#that festival gets a lot of press too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mooishbeam · 5 months ago

Text

『♡』 Country Honey

♡ featuring: ranchhand!toji x richgirl!reader

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

♡ wc: 16.5k+ (AHHHHHH)

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

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

“Almost there.”

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

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

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

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

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

You could die right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Chop*

You clutch the side of the parted door.

*Chop*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pompous ass instigatin’ little-”

“-Callous disrespectful pig!”

“-Brat.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit” you mumble.

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

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

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

“Yea, nobody you know.”

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

“Jerk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slip. Crash!

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

Brown. It’s on your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shit-eating grin.

“No need to thank me, miss piggy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and did I mention very annoying?

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

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

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

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

“HEY!”

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

“This is my bathroom you idiot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get yer feet off the wheel.”

“Mm, nah. It’s not hurting anyone.”

“’S hurting me.”

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

“What did I-”

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

Your ears perk up, “She?”

“Yup.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe Rosy? Oh, or Susie.”

“Think I’ll just call ‘er (Y/N).”

“Huh? Why my name?”

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

“Why not an A?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

“…What?”

“Oh. Uh, nothing.”

He returns to what he was doing.

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

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

“Yeah.”

“So…did he figure it out?”

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

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

“Can’t. Hands full.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not important” he responds curt.

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

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

“…like someone cut you” you mutter.

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

“I-“

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

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

The space between you widens with each step.

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

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

“Thank you for the tea.”

“Don’t mention it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Everythin’ alright, sugar?”

“Think I messed up.”

“Hm? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

“...”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know where he is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of horse is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup, since I got to the farm.”

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

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

“It would be if I never finished school.”

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

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

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

“Forget it-”

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

“I want to help people.”

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant.”

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

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

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

“My bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you scared now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ya have no sense of danger.”

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

“...I'm glad.”

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

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

“Ouch.”

“Careful, hun.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I write one for you, too?”

“You can jus’ tell me now” she beams.

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

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

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

“Wanna go for a ride?” he calls.

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

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

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

He holds his hand out, “Up.”

“To where?”

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

“Might wanna hold on.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?”

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

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

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

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

“It looks cute on me.”

“So what?”

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

“I think you’re a brat.”

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

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

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

“The feeling’s mutual” you retort.

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

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

scoops and sets you down.

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

“I guess this is it.”

“Yup” he agrees.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

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

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

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

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

“Heh. Yes, ma’am.”

“So…um.”

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

“Y-yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Like I wanna look at you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if ya did.”

“God, you’re so far up your own-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna do so much worse.”

“Then do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe you’re not doing good enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you cry.

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

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

You can’t read his face, but he leaves the mattress. It’s eerily quiet.

“Y’know just how to get me.”

A shattered gasp dies in your throat when you feel a warm, cruel stripe from your clit to your taint. Once, twice, his broken puffs fanning the flames. Both hands spread your legs wider and he nuzzles your folds, placing open-mouthed kisses, savoring your arousal. Then he immerses himself.

He put up a good farce for a while, but the crumbling began at his desperate, tangled tongue—ravenous and starving, he ate you like a decadent main course he’d never taste again. He was starved—slurping and sucking, releasing with a juicy smack and diving back in. He’s on his knees, grunting low at your drooling slit. He didn’t care about your quivering thighs, honeyed liquid building in layers on his chin, the weak cries you managed. None of it mattered. Because you—you were heady and sweet, and as he drowned in your scent, he wished to be breathless forever.

“S’fuckin’ good—oh, fuck, make a mess on my face.” He swats your ass, pointed tongue massaging your clit while he gropes the doughy flesh. It’s pliable in his hands and it gives him something to anchor while he drawls lecherous swipes over your swollen gooeyness. “Ngh—p-please—close-” Your stomach turns knot after knot, damp with sweat and sensing a rapid euphoria surging all too fast. Your mistake for announcing it, because he focuses his attention on a self-indulgent make-out session with your clit. “Come. Come on my face, princess—” You start to spasm, and the vulgar noises coming from Toji disperse in your ears.

“Toji” you moan, and sooner fall apart in his arms. White-hot pleasure courses through your convulsing cunt and a chain of violent aftershocks render you silent. What makes you even shakier, though, is that he doesn't stop.

He cleans his plate, imbibing the perfumed essence gushing from you. He peppers kisses around your contractions, deaf to your croaked sobs. If you weren’t bound, you’d push his head away. You attempt to use your foot to nudge him off, but you didn’t expect to make a dent in someone his size. He intertwines his hands with your sweaty ones, calm thumb swaying back and forth; it would be comforting if he wasn’t ruining you at the moment.

The intensity of his deliberate tongue only makes the aftershocks worse, and your hands start to jolt as you cry out, “Ahn--no more, p-please!” You feel his smile on your folds and he persists. His lapping gets more aggressive and so do your tremors, loud and unrestrained moans torn from you.

He finally unlatches, landing a final smack on your puffy pussy. Your heads swimming in an infectious trance, but you’re undeserving of a break as you whirl behind you and see him pumping his flushed cock. It stands at attention and even seems bigger than before, colored deep with need pearling at the divot.

“Need you or ’m gonna go crazy.” Toji keeps a firm hand at the base of your spine—it arches your back and shoves your words into the bed. He drags his bulbous head along your sensitive cunt, collecting the slick trickling onto the damp sheets before rimming the slit. A hint of fatigue crosses your face and he takes notice. “Heh, done already? We haven’t even started yet.”

The image of him entering you for the first time burns into your memory; his brows are knitted, bottom lip tucked under teeth and his breath hitches. If you were fucked out, he was getting there. He presses into your spine like he’s trying to prevent himself from coming on the spot, paused but lingering. Tunnel visioned on your soaked, bulging pussy stretching around him, snuggling his leaden length like a heated blanket. And you drink in the pain, a dulcet blaze engulfing you as sore muscles clench and unclench.

“You’ve been quiet, pretty thing” he muses, “Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothin’ mean to say?” With his veins adorning your walls and your mushy brain bouncing around in your head, you can’t bring yourself to talk shit. He pulls out completely, watching a mix of precome and wetness connect your bodies.

Suddenly, he bottoms out. “Ahn--fu-ah!” It shreds a whimper from you and he mocks your cracking moans, though he seems to be breaking, himself. The sharp snap of his hips contacts skin-on-skin, earning each sloppy slap echoing in the room. His lips are parted, swamped in infinite, unbridled lust. The carnal itch he’d been holding off on for weeks seeps through, satiating his most indulgent appetite. “O-oh, God, shit, look at the m-mess you’re making.” He drives out to his frenulum and shoves it back in with no mercy, no sign of slowing down. Long, deep strokes leaving you slack jawed and teary. Every drag of his dick imprints his name on your tongue, heavy balls smacking your tender clit.

“You hear that? Listen.” He goes quiet, to let the indecent plap plap plap’s resound. Your cheeks turn hot from humiliation. The side rail of the bed screeches the hardwood floors, and the belt buckle you’re secured to clicks occasionally.

“You’re my filthy slut” he grins, striking your rouged cheek. He’s rough, but you weren’t searching for friendliness, neither of you did. At your core, you knew it—Toji bullying himself into your cervix is a poison you’d drink habitually. A poison so incredibly captivating, you’re burning just to feel his crowning ardor.

He’s sandwiched between your swollen lips and he can’t get enough, virtually drunk from it. He winds another branding swat on your backside, then the other. The crackling fire of his hand thwacking delicate flesh merges pleasure with pain. “You've been such a brat all summer” he taunts, “Needed me to put you in your place, huh, you fucking slut?” Another mean swat, and he laughs crudely at you little gasp. “You like this shit, don’t you? Wanna be manhandled like a fucking whore.” Both cheeks are a severe fiery color, beginning to welt, but he resumes. And you’re drenching him. A creamy, gooey ring forming at the base of his dick, tracing translucent strings when he pummels your poor leaking pussy.

“M’sorry, so s-sorry” you babble. Apologizing for what? You don’t know, but the delirium spills truths you should’ve voiced ages ago. You're utterly incoherent; you might as well stay silent. “Aww, I know” he cloys, soft and sultry compared to the angry strokes he’s delivering. Shockwaves burst and fizzle on your clit and you flutter around him. Your ass ripples against him, hoarse voice funneling strings of curses, scrotum pummeling your overworked bundle of nerves. You want to come so bad it hurts, and you find yourself arching a little harder, spreading your legs a little wider—just begging him to use you entirely, to melt, become his.

“Pleasepleaseplease” you whimper, at the height of your intensity. Then sweltering, frenetic spasms suffocate Toji’s shaft as you ride the orgasm seemingly crashing into you. You shudder violently, pleading with your body to attain some level of poise. It has other plans, however, provoking you to flitting tears from dragged-out, toe-curling tremors. You grip him like a vice and he struggles to pull out, but when does he’s rubbing circles on your aching nub. You’re lost in a bottomless sensation, but you hear his voice in your dampened ears, “Mm, I got ya.”

The pressure on your wrists lessens, and you realize you can move them freely. Your arms are numb returning to a normal position, and you support yourself on your feeble elbows when you feel your legs being parted again. In the fleeting instant you’re allowed to settle, the vast trail of his tongue laps at your shuddery cunt. "P-please wait—ngh, I can’t-” you wail, and you turn to the commotion to see Toji, growling and devouring your silken arousal.

He’s absolutely corrupted, a feral glint in his blearily blinking eyes, chest heaving salaciously as he kneads your thighs. You paw at his hair, toiling to crawl away from his unsparing mouth but he follows. He releases you and you inch away from him. “Where ya goin’? Heh, tryna run?” he teases. You don’t get very far, because he grapples your waist and pulls you back. “Not done ‘till I say it’s done.”

Then he’s climbing on the bed with you, and you can do nothing but snivel in protest as he maneuvers you to hike your leg over his. He lays on his side, locking you in his embrace and smears his cock between your puffy folds. “Am I being mean to you?”, he slides in with ease, savoring the sweet mess spewing on cue, “’M sorry, I’m just an ‘angry old man’, after all.”

He pounds your chubby cunt with wild abandon. You feel each vast stroke pummeling your tumid core, squelching amidst your languid bodies. You can’t close your legs—as badly as you want to—and you’re forced to endure frantic twitching from your lit nerves. He strips your breasts of the flimsy lace bra and alternates among pinching your nipple and molding the valley to his palms. He twists it harsh and you muster a pathetic babble, to which he laughs—mocking and unhinged, “My poor baby, you can’t handle it anymore.”

Anymore was an understatement, it was overwhelming—to a degree that you’d gone quiet, enveloped in vehemence. You're scratching up his bicep with the other tangled in the sheets, knuckles turned white and your head thrown back. You want to push him off, but you’re milking his stuttering hips, drawing him closer. It isn’t enough and it’s too much. “F-fuck, it’s so swollen” he moves from your chest to your vulva, “I can touch right? Y-yea, you don’t mind.” His intoxicating voice is at a whisper in your ear, laying like liquor in your cotton-filled mind. With his cock dragging against your walls and hammering your g-spot, mercilessly circling his pads on your clit, eliciting every short “ah, ah” from your swollen lips, you’re far from combative.

He precisely rolls his hips and it’s unbearably hot, broken mewls fleeing you. Your mouth sags, drool shameless down your mouth as he kisses your cervix without trying. He wraps his hand around your throat, boring into your teary eyes. You can’t escape his overbearing presence, isolated from everything besides his eye contact. He is everything.

“Who’s pussy is this?” He gradually squeezes tighter and you pule in response. Since that didn’t work, he accentuates the words with every tantalizing thrust:

“Who’s”

“Pussy”

“Is this?”

