you fell into the rhythm of deftly separating fat and sinew, the noises began to fade from your awareness.

You were completely focused on your knife work, confidently sawing through the tender flesh as you reduced the tenderloin down to portions and trimmings for other stations to further break down. It was meditative, almost hypnotic, the way you instinctively slid the blade along rendered paths of butchery.

After your initial intimidation of the intense Haus environment, you started to find your groove and calm amidst the choreographed insanity surrounding you. You were so laser-focused on the satisfaction of properly executing each slicing technique that the rest of the kitchen chaos became mere white noise.

You had no idea how long you stayed absorbed in the butchery, but eventually you became aware of a presence at your elbow. Glancing up, you nearly jumped to see Harry Styles watching you work with an unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his slim-fitting slacks.

His dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows and the fitted cotton fabric clung to his toned arms and chest, a few chest hairs peeking out of his slightly undone top button. A single necklace rested in the divot between his sculpted collarbones, drawing your eye to the alluring hollow of his throat as he swallowed hard.

You froze mid-slice, mesmerized by watching the tendons in Harry's wrist and forearm flex as his hands flexed restlessly in his trouser pockets. After a beat, his pillowy lips curved into an easy smile, crinkling the delicate crow's feet at the corners of his kaleidoscope green eyes.

"Afternoon," Harry said in that lazy, husky drawl that used to make millions of fans swoon. He flicked his eyes down to your handiwork before bringing them back up to your face. "Looking good there, newbie."

You blinked, not trusting your ears for a moment before realizing with a jolt that Harry was very much real and quite close. Like, unnecessarily close for your over-stimulated brain to handle.

"Uh...I-I, um...th-thank you?" you croaked out, wanting to cringe at how lame you sounded. Get it together, this wasn't the time to geek out–you instructed yourself.

But Harry didn't seem to notice your fumbling, simply giving you a dimpled half-smile before reaching around you to snag a stray piece of trimming from the butcher's block. He inspected it contemplatively before popping it into his mouth, those plump lips wrapping obscenely around the bite as he chewed and ruminated with relish.

"Perfection," he declared after swallowing, shooting you another crooked grin like you were co-conspirators sharing an inside joke. With a subtle wink, Harry pivoted on his boot heel and sauntered off, whistling a jaunty tune.

As he retreated, you risked a glance down at his form-fitting trousers shamelessly admiring the way the fine fabric cupped the ample curves of his pert backside. Even at his age, Harry Styles had the muscle-toned body of a man decades younger - long, lean muscles taut under golden tanned skin.

You blinked hard and shook your head, annoyed at catching yourself ogling your new boss like a drooling fangirl. Pull it together! This was totally inappropriate and unprofessional. You had zero business daydreaming about someone who gave you your paycheck, no matter how obscenely famous and heartthrob-ishly handsome they were.

Firmly re-focusing on your knife work, you determinedly put Harry from your mind and tried to re-immerse yourself in the rhythm and refuge of the butchery. But the memory of his distractingly lush mouth so close kept replaying over and over, preventing you from recapturing your previous sense of meditative flow.

Dammit, you needed to get a grip! This kind of inappropriate crush on your employer was exactly the kind of silly, immature behavior that would make you look like a unprofessional joke in a serious kitchen environment. Blowing an opportunity like this was not an option.

Later, as you untied your apron strings and joined the team in breaking down the last stations for cleaning at closing, Thomason sidled up alongside you. You braced yourself for more of his typical gruff rebukes or criticisms.

Instead, the veteran chef simply gave you a long, considered look before saying gruffly, "You did good work today, kid. I can already tell you got the stuff to handle it around here if you keep your head down."

You blinked up at him in surprise before managing a small smile. "Thank you, chef. I really appreciate that."

Thomason grunted noncommittally before wandering off, likely to oversee something else. As you tidied your workstation, you couldn't help feeling a small glow of pride. Despite the craziness of your first day, you had seemingly passed this initial trial with flying colors.

As you left through the back entrance into the quiet night air, you took a deep breath and allowed yourself a satisfied smile. Maybe, just maybe, you really did have what it took to succeed in this highly competitive environment after all. For tonight at least, you had handled the punishing pace and standards. Tomorrow was another day to prove yourself all over again.

***

Your day started before sunrise the next morning, brewing a strong coffee and reviewing the notes you had taken the previous evening about which menu items needed prepping. By the time you arrived at Haus, reinvigorated by the crisp morning air, the kitchen was already a hive of activity in preparation for lunch service.

The intense scrutiny under which you worked only amplified with the daylight. Every slice, every sauté was carried out under the watchful eyes of Chef Thomason and his steely gaze. More than once, you felt his presence looming over your shoulder, inspecting your work with the same critical eye as a diamond cutter examining a flawless gem.

"This slice is uneven," he barked, startling you. You flinched, resisting the urge to make excuses as he continued, "The portions all need to be identical for plating. Paying attention to details like that is the difference between a sloppy meal and a stellar one. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, chef," you replied tightly, making a minor adjustment to your knife work. Though his words stung, you had to admit Thomason was completely right. In a restaurant of this caliber, any minor imperfection could spell disaster.

You redoubled your efforts, pouring all of your concentration into each preparation, each plate. By the time the end of your shift rolled around, you were drenched in sweat, your feet screaming from being on them for 12 hours straight. But you had successfully made it through day two without any major mishaps.

As the whirlwind of dinner service finally calmed to a stopping point, you stood in the kitchen obediently waiting for Thomason's inspection and inevitable critique. But to your surprise, he merely gave a curt nod of approval before waving you off.

"Not bad, newbie," he grunted. "Get a good night's rest. We'll need you back bright and early tomorrow."

Those few gruff words of acceptance warmed you more than any high praise could have. For Thomason, a man of very few words, his small nod seemed to indicate you were, for the moment, living up to his exceedingly high standards.

The high from that small victory buoyed your spirits as you made your way towards the back exit, already dreaming of the few hours of sleep you might be able to grab before starting the cycle over again. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that you nearly bowled someone over coming around a corner.

"Whoa there!"

You froze, looking up into the grinning, mirthful eyes of Harry Styles himself. Up close, the force of his charm and magnetism practically crackled in the air around him like a physical force. His sweater clung distractingly to his lithe, muscular frame and his chestnut hair was casually tousled. A pair of small diamond studs glinted in each ear.

"Sorry about that, H-Harry," you stammered, resisting the urge to take a flustered step back. You were vividly aware of just how little physical space separated the two of you. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

If he noticed your frazzled state up close, Harry didn't let on. His pink lips merely curved in an easy, dimpled smile. "No need to apologize. I don't usually make a habit of lurking around blind corners, to be fair."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, surprised at how easily he was putting you at ease despite your elevated heart rate. Up close, Harry's eyes weren't just green - an entire kaleidoscope of colors ranging from jade to emerald to amber seemed to shift and dance in his gaze. It was...dazzling, frankly.

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to take a subtle step backwards, putting a more professional amount of space between the two of you. The last thing you needed was to do something wildly inappropriate that would get you fired before the end of your first week.

"Still, I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings," you replied, aiming for a respectful, levelheaded tone. "It's been a really intense couple of days just trying to stay on top of everything."

Harry nodded in understanding, arching one perfectly sculpted brow. "Thomason hasn't let up on you at all, I take it?"

When you shook your head ruefully, he chuckled. "I know that seems like his permanent state - gruff, perpetually unsatisfied, and grumpy as a hibernating bear. But honestly, the fact that he hasn't fired you already is a good sign you're doing well."

You blinked at him in surprise. "Wait...really? But he critiques everything! I feel like I've gotten nothing but corrections so far."

"Exactly." Harry's dimples flashed as he grinned. "That's how you know he sees potential in you. If Thomason didn't think you had what it took, he wouldn't waste his breath giving feedback. He'd just cut you loose and hire someone else to start over."

His words were like a soothing balm on the anxiety and self-doubt you'd been carrying around for the past couple of days. You hadn't realized that Thomason's critical approach was actually a twisted form of acceptance and mentorship. The revelation caused the hard knot of tension between your shoulder blades to finally release.

"Huh," you exhaled, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips as you finally understood Thomason's tough love. "I guess I should take that as a compliment then."

"Absolutely," Harry agreed with an approving nod. Then his expression softened around the edges, growing earnest as his gaze searched yours. "Look, I know it's a huge adjustment and the pace here can be absolutely brutal starting out. But for what it's worth...I think you've got what it takes to be something really special in this kitchen."

You felt yourself flush at his unexpected praise, your stomach fluttering with a swarm of nervous butterflies. Harry held your eyes for a lingering moment before seeming to mentally collect himself.

Clearing his throat, he flashed you one more crooked grin. "But don't take my word for it - the proof will be in your work. Stay focused and trust the process. I've got faith you can handle it."

With that, he brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours in a way that made your entire body buzz with friction. As Harry sauntered off down the hallway, you couldn't stop yourself from turning to watch his retreating form - the easy, rolling gait, the tantalizing sway of his hips below the slim cut of his trousers, the tousled waves of his chestnut hair.

You let out a shaky exhale, feeling off-balance and electrified all at once. Get a grip, you scolded yourself firmly. That was your boss - your incredibly famous, wealthy, and wildly attractive boss. Daydreaming was a one-way ticket to catching inappropriate feelings and potentially torpedoing your entire career before it even started.

And yet...you couldn't quite silence the part of your brain reliving Harry's velvet tone and intense eye contact as he professed having faith in your abilities. Just the casual warmth of his voice and proximity had set your heart pounding in a way it hadn't since you were a hormonal teenager, utterly dazzled by his rock star persona.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to turn on your heel and head for the exit. Overthinking could only lead to dangerous territory. You needed to stay laser-focused on your work - that was the only way to succeed at Haus and make your culinary dreams a reality.

As you stepped out into the fresh evening air, you paused for a moment on the deserted back stoop, closing your eyes and taking a few centering breaths. When you opened them again, you felt the last fluttering tendrils of Harry's heated presence dissipate, replaced by a familiar sense of determined calm.

This job was your priority now, not silly schoolgirl crushes or indulging fantasies about your wildly unattainable boss. You knew better than to get distracted by daydreams that could only lead to self-sabotage.

With a decisive nod, you strode towards your car with renewed focus. You would prove yourself at Haus through your skills and work ethic alone. No other agenda, no unprofessional entanglements allowed.

Your passion was cuisine, creating nourishing dishes that delighted - that had to remain your sole priority. You couldn't afford any distractions from that lest you squander this incredible opportunity. Steadying your breathing, you looked forward with fresh clarity and resolve.

Tomorrow was a new day to earn your place in Harry's formidable kitchen. And this time, you vowed, you were utterly prepared to meet the challenge with your complete and undivided focus.

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

tell me if you like this! this is an idea for a new series that will probably have 6 parts??? i guess. but do tell me if you like it! because there's no use in writing when nobody reads 😭😭

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chvoswxtch · 1 month ago

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part one: the call

[series masterlist] | [part two]

pairing: billy russo x fem!reader

summary: a ghost from the past has returned.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of murder, creepy sleazy boss & brief mentions of sexual harassment, billy being the cocky lil shit he is

word count: 3.8k

a/n: ahhhhhhh! i've been working on this for the past few months & i'm so excited to finally put it out. I really really really hope y'all enjoy it. this is only 6 parts, so it will not be a slow burn. it's gonna get intense fast. also, there is an oc name mentioned, but it's just for the backstory of the plot. this is still a self insert, & y/n will be used for the rest of the story! without further ado, let's get this spooky slutty season started. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

This was a bad dream. It had to be. There was no other logical way to explain why you were currently sitting in an interrogation room at a precinct, being questioned by police about a man that you had gone on a blind date with not even twelve hours ago, who had been found stabbed to death in an alley two blocks away from your apartment building.

It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. All you had to do was open your eyes, and this would all go away. You knew how to deal with nightmares. You knew how to escape them. You’d been running and hiding from them your whole life. All you had to do was open your eyes, and the sinister shadows wouldn't be able to sink their claws into your subconscious to trap you in the dark. Just open them, and this will all disappear.

Just open your eyes.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

The detective’s voice swiftly brought you out of the trance of denial your mind had wandered into, and your eyes snapped open. To your dismay, nothing changed. The two detectives were still sitting across the table from you, the metal cold against your sweaty palms, one eying you warily while the other regarded you with a more sympathetic stare. The chair beneath you was still stiff and uncomfortable, the light above was still a harsh shade of artificial brightness, and the large piece of glass to your right that reflected your terrified expression still made you feel unsettled knowing there was someone watching you just on the other side of that two-way pane.

“I…I’m sorry. What was the question?”

The waver in your voice gave away how shaken you were by the whole ordeal. When the police had shown up at your office an hour ago stating they needed to bring you in for questioning regarding the murder of Adam Mercer, shock had instantly shot through your entire nervous system, chilling the very blood in your veins with an icy sense of dread.

This was the kind of thing you heard about happening in the news. A tragedy that struck someone else’s life. A nameless, faceless person whose existence you were unaware of. It was the kind of thing nobody ever thought could happen to them, until it did.

The older detective, the more commiserating one, had said they thought it was some kind of mugging gone wrong. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in New York City, unfortunately. The dazzling city was also dangerous. But since you were the last person to see Adam alive, they needed as much information as you could give them about the last few hours of his life. For some odd reason, it filled you with a sense of guilt that his final moments had been spent with you, a complete stranger, instead of someone else.

Adam had been a really nice guy. He’d seemed to enjoy the date. He’d thrown his head back and laughed like a little kid at a stupid joke you’d told. He’d flashed you a charming smile when you’d nearly knocked your glass of wine over into your pasta. He’d animatedly told you about his family’s tradition of selecting a perfect tree together at a local Christmas farm back in his home state of Jersey every holiday season. He’d been sweet and gentle and respectful. But had he been happy?

Had he succumbed to the inevitable fate of death at his attacker’s hands without a fight? Did he even see it coming? Had he had that moment, where everything flashed before his eyes, all his mistakes, all his regrets, all the would’ve, could’ve, should'ves?

You knew what that feeling was like. You’d been there, once before. Nothing makes you want to live more than Death deciding to show up at your door and pick the lock with its cold, bony fingers to collect a bounty early.

Thirteen times. Adam had been brutally stabbed thirteen times. It was excessive for a mugging. It felt more personal, that kind of anger and passion. As morbid as the thought was, you hoped the first one had killed him. You hoped he that went into shock swiftly and bled out just as fast so he hadn’t suffered through the next twelve.

Holding his pen in his right hand, the tip hovering over his worn yellow pocket sized notepad, Detective Craven repeated his question.

“How well did you know Adam?”

“I…I didn’t. I’d never met him until last night. My roommate um…she knew him. She’s the one who set us up.”

“Your roommate being Miss Riley?”

Detective Williamson had his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. He lifted one of his brows while waiting for you to answer his question. Swallowing thickly, you gave a faint nod of your head and dropped your hands to your lap, fidgeting with them under the table anxiously.

“Yeah, Annie.”

Detective Craven cleared his throat, reading over his notes with his honey brown eyes as he continued his questioning.

“Now, you said he picked you up at your apartment around eight-thirty, the two of you had dinner at Maureen’s, and then he dropped you back off at your place around eleven. He left right after that?”

“Yeah, he…um…we said goodnight, he said he’d like to see me again, and then he told me he’d call me tomorrow.”

“He didn’t come up to your apartment at all?”

Detective Williamson didn’t bother hiding the skepticism in his voice, or the implication behind his words, his icy blue eyes locked on you in an almost unsettling way.

“No, he dropped me off at the front steps of the building.”

“And you didn’t see where he went when he left? Didn’t give him one last look after a goodnight kiss?”

A flash of annoyance broke through your stunned disbelief at the invasive second question. You hadn’t said anything about a kiss. The younger detective seemed to be fishing for a crack in your alibi for some reason, trying to catch you in a lie that didn’t exist. A flicker of defensiveness crept into your voice when you spoke.

“No, after we said goodnight, I went inside.”

Before Detective Williamson could ask another thinly veiled judgmental question, Detective Craven stood up, shooting his partner a silencing look. Glancing down at you with a warmer expression, the older man gestured towards the door with his hand.

“That’s all the questions we have for now. We appreciate you speaking with us. I’ll walk you out.”

The precinct was bustling. Various murmurs of conversation buzzed in your ears. People were breezing past in every direction, but amidst the sea of chaos, you spotted a familiar head of blonde hair. Annie jumped up from the chair she’d been sitting in and forced her way through the waves of people, not once muttering an “excuse me” or waiting for someone to move out of her way. A true New Yorker.

Detective Craven placed his hand on your shoulder to get your attention and held out a white business card that had all of his information on it in embossed black text.

“If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to call.”

Taking the card into your hand, you looked up at him and forced a tight smile onto your lips, giving him a faint nod of your head.

“Of course.”

After giving your shoulder a light squeeze, Detective Craven gave Annie a nod of acknowledgement before turning and disappearing back inside the interrogation room. As soon as you turned to face her, Annie’s face contorted into an expression of pity and concern. She immediately pulled you into a hug, and it took everything in you not to crumble under the weight of your own overwhelming emotions.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

»»———　　———««

Annie had swiftly shot down your plan to go back to work before the words could even fully leave your lips. All you wanted to do was dive head first into a distraction, to immerse yourself fully in the piles of paper and black ink sitting on your desk that were waiting to transport you to another universe and into the body of someone else whose world hadn’t just been flipped upside down. Again.

Instead, she brought you back to your shared apartment, uncorked a bottle of wine for each of you, and did her best to help you sort through the shock and the ripples it caused within you. She didn’t understand that your instinct was to run and hide, and that was because she didn’t understand you, not really. But that wasn’t her fault. She could only understand what you allowed her to, and there were huge pieces of yourself you kept hidden from her and everyone else beneath carefully crafted layers.

Pieces you were not ready to uncover and face yet.

The following morning when you showed up to work at the publishing house, it felt like everyone was looking through you instead of at you. Everyone had heard what happened, had seen the two detectives escorting you out of your office, but none of your coworkers said a word. Not to your face, anyway. You could feel the weight of their lingering stares, their hushed whispers floating past your ear like a cold autumn breeze. It was a familiar territory you’d already escaped once.

To your relief, you hadn’t been harassed by reporters wanting an exclusive on the story. Unfortunately, crimes like what had happened to Adam were a dime a dozen in this city. You felt guilty for feeling grateful for that, but not having cameras shoved in your face to be broadcast on news outlets that circulated on social media worked in your favor. You had come to the city that millions of people called home for a reason. You came here to disappear, to be invisible. The last thing you needed was to be thrust into a spotlight that would attract attention you’d gone to great lengths to avoid.

In the midst of trying to drown out the white noise of suspicious gossip and ignoring the way the stares penetrating the glass windows of your office made your insides twist in dreaded knots, you almost missed the sound of a knock at your door. Lifting your head, you were met with the sight of the last person you ever expected to see standing in the doorway.

Billy Russo.

He was significantly more dressed up than the last time you’d seen him, looking every bit the illustrious CEO, although that signature arrogant smirk of his seemed to be missing for once. His tall frame was covered in a deep navy blue three piece suit with a crisp white dress shirt beneath the matching tie, a dark charcoal gray thick coat layering over top. His raven hair was gelled back perfectly, just like it was that night at the bar, but the gleam of mischief in his dark brown eyes was absent. As he stood in the doorway of your office, nearly taking up the entire frame, he seemed to be looking at you in an expression of something that resembled concern.

“Billy.”

The surprise in your hushed tone rang clear in the quiet of your office. Billy removed the black leather gloves from his hands, slipping them into the pocket of his overcoat.

“This a bad time?”

Your lips parted slightly as your eyes flickered down to the open manuscript on your desk before looking up at him again.

“Um…no. No…I…what are you doing here?”

Billy took a step forward into your office and quietly closed the door behind himself.

“Just came by to check on ya.”

“Check on me?”

“Derek told me what happened.”

Billy kept his eyes locked on you as he explained the reasoning behind his unexpected visit, watching you closely.

Derek Becker was a friend of Billy’s. They had served in the military together, and he now worked for Billy’s private security company, Anvil. Derek also happened to be Annie’s boyfriend. A few months back, the two of them had tried to set you and Billy up. The four of you had gone out to a bar for drinks, but instead of hitting it off with Billy, you’d found him narcissistic, and you’d had no interest in pursuing anything romantic with him. Although, based on how he had interacted with you that night, it had seemed like he hadn’t been looking for anything romantic either, just a night of physical release.

Because Annie was your best friend and roommate, and Derek was often around, you’d seen Billy a few times since then, but it wasn’t like the two of you were friends. Needless to say, the fact that he’d made the trip to your office to check on your mental wellbeing was a bit of a shock.

“I’m fine.”

Billy arched one of his dark brows, and the ghost of a smile graced the edge of his lips.

“You almost sounded like you meant that.”

You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, to protest the underlying accusation in his words, but your defense got stuck in your throat. Seeing the look on your face, Billy’s faint amusement quickly disappeared, and he let out a deep exhale through his nose as he took a few steps closer towards your desk.

“I’m sorry, I’m not here to be a dick. But it’s alright if you’re not fine. Normal people wouldn’t be fine in this situation.”

“Normal people?”

Billy stared down at you for a moment silently before turning his head to look out the glass window of your office, rubbing his large palm over his mouth and perfectly trimmed beard. Looking down at you again, a flicker of amusement was back in his gaze, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I got a real good habit of sayin’ the wrong thing with you, huh?”

The self deprecation you detected in his smooth voice surprised you. You’d never heard him say anything that didn’t have an undertone of superiority or didn’t sound prideful. The guy standing in front of you wasn’t acting like the cocky rich playboy you were used to, and it made you wonder for a second if that’s what it really was; an act. A flicker of newfound curiosity had you wondering if Billy’s persona was as carefully crafted as your own.

“I don’t know if I’d call that a good habit.”

Billy let out a puff of air past his lips, giving a faint shake of his head in faux disapproval.

“Kickin’ a man while he’s down? That’s ruthless, sweetheart.”

“I think your ego can survive being knocked down a few pegs.”

Billy let out a deep chuckle at that, and his lips spread into a wolfish grin.

“Between you and me, it’s a bit more fragile than you think.”

You looked at him in faux shock, an overly dramatic gasp leaving your lips.

“What? You mean the ego you overcompensate for with designer clothes and fancy cars is delicate?”

Billy rolled his eyes and held his hand up in a gesture of surrender.

“Alright, alright. I get it. You’ve kept me humble enough for one day.”

