#plotsignificanthaircut555

Nanami had a first meeting with a new client today. Despite how much he hated his job, he knew it was important to make a good first impression. He needed the clients to trust him, believe that their money was going to be taken care of, and their future was in capable hands. He considered his hands to be immensely capable, beyond them being trained specifically to protect the general public at one time, he simply didn’t care enough to screw over clients for the sake of company profit. He wore his nicest suit, clean and pressed to perfection himself that morning, a crispy white button up and red tie. He stepped out of the elevator, onto the office floor, and found his boss grinning, leaning against Nanami’s cubicle desk. 

“Big meeting today, Nanami!” He chattered, while Nanami set his things in their waiting, open spots he had left the night before. Briefcase to the left of his chair, laptop placed center, even with the edge of the desk but two inches back, office phone on the right, lamp on the left. 

His boss was still talking, “it may seem a little simple for a guy of your talents, but the client’s a bit---

Nanami’s eyes flicked upward. 

“-- of a piece of work.” 

Nanami’s jaw clicked, how disrespectful. 

He had read over the file last night before he went home. It was a bereavement portfolio, a combination of life insurance, dissolving and reallocating a trust in the name of the deceased as well as the substantial results of a wrongful death lawsuit, or well, the out of court settlement garnered after threatening to sue for wrongful death. Apparently the deceased had recently started a new medication that ended up not working as intended and gave the estate enough leverage to scare the manufacturers, the doctor, and the pharmacy.  Nanami had read the letter from the attorney’s office, it had been brutal, they had left nothing to chance. This lawyer, Higiruma, was a real shark. 

To call a grieving widow a piece of work was deplorable, but exactly the type of behavior he had come to expect from his floor manager. Who was apparently still talking:

“Talk to her about the stock options, okay. Start little and see if she takes the bait. I’m sure hubby handled most of their finances, she won’t know what’s up or down. It’s a, forgive my language, a fuck load of money were talking about. You play this right and not only does the company profit, but you could be in talks to join the big dogs.” He grabbed the back of Nanami’s neck in some kind of gesture of man-to-man camaraderie that he never truly understood and certainly didn’t value.

It was twenty two steps to the bathroom, thankfully he hadn’t gotten his hands on his jacket collar, so all he would have to do was clean the back of his neck. 

“Handsome guy like you, she won’t even be paying attention.” He let go of Nanami’s neck, “I’m counting on you!”

Finally the floor manager passed into his own office. Nanami cringed and cocked his neck, still feeling the disgusting touch of that man’s fingers on his skin. It was 8:07, he had exactly twenty-three minutes until the meeting was set to begin. He had booked the smallest conference room, it only had one window on the dividing wall, and the rest was enclosed. He wanted the space to feel private, where the widow could feel enabled to both grieve and discuss the logistics frankly without feeling as though she was on display.

 The crawling feeling at his neck was becoming overwhelming, he made his way to the mens room, wet a paper towel and swiped at his neck, the cool water soothing his growing rage. Water had always been soothing to him, the shower, the bath, a cool rag over his screen exhausted eyes, a warm rag on his head when he was sick, the ocean. He sighs in the sterile restroom, the ocean. The smell of salt and sun, the feeling of salt binding and crusting in his hair, the sun on his face and shoulders. Suits didn’t do well in the sun, he would have to leave them behind. Opting for more colorful, free form styling, something loose and flowy that would catch the coastal breeze and tickle the sides of his hips. He opened his eyes and met the stare of his reflection. 

Not yet. 

By every metric he had made plenty of money, but not enough to never work again. For a while last year he was toying with the idea of opening a bar or bookshop in whatever beach town he would find himself in, but even the thought of the processes necessary to open and run a business brought hives to his neck. One more swipe of the towel across the memory inflamed skin and then over his face, folded again so as to keep the contaminate off. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to rejoin his peers in the office halls. 