You narrowly choke out, “Your pussy”, and like something snapped his rhythm get faster, nastier. The asphyxiation reaches you brain and floods you, aswoon on a pillowy cloud. He’s faltering, pumps getting sloppier, “Thaaat’s right, ‘nd I’ll use this pretty pussy whenever I need.” His stomach flinches but he doesn’t stop chasing that high, eyes thoroughly glassed, “’N you’re gonna be a good girl and take it—ha, f-fuck—be a good girl, o-okay?” Your pupils retreat to the back of your head, and you arch off the bed as your body begins to tremble. He’s glued to you, “One more, let it out f’me. Please, fuck, I need it—hah—need you to come on my dick—”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you unravel. A stream of liquid coats the blanket and you’re speechless as you convulse uncontrollably, legs betraying you for strong spasms. You go limp but Toji props you up, bucking his hips when his own legs start to jolt. “That’s a good girl—Ohh yes. Y-you're so good f'me, princess. Coming—hahh—gonna come all over your pretty cunt—”

His balls tighten, and he manages some slushy, vile pumps before he pulls out. He spurts all over your tummy and hypersensitive vulva, painting it in thick white layers. He persists, groaning until he’s fully hollow, emptying his sack in globs. His staggering pants and shaking reduce to hitching, and he relaxes your exhausted weight. You weep softly, clinging to him as he presses selfish kisses from your lips to your wet lashes. He caresses your cheek, sweaty and disheveled in the dim light. Then your eyesight starts to blur.

Your sight peels back, permitting warm sunlight basked over the bed. It takes a split second to notice you’re resting on pillows not nearly as comfortable as yours, and the wood paneling was uncharacteristic of your assigned room. It takes another second to notice your galled throat, stinging backside, and the arm loose on your naked waist. You peer over your shoulder, to that mop of ink sprawled on the pillow. He looks peaceful, though you’re not sure how you slept soundly when he snores like a brute.

You slip from his arms to sit up. The floor’s freezing, but by the time you get to stand you’re pulled back into the covers. Entangled in limbs, you gaze at Toji, who still has his eyes closed. His face appears softened up close. There’s a small scar near his hairline that you hadn’t spotted. You trace the scar, outlining it to the one on his lip. He nips your finger.

“I wanna sleep” he grumbles.

“Then you should’ve let me leave”

“No.” You card your fingers through his hair, and he sighs into it. A fine gray strand peaks out amongst the rest. “You’re turning gray, old man.”

“The way I had you last night, I wouldn’t say ‘old man’.” Your remembrance makes your ears hot and you clasp a hand over his mouth. He laughs and pecks it, “You’re leaving today. Let’s get you packed up” he muffles.

Little did he know, you’d talk to your father that afternoon, asking to stay for a couple more months. The countryside welcomed you—and what a humbling experience it was.

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

1K notes · View notes

deunmiu-dessie · 7 months ago

Text

(unedited)² retired simon has nowhere to go, so you offer. [ one, two, three]

it took a lot of convincing to get him to your little apartment, like trying to move a massive brick wall with a feather. however, in the end, he gave in— not that he had much of a say in the matter, considering the fact that the two of you were already at your home amidst arguing (which, to be fair, was predominantly one-sided as he persistently uttered 'no' in response to all your counterarguments).

in all honesty, you couldn't quite figure out why you were so insistent on having a stranger, especially a strange man, stay with you in your much too tiny apartment. perhaps it was your festive december spirit, the idea of someone being alone during this time of year just didn't sit right with you. besides it was just for the night, then you could take him to the shelter.

he’d been quiet as you set up everything for him, he was imposing, tall, and somewhat scary (primarily due to his skull mask and his overall silent demeanor). but strangely enough, you didn't feel unsafe with him, despite the fact that you probably should have. after all, he was a man, and he undoubtedly outweighed you by at least 100 pounds. killing you and getting away with it would be easy for him. and, why the hell were you contemplating this now, instead of when you first picked him up from the side of the street?

perhaps it was the way he carried himself, with a sense of calm and control that was almost hypnotic. or maybe it was the way his eyes seemed to pierce through you, yet held a hint of sadness that made you feel a strange sense of empathy toward him. whatever the reason, you found yourself drawn to him.

as you finished setting up the couch, you couldn't help but steal glances at him, trying to decipher his thoughts and emotions. but his expression remained unreadable, his mask hiding any hint of vulnerability or emotion. it was both frustrating and intriguing, making you wonder what secrets lay hidden behind that skull mask.

“um, so the shower is just down the hall, oh! feel free to look through the fridge for something,” you smile awkwardly at the tall man and gesture to your room door, “if you need anything just let me know.” his gaze remains fixated upon the makeshift bed you have prepared, adorned with a spare comforter of a soft, faded hue resembling baby blue, adorned with delicate flowers which sprawls across the expanse of your pull-out sofa.

simon, ever the brooding man, says a small, stiff thank you; ready for you to leave him alone you're sure. wiping your sweaty palms on your denim-clad thighs, you gently press your lips together and affirmatively bob your head. “alright, well, goodnight simon.” without waiting for a response, that you were sure you weren't going to get, you scuttle off to your bedroom, swiftly closing the door and attempting to lock it as quietly as possible. however, the resounding click makes you think he’s heard it.

letting out a weary sigh you slide down your door, reaching into your pocket to retrieve your phone. with a gentle motion, you begin to skim through your contacts and find your best friend. it rings once, twice before she picks up with a tired hello.

“if i die tonight, i love you.”

you catch the faint sound of her perplexed murmur, followed by the gentle click of her bedside lamp over the phone. it was late, far too late for you to have disturbed her with a call, you knew that— should’ve called your sister or something.

“have you been drinking?”

you give a slight eye roll before curling your legs up to your chest. “no, not yet. anyways, i think i might've done something very dumb," you admit, trailing off as you nervously nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the soft flesh give way under your teeth. your friend lets out a quiet grunt. “well? spit it out.”

“so, i picked up a homeless guy on the side of the road and offered him a ride to the shelter but instead i brought him to my apartment and now he’s in my living room, about to sleep on my couch,” you utter quickly— and she's silent for a moment, it's a loud silence, one that makes your heart beat quickly in your chest. you run a hand down your face and take a deep breath, sighing heavily. “say something.” your voice is filled with a mix of impatience and anxiety.

“what the hell is wrong with you?”

1K notes · View notes

sereinegemini · 1 month ago

Text

Been an Awful Good Girl || D.M. & T.N.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader x Theodore Nott

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Draco and Theo enjoy their bow-wrapped present under the tree.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI smut (dom!draco, dom!theo, sub!reader, dirty talk, pet names, cursing, unprotected sex, cream pie, threesome, slight masochism, male oral, face fucking, cumshot, lyrics from Santa Baby)

Author's Note: Merry Christmas Eve (and Happy Holidays to anyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas)! I wasn't sure if I was going to finish this in time but I've pushed through the past few days and hope you guys enjoy the end result!

Festive Muggle music drifted from your record player, the needle floating lazily atop the spinning vinyl. You were rocking your hips to the beat and placing ornaments strategically throughout the fir tree Draco and Theo had dutifully bought from the lot down the road. You wished you’d been here to revel in them struggling to drag it up the stairs to your third-story flat, but you’d unfortunately had to work a shift at the boutique. With the holidays just around the corner, Muggles were shopping like mad and your boss had asked everyone to pick up extra shifts.

But now you were home, freshly showered and dressed in a silk, gingerbread patterned pajama set. Theo was in the kitchen cooking his famous gnocchi cacciatore soup. At least, it was famous between the three of you and all your friends. And Draco—who had strung the lights throughout the tree for you and hung all of one ornament—was sat back on the sofa with a glass of Old Fashioned and contently watching his girl decorate. A smirk danced its way to his lips every time you stretched up on your tippy-toes to reach the higher branches, the shorts of your pajamas riding up to show off the delicious curve of your ass.

You were currently trying your damndest to reach one of the highest branches, getting nowhere close to the top of the eight-foot tree. Draco, unable to control himself at the sight of over half your ass on full display, decided it was in everyone’s best interest to help you. Especially his. He silently pressed against your back, sliding a warm hand around your stomach where your shirt was lifted. “Need some help, darling?”

You startled for a beat before melting into his embrace. “Yes, please,” you sighed sheepishly.

Still holding you against him, he took the glass ball and held it to a high-hanging branch. “Here?”

“Mhm..” you answered, not even registering where he was holding the bulb. He was leaning into you to reach the tree and his boner was poking into your lower back. The mere pressure of it made your mind go blank and swirl with desire.

“Darling, is there something on your mind?” he asked lowly against your ear, trailing his fingertips along the hem of your shorts. The fiend knew exactly what was on your mind.

“Dray-” is all you breathed, angling your lips towards his. He softly pressed his mouth against yours, tugging you against him. His hand slid into the waist of your shorts and he wasted no time before he slipped a finger into your already wet folds. You moaned needily against his lips, tugging him closer with a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh my, what have we here, amorina?” [Sweetheart] Theo was perched against the doorframe from the kitchen to the living room, his arms crossed smugly. A tent was forming in the front of his slacks, pulling the material taunt around his cock. Your mouth watered at the sight. Were you about to have both of your boyfriends at once? It wasn’t unheard of, but they usually enjoyed you in turns.

“Thought we’d have a light snack before dinner,” Draco drawled, beginning lazy circles on your clit. You jumped at the sensation before melting into his arms, your eyelids drooping in pleasure.

“Hmm, suppose it couldn’t ruin our appetites too much.” They shared devious grins before turning their ravenous gazes to you. Theo slowly trailed his eyes down your body, taking in every curve and inch of skin on display while he began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Where do you want us, darling? The couch? The bed?” Draco mumbled against your ear, never faltering his onslaught to your clit. Your legs were beginning to numb with pleasure and if it weren’t for his strong arms around you, you’d very well be on the floor. A satisfied hum vibrated in his throat, “Or how about right here next to the tree?”

Your head swam at the idea, your lust growing tenfold as you imagined them laying you down on the plush rug with the christmas lights twinkling above you—pleasing themselves with your body to their hearts’ content. “Yes,” you gasped, growing ever closer to your climax.

“What was that, cara? [Dear] Use your polite words like the good girl you are,” Theo ordered, coming up behind you and moving your hair to the side so he could place kisses along your neck.

“I- I want you right here. Please..” you begged, gripping onto Draco’s shoulder to ground yourself as waves of release began surging through you.

Draco stopped the pressure to your clit. “As you wish, my love.”

You whined at the loss of his touch and your impending orgasm, but obediently allowed the boys to lay you down beside the tree. Draco resumed kissing you while using his hands to discard you of your pajamas. Your breasts ached once they were freed, arousal and the chilly air of your old apartment delightfully hardening your nipples. Theo ran painter-calloused thumbs over the hardened nubs and you arched your back into his touch before he pulled away, leaving you feeling deprived once more.

Remotely, you were aware of your dark-haired boy digging through a box of christmas decor—but your attention was quickly overtaken by Draco, who had abandoned your mouth to trail kisses and licks to your uncovered skin. He swirled his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, the pleasurable pain caused you to mewl and squirm underneath him, desperate for him to touch you between your legs.

“You’re so pretty when you’re begging for our cocks, amorina,” Theo drawled. He was holding one of the giant red bows you usually tied around the pillars on your balcony. Confusion briefly overtook your arousal, what was he doing with that? You weren’t left to wonder for long though—Draco helped you sit up and Theo aligned the bow with your breasts, pushing them up towards your collarbone when he wrapped the strings around your ribs and securely tied them at your spine. The somewhat rough texture of the bow’s velvet scraped your hardened nipples and you moaned with satisfaction.