To your surprise, and to Billy’s, you smiled. It was small, but it was real and genuine. Billy’s impromptu visit was the last thing you expected to provide a lighthearted distraction to the whirlwind of chaos that had been plaguing you since yesterday.

As much as you hadn’t been able to stand him the night you met him, you couldn’t deny that the banter between you came effortlessly. Within the first five minutes of meeting him, you’d called him a ‘self obsessed dumbass’, and instead of getting offended, he’d smiled. It had quickly launched into a battle of wits, who could come up with the more clever retort faster, and it only took half an hour for Derek and Annie to become exhausted, realizing they’d made a huge mistake and miscalculated their match making skills. Billy seemed to enjoy antagonizing you, and you couldn’t resist putting a man like him in his place.

Everytime the two of you were around each other, it was exactly the same. Just an endless cycle of unrequited flirting and unrestrained snark.

“Humble is not exactly a word I’d use to describe you, Russo.”

Before Billy could respond, your office door suddenly opened and your boss walked in, glancing between you and Billy in a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed displeasure. He seemed to size him up before turning his attention towards you, not so subtly letting his eyes roam over your figure sitting behind your desk in a way that made your skin crawl, which wasn’t missed by Billy. John gestured his head in Billy’s direction.

“Another detective?”

There was clear annoyance in John’s voice that didn’t go unnoticed by you. It wasn’t lost on Billy either, and his posture seemed to go rigid.

“No. No, um…friend.”

Friend. Using that word to describe Billy tasted foreign on your tongue, but Billy didn’t appear to react to it. His dark brown eyes sized John up in a similar fashion as your boss had done to him, only Billy didn’t even attempt to hide his judgment and lack of impression.

“You know, most people knock before just walkin’ in.”

Both yours and John’s heads turned towards Billy. You were momentarily stunned by the way Billy had so casually called out John’s abrupt intrusion, and John looked visibly irritated, but he turned to face Billy with a forced smile on his mouth.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m John Altieri. I own this publishing house.”

Unlike John, Billy didn’t plaster a fake smile on his face for politeness, or speak in a faux friendly tone. Maintaining eye contact, he reached out to grasp John’s outstretched hand with more firmness than necessary as he shook it.

“Billy Russo. I own the building.”

That bombshell had you sitting up straighter in your chair and blinking a few times in surprise. Billy owned the building? Since when? That was definitely news to you.

The smile on John’s face faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered and nodded, trying to appear unphased by that revelation.

“Pleasure. If you don’t mind, I have some important things to discuss with Y/N/N. In private.”

Billy outwardly looked calm and collected, but you swore you saw a flicker of anger in his dark brown eyes. He didn’t seem to like hearing your boss refer to you with a nickname that was spoken with too saccharine of a tone for a superior to speak about their employee. Not that you liked it either. John seemed to always maintain a balance on that tightrope of not being inappropriate enough to report him to HR, but being too friendly for you to not feel uncomfortable.

The bastard was clever, you’d give him that. He knew what he was doing. He was careful and cautious enough that it couldn’t be classified as textbook harassment, and could be argued as a simple misunderstanding. It made you want to stab him with your pen every time you caught him staring at your chest or your legs.

After letting a purposeful uncomfortable moment of silence pass, Billy looked down at John, that signature smirk you were used to seeing on his lips spreading slowly like a sun rising over the skyline.

“Of course.”

Turning his head to look at you again, Billy gave you a faint nod of his head and a wink.

“See ya later, sweetheart.”

Giving John one last final unimpressed and cold side eye, Billy pulled his leather gloves out of his overcoat pocket and turned to leave your office with a confident stride, leaving you and John alone in your office, and your mind swirling with a flurry of questions about Billy Russo.

»»———　　———««

By the time you walked through the front door of yours and Annie’s shared apartment, all you wanted was a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. You’d spent last night tossing and turning, haunted by the nightmare your life had once again turned into, and you felt the exhaustion in every cell of your body. Tossing your keys into the little green bowl on the side table by the front door, your footsteps were slow and sluggish as you headed down the hall on the left towards your bedroom.

Dropping your purse onto your bed, you sat down on the edge of it and slipped off your shoes, letting them drop on the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Letting out a deep exhale, you closed your eyes and hunched over, covering your face with both of your hands. The muffled noise of your ringtone began to sound from your purse. Dragging your palms down your face, you slipped one of your hands into your purse to dig for your phone blindly, absentmindedly hitting the answer button and bringing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello Y/N.”

The voice that sounded on the other end of the line wasn’t one you recognized. Pulling your phone away from your ear, you looked down at the lit screen and read “unknown caller”. A furrow creased between your brows as you brought your phone back up to your ear, running one of your hands through the roots of your hair to push it back.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I guess your new boyfriend didn’t make the cut.”

Immediately your hand froze, and your eyes widened. A mix of confusion, disbelief, and anger coursed through you, but the latter won out.

“Excuse me?”

Your tone quickly shifted from one of puzzlement to pure fury as you sat up straighter. A sinister chuckle from the deep mysterious voice on the other end of the line further incensed you.

“Did you really think I’d let anyone else have you, Cassia?”

The phone slipped out of your hand, dropping to the floor below with a harsh sound that didn’t even register in your ears. A pit of dread opened up in your stomach, and fear trickled down your spine as if someone had started to trace the frozen sharp tip of an icicle along the back of your neck. Panic spread through your nervous system like a lit match to a dehydrated forest, and the four walls of your bedroom began to close in around you, squeezing the last breath of oxygen from your lungs.

No one in New York knew that name.

You’d left it back in California, along with your past. The past that had forced you to run to the other side of the country and bury every trace of who you were before. The past that you tried so hard to forget and cover up with a new identity and a new life. The past that was taunting you from the other end of the line.

The past that had come back, and murdered Adam.

He’d found you.

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @ferns-fics @danzer8705 @to-thelakes @simonsgirl @sweetserendipity65 @zomtart @day-dreaming-goddess @caroblogsthings @thomasshelbyswife @snowkestrel @hallowedtangerine @ameliaswife @dreadfulxives18 @ebsmind @lllla717 @slumnit

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#the manhattan murders series #billy russo #billy russo x you #billy russo x y/n #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo x fem!reader #billy russo x f!reader #billy russo fic #billy russo series #ghostface!au #ghostface!au billy russo #ghostface!au billy russo fic #ghostface!au billy russo series

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peterspinkrobe · 1 year ago

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Confession - priest!Miguel O’Hara x Reader [part 2]

Word count: 2,270 (oops)

Rating: mature for suggestive content. Mentions of masturbation. You have a dirty mind… tsk tsk. Religious content. Mentions of parental death (sorry for not tagging last time).

A/N: Thank you for your feral support in reading part 1! The art above is again by @Ejpuki on twt. They drew this moment from part one and JUST LOOK AT IT! They also did a pre-reading which I greatly appreciated. Go support them over there <3 I only tagged the people who explicitly stated bc I don’t want to overstep. Also, I guess I should watch Fleabag? Enjoy! part three is cookin’ in my noggin’

// Psalms 32:3-4

When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy on me;

Rumbling sounds drone from the engine in a constant hum as the bus wheels roll down the asphalt, occasionally shuffling the passengers inside. Yourself included.

The wheels in your mind are conjuring images of too much skin, friction, and want. The mental pictures… different positions and other things that you’ve only read about - all featuring the same tall deacon from your small church.

You curse yourself for both your overactive imagination and forgetfulness for having left your headphones at home. Some loud music would drown out the whir of the bus and push out the flashes of lewdness that plagued you.

Reverend O’Hara, you learned that’s what transitional deacons are usually called after inquiring about the proper title on Google the second you got home from that communion, occupied the majority of your mind. He took up residence in your thoughts without even asking permission and you didn’t know the proper way to absolve your sanity of him. It had only been two weeks since you’d met him, two Sunday services, but you were hooked. This trip into the city was supposed to get you out of the house and help clear your mind of its recent inhabitant.

The methods you were currently using were certainly of no help. Nearly every night, for the past two weeks, you’d given into temptation. Allowing the streaking images of what you could only envision his toned body looked like to remain longer in your mind’s eye. His thumb on your lip, the quick swipe across - became more inquisitive of the inside of your mouth in your imagination. You pressed into yourself and thought of those long, thick fingers. You carried yourself away on highs with only his hands in mind. You yearned to baptize him in your waters.

You buried fingernails into your palms to ground yourself as the scenery outside the bus began the change drastically, pulling you out of your daydream.

Your hometown along the Catskill Mountains was enveloped by the natural world - tucked into valleys of the vast countryside. In the three weeks you’d been back home, you had already gotten used to surrounding greenery. You’d forgotten the toll that city expansion was having on the rows of vegetable and orchard farms in the surrounding areas.

Your gaze out the window watched tree lines and grassy hills give way to glimmers of futuristic architecture as the bus entered Nueva York. The rhythm of wheels on tarmac became a backdrop to the din of honking horns, shouting pedestrians, and blaring sirens. You had only recently left a city not too different from this one, but the drastic change in landscape from the mountains made your head spin. The inertia of the bus braking and accelerating over and over on the intersecting streets only added to the motion sickness. You recognize the next stop as the usual one you and your mother used when coming into the city. You quickly get off the bus, blessing the steady ground underneath as your boots hit the pavement.

Towering structures of carbon fiber and glass dominated the skyline, some illuminated by bright neon light displays, others blending into the afternoon sunshine. Advertisements for fast foods, fast money, and fast cars flickered on screens everywhere. You look to where the bus carried you from and, in contrast, the countryside stretched out, calling you back. Despite the slight familiarity in the maze of metal, the sudden change in surroundings made you slightly anxious.

The steady stream of citizens didn’t help your nerves either. You take a moment to get yourself together before following the foot traffic flow up a familiar street.

Your eyes recognize a food spot from a bygone era and you can’t help but smile. You picked up the pace as you headed to the establishment your family used to frequent. Timeless Treats is still here?! You pull on the long handled door and a wave of music, chatter, and sugar hit you at once. Much more pleasant than the waves of anxiety from moments before.

Entering the quaint eatery, you’re transported into a cozy atmosphere reminiscent of an old fashioned diner. A cheerful man at the front waves you in and shouts for you to ‘sit where ya want!’.

You recognized the vintage decor: rusted signs with cartoon mascots and ads for ice cream floats that cost only $2. Imagine! You select one of the smaller retro tables with two stools and hear a jukebox play a song you don’t recognize but tap your foot along to.

There was more to this diner than what it seems at first glance. A few more glances noticed the subtle touches where the diner had embraced the future where it mattered, with high-tech kitchen appliances that helped the staff immensely. A holographic menu pops up across the portion of the table you're sitting at and you slide your finger along the options.

This bakery specialized in delicious treats with a futuristic flare, with many favorites being popular since the establishment opened generations ago. Your eyes fell onto the pastry menu and your curiosity piqued as you ordered the ‘Time Traveler’s Torta.’

All the hustle of the city had occupied your mind until you were sitting alone at the table. Your eyes scanned the other occupants and you wondered what they were all talking about with their sugary sweets. It made you think of him again.

Dammit. A whole ten minutes without thinking of Reverend O’Hara, that’s a record! You couldn’t help the images of Miguel that fluttered now. Only this time you pictured him sitting at the table with you. The two of you share a dessert and you smile at the thought. You visualize his thumb coming to your face to wipe whipped cream from your lips only to plop the finger into his own mouth. That moment as mass replayed in your mind with differing flavors of spice on repeat.

The torta arrives and you gawk at the presentation of the treat. A classic cake with layers of light vanilla sponge, intricately placed swirls of sweet cream cheese frosting, and decadent chocolate sauce. This sweet was the perfect balance of timeless and futuristic as it sat on an oblong, ornate plate.

You savored the flavors as you ate and continued to imagine a date with the deacon. You ask yourself if deacons can even date and the thought pulls you out of your delusions for a moment. Get it together…

As you scooped the last bits of the pastry into your mouth, you pondered your dilemma. Mom always said that confession cleared a clouded consciousness, but there was no way you’d divulge this information to her. Her hypothetical reaction to your crush on a clergy member makes you shiver.

An idea comes to mind that makes you think to yourself that you’ve really gone mad.

The madness pushes you from your seat after paying for the dessert. There’s a slim chance what you’re looking for is actually there considering the cities expansions. That doubt doesn’t stop you from following a semi-recognizable path down the busy streets.

Every tall figure you pass makes you do a double take. The idea of the deacon brushing alongside you making you smile. You turn a corner as your imagination creates sweet scenarios with Reverend O’Hara and stop in your tracks. You cause people behind you to push into your back and spit harsh murmurs at you.

It was still there.

You were surprised for good reason. You were headed towards a relic of past times, nestled between buildings of glass and metal. There was some scaffolding supporting it as the building you headed towards was centuries old. Other than that - the structure you now stood and stared at jutted towards the sky in the old brick and mortar style you were used to seeing in your hometown.

But the Cathedral of Nueva York wasn’t like the humble church in your hometown. The ornate bell tower and large cross atop the chapel in front of you proved that. The only thing to change about the building was the name as the state itself saw many changes a few decades ago - including the name of the actual city.

You find yourself reminiscing on the few times you’d been to the church as you walked inside. Your family used to attend the fancy Easter services and Christmas plays. Those trips stopped after your father passed, and your mother rarely came to the city at all anymore. You remember seeing pictures of them on their wedding day at this very church. Priesthood is a tight knit group and Father Steen knew the head priest, who extended their church for their wedding services.

Given it was a weekday afternoon, there weren’t many souls inside. Despite the numerous options for seating, you sat in your usual middle pew, aisle seat.

You eyed the part of the church that had brought you here in the first place. The confession booth. Its cherrywood exterior made you think of those eyes that bore into yours that day of communion. You shake your head but the visual remains.

The church in your hometown didn’t have a confessional booth. Even if they did - why the hell would you confess there? To the subject of your lustful desires? So many questions and doubts enter your mind.

Could you really do this? Confess to a priest that you pined over a man in his chaste brotherhood? Think of the judgment!

Another thought occurs to you: their whole shtick was that only one entity could do the judging. And it was confidential. If you received some good ol’ fashioned Catholic scolding and Hail Mary’s, maybe that would be enough to get you back to your senses. Reverend O’Hara is a man devoted to God and cannot be hindered by the whims of a degenerate like yourself.

Emboldened by the potential to relieve yourself of your corrupt thoughts, you stand and approach the far right front of the church. The confessional is smaller than it looked from how you remember as a child and teen but it doesn’t stop you from nearly yanking the door open. You don’t even knock.

Thankfully no one is on the confessing side as you burst into the tiny box. The confined space became even smaller as you closed the door behind you quickly. Your mind races towards impure thoughts of the deacon pressed against you in the tight booth space. His height would force him to bend slightly over you and the visual almost knocks you onto the bench which would probably be right at crotch level…

You remember the times you’d done this before and cry out the usual, “Forgive me, for I have sinned and it has been many years since my last confession…”. Who were you even asking for forgiveness? You think for a moment about the last time you were in this booth. You felt so guilty about stealing from the general store all those years back. This was a different kind of confession. This would hopefully absolve yourself of the sinful attraction to the forbidden.

You start light, fumbling over the words, “I’ve gotten drunk and high, uh, a good bit while in college. I lied to my mother and got into major trouble as a result. I’ve been selfish and lazy.”

The anonymity and the release of it all lit a fire under you and you kept going.

“While I’m in this confession booth, and I know it is a sacred and holy place”, you sigh and hear shuffling on the opposite side of the wall, the priest waiting patiently on the other side. “I’ve been struggling with my faith and don’t believe in god…”

You hear the clergyman start to interject but the voice that comes out of you has a fierce tone.

“I’m not done.” Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh and you see movement through the small slits in the partition, but hear nothing else. You continue. The most scandalous part to admit had yet to be said.

“Father, I’ve been lustful over the deacon at my church.” There’s silence on the other end and before embarrassment can take over you continue, “I’m constantly thinking of him and having impure thoughts that drive me to-“ oh god, here it is

“Touch myself. Daily. With this deacon on my mind.” You can’t stop the heat from painting your cheeks a deep red.

“I feel guilty because he isn’t for me to think that way about. From just the two times I’ve seen him, I know he is a good man who does good things. He’s on a path towards righteousness. He’s worthy.” To your shock, you feel tears form and they begin to fall.

“I’m a sinful nonbeliever. Definitely not someone he could be with, unworthy of devotion of any kind. And I’m not good.” Your breathing becomes shaky as the tears fall harder. Despite the fact that you feel your words are the truth, you can’t help but imagine him there now. Comforting you as you cry.

Now that you’ve finished confession, you expect to hear an outburst of disapproval or at least ‘50 Hail Mary’s’ to absolve you of your confessed transgressions.

But that’s not what you heard next.

You hear your name. You hear your name in that sweet music that’s been ringing in your ears the last week or so. This time the musical tone is cautious. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief as your eyes glue to the wall where the music came from.

To confirm your suspicions, you grab the knob on the partition and yank it back.

Through the small window you see a familiar pair of eyes analyzing your face, heavy with worry.

Reverend O’Hara had just taken your confession…

I pray you liked this, dear reader.

Tagged ppl - @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts it won’t let me tag you @hoelychildofgod

#miguel o'hara #fanfic #miguel x reader #priest!miguel #priest au #au fic #across the spiderverse #miguel x you

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bookhousestark · 4 months ago

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ARYA STARK APPRECIATION WEEK 2024 ↳ Day 3: Overlooked traits

Natural leader

They rode north, away from the lake, following a rutted farm road across the torn fields and into the woods and streams. Arya took the lead, kicking her stolen horse to a brisk heedless trot until the trees closed in around her. Hot Pie and Gendry followed as best they could. Wolves howled off in the distance, and she could hear Hot Pie's heavy breathing. No one spoke. From time to time Arya glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the two boys had not fallen too far behind, and to see if they were being pursued.

A Storm of Swords, Arya I

Fond of nature

"When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."

A Game of Thrones, Sansa I

Merciful

“[…] Do you want the water?" "Aye." The man swallowed. "And the mercy. Please."

When she came back, the archer turned his face up and she poured the water into his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as she could pour, and what he couldn't gulp ran down his cheeks into the brown blood that crusted his whiskers, until pale pink tears dangled from his beard.

A Storm of Swords, Arya XII

Feminist

"The Lannisters are proud," Jon observed. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor to the king's." "The woman is important too!" Arya protested.

A Game of Thrones, Arya I

Empathetic

She thought of Mycah again and her eyes filled with tears. Her fault, her fault, her fault. If she had never asked him to play at swords with her …

A Game of Thrones, Arya II

Left-handed

Arya took her right hand off the grip and wiped her sweaty palm on her pants. She held the sword in her left hand. He seemed to approve. "The left is good. All is reversed, it will make your enemies more awkward.”

A Game of Thrones, Arya II

Learned

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household.

A Game of Thrones, Arya I

Observant

"Learn three new things before you come back to us," the kindly man had commanded Cat, when he sent her forth into the city. She always did. Sometimes it was no more than three new words of the Braavosi tongue. Sometimes she brought back sailor's tales, of strange and wondrous happenings from the wide wet world beyond the isles of Braavos, wars and rains of toads and dragons hatching. Sometimes she learned three new japes or three new riddles, or tricks of this trade or the other. And every so often, she would learn some secret.

A Feast For Crows, Cat of The Canals

#arya stark #aryaweek2024 #aryastarkedit #canonarya #valyrianscrolls #asoiafedit #gifs #ours #arya

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running-with-kn1ves · 5 months ago

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Been out in the sticks lately so-- really need a big burly farmer with topaz tan lines, oiled up in washed out jeans and faded flannel in my life right now. Having hired you from the city, the farmer begs you to fix up the flower beds around their house that used to belong to their parents.

They'll teach you how to get the most out of a rake, hands over yours and muscles vibrating with each row. You spend the day on your hands and knees, sweating from the hot sun and digging out weeds. Occasionally you're called inside for a glass of lemonade or cold, home-grown milk.

You admire the farmer for too long, on their tractor or feeding their caddle out of the palm of their hand, straw hat doing little to shade their sculpted body from the unrelenting sun. The sweet scent of their musk is left on the gardening gloves they offer you, warmly perspiring hands helping you out of their beaten down truck after a trip to the other side of the farm. You find it hard to go home, the sun having set and the rode to the outside world now dark and invisible.

The farmer offers you to spend the night instead of driving two hours back to the city. What can you do but say yes? They didnt give you much of an option, having set up the guestroom for you long prior and beginning to cook a fine meal that would insult them to say no to. It takes atleast a half hour to scrub the dirt from under your nails in the bath, with constant knocks at the door from your friendly farmer asking if everything is alright, if the water is hot enough, if you need help washing.

They spend so much time doting on your bathing that they hardly pay mind to themselves, coming out of the shower afterwards in a mere towel as they scrounge around for clothes. It isn't until they make eye contact with you on their bed, waiting, that they stop and stare sheepishly.

"Haha, im sorry darlin' I've lived alone for so long, I've forgotten my manners."

They kiss your knuckles after tucking you in bed, a self assured grin making your heart jump. It's just a job, right? A client who's showing you southern hospitality, yeah?

It isn't long until they're asking you to order more flowers to plant across the acres they own, a project that'll take atleast a few more weeks...

#Werewolf farmer... uncanny creepy idk what that is but it's not human farmer #kn1ves rants #knives rants #writing #x reader #reader insert #self insert #x reader insert #x you #x gn reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #female reader #male reader #Farmer x reader #Farmer love interest #farmer oc #X reader #X reader insert

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badomensbaby · 6 months ago

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rules of the road. lrh

pairing: luke hemmings x fem!reader

summary: finally getting your driver's license after moving to the big city for college, you're a bit stunned by your dorky, charming driving instructor.

warnings: 18+ only. minors DNI. flirting/flustering, protected smut, praise kink, mommy kink, car sex, safe sane and consensual, explicit sexual content. (driving instructor! luke, racecar driver! luke)

words: 6,307

a/n: one beautiful evening, as i was driving home with a frosty from wendy's balanced in my lap, i saw a student driver vehicle and i was like! hm! what if... and then this kind of happened. i tried to keep a keen eye while editing but if there's an error, feel free to let me know! <3

feedback and constructive criticism welcome. requests are open!

You weren't a typically nervous person.

Growing up in a town where you practically had to just figure it out on your own, nothing really got under your skin. Not tractor maintenance nor harvest schedules, or that nasty little wasp's nest in the cattle barn in the spring.

But tests, those were a different story.

From college entrance exams to applying for your driver's license, those were the types of tests that made your heart race and your palms clam up. Because it was the unknown that bothered you so much. The unfamiliarity.

