#the consequences of a magic sandwich

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Country Honey

 ♡ featuring: ranchhand!toji x richgirl!reader

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

 ♡ wc: 16.5k+ (AHHHHHH)

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

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

“Almost there.” 

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

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

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

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

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

You could die right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Chop* 

You clutch the side of the parted door. 

*Chop* 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pompous ass instigatin’ little-” 

“-Callous disrespectful pig!” 

“-Brat.”  

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit” you mumble.  

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

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

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

“Yea, nobody you know.” 

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

“Jerk.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slip. Crash! 

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

Brown. It’s on your face.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shit-eating grin. 

“No need to thank me, miss piggy.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and did I mention very annoying? 

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

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

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

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

“HEY!”  

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

“This is my bathroom you idiot!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get yer feet off the wheel.” 

“Mm, nah. It’s not hurting anyone.” 

“’S hurting me.” 

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

“What did I-” 

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

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

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

“Sorry.” 

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

“What are you doing?” 

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

Your ears perk up, “She?” 

“Yup.” 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Nope.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe Rosy? Oh, or Susie.” 

“Think I’ll just call ‘er (Y/N).” 

“Huh? Why my name?” 

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

“Why not an A?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” 

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

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

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

“…What?”  

“Oh. Uh, nothing.” 

He returns to what he was doing.  

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

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

“Yeah.” 

“So…did he figure it out?” 

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

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

“Can’t. Hands full.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not important” he responds curt. 

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

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

“…like someone cut you” you mutter. 

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

“I-“  

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

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

The space between you widens with each step. 

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

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

“Thank you for the tea.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Everythin’ alright, sugar?” 

“Think I messed up.” 

“Hm? How so?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“...” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know where he is?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of horse is it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup, since I got to the farm.” 

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

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

“It would be if I never finished school.” 

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

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

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

“Forget it-” 

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

“I want to help people.”   

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant.” 

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

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

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

“My bad.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you scared now?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ya have no sense of danger.” 

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

“...I'm glad.” 

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

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

“Ouch.”  

“Careful, hun.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I write one for you, too?” 

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

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

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

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

“Wanna go for a ride?” he calls. 

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

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

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

He holds his hand out, “Up.” 

“To where?” 

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

“Might wanna hold on.”  

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?” 

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

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

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

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

“It looks cute on me.” 

“So what?” 

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

“I think you’re a brat.”  

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

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

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

“The feeling’s mutual” you retort. 

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

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

 scoops and sets you down.  

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

“I guess this is it.” 

“Yup” he agrees. 

“Try not to miss me too much.”  

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

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

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

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

“Heh. Yes, ma’am.” 

“So…um.” 

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

“Y-yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

“Like I wanna look at you.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if ya did.” 

“God, you’re so far up your own-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna do so much worse.” 

“Then do it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe you’re not doing good enough.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you cry. 

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

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

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

“Y’know just how to get me.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s” 

“Pussy” 

“Is this?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna sleep” he grumbles. 

“Then you should’ve let me leave” 

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

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

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

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

[hope-you-brought-kneepads-bitch]

Venom intertwined

Summary: Wanda just wanted you and Venom to stop fighting that’s all she wanted, why did it escalate so much?

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, no spicy stuff, fluff, a crushed Pb and jelly sandwich (poor Nat)

A/n: I rewrote this since tumblr decided to delete it, hopefully it’s good, there will be a part two but when? Whenever I write it 😂

“Y/n why are you limping?” Nat barley moved from her place on the couch as you tried, but failed, to walk through the house without anyone noticing your injury

“I’m not limping you’re just incompetent” you laughed but Nat just rolled her eyes “I’m a well trained assassin Y/n I can spot a bee 5 miles away and blindfolded, you’re limping”

You flopped down next to her on the couch unable to hide the pain any longer “okay fine! Yes I’m limping are you happy now?”

Nat ignored your snarky comment instead pinching your arm getting a shout in response “enough with the snarky comments, why hasn’t Venom healed you yet?”

Venom’s head snaked out and you rolled your eyes knowing the rant was coming

“Y/n said that I was useless and she did not need me to live her life, so when someone who was paid to kill us managed to stab us in the leg I refused to heal her since she can obviously take care of herself”

Their head turned to you and glared and you glared back “you are a very childish bastard you know tha-

Venom slammed your body against the floor snapping the coffee table in half

“Ahh my sandwich” Nat said sadly picking up her now squashed sandwich “I was looking forward to that”

You scuffled with Venom on the floor which looked funny to anyone not knowing about Venom since it looked like you were just fighting yourself

“Take it back!” Venom growled

“No!” You shouted back

Suddenly Wanda burst the door hearing the commotion “woah what’s going on?!”

“Your girlfriend and her parasite ruined my Pb and jelly sandwich” Wanda glared at Nat and made a mental note to tell Maria to make more sandwiches to keep the grumpy assassin happy

“Okay you two stop!” Wanda’s plea went unanswered as you continued to fight with the symbiote so she used her magic to still you “hey!” You shouted still trying your best to fight

“I will separate you two if you don’t behave!”

Wanda barely registered Nat’s shout of “no!” Too focused on the fighting going on right now

You didn’t respond to her threat so Wanda, without thinking of the consequences, pulled Venom out of you and dropped you both to the ground, you fell to the ground feeling hallow for the first time in years, nothing felt right, your skin didn’t feel like your own and you couldn’t breathe, everytime you tried your heart sounded louder in your ears, wait your heart? That hadn’t made a sound in years.

Your eyes landed on the mess of symbiote on the ground, seemingly looking for you, when you reached your arm out you hoped they found you when your vision started to fade, after what felt like hours your body warmed back up and you felt the symbiote flow through your body and Venom’s voice piercing your ears “I am back Y/n you can relax now, we will be safe again soon I will heal you” you remained on the ground shaking slightly trying to keep relaxed like Venom said

Wanda and Nat watched you, watched you reach out for Venom and watched the colour returned to your face and your breathing return to normal, Wanda came close to you

“Baby I’m so sorry” Wanda tried helping you up but you scrambled away from her into the corner scared and afraid “no! No stay there Wanda!”

Wanda backed off unsure on what to do but Nat was there to try and help, “Wanda, you know her and Venom are entwined, DNA and all it’s dangerous to pull them apart you could’ve killed her”

Wanda gasped “I know I know! But I just wanted them to stop fighting I didn’t know what to do. And why didn’t you stop me?!”

Nat shrugged “I didn’t think you’d do it I also shouted stop but you still did it so it’s not my fault”

Wanda sighed knowing Nat was right and turned to you again jumping back seeing only Venom glaring back at the two women “Y/n?”

Venom stood tall and all trace of you had seemingly disappeared “you tried to kill us Wanda, someone who loves us would never do that”

Wanda’s eyes watered “no no baby please I didn’t mean to hurt you I just wanted you to stop fighting with Venom” she tried to hug the symbiote to give comfort but Natasha pulled her away

“Wanda they’ll tear you to shreds in seconds!”

The assassin kept tight hold of the witch as they both watched Venom turn to the window and turn back to them both, one side of your face revealed which gave Wanda hope but it was quickly dashed “Y/n? My love are you still there?”

“Don’t follow us” Venom overtook your body once again and leapt out of the window leaving the women alone without knowing where you were going or if you were coming back

“No Y/n! Come back!” You’d never been away from Wanda for more than a couple of days but she had no idea where you were going

***************************************

It was a while before either woman moved, Nat was still clinging onto Wanda as the redhead sobbed for you to come back hoping everytime she glanced at the broken window she’d see your form but it never came

Eventually Maria found them both, she sent Nat off to tell Tony and Bruce what happened and if they could help

“Wanda? Wanda can you hear me?” Maria sat in front of Wanda holding her head in her hands “she’s gone” Wanda whisper sobbed and Maria nodded “I know, they were spotted in Times Square running all over the billboards, they’re heading for New Jersey it seems”

Wanda brightened up and stood “New Jersey?”

Maria nodded “yeah why?”