You were their present, and you couldn’t wait for them to unwrap you.

“Sei bellissima.” [You’re beautiful] Theo smirked and grabbed your chin, angling your lips up to his. He kissed you with pure dominance, gripping the nape of your neck and slipping his tongue into your mouth. You kissed him back eagerly, getting lost in the taste of ingredients on his tongue and the warmth of his spit spilling into your mouth. You whined once again when he finally pulled away, your mind whirling with arousal too much to form any verbal protest.

“I believe it’s time to open an early Christmas present, don’t you Draco?” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth at the dark lust swimming in his eyes. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the taste of them in your mouth, and you pressed your thighs together for any friction it might grant your aching cunt.

“I believe so, Theo,” Draco agreed, his large hands grabbing at your sides to guide you how they wanted you. “Get on your hands and knees, darling.” You gladly obeyed, wanting to please your boys so they would hurry up and please you.

“Brava ragazza,” [Good girl] Theo breathed, kneading your ass and dutifully lining up behind you. You could hear his belt jangle as he removed his slacks and you arched your back to give him better access to your swollen cunt. You were no better than an animal in heat—you needed them inside you. In front of you, Draco already had his pants off, his stiff cock standing proud against his toned stomach.

“Dray–” You leaned forward to lick up his shaft. His cock twitched at the sensation, and you proudly looked up to find his eyes lidded and his mouth parted with pleasure. Draco bundled your hair into a makeshift ponytail, loosely holding it out of your face with one hand. Leaving a kitten lick to the head of his cock, you sucked the tip into your mouth and moaned as the saltiness of his pre-cum danced along your tastebuds.

Suddenly, you felt Theo run his cock along your folds, quickly lubing himself before pushing into you in one solid motion. Your walls protested as the size of him stretched you out gloriously, before the pain turned to sheer ecstasy and a long moan escaped your lips. The force of his thrust forced Draco’s cock deeper into your mouth and the two boys bottomed out at the same time. They both groaned with pleasure, pulling out slowly before slamming back into you. Their rhythms soon synchronized, Draco thrusting into you whenever Theo’s onslaught to your cunt pushed you towards him.

♪ Ba-boom Ba-boom ♪

Theo’s fingers dug deliciously into your hips, guiding you onto his cock and filling the air with the sounds of skin slapping against skin alongside the festive music still playing across the room.

♪ Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me ♪

♪ Been an awful good girl ♪

Draco had your head pulled back by your hair, creating the perfect angle to hit the back of your throat and causing saliva to drip down your chin. You weren’t sure how much longer your quivering arms could hold you upright with Theo repeatedly pounding against your g-spot. The pressure in your core was becoming too much and your eyes were beginning to roll back from the intense pleasure.

♪ Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight ♪

As though he could sense your impending orgasm, Theo slid a hand around your thighs and began rubbing his forefinger against your clit. Their thrusts became sloppier as their own orgasms grew closer and the force of them slamming into you was causing the bow to slip from your boobs. You felt them bouncing back and forth, the velvet knot falling around your stomach and freeing your painfully full breasts.

“Merlin, you’re so fucking hot when you’re being fucked, F/n. Like our own little sex doll,” Draco growled, letting go of your hair to grab both of your tits like handles. Strands of your hair fell in your face, sticking to your spit and tears.

“Such a brava ragazza, letting us do whatever we want with her,” Theo agreed, landing a hard smack to your ass cheek. You gasped around Draco’s cock, feeling the pressure in your core finally coming undone. “That’s it, cara. Milk my cock. I want to fill you up like a pasticiotti.”

They were pulling you back and forth like a game of tug-of-war, chasing their own climaxes as you shook and turned to putty in their hands. Finally, Theo stilled and your cunt warmed as he released deep inside you. Draco pulled out of your mouth soon after, jerking his hand along his length until his cum showered your face and tongue—which you had stuck out in the hopes of tasting him.

Both men sagged back on their heels, appreciating the view of their girl fucked and painted in their release. “You’re such a pretty whore, amore mio,” [my love], Theo praised, kissing you endearingly once you’d slumped to your back.

Draco pulled the big red bow back over your tits, placing a kiss to your stomach. “Definitely my favorite present under the tree, I might have to use it again.” Despite feeling absolutely spent, his words resparked the desire in your core. They could use you all they wanted—you loved being their pretty bow wrapped present.

It was the season, after all.

♪ Hurry down the chimney tonight ♪

♪ Hurry, tonight ♪

Be notified of future fics!

518 notes · View notes

agreeeeeeeeeee · 2 months ago

Text

Seducing A Scrooge | Jegulus

“Oh, my sweet girl. What has that madman done to you now?” Regulus cooed, crossing the room to you.

feat. poly!jegulus x reader

SUMMARY: Regulus is having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year, so you and James devise a plot to spread some holiday cheer.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut with zero plot, established relationship, being tied up with Christmas decorations, group sex, praise kink, mix of sweetness and rough-ish stuff, lots of spit swapping, switch!reg and softdom!james

divider by @issysh3ll

“Jamie, this might be overkill,” you mumbled through the ribbon between your teeth.

“Nonsense.” He stuck a present bow to the top of your head. “Unless your uncomfortable,” he amended, wiggling his fingers between the tinsel and your skin to ensure it wasn't wrapped to tightly around you.

You shook your head, your thighs clenching together when he adjusted your position by lifting you by your festive bondage.

“Ah, just impatient?” James teased, setting you a bit more upright against the headboard. He skimmed his cool fingers over his work, the tinsel and lights wrapped around your body in complicated twists and knots, digging into your soft flesh and leaving a dusting of glitter over your skin. “We'll unwrap you soon enough, love,” he hummed, leaning in to give you a quick kiss.

“How much longer will he be?” You whined, not in a hurry to be released, but already desperate for your lovers to touch you. James’ slow, deliberate ministrations while tying you up had set your body on fire, which he refused to quell before Regulus could play with you himself.

“Not much longer. Do you need anything while we wait?” He kissed down your neck, illuminated pink by the LED’s, featherlight and teasing. The tight ball of arousal in your stomach tightened further, your clit damn near aching clenched between your thighs.

You let out a soft whimper when he grazed his teeth over your pulse point. “An orgasm?” You ventured, and he chuckled against your skin.

“Sorry, darling. Watching you squirm is far too enjoyable to cut short.” He gave you one last peck on the cheek before rolling off the bed. He waved his wand to light the fireplace and start up some soft Christmas instrumentals on your muggle record player.

If Regulus heard “Jingle Bells” immediately upon entering the cabin, he'd turn straight around.

Your boyfriend, who was tempermental on a good day, seemed to have descended into full Scrooge this holiday season.

You and James had tried everything to infect him with the holiday spirit, from decorating your shared flat floor to ceiling in the gorgeous, vintage-holiday style he preferred, to going on romantic walks to see the lights, all bundled up in heavy coats and scarves. You'd even planned an elaborate date night to see the Nutcracker ballet, with coordinated outfits and a fancy dinner, but he was clearly only indulging your efforts, not actually enjoying the festivities himself.

So, you and James concocted a last ditch effort to raise his spirits, festive or otherwise. And now here you were, done up like a slutty Christmas tree.

Both of your ears perked at the sound of a bell chiming, enchanted to ring whenever one of the three of you arrived home.

James gave you a salacious grin. “Stay here,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before darting out to meet Regulus at the front door.

“Like I have a choice,” you grumbled yourself, shifting slightly and feeling the slick collecting between your legs.

“Welcome home, love,” James said, his voice warm and gentle, and you heard Regulus murmur something in response. Your muscles bunched with tension, and you bit down on the ribbon to stifle any sounds you might make.

“I should have known better than trying to go to the fucking shops two weeks before Christmas,” he grumbled, dropping his things on the dining room table. “Absolute insanity.”

“I can imagine,” James chuckled, and you could hear his arms wrap around Regulus, his coat crinkling against the taller boys chest. “Glad you're home,” James said softly, and your heart swelled.

After a few moments of quiet, you heard Regulus speak again. “Where's y/n? I bought her something.”

You sucked in a breath.

“A Christmas present?” James teased, and Regulus scoffed.

“No, just a regular present.” He rummaged through some bags, and withdrew something that sounded like clothing.

James gave a low whistle, and heat scorched your skin. “Oh, Reg. She'll love that,” he gushed.

“I thought so. Where is she? Over at Remus'?”

“Bedroom,” James replied, casual as could be.

The next second, James was opening the bedroom door and Regulus strode in, a gorgeous, red velvet dress in his hands. He froze when his eyes finally landed on you, widening a fraction before his beautiful face split into a wicked smirk.

“Oh, my sweet girl. What has that madman done to you now?” He cooed, laying the dress on the chair before crossing the room to you.

“It was her idea,” James chuckled, leaning against the doorway.

“Not entirely!” You mumbled around the ribbon, and Regulus’ smile widened.

Regulus’ fingers traced the tinsel over your thighs, over your soaked apex, and up to catch your chin, tilting your face towards him. “This true, darling? Did you two conspire against me?”

Your eyes widened, fixed on his dilating pupils, blackness overtaking the soft green irises. There was something about Regulus that never failed to make your brain shut off, and you found yourself struggling to formulate a response.

“Well, what a lovely little pair of trickster elves you are.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against yours, more a caress than a kiss, leaving your skin tingling in his wake. “And what a pretty Christmas decoration you make.” Regulus pulled back, admiring James’ work, and the way your curves strained against it.

“She was so good while I tied her up. Barely moved a muscle,” James praised, easing himself onto the bed beside you and running hand over your thigh, the muscles jumping at his delicate touch.

Your pussy was practically thrumming with anticipation, their words only amplifying your needy state.

“That so?” Regulus removed his shoes and coat, revealing the tight, black turtleneck and expensive jeans underneath.

You nodded, trying hard not to squirm as James started kneading your flesh with his big hands, slowly inching closer to your center.

“Although,” James hummed, his hand pausing. You held back a strangled whine, your hips flinching closer to his fingers. “She did start to get a little impatient towards the end. Even asked me to get her off before you got home.”

You glared daggers at James, earning a sly smirk.

Regulus tsked. “Jamie, be a dear and hold her still for me.”

Without another word, James stripped his clothing, revealing his tanned, muscular torso and matching cock, already at attention, before climbing into bed. He arranged you both so he was sitting behind you, your head leaned against his chest. His hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently in reassurance as Regulus approached.

“Did James tying you up make you that desperate?” He asked, and you nodded, your heart racing. “You like being at our mercy? Ours to treat however we please?” He dragged the tips of his fingers over your skin, making you shiver against James and forget your words.

“Yes or no, lovey,” James encouraged, his lips against the shell of your ear.

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Undo her legs,” Regulus ordered.

Excitement washed through you, and James was quick to literally tear the tinsel off of you, throwing it onto the floor beside the bed while Regulus carefully unwound the lights. Then James tucked his hands under your knees, pulling your legs apart and back towards him, exposing your sodden cunt to the warm air of the room, and the sticky mess you made along your inner thighs.

The stretch felt exquisite after an hour of being locked in place, and a soft moan spilled from your lips.

“Seems our little love really likes to be tied up,” Regulus mused, kneeling on the edge of the bed and shirking his sweater. “Drooling all over my expensive duvet,” he chastised, though his words dripped with approval.

“To be fair, I didn't make it easy on her,” James said, pressing affectionate kisses along your shoulder and neck.

“I'm sure you didn't. You're as insatiable as she is.”

James chuckled, the rumble making your tits bounce, and Regulus’ eyes darkened further. James caught his expression and dragged his hands up your body, cupping your tits, framed by a harness of lights, in his long fingers.