And, sprinkle in the fact that you'd left the family farm to pursue a college degree into the mix and every worry's been increased tenfold. As the baby of the family, first daughter behind a handful of rowdy, hard-working boys, being the first of your household to attend college was a serious milestone. You could only hope to make your parents and siblings proud.

But moving to the big city meant learning to drive. Well, legally. You've spent countless hours in your father's farm truck or your grandfather's tractor, you weren't necessarily inexperienced when it came to driving but you've never really been surrounded by other drivers. Just gravel roads and grassy two-tracks and your bothers dirt bikes.

The initial exam, a knowledge test about road signs and rules, wasn't too bad. They'd given you a practice test and a helpful guide booklet when you'd arrived at your appointment. It felt odd, being just barely twenty years old and taking a driver knowledge exam alongside kids barely pushing sixteen. You felt behind but it wasn't your fault.

Nerves didn't erupt in your stomach until the kind lady in the Secretary of State's office informed you that you'd be taking an on-road driver skills test. An instructor will watch you, quiz you, and grade you accordingly and if you fail, you can kiss your ability to drive legally goodbye until you pass.

Now that makes you nervous. Like there's ravenous butterflies swarming your stomach. You're already under a lot of pressure with fall classes starting soon and your part-time job, now you're worried about passing your driver's exam. The lady assured you there's nothing to fret over, that the instructor you've been assigned is well versed in the rules of the road and he's a total sweetheart.

Waiting in the parking lot wasn't the worst part. You were told he'd arrive shortly, a man named Mr. Hemmings, in one of the contracted company's instructing vehicles. Plastered with bright yellow stickers along the back, just shouting to everyone on the road that you're an inexperienced driver so take it easy.

Expecting some middle aged, married, grumpy man with nothing positive to say, the nerves weren't so bad as you basked in the moderate heat of the Michigan summer sun. Your phone pings a few times, a slew of good lucks and you've got this! from your family members. You don't even realize there's a stark white Toyota Camry pulling up to the curb until the scuff of shoes on the asphalt catches your attention.

"Y/N L/N?" A thick, low voice questions. A text message to your eldest brother sits unfinished beneath your thumbs, lips parting with shock. There's no bald patch or flat tire sticking out beneath his shirt, hell it barely looks like he's wearing a shirt at all because the white fabric is so snug and pulled taught over his abdomen and chest and arms that it's absolutely ludicrous. "Y/N?" he repeats.

"Yeah- yeah, that's me," You hesitantly stand, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jeans before brushing your now clammy hands along your thighs. His eyes flicker between the clipboard in his hand and you, shamelessly raking up and down your frame before clearing his throat.

"Great," His lips twist into a wide, toothy smile, shoulders seemingly relaxing at the confirmation. His stance laxes, nodding his head of bouncy, golden curls towards the vehicle that's idling behind him. "Why don't we go ahead and get started?"

You nod, swallowing the thick lump forming in your throat, hardly maintaining eye contact with the instructor as you climb into the driver's seat and watch him awkwardly fit himself into the seat beside you. "Okay," He blows out a breath. "I'm Mr. Hemmings but you can just call me Luke, it's easier and nobody likes saying a long name especially if you're in a panic."

You barely manage a short, clipped laugh. "Rad. Anyway, we're gonna be in here for the next hour or so. I'm mainly here to make sure you understand vehicle safety and that you're prepared to operate this beauty on your own," With a laugh, Mr. Hemmings taps the dashboard with his palm. "Well, not this beauty obviously, but you get my point. Oh! And I have break pedals over here just in case. I haven't used them yet this month so please don't put us in a situation where I might need to."

He's funny, you'll admit. In a dorky, charming kind of way. He hasn't stopped smiling the entire time and you're curious if he's just that way in general or if it's a front because he probably deals with some right idiots when it comes to being an instructor. "You're quiet."

"Sorry," You mumble, hands still folded in your lap. "I'm just a bit nervous."

"There's really no need," he assures you, turning in his seat with an excited smile. "If you've passed your vision and knowledge tests then this is like, a cakewalk. Have you driven before?"

"Yeah, back home," You tell him. "Mostly just old trucks, though. I don't think I've ever driven a proper car."

"Cool, car virgin. I like that," Luke turns his attention back to the clipboard, scribbling something that you're unable to make out because it's complete chicken scratch. "Well, why don't we get going so we can stay on track."

"Okay," You breathe out, clasping the seatbelt over your lap. Under your breath, you rattle off the first steps of safety before your hands ever touch the steering wheel. Seatbelt, check. Rearview mirror, check. Side mirrors, check. When everything seems as it should, you rest one hand on the wheel before shifting the vehicle into drive, peering out of the passenger's side mirror to ensure no cars are coming up behind you in the lot.

Luke stays silent, observing you, pen hovering over his checklist sheet. As you head towards the exit, you realize you have absolutely no clue where you're meant to go. "Uhh-"

"Take a left here," Luke tells you. Signaling, you check both ways for any oncoming traffic before exiting the parking lot, keeping an eye on the speed limit signs posted on the side of the road. "And at the next light, hang a right. We'll follow that through downtown and then get you on the highway for a bit."

Nodding, you try to keep yourself composed and not let the nerves get to you as you follow his instruction. You make sure to slow down appropriately as you cruise through the city's downtown area, briefly taking in the brick buildings and shops as you pass.

The vehicle's air is a little stiff, a little warm underneath the summer sun and you're considering asking Luke if he can turn the air on but he's too busy drumming his fingertips along his bare thigh to really pay you any mind. You'd always heard that driving instructors were very observant, overly cautious and very strict about everything but Luke's so laid back it's slowly beginning to relieve your nerves.

"Would you mind turning on the air?" Luke asks, eyes soft and kind when you glance over at him. You're just trekking along behind other vehicles, following signs for the highway that's still a few miles out. It's probably one of the things on his checklist, for you to tinker with something and hope it doesn't distract you enough to cause any accidents.

Glancing at the various knobs, luckily they're standard and simple, similar to your father's truck so pressing two buttons quickly has cool air flowing into the car. You feel a little more at ease, less of an iron grip on the steering wheel. "You're doing great, by the way." Luke chimes in.

"Thanks," You keep an eye on the Jeep that keeps randomly breaking in front of you, easing off of the accelerator when applicable. You weren't a newbie when it came to driving itself, just following the actual road laws and learning the flow of traffic. "I need to turn right up here?" You ask.

Luke hums with a nod. He's began muttering some tune under his breath along with his finger-drumming, as if he isn't remotely worried about you merging onto the highway. Picking up speed, you join alongside the few cars rumbling along the road. "We'll take this to the next town over, about thirty minutes, then we'll head back and do a few simple maneuvers and that's it."

You nod, fighting the urge to sigh. Who knew your road test would be so boring? There's no music, just the sound of your tires on the asphalt and Luke's low humming. "Why'd you decide to become an instructor? Isn't it- well, boring?"

A slow chuckle slips out of your instructor's mouth, elbow perched on the door, hand clasped against the side of his face. "It's not all boring, I swear. I just like helping people become confident drivers. You'd be surprised how many students I've had that are too terrified to even start the engine."

"You're pretty laid back, it's definitely making me less nervous," You laugh softly, keeping your eyes on the empty road. "Helps that you're not bad looking either."

Shit, you weren't meant to say that.

In your peripheral, you can see Luke squirm slightly in his seat, instantly worrying that you've made him uncomfortable. You're about to retract your statement and apologize but the grin that overtakes his pink lips stops you. "Thank you," he says honestly, his tone a little strained. "So are you. I mean, I wouldn't say not bad looking, you're pretty- like quite pretty- and okay, is it a little warm in here? Jeez."

You stifle a laugh at his nervous rambling. It's cute, kind of refreshing, too. But a weight settles in your stomach because no, you absolutely cannot think your driving instructor is cute. Doesn't that cross some kind of line? Break a rule? It has to. "So- are you uh.. getting your driver's license to.. drive to your boyfriend's house orr.."

Oh god, he's also pretty damn terrible at flirting. Normally, you'd find it cringey and a tad obnoxious but it's cute on him. Adorable, even, because he's definitely a handful of years older than you but he flusters so easily it makes your confidence soar.

There's nothing wrong with indulging in it, is there? It's not like you're gonna fuck him on the side of the highway or anything.

"No boyfriend," You keep a straight face, like you're intently focused on the billboards you pass by. "Or girlfriend." You tack on, just to see him flounder a little more.

"Oh- yeah, rad," Luke nods a few times. "That's- yeah, okay, cool."

God, he's so fucking cute. How'd you get so damn lucky to have him as an instructor?

Luke's tapping the window ledge aimlessly, almost looking uncomfortable but not with you, like something's gnawing at him. "Hey, can you pull off at this rest stop for a minute? I need to- uh- bathroom. Yeah."

"Sure." You signal off, slowing down as you near the small building, only a few cars scattered in the parking lot. Luke quickly unbuckles himself and slips out of the car, almost too fast for you to realize there's a tent in his shorts. Well, fuck.

You've never really been the hook-up type in the past, coming from such a small town there's slim pickings when you know everyone's faults. Only when your family would travel up to Mackinac Island or down to Kalamazoo to visit family would you end up fooling around with some local for an afternoon but that didn't happen very often.

Though the circumstances aren't ideal, there's obviously some kind of attraction on both sides. Probably just some silly short-term infatuation and who knows what's running through Luke's mind. But he's hot, there's no denying that, and guilt tugs at your chest because he's here to do a job and you're just being a massive distraction.

Luke returns about fifteen minutes later, a little flushed in the face but there's this look he's sporting that looks nothing short of pure bliss. You're not stupid, you can recognize a post-orgasm haze from a million miles away.

God, did he really get off in a public rest stop bathroom? What the hell was he so worked up over? You bite back any inappropriate questions lingering on your tongue as he buckles himself in and you merge back onto the highway.

Luke doesn't say a word until it's time to circle back. He's quiet, too quiet, thrumming his fingers against his knee in a rhythm you aren't able to recognize. You decide to go the exact speed limit, setting the cruise control and waiting for Luke to ask why you've done that but no such comment comes.

"You okay?" You finally ask. The two of you are trapped in here for at least another thirty minutes on the highway alone, then likely another twenty or thirty around town after that. The silence isn't deafening but it's making you a little uneasy.

"Me? Yeah- I'm great. Fantastic, actually. Why wouldn't I be? Nothing's wrong. Everything's peachy." The instructor rambles.

Something's definitely wrong. You're not a very confrontational person but you'd rather have whatever issue at hand out in the open than let it linger silently the remainder of your test. "Luke-"

As you're getting his attention, the car begins to splutter. Numerous lights illuminate the dashboard, a loud rumbling sound making the steering wheel shake beneath your hands. Immediately, Luke begins to press on the emergency instructor's breaks and with some guidance, he helps you pull off on the shoulder just as the engine dies.

Not believing the sight before you, you turn to Luke, who's equally as shocked and silent, both of your chests heaving. "What the hell?" You ask aloud.

"I have no clue," Luke says frantically. "The car's been running fine all day. There weren't any warning lights, were there?"

Truthfully, you don't remember. "I don't.. think so? All of them lit up before it crapped out."

"Shit," Luke curses lowly. "Let me see if I can figure out what's going on."

Luke slips out of the Camry, leaving his clipboard behind. You hear him yell, muffled, "Pop the hood!" And you do, after taking a second to find the button with your shaky fingers.

The longer Luke is beneath the hood the longer you worry. It's an early Thursday evening, on a fairly quiet highway, and the likelihood that some passerby is going to offer assistance is slim. Plus, tow trucks in this area only operate within a ten mile radius, so it's unlikely you'll find one for a reasonable price if the car is toast.

This is what you get for thinking he's cute, your brain tosses at you. You know it isn't true but it's kind of ironic, isn't it?

Luke slips back inside the car. "Well, one of the hoses broke," He sighs, digging through the pockets of his shorts in search of his cellphone. "So the car won't start even if we wanted it to. We'll have to call a tow truck."

"Of course this would happen during my driving exam," You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as a low, frustrated groan crawls up your throat. "Just my luck."

"I probably shouldn't include the fact that I have no service then, should I?"

Your eyes pry open. "What?" You ask, finding your phone and sure enough, no fucking signal. "Seriously? We're on the damn highway, not in the middle of the ocean!"

"Hey, we'll be fine," Luke rests his hand momentarily on your shoulder and you try to ignore the goosebumps rising on your skin. Sheepishly, he pulls it away. "I'll see if I can make an emergency call to highway patrol."

"Please do," You mumble weakly.

Your father would have a field day if he could see you. Barely a week into living away from them and you're stranded on the side of the highway with a hot driving instructor. What a joke.

With no luck, Luke groans, tossing his phone onto the dashboard. "My phone died," he says. "Can you call on yours?"

"Yeah," You dial using your phone's emergency function, only to be met with CALL FAILED in big letters. "How the hell can an emergency call fail?"

"Okay, well at least we've both probably eaten recently and I keep snacks in the trunk," You toss a glare towards the blonde, not finding his statement remotely relieving at all. "What? Teenagers get grumpy so I always have granola bars on hand."

"So we're stuck," You sigh softly. Luke nods, hands toying with one another. "Until I get signal or someone passing by takes pity on us."

"I'm sorry Y/N," Luke says quietly. "About- about all of this. I really had no idea, this car's never given me any problems."

"It's not your fault," You glance over at him, noticing his lower lip tucked between his teeth. "I'm gonna walk a bit and see if I can get signal, alright?"

"You shouldn't go alone," Luke says, a bit rushed. "I mean, not that you aren't capable or anything because I'm sure you are - female empowerment and all that I just- uh-"

"Just stay here," You say, a little clipped. You aren't upset with him, just the situation. "I'll be right back."

Luke swallows thickly, blue eyes wide. "Yes m'am."

You slip out of the car and begin walking along the shoulder, grass and gravel crunching beneath your feet, checking your cellphone every few seconds in hopes that a signal will appear. A big fat SOS stares back at you, practically mocking you.

After ten or so minutes, you aren't sure how far you've walked but you can't see the Camry anymore. You know it'll cool off soon as the sun begins to set and it'll be best if you're somewhere safe. Regretfully, you head back to the car to find Luke scribbling on his clipboard in the passenger seat.

"Nothing," You say, checking your phone once more, noticing it's been about thirty minutes since you've pulled off the road. "What're you drawing over there?"

"Just doodling," He says, showing you a mix of scribbles along the bottom of your driving checklist. "What else am I supposed to do? We're stuck for the time being."

"Yeah, you're right."

It's silent for a few minutes, aside from Luke's been inking the checklist. "We could.. play a game, maybe? Something to keep our minds off of.. y'know, the whole car breaking down thing."

"What kind of game?" You ask.

"Oh- uh, twenty questions?" Luke offers.

You snort. Twenty questions is for horny teenagers, not two almost-strangers stuck in a broken down vehicle on the side of the highway. "Guess that's a no."

"What about what are the odds?" You suggest. "I played it all the time with my soccer friends, it's pretty fun."

"Okay," Luke agrees. "You'll have to explain the rules to me, though."

You sit up a little straighter, a smile unknowingly tugging at your lips. Maybe there's an ulterior motive ping-ponging in the back of your mind. Maybe.

"It's really easy. One of us says something like 'what are the odds that you'll make an embarrassing noise', then pick a number in your head, and on the count of three we'll both say a number and if it's the same the other person has to do that thing. Make sense?"

"I think I've got it," Luke nods, turning in his seat with excited eyes. He looks fucking adorable. You shake your head, getting comfortable in the seat. "Okay, can I go first?"

"Go for it."

"Okay- uh, what are the odds that you'll.. you'll- tell me something about yourself?"

That's not quite it but a good start, Luke.

"One through fifteen." You say. "Three.. two... one.."

"Ten."

"Twelve."

"Ah, shit," Luke frowns. "I don't think I'm very good at this."

"You'll get the hang of it," You tap his knee with the back of your hand without a thought, watching his cheeks twinge pink. "I'll go. What are the odds you'll pass me?"

"One in.. ten," Luke says. "Three.. two.. one.."

"Six."

"Aha!" You grin, victoriously. "See, I'm a mindreader."

"As if I'd flunk you," Luke rolls his eyes. "You're a good driver, Y/N. You need to be a little more confident but there's no way I'd fail you."

You need to be a little more confident. Sure, Luke was talking about driving but that doesn't mean you can't apply that statement to anything else, right?

"Alright, my turn," Luke rolls his lips in thought. "What are the odds that.. you'd be my friend on Facebook?"

"Facebook?" You ask, a brow raised. "Nobody uses Facebook anymore, Luke."

"I do," Luke defends softly, shoulders drawing inward. "Just play along, Y/N."

"Okay, fine," You laugh softly. "Uhh, one in ten. Three.. two.. one.."

"Four."

"Eight."

"Damn, looks like we won't be Facebook friends," You tease, the flush still bright and red and pretty on Luke's cheeks. He's so easy to fluster. You almost regret what you're about to say. "What are the odds you'll admit the real reason we stopped at the rest area?"

Luke's face falls. "I.." He glances away from you, clearly caught off guard and there's a stinging in your chest. You should've just kept your mouth shut, he didn't deserve to be called out like that.

"I'm so sorry, that was too far, I-"

"It's..okay," Luke lets out a wavering breath. "I feel really bad about that," Your brows furrow. "Look I- I think you're really pretty and this is so, so unprofessional of me but I uh- you said girlfriend and my mind just- went off on it's own. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Your mouth feels dry all of a sudden. "You were thinking of me with- oh."

Luke looks away, clearly embarrassed, a blush blooming down his neck. "I'm sorry, Y/N. It was really inappropriate and I shouldn't have."

"It's okay," You assure him. Luke looks like a kicked puppy, unsure as his eyes slowly meet yours, not quite believing you. "Seriously, it's fine. I- yeah, I'm also into girls. I don't blame you for your.. thoughts, or whatever."

Luke sucks in a sharp breath, like you've said something sinfully explicit. "I- maybe we should end the game here before I say something really stupid."

He isn't covert about it, covering his growing hard-on, beginning to tent his shorts. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, trailing along the inside of your lower lip. Fuck, you have quite the opportunity here and it would be a shame if you let it go to waste. Consensually, of course.

"You're thinking about me with a girl again, aren't you?" You boldly accuse, your eyes narrowing in a teasing manner, watching Luke's gentle blue eyes widen and mouth fall open. "It's okay if you are."

He's so.. submissive. You've never really explored the whole dynamic of positions like that but making your instructor blush and squirm makes you feel.. hot.

"Maybe," Luke's voice is small, soft, and you're loving every second of it. "Y/N, I-"

"What're you thinking about, Luke?" You ask, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the center console, your tone low. "Me kissing another girl, maybe? Getting all hot and bothered and messy and wet?"

A whimper crawls up his throat. "I- fuck."

You trail a finger along his thigh, tracing the leg of his shorts. "Maybe you'd just watch, huh?" You provoke him, watching his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah- I would.." His voice is weak, lips parting and soft little pants escaping them. He's so easy for it, you love it. The dominance rolling off of you in waves seems to come naturally and who are you to deny it? "Y/N.."

"What, Luke? What do you need?"

Need. Luke keens. "I.. can I.."

"You wanna touch yourself?" You ask.

"No.. you, please."

You hum. How can you say no, when he sounds so wrecked like that? "Think there's enough room for us in the back there?"

"Don't wanna.. move," Luke mumbles, eyes already glazed over. He's so far gone. "My lap?"

You won't toy with him anymore, not when he's offering to get you off. To touch you. God, his fingers are beautiful and long and you're dying to have them buried inside of you. "Yeah, 'kay." You puff out, watching Luke adjust himself properly and helping guide you to sit in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips.

It isn't ideal but it'll work. He works with shaky, excited hands to unfasten the button and zipper of your jean shorts before trailing his fingers along the waistline of your underwear. "Can I?" You nod, teeth sinking into your lower lip in anticipation.

Without hesitance, Luke dips his hand into the waistband, finding your damp heat with ease. His fingers curl around you, whimpering at the warmth before a finger slips inside of you, slick and velvety. "Oh- fuck."

"Luke," You moan out softly, clasping a hand on the instructor's shoulder. He carries a steady pace, sliding a second finger beside the first, brutally hard at the warmth coating his digits. "Fuck, feels so good."

"You're so wet," He mumbles, like he's surprised, peering up at your blissed out features. "Fuck, did I- did I do this to you?"

"Yes," Your hips shift greedily, making his fingers sink deeper into you. "You're just so.."

"So?" You can feel his breath against your collarbone through your shirt.

"So needy," You moan, rotating your hips, effectively riding Luke's fingers, like he's some kind of toy. "It's so hot, how hard you get so easily- I- fuck, there."

"Y/N," Luke pants against you, his free hand trailing up to your hip, holding tightly. "Wanna make you cum, please."

"Yeah?" You breathe out. "Gonna let me ride your fingers? Fuck myself until I cum?"

"Oh god," Luke trembles, his movements faltering but it doesn't matter, you're moving steadily and the more you shift the more his fingers hit that perfect spot. You can feel it in your toes, that you're close, but you need something else to get you there.

"Did you think about me?" You ask, a light sweat forming on your brow. "When you got off in the bathroom? Did you moan for me?"

"Yes," Luke admits in a whine. "Yes- fucking- came so hard, Y/N. Thought of you the whole time."

Just thinking about Luke, working his cock so quickly in his fist thinking about you is enough, warmth flooding your stomach as your orgasm rapidly approaches and you're releasing all over Luke's fingers. Like a fucking floodgate.

"Oh fuck," You hear him moan, fingers slowing as your hips come to a halt. "Fuck, Y/N."

Blissful and warm and flushed, Luke retracts his fingers from you, the digits glistening as he slips them into his mouth with needy, complacent hums. He looks more wrecked than you do.

"Can I- can I ride you?" You blurt.

Luke goes rigid. "What?"

"I wanna ride you," You reiterate. "I wanna fuck you, Luke. Can I?"

"You- yeah, fuck of course," Luke's eyes are blue and glassy and glazed and you aren't even sure how he's functioning right now. He hasn't even cum yet so- wait. "Just give me a minute.."

Curiously, you shift back a bit on his lap to see he's half-hard and there's an obvious damp patch on the front of his shorts. "Did you cum while you were touching me?"

Luke nods. "Sorry."

"Fuck that's so hot," You can't help it, fitting both hands beneath his jaw to tilt his head upward, capturing his lips easily with your own. He tastes like spearmint gum and flavored coffee, it's all you can think about when you feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip. That was too easy, you can already feel his dick fattening against your thigh again. "Do you have a condom?"