“Y/n was going to buy a house there, she was going to ask Tony to borrow some money and work it off doing missions and let Tony and Bruce do some experiments on Venom”

Wanda turned to leave but Maria was quick to grab her arm “woah! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“To New Jersey, she needs me I need to fix this”

Maria shook her head holding tight onto the witch “Wanda I mean this with all the love in the world but you caused this, you knew damn well what would happen and I’m pretty sure if you just turned up you’d start fighting with Venom and lose”

Wanda admitted defeat sighing and sitting down on the couch wiping more tears from her face

“Okay here’s what’s going to happen, you’ll have a shower and get yourself sorted then meet myself and the others to discuss what’s going to happen okay? We’ll get her back I promise”

Wanda didn’t speak but Maria took her silence as an agreement and left the room. But Wanda didn’t have a shower or meet everyone she instead got into her car and was currently on her way to you to fix this, she was going to fix this.

******************************************************

Meanwhile in New Jersey you were sat in that very house you were buying, Venom still being at the forefront keeping your body safe while it healed

“Are you feeling okay Y/n? Your body was so cold”

“Yeah I’m okay, just really confused, I can’t believe Wanda would do that”

Venom agreed “she tried to kill us”

You went to say something more but the front door opened revealing a witch standing there

“Why hello stranger, looking a little mouldy there”

The symbiote split their face revealing your own shocked one

“Agatha? You’re back?”

“Awaiting my favourite little alien’s return”

[fernpetals]

In This House #3

Masterlist

Yandere John Wick x Reader The library in the house is a place of solace. Perhaps not as comforting as the room dedicated to your skills with the pen, but close. The second-best. The library, though, has no line drawn to keep John out. No corner of the house has it.

Your personal study used to be but since your last attempt, John has broken yet another promise. He gave you his word, the study would be your space and yours alone. He promised he wouldn't step foot in it if you didn't want him to. But the promise, a 'privilege' as he makes all his false promises seem, was taken away.

So, it does not really matter whether you are in the library, the study, or the bedroom, John can walk in anytime, anywhere he pleases. "What are you reading?"

Of course, he is here. Looming over to catch a glimpse of the story that has kept her occupied all evening. "The Yellow Wallpaper." You respond quietly.

He hums before languidly rounding over the couch and taking a seat.

"Do you feel trapped?"

You do not answer, just glance at him. His deep, dark eyes try to read you, rip off your veils, and your walls like he has always done.

"Who's fault is that?" He raises an eyebrow

You are surprised at the lack of flare in you. No anger, no surprise, or even frustration. You are finally accepting that he will never truly acknowledge that he has brought the two where you both are.

"Keep telling yourself that," You whisper to yourself.

You feel him stiffen beside you, you feel the weight of his gaze. The glare that promises consequences. But you are not bothered anymore. How worse can it get?

-----

The Reader's Cafe.

A typical name, for a typical place. Stuffed with books at every corner except the counter, behind which the magic of teas, coffees and mocktails happens, along with little snacks like sandwiches, cookies, pies, fresh buns and every other lovely thing that goes perfectly with the suggested drink in the menu, put right before the price.

You like tea along with cookies, and sometimes, simply the beverage. This place is convenient---blocks away from your home, warm, cosy ---though stuffy during summers sometimes, the cafe is your little bubble where you can read.

You are halfway through Blake's 'Songs of Innocence', casually looking up at the shelves surrounding you for the 'Songs of Experience'. Reading every twin poem by Blake has a thrill of its own,. 'The Lamb' and 'The Tyger', for instance.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but there are no pets allowed in the cafe."

"I understand, but, it will take only a minute, I will keep him leashed."

Usually, you do not care. Usually. But you have been distracted all day, and this conversation floats in with a 'woof' in between an you find yourself getting up and following the voices.

Right at the entrance is the same man you stumbled across weeks ago, and his adorable companion.

"How about this, you take back this book, lend me the one I want and fill in the records? I will leave him home when I return."

He is a soft-spoken man, with perhaps softer eyes. Sweet whirls of brown. Dark, brown, almost matching his black hair. The woman hesitates before asking-

"Which book it is?"

"Songs of Experience."

You perk up at that, taking a few more steps forward and catching his attention.

"Uh..."

Well, even though his eyes seem soft...there's still something that makes you squirm.

"Actually, I was looking for that too,"

You are by no means an orator. But the way you struggle to hold his gaze, makes you want to dig up a grave for yourself. He hasn't spoken yet and your throat is parched.

"This one? I just wanted to return it. And get a companion book."

"Songs of Innocence? I was reading it. Here."

You take a few more steps, reaching him and offering the book with your finger still between the pages. His adorable companion his tail furiously as you near him, woofing and trying to reach you. Perhaps he remembers you.

"Oh, no it's alright, I can get it sometime later."

"I've read this before. Please, insist. I was searching for the other anyway. In fact, I suggest that you keep this one too. The twin poems are best read together."

You stop yourself just short of rambling longer. He seems to be a quiet man, and you might be weirding him out. But smiles kindly.

"Then you should keep them." You shake your head, ready to refuse but he beats you to it.

"The next time I find myself here, we both can read the companion pieces."

You do not even realise it when you agree, but you end up going home with both books in your possession. You are going to the bookshop every evening, you decide. Every evening until he appears again.

[shewolfofvilnius]

There is a huge part of me that is curious about dragon age because I love BG3 so much. But idk anything about it? Also none of the characters strike me as interesting (or attractive....) Maybe you could tell me what you like so much about ? maybe talk about the characters so I can give it a chance? I want to like it! but I just don't know!

I DIDN'T FORGET

So for me the first draw of Dragon Age is the incredible lore and worldbuilding that goes on in the games and books. It's arguably just as fleshed out as a setting like the Forgotten Realms despite just being three (soon four) video games and about a dozen books/comics. There's centuries of history. Ancient ruins. Environmental storytelling for days. A little visual cue in the first game that's referenced in optional banter in the third that pays off in the fourth (FIFTEEN years apart). I really appreciate that the first game, Dragon Age: Origins, only exposes you to part of the story. The game's set in a pestilence known as the Fifth Blight, and you're the plucky young adventurer that the grizzled old veteran manages to recruit out of a bad situation just before the end. And you and your friends are all that stand between victory and oblivion. But right off the bat there's storytelling about love and loss and prejudice and honor. There's a noble character who dies, leading to a coward being killed as the stakes are built. (There's also a dog you can pet, and moments to show kindness during armageddon, like a prisoner who just wants a sandwich before he dies, he hasn't been fed.)

And the banter is funny (if some of it's aged a bit unwell), and the gameplay really encourages you to get in the head of whatever character you want to build. Yes you can be the cliche prince charming. You can also be the sibling of a prostitute to pay the bills until your sister lands a high profile john who catches feels for her. From the start it's equal measures hopeful and bleak at the same time. (And as you invest in YOUR character emotionally, you inevitably emotionally invest in your companions too.) And gradually the world gets bigger. A character whose town you watch get destroyed becomes the protagonist of the second game, and they hook you in to. They're a refugee, a very timely story, and if they're a magic user, then they're an especially persecuted refugee. But you still make friends amidst the hopelessness. More of the world gets revealed. You have FUN, somehow. Characters from past games recur, either as cameos or in one very specific case as a high profile recurring character in 3 out of the 4. And you become so glad to see them as they represent continuity of story.

It's a game about family and faith and the lack thereof and prejudice and love and how one counters the other, about how persecuted people often pay the price of things that happened before their ancestors' ancestors were born, and that tomorrow should always be better than today.

That's thematic, though. Maybe you take a shine to Isabela the Pirate and Aveline the Guard Captain (maybe Merrill the blood mage elf, too). The three women basically form one of the best depictions of big/middle/little sister trios I've ever seen in a game. What starts out as cold hostility becomes banterful compassion and love. A lot of folks fell for Solas, an elven apostate whose every word is couched in three mysteries and two half-truths but seems to know way more than he's letting on. When you find out a horrible secret about the honourable Grey Warden Blackwall, do you leave him to his fate, try to redeem him, deliver a sufficient consequence, or outright torture him.