“So fucking pretty,” he hummed, grazing his thumbs over the hardened peaks, making your back bow as pleasure zapped through you.

“Like a piece of art,” Regulus added, lowering his face between your legs, his black curls tickling your thighs.

You fought against the ribbon in your mouth, attempting to dislodge it. James hooked a finger into the knot and unraveled it, freeing you instantly.

“Please, Reggie, please, please touch me,” you whined, knowing how much he loved to hear you beg.

“What do you think, Jamie?” Regulus asked, dragging the tip of his nose along your sensitive skin, breathing you in.

“I think she might combust if you don't,” James snickered, pinching and rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and pointer finger. You arched off of him, cursing under your breath as your pussy throbbed.

“Well, we can't have that,” Regulus hummed, his breath ghosting over your slick lips before his tongue laved through you, turning your thoughts to static.

He licked up and down your pussy, skirting around your clit in a wide arc. You melted onto James' embrace, his fingers plucking at your nipples while he mouthed at your throat, sucking marks across your skin.

“Reggie,” you whined, your fingers itching to thread through his hair, to reach back and hold James, but unable to do anything it grip the tinsel that binds them.

You felt Regulus smile against you, and he finally sealed his lips to your clit, nursing softly. You nearly come undone then and there, lifting off James with a cry as sparks flash behind your eyelids.

“So sensitive,” James said, snaking one of his arms around your waist to hold you in place. “He makin’ you feel good, lovey?”

“So f-fucking good,” you moaned, throwing your head back against James shoulder.

“You taste delicious, amour,” Regulus hummed, lapping at the pool of moisture collecting at your entrance. “Sweet as honey.” Regulus sat up briefly, catching James’ chin and kissing him, licking into his mouth. You watched their tongues dance, spit and your slick mixing in their sloppy exchange, James cock pulsing with excitement against your lower back.

Regulus pulled away after a few moments, a string of spit connecting their lips before he lowered himself back between your legs.

“C'mere.” James grabbed your jaw and angled your head towards him, capturing your lips in a simmering, languid kiss, the taste of you and Regulus lingering on his tongue. His licked at your lower lip, sucking it between his teeth to nibble on the tender flesh.

You moaned into his mouth, Regulus’ tongue doing something that made your brain short circuit, pushing you that much closer to your peak.

Regulus made a low hum in his throat. James broke the kiss to look down at him between your legs, his lips swollen and shiny with spit, eyes blown wide with affection.

“Gonna come for him, sweet thing? Shit—you’re trembling, love. Doing so good, Reggie.” James carded his fingers through Regulus' hair, and he leaned into his touch, practically purring with contentment against your sex.

It was so tender, so indulgent, you felt like you were glowing brighter than the Christmas lights, the most delicious heat spilling through you.

Regulus increased his tempo, so eager to make you come on his tongue while James held you together, soothing and loving on you both through the rising tide.

“Oh, god…f-fuck, m’gonna come. Yes, yes, yes!” You cried out as your orgasm rocked through you, electric pleasure frying your fragile nerves, making you twitch and convulse in James’ arms.

“Atta girl. Worth the wait, hm?" James praised, holding you tightly as your body shuddered through it, Regulus lapping up every drop he’d wrung from you, prolonging your release.

“Beautiful, amour,” Regulus purred when you finally settled, peppering kisses up your stomach to kiss you, his face damp from your release, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He turned to kiss James, who dragged his tongue up Regulus' cheek to taste you.

“Switch with me,” James murmured to Regulus, sliding out from under you.

You trembled as you sat up, your body still recovering from that slow burn release, your muscles fatigued from the bondage. Regulus slipped behind you, quickly undoing the tinsel that held your arms so you could move a little more freely.

You moaned in relief as you sagged against him, stretching your arms overhead. He took one of your hands, massaging each finger gently before kissing your knuckles.

You nearly forgot about James, so fixated on Regulus’ attentive touch, until James lifted your hips, shifting you higher onto Regulus’ chest.

“Jamie, what are you—oh fuck,” Regulus loosed a strangled moan, and you felt his half-hard cock slap against your sensitive cunt, suddenly freed from his pants.

James shimmied Regulus’ jeans down his legs, tossing them aside before settling back between your thighs. Gingerly, you removed James’ glasses and set them on the end table before smoothing his curls out of his eyes.

Regulus wrapped his arms around you, one holding your hip, the other cradling your throat. Not applying pressure, just feeling your pulse, your breath, under his fingers. He kissed along your cheek, licking at the shell of your ear.

“You know how much you mean to me?” He murmured, skimming your jaw with his thumb so you looked at him.

“Enough that you'll tolerate our festive shenanigans?” You grinned, pecking his cheek.

“Even more than that,” he hummed, pressing a loose, light as air kiss to your lips. Suddenly, his hips jerked, his teeth nearly knocking into yours. “Fucking hell, Potter—” James’ name fractured into a low groan, and you felt James nose brush your sex as he took Regulus into his mouth.

“Oh-oh,” you moaned when James lifted off Regulus to lick up your slit, his tongue dragging between the two of you. He pressed Regulus’ shaft against your slit, rocking between your slick folds as he began thrusting against James’ mouth, the combined friction making your eyes cross.

“Merlin, so f-fucking good, babe. So wet and warm,” Regulus moaned into the side of your neck, his lips latching onto your skin and sucking.

You weren't sure who he was talking to, but both you and James preened at the approval, James emboldened in his efforts to feast on you both simultaneously.

If anyone could pull off such a sexual feat, it was James Fleamont Potter.

You tightened your grip on James’ hair and reached your other hand up to hold Regulus, sliding your fingers into the damp curls at his nape. The contact kept you grounded while James worked to send your body to the moon.

“I wish you two could see this,” James said after coming up for air, breathless and starry-eyed. “So fuckin’ hot seeing you both dripping.”

Regulus made a whimpering sound in his throat, his hips canting up with a little more insistence.

“Jamie, want him inside me,” you begged, rocking your hips in time with Regulus’ movements.

“Fuck, please, amour,” Regulus' added, and James gave a smug grin, his plan having come to perfect fruition.

It never failed to amaze you how quickly the always-cool Regulus Black would fall apart under your or James' touch. How quickly you could work his Royal Highness into brainless, desperate putty.

Not that you were in any position to talk, James was the only one of you who could keep a level head during sex. Which was why he often was the one to take the lead once you got into it.

You watched James grip Regulus’ cock, stroking him a few times. “Lift your hips, lovey,” he said, and Regulus lifted you for him, gripping your hips . James lined the two of you up, and with a nod, Regulus speared you slowly onto his length.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, his cockhead grazing every delicious inch of your channel before bumping against your cervix, the feeling of fullness wonderfully intense.

Regulus moaned, a string of mumbled french spilling from his lips as your pussy sucked him deeper, soft and pulsing around his rigidity.

“Such a good girl,” James praised, practically drooling from his front row seat. “Taking him so well.” He leaned forward, licking a stripe from Regulus' base to your clit, and you both cried out as a new height of pleasure crescendoed, clinging to one another. You felt Regulus’ cock throb inside of you, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“James—” Regulus hissed through his teeth when James did it again, torturing you both.

“Fine, fine. Can you blame me? Prettiest sight I've ever fucking seen,” he said, sitting up and holding his arms out to you. “Come here, darling. Let me help you.”

Regulus eased you up onto your knees and you wrapped your arms around James, his strong arms embracing your waist as you buried your face into his neck. He smelled of sex and his spruce body wash, so very James, and you melted onto his arms, knowing he could bear your weight with ease.

You felt James nod his head, hold tightening, and Regulus snapped his hips upwards, knocking the air from your lungs.

“Oh fuck!” You cried as Regulus pounded up into you, his cock ruthlessly filling you over and over again while James kept you steady. All the sweetness cast aside in desperation.

“Good girl, that's it. Just hold onto me and take it,” James purred, reaching one of his hands down to grope your ass, delivering a stinging slap to the jiggling fat.

“Feel so fucking good,” Regulus growled, his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. “Petite putain d'allumeuse.”

“Jamie,” you whined, struggling to vocalize the thoughts spilling from your mind while Regulus used your cunt like his personal fleshlight.

“What, lovey?” He cooed, smoothing your hair from your face.

Your mouth hung open, beautifully pink and wet. Begging to be filled.

He grazed his thumb over your lip. “You want something to suck, precious?” He dipped his thumb into your mouth and you eagerly sucked it, eyes fluttering closed. “Ah, thought so.” He stared adoringly down at you, letting you nurse for a moment before removing his hand.

“Lean forward, love,” Regulus directed, his voice rough with exertion, and James stepped off the bed, letting you fall forward off of Regulus' cock. A low growl rumbled through Regulus' as he sat up behind you, his hands gripping your ass and spreading your cheeks. “Seven fucking saints, you're gorgeous.” He dragged his tongue through your sloppy cunt before straightening, lining up his cock once more before filling you back up, hitting a new, toe-curling angle deep inside of you.

“Mmph, Reggie,” you moaned, rocking back against his hips. “So b-big.”

Regulus grabbed the remaining restraints around your torso, forcing you up onto your hands, head forward where you were greeted by James’ pretty cock, flushed pink and dripping pearls. “Open, amour,” he ordered, but your jaw was already dropping, tongue out as you looked up at James through your lashes.

James spit on your tongue, slapping his cock head against it before easing himself into the wet warmth of your mouth. “Fuuuuuuck, love,” he groaned, head falling back on his shoulders as you started to suck him, Regulus’ thrusts forcing you further down James’ shaft. Regulus was manhandling you like a puppet, using the harness of tinsel to slide you up and down his cock.

You head completely emptied then, your body taking over as they fucked you from both ends, dominating every inch of you: mind, body, and soul. The pleasure was overwhelming, winding through every inch of you until it felt like you were cracking apart, your soul spilling out for them to take.

You heard them kissing above you, moaning and growling into each other's mouths like dueling animals, pummeling you between them.

You reached a hand between your legs, your clit begging for stimulation, and you began to rub tight circles over it, moaning around James’ length as your orgasm barreled closer.

“Close, hm?” Regulus purred in your ear, his front pressing against your back, and you nodded around James’ cock, gagging on a particularly deep thrust.

“Merlin, me too,” James groaned, fisting your hair as he fucked your face, sweat gleaming on his muscular chest, his dark hair a wild mess. “Gonna come down that hot little throat—fuck!”

A jet of cum blasted against your tonsils, his cock bucking against your tongue as his orgasm washed over him, his handsome face screwed up in ecstasy.

You greedily swallowed it all, sucking him until he was trembling and crying out, his body going limp as you overstimulated him.

“Your turn,” Regulus growled, speeding up his thrusts until you collapsed onto the bed, a screaming, shaking mess as he forced an orgasm out of you, the brutality of it knocking your soul from your body, splitting your mind in half as the room fell away and you ascended.

Distantly, you felt Regulus come too, his cry broken and loud enough to vibrate your ears as he fucked his spend into your quivering channel.

He collapsed onto you, breathing raged and skin sweaty. Slowly, your brain pieced itself back together, your muscles turned to goo, your skin tingling and sensitive as James rubbed small, soothing circles over your back.

“So good, lovey. You did so well,” you heard James murmur, pressing kisses to your and Regulus’ faces while he undid the last of your bondage.

Regulus curled around you, burying his face into you back of your neck. “I take it all back, I fucking love Christmas,” he mumbled, reaching out to tug James into the cuddle.

“I knew it,” James grinned, pulling your head onto his chest and wrapping an arm around you both, your legs tangled together. He twined his fingers with Regulus’ hand on your hip, guiding them to rest over his thundering heart.