"In my wallet," Luke pants against your mouth. "I wasn't like- expecting this, by the way."

"Neither was I," You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. "Let me get my shorts off."

Car sex seems so hot in theory until you're caught up in the moment and you're stuck trying to take off clothing where it's just not possible. You manage to slip your shorts off, leaving your damp underwear on before claiming Luke's lap once again. The condom sits in the crevice between his thigh and hip, fly open and dick straining against the seam of his boxers.

"Get yourself ready for me," You tell him softly, your fingertips trailing along your lower abdomen, along the inside of your shirt to cup your breasts beneath your bra. Luke's in a trance, nearly swallowing his own tongue before nodding and barely wiggling his shorts and boxers down his hips. He slips the condom on, abandoning the foil packet god knows where, before stroking himself a few times with a gentle hiss. "Fuck, you're gorgeous."

Luke squirms at that. "Thank you," he mutters. "Can I- are you ready?"

"So ready," He carefully aligns his hips with yours before slowly pressing inside, letting out tiny whimpers with every inch he sinks in. "Fuck."

"Y/N," Luke moans, eyes threatening to fall shut. His hands find your thighs, blunt nails digging into the soft skin there, hips threatening to rut upwards at the sheer warmth encasing his cock. It's immeasurable, how good you feel wrapped snugly around him.

"So good, Luke, you're doing so good," You praise gently, holding yourself upright with your hands on his broad shoulders. Once he's buried to the hilt, you slowly rock your hips in a circle, eliciting a short gasp from the blonde. "Such a good boy."

The simple phrase makes Luke choke on his own breath. "You're so warm," he mumbles, lips barely moving, chest rising and falling steadily. You rock your hips again. "Oh my god."

Luke isn't like the guys you've slept with before. He's sensitive and responsive and it's probably the hottest thing you've ever witnessed. It's like he's fighting the urge to give in. Slowly, you begin to bounce in his lap, testing the waters. Luke moans every time you sink down.

"Yeah?" You ask him after a particularly whiny moan falls from his mouth. "Feel good, Luke? Tell me. Tell me how good it feels."

"Feels so good," He babbles, a wheezy, whining mess every bounce you make. It's slick and wet and so fucking hot you know you'll cum again sometime soon. He's hitting all the right spots inside of you. It helps he's probably the biggest dick you've taken by far. "So good. Please don't stop, please."

"Not gonna stop," You mutter, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders. "You're such a good boy, Luke. Taking it so well. Feel so good inside me."

Luke lets out a squeak when you clench around him. "Mommy-"

Your hips falter briefly but you can't stop, you refuse, because that word, though you've never been called that before it lights a flame inside of your stomach that makes you want more and more and more. "Yeah?" You abandon your grip on one of his shoulders to clasp his jaw, making Luke meet your eyes, his half lidded and cloudy and dark blue. "Gonna let mommy fuck you, Luke? Ride your cock until she cums?"

Luke bites down on his lower lip so hard he swears he can taste blood. His head is swirling, like yours, all fuzzy and fucked dumb. Your pace grows quicker, a bit more focused but frenzied, until Luke's panting to the point where he's babbling words that don't even make any sense. "Gonna- please- need-"

"What, Luke? What do you need?" You ask, ghosting your lips over his own. He whimpers against your mouth.

"Wanna cum, mommy. Can I?"

"Yeah baby," You press a hard kiss to his mouth, pushing your tongue past his lips and that's all he needs, gripping your thighs tightly until he's fully inside of you before releasing into the condom. Luke slumps slightly, clearly spent but you're far from finished. "Stay still, won't you?"

"What-" Luke mutters, flushed and confused when you begin to raise your hips and sink back down on him. "Oh fuck me."

"So close, Luke," He isn't softening in the slightest. It almost makes you smile, makes you proud because he's so turned on, just letting you use him like some kind of fuck toy. "Touch me?"

Luke nods, blissed out, attaching his thumb to your clit and rubbing furious, hard circles. Your thighs tremble as your orgasm builds up, toes curling inside of your shoes before finally letting go and releasing all over his length.

Shuddering through the warmth spreading up the base of your spine, your nails sink into the instructor's shoulders, panting against his mouth as he tips his head up to connect your lips in a soft kiss. Your skin feels tingly in the best way, electric, and your head swarming furiously.

Luke pulls away first. He's so flushed, from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck and you're positive that pretty pink blush has reached his naval, there's no doubt. He's definitely a full-body blusher. "Y/N.."

"Yeah?" You ask quietly, breathless, noticing the windows have fogged up a little bit from your activities.

"Can you.. sorry, it's just uh- the condom's a bit uncomfortable." The blonde grimaces apologetically, reddening further when you muffle out a short laugh and slowly climb off of him. Your underwear are soaked, from your own release, but you slide your shorts back on anyways as Luke ties off the condom and places it hesitantly on the floorboard.

Now that the two of you are dressed, less short on breath, you figure it might be best to address what the hell just happened. "Luke-"

"Y/N-"

"Sorry, go ahead," You mumble.

"I wasn't- planning that. Or, expecting it, I swear," Luke says rather quickly, eyes flitting away from you, a bit embarrassed. "Please don't think I make a habit of this. You're- you're the first."

You swallow harshly. "The first?"

A nervous, awkward laugh tumbles out of Luke's mouth. "No, no, that was a girlfriend in high school. I mean- uh- student."

"Oh," You puff out a relieved breath, resting your head back. You're still warm and relaxed from your orgasms. "Well in that case, I don't really sleep with driving instructors, so I guess it's a first for both of us."

"It's not.." Luke trails off, his voice low, like he isn't sure how to phrase what he's thinking. "It won't be the only time, will it?"

That comes as a bit of a surprise to you. Again, you weren't really the hook-up type but the guys you have hooked up with in the past were quick to forget it even happened and move on with their lives.

You're stunned into a short silence. Will that be the only time you hook up with Luke? Sure, he's funny, and insanely attractive, but aside from the few things you've shared during the drive he's still almost a complete stranger.

"I understand," Luke quietly says.

"No I- sorry, I was just- surprised," You say. "I'd like to see you again. Maybe not in a broken down car on the side of the highway."

Luke chuckles briefly. "Okay, cool," The tension seems to slip from his shoulders. "Sorry, I'm not really good at this. I don't really uh- date? Just, with work and everything it's hard to find the time."

"Being a driving instructor is that demanding?" You inquire, a lighthearted teasing lift to your voice. The highway is still dead silent and the sun is slowly beginning to set. Soon, you'll be cast in a hue of pinks and oranges and pretty purples.

"I race for a living," Luke says, catching your attention abruptly, your brows furrowing in confusion. "It's not something I really bring up in conversation or during uh- other things."

"You're not like, a Nascar driver or something, right?" You joke. Luke stays silent. "What the fuck?"

Way to go, Y/N. Fucking a driving instructor slash Nascar driver. Your parents would be so proud. Stupid girl.

"Like I said, I don't really tell people," Luke quickly defends, swallowing as an anxious look perturbs his features. "This doesn't uh- change anything right? About seeing me again?"

"No but if my dad finds out you're gonna be forced into every Sunday dinner until you're dead," You speak without thinking, still shocked about Luke's line of work. And here you were thinking he was just a dorky driving instructor for the state of Michigan. "Sorry, that was weird."

Luke laughs, shaking his head. He took your comment well, like too well, and you're starting to think maybe Luke isn't real at this point. He's too.. perfect. Handsome, dorky, a fucking racecar driver. "You're fine, I get it. Your dad's a big fan, then?"

"Huge," You sigh. "My brothers, too."

"You think they'd come to a race if I set aside some tickets?" Luke's teeth sink into his bottom lip, a hopeful look on his splotchy, pink face.

"I- I mean yeah," You stumble. "Luke, you really don't have to.."

"I want to," He reassures you, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I really wanna see you again and if free tickets is the way I can then, I'd be dumb not to offer."

"For the record, I'd see you again regardless of the free tickets," You tell him, leaning to rest your elbows on the console. One of his eyebrows arch curiously, in a way that's so damn hot and Luke doesn't even realize it.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," You confirm. "By the way-"

You're cut off by the chirping of a siren, glancing out of the rearview mirror to see a State Trooper has parked behind you, lights flashing.

Well fuck. This'll be fun.

#5sos fanfic #5sos imagine #luke hemmings fanfic #luke hemmings imagine #5sos x reader #luke hemmings x reader #5sos smut #luke hemmings smut #luke hemmings x y/n #luke hemmings x you

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jthurlow · 9 months ago

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Marketing Palm City Farms, father/developer C. C. Chillingworth

~ A tidbit from our upcoming book, A Pictorial History of Palm City, Florida by Sandra Thurlow & Jacqui Thurlow-Lippisch ~Charles Curtis Chillingworth, 1868-1936, was born in Liverpool, New York and passed away in West Palm Beach, Florida. Pictured below at 45 years old, second from left, front row. Alligator Smith aside, it is Charles Curtis Chillingworth “distinguished pioneer, citizen,…

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#1911 #cabbage palms #Chillingworth #father/developer C. C. Chillingworth #Marketing Palm City Farms #Palm Beach Land Co.#Palm City Farms #phosphosescence

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solecize · 8 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 | 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: every summer on your grandpa's farm was real-life magic to your younger self, who left a piece of her heart in amber valley when the years went on and the town became nothing but a faint childhood memory. soon enough, you become rocked by his death and realize the dead end in your bustling city world. this leads to you making an abrupt decision.

despite knowing nothing but designer purses and the corporate ladder, you uproot your entire life to take over your grandfather's old farm in the town you were desperately trying to remember - alongside a familiar face from your youth that permanently finds his way into your heart.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jungkook/reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. inspired heavily by stardew valley, friends to lovers, childhood friends, cowboy jungkook, small town alternate universe, slice of life, grief, growing up, mutual pining, jungkook as a parental figure 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 3.8k 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. no warning except main characters being dumb and some SERIOUS tension

part six: the dreams and the sunday market ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ previous. next. masterlist

xv. the dreams

you were dreaming of kissing jeon jungkook.

it was akin to a recurring nightmare, the way you woke up in cold sweat after picturing his beautiful lips on yours in your sleep. ever since the night where the two of you shared dinner, the image haunted you and chased you even in your lack of consciousness. it didn’t help that your day always began at five a.m, leaving you waking up, distraught, and no sun to warm your surroundings.

today in particular was not looking to be on your side. you slept through your first two alarms after getting lost in the dream of kissing jungkook on a beach in front of luscious palm trees and golden sand. even worse, it was the day of jungkook’s return to the farm.

in the hours between your awakening and jungkook’s arrival, your nerves casted away your grogginess. you wondered why you didn’t decline his offer to finish the gate, but remembered he made it clear he didn’t have feelings for you - there should be no problem, then.

since he was coming in the evening, you had an entire day ahead of you. somehow, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. it was maddening, as if the thoughts of jeon jungkook settled beneath your skin and chased your every move. it was a gloomy day with light showers, but the thoughts kept you warm and you didn’t like it one bit.

by 5 p.m, you were wrapped up for the day. it shouldn’t have taken so long, but with your late wake-up and the plaguing image of your childhood best friend, you found yourself sluggish. you decided that you were going to proceed like you’d done in the weeks prior.

the last thing you wanted to take care of was inspect the garage once more. you’d been meaning to test out the old tractor inside to determine if you could sell it off or not, but it was a problem when the door was stuck in the same place. now, you were outside, wrestling with the garage, once again.

“i guess this does have to be fixed. . .” you mumbled to yourself, remembering jungkook’s words.

then, you heard your name being called. it startled you, since you hadn’t had any visitors in quite some time, considering jungkook’s absence. however, you knew that voice from a mile away and weren’t surprised when you turned around, taking notice of him approaching across the fields, coming face to face with the man in question.

you hastily wiped the beads of sweat on your temple. “hey,” you said when you saw jungkook, who likely wandered to the fields when you didn’t answer the front door.

“hey, y/n,” jungkook replied, setting his toolbox down by the fence he was to work on. today, he was wearing a black button down over a white t-shirt with jeans. his hair had grown slightly longer since you first arrived to amber valley and you liked the way it fell over his eyebrows.

as you always did, you graciously thanked him. “i really appreciate you coming to help me out.” even though he essentially shut down any possibility of you being able to come to terms with any feelings you had. you didn’t say that part out loud.

“stop that, you know i just want to lend a hand,” he waved you off and you wondered if that was what you knew. you weren’t sure if that was what your silent agreement with jungkook truly involved, with his persistence and your strong will - two things that were not easily challenged, but crumbled at one another.

"you still fighting with that old thing?" jungkook chuckled softly, looking at the garage door behind you.

you only rolled your eyes. "i thought i could get it."

he shook his head, continuing to laugh, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. “oh, i guess this is the first time i’ve come by in the evening. you’re done work for once.”

you didn’t realize this fact either and tried to fight a silent panic - you usually had a task that you could pretend to be busy with, in order to distract yourself from jungkook’s presence. then, you began what to wonder what was wrong with you? it was just jungkook. were your vivid dreams really chasing you into acting strangely? and was he not quieter than usual, or were you overthinking things?

jungkook eventually excused himself to get to work and you decided that you needed to push your barrage of thoughts and questions away. instead, you entered the kitchen and proceeded to make dinner as usual, except a bit extra for your handyman of a friend.

when you peeked outside after finishing, you saw that jungkook was drilling something into place. he’d taken off his button down shirt at some point, tying it around his waist. you cleared your throat loudly to get his attention, but it didn’t stand a chance against the sound of the drill.

“jeon jungkook!” you yelled, but he still couldn’t hear you. it was only when you brought your hands to your lips and let out a loud whistle when he finally caught your eye, turning the drill off promptly.

jungkook shook his head in disbelief, walking towards you with a laugh. “namjoon was right, that is a really loud whistle you can do.”

“i made dinner,” you said, hiding your nerves. in reality, you knew little could go wrong, as the two of you were sharing meals together for weeks. unless, of course, if he tried setting you up with a friend again.

“you know, i took you as someone who would be shit at cooking, but you’re pretty good,” jungkook teased, as he left his tools on the ground and walked towards you. “and thanks, of course.”

you rolled your eyes. “i’m good at everything.”

“lies. there’s a bunch of things i’m better than you at,” he mused, as he opened the door back inside for you.

the half-serious bickering made you drop your shoulders in ease, settling back into the same comfortable atmosphere that you always shared with jungkook. this was still the brat that used to whine if you got a better guitar hero score than him.

the two of you soon settled into some local gossip. jungkook began telling you about how your grandpa used to constantly predict that the lee family would divorce sooner or later, which was apparently now in progress. you wondered how close he really was to him.

“i wish we gave him one more summer with the three of us,” you said, as the two of you moved in fluid motions around the kitchen. the movements were natural and almost domestic, with jungkook knowing where all of the plates and silverware was and made it his job to set the table. meanwhile, you began getting the food ready.

he nodded. “i think he would have liked that. he’s probably happy that we’ve become friends again.”

the image of your dreams last night flashed before your eyes when jungkook said the word “friends” and you chose to ignore it.

instead, you responded, “i’d like to think that we never stopped.” your voice was quiet, unsure of the statement that you just offered.

it was nice, the way that you and jungkook managed to pick up your friendship after thirteen years as if nothing happened in between. and, even then, over the past month, the two of you slowly began to grasp the lives you led in the time apart. the people you grew into. somehow, it still clicked.

jungkook paused, in the middle of bringing out plates from the cupboards. “you know, me too,” he said. “too bad you stopped responding to my letters.”

this made you also freeze in place, eyebrows furrowed at his remark. “what do you mean? i didn’t stop responding,” you turned around to face him. “you’re the one that stopped replying.”

“i’m pretty sure i was the last one to send a letter, bunny,” jungkook chuckled, but you sensed some bitterness. “i sent you a letter one spring and then when june rolled around, your grandpa randomly told me you weren’t coming back.”

you shook your head, lips parted. “i never got a letter.”

by now, you finished setting food on the table. it was a full american-style breakfast, with chicken and waffles, scrambled eggs, and a platter of fruit from the farm. you made a jug of iced tea and set out some water. jungkook’s eyes trailed to the table and his eyes were unreadable.

“that’s too bad,” he spoke slowly, as if remembering something. “breakfast for dinner?” then, jungkook shook his head, as if shaking the thoughts off, and proceeded to set the rest of the table.

your eyes widened. “sorry, do you not like it? i thought it would be a good change - “

“no, it’s not that! thank you, it looks delicious. i love breakfast for dinner,” jungkook smiled. it was as if he flipped a switch and you were itching to know what he was thinking before.

“if you’re not up for it - “

“you’re annoying, come sit down with me,” jungkook interjected again, but was playful and rubbed his hands together, ready to dig in.

you punched his shoulder, which you knew did little damage, but he yelped anyway. sitting down across from him, jungkook began serving the both of you and you didn’t object when he plopped food on your plate for you. it was the same routine that you had before and frankly, it was nice.

“i just didn’t think it would you’d never come back to town again,” he commented and you were confused, until you remembered what he said earlier.

you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “me neither. i don’t know what hapened, i used to love it here. . “ you trailed off, looking around your surroundings and out the window, where the silver of the amber valley sky looked down on you. “i did try looking for you at some point, but you aren’t on social media.”

jungkook shook his head, pouring two cups of iced tea. “not really. and especially not after i started taking care of jiwon.” he passed one cup to your side, which you quietly thanked him for. “i think i saw you one time online, in early high school, but you looked different and i wasn’t sure.”

like every teenager, you had a phase of experimenting with your look and went through different kinds of hair colours and makeup styles. now, in your twenties, you’d grown tired of constant change and like your city life, settled for mundane and simple. just before his passing, your grandpa once remarked that you began to look like yourself again.

“we would’ve still been best friends in high school. i’d keep you around to copy off your homework,” you joked, cutting into a waffle. you weren’t kidding when you told jiwon about how smart jungkook was, as he’d always been since you two were young. though you were academically gifted yourself, you’d held jealousy for the way jungkook learned every hobby you liked at twice the learning speed.

“aw, i was your best friend?” jungkook banterd, which made you kick him underneath the table. “i’m joking. we’re best friends forever, isn’t what we put on the tree?”

“oh my god, don’t remind me of that!” your cheeks went hot, as you recalled that memory that jungkook was referring to.

when you were about nine years old, you and jungkook had the genius idea to carve your names into a random tree by the town square. while doing so, you were caught by mayor kim walking by, who made a big deal out of you kids “defacing” town property. when he scolded you and told your grandpa though, the latter got a kick out of it.

the rest of the conversation was light, which was exactly what you needed. in spite of this, jungkook’s remarks about your letters echoed in the back of your mind. you made a mental note to look into his claim - though the said letters from your childhood likely lived in your dad’s apartment, where you had spent your middle school to high school years at.

midway through the dinner-slash-breakfast, you caught the way jungkook’s eyes were fixated on you and didn’t move. you gave him a questioning look and he sighed.

jungkook said, “there’s jam on your face.” his tone was pretending to be disappointing, but holding back a laugh.

“oh, where?” you began wiping your cheek, which turned out to be dry. you continued swiping around, still missing.

he groaned. “it’s literally right there. by your nose, bunny. come on.”

after looking like he was about to simultaneously lose his mind and burst out laughing, his chair creaked loudly against the wooden flooring and jungkook stood up. he made strides around the table over to you and bent down to meet you at eye-level. you jumped at the sudden movement and the fact that jungkook’s face was inches away from yours. he was so close that you could count every single one of his long eyelashes if you tried.

“it’s right. . .here.” at some point, jungkook ripped away a piece of paper towel from your side and you nearly flinched when you felt his touch on your cheek.

he gently wiped away the spread with a tilted head and a crease forming in between his brows, seemingly looking everywhere but in your eyes. you were so close to him that you could hear his steady breathing. you wondered if he was close enough to hear the army marching in the middle of your chest. it was hard for you to breathe yourself when your entire body froze at the contact.

you managed to let out a whisper, fighting the shiver creeping up your spine. “thanks.”

jungkook’s lips looked exactly like they did in your dreams. “no problem.” his voice was low and you swore you saw his eyes flash to your own lips, before looking up at you.

you weren’t sure how long the two of you were still for. the only thing in your ears was the sound of your heart, which was amplified over the ticking of the grandfather clock several feet away. nobody dared to move until the ringing of a cell phone, which caused both of you to jump.

it was jungkook’s. the phone was sitting on the dining table and it rang because you knew he always kept his phone off vibrate for his sister. when you saw a picture of jiwon and jungkook making silly faces at each other flash on the screen, you cleared your throat and scooted backwards, knowing that jungkook was going to immediately take the call.

“sorry, one sec,” jungkook eventually snapped back into reality when he saw his screen. he picked up his phone and trailed into the living room to take the call.

it was time for you snap back into reality, too. you felt stupid and like you wanted to bang your head into the table in front of you. there was no way he was going to kiss you, you’d witnessed one too many reruns of this fantasy in your dreams. you just spoke about how great your friendship was.

best friends forever. you repeated that in your mind, along with jungkook talking your ear off about how great you and taehyung would look together.

xvi. the sunday market

on the last sunday of each month, the valley closed up most of its main roads for pedestrian access only and the community came out to hold a market in the town square. local busineses came out to sell their usual and offer up fun, seasonal products to buy. your grandfather usually set up a stand, but you found yourself a little too shy to be doing it alone for your first month in town. thankfully, you were wedged between jimin and hoseok, right in between their booths.

“honestly, i’m glad you’re with us, y/n. at least we can all smell like fish,” hoseok hummed, as he began unfolding a tablecloth.

to this, jimin rolled his eyes and continued shuffling through some flyers in his hand. “we’re not even selling fresh fish this month.” in front of him was instead a variety of different seafood products, such as artisanal spread, marinated seafood in jars and sustainably sourced caviar.

meanwhile, you were proud of what you scrambled together last minute. cartons of eggs, jugs of milk, yogurt, and quick-growing crops like microgreens and radishes. you took your job very seriously and wanted to make a good impression on the townsfolk.

