kiddiegore

[kiddiegore]

─── In the early morning, my yearning soul laid bare // B. Katsuki

— Bakugou Katsuki x Fem!Reader • Word count: 6.3k —

Content warnings: power imbalance (technically), boss + personal assistant, slowish burn, smut, p -> v, creampies, cunnilingus, reader is said to be smaller in stature than bkg one (1) time, reader is shy and implied to be socially anxious, briefly edited, older writing/repost

Summary: Surely there can be no consequences falling in love with your explosive boss, right? The first installment of a series following the trials and tribulations of falling in love (deeper, deeper, deeper) with The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight (but with you, it's Katsuki, always Katsuki).

— Chapter Index -> xxx | Next Chapter -> xxx —

“Good morning, Dynamight.”

“Mornin’.”

He moves swiftly through the office, combat boots overpowering the sound of your heels clacking against the tile. You’re speed walking to keep up with him, taking three strides of your own for each of his one.

“Your coffee is on your desk, not much office work for today except a meeting with Pro-Hero Hawks. Although I did get an email about a charity dinner that you should probably attend next week. So we’ll need to figure out a time to get you fitted for a suit. Oh! And I think that—

“Ln”

“Yes, Dynamight?”

“Stop talkin’.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And how many times have I told you to drop that Dynamight shit? Just call me Bakugou,” he says, nearing the entrance of his office.

“Oh, right. Sorry about that— uh, Bakugou.” He smirks down at you, crimson eyes taking in your form.

“Let me know when bird brain gets here, and just call the usual tailor and have them design something for the dinner. He knows my sizes.”

You nod quickly, hands fiddling with the papers in your hands, “Would you like me to email you the design once it’s finished so you can approve it?”

He shakes his head, hand opening the door, “Nah, trust your judgment. Just approve it if you think it looks good,” with that he turns into his office, clicking the door shut. 

Anything would look good on you, you think, which is definitely not something you should say to your boss or think about. How annoying too, the way he could make even the scrappiest of clothes look good. Stupid Pro-Hero body and chiseled jawline and— Whatever.  You valued your job far too much to let your school girl crush on the explosive Pro-Hero ruin what you had. You’d been working at the Dynamight-Red Riot Agency for nearly two years now. So you should be immune to the number two hero by now. 

“Hi, pretty bird, somethin’ on your mind?”

Your train of thought is interrupted by the teasing drawl of the number three hero, smirk upon his face as he leans against your desk.

“Hawks! No! Just thinking about everything I need to get done today,” you say, moving to set your paperwork down. Your hand reaches for the phone to alert Dynamight— Bakugou— of his presence.

“You’re here early,” you say, “you’re usually at the least twenty minutes late. Are you–

You’re cut off by his hand resting atop yours, hand clenching the receiver of the phone tighter.

“Wanted to see you, pretty bird. Have to say hello to my favorite assistant,” he says with a grin. You brush his hand off, opting to press the call button on the receiver instead to alert your boss.

“Well, hello,” you say, shrinking in on yourself behind your desk. He skirts around the edge, bending towards you.

“What’s wrong, dove? Nervous?” he asks with a smirk. Your hands wring together nervously as you stand between the wall and the taller man.

“No! I’m just, erm. You’re awfully close,” you say, eyes darting about the room. 

“Oi, leave my assistant alone unless you want me to turn you into fried chicken.” Bakugou says, stepping out of his office.

“Ahh, Dynamight!” Hawks says, turning to the hero, “I see you haven’t changed a bit.” Bakugou stares at him with a straight face, nodding his head towards his office. Hawks grumbles, leaving you with a wink.

“You good?” Bakugou grunts, eyeing you.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, yes,” you say, tension easing from you in his presence, “thank you, Bakugou.” His mouth turns up slightly at that, giving a nod of his head before turning into his office, the door closing with a click. 

─── ⋆⋅ ✮ ⋅⋆ ───

“Good morning, Bakugou.”

“Good mornin’”

The office is quiet this morning, only the two of you along with a few unlucky interns who got roped into finishing off the overflowing paperwork.

“Did you sleep well?” you ask, handing him his coffee.

“Wasn’t bad till I woke up,” he grumbles, sighing as he takes the first sip of the warm drink, “You?” You’re quick to cover your surprise, he wasn’t usually one to initiate conversation besides your exchange of ‘good morning’ and the list of things he needed to do.

“I slept very well, thank you for asking. Are you going out with us tonight?” 

You already knew the answer, but you also weren’t quite sure if he was ever actually invited.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, leaning against your desk as you enter your office space, “goin’ out where?” Just as you suspected. He always worked so hard for his place in the charts. You wondered if he ever did anything fun.

“Just some of us from the office. We’re going out for drinks,” you say, booting up your computer, “you should come.”