“I think you just love pussy,” you teased, lazily grinding your ass against Regulus.

“That too,” he huffed a laugh, nipping at your earlobe.

“Well, I love you both,” James pressed a kiss to your forehead and brought Regulus’ knuckles to his lips.

“Love you,” you hummed, kissing James’ chest.

“Je t'aime,” Regulus shifted up to kiss James before dropping a kiss to your temple. “And thank you for showing me the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Pussy?” James asked.

“Pussy,” Regulus affirmed, and you snorted a laugh.

Thanks for reading!

#jegulus #poly!jegulus x reader #jegulus fanfiction #regulus black x james potter #regulus black x reader #james potter x regulus black #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #regulus black x y/n #james potter x you #regulus black x you #james potter #regulus black smut #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter smut #james potter smut #jegulus smut #dead gay wizards

774 notes · View notes

six-eyed-samurai · 7 months ago

Text

I've seen a lot of people who write Muichiro as someone who sort of forgets he's not dating you in the crush stage, but my take is that Muichiro actually forgets he's dating you and thinks he's in his crush era.

🌸He'll approach you suddenly, a couple times a month, with a serious expression and red cheeks, to confess his not-so-secret crush on you from since the day you both met, having forgotten he had already done so and you both were already together

🌸You usually just go along with it until he gets to the "I hope you feel the same but I'll understand if you don't" part; then you break it to him with a shy laugh that he had already confessed and you both were going out

🌸It's not tiring at all to keep repeating the same scenario, not at all! Muichiro is so cute when he does it, unconsciously pulling an innocent puppy expression and staring at you hopefully. And when he remembers you both are a couple he'll immediately light up ever so excitedly, attack you in a hug, press his forehead against you and apologize in a flurry of "Sorry" and compliments

("How did I manage to pull someone like you?" He wonders out loud. You laugh - he's too cute for his own good.)

🌸Not only that it's honestly become a guessing game with you to see what method Muichiro would confess to you again this time. You both have approximately cycled through confession by love letter, gifts (he might've stolen it forgetting it belonged to someone else, but it's the thought that counts, right?), cloud-gazing date, outright declaration, jealous blurt...yeah, you've gone through every single trope there was possible

🌸Your favorite one was when he threw an airplane across the room to you and when you unfolded it he wrote a little sweet confession. You still have it, along with the rest he started throwing to you to 1. get your attention 2. annoy you 3. ask you to join him for training or cloud-gazing

🌸 You've told him multiple times it's okay if he wants to stare at you anytime he likes after catching him doing it one day, like he did when he was in his crush phase, but he forgot and acts like he just got caught performing the most atrocious crime on earth: looks away immediately and vehemently denies it

🌸Everyone around you guys thinks it's super funny and adorable how Muichiro would start talking about you and abruptly end it with something like "Is this what people mean by having a crush?" or "I would really like to be her boyfriend someday if I manage to confess and she accepts." As said above he gets really puppy-dog excited when he's told "Aren't you guys dating already?"

("We are?" Muichiro frowned. "I don't remember..." His eyes widen. "So that's who left me that daikon today..." Then he runs off forgetting he's in the middle of conversation to go find you.)

🌸Sometimes it's a little awkward when it comes to dates though. Say there's a festival happening in a nearby town or White Day and you've been planning to spend the day having fun with him - Muichiro's going to forget you're both together and be too shy to ask you out despite that's all he's thinking about. Then you have to remind him, or someone else triggers it.

("I'm so sorry I didn't ask you!" Muichiro pushed a small box of chocolates towards you. "I got you this as an apology if it makes up for it? We'll do anything you want for tonight if you want?)

🌸It's always funny when Muichiro gets sulky or starts moping around when he hears about your boyfriend and how you're gushing over him because he forgot it was him. You like to tease him about it by listing out all the qualities you like about him and the usual praise until Muichiro asks who it is, his jealousy quite obvious.

("You, dummy!"

Muichiro blinked, then groaned, grabbing onto your side and looking up at you pathetically. "Don't play with me like that!")

🌸Of course it's not all fun and games. If this is before he met Tanjiro and regained his memories he can be pretty cold to you when he doesn't remember about your relationship, leading to a lot of things you both have to talk through after a fight.

🌸Worse case scenario is that he still remembers you as a crush, but decides that instead of confessing like before he ought to push you away before you became a weakness, a distraction...someone he'd lose.

🌸After he gets back his memories and becomes more like his old self however, he doesn't forget your relationship anymore, meaning to make up for all the times he did. In fact he flexes it, wanting to tell everyone about the both of you all the time to the point your default face is now "extremely flustered".

🌸Especially when he's jealous, actually.

("I heard that (y/n) has a crush though, do you really think you still stand a chance?"

Muichiro whipped his head around at the sound of the two slayers gossiping in the corner during a break from his training. A slight crease forms between his eyebrows and he decides to go a little harder on them later.

"Nah, it's fine! I'm a hundred per cent confident she'll say yes as long as she isn't dating anyone!"

"But I heard she is," a third slayer joined in, leaning closer conspiratorially. "A Hashira, actually."

The guy in question bursts out laughing. Scumbag. "As if! Don't be so stupid. She's already lucky she could get MY attention."

"Who would want a stupid mizunoto like you?" Muichiro smacked the slayer with the flat of his blade expressionlessly. The other two yelped and scrambled back. "For your information (y/n) got my attention - and now you have mine: go run ten laps around the Estate and if I hear you defile her name again I'll make it a hundred."

He blew a raspberry at the poor wretch as he ran past.)

#Sunny's works #had this thought in my head for a while now #muichiro x reader #muichiro tokito x reader #muichiro x y/n #muichiro tokito x y/n #muichiro x you #kny x reader #muichiro tokito x you

856 notes · View notes

astrosky33 · 1 year ago

Text

HOW YOU CAN GAIN WEALTH

THE 11TH HOUSE AND FINANCIAL GAINS

The 11th house in astrology is known for representing friends, socialization, technology, hopes/wishes, etc. However, a lot of people don’t know it also represents material gains (which includes financial gains)

The 10th house represents your career and the 2nd house represents money, so using Derivative Astrology you count 2 houses including 10 (10,11) meaning the 11th house gives insight on money made from your career

This is an underrated placement to check for your long term career to see which career path you should go down in order to make the most money. I discuss this in my readings

ARIES 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you motivate others or ones that motivate you. You would struggle financially in careers you weren’t passionate about. Careers involving courage, athletics, physical fighting/aggression, tattoos, war, heat/fire, confidence, energy, enthusiasm, and/or lust would suit you best (Example- personal trainer)

TAURUS 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers that bring sentimentality to your life. You would struggle financially in careers that were too high stress. Careers involving material items, beauty, romance/love, art/artistry, pleasures, festivities, your voice, and/or luxury would suit you best (Example- singer)

GEMINI 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers that let you communicate your ideas. You would struggle financially in careers that didn’t require much communicating. Careers involving literature/writing, social media, the mind, speaking, lower education, short trips, ground transportation, trading, the press, gossip, and/or math would suit you best (Example- social media influencer)

CANCER 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers that are an emotional outlet for you. You would struggle financially in careers that make you suppress all your feelings. Careers involving emotional expression, family, homes/houses, taking care of people, femininity, the ocean, fertility/pregnancy, baking/cooking, and/or boobs would suit you best (Example- real estate agent)

LEO 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers that allow you to be in the spotlight and shine. You would struggle in careers that you never get to express yourself creatively in. Careers involving drama, your talents, happiness, development, pride, the ego, identity, festivals, royalty, creativity, attention/spotlight, entertainment, and/or leadership would suit you best (Example- actor)

VIRGO 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you can put your analytical nature to use. You would struggle financially in careers where you couldn’t seem to voice your opinion. Careers involving analyzing with reason, health/fitness, literary works, the mind, and/or routine would suit you best (Example- author)

LIBRA 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you’re expressing yourself artistically. You would struggle financially in careers where you can’t have a balance of work and play. Careers involving art, beauty, fashion, harmony/harmonies, romance, pleasures, compromise/cooperation, values, and/or festivities would suit you best (Example- dancer)

SCORPIO 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you use your power for good and that you feel powerful in. You would struggle financially in careers where you have no control. Careers involving transformation, mystery/crime, surgery, sex, athletics, tattoos, aggression, and/or heat/fire would suit you best (Example- surgeon)

SAGITTARIUS 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you’re learning something new daily or going on new adventures daily. You would struggle financially in careers where you’re surrounded by negativity or negative coworkers. Careers involving travel, law/justice, teaching, religion/spirituality, gambling, honesty, and/or fulfillment would suit you best (Example- lawyer)

CAPRICORN 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where there’s stability. You would struggle financially in careers where there’s lack of consistency in your income or just in general. Careers involving business, being the boss, responsibility, confinement, restriction, old age, and/or bones would suit you best (Example- manager)

AQUARIUS 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers where you have freedom. You would struggle financially in careers where you can’t create/invent new things and be your unique self. Careers involving technology, politics, socialization/groups/friendship, invention, film, fluctuation, rebellion, electricity, natural disasters/science, chaos, p*rnography, and/or followers would suit you best (Example- film producer)

PISCES 11H: You can benefit the most financially from careers that are an escape for you. You would struggle financially in careers that cause you lots of confusion. Careers involving compassion/kindness, spirituality, disguise, glamour, idealization, hypnotism, music, disappearance, and/or the hidden would suit you best (Example- model)

Sub to my Patreon - My Masterlist

#11th house #11th house in astrology #money astrology #financial gains #wealth astrology #wealth #astro community #astrology #zodiac #astro placements #astrology tumblr #astro chart #birth chart #derivative astrology

2K notes · View notes

xxgoldie · 1 month ago

Text

let me spoil you

in which Lighter gets spoilt to filth on his birthday wc: 2.3k cw / notes: lighter x afab!reader, explicit (MDNI!!), sub!lighter but the d/s dynamics are minor, reader wears lingerie, body worship, light bondage (on lighter), p in v sex, raw sex, riding, light marking, nipple play, edging, dacyrphilia if you squint ig?, giving lighter the love he DESERVES

"I don't want to be greedy," Lighter teased, mouth breaking from yours and looking up at where you were sat on his lap, "but wasn't I promised one more birthday present?"

You let out a breathless giggle as his hands slid up your dress, and another at the ill-concealed confusion on his face when his fingers found the cotton of your usual underwear. It was true - you'd been hinting for days about a special extra present, not trying to hide that you'd bought some new lingerie for this occasion. His eyes had been scanning you all day, unashamedly imagining in the back of his mind what lacy creation you had on under your clothes as festivities with the gang went on.

"It's not really one I could wear underneath," you explained, yet another laugh escaping as you watched the cogs turn in his mind, adding the new information to whatever mental algorithm was guessing what you had prepared for him - cute, like he hadn't been grinding up into you so sinfully just seconds before, "but also... there's something I'd like to try today, if you're up for it."

"Oh? What's that, baby?" Lighter's tone was playful, but the look in his eye was filled with so much love. Bedroom or not, there were very few things he wouldn't try if it was for you - besides, since you'd chosen his birthday to ask, he figured you had something good for him.

"I want to tie you up."

Oh. That wasn't the sort of thing he'd expected. But he also hadn't expected that his first instinct would be excitement - sure, you'd taken the lead in bed before, but having that much control over him? Lighter swallowed thickly - god, that was so hot. Not what he'd had in mind for today, but hot.

"Not, like, a lot. And we don't have to! It's up to you, obviously-" you said, his momentary silence making you backtrack.