And you won't like everyone. The odds of you liking both the spirit-possessed mage Anders and the anti-magic elf Fenris in the same play of the same game are low unless you metagame it. And sometimes the games even rewards you for someone hating your ass or vice versa, and THAT'S organic. But being mean or having a negative interaction isn't some edgelord thing either, it's just "sometimes people don't get along" or "something you just need to punch someone"

You get to laugh at the tough stern warrior Cassandra getting absolutely beside herself wanting to know what happens in a book that it's writer, another of your companions, hated writing - and that even Cass herself calls smutty literature. Another character, The Iron Bull, is faced with a choice: His found family and the freedom to be who he's become, or the belief system he's known his entire life and that expects him to conform.

Does your character sacrifice? Does your character make the streets run red with blood? Is all you want to make people feel inspired and in something bigger than themselves? Even playing three (soon four) wholly new characters, you get to truly role-play and emotionally invest in these little blorbos, maybe even more strongly in Baldur's Gate. When a character returns you weren't expecting, is it joyful or melancholy? Can your character handle a confrontation of everything they've ever known.

And in the newest game, there's a baby griffon.

I love Dragon Age. The lore is expansive beyond sanity for a franchise with it's commercial output. The characters feel alive, and the game tasks you to emotionally invest in order to reap the maximum reward and suffer the strongest heartache. Plus, in many cases, when the game doesn't tell you, say about your character? You get to roleplay and use your imagination so, so strongly.

[theweirdwideweb]

Are you Christian? Is faith important to you at all? Why do you post religious imagery?

I was raised Christian but realized I had no real faith around 12 years old. I'm what most people would describe as an atheist, although I do believe in the oneness of all things: that all things are manifestations of the same universe, that you and I are literally the same being, that sort of thing. I'm also a determinist and do not believe in free will, although that's a somewhat different topic. Religious imagery is important to me for a number of reasons. As a child I was the only nonbeliever I knew and consequently highly aware of the pervasive presence of Christianity around me. In an attempt to distance myself from all of it I turned to mocking Christian imagery and ideas. That's how it started: as a joke about how stupid believers are. But honestly I became fixated on it. As I entered my college years I had a hobby of collecting religious pamphlets. I loved stopping to talk to the people preaching on sidewalks, the kind with sandwich boards talking about "the end is nigh", that sort of thing. I became genuinely interested in why they believed those things. Through my ilfe I've talked to mormons, jehovah's witnesses, scientologists, muslims, new agers, paranormal investigators, a rabbi, indigenous people---anyone who would tell me about their beliefs. I've always been up front about not being religious, but I could also be honest in saying that I have a special interest in religion and just want to hear what they have to say. I wouldn't say I'm cynical about it any more. To me, religious belief is a microcosm of humanity. It takes all these parts: imagination, wisdom, beauty, psychology, desire to be led, desire for power, fear, curiosity, politics, need to feel special, need to feel magic. It's fun and it's heartbreaking. As an atheist I feel haunted regarding certain questions. How did we get here? What is consciousness? Does any of it mean anything? How do I know what is right to do? How can I live knowing I will be snuffed out at death with no continuance? Religious people have it all figured out: where we came from, why we're here, what to do about any problem, standards to know you're a good person, that bad people will be punished and good people rewarded, and most importantly that death isn't real. That's the heartbreak of the thing. The world is too frightening and so they choose fantasy instead of reality. They convince themselves of it entirely, totally enrapt like children with their imaginations and that's about the most human thing I think there is.

[666writingcafe]

Solomon: A Horror Movie

Inspired by the following reblog from @kimiko-dear: Solomon appears in front of people with a special dish he made just for them--the horror doesn't end after the jump scare.

Not gonna lie, kinda ran away with this concept.

It was his greatest experiment yet. He bought a bunch of ingredients that many people--even the cashier at the grocery store--warned him to not mix together. Ever the scientist, he wanted to know why he received such warnings and what would happen if he disregarded them. As it turns out, the ingredients in question had magical qualities that, when combined, came out in cursed ways. Thankfully, no one died from Solomon's experiment, but he made sure to record the results of each of his test subjects (or victims, depending on who you ask).

Since MC is his beloved apprentice, he spared them from his diabolical experiment, although he made sure to tell them all about it in great detail (which makes MC quite uneasy).

He also does not perform this experiment on Luke: a, because he's the angel equivalent of a child; and b, because Solomon knows Simeon would do unspeakable things to him if he hurt Luke in any way (things that would make him wish he was dead).

Speaking of Simeon, the angel is Solomon's first subject/victim. The sorcerer prepares what appears to be a simple sandwich and presents it to his roommate by sneaking up on him as he's in the middle of writing. The sandwich causes Simeon to experience random chills.

Barbatos knows that this is coming from a mile away and tries everything in his power to avoid Solomon. In the end, though, the butler finds himself trapped in the castle's kitchen and has no choice but to consume the paella thrust in front of him. He starts developing spots all over his body.

Solomon sneaks Belphie's cursed enchilada to him while he's sleeping in the attic. MC tries to warn the youngest brother to not eat the enchilada, but by the time they get to him, it's too late: Belphie is now a talking toad.

You know that one character in a horror movie that's screaming their ass off as the villain is chasing them? That's Mammon as soon as he hears Solomon's footsteps. Only the two of them know how the calzone ended up in his mouth, but the entire House (and possibly anyone within a 100 mile radius) hears him screeching that he's developed elephant ears.

There are times where Asmo is sharp as a whip and other times where he's a huge airhead. Unfortunately for him, Solomon catches him in one of his ditzy moods, and he happily accepts the chimichanga that the sorcerer prepared for him. Like Mammon, his screams echo throughout the House as he discovers that his nose has turned into a snout (and not a cute one, either).

Solomon almost gives into the urge to prepare a dish for Diavolo but ultimately decides against it. As soon as MC hears about this, they practically sprint to the castle and into Diavolo's room. Not only does MC need a break from the insanity unfolding around them, but they absolutely intend on punishing Solomon for his actions and wants the demon prince's help in making sure justice is served.

MC receives text updates from Solomon about his next three victims. Beel ate chili that made him shoot up three feet, Satan's sushi performed a gender swap on him, and the cake Levi consumed turned him into a living, mute statue.

And then MC gets a call from Lucifer that makes them see red. You see, Solomon prepared the eldest brother some soup and left it in his office with a note forged in MC's handwriting. Lucifer was just tired enough to not question it too much and consequently ate the soup; now, he's hallucinating. You see, due to the trauma that Lucifer has gone through during his existence, anything he hallucinates turns nightmarish real quickly, and so he's basically sobbing as he's relaying to MC what he's seeing.

Diavolo has to physically stop MC from hunting Solomon down and tearing him limb to limb. While the demon prince thinks that MC's fury is completely justified, he believes that the sorcerer deserves a more drawn-out punishment where everyone that consumed his abominations gets their due revenge.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Wednesday [IronStrange]

Summary:Tony fights Strange and his weird wizards on a regular basis. So when he is woken up by Jarvis and being told Strange is sitting in his kitchen, waiting to talk to him, Tony just knows that something is not right. What he does not know yet is that it will be a string of very long days.

Relationship: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Tags:enemies to lovers, time loop, time shenanigans, hero/villain, hero Tony Stark, villain Stephen Strange, morally gray Stephen Strange, being a villain is a point of view, protecting the timeline, suicide but it has no consequences whatsoever, open ending, hopeful ending, Stephen needs a hug, Stephen and the never ending day, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, all the stuff you love

Ko-fi | Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 3.5k | Previous | Next

Chapter 3: What wizards do

Starting from scratch every day sucked.

But then again, with each new Wednesday that began, they could discard another theory and hypothesis. So in that sense, failure was a success, as it narrowed down their remaining options. Eventually they would find the right path. Hopefully.

_____________________

“What do you even do? I mean your wizard circle. Most of the bad guys we fight are pretty forward with their agenda. But you… there’s no pattern, no ultimate goal we know. You rob seemingly randomly, meddle with political and military business alike, and we traced several ‘accidents’ back to you. But then, sometimes, you save people? Don’t think we don’t know about that.”