He frowns, eyebrows drawn tight, “I’ll think about it,” he says, before turning to his office and shutting the door. Well, you think, that’s a start. 

By the time your work is completed, there’s an ache in your back. Eyes strained from staring into your computer screen all day. You roll your neck, easing the tension from your shoulders.

“Oi,” a voice snaps, “we goin’ or what?” You look at the man standing in front of you, now changed out of his hero uniform and into casual clothing.

You smile up at him, “Going where?” you ask, saving your files before shutting the computer system down.

“Thought you said you and those damn extras were goin’ out after work,”  he says, crossing his arms. You pretend not to notice the faint blush creeping upon his cheeks.

His voice echoes in your mind, ‘you and those damn extras’.  You roll your eyes at yourself for looking too deep into the sentiment.

“Yes! I don’t know about you but I am so ready to have a drink.” you say with a groan. 

“So,” he asks, slowing his strides to walk alongside you, “who’s all gonna be there?” You hum as you walk along, pressing the button to the elevator.

“Ah, just the usual I’m sure,” you say, stepping in once the lift arrives.

“The usual? You guys do this a lot?” he asks, feigning disinterest.

“Yeah! Like every other week, sometimes every week depending. You didn’t know?” A part of your heart aches at this, but you’re pulled from your thoughts at the scoff he lets out.

“Nah, had no idea.” You leave it at that, frown on your face. 

After Bakugou offered (read: forced) you to get a ride from him instead of using the train to get to the hole in the wall bar you and your coworkers meet, he’d been oddly quiet. His car was nice, a sleek SUV with red interior that you were sure cost more than your yearly salary– stupid rich people.

“Quit that shit,” Bakugou finally says, both hands gripping the wheel as he drives down the road, “you’re thinkin’ too loud. Somethin’ wrong?”

You’re quick to deny, hands flailing in front of you, “Oh no! Of course not, just thinking about everything I have to do when I get home.” He hums, hands relaxing as he turns to look at you at the next light.

“Your car is nice,” you say, fingers twitching, “I like the red.”

He smirks at that, proud grin on his face, “Thanks, put a lot of work into her,” he says.

“And money,” you mumble to yourself. He barks out a laugh and you pray to whatever lies above to smite you now as you look at him. It’s then that you realized he’s pulled into the parking lot, hand resting on your headrest as he leans back to reverse the car into the stall.

And— holy shit. Had his arms always been that big? His jawline so sharp? And when he bites his lip in concentration you can’t help but wonder if that’s the face he would make when putting his–

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

You’re snapped from your bubble of admittedly filthy thoughts, embarrassment creeping up your spine. He laughs at your obvious inner turmoil, moving to shift the car into park.

“Sorry! So sorry about that. Uh– I was just. Well I was just lost in thought, erm. I guess.” Real smooth Yn, real smooth. He rolls his eyes, opening his door.

“You gettin’ out? Or are you plannin’ on sittin’ in here all night?” You shake your head to dismiss the thoughts, facing him with a smile.

“Ready when you are!”

Your name is called from the corner booth where your friends cooped up, hands raised in the air. Sero, Denki, and Mina, sit pressed into one side of the booth, the other occupied by a few friends from the IT department in the building.

“Hey guys!” you say, leading Bakugou over.

“Bakubro!” Denki cries, “What are you doing here?” Bakugou mumbles to himself sliding next to you into the booth. A glass slides your way, your usual drink of choice presented to you. You look up at Sero who gives you a wink, rolling your eyes at the man.

“Thank you so much. I needed this after this week,” you say with a sigh.

“Sorry Bakugou, I didn’t get you anything,” Sero says with a chuckle, “didn’t know you were coming, otherwise I would’ve ordered for you too, man!” Bakugou gives a dismissive grunt, picking at the table.

“Would you like something, Bakugou. I can go with you! Does anyone else need anything?” you ask.

“I can get it,” Bakugou replies, ignoring Mina’s calls for another drink for herself.

“Uhh,” Mina starts, hands slapping the table as she turns to you, “so what the fuck was that?” You laugh, stirring your drink with your straw,

“What was what?” Gasps escape the three members say across from you, mouths agape.

“What was what? How did you convince Bakubro to come?” Denki says, “I thought I was dreaming when I first saw him. Did you bribe him? OH MY GOD!” He drops his voice to a whisper, leaning closer to you, “Are you fucking him?”

You choke on your drink at his words, hand moving to cover your mouth as you shake your head violently.

“What?! No. I just asked if he wanted to come,” you say with a shrug, “that’s all.”

Bakugou returns with the drinks, sliding Mina’s drink to her. “Yes! Thank you Bakugou. Knew that black card of yours would come in handy someday.”

He snorts at this, taking a sip of his own drink, “You act like you don’t have one of your own.”