"Hey, breathe, babe, I'm not against it," Lighter's hand, still resting at the hemline of your panties, rubbed against your skin reassuringly. His words were chosen carefully, keeping the idea on the table without seeming too excited. He maintained a certain persona - one that, for the most part, crumbled the second you got him alone, but some instinct kept a few bricks of that wall up, not wanting to let out that being at your complete mercy sounded like heaven to him. "It's just... not what I expected. Doesn't the cliche go that you'd be the one tied up as a present for me?"

"Yeah, I know. But I know you, Lighter. You're far too good to me," you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, "And if I let you have your way with me, you're just going to be thinking about making me feel good. It's your birthday, I want to make it all about you- and do not even start about how you feel good when I do, that's not the point."

Slight surprise crossed Lighter as those exact words died on his tongue. You knew him so well, knew exactly how he loved you and how to love him back, all his rough spots and weak points, so you knew exactly where to push to make his last dregs of hesitation fly out the window, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"Let me spoil you, birthday boy"

That's all it took for him to nod in agreement, following your instructions to get undressed and wait for you in the bedroom while you got changed. If he hadn't agreed before, the moment you came out in that lingerie, lacy white accented with black frills and bows, a sheer babydoll overtop that explained why you couldn't wear it under your dress, he'd have agreed in a heartbeat. Lighter tended to be weak to your every whim, but especially when your body was on display for him.

You'd arranged restraints as well, soft red rope with golden fastenings, and laughed as you fought off his attempts to touch and kiss you all over in that outfit, decidedly distracted despite the plans he himself had just agreed to, and fairly adept at distracting you, though not enough to stop his legs from being tied to opposing ends of the footboard, spread out, while one rope tied his wrists together and to the headboard above him. Fully exposed, and laid bare for you.

You were straddled across him now, resting on his chest just shy of where his dick, fully hard at this point, strained against his lower abdomen, your lips pressing kiss after kiss along his jaw, neck, collarbone. Tucked into your bra was a tube of lipstick, a shade of red you knew he adored on you, which you'd been using to litter his skin with red kiss marks, a pretty medley with the occasional purple mark you'd sucked onto him. You'd re-applied the product to your lips twice by now.

"Baby..." Lighter breathed, looking up at you with a frustrated pout. He'd meant it to sound warning, but it came out as more of a whine, the complete lack of attention to his leaking cock getting him increasingly desperate. The restraints on his legs kept any thrust of his hips from being meaningful, the ones on his hands stopped him from pulling you down lower. Not to mention, it was driving him insane not to touch you, seeing you looking so delectable and feeling your crotch on his chest and lips against his skin but nothing against his fingers.

"What?" you feigned innocence, but your gaze was lidded as you sat up and admired your masterpiece. Your nails raked lightly against his skin, just short of hard enough to graze him as they traveled lower. "I want to take my time with you."

Your nail caught on his nipple, drawing a sharp breath from his lips. You took the cue, lips finally reaching below his collarbone to close around the bud. A deep groan, his chest arching into your touch at the playful swirl of your tongue, two of your fingers rolling the other one. His breathing was heavy, hitching on every harsher tug or light suck as he tried to conceal just how sensitive you had him by now. But your mouth didn't stay put for long, the allure of leaving even more pretty red kiss marks on him simply too great. Still tweaking his nipple, you trailed kisses upwards, outlining the large jagged scar across his shoulder.

"You're so beautiful," you breathed against his skin, sitting up once again, eyes raking shamelessly over his body. The only thing he could get out was a choked moan, your words coinciding with a sharp pinch to his nipple. "Literally so perfect."

You really made his head spin - 'hot' and 'handsome' he heard often enough, and you called him 'cute' a lot, but 'beautiful'? Lighter wasn't sure anyone had called him beautiful before, especially not while lathing the reminders of his ugly past with affection that was simultaneously too much and not enough. He could only buck his hips fruitlessly, just short of the touch he needed to both release the tension and distract him from just how in love he felt, a feeling so overwhelming it scared him a little.

"You're amazing, Lighter-" you continued between kisses to his chest, "-so amazing-" your lipstick was basically gone now, a few smudges left around your mouth, but you didn't seem bothered about reapplying it this time, more concerned with kissing every possible inch of his skin, "-it is such a privilege to love you-" your mouth trailed lower, and amazingly, for the first time, so did the rest of your body, slowly sliding down his abdomen to give yourself more room "-and I'll tell you every opportunity I get-" and finally, finally you slid down low enough that you were seated on his dick "-I love you-" another kiss "-I love you-" and another "-I love you-" and suddenly your face was in front of his and you kissed him on the lips, greedily swallowing his groan as you roll your hips against his.

And it was all too much - the damp friction that he had been moments away from begging for, every word and touch you blessed him with, the ever-sweet sensation of your lips moving against his so deeply and tenderly - and when you finally pulled away, you could see the faint wet trail of a couple tears along his face, olive eyes glossy and looking up at you as if you were the answer to his every prayer. Still, a look of worry washed over you at the tears, movement of your hips stilling as you brushed the wetness away with your thumb.

"Are you okay?" you asked, and Lighter couldn't help but chuckle even as another stray tear slipped down his cheek at the soft concern in your voice.

"I don't deserve you," he managed, smiling at you so lovingly you just had to laugh along with him. You leaned down, another kiss on his lips as the tension melted from you.

"You deserve every good thing that comes your way, Lighter," you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear as your hips resumed their slow grinding. He almost felt a little pathetic, crying at your sweet words, but a well-aimed movement against his cock, the keening whine you let out as the head caught your clit, had all those thoughts flying out the window. His gasped moan harmonised with the clatter of his restraints against the bedframe as he momentarily forgot his hands were tied, automatically moving to try and grab your waist and push you down harder.

Though, as usual, you knew exactly what he needed, only grinding a moment more before you lifted to pull your panties to the side, ready to sink onto him-

"I- Wait-" Lighter managed, silently cursing himself for listening to the responsible part of his brain, "Don't you want to use a condom?"

"Do you?"

Your eyebrow quirked incredulously, playful smirk on your face like when you presented someone with a gift you knew they'd love, and the thought echoed in his mind so clearly Lighter was almost surprised he didn't say it out loud.

'I need to marry you.'

His reply must have been written across his face, though, because you resumed your movement, your head falling back at the stretch with virtually no preparation, while Lighter let out his own moan with the feeling of your gummy walls slowly taking in more and more of him. Finally seated fully on his cock, you shot him a smile, a little dazed at being so full, then started moving, a slow, sensual rhythm as you bounced lightly and grinded against him. He had to fight the instinct to let his head fall back, the show in front of him far too hypnotising as you fucked yourself on him, pretty moans falling from your lips at every tiny thrust he managed in his position.

"Shit, baby, so pretty for me, please-" you clenched around him at his praise, speeding your movements and causing another deep groan to escape him, "fuck, please, just like that, baby please-"

"What do you need?" you managed despite the way he filled you up so perfectly, taking in how gorgeous he looked, muscular chest littered with red kisses, face flushed and eyes glossy, raking over you with the same indulgence as those unspecified pleas tumbled out.

"Need- shit, need to hold you-" he cut himself off with a moan as you tightened around him, pulling at the restraints on his hands to accentuate his point. It didn't take him any more begging for you to reach up, slightly lifting off his cock to reach the fabric around his wrists. As pretty as he looked all laid out for you and yearning, you couldn't deny you missed his calloused hands on your skin.

As soon as the rope loosened enough for Lighter's wrists to slip out, he was sitting up, chest pressed against yours, one hand groping at your breasts as the other wrapped around your waist, pushing himself impossibly deeper, pulling you impossibly closer. He peppered your face with kisses, lopsided grin forming on his face as you couldn't help but giggle, before his face found its place in the crook of your neck, muttering sweet and filthy nothings into your skin as he lathed it in kisses and nips.

"I'm- fuck, I'm close-" he groaned, the hand on your breast migrating down to rub circles on your clit, the roughness of his fingertips against it sending your back arching.

"Inside. Please," you whined, bouncing yourself faster in time with his shallow thrusts, "'m close too-"

With one final sharp thrust and stuttered moan, Lighter spilled inside you, pulling you down as deep as you could possibly go. His head almost felt fuzzy as you spasmed around his sensitive length, pressing crescent shapes into his shoulders with your fingernails as the feeling of his hot seed sent you over the edge as well.

Gently, he lowered himself back down onto the bed, careful not to pull out as he pulled you down with him to lay on his chest. You looked up at him, that lovesick gaze he never really knew what to do with as you breathed heavily, coming down from your high.

"Did you like your present?" you managed, still singsong and playful as your finger traced the many outlines of your lips on his skin.

"I think-" Lighter responded, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek, "I think I'm the luckiest man alive."

364 notes · View notes

revolutionsingingintherainnn · 6 months ago

Text

Superstitions pt. 2 ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Summary: Y/N has known lots of superstitions. This particular one is Lando's favourite.

Based on an anon's response to the previous imagine: "superstitions" is so so so so soooo cute 😭😭😭 and honestly, confession, i also do "nazar utarna" before he races so it just made me feel very seen 😭😭😭. thank you for writing!

➥ ln x desi!reader ☁︎ ➥ fluff ☁︎

masterlist ☾☼ Read Part 1 here

According to Lando, one of his favourite things about Y/N was how passionate you were about your country and traditions. He could spend hours and hours listening to you talk about the many festivals that you celebrated, and he could spend hours looking at you wearing a lehenga or sari. Personally, he thought that you looked the most beautiful in a lehenga. Red, and shiny, and twirling under the lights. He was pretty sure that was the moment he truly fell in love with you.

The black thread on his left ankle was a new addition to the few accessories he wore on a daily basis. Though, you had reminded him that it was not an accessory, but rather a protection thread. He was thankful for it, regardless. Oscar and Carlos had questioned him about it when they had met during the summer break, but Lando could only smile and shake his head. It was a concept that he believed would go over his friends' heads. He also liked to keep that little thing between the two of you. It was his most favourite secret. Something that only the two of you shared.

Though, when the two of you had started dating, Lando found his favourite superstition that you believed in. It was during one of the few races you had seen from the paddock. Lando had managed to sneak you in, to avoid the media capturing your face or writing headlines about you.

Just minutes before he had to sit in the car, he had turned to you for a quick kiss. His arms were around your waist, keeping you close to his body. Pecking your lips, he had said, "Wish me luck?"

You had smiled so radiantly. Pulling back a little from him, you rubbed your hands together and then made a waving motion on either side of his head, bringing your hands back to your temple where you curled your fingers and rested them against it.

"Good luck, my love." You had said, kissing him again.

Lando had been puzzled by your action. Before he could question you though, people were calling him, telling him to get ready for the race. Kissing you again, because, honestly, he couldn't get enough of you, Lando quickly ran to his car, and you were led to the screens to watch.

He had no idea what you had done, but whatever it was, it had worked. He achieved P2 in that race, something that he was incredibly proud of after a long, hard fight with the other drivers. The media had kept him occupied for far too long, and before he knew it, he was standing on the podium with his champagne. His eyes stayed on yours for as long as possible, because how could they not? Lando completely dedicated this particular win to you, because it was your magic that had worked.

What had felt like hours later, Lando finally saw you in his driver's room. You were sitting on the couch, scrolling on your phone. At the sound of the door opening, you had looked up, and instantly smiled at Lando's happy face.

He had kissed you desperately, whispering how much he loved you and how thankful he was for you in between his kisses. He could not stop smiling, and neither could you.

"I have to ask, though," His forehead was pressed against yours, his hands moving all over your body.

"What do you have to ask?" Your hands played with the hair at the nape of his head.