Stephen wasn’t sure how much he should reveal. He wasn’t exactly sworn to secrecy, but he also never talked to outsiders about the purpose of the order.

Christine knew a bit of it. Fragments she collected during medical emergencies. Just enough to not ask questions she didn’t want answers to.

When he didn’t say anything, Tony continued. “I take your silence to that question means it’s something I won’t like and that I should ask myself if I really should help you with this.”

He might not be wrong about not liking the answer, Stephen thought. But at that moment he decided to tell him anyway. He wasn’t sure why. Why should he be concerned about what Stark thinks about his motives?

“We are protecting the timeline.”

“The what?”

Stephen put his Starkpad down. “Are you familiar with Brand’s theory of decision branches?”

“You mean that every decision everyone ever faces is like a parting of ways? Depending on the decision made there’s a different version of the future.”

The sorcerer nodded. “We – the order of the Mystic Arts – make sure that the future is steered in a certain direction.”

Tony gaped at him. “If you influence decisions, you’re stripping people of their free will!” This was bigger than he had thought, and he tried to wrap his mind around it.

“No,” Stephen clarified. “We don’t care if you can’t decide between ham or beef on your sandwich. But if it happens that a lost super soldier will be needed in an upcoming battle, we will make sure that we stay in the ninety-five percent of the futures in which he will be found.”

“Bullshit! You didn’t know where Cap was.”

“You’re right, we didn’t. But we knew what needed to happen for him to be rediscovered. On this we just observed; but in other cases we need to intervene.”

He didn’t mention that the Ancient One probably also knew about the kidnapping of Tony Stark and his whereabouts in Afghanistan. And that she let it happen anyway because Iron Man was a key element for what was to come.

That had been long before Stephen ever heard about a place named Kamar-Taj.

Sometimes he wondered where his own car accident fit in all this. But he didn’t think too hard about it. He had made his peace with it and had adapted to his new life.

Tony still wasn’t convinced. “How can you know about the different futures?” He glanced at the golden necklace and hit the mark once again. “Time magic?”

“Yes. It allows me to watch all possibilities of the future.”

Tony clenched his fists, ignoring the screwdriver he was still holding, and narrowed his eyes. “You’re basically telling me, you’re playing god and get to decide which future you like most. Sounds like an awfully lot of power for one single man to me!”

Stephen glared right back at him, raising his voice. “Do you think I asked for this? I just wanted to find a cure for my hands. But then my mentor died and I happened to have a solution to get rid of a world consuming entity, and coincidentally I was able to use the Eye without accidentally destroying the whole time continuum! And after that I filled in for the ones we lost during the fight. This,” he pointed at his chest where the Eye of Agamotto rested, “is bigger than me. It’s not about personal favoritism; about who is the next president or whoever. A threat is coming, whether we like it or not. Whether we’re prepared or not. It’s about no less than half of the life of the whole universe. Every planet out there will be concerned. So, yes, if I have to send a mugger into a side street to make sure the mantle of Batman will be picked up in the future, I will do that.”

Stephen had gotten carried away with his words and revealed more than he had actually intended. He was angry and tired. With a burden on his shoulders he hadn't asked for, but tried his best to hold anyway. At the end of his rant he wasn't sure if his words were solely meant for Stark, or if he did need to convince himself to some degree that he was doing the right thing.

The hurt that had bled through from between the words had taken Tony by surprise, and he realized that the expression that always lingered in those blue eyes was the mark of a man who had seen too much. Of a man who cared deeply, even if he tried to convince himself he didn’t.

Tony recognized it, because he found the same expression whenever he looked into a mirror.

“Half of the universe, hm? Can’t argue against that – if you tell the truth.”

“I do.” Stephen slouched in his chair. He yearned for rest. Not just sleep but being stripped from all responsibilities. But he knew that that day was far away.

“I also can’t believe you brought a Batman reference into this.”

It was an attempt at a joke and to make amends. Stephen acknowledged it with a hint of a smile.

Silence spread and they turned back to their individual tasks. Stephen had already said more than he wanted to and Tony thought about the words he had heard.

“Can’t your necklace tell you a future in which we get out of this loop?” he asked after a while.

“Unfortunately, I can’t seem to access it during the loop, which is highly irritating.”

The more Tony learned about it, the more he got the feeling this was a magic problem after all. Then something occurred to him: something was coming. Could it be…?

“That threat you mentioned… does it come from space?”

“Yes. As I said: the whole universe will be affected.”

“Hm.” The engineer pondered. It could be what he had seen when the Scarlet Witch had meddled with his mind.

But if he were to finally know for sure it was true and to not be able to do anything about it currently… whatever he did, it would be gone tomorrow. And he was already working on one problem that wouldn’t let him sleep. He didn’t need to add more nightmares and panic attacks to it. He would talk to the wizard after this groundhog day was over. It might even be important enough to use the IOU he was being promised. Even if only to know if the vision he’d seen had been true or false. For his own peace of mind.

_____________________

Twelve days in they had collected a lot of data but were still short of a solution.

Tony learned that even if his body was rested in the morning, having his mind working nonstop was not healthy. He was used to pulling all-nighters, but it felt like his tiredness had reached a new level.

Frustrated, Tony buried his face in his hands. He wasn't used to being stuck in a project, and the fact that he couldn't talk to anyone else about it except the wizard didn't make it any better.

Someone put a blanket around his shoulders and when he looked up, he realized it was the cloak that was hugging him sympathetically.

At first the engineer tensed up at that realization, but then he patted the red fabric. “Thanks, buddy.” It wasn’t really helping but he figured it was the thought that counted.

Strange looked at him in sympathy. They had just performed the spell to create the bond between their souls earlier; the warm tingle still echoed in his chest. It was a familiar feeling by now.

“You should take a break tomorrow, Tony. Why don’t you sleep in and meet with some friends?”

“What about-…?”

“It can wait for another day. I’ll do some meditating and meet you before midnight.”

A break sounded really fucking good. Tony already felt guilty because he had canceled his meeting with Peter so often. Even if he knew that it didn’t matter because the boy didn’t remember it.

The look on Stephen’s face when talking to him was gentle and Tony realized that the sorcerer cared. It warmed his heart and made his stomach flip. Uh – oh. The magic man shouldn’t care. And Tony shouldn’t like the thought of Strange looking out for him.

Tony definitely needed that day away from him!

_____________________

It was weird not being woken up by Jarvis' voice stating the words he had probably memorized for life by now.

Between midnight and waking up it felt as if he at least got some sleep and when he looked at the clock it was three hours later than when Strange usually showed up.

“Good morning, Sir,” Jarvis greeted him as soon as Tony moved out of the bed. “I’ll prepare a coffee for you.”

“Thanks. What day is it?” The engineer asked, just to make sure.

“Wednesday the fifth. You have a missed call from Pearson and Specter regarding the launch of the Stark hearing pro aid. You also have a meeting with Miss Potts scheduled at eleven and you told Peter to drop by after school.”

“Move everything that doesn’t need my immediate attention to tomorrow. And invite Rhodey for lunch.” Today he wanted to have his family around him.

“Of course, Sir.”

~~

The meeting with Pepper was very boring. Tony loved it. He was signing papers and they were discussing some new branches of SI and when to launch the next Starkphone update.

It was a constant problem that Tony developed the technology he was offering to the market far too quickly and every now and then he needed to be reminded that people needed to adjust to and accept change. Those things weren’t to rush.

Tony couldn’t relate to that but he trusted Pepper as CEO to make the right decisions.

Rhodey dropped by for lunch in his armor and brought tacos. It was faster than being stuck in New York’s traffic, plus he hadn’t exactly been in town.

They sat on the roof and listened to the sirens and the honking in the streets below.

“Remember that project I told you about?” Tony asked his friend after taking a sip of his soda. “The one with the guy I don’t really like?”

Rhodey looked at him, knitting his brows together. “No. What project? And what guy?”

“We talked about it, Rhodey bear. I called you from the pla-…” Then it hit him. When he had been on the plane on his way to Malibu, he had wanted to say. On another Wednesday.