Mina starts vehemently denying this, hands flailing. Amongst the chatter and raised voices you can’t help but stare at the man next to you and the wide smile spread across his face.

───

“You really didn’t have to walk me all the way to my door,” you say, hands clasped in front of you.

“Had to make sure your dumbass didn’t get abducted by a villain. ‘sides, don't wanna end up having to do all that paperwork by myself.”

You laugh at his words, a bright grin on your face. “Well, I appreciate the concern,” you say, unlocking your door, “have a goodnight Bakugou. Get home safe.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, feet shuffling on the ground. “Y’can call me Katsuki,” he mumbles.

Your smile brightens, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Goodnight, Katsuki.”

─── ⋆⋅ ✮ ⋅⋆ ───

“Good morning, Katsuki-kun.”

“Good morning, Yn.”

“So, what bullshit do I have to put up with today?” He asks, arms crossed over his chest. You turn to the computer, pulling up his schedule for today.

“Doesn’t look like a lot of office work, although I did get a call earlier saying that Pro-Hero Deku will be making a stop by today to discuss something with you.”

He groans at your words, “Fuckin’ Deku,” he mumbles. You laugh at his words, spinning your desk chair back and forth. “Just let me know when the shitty nerd gets here.” 

The morning drags after that, hands and back aching from the constant sitting and typing away at your computer. Deciding to stretch your legs and take a break, you decide to check in with Bakugou. 

A knock on his door pulls him from his thoughts, setting down the report he was reading, “Come in,” he shouts, tossing the paper to his desk.

When you enter you nearly pass out at this sight in front of you. Bakugou sat behind his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up with a pair of glasses perched on his nose.

“Did you need something?” he finally asks, taking the glasses off and tossing them next to the paper.

“No! Sorry, I was feeling restless and needed a break.”

He squints his eyes in thought, pursing his lips at you, “So you decided to come bother me about it?” 

“Well actually, I was going to ask if–

“Kacchan!” A voice calls behind you. Bakugou groans, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“Kacchan?” you ask with a grin.

He glares at you, finger pointed in your direction, “Don’t even start.” You laugh at this, straightening your back as Deku finally enters the room.

“Dynamight, Pro-Hero Deku is here to see you,” you say with a smirk.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, brat,” he says with a scowl.

“Whatever you say, Kacchan,” you say teasingly, before making your way out of the office, bowing to the two heroes before closing the door.

Your eyes snap to the door as it opens again, Deku walking out mumbling. You giggle as Bakugou makes his way out behind him, exasperated look across.

“Isn’t it so cool, Kacchan? I hope we get it, I think I could keep it on my office on the self that’s—

“Deku. Stop fuckin’ talking.”

“R-right! Right, see you later, Kacchan!”

Bakugou grunts in acknowledgment, arms over his chest as the hero leaves.

“Oh!” Deku says, stopping at your desk, “I’m so sorry! Where are my manners? Have a good night, Yn!” You smile wide, waving goodbye to the green haired man. 

You turn slowly in your chair to the ash blond, “Sooo,” you drag out, “how was your meeting, Kacchan?”

If looks could kill, you’re sure you would be a splat on the wall right now.

“Shut it,” he says with a huff.

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed! I think it’s cute,” you say with a smile.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he exclaims, “and it’s not fuckin’ cute.” You laugh loudly at his obvious disdain, ears turning red, arms crossed.

“Y-yeah. Well what about you?” He says, nose up in the air.

“What about me?” you ask.

“Always so jumpy around new people. Actin’ like a frightened rabbit. Like a little bunny,” he says with a smirk.

You laugh harder at this, clutching your stomach when his smile falls. “Bunny is almost cuter than Kacchan.” You nearly fall out of your chair in laughter as the man starts defending himself.

─── ⋆⋅ ✮ ⋅⋆ ───

“Good morning, Kacchan.”

“Good morning, bunny.” 

You both stand in front of his office, arms crossed as you glare at each other.

“Yn! Hey do you— am I interrupting something?”

You turn your head towards the voice, “Oh! No of course not, Akio. What’s up?” Akio was one of your coworkers from IT who was a regular to your meetups for drinks, he stood before the two of you red faced, fiddling with his hands nervously.

“I was wondering if you were going out with us tonight, we were talking about all riding together and going bar hopping.”

You shake your head at him, “No, I can’t tonight,” you say with a frown, “I have a date tonight, I’m sorry I’ll miss it!”

He gives you a thumbs up, shaking his head, “Don’t worry about it, we’ll catch you next time. Have fun tonight!” You laugh looking at him with a wide grin and offering your thanks before turning back to Bakugou. 

He stands there with a scowl on his face, “What’s wrong?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” he says.