"What was that thing you did? Before I went for the race. When I told you to wish me luck." Lando asked.

Pulling back from him, your cheeks turned red. It made Lando giddy.

"It's this thing we do back home. It's called 'nazar utarana'. When I did that to you, I was basically just neutralizing any and all evil energies that may have found home in you." You explained softly. It was new for you. To have someone who wanted to know more about your culture, encourages you to embrace them even more.

Lando had pressed his face in your neck, pressing kisses as he whispered how grateful he was for you. You had laughed, but you had held him close.

It had become a routine for Lando after that. Before every race, he would FaceTime you, watch you as you would do the thing, and every time, he would fall in love with you even more.

You and all your superstitions.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆

Honestly, I was not planning on writing part two of this, but reading the anon's message, it inspired me. I hope you enjoyed this! i've also got a link for my taglist and requests that you can find here!

#lando norris #ln4 #f1 #formula 1 #lando x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #desi reader #ln4 fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic

351 notes · View notes

crows4luna · 12 days ago

Text

571 words. mature, suggestive. heavy sexual tension. unedited. pop star!reader. reader is not mc. reader has a blood evol and actually has a backbone so they see through caleb's bullshit. reader is afab. reunion-ish with colonel caleb. caleb is horny for reader and fantasizes about them. is this toxic? it might be. | i was originally going to write this scene in compliance for my oc story but i saw it more as a universally open concept. thus, here we are. if anyone was curious on how i interpret a blood manipulation evol, it's a combination of katara from atla as well as marie and victoria from the boys/gen v. 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀now playing: sports car - tate mcrae

A curt tilt of his head, and his eyes flick down then back up at you. The hardened glance softens just the slightest, looking at you with the slightest undercurrent of fondness. He speaks, as he lowers his cap, setting it aside on the table behind him, “You did great out there.”

You scoff, swiveling around in your chair before the vanity, crossing one leg over the other. It’s him, in the flesh, but Caleb was a stranger in every way possible. Sure, you grieved him at one point, but there were other things that heeded your attention. Problems that arose because greedy scientists and investors continued to get too bold.

“You look beautiful tonight,” the colonel continues to shower you in praise.

Your senses are sharp, despite your calm demeanor. You learned a lot from the N109 Zone, from dealing with seedier investors in the Nest before that.

His praise is genuine, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flutter up and down over your form. A dazzling silver two-piece outfit hugs your body, modest in its coverage but short enough to tease with the skin that’s bared. (And, of course, being able to dance in it.) Up to your knees were patent white boots, giving you a little more height when you stood.

Of course you were stunning.

“It’s very thoughtful of the Fleet to host a music festival of all things for Skyhaven’s people,” you shrug, lips curling into a soft smile. “I’m honored to have been invited as the headliner.”

It’s Caleb’s turn to display his amusement, chuckling briefly in a lowered tone, “I just thought about giving you a more reasonable excuse to come here.”

That one pinches a little.

You grimace, knowing that he sees through you. Knowing that being here is a more dire situation than being a dancing monkey as a temporary distraction. But even if that was the case, you could feel the unique pulse of his blood as he watched you from the shadows. The way you were a natural, captivating performer on that stage like it was home—it had him under your spell.

Caleb had to admit to himself, shamelessly, the way you made him feel has not wavered at all. Seeing you like that tonight reassured him of everything—and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go to bed tonight without fucking into his fist at the thought of you.

“Watch yourself, colonel. I—”

“I think it’s you who needs to be cautious,” he drawls, stepping towards you. He bends to the knee, violet eyes raking over the expanse of your thighs, your exposed abdomen. How badly he wants you—needs you—right now is unbearable. He’s getting hard again.

But those sinful thoughts disappear, when he realizes your own bold demeanor mirrors his own. You’re not tense at all, nor does he sense anything amiss in your form.

You’re unable to tear your gaze away from his.

A slight vibration thrums in the thickened air between you both. Caleb’s ears ring just the slightest, though he doesn’t falter or twitch.

Until he feels a thick trickle from his nostrils. The tips of his leather-gloved fingers press against the blood, and it doesn’t take long for him to figure you out. Between the minimal, dark red on his fingers and your unwavered focus, Caleb only smirks.

He’s going to enjoy this game between you two.

186 notes · View notes

dearru · 1 month ago

Text

twelve grapes | o.miya

pairing: ts!miya osamu x gn!reader | sfw | cw: slight manga spoilers, alcohol, atsumu sucks and kita is here too, a lot of yearning and unresolved feelings, no use of yn | genre: hurt/comfort sorta but also idk just read it and you’ll see | wc: 3.3k (3330) | mlist

synopsis -> in attempting to follow an age-old tradition, you begin to confront some repressed feelings you have for your best friend.

TWENTY MINUTES UNTIL MIDNIGHT, and you’re buzzing with anticipation. Tonight was the annual New Year's party, and the air was alive with excitement. Laughter fills the room, and you navigate through the crowd, ignoring the feeling of sweaty partygoers pressing against your body. Normally, you’d hate pushing through a crowded group of people, but tonight, you’re on a mission. You need to find Kita– the reluctant host of this year’s party and your longtime friend.

When you find him, you call out, bounding over to where he’s resigned to nursing a bottle of water on the couch, looking entirely overwhelmed by the festivities. You giggle at his current state as he lifts his head sluggishly, eyes half-lidded and fighting sleep. If he weren’t the host of this event, you’re sure he’d already be snuggled under his warm bedsheets, sleeping the Holiday away.

He hums, sitting up to give you his full attention despite his exhaustion.

“Do you have grapes?” you ask.

“Grapes?” He tilts his head, “I have some in the kitchen.” And like the good host he is, he rises from the couch. It’s a half-hearted attempt but appreciated nonetheless.

Shaking your head, you gesture for him to sit back down, “I can get them; it’s okay!”

Nodding, he looks almost relieved as he points toward the kitchen. “Top shelf of the fridge.” He says, smiling appreciatively.

Before you can go, you feel a hand grip your shoulder. Turning, you see a familiar mop of blonde hair and a mischievous grin staring back at you.

Atsumu Miya– who is another one of your long-term friends, unfortunately.

“Who’s goin’ to the kitchen?” The setter slurs, cheeks flushed, “Get me another beer, yeah?” His eyes are glazed over, and the scent of what you presume to be the copious amounts of alcohol he’s consumed wafts off him. The odor is prominent and slightly bitter. You fight the urge to shake your head in knowing disappointment.

“I think you’ve had enough.” Kita scolds, calm but firm. Atsumu puts a hand up in submission and mutters something under his breath, still holding onto you.

Chuckling, you untangle yourself from his grasp, glancing toward the kitchen. “Couldn’t get you a beer even if I wanted,” You tease, “I’m gonna stay in the kitchen ‘til midnight.”

Yawning loudly and plopping down on the sofa next to Kita, Atsumu peers at you curiously. “Midnight? ‘Samu gonna be there too?” He snickers, nudging his former teammate. Kita shoots him a warning glance and then shifts his gaze to you. It’s warm and empathetic.

You stiffen. The sound of his name has your heart skipping a beat, and Atsumu’s question echoes loud in your ear like the pop of a champagne cork. Everyone’s been drinking tonight, so maybe it’s the liquor and crowd getting to you, but you suddenly feel aware of how your breath catches.

You and Osamu are friends– best friends, even– but recently, you’ve started to notice things about him that maybe best friends shouldn’t notice. Like the way his hair tousles in an annoyingly effortless way or how he rolls his sleeves up just enough for you to get a glimpse of his arms, toned and strong. You try your best to push the thoughts away because you two are friends, and it’s wrong to think of friends like that.

Try as you might, it’s more difficult said than done. Especially when you two spend every free moment you have together. Even after spending long, laborious nights slaving away at Onigiri Miya, Osamu always stops by your apartment, doggy bag in hand. He tells you it’s just to make sure you’re eating, but you know the casual drop-ins are an excuse to have hour-long chats together in the dead of night. You never mind, but it makes you wonder if he thinks about you in the way you think about him.

It’s wishful thinking, you tell yourself, He’s got better things to worry about than you. It’s best practice to not have false hope, and you’ve tried your best to not let all the inner turmoil affect the way you act.

When Atsumu mentions his brother, you feel a wave of discomfort that betrays how desperately unbothered you want to seem by him. You want to laugh it off, but the words don’t come out in the effortlessly cool way you imagined in your head.

“Why would we be together at midnight?” You ask. The words are rushed, and you cringe at how the pitch of your voice raises. The weight of his accusatory gaze makes you feel like a dying animal being stalked by a vulture. He’s onto you, and you can’t do anything about it.

Letting the silence hang in the air for a moment longer than what’s comfortable, Atsumu sighs, chuckling and leaning further into the cushions, “If yer not with ‘Samu, then what’re ya doin’ in the kitchen?”

You breathe a sigh of relief at the change of topic. “I’m doing the twelve grapes tradition.”

“Twelve grapes?” Kita asks.

You smile, confidence returning to you, “Yeah! I read about it online. You eat twelve grapes under a table, and it’s supposed to bring good luck for the New Year.”

Snorting, Atsumu crosses his arms, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Biting your inner lip, your eyes narrow. You’re used to his blunt comments, but they still get under your skin sometimes. You try not to let it show.

“Don’t be rude,” Kita sighs, then looks to you, voice softening, “Just don’t choke when you’re eating them, okay?”

“I won’t.” You assure him while glaring at Atsumu, who’s still laughing under his breath.

Making your way to the kitchen, you hear Atsumu call out, mockingly cheery, “Yer gonna look dumb bein’ all alone at Midnight!”

You pause and then shake your head, continuing to the kitchen. What do you care if you’re alone? The one person you’d want to ring the New Year in with had probably left the party by now to get ready to open his restaurant in the morning, anyway.

It’s not a big deal.

TEN MINUTES UNTIL MIDNIGHT, and you feel stupid.

In spite of Atsumu’s taunts, you’ve slipped away into the kitchen to escape the boisterous crowd that gathered around the living room. They’re all anxiously awaiting for 12:00 AM to strike together, and you’re by yourself. Bass from the loud music seeps through the thin walls and pulses through your head, amplifying your growing discomfort. You try to focus on how the quiet hum of the stove subtly masks the muffled sounds of laughter and the premature clinking of glasses from the other room. It would be nice, you think, to take a break from the party— if it weren’t for how alone you felt.

This is silly.

Opening the fridge, you sigh as you feel the cool air hit your face, the chill sobering and harsh. You’re grateful for the obsessively organized way Kita stores his groceries; it makes it easy to find the grapes. They’re exactly where he said they’d be, tucked away on the top shelf. Grabbing the container, you set it down on the counter, gently plucking the fruit from the stem. As you place twelve into a bowl, the simple task is marred by a feeling of unbelievable doubt. You try to fight off the creeping sensation of dread overcoming you.

Is this a dumb idea?

You pause, thoughts wandering. You think about how this tradition is said to bring luck and success in all areas of life, it was exciting at first, but now it feels like an absurd notion. Why did you want to do this in the first place?

As you continue to prepare the grapes, you try to settle the unease you feel. This tradition is supposed to be fun, but now you feel like it represents something more. Something bigger.

Silently, you hope Atsumu will come and drag you away from this nonsense. It was always easier to ignore the thoughts when you were around others.

But more than that, you wish for something else– Osamu. Looking down at the dish, you wish he would come and tell you how he feels. Reassure you there’s some merit in your thought.

If that happened, you wouldn’t need the grapes anymore. It would prove that you had more than enough luck on your side.

You really wish he was here.