“thank you, y/n! hoseok, can you put some sunblock on for once? sheesh, you’re going to get burnt!” hoseok’s mom, mrs. jung, was one of your first customers that day and happily took home some fresh basil and eggs. her sneer at hoseok was clear as day, even underneath her floppy hat, snapping at her son from right beside you.

hoseok groaned. “mom, i’m almost thirty. stop!” and still, he reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen.

mrs. jung ignored him. “bye, y/n! bye jiminnie!” she blew a kiss to jimin, which made hoseok grumble.

you laughed at the interaction, as you fanned yourself with one of jimin’s flyers. it’d been less than an hour since the market began and it was still early in the morning, so the square was sparse. you could even look down to your left and still see seokjin’s booth on the other side of the market, beside the mayor’s booth manned by namjoon.

it was now the end of june and marked your first month in town. the skies were clear and bright, a sight that you promised yourself you wouldn’t take for granted. every morning, you woke up before the sun did and by the time the morning came up to greet you, you were filled with vibrant energy for the day.

“hi unnie! you look like you’re in a good mood today!” it was jiwon, holding onto peanut with one hand and her teddy bear in another. she was stylish for a kid her age, wearing jeans and a trendy graphic t-shirt that you suspected was jungkook’s influence.

taking a cautious scan of your surroundings, you let out a quiet breath of relief when you saw that jungkook wasn’t around. he was definitely nearby, though, you had a feeling he wouldn’t let jiwon roam around with the puppy with anyone else.

you greeted, “hi jiwon! you’re up early.” it was about nine in the morning and if you were a kid, you would not be a morning person during summer vacation.

“yeah, oppa made me come with him,” she yawned extra loud, clutching her leash close.

to your right, jimin cleared his throat. “where is jungkook?” he asked.

“he’s avoiding y/n,” jiwon sang, like it was a normal thing to say out of the blue.

your ears turned pink. you thought the two of you were good. it’d been over a week since your dinner with him at the saloon. now come to think about it, since your last encounter, jungkook had yet to make another return to the farm to finish whatever gate he was repairing - you stopped keeping track at some point, just letting him come over and continuing to hope that he found something new to fix.

hoseok pinched his nose. “jiwon, you can’t rat my boy out like that,” he whispered, side-eying you, even though you could clearly see.

to add fuel to the fire, you noticed the way jimin was scoping his surroundings. his eyes narrowed over to a corner, where you finally saw jungkook talking to mayor kim. when you did so, he looked over and made eye contact with you for the briefest of seconds, before darting away. before you knew it, jimin began hollering.

“hey! jungkook! come here!”

“what are you doing?” you hissed, taking a step towards jimin’s booth. “i thought we made a truce, park jimin.”

“trust me, i’m helping you out.” jimin’s cheeky grin made you take a deep breath, holding back profanity for jiwon.

you weren’t sure if the boys knew anything about what was going on with you and jungkook. hell, you weren’t even sure what was going on with you and jungkook. ever since he began detatching, you’d become confused and kept second guessing if you said or did something wrong. maybe coming by his house randomly was weird, but he did the exact same thing. the way he randomly suggested taehyung as a date for you also sent mixed signals.

jungkook and mayor kim looked towards your direction, taken aback. then, jungkook gave the latter a polite smile, before walking in your direction. great.

“did you need help with something, jimin?” the tight-lipped smile and tone coming from jungkook indicated he didn’t want to help with anything at all.

jimin’s smile remained on his face, as he shook his head. “have you seen y/n’s, uh, cilantro? so fresh.”

you turned to jimin, dumbfounded, but also irritated that you got roped into the conversation. meanwhile, jiwon batted her eyelashes, looking back and forth between you and her brother. her innocent demeanour was almost convincing, but you knew you were dealing with a jeon here.

“oh, hi. i didn’t see you there, y/n,” jungkook said.

bullshit. your tablecloth was bright yellow, compared to jimin and hoseok using the same white for their booths. you were wearing red lipstick and a sundress. he definitely noticed you. this made your jaw tense, annoyed that jungkook was acting different out of nowhere.

“yup,” was all you could say, a dry tone settling in your voice.

jungkook raised his eyebrows. “late night or something?” he asked, as if your voice indicated fatigue.

“no.”

“your eyebags say otherwise.” usually, jungkook teased you with a certain playfulness, but he instead matched your dry tone.

hoseok immediately interjected, “oh, haha! ha - uh, haha!” he forced laughter out as if pushing with brute force, looking at you and jungkook strangely. the question in his eyes read what’s wrong with you two clear as day.

you shrugged and luckily at that very moment, a small family began walking in your direction and approached your booth. on the other hand, jungkook suddenly became fascinated with the infused syrups at hoseok’s table and found the energy to talk his ear off about the ingredients. you missed the way jiwon shot a dirty look at jimin, as if this was his fault.

“why are they acting weird?” jimin whispered to the smaller girl, as if buddies gossiping on the playground.

jiwon only rolled her eyes and huffed, walking away with peanut. she murmured things under her breath about adults being useless, wondering why she had to wake up early all to witness a dumpster fire between you and jungkook. she walked away, muttering to herself something about how she was determined to prove she was the only one with brains around here.

𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. @sstrongstyletyle @wobblewobble822@taiwan0618 @seokout @firelcrds @xwniazx @shellyyy177

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meownotgood · 3 months ago

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let us live, if we must die. / chapter three: eclipse

You are a witch, and since the purging of all magic, you've been forced to live a life of solitude and secrecy. Your destiny was always beyond your control — until, by a pure twist of fate, you unknowingly fell for the kingdom's only prince.

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pairing: prince!aki x witch!reader

word count: 15.3k

tags: fantasy au, royalty au, reader is fem, reader has many Thoughts, hurt / comfort, aki comforting reader, angst, but don't worry they're figuring things out

notes: thank you for patiently waiting for this chapter, I hope you enjoy it!! the next chapter will be long as well, so I appreciate your patience again... love you and appreciate you

masterlist read on ao3 join the taglist here!

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You always knew Aki was royalty.

In the time since you first hid away in this forest, you've learned to take necessary precautions. You track the whereabouts of demons each time you go out, drawing them away with spells, and watching for fresh footprints. You learned to attune yourself completely to the magic circle you created, to be sure you'll catch the faint waves of an unfamiliar aura the moment it enters.

Spells can summon certain books from a handful of easy to find materials, and those books can then be used to summon more. Your mother's grimoires, the few you managed to take with you when you fled the city, became your gateway into a world you'd never once known.

Deciphering magical tomes takes patience. It's a lengthy process, but it's worth it. You've learned the means to make valuable potions, and you've mastered spells that could save your life: invisibility, hypnosis, spell-shields. With so much time on your hands, and with the unbound freedom to do so, you have no reason to ever stop honing your magic.

You can always learn more, you can always be safer. You must be prepared for every situation, and you need to take all outcomes into account. No-one can be trusted; no-one but yourself. In the moment of truth, you can't afford to make any mistakes. You need to be ready. For anything, and everyone.

And so, when an inexplicable, elven, injured stranger comes knocking — and promptly passes out — at your door, the first damn thing you're going to do is check all his pockets.

It doesn't take the wisdom of a thousand year old wizard to know he was from the city. The kingdom is the only notable settlement for miles. There's small towns here and there. Farmland you'll pass if you're making your way to the gates. No offense to him — to Aki, right, you still need to learn his name — but he doesn't seem like a farm boy. Or an adventurer. Or royalty, for that matter.

You couldn't have known. Obviously, he'd be from the city, but royalty? An alleged demon-hunter and a man of royalty, how does that make any sense?

Staring up at the shadow-filled ceiling of your bedroom, you pull your blanket up to your chin, and rub your pained temple with two fingers. You can't seem to get comfortable, no matter how much you've been tossing and turning in your bed. The living room has been silent. Aki is probably asleep now. Your mind can't seem to stop racing, either, and perhaps that's why you can't catch any sleep.

The clothes he showed up in were simple. Racking your brain and snuggling into your bed, you bring yourself back to the moment you met him. You recall the discomfort in his expression, the crimson on his palm. The way moonlight framed him with dark hues and fuzzy edges.

You don't know enough about jewelry to be able to tell if the earrings on his pointed ears are the expensive sort. They're simple, black, and made with smooth metal. You remember seeing a gemstone you couldn't recognize, delicately placed in the center of a hanging star. Now that you're thinking about it, they could be worth more than your life, if you're unlucky. Or maybe they're worth nothing, you suppose. Just the sort of imitations they sell for substantial mark-ups at early morning markets.

After the mysterious stranger passed out on your doorstep, you dragged him inside and out of the rain. You didn't have a choice in the matter at the time, really. He was already limp and Gods, was he heavy. Setting up the cot and plopping him onto it was the true challenge.

Miraculously, you found no other major injuries once you inspected him. And thankfully, most of the plant life you collected that day is perfect for healing.

Thankfully for him, at least. You weren't exactly thrilled to spend your entire stock on someone else. You'll have to put your plans to practice potion-making on hold, you suppose. In any case, he came at just the right time. Thank the Gods for that.

The gash on his side was as dire as you thought. It was a jagged, clearly painful slice, no doubt made by the trained swipe of a demon's talons, and enough to make you wince when you removed his shirt to examine it. Demons usually aim for the throat, whenever possible. Aki is lucky he managed to throw one of them off its aim.

You tended to the wound quickly, cleaning it with fresh water, and salving it with herbs. Finally, you wrapped his torso in makeshift bandages, tearing off parts of your cape when you began to run out.

You rinsed his shirt, scrubbing what stains you could out of the fabric. Upon further inspection, you noticed his hands were covered in scrapes. His fingers are long and thin. Pretty, almost. His palms were calloused, rough to the touch. Dried blood was caked into his skin. Carefully, you scrubbed the blood from his palms and his knuckles, while you tried to keep your gaze from drifting up to his face. A pointless endeavor, in the end.

His hair fanned out around him, still slightly-damp. His brows were pinched as he slept. Warm firelight danced softly over his features: a sharp jaw, a straight nose, messy bangs. You forced yourself to look away, your face growing hot. You can't get distracted. Before he wakes, you have more important things you need to take care of.

Once you were all finished patching him up, you leant close to make sure he was still sleeping; his chest rose and fell steadily, he exhaled in slow, calm breaths. Then, you proceeded to rummage through what he had on him. If you couldn't pick his brain yet, your best shot at discerning who he is or what he's after would be to search his belongings — and that you did.

His pants had no pockets on the back, but two in the front. The left pocket was empty, save for one silver coin. Money means nothing to you, and so you returned it, right where it was. A promise to get out of your hair eventually was the only payment you needed.

The other pocket, however, did carry something. Something very, very terrible.

In the right pocket of his trousers, you found a small, gold medallion. It was smooth, circular, with a sparkling blue gem in the middle — reminiscent of the sea, and the color of his eyes. Intricate engravings surrounded the stone: runic text you couldn't quite make out in the low light, and the sun, the moon. Along with a winged dragon, curled around the empty space.

Your heart sank so deep in your chest you just about let it drown, and that's when you knew you were absolutely doomed.

This is the kingdom's symbol, the kingdom's royal crest. Commoners and knights are allowed to carry similar motifs, but only someone of great importance would have a medallion with this stone, and these exact symbols.

Sapphires are only meant to be worn by descendants of royal families. They're priceless. Imitations can rarely capture their luster, although creating them is punishable with prison time — and Gods, with the way this gem sparkles when you hold it close to the fire, your head is practically spinning.

You hold the medallion in shaky, unsure hands, unable to tear your gaze away. The room begins to twirl around you, and the gem inside shimmers, with a depth unlike anything you've ever seen. As though worlds upon universes are hidden inside it. Your throat feels as dry as a desert, and your heart won't stop hammering. You glance up. None the wiser, the man you've saved is still sleeping peacefully, his features soft, and his lips parted slightly as he lets go of faint, steady breaths.

Oh, you've really done it this time. Could you have crossed paths with anyone worse?

Perhaps he's a thief. He could have stolen the medallion, snatched it right out of the pockets of some oblivious royal advisor, and now he's hiding out here to avoid getting caught. As much as you want to believe that, as much as you want to imagine you don't have a man of importance in your cottage right now, that conclusion hardly makes sense.

This man, a thief? And one skilled enough to steal a royal medallion, of all things? With the way Aki came stumbling into your magic circle and onto your doorstep, you doubt he'd know subtlety if he was hit over the head with it.

He doesn't talk like how you imagined royalty would — Granted, how does a royal person talk? You always imagined some sort of overly flowery, fancy speech. Like the kind in the books you've read, about places and tales you'd much rather escape to.

Aki. You've never heard a name quite like his before. Just a few syllables, just a few letters. Kings and princes and squires usually have much fancier names, don't they? The knight in the book you've been reading is named Heinrich Vincent, and the princess is called Miss Edith Violet. Perhaps only the most important people have important names. Or perhaps, those books are just as you assumed they were: fairytales, and nothing more.

Aki is someone special then, he must be. That's your assumption — it's the only assumption you can come to, despite how the very thought makes your chest ache. He's probably a royal guard, someone with a bit of fighting experience, who thought he could stand a chance against a forest full of devils. Maybe he's some duke's distant cousin. He could be a mere knight, accepted as royalty after he became a princess' suitor.

Honestly, he could be anything, for all you care. Your magic is what caused him to nearly die out there. It was your spell, your doing that drew the demons together. You, heralding demons with your magic, like you're one of the archmages the history books warn about.

Your magic. Damn it all. The predicament you've found yourself in is so much worse than you ever could have imagined.

As the night stretched on and the rain battered your cottage, your more present problem helped to keep your worries at bay. You kept busy, preparing his medicine, and tending to the roaring fireplace. He mumbled in his sleep, occasionally. It wasn't really anything of note, merely fragmented sentences that barely made sense. Mumbled swears and slurred, barely-there apologies to no-one in particular.

When the man awakened, you held your resolve. You ignored the skip in your heart when his soft eyes met yours. You kept your unpracticed voice from wavering, and didn't shy away from any conversations.

It's been a very long time since you've heard someone else talk, especially this much. Those knights from ages ago only spared you a moment and a handful of words. Your own voice is comfortable, a melody your ears would gladly be wrapped in. You hate this, though. You despise the way you sound when your tone is threatening to wobble. The lump in your throat is all his fault; you can't think when he's speaking to you, can't focus on anything but the firelight as it flickers over his face.

And Aki's voice is smooth. Ridiculously smooth. He sounds assured when he speaks, his tone deep, words careful. You can't help but be hung onto everything he says to you, your spine tingling and your heart racing. It's strange, to hear a voice besides your own for once, and to have someone else filling the empty space in your quiet little cottage.

Aki's voice holds the ocean, every word plunging you into deeper depths, until he has warm waves rolling gently over your shoulders. Heat and exhilaration engulf you whole at the simplest of sentiments. Thinking to yourself, you toss and turn again, your worn, wooden bed creaking slightly from your movement. Even now, you can't help but think of him. You picture his voice, quiet and calm. You imagine the soft smiles he gave you, and your veins surge with a feeling you can't possibly describe.

You could listen to him speak forever. But Aki and forever are two luxuries you aren't afforded.

If he ever discovers who you are or what you've done, you won't even get a trial. He would hate you. You could never be allies, not with the secrets you hold. Not when he is royal, and you are a witch.

A man with such important ties to the kingdom, royalty or not, could make your fate whatever he wished. They'd schedule your execution for the very next morning, surely. The sooner you're disposed of, the better it is for the land. Hundreds would crowd the square to gawk at the witch a nobleman captured. Your poor mother would be frowning upon you from the heavens, as she watched her only child suffer her same fate.

Even as your eyes met those of your executioner, your hands tied behind your back with your wrists rubbed raw from the rope, and your head rested over a thick piece of wood, you wouldn't fight back. None of them would see an ounce of your magic, for better, or for worse. It would die with you, and everything would be your fault. You should have been more careful. Less kind.

Would Aki want to dispose of you himself? Could he be the one to bring his blade down on your neck? Would his normally-gentle expression be contorted in disgust, guilt, or conviction, as he whispered a deathly quiet I'm sorry to you, before his hands tightened on the hilt?

You aren't sure, nor do you want to know. If he ever proves dangerous, in order to survive, you would have to take matters into your own hands. He seems to trust you now, but if you became enemies, if you were ever forced to —

Aki's soft, slight smile drifts through your mind right then. In your dark bedroom, you can't help but groan, and cover your face with your hands.

No, you couldn't, you wouldn't. And it isn't just because it's him. It isn't simply because Aki is inexplicably kind and intriguing and the first person to speak with you in years. When you imagine him discovering the truth, learning who you are and deciding he hates you, a metaphorical knife twists into your gut. You'd rather he just take you to the kingdom and have you dealt with there, because even with your life on the line, you know you couldn't hurt him.

This man could very well lead you to your end. So why, why did you tell him to stay?

Death has always scared you, always haunted you. You've heard the stories they tell of mages, tales painting them as wicked beings who crush those who stand in their way under their feet. You want to be better. Pin you as soft, weak, or everything in between, you hardly care. Magic was meant to help, not harm. One day, perhaps far after your lifetime, magic and death won't walk hand in hand. One day, you hope you might be free.

And Aki — he would have died without you, you're sure of it. He might not be an adventurer, but you can buy that he's an experienced fighter. His body is covered in scars, in slashes left by devil claws or teeth. His palms are rough and calloused, which would make sense if he often wields a sword. He claimed to be a devil hunter, and when he spoke, the clearest sense of desperation present in his voice, you couldn't help but believe him.

You are a mage. A terrible, less than human blight, according to those in the kingdom. And Aki might be royalty. If you ever wound up following him to the city like he offered, you could be punished for even laying a single finger on him.

But were you just supposed to let him perish?

When you stood frozen in place at your door, clutching your heart as thunder broke through the night sky above, you were reminded of the kingdom. Of the death you witnessed there: the deaths of strangers, your acquaintances, your family. Your mind whirled with the image of the man you saw through the door's peephole. Chest heaving, blood dripping over his fingers; dull crimson, like the blade of an executioner's sword.

You've seen the way one looks when light is slipping from their eyes, with no hope left of clinging onto it. You imagined the sapphire spark to Aki's eyes fading into nothingness; crushed, and crumpling. Right then, your mind must have made itself up.

Aki doesn't deserve to die. Royalty be damned, he doesn't deserve to be eaten by those demons, left behind in an endless forest, afraid and alone. Trusting him here might wind up as the worst, most regrettable decision you've ever made. And yet, he has already trusted you with his life, hasn't he?

Your heart just needs to take the first, fatal step. Perhaps you need to let yourself trust.

Fucking hell. You need to stop your incessant thinking and let yourself sleep, that's what. Honestly, you've never felt this stressed in your entire life. How in the world are you supposed to handle this? Handle him?

He won't discover you're a mage, you'll make certain of that. You can't afford to be naive, no matter how you might be feeling. It doesn't matter how fast your heart is pounding right now as you lie in bed, sleepless, unable to keep your steady stream of thoughts from flowing back to him. Simply put, it's your fault he's in this mess in the first place — and you're going to be the one to fix it.

With a few small adjustments, you can make sure all of the magical items in your cottage are properly hidden away. You could heal him faster, if you were allowed to use magic. A potion would have him feeling better in no time, a healing spell could seal his wound almost immediately. Though, obviously, you'll have to work with the old ways for now. You'll need to make sure you're waking up early tomorrow to gather the necessary materials.

His wound will need to be tended to frequently, to keep it from getting infected. You'll prepare a concoction of herbs for him to take twice a day, and that'll help to keep his energy up. Rest will be important too, of course. There's plenty of normal, boring books strewn around your cottage, if he needs something to put him to sleep. As long as everything goes to plan, he should be fine to leave in a couple of days.

Right. Just a few days, and he'll be gone. The stranger you met by chance, who you saved on purpose, will fade into the forest until he becomes a fuzzy, unimportant blip in your memory.

Somehow, the thought doesn't fill you with the relief you would've expected.

In your cupboard, you still have some white-hazel left. Normally, the small, thin-petaled flowers don't grow during this time of year. You've decided to start keeping some extras as of late, just in case. White-hazel makes the mind foggy. The dried petals have to be sealed carefully in a jar, because the smell alone can get into your head. You would use small batches of it to ward away demons, before your distraction spells were perfected.

You doubt you'll ever be able to forget him. However, with a potent enough dosage, if you gave Aki some of those petals, you could erase every memory he has of you.

You'll allow him to stay, just long enough so he can recover. Once he's healthy, you'll send him on his way with a filled flask — a potion, infused with a hint of your magic. He'd only need to take a sip or two. Then, everything up until the moment he entered the forest would be lost. He wouldn't remember you, or your cottage, or the pain the demons brought upon him. It's better this way, really.

In the meantime, you must avoid growing closer to him. Revealing even the smallest of details could put you at risk, before you have the chance to make good on your plan. He doesn't have to know your name. Nor anything about you.

Aki is nothing more than a stranger, an unlucky coincidence, an empty promise. Ultimately, he will stay that way.

When you eventually drift off to sleep, it isn't until hours later. Your heart stays tied up in knots, and you dream of nothing but a cold, shuddering darkness.

—

One thing's for sure, if Aki is a man of royal blood, he certainly doesn't act like it.

He isn't… uncouth, as a fancy nobleman might call it. Actually, he's pretty damn polite. He always keeps his space in the living room tidy. His voice is gentle when he speaks to you, dripping with a thick sense of kindness you aren't at all used to. In the few days since he first started staying with you, he's been nothing but patient and respectful.

He's kept to resting, mostly. After the first night, you managed to move all of your spellbooks and magical items to your bedroom. By the second, you had properly concealed everything behind magic that should be impossible to detect. Although you weren't about to give him a reason, you finally made sure to mention he should continue sleeping in the living room, and avoid entering your bedroom under any circumstances.

When you told him this morning, Aki didn't question it. He flashed you a slightly amused look, while he tugged on the laces of his boots to tighten them, and plainly, he answered, Of course. It's your bedroom, obviously I wouldn't go in. Do you take me as rude?

Huh. No, he's far from rude, even though you never wound up formulating a response. He doesn't complain about the bitter herbs you have him take. He barely winces or grumbles while you tend to his wound, rewrapping his bandages.

Sometimes you'd find him pacing around the living room to stretch his sore legs, but otherwise, he's been getting plenty of rest in his cot — just as you'd instructed. He's so quiet some days, if you're reading or tidying things in your bedroom, you'll tend to forget he's even there. Aki is different from what you were expecting, that's all.

He's a good sort of different, though. Maybe it's your fault, for having such silly expectations in the first place. You thought people from the kingdom — especially people of royalty — were supposed to be stuck-up, selfish, boring. Overly-posh, and with nothing interesting to talk about besides themselves.

You admired those from the castle when you were younger. You wanted to be noticed by them, or maybe you wanted to be them. Now, you can only imagine royalty as bland and heartless. They spend their days cooped up in their castles, tending to dull affairs. And for their nights, they attend such fancy dinners and parties, while the commoners in the kingdom are left to rot.