You laugh, shaking your head, “I don’t! It’s actually our first date. Mina set me up with him, actually.” His frown deepens, a heat simmering in his chest at this. Jealousy? No, Bakugou Katsuki does not get jealous. A heat creeps up his stomach, heart beating furiously in his chest.

“Where ya goin’?” he asks.

“Some ramen place he wanted to show me, I’m excited! And I need to get rid of these feelings I have for this one guy and I’m hoping this helps,” you say sheepishly.

“Why’s that? Anyone would be stupid to not want you. What’s his problem?”

You fight the flurry of butterflies in your tummy at his words, “Ah, I don’t think I’m his type. Besides he’s… unattainable, you could say.” He grunts in response, entering his office. 

Weird, you think, even for Bakugou. You shrug, turning to sit at your desk to begin your work. Maybe he’s jealous, a voice taunts in your ear. You shake it away, allowing the words on the screen to suck you in and take over your running thoughts. 

───

He’s late. You frown, looking down at your phone once more. It’s only by ten minutes, maybe he got stuck in traffic, you think. But as the minutes pass your hope festers, picking idly at the word edge of the menu you’d already memorized front to back in your spare time. A thump pulls you out of your thoughts, the view of a body in your peripheral making you scowl. No way you were going to go through with the date now, looking up to tear the man in front of you apart, you pause, mouth agape.

“Bakugou?” you say in shock.

His eyes dart about nervously before he clears his throat, “Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey? What are you doing here? Were you following me?” He frowns at this, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“Was passin’ by and saw you in here sittin’ by yourself lookin’ all sad. My dry cleaners’ down the road, passed by again on my way back and you were still here. Where’s your date?” 

Embarrassment burns through you, willing the tears down as you look at the man.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you say with a forced laugh.

“Asshole,” he murmurs, smiling slightly when he gets a giggle from you, “c’mon, let’s go.”

You look up at him in confusion, “Go where?” He stands, holding his hand out to you.

“My place, I’m cookin’,” he says, looking at you expectantly, “Well? You comin’ or what?”

Your heart leaps, placing your hand in his impressively larger one. “Okay, I’m coming.” 

The ride to his house is silent except for the music flowing quietly through the speakers. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you finally whisper.

“Shaddap, shitty woman. Let me show you how a man is supposed to treat a woman.” You bite your lip, contemplating punching yourself in the gut to get the butterflies to calm the fuck down.

“Is this a date?” you ask, eyes avoiding him as you stare out the window.

“Obviously,” he says, pulling into his drive. Now, you knew Bakugou was rich, but this. This was ridiculous.

“You live here?!” you say in shock, “You could fit a small village into this house, Bakugou. It’s huge.”

He smiles cockily at you, “Perks of being a Pro,” he says, “and call me Katsuki.”

You smile wider at him, soft look upon your features, “Okay, Katsuki.”

His cheeks redden at your words, scoffing at you, “And don’t you dare open that fuckin’ door yourself.” 

The inside of Bakugou– Katsuki’s home, is even more impressive than the outside. Sleek walls and abstract decor. Rich people, you think to yourself. Though you can’t help but sadden at the lack of warmth in the house. No touch of the explosive hero’s personality strewn throughout. He pulls out a pair of slippers for you, sliding the heels off your feet.

“Your house is beautiful, Katsuki.”

He shrugs noncommittally, “Thanks, let my old hag design it. Only really use it to eat and sleep.” You frown, follow him into his kitchen.

“What are you making?” you ask, placing yourself on the island resting in the center of his kitchen. You gasp when he grabs your hips, pulling you off and depositing you into a chair at the bar standing just on the outside of the kitchen.

“Scared, bunny?” he asks with a toothy grin, hands still resting on your hips.

“N-no,” you clear your throat, “No, of course not.”

He laughs, rolling his eyes before grabbing an apron to place onto his form. “Makin’ ramen. It’ll be better than whatever was at that shitty restaurant.”

You can’t help but be captivated by the sight in front of you, watching how effortlessly Katsuki moves around the kitchen.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” you speak out.

He grunts, slicing vegetables to add into the broth he’s started, “You can’t?”

You laugh, “No, I can. But with a house like this, I’m just surprised you don’t have your own personal chef or something.”

He rolls his eyes, smirk on his face, “Nah, no one can make it like me. I’m the best there is.”

You smile at the challenge, “I’ll hold you to that, Katsuki.” 

───

“Oh my god,” you say with a groan, “Katsuki, this is amazing!”

He smirks, “Told ya I was the best.”

You glare at him, “Just take the compliment, Katsuki. Don’t need your head getting any bigger than it already is.”

He chokes on a noodle at your words, red eyes glaring at you. You laugh loudly, head thrown back as he looks at you. It’s hard to take him seriously like this, cheeks round with noodles, a stray one resting on his chin. Conversation flows easy, easier than you could have imagined. At the end of it all, it’s hard to tell if the warmth flowing through you is from the meal or if it’s simply Katsuki. It’s strange to see him so relaxed, smile easy on his face, eyes bright with mischief.