Of course Rhodey didn’t remember.

“I meant to call you,” Tony steered back. “Probably fell asleep before I had the chance.”

“You? Asleep willingly in the middle of the day?” Rhodey shook his head. “How exhausted have you been? I thought Jarvis kept an eye on you to keep you from pulling all nighters.”

Tony shrugged, an easy smile on his face he didn’t really feel. “He tries his best. You know how I am.” He took another taco and offered Rhodey the last one.

“Tell me about the project,” his friend said. “And since when are you working with partners…wait, we’re not talking about Doom, are we? That guy’s mad and you shouldn’t work with him on anything.”

It was like having a déjà-vu. Tony answered evasively and changed the topic soon after. Rhodey noticed that he was hiding something but he didn’t push it yet.

Fortunately – he would forget it again tomorrow.

Peter arrived in the afternoon long after Rhodey had left. It was great to have the bundle of energy around.

He talked a lot, about school, his friends, and last night’s patrol.

Tony just listened to his rambles while they plugged the Spider-Man suit into Jarvis and ran a check-up – everything was fine besides a small bug which was quickly fixed.

Then Peter told him about May and their trip to the planetarium last weekend. That had been only a few days ago, but to Tony it seemed like weeks had passed. Because for him it had.

He sent Peter home early in the evening, because he knew May would wait with dinner and also because he didn’t know when Strange would come over.

Afterwards, when he was alone in his lab he had nothing left to do for the day. He just took a look at his workspace, where he had spent so much time with the wizard.

A terrible thought occurred to him: what if Strange didn’t come? If he deemed it best to continue searching alone for a solution.

Tony would forget everything.

Some would call it a blessing not to know but Tony had never been one of those. He had always been pro knowing.

Oddly enough, thinking about not remembering Strange tightened his chest.

They were enemies. At least they used to be. But now he’d gotten to know the wizard. And what he had seen intrigued him.

He wasn't sure that he approved of what Strange told him about the timeline and his work and Tony would most definitely not stop fighting him if necessary. But the things that had used to infuriate him, he now found charming. The way the stoic sorcerer expressed his opinion with a single raised eyebrow; his sharp wit and of course his intelligence with a hint of arrogance that was absolutely legitimate.

Strange was hard working, dedicated and had an exceptional mind. It was a dangerous combination.

Tony should know better by now than to get distracted by a handsome face and sharp cheekbones.

There were still two hours left until midnight. Tony had never been good at being patient.

If Strange didn’t come there was no way for Tony to contact him. He didn’t know about his whereabouts, just that he was located somewhere in central New York.

“Sir,” Jarvis spoke up. “Doctor Strange has just appeared in the kitchen.”

There was disapproval in his voice. Tony had instructed the A.I. and told him of their expected visitor. But that didn’t mean Jarvis had to like it.

“Tell him to come to the lab.”

There was a surprised pause from Jarvis. Then, “Are you sure?”. Not many people were allowed into Tony’s private lab.

“Absolutely. I told you: time loop. You can scold me all about it tomorrow.” If Thursday ever arrived.

Shortly after the door opened and Strange stepped in. Ever since their trip to Malibu he had traded his robes for casual clothes, which still seemed out of place to Tony – even though he had suggested them himself. But still, today there was something different about his outfit.

“Where’s Levi?” At some point Tony had gotten on a first name basis with the piece of fabric.

“They stayed home. I just came by for the spell.”

Although he had long since stopped questioning Tony's willingness to stay in the time loop, his voice sounded uncertain today. As if Tony had changed his mind after a day off.It was probably a justified fear.

“Sure, let’s do it.”

By now Tony knew the movements the spell required by heart. The yellowish glowing thread that connected them. The warm tingle that resonated with something deep inside of him.

Relief flooded through him. He knew he would remember.

Strange had a similar expression on his face, but for a different reason. Then he turned to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do you have somewhere to be in the next…”, Tony glanced at his watch, “hour and a half?”

The sorcerer stopped and shook his head.

“Do you wanna grab a beer and watch a show? I bet we can find something you haven’t binged yet in all of the free time the loop gave you.” It was a lighthearted joke because it wasn’t hard to guess that entertainment hadn’t been on Strange’s priority list.

“I don’t own a TV, so you’re probably right.”

“You don’t… don’t tell me you were serious about not having a phone. I thought you were just reluctant to give your number.” Tony shook his head in disbelief. “Do you write your letters with ink on parchment in the light of oil lamps? Or is that too advanced already?”

Strange made an amused noise. “We do have electricity and I’m happy to inform you that we own a laptop.”

“A laptop? Like in one? For how many people?”

“Wong and I share.”

“Unbelievable,” Tony muttered.

He took the sorcerer upstairs into his living room where they got comfortable on the couch. Almost the entire opposite wall served as a screen. Tony barely used it himself. Mostly for movie nights with family and friends.

They agreed on Doctor House and watched until midnight.

_____________________

“Sir, Doctor Strange has appeared in your kitchen.”

“Clear the day, J.”

_____________________

Somewhere in between, Strange became Stephen and Stark became Tony. They still argued almost every single day.

_____________________

“We could order pizza,” Tony suggested, going through the take out delivery services in central New York.

“We had that yesterday.”

“Sushi?”

“How about soup?” Stephen offered instead. They hadn’t had that yet.

“Who eats soup when they’re not sick?”

“Soup is a perfectly normal meal.”

“Mhm…”

_____________________

“I think we’re friends now.”

“God, don’t say that.”

_____________________

Pepper arrived with the elevator. Jarvis didn’t announce her because, for one, she was family, and secondly, he was very suspicious of what was going on in the lab.

Pepper stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw who else was present.

“Can you pass me the tongs?” Tony asked the sorcerer who didn’t even look up from his own work and just made a gesture whereupon the tool floated to the engineer. Tony picked it out of the air. “Thanks.”

“You should consider wearing gloves,” Stephen suggested. “You have a fully equipped lab and still manage to ignore any safety rules.

“Since when do you guys tolerate each other?” Pepper’s voice made them both freeze and they looked at her, as if they had both been caught doing something sensitive.

Tony had forgotten to clear the day. At least he thought so. He should be used to it by now, since he had to repeat it every single day. It was somewhere between day 45 and 52. Tony had lost track of time. One day bled into another and it was always Wednesday. He wasn’t used to repeating any request to Jarvis though. Normally, Jarvis knew more than him.

“‘Tolerate’ is a strong word. We’re working together on a problem,” Tony said while Stephen opted for the smarter option: staying silent.

Pepper put her hands on her hips. “Are you solving that problem or are you two creating it?”

“Haha, funny. We’re-…” Tony suddenly had an idea and he turned to the sorcerer. “What if you’re the problem?”

“Pardon me?” Stephen sounded confused as well as insulted.

“You’re the only one remembering the time loop. It starts with you waking up and ending with you at midnight.” Tony explained. “So whether this is caused by magic or by science: it is linked to you.”

Pepper watched their interaction with a healthy amount of wariness. “Jarvis, what is happening?” she asked the A.I.

“Sir said they are stuck in a time loop and the day is repeating over and over for them.”

“Have you any proof for that?”

“Negative, besides that they seem pretty friendly with each other.”

Pepper's face hardened. She had been there the last time Tony had been working together with magic, and had seen how bad it had ended.

“Tony,” she said louder to get his attention.

He stopped his bickering with the doctor and turned his head to her. “Yes, dear?”

“You know he,” she nodded to the sorcerer, “attacked you at the fundraiser gala just a few days ago?”

Stephen had indeed. But that seemed a lifetime ago.

“I know what it looks like, Pep. But I assure you: it’s alright. Everything is fine, really,” Tony reassured her but his words only raised her distrust.

“How can you be sure he is not messing with your head?”

“I am not,” Stephen protested immediately.

“Pepper, please.” Tony made a step towards her, raising his hands in a soothing gesture.

Pepper retreated a step backwards, not trusting anything that was going on here. “Jarvis, call the Avengers,” she told the Jarvis. “There’s been a breach in security.”