Aki serves to defy all of those expectations.

Granted, the moments you've spent together since the night you first took him in have been few and far between. He didn't seem to notice how you initially avoided him, and he didn't protest when you'd leave for the entire day to forage. He doesn't comment whenever you stow away, the door to your bedroom shut tight, while you keep to yourself for hours at a time. It's difficult to find words whenever he's near. You get choked up inside, your heart pounds in your ears like that of a frightened rabbit, and you aren't sure if it's because of the lingering fear, or perhaps the proximity.

Tending to his wound shouldn't be the event your overthinking brain makes it out to be, but Aki sits so close, closer than anyone else has ever been. You can hear the echoes of his breathing, can feel his soft and scarred skin underneath your fingertips. His muscles tense as you press gently to the sore scrape on his side.

Can he hear the quickened edge to your breathing, too? You wonder if Aki knows he's already killing you from the inside; no-one has ever trusted you like this, just as you've never trusted another. It's relieving to know your foolishness is mutual.

Your conversations while you're patching him up are pleasant, albeit brief. They're space and silence fillers. Still, it's the only time where you truly get to talk to him. Where you can exchange more than a couple of words, at least. You know you only have yourself to blame, but you don't want him to realize you know more than you're letting on. You try to keep your time together and your questions to a minimum.

Aki explains that although he's found himself in plenty of scuffles with devils before, he hasn't been wounded like this in quite a long while. Weaker devils rarely faze him, but this time, he was distracted. It'll be relieving to finally recover, he says. He wants to be able to move, to fight again. He's been growing a little stir-crazy here, apparently.

In a hurry to leave, are you? You mumbled, while you carefully pressed a damp rag to his skin, your gaze focused on the task. The fireplace crackled from beside you, warming your limbs and chasing away the cold chill of the night. You miss the kingdom that much?

I don't miss it at all. Aki answered, not missing a beat. He shivered from the coolness of the cloth, a fire-lit glow pooling over his slightly-tanned skin. I just feel like I could be more useful. I'm not accustomed to… to this. You're the first person I've ever owed my life to. The sooner I recover, the sooner I can begin finding some way to repay you.

You wanted to reassure him repayment won't be necessary. In the end, you held your tongue.

Aki continued, and with nothing else to fill the air, you listened. He's quite a good story-teller, in your opinion. As your fingers curiously felt the ridges of another deep scar on his stomach, Aki recounted the tale behind it: he was far from the city. Miles and miles, in fact. The devil he encountered was three times his size. It had a body made of bone, with a wolf-like, hollow skull, illuminated only by red eyes that shone like glowing, flickering flames.

And you defeated it? You hum in slight disbelief, a brow raised; this time, you're looking up at him, bandages held loosely in your hands. All by yourself?

Yes, all by myself, Aki answers, tone smooth and unflinching. His expression can't be read, but you swear you catch a hint of a barely-there smile on his lips.

Defeating it was the easy part, He says, pointing to the jagged scar, Save for the blow it landed right here. I followed its trail into the mountains, and by the time I tracked it down, I was utterly lost. I slept out there for three days before I finally found my way back to the closest town. I showed up exhausted, hungry, and covered in every kind of scrape and bruise you can picture.

You smooth out his bandages and secure them with a tight knot. Sounds like how we met.

Yeah. Those townspeople weren't as kind as you are, though. They fed me river snails.

Right then, you can't stop yourself from laughing. You're chuckling through your words — he sounded so damn serious — and you're gazing up at him with a rather playful grin.

Snails? You question, Did they taste disgusting?

Aki is smirking slightly, a potent spark burning in the back of his sapphire eyes. They were awful. Way worse than any medicine you could ever give me. I guess the people there thought the snails had healing properties- It took me a whole week to recover, by the way. And the inns were out of rooms, so can you guess where they had me stay?

I'm not sure. Where?

A brothel.

When you freeze, your eyes going as wide as a full moon, Aki clears his throat, and he nervously glances between you and the fireplace. It was uneventful. Very, very uneventful. Definitely nothing like what you must be imagining- sorry. We should save the rest of those stories for another day. Right?

You remember rolling your eyes, before you breathed an amused exhale, and proclaimed that yes, it certainly sounds like a stupid story, but you would like that.

The logical side of you says you probably shouldn't. Aki isn't your ally, nor could he ever be your friend. Looking forward to the few moments you spend together is pointless, when the both of you will be forced to forget them in a few day's time.

Aki's experiences are enthralling. His voice is like a damn vice, lulling you into getting lost in him. You haven't been anywhere but the kingdom many ages ago and this forest. But Aki has seen towns, oceans, and mountains. In pursuit of the devils he's set out to slay, he's been to places you could only dream of. He is a dream you cannot have, a friend you must not make.

As the days stretch on and on, and as your forgotten dreams meld with the intricate stories Aki recounts for you, those little talks seem to stick inside your mind.

If only things were different. If only you weren't you, and he wasn't what you know him to be. A man of royalty, conversing with a witch.

Darkness will always be ruined by light.

For now though, you have to focus on the present. Aki has been healing well from his injury. In only a few days, he's recovered most of his energy. Although he still needs a bit more time before he can put a true amount of strain on himself, he's fine to walk, at least. Fine to leave the cottage, as long as he isn't wandering far.

And he's well enough that he can finally join you, as you venture into the depths of the forest to search for the belongings he left behind.

—

"Do you think my bag is still out here?"

Staring down at your feet, you breathe a light tsk at that, and you kick a pebble with your next step forwards to send it skittering in front of you. "Possibly. Demons don't tend to mess with human junk. What did you have in there?"

Aki hums in thought, his brows pinching. He attempts to count by using his fingers. "I had a notebook, a pen, some ink, some gold… some clothes, I think. Nothing too important."

"If they got into your bag, maybe they'd take the coins," You answer methodically, "But otherwise, everything should be right where you left it. Keep an eye out, and let me know if anything starts looking familiar."

The bright rays of the sun warm your bare skin, shining onto your arms and shimmering over the rippling, shallow water. You've been following the river's edge for a while now, walking along the path it creates while occasionally veering closer to the forest to look around. Aki couldn't recall exactly where he was attacked; not that you can blame him. That night was dark, stormy, and either way, every tree and bush and field of grass looks exactly the same. However, he did remember hearing the babble of the river nearby. Following it gives you the best chance of finding his things, you suppose.

Today, the sky is bright blue and cloudless. Gravel crunches under your boots. The river laps at the rocks, and morning songbirds chirp from the distant trees. With your hands shoved in your pants pockets, and your gaze focused on your feet, you make sure to take careful steps over fallen logs and twisted roots. Aki keeps pace beside you, following you more than he's following the river.

His hair is half-tied up like the day you met him, showing off his delicate earrings and pointed ears. He looks much different in the sunlight. More handsome, surely, spotted rays shining through the forest's canopy to paint amber patterns across his skin. The sleeves of his tunic have been rolled up to expose his scarred forearms.

He keeps a healthy level of distance from you, not straying too far or walking too close. He's glancing between the path ahead, the forest, and sometimes to you. You're glad. If he was any closer, you doubt you'd be able to keep your thoughts clear.

Demons — or devils, as he calls them — are few in number during the early morning hours, so you made sure to leave with Aki just after dawn. By now, you likely have two or three hours at most, before the devils start appearing from their dens.

You're already halfway along the river's trail. You should be able to finish searching, and you'll have plenty of time to head back to the cottage. You'll plan to collect some herbs and mushrooms on the way back. That way, locating Aki's belongings or not, this trip won't end up a total bust.

You'll find his things though, hopefully. This side of the forest was where you placed your distraction rune.

Aki has to walk a bit slower than you. Clearly, he's trying not to let the pain still left in his side show; he doesn't wince or falter much from the pace you've set. Although you don't mind, you aren't used to having to wait for someone else to catch up. You fall into a rhythm of skipping ahead, hopping over stones, and then stopping once you get a short way in front of him. Aki gives you an entertained look when you wait, turning back to glance at him. You decide to deliberately slow down to keep yourself at his side, and you try to ignore the heat you feel budding at the back of your neck.

The sun's warmth is calming. It shines sparsely through the trees, evoking a heavy feeling in your veins when it hits your skin. If it wasn't for Aki walking so close beside you, you'd probably have fallen asleep standing up. You roll your shoulders backward, and stretch your arms to the sky. Then, you yawn, trying to blink away the fuzziness in your vision. To no avail, unfortunately.

"Tired?" Aki pipes up. You hadn't noticed he was looking at you until his voice startled you awake.

You rub your eyes, shrugging. "Kind of. But I'll be fine."

If you instead were honest with him, with yourself, you are very tired. Your head feels weighed down by thick stones, as large and cumbersome as the ones in the river bed. Your limbs feel weaker and more sluggish than usual, as though they're actively working against you. Since Aki started staying in your cottage, you haven't slept well at all. Last night, you kept tossing and turning, thinking just to think some more. Your mind won't keep steady.

You hate not knowing exactly what you're supposed to do. You hate that you can't figure him out, no matter how much you think or try to pry information from him. Your messy plan could go awry a thousand different ways because of a thousand different things and —

Aki is still staring at you. Blinking, you turn away, hoping he didn't notice you zoning out.

"You sure?" Aki asks, a brow raised. Okay, he totally noticed. "That's probably the fourth or fifth time you've yawned in the past five minutes. We can take a break, if you'd like. I wouldn't mind pushing our search back to tomorrow."

"I'm okay, really," You scoff. You kick another pebble, and watch as it flies into the river, pushed by the current for a bit before it slowly sinks to the bottom. "Let's just hurry. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we'll be safe from demons."

For a couple of moments, you both fall into silence. The only sound to echo between you is your boots crunching the gravel. But still, Aki's gaze is on you: astute and sparkling. Even though you're staring at your shoes, you can clearly see him glancing at you from the corner of your eye, his mouth pressed into a focused line. He's pondering. Was it something you said?

You didn't mess up, did you?

Aki breathes a small hmm, and he calmly concludes, "You aren't familiar with devils, are you?"

Suddenly, you're stopping in your tracks. Aki freezes beside you. His expression is unreadable as you turn to face him, giving him a particularly annoyed look.

"What makes you say that?" You retort, hardly trying to hide the bit of harshness laced through your tone. You've been fighting the stupid creatures for almost your entire life, of course you're knowledgeable about them. Knowledgeable enough, at least.

"Well, you call them demons," Aki replies, sounding indifferent. "Pretty sure my great grandparents were the last ones to call them that."

"It's the same thing." You turn back to following the river, and continue walking while you speak. "I've survived out here for as long as I have, with demons lurking in every inch of this forest. And you think I know nothing of them?"

Demons. You couldn't recall what your parents might've called them, or what those in the kingdom knew them as. During your earliest days in the forest, you remember summoning a book on, to quote the book's title: Formidable Demons and Magical Creatures. The book must have been centuries old. At the time, you didn't have enough experience to decipher it. You flipped through the pages and memorized the illustrations of "known demons", before tucking the tome away on your shelf, to be read at a later date.

Damn. You have plenty of first-hand experience, but if most of your knowledge is sourced from some dusty old book you never actually wound up finishing, maybe he's right.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way," He apologizes, speeding up a bit so he can continue walking beside you. "I'm not knocking how resourceful you are, it's impressive. Perhaps I should have worded it differently. You're familiar with devils, yes. But I think your perspective of them might be much different from mine."

Your eyes narrow. Thinking, you cross your arms in front of you, and your gaze drifts back to the path ahead.

"Okay, so," You start, your words a bit less assured this time, "I know demons- devils- come in multiple forms. They feed off of fear, they're always carnivores, and they can only be slain, they'll never die of old age. There. Promise you'll cut me some slack if I missed anything."

"Don't worry," Aki hums, "That was perfect. Devils grow stronger in the presence of fear. I'm sure you already know as much. They become drawn to the fear people have for them, like a moth to firelight."

When you find yourself absently glancing back towards Aki, your eyes wind up meeting his own. Holding his gaze feels soft, as though you're falling into clouds. You examine the distinct, pointed shape of his ears. His earrings shimmer once they catch the sunlight, and sway slightly with each of his steps.

"Correct me if this isn't right, but I've heard demons love elves." Your brows form the slightest pinch. "Supposedly, their blood is ripe with magic."

Aki laughs. "Those stories about elves are just tales. My blood is no more delicious than yours. And either way, even if it was true, I'd wager devils haven't done a very good job at making me their prey."

"Makes sense. I guess those creatures don't care whose blood they're spilling, as long as they can get their fix of it."

"What else do you think of them?" Aki asks, his head tilted slightly in your direction. "Of devils, I mean."

You fall silent. Cautiously, carefully, you attempt to figure out what sort of answer Aki is wanting to hear.

The oldest tales, just as old as the ones you once read about elves and kings and long-gone magical creatures, say devils were born jealous of humanity. They envied the magic humans were capable of using — and so, they sought to extinguish it. Your current understanding would tell you devils don't care for magic, or humanity, or jealousy. All they desire is destruction, for common folk and mages alike.

The relationship between humanity and devils is reciprocal. Humans and elves are the only ones capable of destroying devils, but devils need people in order to grow stronger. Devils need their fear, their torment. Weaker devils will go after whatever they're capable of hunting, but intelligent devils know how to bend people to their advantage. They excel at manipulation. And as senseless as it might seem, devils do possess plenty of things humanity does not.

You fiddle with the straps of your backpack, running your thumbs over the smooth leather and gold buckles. In response, you can only think to offer the most simple, obvious of statements.

"I think anyone who chooses to make a deal with a devil is a fool."

Aki goes quiet. Then, he grins, and breathes something of a half-laugh, half-sigh. The gentle sound does well to put you at ease.

"Yeah," He replies, "Foolish, greedy, or desperate. Or perhaps all three. Careful-"

Nearly tripping, you stop when he does. You almost walked right into a large log, where the river bends and breaks upon the mossy wood blocking its way. Aki briefly extends his hand out for you to take, but you hop over without his help, taking a large step over the log before returning your hands to your pockets.

He's making that same endearing, pondering face again.

"You've probably already heard this story, but," He begins, speaking while you both walk, "They say devils came into existence the day the elves cast their first spell. Mankind was impure. The Gods made devils our punishment for casting magic ripe with impurities. When elves first discovered healing spells, devils began to appear with the ability to heal themselves of any attack inflicted upon them. Humanity discovered fire magic. Then came devils with fire-drenched skin. Their bodies melted metal, and they scorched the ground they touched, leaving an ashen trail in their wake."

You like the way Aki tells stories. He recounts them in such a deliberate way, as though he's reading directly from one of your fairytale books. This story is grim, and certainly one you've heard before. Yet, you can't stop the smile that begins to tug at your cheeks.

"Mhmm. And then, the devils slaughtered everyone and left the world in ruin," You tease, glancing towards him playfully, your hands at your hips. "Do you enjoy scaring children with that old story?"

"Occasionally. My version of it usually ends with humanity defeating the devils, though. You know, happy endings and such."

"Right. A happy ending sounds nice. Don't want to scare them too much."

Aki hums in agreement. "We could have one- a happy ending. That story isn't over yet."

His story, or yours?

You swallow, thickly and heavily. The trees above you whisper in the slight wind, and the river babbles, flowing steadily downstream. You try to keep your focus on the path ahead of you, instead of Aki walking beside you.

"It's just a story," You assert. "Maybe magic was the source of demons a thousand odd years ago, but it hardly matters now."

Aki's mouth forms the faintest pout, and he glances down at his shoes. "I'm sure it isn't much of a surprise, but I've never actually seen magic."

"You probably never will," You answer, your voice turning somber, resolute. "People believe magic and mages to be dangerous. As long as they continue to think anyone capable of casting magic is a devil themselves, you won't even hear an utterance of the word."

"Do you agree with them?" Aki asks flippantly, a brow raised.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Do you think mages are dangerous?"

Out of everything he could have said, everything he could have possibly mentioned, why would Aki ask you such a question?

Right then, you're sure your heart must have defied gravity and reason to drop directly into your throat. You nearly choke. Your spine prickles, unease running rampant through your system. You aren't sure how you manage to come up with any words in the first place, but somehow, you decide to talk without thinking.

Your shoulders feel tense. "Obviously. Magic could be used to level a city, to mind control a king, to win any war. Or to start one, for that matter."

Aki hums. For once, his smooth, persistently calm voice grows close to getting on your nerves. "It's difficult. Magic has already done so much harm, but it could do just as much good. When I think of mages, I just see… people. People who want to survive. They aren't monsters or devils."

You stop in front of him, and he stops with you. Aki's head tilts slightly. As though he knows you want to speak, he's just waiting for it.

"You know," You're starting, brows pinched, arms crossed, "Those sorts of statements could get you strung up for heresy."

"Good thing we're far from the city then, right?"

Nearly, in a hazy mix of confusion and exhaustion and fear and admiration, you almost form a rebuttal. Your arms drop to your sides, and your hands become clenched into fists. Your lips part slightly, to say something your mind hasn't quite decided on yet, just to close at the tightening of your jaw. He's messing with you. He must be.

Mages aren't people — You aren't like him, you are fundamentally different. Surely, he knows what mages truly are as well as you do. You were born with a spark in your veins and a fire at your fingertips. Humanity, and perhaps the Gods themselves are afraid of you. No-one can stomach you but yourself. Aki is but a man; a foolish, stupid mortal. And you were promised a cage.

Aki's gaze on yours appears to soften, his arms crossed loosely, his gaze flickering from the conflict on your face to your stiffened posture. Nervously rubbing your arm with your palm, you can't meet his eyes anymore; you can only look away. Your vision chooses to focus elsewhere, on anything but him. Fortunately, just beyond where Aki is standing in front of you, if you squint, you can spot something at the edge of the trees. A leather bag, partially torn open, resting in a patch of grass and tiny flowers.

"Hey, is that your stuff?"

Aki's eyes widen, before he turns to look in the direction you've started pointing towards.

"Well, shit."

—

The scene surrounding where Aki's bag lay discarded is true to what he previously described to you.

As you approach, and as Aki kneels down to gather his things, you glance around the area. You find his sword amongst the grass a foot or so away, steel separated from hilt, the blade tainted with dull blood-stains. The steel is chipped — from gradual wear or from a devil's fangs, you aren't quite sure. His bag is crumpled. A medium-sized hole has been torn into the side, certainly made from a devil's sharp teeth. For now, you slide your pack from your shoulders, and allow him to put his belongings inside.

There's no gold in his backpack, nor could he find any in the grass surrounding it, of course. There is, however, some rations, a spare tunic, a quill pen, and a notebook — still in his bag, so thankfully, the pages were kept dry from the rain.

Aki fussed over losing a jar of ink, but you assured him it wouldn't be a problem. It'd be best to head into the woods anyways, to find herbs for him and food for the both of you. Black Dragon flowers are common in this area, and when crushed up, they can be used to make ink. If either of you could find a few blossoms, you'd be glad to make some for him.

"In return," You said, as Aki rose to his feet, matching your gaze with a curious one, "See if you can find me some wood. A few branches might've fallen during the storm. I need something thick and sturdy. About this," You gesture with your hands — "Big."

"Ah." He dusts the dirt from his knees with his palms, and hands your pack back to you when you reach out for it. "For firewood?"

"No, silly. We have plenty. It's for carving."

Aki smiles, perhaps considering, or perhaps recalling the little sculptures made from wood that are strewn throughout the shelves in your cottage. "Right. Deal."

With a plan now in mind, you crammed what remained of Aki's bag into your own pack — to use for scrap material — and you ventured through the trees, and into the forest.

It's much easier to keep your mind from wandering with a task to occupy you. Gathering some mushrooms for eating and finding the flowers you mentioned doesn't take too long. Together, you and Aki head a short ways into the forest, staying careful to keep far from where the devils often make their dens. This area is relatively safe regardless, but it's still good to be on your guard. You let yourself forget about your previous conversations, while you quietly show Aki the difference between the herbs he needs and the fauna he shouldn't touch.

You don't talk much, only a few words at most, until you're busy gathering the last of what you need.

Aki comes over, a smooth piece of wood held in his hands. Rested on your knees, you grab the stems of a handful of herbs, and swiftly tug to pull their roots from the ground. You glance up at him as he leans down to hand the wood to you. The canopy of trees is much thicker here. Shadows dance across his face, his arms, his palms and his clothes — still dusted with dirt from searching through undergrowth with you.

Hardly befitting of royalty, isn't it? Isn't he?

You smile to yourself, and chase away the thought.

"Will this do?" Aki asks, turning the piece of wood over, while he runs his fingertips along its rough surface. "It's the best I've found so far."

"Mhmm, that's perfect. Thank you." You take it from him, and reach for your pack beside you, flipping it open to stuff the wood inside. There's little space left, but eventually, you're able to fit it carefully beside a few small pouches of mushrooms and herbs.

Aki stands. He hesitates, before he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck with his palm. "This… might be a stupid question. But it's still okay that I'm staying with you, right?"

"Of course it is- It's fine." You shrug, your focus kept on the foliage. With more carefulness, you gather a few of the thickest leaves. They'll be good for sealing his wound, for guiding it to fully heal. "Why? You want to leave that badly, huh?"

Aki tucks his hands into his pants pockets. "I don't want to intrude. That's all."

"I already told you, you're staying until you get better. No protests." Your tone seems to carry a familiar lilt of annoyance, but to his surprise, when you stuff a bundle of herbs into your pack and glance up at him once you're finished, your gaze is warm. You're donning the slightest, softest smile.

"And just so you know," You mutter, glancing between him and your backpack as you snap it's buckle shut, "Your company isn't unpleasant."

"Huh." Aki breathes a light-hearted huff. "Is that a compliment?"

"Partially."

Glancing away, looking towards the forest, he can't help but mimic your smile — shyly, almost. It's stupidly endearing. You hate how endearing he is.

"Your company isn't unpleasant either. I mean-" He stammers, "It's nice. I enjoy talking with you. I was thinking, if you'd like, when we get back, I could-"

Still staring into the trees just beyond you, Aki stops. An abrupt, nerve-wracking pause follows, long enough and silent enough to have your gaze flickering over him. His jaw is set. His eyes are wide, his face is slightly panicked. You swallow, freezing up. Slowly, without moving a muscle, you follow where Aki is looking — just in time to see the bushes a fair distance in front of you rustle.