“The meal was wonderful, Katsuki. Thank you.” He lets out a tch, in response.

“Would you like me to help clean? Since you cooked.”

He shakes his head, gathering his and your bowl in his hands. “You’re too pretty to be doin’ all that work. Wanna go pick out a movie or somethin’?” he asks with flushed cheeks.

Your smile brightens, happy to continue the night with him. “I would love to,” you say.

“Stop squirmin’,” he whispers to you. There’s about a two foot distance between the two of you on his large couch, movie playing in the background causing shadows to spread across his face.

“Sorry,” you whisper back, “this dress isn’t the most comfortable to lounge in.” He looks at you with a frown, vermillion eyes taking in your form.

“Why didn’t you just say so, dumbass.” He stands up, offering you his hand, “C’mon, I’ll give ya somethin’ to wear.”

You follow him to his room, hand squeezing his own absentmindedly as you stroll through his house. The smell of burnt caramel and a scent that’s all man, enters you as you follow him into his room.  He guides you to the bed, moving to his closet to grab clothes for you.

You take in your surroundings and can’t help yourself from wandering about the room. This, you think, this is Katsuki. All Might memorabilia strewn throughout the room, snippets from newspapers of his achievements. You pick up a picture frame, smiling softly down at it. High school aged Katsuki stares back at you, usual scowl, but with his undeniable warmth resting in his eyes. Also in the picture is his group of friends. Kirishima stood beside him with an arm thrown over his shoulder with Sero next to him, signature wide grin on his face. Beside Sero is Kaminari, obviously in a bout of laughter. It’s clear that Mina is the one taking the photo, arm stretched out with the other offers a simple peace sign.

“You tell them I have that in here, and I’ll kill you,” Katsuki mumbles behind you. You nearly drop the picture in fright, scrambling to catch it before the frame shatters.

“Katsuki!” you cry, “Give a girl a warning next time, nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He laughs at this, offering you a set of clothes. “It’s your fault for snoopin’, bunny.”

You roll your eyes, “Where’s the bathroom?” you ask. He points to the door opposite you, taking the frame gently from your hands. You’re nearly chest to chest, heart beating erratically at how close he is. Don’t look up, Don’t look up, you chant to yourself. You look up. He’s even closer like this, soft eyes peering down at you. His eyes flicker to your lips, mouth opening to speak.

“Bathroom!” you shout suddenly, “Uhh, bathroom. Change. I’m going to the bathroom to change.” 

Wow, Yn, subtle.

His brow quirks up in amusement, stepping away from you to allow you to step past. You change quickly, splashing water from your face to soothe your panic. You look at yourself in the mirror rolling your eyes at your awkwardness. The clothes are ridiculously large on you, shirt ending near your knees. You had to roll the sweats up several times to even attempt to walk. His room is empty when you exit the bathroom, so with your hands clasped tightly around your clothes, you leave the room to find him. He’s sitting on the couch, phone in hand as he waits. His eyes widen when you enter the room, darting over your form.

“Pretty,” he mumbles to himself.

“What?” you ask tilting your head to the side. “Said you’re pretty,” he says, a soft grin on his face. 

Your stomach flutters, placing yourself next to him on the couch once you’ve set your clothes to the side.

“Thank you, Katsuki. You’re pretty as well.” The tension is palpable, heat rising to your body as he leans closer. A frown falls upon your face when he turns from you, wringing his hands together as his eyes dart about the room.

“Katsuki?” you query, hand resting on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, leg bouncing nervously. You brush your hand over his leg, pushing lightly to ease the movements.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, free hand moving to gently grasp his face. His lip trembles when your thumb brushes over it, tongue darting out to chase your intoxicating taste. He nudges his face deeper into your hand, lips ghosting over your pulse point, vermillion eyes boring into you.

“You scare me,” you whisper to him, grasping his face when he goes to pull away. “Not like that! It’s just— You’re just, so—

“Aggressive?” he offers, eyes refusing to meet your own. You shake your head, thumbs running soothing circles over his cheeks.

“No,” you whisper to him, “you’re so kind. I think I might— no. I know I do. I love you, Katsuki.”

A stray tear makes itself down his face, you brush it away quickly, forehead pressed against his. You wonder then, if anyone has truly ever made an effort to understand the true Katsuki. His love was so unlike his brash outer personality. It was so quiet. Hands that cover corners as you walk behind his desk to assure you don’t run into it. Keen eyes, ever observant, assuring your comfortability. The way he smiles when he looks at his friends. How he allows them to poke and prod at them though if it were anyone else he would obliterate them in a second. Dynamight was loud, and rude, and explosive. Katsuki was kind, and loving— all consuming. His lips ghost over yours, breaths intermingling. His eyes darken when your tongue wets your lip, the warmth over it spreading through his chest.