He had taken to preparing the room at 8:20, setting his computer, the printed copies of the to be accrued assets both liquid and non; a few dossiers of the stock option offered by the company, their individual projected investment gains, the prospective retail prices of property etc. He went back and forth a few times in his own mind but opted to bring in a box of tissues placed on the other side of the paperwork. Close enough to be available but not an assertion that emotion is expected. He hoped it would be thoughtful. Or at least benign and easy to ignore if it wasn’t useful. He pulled out his own and the chair caddy-corner to his, an open invitation to sit down. The room was set, he had a few minutes left until the client was set to arrive, so he took a short walk over to the break area’s kitchenette to make a coffee. He poured his own, letting the sound of draining liquid fill his ears before adding a half packet of sugar and stirring it. The numbers from the settlement  ran through his mind. It was a bizarre amount of money, even without the settlement there would have been more than enough money to live the rest of any human lifetime in absolute decadence. Wasting away on a beach, or in the mountains, secluded and isolated. Expensive meals, the finest linens, endless books for a never ending vacation. A life of relaxation. He sighed away the envy, the coffee’s steam giving a tangible symbol through which to watch the fantasy leave him.  That life would never be his. 

He left the kitchenette and made his way back to the conference room, only to see a figure seated inside. He was well acquainted with the silhouette of everyone who worked on his office floor, which ones to avoid, which ones would be innocuous in his periphery working alongside them, which ones had children they just begged to tell him about, which ones were on projects he worked on as well. But this one. He knew he had never seen this particular silhouette before. The hair neatly styled up into a sleek classic style, showcasing the back of their neck, shapely and long. A clean, well tailored blazer, dark in color as was most appropriate for the circumstances. The chair underneath covered the rest of the mirage before him, his throat felt parched, the coffee in his hand felt cold and absent. Or maybe he had gone numb. He pulled himself together in a snap, lamenting his momentary loss of composure. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and entered the conference room. 

You stood as he entered, offering a respectful bow. 

“Mrs. Kubota, it is nice to make your acquaintance. I am Kento Nanami, I was your husband’s financial planner. I am sorry for your loss, and I do regret the circumstances which have brought you here.” Nanami extended his hand for a formal shake. 

Which you obliged, taking his hand before sitting down once again, “My maiden name is fine, thank you. I have more condolences than I know what to do with, yours are appreciated but unnecessary.”

He nodded, appreciative of your pragmatism. It had been a few days over a month and a half since your husband had passed, and your candor towards not wanting to be fretted over was admirable. But there was an undercurrent of something. Kento took his seat across from you, and could see the dark shadows under your eyes. He wondered if you were sleeping properly. If you still slept in the bed you once shared, relegated to the side that had been yours, not yet taking the realestate now opened to you. He saw the end of your nose was raw, a slight sniffle twitching it every once in a while. He wondered when the tears had fallen. In the elevator, in the car ride over, in the mirror this morning?

“We have quite a lot to go over, can I get you a water or a coffee?” He offered, gesturing to his own beverage. 

“A coffee, thank you.” You seemed to relax in your chair a bit, your reed straight posture not faltering but taking on a feeling of ease. 

He stood again, a bit too fast, his knee almost hitting the table’s edge, “Cream?”

“No, thank you.” You were observing him so closely, he felt caught somehow, “Just one sugar please.” 

He nodded and excused himself out of the room and back to the kitchenette. Once he was gone, you sighed into the chair. Resting your head back against the cushioned edge. You didn’t want to be here. No one wants to be here. When you had gotten married twelve years ago, you never could have anticipated the drab, clinically modern interior of this office, the mountains of logistical work that followed your husband’s death. The endless phone calls with family members, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and grief counselors. Family members offering to come and ‘help keep the house while you are distracted’, were all declined. They had all been from his family, who had never been particularly fond of you, and were now trying to save face or, more likely, make sure you weren’t planning something catastrophic with his inheritance. No, your inheritance now. You had to remember that this money was yours now, you were entitled to it, and you had to feel that ownership, or the sharks around you would smell the blood before you touched even a cent.