The trees sway, whispering dark promises as the wind picks up, a sharp breeze gliding over your bare skin. It's probably nothing. No, it's surely nothing. The chance of a demon- a devil- traveling all the way out to this side of the forest without outside influence is slim. You know this, and yet —

You're fine. You have to convince yourself, you need to remember that no matter what, you're going to be perfectly fine. If it is a devil, the most important thing is to keep your cool. Level your head and breathe deeply, just as you've learned and practiced, like the books you read have instructed. In, and then out. You need to breathe.

It's fine. It might not detect you if you're able to stay calm. Perhaps you're panicking for no reason. You're exhausted, you're seeing things. Your weary mind is playing cruel tricks on you. The longer your stare lingers on those thick, rustling bushes and shadow-filled trees, the more your breath sharpens, the stronger your heart begins to thump — Fuck, why can't you just stay calm?

Stay calm, stay calm. This is stupid, you're acting stupid. There's nothing, there has to be nothing; no danger, no devil waiting to attack and tear the both of you in two. You won't need to defend yourself, you won't have to blow your cover. What if he already knows? With the way he brought up mages earlier, maybe he's going to run and leave you to be ambushed, maybe he planned this, maybe —

A gentle palm is placed on your shoulder, and you practically jump out of your own skin.

You whip around to look at the man you nearly forgot was even there; Aki eyes you with concern, never tearing his gaze from you as you scramble to unsteady feet. Standing close beside him, closer than you should be, you're focused on the forest again. Stress is present in your features, while an obvious shake lingers in your limbs.

"Aki-" You mumble, speaking on the edge of an anxiety-ridden whisper, "We need- Shouldn't we-"

"We're fine," Aki answers calmly, quietly. He reaches for your hand, and he grabs it softly. His palm brushes your knuckles. His fingers caress your skin as he squeezes faintly, and your heart pounds so hard it displaces your ribs. "Look."

He points, and you allow your hazy vision to come back into focus. Through the trees, approaching cautiously while hopping among the shadows, you spot the thin legs, patterned coat, and small horns of a baby Great Elk.

Aki hums, "I've never seen a baby one before." He murmurs low enough for only you to hear, in pleasant disbelief. "They never get this close. Sorry, are you-"

Suddenly, as he is turning towards you, you're pushing away, and yanking your hand away from his.

"I'm fine," You answer, taking a few steps back. At the sound of your voice, no longer hushed, the baby elk runs, scampering back into the trees. Aki watches uselessly as you retrieve your backpack and sling it over your shoulders. "Let's just go."

Your voice is unsteady. Your gaze is focused on your shoes. You clutch the front of your cape, the space closest to your heart, and you press one hand to the back of the other. Idly, your palm runs over the shape of your own knuckles, as your teeth nervously find your bottom lip.

You understand what it feels like to let fire dance in your palms, to have spell-spawned sparks flickering underneath your skin. This is far worse. The hand Aki touched feels as though it's burning.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs, "For a second, I really thought it was-"

"I said, let's go."

You're already turning, walking in a direction he'd never recall if you left him to be lost out here, and so Aki has no choice but to follow.

He sighs defeatedly. "Okay. That's alright. We can go."

As you and Aki walk back to your cottage, you make your way there with the most distance that's ever been between you.

—

"Hold still."

"Shit- Sorry. I'm trying."

Aki flinches as you carefully press a cool, damp cloth to his side. Squinting, using the dim light from the fireplace and the flickering candles to illuminate your task, you focus on cleaning what remains of his wound.

These past few days, although still a bit sore, it hasn't been bleeding much. What was once a large, gnarled gash has healed into a faint, red scrape. It probably won't leave much of a scar after all. He has your medicine to thank for his quick recovery. You weren't sure how the wound might fare after he spent the day traveling through the forest with you, but aside from a hint of discomfort, he seems relatively healthy. Still energized, even. After setting the rag aside, you grab a handful of fresh bandages, which you made from the scraps of his old, stained tunic.

"It's healed well," You comment plainly. You and Aki are sitting on the wooden floor, cross-legged, close to the fireplace. Close in proximity. The persistent heat of the fire flutters across your arms and your back, chasing away the cool night air.

Reaching into a wooden bowl, you use two fingers to smear a thick herbal mixture onto the inside of the bandages. Then, you swiftly begin to wrap them around his bare torso, taking note of the way his muscles flex.

You breathe a low, inquisitive hum. "Still seems tender, though."

"It is. A bit." Aki supports his weight with his palms, leaning back to give you more room. Firelight curves over his chest, his shoulders, his collarbones. "But I'm doing alright, thanks to you. I'm sure I'll be fully healed soon."

And soon, he'll be leaving.

You try not to think about it as you focus on the precise movements of your hands. There's far too many stressful things you still need to mull over, and now isn't the time.

Wrapping his bandages is a careful, but quick process; at this point, you're used to it. Aki keeps as motionless as he can manage while you tie the bandages off to keep them in place. You collect the wooden bowl in one hand, before promptly rising to your feet. He watches you snatch his spare tunic from where it hangs over the edge of his cot. He catches it once you toss it at him.

"I'm going to make dinner," You remark, "Stew probably, same as last time." Already, you're turning on your heels, heading into the kitchen. You set the wooden bowl aside, and Aki scrambles to pull his shirt over his head.

"Wait-"

He's rushing to come stand beside you, still straightening his tunic and fitting his arms through the sleeves, while you're plopping your backpack onto the counter. Aki reaches back, fixing his hair and pulling it from beneath his neckline. Busy focusing on opening your backpack, you give him a raised brow, a perplexed side-glance.

"Let's make it together," Aki says — and with how ridiculous his preposition sounds, with how unheard of it is to you, you can't help but laugh.

"That isn't necessary." You shrug, and turn back to your bag. You root around inside for a moment, before you find a small leather pouch, containing several bonnet-shaped mushrooms.

"I know," Aki replies; he's already reaching into your cupboards, wasting no time finding a couple of bowls and a cutting board. His mind has been made, apparently. "I want to make it with you, though. Can you teach me?"

Your eyes narrow. Your hands are shuddery as you pull the pouch open, briefly counting the mushrooms inside. Inevitably, you breathe a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping from the weight of it. Aki sets the cutting board down, his gaze flickering over you, and you dump the mushrooms out onto the counter in front of him.

"Chop these up into small pieces. Knives are in the drawer to your right."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

Silence falls upon the kitchen as you and Aki prepare dinner together, side by side. His knife — your knife — echoes rhythmically against the wooden cutting board as he carefully chops mushroom after mushroom. You grind herbs to use for seasoning with a mortar and pestle. The fireplace crackles, and your foot taps against the floor just slightly. Too slight for him to hear, and not enough to calm your nerves.

Any slight lull makes you think too much. About devils, about the kingdom. About him, and what you're going to do once he's gone. At the very least, this silence is much more comfortable, compared to the prickling stillness that befell the both of you on the way back to your cottage. You're grateful you haven't yet ruined things.

Since then, you've barely managed to regain the faintest sliver of your composure. Your heart isn't pounding anymore, thankfully, despite how close the two of you need to stand to work together in the kitchen. You designed your space for one, not for two. The stove is in the middle of the counter, and in order to reach to dump ingredients into a pot, you need to lean so close to him your arms nearly touch.

Instead, your heart aches, twisting and pulling at your chest, sending blood rushing to your fragile hands and making them shake each time you remember the way Aki touched you. He grabbed your right hand. It still feels warm, in a way. Haunted by a touch softer than a flower's thin petals. Your mind swims, your grip on the pestle faltering slightly.

Gods, you're ridiculous. A more composed version of yourself would surely be scolding you right now.

First, you let a man you hardly know into your cottage, a man who happened to be royalty, of all things. Then, you panic over nothing, getting all freaked out over a harmless baby elk. Now, you're allowing yourself to nearly lose your damned mind over such a small, inconsequential, useless touch. Over Aki's touch.

Aki, who's life exists in a universe far removed from your own. Who is going to leave, who has a few days left before he will have to forget about you. You really, seriously need to get a grip.

"I'm sorry," You mutter, breaking the silence, your voice barely loud enough to be heard. Aki stops though, glancing in your direction, making it clear that he did notice. "Normally I wouldn't get scared like that. You know, when we were in the forest. I just- I'm stressed, that's all. Or tense, I guess. And exhausted."

"I knew you were still thinking about what happened earlier," Aki concludes, reading you correctly. He scoops a handful of chopped mushrooms into his palms, and places them into the already-boiling pot on the stove. "There's no need to apologize. I must have startled you. I was… scared too, for a moment."

Aki's knife swiftly hits the cutting board as he cuts the rest of the mushrooms, and you prop your head on your palm, your fingers drumming against the counter.

He's only partially paying attention to the task at hand. His eyes continuously and not-so-subtly keep drifting away from the cutting board, and back to you. You really wish he wouldn't. Your heart is already beginning to skip again; you don't need it running and tripping over itself while you're trying to thinly cut up some parsley.

"You're going to chop your finger off."

Aki stops at your words. Your gaze is focused on your bundle of parsley and scissors, but he still looks towards you anyways, breathing a slight, playful laugh. He elegantly twirls his knife in a circle before returning it to the cutting board — only this time, he makes sure to watch what he's doing.

"I cooked for my family a few times when I was a kid," He starts, chopping a mushroom carefully and slowly. "That was ages ago, though. I think I forgot everything I once learned."

You still remember your mother's cooking lessons like she taught them to you yesterday. Keep your knives sharp. Watch the stove, try not to use too much firewood. You can add, but you can never subtract. Were those moments the last time you shared the kitchen with someone else?

It's a bit difficult to get used to. You keep expecting to have more work, you still feel surprised when you turn to see someone standing next to you. But it feels calming. A crisp, fluttering feeling you can't quite put your finger on — not that you want to, you'd rather not face it. You've decided it's nice to make dinner with him, simply sharing your space, even though you aren't doing anything too special. For the first time in what might be forever, you aren't alone.

Perhaps you should be savoring this.

"I did too," You reply, pausing the movement of your scissors for a moment. "But when I was a kid, I hated cooking. I cut my hand once, the first time I tried to peel potatoes. My mom bandaged me up. From there on out, I would cry every time she asked me to cook with her."

Aki breathes a slight hmm, and he reasons, "You were scared of getting hurt again."

"I suppose so."

"Did you ever end up cooking with her?"

"No. I remember some of what she tried to teach me, but… I mostly taught myself," You answer, briefly hesitating. "This is the first time I've tried to cook with someone else since then, I think. I like it. I like your company."

Too honest, perhaps. Your mother might have told you to keep on your toes in this situation, to avoid giving away too much information. But your heart is already beating fast, and the words have already left you before you've thought about them.

Aki glances at you, your gaze staying focused on your hands, on your work. You seem lost in thought. He finds it difficult to read the blank expression on your face.

"I understand. I think I get how you feel, honestly." His voice is smooth, calm. Drifting through you, until it sparks within your chest like a brand new star. "My mother never got the chance to teach me much. She was busy working, or busy tending to my younger brother."

"Your mom," You answer quietly, "Do you miss her?"

"Yeah. And you?"

Your jaw tenses, your teeth uncomfortably grinding together. You place the parsley into the pot, and dust your palms over the counter. "Of course. You always miss the family you've lost."

He's long since finished chopping up the remainder of mushrooms, but Aki's grip tightens on the knife, and he idly taps the tip of the blade against the firm cutting board. He hums a slight mhmm in agreement.

"My mother always said cooking was one of the most important skills one could learn," Aki continues. "I thought she'd have more time to teach me. She would tell me, 'You need to be prepared if you go off on your own, you won't always like what other people make for you.' Something like that. I'm not sure I believed her, at first."

"Uh-huh," You raise a brow. "And then you were forced to eat river snails."

Oh. Realizing your change in tone only after the fact, you look at him immediately, your nerves prickling, your skin heating up with embarrassment. Truthfully, you haven't had much practice with conversations; Aki is the first. You've said more to him in the past few days than you think you ever have.

Perhaps you should've thought more before you spoke. It's one thing to say something you might regret, it's another to raise tensions with him. He was serious, and you just made some stupid joke that sounded flat enough to be a rude comment —

But Aki smirks, he laughs wholeheartedly; the sound rings through you, tender and burning. You feel a reassuring wave travel all the way down your spine.

"Okay, I think I would've had to try those regardless," He hums, exhaling another amused huff of breath. He drops the rest of the mushrooms into the stove pot, and with nothing else to do but wait for the stew to be ready, he swiftly reaches for a rag, and begins wiping down the cutting board.

"They were supposed to make you heal faster, or not get sick- or something, I'm not sure," He continues, "They never actually did anything. Trust me, if I was cooking for myself, I wouldn't have opted to include those."

"At least you tried them," You reply, shrugging. "Now you've got a good story to tell. Besides, there's plenty of things that might look awful even though they taste pretty good."

"Truffles," Aki says through a groan, "Gods, how I refused to eat those. It drove my parents up a wall."

"What's that?"

Propping your head up with your arm once more, you glance at him, diligently looking at him up and down, giving him all of your attention. Aki smiles, and he sets down what he's holding to turn towards you fully. Matching your gaze, he rests his elbow on the edge of the counter.

"They're these shitty little black mushrooms," He says straightforwardly, and you can't help but chuckle. "Apparently, they're hard to find, so… my parents would be furious with me for wasting them. My dad, he was the one who taught us to be frugal. He made me try this chocolate. Super fancy, expensive chocolate. It was similar to the mushrooms, and my dad decided to tell me they were the same. He said, 'You know those are truffles, the mushrooms you hate, right?'"

Aki lets go of a small, breathy laugh, and he glances away as he recalls the rest of his story. "It wasn't. They're only called the same thing, but they're completely different- the chocolate, and the mushrooms. He got me to try some the next time we had them, though."

"Hm," You reply, "Did you like them?"

"Nope. I didn't finish my first bite, I spat it out."

Smirking, your gaze meets his own expectantly. "Your dad was probably mad, then."

"Definitely. But I was expecting chocolate. Those mushrooms are good, but you're supposed to savor them. They are the complete opposite of sweet."

"What's chocolate?" Your eyes squint as you think, trying to remember if the name is something you've heard before. In a book, maybe. It certainly sounds familiar. "Is that a mushroom too?"

Aki stares at you, surprised. "You've never had chocolate?"

"Nope."

"It's- damn." His hand comes to hold his chin, his brows pinch with faint frustration. "It's sort of difficult to describe. It's sweet. It melts in your mouth, if that makes sense. There's a lot of vendors who sell chocolate in the kingdom. When we get there, I'll buy you some."

Suddenly, as he seems to catch himself, Aki clears his throat. He stutters and glances away, "Er- if you wanted to go with me, that is. There's no need to make any decisions right now. It was just a suggestion."

The room grows silent. Aki's gaze flickers to check on the stove, before traveling back to you. To your eyes, to your mouth. When your gazes meet again, you find it impossible to look away, despite how much your quivering heart desperately begs you to.

Finally, you look down at your hands, and mumble hesitantly, "You'll be leaving soon." You press your thumbs together, nervously fiddling. "Right?"

"That depends," Aki answers, "When do you think I'll be healed enough?"

"Soon. Probably within the next few days, at the earliest. Your wound looks fine. You should keep resting, once you're feeling energized and no longer sore, then…"

You trail off, unable to finish your sentence. Aki doesn't fail to notice how you're no longer looking at him, your voice becoming uncertain and much quieter.

Aki takes a deep, long breath, and he speaks calmly, gently. "Whenever you tell me you're ready, I'll leave. There's no pressure to come with me, and I won't force you to make a decision. I don't have any problems with leaving alone. I'll be alright, you won't have to worry about me. Please, don't forget that."

It should be fine, to let him leave alone. You'll follow your original plan. The next time he's asleep, you'll prepare the potion to alter his memory; you could have it done by tonight, easily. If he follows your directions, he shouldn't have a problem with making his way out of the forest safely. As foolish as he is, Aki is resourceful. He wouldn't let himself get caught out again. This is what should happen, to keep the both of you safe, and apart.

So why do you feel so hurt?

For longer than necessary, you're silent. In the corner of your vision, you catch the way Aki peers at you worriedly.

"Are you alright?" He asks, his words taking you a bit off guard.

Reflexively, you nod — but oh, how he is making this so much harder. You're fine, you were fine, until you heard his soft voice check up on you. Now, you feel like a dam on the edge of bursting. He noticed, of course he would notice. You're standing close enough for him to see your little tremors, for him to hear when your breath starts to hitch. You had made up your mind about your future long before you met him, but Aki had to go and change it all.

Perhaps you hadn't realized how much it truly hurt until he'd spoken. Those are words you haven't heard before, you've never felt a sensation so suffocating. Your throat is dry, your heart is encased in thorns — but you're alright. You have to be. You have to tell him you're fine.

"I'm alright," You answer quickly with a swallow, leaving it at that.

"You sure? Your hands-" Aki murmurs, his gaze flickering down to them, and then back up. "You were doing that earlier."

Ah. You were, and you are. Both of your hands have moved to timidly clutch the front of your cape, your thumb running over the grooves on the shiny front button.

Sighing, you forcibly let your arms fall. You still can't look at him, so instead, you keep your focus on the dirty ends of your shoes. "I promise, I'm fine."

You're sure you don't sound very convincing.

The pot on the stove bubbles, the stove top's low, orange flame flickering faintly. Aki stays silent, considering his next words carefully.

"You still don't trust me," He decides, his voice quiet and assured. It's a statement more than anything; he knows you do not trust him. He knows it's a fact he cannot change. "But if there's anything- something I did, or something you want to tell me, you can. I'll listen."

As if you could ever tell him.

It'd be foolish to let him see this different side to you, regardless of how much you already trust him — more than he realizes, clearly. More than logic and everything you've learned should dictate. Unfortunately, you can no longer keep your thoughts quiet. You've got a battle raging within you, and those aching waves of stress are pulling, pushing, and growing closer and closer to drowning you underneath.

Aki can't stay. You shouldn't even entertain the thought; what the hell are you thinking? Aki is a stranger, he's dangerous. If he truly is royalty, you could be punished for ever thinking you were allowed to look at him, let alone speak to him.

The kingdom isn't as far as you'd prefer it to be. His wound is healing. You are helping him get back on his feet. You're guiding him closer to leaving, little by little.

Deep in your foolish, pounding heart, you want to believe Aki would trust you as much as you want to trust him, regardless of your best-kept secret. Yet, if anyone questioned him upon his return, if he was at all seen as suspicious, they could find out about you. His intentions wouldn't matter then. Protecting you or even himself wouldn't be an option. There's only so much he can do to bend the rules around witches. Royalty or otherwise.

You hate this. You hate that Aki could discover the truth at any moment. He could look at you differently, with less kindness and more revulsion, once he realizes he's supposed to hate you. He is fucking supposed to, to hell with thinking mages are people, those words can't be trusted, he isn't meant to be trusted. With how distracted you've been, he could kill you, if he truly wanted to. But would he?

The pit of your stomach swirls with a shadowy sense of dread and anxiety. You hate how you've become closer to him, you hate yourself for letting your guard down, even though you swore you wouldn't. Above all else, you hate how these sharp, never-ending feelings are becoming far too much.

It hurts. There's a hundred thoughts gnawing at your mind, a thousand rapid beats of your heart to keep track of, and a million pins and needles under your skin, running up along your spine with a painful, oppressive intensity.

You're worried. You're scared, scared of what will happen, scared of him, and everything. Scared of losing him, as awful as it sounds. Your cottage would become so lonely. You would fall into suffocating silence once more. Aki is different from the men you met before, from the people you've learned to fear. He is someone worth keeping.

Each sensation — the stress, the longing — pushes at either side of you like two stone walls closing in. Closing and crushing and swallowing you; your hands are trembling, and Gods, you're exhausted. When was the last time you slept properly? Was your mind ever working as it should be to begin with?

And why can you never seem to stop thinking about what it felt like to have your hand in his?

In the end, it doesn't matter.

None of it matters, your attempts to hang onto yourself and your wavering composure are rendered useless. He blends out of your focus as the world grows blurry around you. You grip the front of your cape tighter, your shoulders tensing before they tremor. Your breath is short, your throat feels tight, and your thoughts are fatigued like a string pulled taut. Fragile tears are beginning to fall down your cheeks, and you can do nothing to stop them.

Aki freezes up completely, eyes wide, gaze locked on you.

"Sorry," You're babbling, shaking your head, willing the tears to stop — although you know they most certainly won't. Your chest aches, your throat hurts. Small droplets fall from your face to hit your fingers and knuckles. You're so stupid, so weak. "I just- I don't want to-"

Without an ounce of hesitation, Aki shifts closer. He's slow when he reaches out to you, giving you plenty of time to move away if you'd prefer to. You don't. Glancing down at you, his warm palm finds your cheek, his touch slight and delicate, as though he's still expecting you to flinch away. Carefully, his thumb swipes underneath your eye to catch a tear before it falls. His touch caresses you softly, far too softly. And finally, you break.

He could hurt you, he could destroy you if he knew what you truly were. Instead, the fear all melts away, because he chooses to be gentle.

Your shaking hands hold onto your cape as tight as you can manage, while your tears turn into hard sobs that shake your entire figure, and make his heart want to splinter and shatter. Aki mumbles something low under his breath, words you barely catch despite how close you both are: an earnest mixture of shh, and it's okay.

In this moment, you have never been weaker. Not since the day you first left the kingdom behind you, and began to cry, when you believed you were meant to be alone. It's been years of isolation, since then. Is it so wrong for you to know you have needed this?

For once, leaning into his touch feels right; it doesn't burn, it isn't nerve-wracking. It's everything you've ever needed — it is so much more as you press your hand to the back of his, keeping him in place so he won't pull away. You focus on the warmth of his touch, tenderness surging all around you, your heart pounding to a fierce, unsteady rhythm.

It could be wrong, it could be reckless, to believe this is the safest you've ever felt. To know that if you were to pull him close like you've been wanting, you might not be able to let go. You want to embrace him, to have someone hold you, after ages and ages of feeling nothing against your skin and at your back but the whispering wind.

Aki's arms around you would be far too overwhelming — to have him hold you tight while you breathe in the scent of firewood on his clothes, and listen to each beat of his heart, your head pressed to his chest. No, you wouldn't let go, not until you've memorized the sound. The thought alone could bring you to tears, if you weren't already breaking down in front of him, sniffling and holding onto your cape with a grip tight enough to make your fingers ache.

"I scared you earlier, didn't I?" Aki says, his voice low, as calming as it always is. His breathing is slow, and yours tries to calm down to match. "I'm sorry."