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, hands moving to fist his shirt. 

“Can I–

“Please.”

Katsuki groans once his mouth is placed on yours, hand moving to your face as you deepen the kiss. His thumb brushes gently over your face before resting firmly on your neck to squeeze lightly. A whimper from you, followed by a growl from him, and you’re left straddling him. Hands grasping the strands of hair that rest at the nape of his neck. Your hips roll into him when he groans at your actions, tongue darting across your lips to ask for entrance. You oblige willingly, tongues dancing with each other. His hands pause their exploration of your body and move up to cradle your face. Breaking the kiss for a moment, he gazes into your eyes, his own filled with desire and a touch of vulnerability.

"I've never felt this way before," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Being with you feels different, like I'm falling into something I can't fully comprehend."

You smile warmly, running your fingers through his hair. "I feel the same way," you reply, sincerity lacing your words. “I want this, Katsuki. I want you.”

His mouth presses firmly back onto yours, his hands resume their journey, tracing the curve of your back and finding their way beneath his shirt clad on you. His touch ignites a fire within you, causing your breath to hitch and your heart to race.

“Katsuki,” you whimper, “Please.”

Sensing his hesitation you guide his hands to your waist, silently encouraging him to remove your shirt. As the fabric slips off your body, his eyes widen at the sight before him. He leans in, tracing kisses along your collarbone and down your chest, placing sloppy kisses and heated marks into the exposed skin. You let out a moan, hands fisting his hair as you grind yourself harder against him. You whimper when his mouth latches around your pert nipple, pulling him closer to your chest. He growls at this, flipping you to lay underneath him. 

Your hands explore his body, pushing up on his shirt. He allows you to glide your hands up his abdomen, a moan falling from his lips when you flick your fingers over his chest.

“Fuck,” he whines, hips bucking into yours. 

He pulls away, hand grabbing at the back of his shirt to toss it next to yours, hands moving to the waistband of your sweats.

“Is this okay?” he asks gently, fingers caressing your sides.

You nod, whining when he pinches your side.

“Words, sweetheart.”

You whimper, hands clasping his wrists. “Please, Katsu.”

Your pants and his own soon join the rest, hearts racing erratically. His lips move to your stomach, leaving heated kisses in his wake. Katsuki groans when he reaches your core, throwing your legs over his shoulder before biting into the plush skin of your thighs. You keen at his movements, hips bucking up as he soothes over the mark with his tongue.

“Beg for it,” he whispers, fingers ghosting over your dripping heat.

“Please, Katsuki. Need your mouth. Need it so bad. Need you.” 

He’s quick to follow orders, tongue swiping through your heat before wrapping around your clit and giving it a harsh suck. He moans into your heat, sending vibrations shooting up your spine. Your back arches at this, hands grasping his ash blond strands as you grind into him.

“Fuck baby,” he moans, “just like that. Gonna use my tongue to get off? Gonna cream all over my face?”

You cry out hips bucking into him as he flattens his tongue to allow you to grind into him.

“Yes! Yesyesyes, Katsuki!” you moan, “Gonna make me cum.”

His fingers dig into your sides, tongue moving to thrust into your aching core. “C’mon, sweetheart. Cum for Katsuki,” he snarls. 

Heat rushes over you, hips bucking greedily in his face as he drinks your release from your sloppy heat. 

He detaches from you after you push him away, the overstimulation causing your thighs to clamp around his head. His mouth moves back to yours, and you whine at the taste of you on his tongue.

“Need to be in you,” he says, “please.”

If someone had told you this morning that you’d have Dynamight begging to be in you, you’d laugh in their face. But this wasn’t Dynamight, this was Katsuki. Katsuki with his rough exterior, guarded heart, and warm eyes. Katsuki who made sure you always felt safe, who came to your rescue. Katsuki who had captured your bleeding heart, cradling it gently in his hands.

“Want it all, Katsuki,” you whisper against his lips, “want all of you.” 

He shuffles to pull his boxers down, cock slapping against his stomach as he fumbles about. He glares when you laugh at his struggle, but you see the warmth resting behind his eyes. He pinches your side, gliding himself back over you.

“Who is it?” he asks quietly. You look at him in confusion, hands gently cupping his face. “The guy who you need to get over, the one who’s unattainable.”

You laugh softly, pressing a soft kiss to his plush lips. “You, Katsuki,” you whisper, “it’s always been you.”

His lips crash onto yours, arms moving to wrap your legs over his waist. Katsuki runs his cock through your folds, tapping his cock onto your clit before pressing in slowly. Whimpers and swears fall from both your lips as he enters you, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders when you become one.