Fuck, this was so much harder than you thought. You weren’t a cold, clinical woman, you were emotional and romantic and you had loved him. You had loved him, right? Even at the end, with the lying and the staying out too late and finding those charges, you loved him. Right?

The bookkeeper entered the room again, setting a ceramic mug of coffee, still steaming in front of you. His own had been in a paper cup, it was odd--maybe generous--that yours was presented differently. 

“I wasn’t sure which kind of sugar you liked so I brought one of each.” He had placed each pastel colored packet along the lip of the saucer that held the mug. 

You selected your favorite and tore it open, the rip splitting the silence in the small, dark room. You stirred it with the provided spoon and took a sip, the best an office can offer, which was less than you were used to, but the warm liquid chased the chill from your arms. 

“Mrs. Kubota--er, Sorry.” He corrected himself as you set the cup down, “You are more than well aware I am sure of the substantial inheritance both from the life insurance and from the wrongful death settlement. Your lawyer has done great work to insure that all of you and your husband’s assets will be absorbed under your name. You will be inheriting quite an impressive sum.” 

You nodded, “Yes, were it not for the loss of my husband, I would be tempted to call myself fortunate.” 

You didn’t care for the implication that people’s voices carried when they spoke to you about his death these days. Perhaps it was just because these logistical types could barely speak past the drool in their mouths when they scanned over the numbers on the page. It was true his family had been exorbitantly wealthy, and his own work had garnered more and more success for their business. But you had borne the burden of that your whole relationship with him. Coming from a regular working class family, the expectation was that you were some gold digging black widow that was only with him to secure your financial future of being a lavish layabout trophy wife. You had spent the last decade working to change your family's perception of you, and the untimely death of your husband, completely out of the blue, only made everyone more suspicious of you. You hadn’t yet confided in anyone about your trouble fitting in among them, or how fruitless it all felt toward the end. 

“I didn’t mean to imply. I’m sorry for my poor choice of words.” Nanami’s voice clipped through your spiral, “With a sum of money this size, it could be wise to invest. There would be very little risk to your financial future, and you could earn even more passively. Allowing you to continue whatever endeavors you saw fit, Travel, art collection, you could start your own business.”

“As you say it is substantial, I would rather not continue the expansion of my family’s wealth if I can help it.” 

“Well, it would be your wealth to…expand. The money in his possession was his own, not the money tied up in the company, that of course, returns to the company. But the will was very clear, all assets in his name will be redistributed to you and any of your children. Seeing as there are no children, this money is completely yours, to do whatever you like with.” 

You nodded, “Right.”

You weren’t interested in whatever commission earning this company may be after. Your husband had chosen this financial advisement team with the instruction influence of your mother in law. You didn’t care about investing, you knew exactly why you were here, and it was burning through the lining of your jacket pocket at the moment. Finally, you couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Mr. Nanami, I am not interested in investment. You were my husband’s financial advisor, were you not?” 

Kento’s eyebrows twitched inward for just a moment before he remembered himself. 

“Yes. One of them.” 

“And he sought your guidance on managing his personal expenses?” 

“To a certain degree.” He nodded, feeling himself becoming confused. “Our firm primarily handles the building of trusts and acquisitions of real estate or businesses.” 

Finally you retrieved the trifolded credit card statements for the last six months of your husband’s life that you had put safely in your purse as you left your apartment this morning. The ones you had been collecting, highlighting, photocopying, agonizing over since the first one came in. You carefully unfolded, gently unstacked, and set out in perfectly aligned order along the length of the table. 

June had been the dinner for two at the Michelin star restaurant you had tried to get him to make a reservation for for the previous Valentine’s day. 

And the bottle of champagne you hadn’t seen any sign of. 

July had been the necklace

A jeweler you recognized but wasn’t one of your favorites, but he happened to be fond of. 

Invoices from florists. 