Maybe he did, but you've already forgiven him. Aki can't know the true reason why you're crying, or any of the multitude of built-up reasons. They'd be impossible to say, far too difficult to talk about. You can't tell him you might miss him if he leaves you behind, even though it's what you planned to let happen in the first place. Even though someone like you has no right to want to follow someone like him. To the kingdom, no less. You'd be shunned. Imprisoned. Or much, much worse.

Aki is kind and thoughtful, his presence alone makes you want more — your tides pulled in his direction, an ocean of uncertainty reaching up to a bright, brilliant, unreachable moon. His touch is warm light, shining through thick darkness. Your darkness, illuminated wholeheartedly.

"You're safe," He murmurs. His voice barely registers. "I wouldn't let anything hurt you."

He couldn't, he has no idea you're a terrible, filthy liar. Aki is a good man. He reminds you of those knights in your stories — unwaveringly good, no matter the danger they're presented with. And you? You are nothing more than a witch.

Thankfully, Aki doesn't need to know.

He doesn't have questions, he simply continues to brush his thumb over your cheek, tenderly and rhythmically. His touch is slight, overly gentle in an attempt to keep you comfortable, but it's more than enough to gradually help you relax. You can't recall the last time you cried like this. Nor the last time you let anyone touch you, you never planned to allow this. You can't become overtaken by emotion, holding your focus is much more important. Perhaps you needed a way to finally let go of your budding stress.

Aki seems to think so. He holds your face in his palm as you cry, never pulling away, grounding you with his presence. Ever-so patient, he stays, while you fully succumb to everything washing over you. Until the waves slowly subside, allowing you to breathe again. Your sobs begin to calm, your tears start to dry up. Your whole body tremors as you breathe a long, shaky sigh.

Still, he keeps his pretty palm on your cheek. It belongs there, you think.

"How are you feeling?" Aki says softly, after a few beats of silence. "Mad? Upset?"

At first, you don't answer. You try, although you know it's futile; your mouth opens, but your voice is weak, your throat is sore. No words come out. You're feeling a thousand things, even if you could voice them, you aren't sure where you'd start. You swallow, and to your disappointment, Aki takes his palm away from your cheek, abruptly reaching for something.

In a rush, he hurries to turn off the stove, swearing quietly under his breath. You hadn't realized how much time had passed — how long have you been crying? Long enough to make your nose stuffed and your throat sore, and enough to let the stew boil over, evidently.

Aki leaves it, for now. He reaches over you to grab your backpack, briefly putting your bodies unbelievably close. He roots around inside until he finds your flask, still half-full with fresh water, and he sets it on the counter, allowing you to move at your own pace. You sniffle, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand first, before you grab it, unscrewing the cap, taking a few sips.

You want to tell him. You want to feel his soft touch again, you want his words of reassurance, and his trust, and his kindness. How could you fear him, when Aki is tenderness incarnate? As soft as the sky, as earnest as an echo. And as necessary as it is, you're already sick of lying; you don't want to hear his voice, look him in the eyes, and know you are lying to him.

Though, you can't say a thing. Your voice is weak, your body and mind are exhausted. And so, this time, you resist.

Aki breaks the silence first. "You're allowed to be mad at me. I wouldn't blame you if you were."

"I'm not mad," You answer, screwing the cap back on the flask, setting it down on the counter right where it was. You aren't meeting his eyes, but your voice sounds clearer, less strained. "I'm okay. Just tired."

Your shoulders shrug weakly. Aki's next breath seems to shake, his arms crossing around his chest frustratedly, his gaze traveling down.

"I shouldn't-" His jaw clenches, before he lets go of an exasperated sigh. "A devil wouldn't have snuck up on us like that. We would've known- they aren't small, and they make much more noise when they're approaching. I shouldn't have worried you. If you think I should… head for the kingdom, I will. I could leave tonight."

Your throat feels dry again. "It's fine."

"No," Aki counters, his voice wavering; it never wavers, "This is my fault. To see you hurting so much, when I know that I- maybe I just-"

"Aki."

You glance up at him, and your abrupt utterance of his name forces him to meet your gaze. Your eyes are still red, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion, your cheeks damp from tears. Your expression is earnest, hiding a thousand emotions he couldn't begin to make sense of. But he wants to try.

"Don't go," You murmur, softer this time. Close to breaking once more. "I've already forgiven you. Thank you. For being here."

For showing you a kindness you aren't used to, for comforting you without asking questions. For finally making you realize that you aren't meant to be alone. You want to say his name a thousand times more.

Honestly, you aren't sure what Aki takes away from your words. He seems to hesitate, but after a moment of thought, he reaches for the bowls he'd grabbed for the two of you earlier. One for you, and one for him.

"You should get some sleep after we eat," He suggests, his tone nice and gentle, laced with concern. He places your bowl in front of you, on your side of the counter.

"Mhmm…" You nod in agreement, and search through a drawer on your left to find a wooden ladle. "My head hurts."

Completely serious, Aki replies, "Do you want me to stop talking?"

Genuine and soft, you break into a laugh — a sound he is more than glad to hear — and you smile to yourself, while you pour some stew into your bowl. It warms your palms, steam brushing against your face. When you pass the ladle to him, he's instantly caught on the faint sparkle in your gaze. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Absolutely not." You hum playfully, an eyebrow crooked. "It would be far too quiet. Besides, I like your voice."

Aki fills his own bowl, and with the warm, pleased look that encompasses his features, you swear he almost seems flustered. "I hope you aren't implying I talk too much."

"Nope. If anything, it's not enough."

You reach into a drawer to grab silverware, and Aki heads over to the dinner table. He's already sat down across from your usual seat, and once you're able to follow, you notice your chair has been pulled out for you.

Your conversations lull as the two of you eat together, once again enjoying the simple comfort of company. The warm stew soothes your throat. It has your body and your limbs relaxing, calming. You exchange a few words. Aki compliments your cooking, and you politely thank him for his help. You comment how you rarely see baby elk, they're normally so skittish. It was cute. It would be nice to see again, under different circumstances.

Everything returns to normality. The same way it always was, when words shared between him and yourself become as natural as breathing. Once again, it feels right.

The next time you speak, it's after you've stood and both rinsed your bowls, just before you're about to head into your bedroom.

Aki clears his throat. He sits on the edge of his cot, his hands placed uniformly in his lap, the fireplace's low flame flickering over the sharp angles of his face.

"Do you really want me to stay?" He asks, as he already has. Perhaps he's expecting the answer to change.

You consider, drumming your fingertips over your bedroom's door handle. Then, at last, you answer. "Is it so wrong if I do?"

"It isn't. I was thinking, actually, I… I don't think it's a good idea for me to leave," He says, glancing at you. "My wound is- it could reopen. It'd be better not to take any risks, to rest for another week or so. Or maybe two weeks. Or- I don't know. We'll see." His next words are entirely unsure, a shot in the dark, a question and a plea wrapped into one: "What do you think?"

As one would expect, he'd leave it all up to you.

Your hand grips the door knob tighter. You take a slow, gradual breath, and hope he doesn't notice your newfound reassurance.

He isn't leaving. Not yet. Thank the Gods.

"Of course," You murmur, without turning to look at him. He'd see the small smile on your face if you did. "You can stay."

#aki hayakawa x reader #aki x reader #chainsaw man x reader #aki hayakawa x you #aki x you

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pedroshotwifey · 10 months ago

Text

To the Flame Chapter 3

Series masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Javier Pena x fem!reader

Word count: 3.3k

Chapter tags/warnings: fluff, smut, manipulation (kind of getting into that territory), unprotected piv sex, excessive use of nicknames, frottage, tiniest itty bitty smidgen of angst (like it's barely there), stuff I'm probably forgetting

Chapter summary: Javi takes you out for a romantic date and asks you a question you've been hoping to hear. (I'm sorry I'm rly awful at summaries)

A/N: Hey, Y'all!! Starting to dive a bit deeper! Expect the next chapter to really pick things up, and then its downhill for the most part from there. I'm beyond excited to really kick things off and so grateful for all of you avid readers!! Thank you for following along with my deprived nonsense <3

****

You wait at the end of your driveway just as the sun starts to set, as per Javi’s request. He refused to tell you why over the phone, but you have a feeling you’re going to love whatever he has planned. You’ve been out with him a good handful of times since he took you to dinner and kissed you on your front porch, and each time has been just as magical as the first.

You toy with the hem of your white sundress as you reminisce about that moment from a few weeks ago, trying to remember everything you felt then. Smiling absently, you thumb one of the cherries printed on the thin fabric. You’re already eager to feel his plush lips against yours again.

Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of Javi’s truck coming up the road. You’ve memorized it at this point, because there’s a barely noticeable sputter that comes from the exhaust pipe every thirty seconds or so.

He comes to a stop in front of you, rolling down his passenger window to reveal his beaming smile. Your stomach flips as you grin back.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he beams. He looks into the rear view mirror and sees a car approaching. He frowns slightly and pushes the passenger door open instead of walking around to get it for you, obviously not wanting to hold up traffic. “Climb on up, princess.”

You step up, grabbing his extended hand to keep balance as you hoist yourself into the seat, quickly shutting the door behind you. There’s a stack of blankets in the middle of the bench seat, but Javi tells them you can move them if you want when he sees the confused look on your face. Once you’re settled in the middle and buckled in, Javi continues on.

“Having a good day?” he asks as he takes another look into the rearview.

“I am now,” you reply, trying to hold down your blush. You really wish you could stop being so school-girlish around him.

“Hm. That makes two of us.”

You look at eachother and share a smile. He puts one hand out, asking silently for you to take it, which, of course, you do. You place your palm into his much larger one and then pull it into your lap to rest on your thigh.

You sit in a comfortable silence the rest of the way, watching out the window at all the greenery. This is what you missed most about the countryside. When you had been up towards the city, there weren’t many trees, and there certainly weren’t any farms or rolling hills. You always missed the landscape, though your boyfriend much preferred the cityscape. Yet another disagreement that you were never allowed to have a word about.

As Javi drives, you get further and further away from houses and farms, and more into unclaimed land.

“Where did you say we’re going?” you ask again, though you know by now it’s a feeble attempt. The look he gives you says as much.

“You’ll see,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes and squeeze his hand.

Not a minute later, Javi’s making a turn down a dirt road. It winds for as far as you can see, sparsely covered by trees and lined by thick, tall grass. Javi rolls the windows all the way up as dirt starts to kick up around the truck, interrupting the golden glow from the setting sun.

You look at him with a quirked brow, and he smiles mischievously in response.

“Almost there, sweetheart.”

Another two minutes, and Javi’s turning the truck off on top of a hill, the bed facing the sunset. You glance at the blankets and a grin breaks out across your face.

“We’re going to watch the sunset?” you ask excitedly. Javi grins and nods.

“Help me with the blankets?”

You both get out and climb into the back with the blankets, laying them down so that there’s a comfortable layer between the two of you and the cold bed. You can feel flutters in your stomach. How did you get so lucky?

You both kick your shoes off and sit down, trying to get comfortable and in position to watch the sun go down. You squirm for a moment after Javi, trying to find the perfect spot. He smiles fondly at you.

“Hold on baby,” Javi says before gently taking your hand and leading you toward him.

He pulls you with him as he leans back against the cab, settling you comfortably in his lap so that you’re both facing the sunset. It’s breathtaking, the pinks, oranges, and purples all blending together and mixing with the soft white clouds. You lean back into his chest as you let out a content sigh.

You feel a sense of safety and belonging within Javi’s arms, one that you haven’t felt for much too long. You feel him press a kiss into your hair, and your eyes flutter shut to hone in on the gentle sensation.

“Gotta ask you something, baby,” Javi breaks the silence with a low tone. Your eyes snap back open.

“Anything, Javi,” you say, craning your neck the tiniest bit to look his way. Your heart beats heavy in your chest, you have an idea of what he’s about to ask you, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. He moves one of his hands to one of yours, and you grasp it, bringing it up to your lips to place a soft kiss on his palm.

“How would you feel about being mine? Only mine?” he asks, his breath disturbing your hair as he speaks in just over a whisper.

Your lips split into a smile and you crain your neck to look into his chocolate brown eyes.

“I’m already yours, Javi,” you tell him truthfully. “But I would love if you would be only mine, too.”

He smiles gently at you before cupping your cheek to bring you in for a kiss. You melt into him as he moves his lips with yours. It’s messier than any you’ve shared with him before. It feels like one of those kisses that’s bound to lead to more, where the passion consumes you so much that you can’t ignore the desire to be closer.

You almost bite his plush bottom lip when you shift your hips and feel him hardening beneath you. It feels like there’s fire in your veins as you grind down again, deliberately this time, and a moan escapes his lips. You haven’t gone this far with Javi yet, but god, have you fantasized about it.

There’s a beat of silence before you and Javi suddenly spring into action. He helps you flip around on him so that your thighs are straddling his torso, his quickly hardening cock tucked perfectly beneath your panties. You reconnect your lips with his, kissing him with a hungry fervor that he returns ten-fold. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders as you grind down on him. You groan into each other’s mouths as sparks climb up your bodies.

You repeat the movement, whining when your clit catches on the fabric of his jeans. Javi’s hands move to your waist, and guide you to do it again, both of you gasping at the friction. You know you have to be soaked through your panties at this point, no doubt creating a dark spot on his pants.

You’re slightly surprised by your own confidence and the fact that you’re comfortable to act this way with him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Javi gets out through gritted teeth. “You really want to keep this up? I hope you know where that’s going to land you.”

You nod a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes!” you say, flinching a bit at your obvious excitement. He smirks devilishly at you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “Yes, please, Javi. I need you.”

“You’ve got me, baby,” Javi whispers, leaning forward to plant hot, open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck. You whimper, your brows furrowing in concentration as you gyrate your hips back and forth. There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling starting to bubble within your lower abdomen, slowly building with each drag.

The thin cotton of your panties does practically nothing to tame the wetness seeping out of you and onto Javi’s pants. You tighten your arms around him as you rock yourself quicker, the coil tightening further within you. You’re moaning, gasping, and whimpering against Javi’s lips, the kiss growing sloppier with each pass.

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you consider your current behavior. Never in your life have you acted so ridiculously…feral. You honestly can’t think of another word for what you’re doing right now, grinding up against this man like an animal, licking and nipping at his plush lips without restraint.

The only reason you don’t slow is because Javi’s acting the same way. Like he can’t get enough of you. His hands are gripping your hips so tightly that you’ll likely bruise, his own bucking against yours every time you grind particularly hard. The noises that tumble from his lips are downright filthy.

Without breaking contact with your lips, Javi lets one hand trail down to slip underneath your dress, and then places his thumb between your bodies and over your clit. He only circles twice before you’re falling apart on top of him. You cry his name as your body shakes uncontrollably, his thumb continuing its movement to prolong your orgasm.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” Javi whispers close to your ear, quiet enough that you almost miss it. You whimper at his praise, trying to keep your eyes open and on him. He’s yours, but you don’t want to waste a single second not observing his beauty. His brown eyes stare back, his imposing gaze full of hunger and passion in equal portions.

Your lips reconnect in a sloppy kiss as he pulls the crotch of your soaked panties to the side and then taps your hips as a signal to lift up. The pad of his middle finger caresses your dripping hole, making you shudder and whimper into his mouth. He groans as he pulls away slightly and dips both of his hands between you to start undoing his belt.

Your eyes quickly snap to his pants when you hear the clink, your mouth going dry. You don’t know why, but it’s like you’re only now registering the fact that you’re finally going to have him inside of you, something you’ve been dreaming of for weeks.

Javi pulls his cock out, and you can’t help it. You straight up fucking moan. He’s gorgeous. His cock is thick, long, and as tan as the rest of him. There’s a bead of precum dribbling from his slit, which he wipes away with his thumb. You almost feel dizzy with how turned on you are right now. You’re not a blushing virgin by any means, but you’re also not super experienced, so the sheer eroticism of the whole situation is as almost unfamiliar as it is addicting.

You hear him huff a laugh through his nose, and your gaze is cast back up to see him smirking at you. Your face flushes at the realization that he caught you staring—or maybe admiring would be the better term here—at his dick.

“Like what you see, hermosa?” he inquires, his voice smooth and suave. You bite your bottom lip as you nod at him. No use in lying, you figure. Javi smiles at you warmly before leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on your reddened cheek.

“Would you like to touch it?”

You’re glad you’re biting down on your lip right now, because you would have released another moan if not for the slight pain. You nod your head again, trying not to give yourself whiplash with the movement. One of your hands trails down, but you stop halfway when Javi tuts at you and gently grabs your hand.

“Words, sweetheart. Verbal communication is very important if we’re going to do this, okay?” He looks like he genuinely wants you to understand, his big brown eyes boring into yours as he waits for consent. Your heart warms with the gesture. Is it possible to feel any safer with him?

“Yes, please,” you say, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. He nods at you and releases your hand to let you wrap your own around his warm length. He hisses sharply as you start to pump him, feeling the weight of him in your palm.

“Shit, baby,” Javi strains when you let your thumb run over his head. “Sit up higher for me.”

You oblige immediately, sitting on your knees and taking your hand away to balance yourself on his broad shoulders. You look into his eyes as he grasps his cock, your lids fluttering when you feel his blunt tip press against your sopping entrance.

“Ready?”

You gulp and nod before remembering that he wants to hear you.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Your eyes pinch shut as he starts to push into you, lowering yourself down to help his effort. You’re wet enough that it’s mostly a smooth glide, only a small pinch when he’s about halfway in. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock already pressing against something heavenly within you.

You release the breath and open your eyes back at the same time. Javi’s already staring back at you, and the look in his eyes can only be described as carnal. His pupils have taken up most of his irises, making his eyes look almost fully black. His tongue peeks out to wet his swollen bottom lip as he plants his hands back on your hips, starting to assist you in moving up and down.

He plants his feet flat on the bed of the truck and begins thrusting into you slowly. The drag of his cock against your walls has you moaning like an animal and encourages Javi to pick up his pace. You feel boneless as he helps you bounce on his dick, letting yourself wilt to place your head in the crook of his neck. You dampen the golden skin there with your panting, but neither of you pay it any mind.

“Fuck, sweetheart, feel so fucking good.”

You whimper at his praise as you try to focus on keeping up your movement. You can already feel that familiar heat creeping up from the base of your spine. Your clit catches on the groomed thatch of pubic hair at the base of him each time you lower your hips, which quickly adds to the sensation.

“Oh, Javi, I’m gonna c-come,” you struggle to get the words out as your hips stutter and your brain focuses solely on the powerful sensation between your wet thighs. His thrusts pick up again, making you yelp when he pegs that spongy spot you usually can’t reach.

“Oh, God, Like that!” the words slip out before you can even think about them, your body desperate to feel it again. You don��t even have the mind to be embarrassed.

“Yeah, honey? Right there?” Javi punctuates his question with a particularly harsh thrust into the same spot, and you’re immediately coming apart on top of him. Your mouth gapes as you groan out your pleasure, the sound mixing with Javi’s own. You slowly grind up and down as you ride out what might be your most powerful orgasm ever.

You can vaguely hear Javi spitting out praises through the numbness of your mind, only catching pieces of each sentence.

“...doing so good…fucking tight…feel like heaven…”

When you come down from your high, panting as your vision returns, Javi grabs you and quickly spins the two of you, laying you down on your back without removing his cock from you. You loop your arms around his neck, more confused by the change in position than alarmed due to the residual haziness of your orgasm.

He loses control once he has you down, slamming his hips faster as he chases his pleasure. It feels so fucking good, the tip of his cock punching into you at a brutal pace. Your fingernails claw at the back of his neck, likely leaving marks, but if Javi notices, he obviously doesn’t mind.

He bends down to kiss—if you can call it that—and nip harshly at your neck. The light pain mixed with the simmering feeling in your abdomen quickly brings you dangerously close to the brink once again. You’re almost surprised. Even when you’re alone, it takes you longer to bring yourself to the edge than he is right now.

He whimpers into your neck, and the sound has your walls clenching around him, spurring him on. His fingers of one hand are digging into the skin of your hips again while the other is balled up and planted next to your head where he’s resting his forearm for balance. Tears sting your eyes as you feel that light discomfort of overstimulation, but it quickly fades back into pleasure.

“Such a sweet girl, letting me have you like this, aren’t you?”

You whimper in response as your third tonight orgasm takes over, your body convulsing beneath him. God, he has a dirty mouth.

“Bet you taste good, too. Fucking sweet. Gonna feast on this damn pussy the second I get the chance.”

His hips start to break their pattern, his composure dwindling with each thrust as he babbles on.

“Don’t know why I haven’t already. So fucking soft and warm. Fucking made for me.”

You’re not sure if he’s completely aware of what he’s saying right now, so you ignore that last comment even though it makes your stomach flip. You’re not sure if it’s with lust or unease, and you don’t particularly care to figure it out at the moment. You’re just reading too much into things, you need to stop thinking and enjoy what you have right now.

As you push your thoughts away, you realize how close he is to coming, his pants coming out quickly as he rapidly pumps himself into you, barely pulling out with each thrust.

“J-Javi,” you squeak out. He hums back a response, letting you know he heard you and is listening, but he doesn’t slow down.

“You h-have to pull out, o-okay?” He hums again, but you really wish he would give you a solid answer. Isn’t he the one who was just talking about verbal communication? You try not to overthink it, you trust him.

He thrusts a few more times before letting out a groan, and you know he’s close, dangerously close.

“J-Javi,” you say his name in gentle reminder, trying not to panic. You watch his face and see his eyes flicker up to yours—almost defiantly, as if he wasn’t going to listen to you. It looks like it pains him, but just as he’s about to come, he reluctantly pulls away, moaning as his release lands in strips over your pussy and lower stomach, just barely out in time.

You breathe a sigh of relief you hadn’t realized you had been holding as you let your eyes flutter shut and move a hand up to comb through his hair. You stroke gently as he comes down from his high, and then collapses partially on you.

See? You knew he would pull out.

You both lay in silence, him with his head on your chest, and you staring up at the stars that came out as the two of you were busy. You’re almost asleep by the time Javi breaks the silence again.

“You knew I was going to pull out, right, baby?” He asks.

You furrow your brows as your stomach flips again in that way that you don’t want to pay too much attention to.

“Yes,” you say as you continue stroking his damp curls. “I trust you.”

Javi nods into you as you continue staring up at the night sky.

You do, don’t you?

**** Thank you for reading! I would really appreciate any kind of interaction if you enjoyed this chapter. Series taglist is always open for those who would like to join!

taglist: @corazondebeskar @yorksgirl @nerdieforpedro @axshadows @melaninmommy @survivingandenduring @kewwrites @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @movievillainess721

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