His lack of presence only emphasizes the emptiness of the room, and your heart lurches with the desire for him to be here with you. It’s pointless; though, you’re sure he’s gone home by now, and you’re still here with nothing but a bowl of fruit and unanswered questions.

Running the sink, you wash the fruit, hoping it’ll help you calm down. But you realize that pushing down these thoughts is a futile task. You can’t keep pretending like you don’t feel this magnetic pull to him– you can’t keep acting like you don’t need him.

You love him too much to ignore it anymore.

FIVE MINUTES UNTIL MIDNIGHT, and you wonder if you should forget your idea and return to celebrate with the others.

You haven’t gotten under the table yet. Instead, you’re standing idly by the counter, staring at the grapes with more intensity than they’re worth. With the magnitude of your previous realization sitting heavy on your chest, you wonder if this tradition holds the key to anything.

Could it help you learn to navigate your now undeniable feelings?

The thought of grapes being the answer to all your problems is such a silly idea that you giggle to yourself. It takes some of the weight off your mind.

And then, with comedic timing, you hear Osamu call your name.

Snapping your head to the doorframe, you see his figure walking towards you, the door swinging closed in his wake. The clock in the room ticks steadily, but time seems to move slowly. Though a typically reserved person, his presence feels large and looms over you, causing your heart to pound with want.

Clearing your throat, you pick the bowl up, holding it tight to your chest like a shield.

“I thought you went home,” You say, face warm.

It’s almost time now, but Osamu’s sudden appearance has thrown a wrench in your plans.

“Nah,” He waves his hand dismissively, “Just crashed on Kita’s bed for a bit. Shop was busy. Needed to recharge.”

You hum mindlessly, finding it hard to focus. Adorning a fitted shirt and a simple pair of jeans, it makes you almost mad at how he doesn’t have to try, and he still looks good.

You’re so screwed.

“How’d you know I was here?” You ask, tapping your fingers against the dish. The cool porcelain touches your fingertips and sends a rush down your spine.

“‘Tsumu told me.” He explains, “ ‘S ‘cause he heard I was lookin’ for you.”

Your heart stutters. “You were looking for me?”

“‘Course I was,” He replies, amused. He says it like you’re silly for thinking otherwise. Lips turning into a slight grin, he shrugs, “‘S almost Midnight.”

He steps closer, not seeming bothered at all. His gaze locks on yours, and you feel like it’s on purpose. When he tries to reach for a grape, you quickly jerk the dish out of reach. Osamu looks at you curiously.

“What’re you doin’ here, anyways?” He asks, a playful glint in his eyes. There’s something else, too– but you can’t place it yet.

You hold up the bowl, feeling a bit ridiculous having to explain yourself, “I’m— uh, gonna eat twelve of these under a table.”

His gaze has your mind reeling. Tilting his head, he peers at you, “Why wouldn’t ya just eat ‘em right now? Grapes ‘re good.”

You giggle at his simple nature. Of course he’d want to eat the snack as soon as possible. Trying to play it cool, you swat his hand away. His hand brushes against yours and makes you shiver.

Clearing your throat, you avert your eyes, “It’s ‘cause people say if you eat them under the table at midnight, you’ll gain success in all areas of life.” You pause before quickly adding, “Even romance.”

You regret it as soon as you say it, but you can’t do anything about it now.

He raises his eyebrows, “Ya want a boyfriend?”

“It would be nice, I guess,” You stammer, embarrassed but relieved to say something truthful about your feelings for once.

“I didn’t know that,” He hums thoughtfully.

An agonizing silence hangs in the air. The only noise comes from the increasingly rowdy crowd in the other room.

Osamu breaks the still before you can.

“So why aren’t ya under a table yet?” He asks, looking down at his watch, “‘S almost time.”

Smiling sheepishly, you look down at the floor, “Well, I was gonna do it, but now I’m insecure ‘cause Atsumu said I’d look dumb being all alone.”

He scoffs, “Don’t listen to ‘Tsumu– he’s the dumb one.”

You chuckle, “I guess, yeah, but still, I’d feel better if I could’ve found someone to do it with me. Kinda like a solidarity thing, y’know?”

“Yeah,” He agrees, then grabs the bowl without warning. You lunge to grab it back, but he holds it just out of reach when you get close. Looking around the room, he seems like he’s considering his options. You whine.

“Samu! I need those!”

“Ya wanna do it right there?” He asks, ignoring your plea and pointing at a cozy table hidden in the nook of Kita’s kitchen. His voice is low and laced with a teasing energy.

Taken aback, you stop your efforts. You stare at him.

Was he going to do the tradition with you?

He starts to walk away, and you stand there, confused. He looks over his shoulder, still holding the bowl out of your reach, “Well,” He says, “Ya comin’?”

“I…” You swallow, heart filling with something hopeful, “You’re serious?”

“Dead.” He quips.

And because you could never say no to him– and you also really did want to do the tradition— you haphazardly scramble to grab more grapes from the counter since Osamu had stolen yours.

Kita would just have to forgive you for eating all his food.

ONE MINUTE UNTIL MIDNIGHT, and your body warms from being in such close proximity to Osamu. If it were anyone else, you’d laugh at how the two of you barely fit under the small table, your knees awkwardly bumping and arms pressed together. But because it’s him, the closeness hurts. Your hands are so close that you ache to reach out and touch him. Every small movement sends a jolt of electricity through you. The faint scent of his cologne– sandalwood, you think– clings to his person and makes your pulse quicken.

Everything feels so trivial with him next to you. This moment shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but you can’t help it.

Looking at the grapes, you wonder why he’s doing this. Did he feel bad for you? Is that why he wasn’t somewhere else, celebrating with his brother and other friends?

It’s all too much. At this rate, you’ll die before the clock strikes twelve.

You have to say something.

“I didn’t know you believed in stuff like this.” You say, careful to keep your voice steady.

He turns to you, and you can feel his breath on your face. The sudden nearness steals your own breath away.

He’s so close.

“I like eating grapes.” He shrugs, his voice as calm as you wish you were. Pausing, he parts his lips to speak, eyes glimmering with something unspoken, “And maybe I need a little luck too.”

You’re too eager to know what he’s talking about to hide your embarrassingly shrill speech, “Luck? With what?”

His gaze holds yours, and for a second, you feel like he’s about to say something important– but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives you a sly smile. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see if it works,” He says. It’s teasing, but there’s something else in his eyes. It makes your heart lurch.

His words settle over you like the weight of the sky, crushing you with their ambiguity. It’s cruel, how vaguely he speaks. Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to you? How he makes you feel? All you can do is gape at him, the air filling with so much tension that you’re sure he can feel it too.

The countdown starts in the other room and delays your inevitable spiral. Nodding at him, you look at the grapes in front of you, preparing yourself for the task you originally set out to do.

You’re so focused that you miss how Osamu’s still looking at you.

ONE MINUTE PAST MIDNIGHT, and you’ve both finished your grapes. The faint echoes of drunken cheering filter in from the other room– a signal that it’s time to leave the kitchen and rejoin the celebration. Despite this, neither you or Osamu have moved from your places under the table. You’re still so close. The sound of your shaky breaths dance together, and the heat of his touch burns your skin.

He hasn’t stopped looking at you.

You try not to meet his gaze. It’s charged and entirely too intense for you to even begin to wrap your head around what it all means. Maybe you’re looking too deeply into things again. But you don’t think you are.

Eyes darting around the room, you settle on looking at the clock. Its ticking has sped back up to a normal pace, and you focus on the calming rhythm.

It’s useless, though. You can’t ignore him. Not for long.

“What?” You breathe out, still not looking at him directly.

“Nothin’,” He echoes, voice equally quiet.

You swallow, finally allowing yourself to indulge in the intimacy of having his complete attention. Examining his face, your eyes widen. He’s really staring. You squirm from the intensity of the situation, accidentally bumping his side. You squeak out a “Sorry!” And he laughs. It’s full of warmth and affection, and it makes the hairs on your arm stand.

Your breath hitches. Has he always acted like this with you?

He says your name and smiles softly. Gaze pining you in place, dark eyes filled with intent, “Ya think we’ll both get what we want this year?”

Your stomach flips.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask. The closeness paired with the intensity of his stare is almost unbearable. You’re sure he can see your heart beating out of your chest if he hadn’t picked up on it already.

He shrugs, “Dunno.” Then he gets up from under the table, brushing dust off his knees. The ghost of his touch lingers on your skin, and you have half the mind to tell him to come back. Under the table, it felt like you two were in your own world, but now you’re worlds apart.

His hand falls in front of your face to help you up, and you accept it just to feel him touch you again.

It’s silent for a moment as you two stand next to each other. You’re still close, even though you don’t have to be.

“Hey,” Osamu says softly, voice cutting through the tension, “Happy New Year.”

You blink at him, chest tight, “Yeah, Happy New Year.”

He hesitates, just for a moment, mouth opening like he wants to say something more, “I…” He starts but then shakes his head, “I think a lot’s gonna change this year.”

You ache from everything left unspoken and what could be. An indescribable feeling settles over you, and your mind races with possibility. This year is a fresh slate– a chance for something new.

With luck on your side, maybe that something new could be with Osamu.

—a/n HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! This was supposed to be a 500 word drabble for a multi-character post, but I got a bit carried away…whoops! I hope you guys enjoyed regardless. I know longer fics don’t typically do well on tumblr, so If you read everything, I’m very grateful! I hope the Holiday season treated everyone who celebrate well :3.

–a/n #2: according to mexican tradition, you’re supposed to match your underwear to what aligns with your desire for the new year. you and osamu both wore red aka the color of love. do with that what u will. (@cherrysurf gave me this idea!)

#osamu miya #osamu miya x reader #osamu miya x you #osamu miya x y/n #osamu miya fluff #osamu x reader #osamu x you #osamu x y/n #osamu fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #hq fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #hq x y/n

368 notes · View notes

mooishbeam · 21 days ago

Text

『♡』 Caught Under the Mistletoe

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

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

♡ wc: 8.0k

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

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

“Hey, watch your step!”

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

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

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

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

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

Well, you and Nanami, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go tell him.”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then be happy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••

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

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

“Your turn

-Nanami”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Na-Na-Mi!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Riiight. Anyway, Nanami-“

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

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

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

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

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

“…If you don’t mind.”

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

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

“See ya!” he waves.

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

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

“Yea, let’s go.”

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

“Sorry about Gojo” he says.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is work getting easier for you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Double chocolate chip cookies.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll hold you to it.”

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

“I read a lot. I write occasionally.”

“Any specific genre?”

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

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

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

“Thanks” is all you manage to choke out.

“I didn’t know you walk this way.”

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

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

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

“You don’t have to do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you’ll have me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then how about those cookies?”

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

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

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

“How’d you figure out my wrist size?”

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

“Ah, so that was a lie?” he grins.

“Just a little one.”

“Lying's bad for company morale.”

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

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

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

“Does it hurt?”

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

He pats his thigh. “Let me help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks great…on you.”

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

“I do.”

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

“You’re giving me false hope.”

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

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

“I want-”

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

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

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

“You give me mixed signals” you pant.

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

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

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

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

“Darling, please” he whines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm, too much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“D-don’t.”

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

“I-I do. God, I really do. But I-”

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

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

“Condom please. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you liked me?”

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

“So, you’ve been waiting for this?”

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

You cup his face. “You dream of me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(Y/N).”

“Hm?”

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

“Can we get to know each other?”

He smiles, a kiss to your neck.

“I would love to.”

#jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #nanami kento smut #nanami smut #nanami x reader #kento nanami #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen au #this fic finished me tbh #i havent wrote smut in so long #srry if its scuffed lol

300 notes · View notes