“Pepper no! Jarvis, don’t!”

But it was too late. Jarvis had basically just been waiting for an excuse to intervene.

The Avengers assembled promptly. No need to mention that the day didn’t end well.

[tereox]

Warmup #68 - Blue's exertion headache

Rating: T

Summary: Blue has an exertion headache. Ink does not get it.

Notes: (note and story written on September 8th) Hey motherfuckers, guess who it is! Right! Reo with a nasty-ass headache cause they decided inline skating sixteen kilometers (like 10 miles) in the scalding late-summer heat was a wonderful way to spend a day. I was Very Wrong. And am Suffering The Consequences Of My Actions. What better way to cope than to make someone suffer with me? (rethorical question, there's many better ways to cope, one of which involves resting. Unfortunately my brain is like a monkey on crack so rest was never an option) Let's get right to it! :D

~~~

Blue was no stranger to this feeling. His magic thrummed through his head, each pulse sending another spear of agony through. It went and went and went further inside and he just wanted it to stop.

He was sitting in the living room of Ink's place, and Ink was talking. Blue had a sandwich in front of him and it wasn't- didn't-

"And of course Error just had to-"

Error, Ink was talking about Error now and Blue could not get himself to listen. He just wanted- His right eye socket ached and he felt the buildup of magic that heralded tears. He didn't understand why they were gathering. He just wanted to eat his sandwich.

"He can't be reasoned with, I really want to-"

"Ink," Blue started, and there was a brief moment where he could have considered a different course of action. "Shut the fuck up."

Ink blinked. He was silent at last, and Blue took a bite of his sandwich. It wasn't enough, he-

"What's gotten into you?" It was said with judgement Blue did not want to have to deal with. He breathed, the tears spilled over, and he grabbed his plate and left.

[scaryfangirl2001]

305unreal's "Amazing Colossal Rewrite" outline (crossposted with their permission)

Notes: Unrequited Becky/Scoops; Becky’s birthday is in the middle of summer; Tobey is an introverted roboticist but not a villain

2007. 5th Grade: 2-minute episodes

Summer: Movie trailer → Chuck! (1m-105a)

6th Grade, Fall: Down with Word Up → Swap Meat (105b-112b)

2008. 6th Grade, Spring: Granny’s Goodtime → Villain School (113a-123b)

Summer: Return of the Reprise → Dr. Three-Brains (124a-126b)

7th Grade, Fall: A Vote for Becky → Oh, Holiday Cheese (201a-219a)

Includes “Field Day with Robo-Tobey”

2009. 7th Grade, Spring: Ch-Ch-Ch-Change Day → Seeds of Doubt (219b-223b)

Summer: Wishful Thinking → Oh, What a Tangled Knot (224a-226a)

8th Grade, Fall: Kids Action News → The Straw That Broke (226b-309a)

Includes “Bummertime”

2010. 8th Grade, Spring: Nocan, the Evil Ingredient → Tangent Returns (309b-407b)

Includes “Cherish is the Word”

Summer: Have Snob → A World without WordGirl (408a-413)

Includes “Tobey’s Playground Calamity”

Freshman, Fall: Seize the Cheese → Say It Again, Eileen (501a-509b)

Includes “Talent Show Tobey”

Tobey is jealous of Becky being his boyfriend’s magic assistant; Tobey recites poetry while showcasing his latest robot

2011. Freshman, Spring: Hello, New Year → Dinner or Consequences (510a-513)

Summer: Rise of Miss Power → Who Wants to Get Rid of WordGirl (601-603a)

Sophomore, Fall: Talented Mr. Big → High-Five Sandwich (603b-606a)

2012. Sophomore, Spring: Robot Problem → Dr. Two-Brains, Mr. Cheese (606b-609a)

Summer: Kitty Cat Criminals → Go, Gadget, Go (609b-612a)

Junior, Fall: Emergency Plan 999 → Accordion to Tradition (612b-710a)

Includes “It’s Your Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To”

2013. Junior, Spring: Can’t Touch This → Royally Framed (710b-713a)

Summer: WordGirl vs. Tobey vs. The Dentist → Patch Game (713b-805)

“Patch Game” is also called “El Monte”

Senior, Fall: Girls Day Out → Trustworthy Tobey (806a-807a)

2014. Senior, Spring: The Tooth Hurts → Dr. WordGirl-Brains (807b-809b)

Summer: Tim Botsford, Neighborhood → Rhyme and Reason (810a-812)

[kayforpay]

MARAVA MERZYK (ma-rah-vah mehr-zICK), an olive witch! she/her, lives on a mountain, born in a cave, fuckin and lichen are all that she craves

marava is an oliveblooded troll living on a very high mountain. her hobbies include memorizing spells, schemin', misting her lichen farm, and tending to her small apiary of cloud-bees, which are slightly smaller than honeybees and come in pale blue and gray stripes. her lusus is a pegasus/cat, like a horse-sized cougar with wings.

marava knows Real Magycks, and is most attuned with air and earth-based magic. she's left-handed, and her casting as a younger troll almost made her have a very frail and withered left side due to her not knowing to absorb energy from around her instead of using only her own; she caught it, but she is still physically somewhat weak because of it.

she tends to speak very softly and slowly, and plans everything she says before she says it. since she's mastered a Thoughtful face, people often think she's putting a lot of deep consideration into it, but she really just suffers from social anxiety and doesn't know how to properly manage it.

marava is 6'4", which for an olive is pretty good, but overall isn't that tall. she has a catlike face, with sharp eyes and a slightly small mouth, and a fairly slim build, with a small chest and wider hips/thighs, like a horserider's body. she often wears a ruffled collar with her black dress, for a pop of color.

she has a greenhouse where she grows lichen and, as a consequence of having a humid area with growing space, mushrooms, as well as insects that enjoy eating and hiding in the lichen.

her favorite snack is peanut butter, cloud bee honey, and ants on a sandwich, but she also loves MEAT. because of the lack of hunting and trapping space on a mountain, she goes into the local city fairly often for shopping, riding on catasusmother's back.

typing quirk:

the quick... brown f-x... jumps -ver the. lazy d-g...

(overuse of periods like pauses, replace O and o with -)

[sandwichsakurauchi]

As a... welcome gift of sorts, for Darkness. Some food~

Chemically-altered burgers from Yuugumo.

Magically-enchanted cake from Fox Kasumi.

And Witch-tainted donuts from Alina~

Hopefully her heart's still going strong by the end of it-

"..."

She gulps and sucks up some wayward drool falling from her lips.

"T-This is all quite generous, yet... I can clearly tell they've been tampered with... These 'burgers'? Meat sandwiches... They seem so greasy and oily...

The cake has a notable aura to it... It's practically threatening. And these rounded pastries... I can feel a lich's touch simmering off of them. If I eat any of these, I feel I might..."

She reached out with both hands, one clutching a drippy burger, the other a slice of cake.

"...I-I might end up having to deal with consequences that no regular person couldmmf effah haff tommulph... tho dheal wiffmmff! Mnlff...~!"

[idreamoftwilightsparkleroleplay]

Question! Are there any sort of wishes that usually have unintended or unforeseen consequences?

Genie Twilight: As long as I'm in the right mind, no. I always think things through if there's a chance something could go wrong with the wish.

The wish is also always to my interpretation, so even if somepony words a wish that would sound like it'd have a consequence say...

"I wish you'd make me a sandwich" I make sure to interpret that they just want a sandwich. Not be TURNED INTO a sandwich.

...Although, food wishes aren't a good idea for me anyhow. No matter what happens, any food made by my magic makes the food taste dull compared to properly made food.

[obsessedwiththedragonprince]

Se4 ep5 thoughts

I am backk. Didn't really have time these last days but here i am.

As much as I'm interested in the main plot and Aaravos' era incoming, i first need to know what happened in the camp after architect put out the fire.

Honestly such a beautiful funeral? Simple and tranquil.

Rayla u can't come back after two years and act like nothing happened! I mean i know she says how much things changed but she really hurt him.

Our boy is cryingg. Random but we haven't really got an answer on whether she was unbanished? Also I need to see some Ethari. Like now.

I really like that even tho Soren is a comic relief most of the time, they didn't make him dumb.

I kinda don't get why Viren got so desperate to practically beg that creature? Only excuse i can find is his fascination and obsession with magic. Otherwise they just did it for comic relief I'm sure is coming. I just feel it. Building it up and then an anticlimactic 'surprise'.

Yep. There it is. Viren just being tired of their shit is so funny to me. He didn't ask to be brought back. Can't he just go back to being dead in peace?