“Katsuki,” you whine, “move.”

He pulls his hips back only to push forward with a snap, groans falling from his lips as he picks up his pace.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, “feel even better than I imagined.”

The heat of his words travels straight to your core, cunt clenching on his cock as you cry out.

“So good,” you whine, “so big. Feel so good inside me.” He growls at your words, throwing your legs over his shoulders to push in deeper.

“Yeah,” he says, voice raspy, “gonna carve this pussy into the shape of my cock. Make it mine.”

Your eyes roll back, high pitched moans falling from your lips, “Course you like that,” he says, “want me to cum in this pussy too? Fill her up with my cum?”

Incoherent whines fall from your lips, begging him to fill you up. 

“Say it,” he moans, “say you’re mine.” His hand moves to your clit, fingers rubbing harsh circles, hips snapping harder into you.

“Yours!” you cry out, “All yours, Katsuki. Only you.” Curses fall from his lips, head falling to the crook of your neck.

“Cum for me,” he begs, “cum on my cock and I’ll fill you up just like you want.”

As if you’re under his spell, you cunt clenches at his words, head falling back as you gush all over his cock, hips bucking into him as your high washes over you.

“Fuck, yeah. Just like that,” he says, “cream my fuckin’ cock.” His hips snap harshly into yours, hips pushing as deep as they can go when he releases into you. 

The heat of him filling you up nearly has you finishing again, eyes rolling back as he eases you both down from your highs. 

He pulls out of you with a hiss before collapsing on top of you, large frame dwarfing your own. You run your hands through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his scalp, humming all the while. As you lay there catching your breaths, you can’t help the broad smile that makes its way across your face. Your hands halt their movements as he pulls back, tired eyes looking back at you.

“You okay?” you whisper to him. He shushes you with a kiss, followed by numerous pecks along your face before he stands. Your hips ache, and your head swims, but you don’t think you’ve ever been more content than this moment. 

A damp cloth causes you to flinch from your headspace, a mop of hair between your legs as he cleans you gently.

“Stay the night?” he asks bashfully, thanking the gods above for the dim lighting in the room that hides his reddened cheeks. 

“Of course, Katsuki. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“How about forever?” he says with a grin.

He teases you as you bathe together, his chest pressed firmly to your back as he eases the ache from your hips.

“Been wanting this for a while,” he says, pressing a kiss to your neck, “can’t believe you’re here.”

You turn to face him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “What about work? Could we get into trouble?”

He laughs at you, easing your worries. “I’m Dynamight, baby. I make my own rules.” And you can’t help but join in his laughter, hazy atmosphere drifting over the both of you. 

───

The light streaming from the window pulls Bakugou from his slumber, groaning in irritation as he pulls your warm body closer, nuzzling his face into your neck. You shuffle against him, body turning to face him.

He smiles brightly at you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You lay like that for a while, faces pressed against each other as you breathe in the warmth of the morning. He pulls away, finger tracing your features gently, flicking your nose when you bite his teasingly as he passes over your kiss bruised lips.

You yelp as he does it, and he can’t help but soothe the ache with a kiss to your nose, then your cheeks, and your lips. Who knew Bakugou Katsuki could be such a sap in the morning? You nuzzle deeper into him, soft kisses pressed to the side of his neck.

His legs move to entwine with your own fingers tracing shapes down your spine. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before standing up to head to his restroom, leaving you to your thoughts. When he enters the room again, in all his naked glory, you smile softly at him.

“Good morning, Katsuki.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” 

— Chapter Index -> xxx | Next Chapter -> xxx —

[kiddiegore]

𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

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

w.c; ~ 13.8k

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

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some other time, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neighbor?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Nami—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cozy.

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re perfect.

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

“What, take you skatin’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not forever.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People who aren’t you.

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did all this for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A kiss.

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

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

౨ৎ

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

It is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

[kiddiegore]

Furniture

Bed: https://blog.naver.com/kkb9256/221438914442

Cinder Block Table: kardofe_ Disastrous_End Table

Wired Bookshelf: DOT's Wire Cube Shelves Mesh

Rattan stand: sanoysims — “Varm” bedroom set (TS4) So, this has been…

Glowing Swiggly Mirror: To glow | Winner9 on Patreon

Tobacco Dispenser and Plants: Download – Basemental Mods

Neon Signs: Lizzie's Bar Neon Signs🌸 | Hydrangea on Patreon

Wall Stickers: https://www.patreon.com/posts/42135506

Animated Bubble Wall: https://www.patreon.com/posts/vaporwave-set-2-47951429?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copy_to_clipboard&utm_campaign=postshare