I really liked Soren-Zubeia bonding moment. So cute?? And she appreciates his wit!

Ahhhh what happened with the elf??? From the camp? The arhitect is hurt okay but. Aaaa. Imagine just. Being him. And believing that your mother's spirit/soul is lost forever. I want answers! Also Amaya-Gren moments are always so wholesome i love them.

Dunno why but it's surprising to see Zubeia as an active figure. I feel like those in power are often shown as these really passive figures. Idk.

Lmaoo I'm loving these guardians/doormen or whatever they are. 'We accept your argument.'

Their guide is really givin me gollum vibes from Hobbit. Viren's exasperation continues.

'Infuriate him and...' 'You'll probably die.'

Love how Soren connects with everyone he spends two minutes with. I have a hunch which may be completely wrong but that this hole is the entrance?

We're back to the camp! Yayyy! Where. Is. The. Elf. That's literally all I'm asking for.

Soren being observant about people's emotions? Yes. Giving advice? I feel sth anticlimatic coming again. His lecturing reminded me of Zuko's silver sandwich.

Aren't they trying to lay low? A campfire? Really?

O.M.G. yes. It's not always just love trouble (even tho it's that also). Another PTSD moment. Honestly when he said 'You know, when he took over my whole body and used me like a puppet,' sounded like he was talking to every screenwriter ever. One of those posts on here or insta or just anywhere ranting about how there are consequences and ptsd after stuff like this.

Wish it lasted longer tho.

I kinda hope this lil dragon adopts Soren. He deserves his own animal companion.(did u notice everyone has one? Like Rayla has that monkey-y thingy which i shamefully forgot the name of, Ezran has Zym and regretfully passed Bait to Callum which not okay you can have two animals and share love equally?)

Oh Soren is captureddd. Myb thrown into the hole/may-be-entrance-hunch-thingy?

Do these drangons have like rattlesnake tail horns/antlers?

[ratsoh-writes]

*the three were heading to a sandwich vendor*

"Yeah, apparently being able to visit Mochi is not enough. I can't understand it. I like anacondas but I would never live with ones specially if it was magical"

Lilac: it’s simple, rich people have no survival instincts since they have no consequences

Jupiter: SOMEONE SOUNDS BITTER NYEHEHHE

Lilac: UGH, OK MAYBE A LITTLE, BASIL AND I WORKED HARD FOR WHAT WE HAD.

You guys talk some more trash about ebotts upper crust as you eat lol. As the time goes by, they both get more and more eager though for the upcoming flour fight. They’re ready!!!

[myalchod]

Talk to me about that blue dress. I don’t do actual dress making but I do do fabric sculptures sometimes at work and is it even possible to do that without a wire framework?? (Obviously Farah can just use magic so she’s good lol)

The rippling effect? Absolutely possible, with proper cutting and construction techniques. If you cut on the bias there's of course the difference in drape (as well as how fabric stretches, though that's not relevant in this instance); that gets leveraged in a circular ruffle to create the sort of full, flowing shapes you see in flamenco hems -- or, more simply, into a circle skirt. I'm pretty sure that's what we're seeing in this dress, though of course it's hard to tell without closer shots. To me, it looks ike layers of circle skirts/circular ruffles gathering into the waistband one on top of the other, so you're seeing a shitton of fabric pulled in without the bulk you'd get out of normal pleating.

In addition, it looks like a lettuce hem may have been used, instead of a typical rolled hem. On its own gives a rippled effect to the edge of the fabric, but if you sandwich fishing line inside the stitching it amplifies it even further. There are some examples here, including video links if that's your jam, but the basic idea is to use the stretch of the fabric to your benefit by pulling your fabric while sewing to add tension, so that when you release it you end up with a wavy hem.

Based on the still photo, it also looks a bit like the skirt shape is elliptical, so you've got more drape and fullness in the back -- which would help with the train effect going up the stairs. It doesn't look like there's any structure added to the fabric except maybe fishing line in hems, but it's also possible there's some understructure to help that we're not seeing, just to add a little volume. In something a soft as it looks to be (I'm thinking it's a silk satin or maybe a lighter-weight silk charmeuse), it would take a pretty delicate hand, so if there was anything I'd assume organza or maybe a stiffer chiffon.

Thank you so much for giving me an excuse to think about it and to ramble on about it! I've never actually constructed anything like the dress myself, but I've had plans for similar things and pages of notes as a consequence. I also hope this makes some sense ...

PS: in a well-made dress, Farah also wouldn't need her magic -- though I can't imagine it would ever hurt. 😉

[the-trinket-witch]

Practically Perfect Ch. 5

 (Ch 6|Ch 4|Ch 1)

  “Myahhh-Mr. Trein has to put some kinda spell on class! You’d have to have some iron-type will to keep awake!” Grim whined to everyone on their way to the cafeteria.

     “Five minutes in, before crashing isn’t what I’d call an ‘iron will’,” Deuce replied. “Oh wow, that’s quite a crowd…”

      “Oh my-only time I’ve seen a queue in a cafeteria was when-” Albert started.

     “-That famous bakery I’ve heard about! I heard they’re doing a promo here this week!” Ace finished.

     “If I’d have known there’d be such a fuss today, I’d have packed lunch,” Al laughed.

     The pickings were quickly slimming, which Grim seemed to notice, as he leapt into the fray. He’d emerged with a mince katsu sandwich with as big a grin that his face could allow. The group could only really laugh at the enthusiasm he somehow didn’t have enough of for class. Everyone made their way to an open table, but before they could sit, Grim bumped into another student.

     “Woah! Good on ya getting one of those mince katsu sandwiches. Was hopin’ to get one myself; guess I just ain’t that quick on the draw~” the beastman lamented. “I really need to get one of ‘em, but they already sold out. How’s about this: I trade you your sandwich, for my red-bean bun?”

     “Wha?? Ain’t no way I’d trade ya-whaaaaa!" Grim plodded closer towards the grinning classmate. "Why’re my arms movin’ on their own??” Against his verbal protests, he relinquished the sandwich into the lanky student's hand.

     “Score-thanks, Lil Dude! You’re way too kind~” he chuckled, quickly swapping meals and dashing away.

     The entire interaction seemed to happen in an instant, which left the rest of the group quietly stunned. Grim sat down with his, comparatively, meager trade-off, eyeballing everyone else’s spoils. Most reflexively slid their trays away, lest they get bits of theirs picked off.

     “Myaaahh, Deuce gimme some of your pasta~” Grim whined.

     “I don’t think so, if you were gonna complain this much you shouldn’t have traded!” Deuce retorted.

     “Oh hey, guys: Headmaster Crowley needs us to stop by his office after class; he’s got to talk to us about somethin’,” Ace said.

     “Do you think it’s got something to do with Dorm Leader Roseharts?” Albert asked.

>Maybe…

> Let’s finish up and see

     Lunch and afternoon classes seemed to pass by quickly in anticipation for what Crowley might have had to say. Eventually, everyone had congregated in his office, ready to hear what the Headmaster had to say.

     “Ah, good-you’re all here. Now, that things have calmed down at Heartlslabyul, we can actually give you all a rundown as to what actually happened.” He announced.

     “You called it ‘Overblot’, correct?” Deuce asked.

     “Correct.”

     “Wait, what is overblot?”

     “It’s an excess of Blot in a wizard’s system, blot, I’ll assume you don’t know, is a magical waste accumulated with the use of magic. Overuse of magic causes an excessive buildup. Most of you possess incredible power, but with it comes great consequences for misuse. Those crystals on your persons, you’d be able to see splotches of darkness accumulate on it with general use, which typical rest and good diet helps eliminate naturally. Of course, folks with a large pool of magic have to be extra careful, as the amount of blot one can accumulate is similar to others, but greater magicians can more easily accumulate it with use.”

     “This is...kinda a lot to take in,” Ace murmured.

     “So if your crystal turns black, you go into ‘Berserk Mode’?” Grim yowled.

     “In not so many words, yes. Your emotional state can also affect how quickly you accumulate Blot. Negative energies make it all the easier for it to build up. That entity behind Mr. Roseharts, supposedly it shows up as an incarnation of negative emotions mixed with blot itself. A manifestation, if you will,” Crowley continued. “’Tis truly fortunate for Mr. Roseharts to have come back to his senses-oh the thought of what might have happened if not!”

     The group exchanged looks to try making further sense of all the information gathered.

>Oh! Have you had any luck in finding a way for me to get home?

>Headmaster, are you forgetting something?

     “Oh, right, a way for you to return home! I do apologize, I have been terribly busy lately, but I haven’t forgot!” Crowley stammered, eyes darting here and there.

     “Forgive me if it seems out of turn, but The Headmaster seems to have not the best poker face, considering the mask…” Albert mentioned. "Lying doesn't help anyone, Sir."

     “I have not, Mr. Eastwind; I am simply swamped with the upcoming Magic Shift Tournament! As a Dorm Leader, yourself now, I’d expect you to attend the upcoming meeting, if you haven’t forgotten, yourself,” Crowley rebuttled.

     “Certainly not, Sir. As a new Dorm Leader, might I ask if I would have permission to keep notes on the subjects of the meeting? I’d rather not forget any important points of note,” Albert asked.

     “You may.”

>Sorry but what’s ‘Magic Shift’?

>Wait, what’s this tournament about again?

     Ace brightened up at Yuu’s question, “You haven’t heard of Magic Shift? Most people call it Magift for short, but it's like this: Teams of seven have to toss a disc into the other team’s goal. Winner is the team who scores the most points!”

>So it’s like American Football?

>That sounds kinda fun

     “When I come back I might have to have you explain to me this ‘American Football’. I would assume this is a sport from your world, is it not?” Albert asked.

     Crowley contemplated, but seemed to have a spark of an idea, “If this American Football is something of your world, I could use that as a potential lead once I get the chance to go to the library. You boys can better explain Magift to Yuu, right? I have some...investigation to do,” Crowley stammered before shooing the troupe out.

     “I guess if he’s so ‘busy’, we can explain it better, can we stop by your guy’s place and fill ya in?” Ace asked.

     “I’m all for it; I unfortunately can’t attend that, as Headmaster stated: I have a meeting to attend, so I’ll have to apologize ahead of time. But if you’re still around once I return, you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner,” Albert stated before heading off.

______________________________________________________________

     “First on the order is: An announcement from Tournament Manager Mr. Ashengrotto,” Crowley announced, before giving stage to a wiry steely-haired student. 

     This would have been the first time Albert had been able to see all of the Dorm Leaders in one place. Orientation was a bit of a clusterfuck, after all, so it was difficult to place names. Riddle and Al caught each other’s eye, exchanging a warm smile and light wave. This was the first time, though, Albert had met or really got a good look at Mr. Ashengrotto. He looked at his notes in preparation, becoming rather concerned for the sudden heat he felt on his face. 

     “Thank you, Headmaster. Thank you for your time as well, gentlemen. First on the order: External enterprises and club activities have at this point filled all slots available for the venue surrounding the coliseum. Our newest face among us dorm leaders, Mr. Eastwind, seems to have done an impressive job organizing. For anyone who hasn’t met him yet, Mr. Eastwind, if you could stand, please?” Ashengrotto motioned towards Albert. He stood, made a quick bow out of courtesy, and sat back down. “Royal guests have also been sent their invitations, invites from media are coming in as well as general ticket sales seem to be doing well.”

     Folks talked amongst themselves over previous years attendances, final makeup preparations, and condemnation of said makeup preparations. The floating tablet seemed to lament the very idea of being in front of so many people. Talk of team applications, and an express fee for late ones. Albert tried deciphering the bickering to find as much relevant information to scribble down. Crowley called attention back to the meeting as he had begun to see it devolve.

     “I have a proposition: This year we induct our star player: Malleus Draconia, into the hall of fame!” He started. Immediately it was met by surprise, if not outright balking at the idea. “It doesn’t please me to suggest it, but I have received Mr. Draconia’s consent on the matter. All that would be left would be the approval of the rest of the dorm leaders.”

     “Actually-I noticed we are missing someone-did he have some previous engagement? I’ve been taking notes if someone would like to help me forward it to him,” Albert asked with a wag of his notepad.

     “You’re really underestimating us, Teach. One thing I hate is getting counted out before I even start. First thing about Magift-It ain’t just brute strength that gets you the win. Brains is what gets you the victory. The King of Beasts got where he was through hard work and wisdom; if you use your head you can take on anything. Can you imagine the admiration of the team who could take that dragon down?” Leona declared.

     As he went on, more and more dorm heads seemed to come to the same conclusion. His rally even touched Albert. With the exception of The Tablet, everyone came to agree on keeping with having the teams continue to duke things out.

     “Understood,” Crowley sighed, “But if the same thing happens this year, he will be inducted next year.”

     With everyone in agreement, the bespectacled student announced the closure of the meeting, noting the lack of attendance by the mentioned Mr. Draconia, as well. Leona made his exit, passing Albert on his way.

     “That was quite the speech, Leona. Don’t think I could expect any better from a member of the Kingscholar family,” Albert commended.

     “Psh-flattery won’t get ya far, Herbivore,” Leona spat back before exiting.

     “Well...that was...quite the introduction.”

     “I wouldn’t waste your breath, Albert,” Riddle noted with a reassuring pat. “He’s prickly to everyone. Best thing to do is just leave him be. You’re welcome to join me for 4 o’clock tea, unless you have another engagement.”

     “Gladly, but I think my attention is due currently with someone else. If I can’t I’ll text you.” Al replied. He’d tilted to give attention to the figure behind his friend. 

     Behind Riddle, another boy stood, shifting weight from foot to foot in impatience. Albert smiled, extending a handshake to the waiting classmate. His hand was immediately met with an enthusiastic return, the student seeming to brim with excitement.

     “Ah~ A new dorm head! Headmaster said your name was Albert, right? Albert Eastwind? I’m Kalim! Kalim al-Asim, I’m head of Scarabia Dorm,” he rattled off. “I need to invite you and your other dormmates over-we’ll have a feast!”

     “Wait-you’re from the Asim family? It’s an honor to meet someone of the Land of Hot Sand’s royal family,” Al gasped. “That’s quite an offer from the prince-really it should be the other way around-I should invite you over to our dorm once renovations are complete. I’m still in the process of getting things back to working order. Of course, if you’d excuse the accommodations, they’d be comparatively much more modest, but I’d hope you’d enjoy nonetheless.”

     “Sure! In the meantime you’re more than welcome over! Jamil’s an amazing cook!” Kalim said before making a hasty retreat as well.

     The tablet began its trek back as well, all the while the mutterings of someone behind the screen continued their bemoaning of the events of the meeting. One of the last of the dorm leaders, the one Albert remembered named Azul Ashengrotto, seemed to notice Al’s staring at the tablet.

     “Don’t mind Idia-he’s a notorious recluse. You’d be lucky to catch him anywhere outside of his own dorm. You were, Albert, correct? Well, Welcome to Night Raven College. As dorm leader for Octavinelle, allow me to personally invite you to The Monstro Lounge. Feel free to drop in anytime, for pleasure, or business, ” Azul stated with a handshake of his own before making for the door in turn.

     Because of the location of the ramshackle building he was staying in, it afforded a bit of time for him to think about the day's events on his ‘flight’ back. It also afforded him to think more about that man, Azul. Interesting crew of leaders. Well if I’m to be a respectable dorm leader, myself, I’ll have to ramp up the fixing of the building...As well as come up with a name...