Brown Heart Rug: Dollaholics' Heart Print Rugs

Lanterns: https://www.patreon.com/posts/curtain-41337402

Clutter

Kawaii Food and Drinks: https://hydrangeachainsaw.tumblr.com/

Asian Snacks: Cherry on K-POP — MIX FOOD - S4CC CLUTTER - Banana Milk (4…

Pillows: Langon Bed Set by Ronja at Simenapule » Sims 4 Updates

Pillows 2: Amelia bedroom at Aifirsa » Sims 4 Updates

Retro Posters: Lady Kendal Sims — Retro Halloween Posters (Simblreen gift 5/5) 🦇…

Anime Curtains: https://www.patreon.com/posts/curtain-41337402

Hello Kitty Phone: retro days set [buy cc conversions] - The Sims 4

Books: Book conversions - 29 meshes download at mio-sims

Brown Curtains: ung999's Bedroom Acacia

Vinyl Pack: ddaeng sims

Cigarette Clutter: SimsPlex — Smoking Clutter It's time to give your sims a.....

Wall Decor Grid: RAVENTONS — Wall Decor Pantone Download This set includes: …

Camera on books: — mxims: Mincsims-MXIMS Collaboration Part II Menu…

Wall Plant: ung999's Kitchen Anukoi - Wall Plant

Wall Shelves: ordinary-sims: cherry-sims: Saturday Morning…

Room Divider: ung999's Bedroom Jasper - Room Divider

Plushies: https://pqsim4.blogspot.com/2020/02/toddler-set-1-sims-4-custom-content.html

Industrial Doors: C'est La Vie — Workingindustrial double doors by scandiforest. ...

[kiddiegore]

Favorite CC Creators

Here's a list of sims 4 cc creators I follow

[kiddiegore]

a genre

[kiddiegore]

camp counsellors again

part one

[kiddiegore]

ok reblog/reply and tell me what character or person you think this is. no wrong answers

#felix kranken

[kiddiegore]

< V on FILA >

like or reblog if you save plss! + follow me to see taetae everyday :)

Please put source too if u want to repost...🥺🥲

[kiddiegore]

،ㅤ박.ㅤ𖥻ㅤjιmᝓιᥒ happy bday sweet. . . 𔘓

ㅤㅤ ㅤlike or reblog!¡ don't repost.

[kiddiegore]

happy birthday to my angel! i wanna thank him for bringing me happiness and joy! 👼🏻

[kiddiegore]

omg?? not u turning on me ☹️

hey besfren 😇‼️

bye 😒 jk ily stay

#madz 🌸

[kiddiegore]

isn't a request but i wanted to know if the pretty boys little thing is still going. i just read the first one and it's good😩. -🧋

it is! i fell out of the haikyu fandom but i will try and finish the pretty boys and you need to calm down series before i move onto something else

#stars rumble

[kiddiegore]

“are u okay?” no i need more money

[kiddiegore]

Happy birthday to the sweetest boys! [15.07]

god i suck at comics haha

[kiddiegore]

NAW BC WHAT THE HELL IS THIS 😭😭😭

Hey! Can I get headcanons for Black reader that's dating Izuku, but at some international school competition, Izuku/class 1A finds out that DEIDARA from Naruto is her ex? In the MHA universive, I guess Deidara's quirk would be clay manipulation/explosions. He's probably German or some shit. And he's with his group member, Sasori, whose quirk is living puppet or some shit. Reader tries to play it off but nosy class 1A finds out anyways. She hates Deidara, he still lowkey likes her, and...

.... LMFAO no?????? The fuck????? I'm not fucking writing this. Do not ask me to make characters racist for any kind of reason. I don't even know why I have to clarify that, it should be common sense if you have half a brain cell

I dont know if this is serious, or some kind of troll in my inbox asking me for a racist character for shits and giggles but don't drop shit like this to me under any circumstance, this ain't some kind of race play blog, idc if he had y/n as his "uwu my lil exception🥰" especially when you basically asked for him to be racist towards izuku right after????

When i got the first part, I already knew I wasn't gonna write it bc 1. Idk how to write deidara 2. I don't do crossovers... but you seriously crossed a fucking line w that "he's racist" shit💀 idk what possessed you to send this to me but I'll be blocking you now, go fucking choke‼

Yawl are absolutely positively wilding !!

#WHO SAT DOWN AND TYPED IT OUT..

[kiddiegore]

him!! h i m !!!!!!

#shaking rn #fine ass man #lord

[kiddiegore]

white ppl stop speaking please

Genuine question to POC - I use self tanner in the winter months, never darker than when I naturally tan in the summer months from being outside. Is that okay? ;-; I have been mildly aware of the tanning issue & cultural appropriation but I assumed because it’s the same tone as what my skin naturally takes on in summer it would be ok. (Also I don’t actively tan, I’m just outside a lot!! I can’t sit still long enough for tanning 😅)

^^ for the anons <3

#this is a order.