Chunks of money, sizable enough for either dates, shopping trips, whatever they had been, you never saw. 

August had been the tickets to Macau, for a ‘business trip’ of course. 

It was normal, expected even, for personal assistants to stay in the adjoining room. How else would she have been able to keep him on schedule? 

And the car he had bought for her that same month was a company expense, it was allegedly easier than compensating her mileage, and he couldn’t rely on the train to get her to work on time. 

And of course his brother didn’t know anything about the meeting because he oversees a completely different department.

He started sleeping in the guest room.  

September had been slower. You suspected this was him laying low after his missteps in August. 

There was only the lingerie. Upon finding this charge you were motivated to find the order specifics through his email. It was a beautiful set. Part of you wanted to believe this could be an apology, but it hadn’t even been your size.  

October had another trip, this time he at least had the good sense to recruit some people you would have called friends to make it feel believable. 

Those same colleagues would later speak so highly of him at the funeral. Lauding his loyalty and reliability, and his unending dedication. 

November was busy, dinner dates, the opera, luxury goods masquerading as potential incoming christmas presents. 

He slept in your room a few nights as a trial run. 

Until you found the open credit line only accessible through a number you didn't recognize. 

He would never move back into the bedroom you shared together. The room stood untouched since he left it last.The door remained closed, the last hands to touch the knob his own. 

You couldn’t go inside. 

He died in December. Leaving an apartment building you had never been to, the last person to see him was his assistant. Who conveniently lived right upstairs. 

She hadn’t attended the funeral but whispers of her name echoed and were hushed away whenever you approached the huddled mourners. 

You weren’t a stupid woman, you knew what infidelity looked like.  When he started coming home later and later you praised his dedication to work. Especially when he would tell you he was working through the night and would try and catch a few weary hours of shut eye in his office. You still believed your marital vows were intact, despite how scripted every excuse filled phone call felt. It wasn’t until Macau that you even spoke to anyone about your suspicions. After their his plane had taken off, not so much as an invitation extended your way, you called his younger brother. Who hadn’t apparently known anything about a company merger occurring with a synonymous firm overseas. 

You hadn’t thought you married a stupid man, you had expected him to cover his tracks better. To his credit, the two occasions you had peeked at his phone, his call history had been unsuspicious and his messages to his assistant were professional, and even a little boring. In his absence, left to speculate in your once shared apartment for hours on end, you came to realize he likely had a second phone. One that would make itself known in a small fee each month until you found it and shut it down. 

Whatever, let the plan lapse, the money wouldn’t be noticed anyway. 

Laying the bank statements across the table, with your thorough annotations, the table looked like a conspiracy board. If there were any room in your heart alongside the bubbling betrayal and rage, you could have felt embarrassed. You watched Nanami scan over the documents as a whole. You watched his eyes look up to meet yours, his mouth open to say something that never emerged, before taking the left-most statement, June, in his hand and bringing it closer to read. You didn't sit, your knees trembled but never buckled. You weren’t afraid, you were energized. Vibrating with a bizarre amalgam of relief and sorrow. You never confide in anyone about your husband's infidelity. No family of your own, anymore, no friends you thought would support you through the divorce process, and the overbearing weight of betrayal and grief had poisoned you steadily over the course of this last year. 

Kento read each one carefully, taking special interest in your handwritten marginalia detailing the dates and citing the staple attached references to order pages and invoices. You had been incredibly meticulous with your record keeping. Every questionable charge back tracked to the origin of purchase and to its equally salacious delivery. Addresses not in your or his name. PO boxes, hotel rooms, short lived open and shut credit lines. It was…flagrant. 

As he finished the November statement, Kento set it down just where you had originally, as though it was magnetized to the exact spot. It felt like touching an artifact in a museum, the outline of dust waiting to be covered once again by the shadow of history and story that the papers held. 

“This is…” His throat was hoarse as he struggled to find the right word, “glaring.”

You, still standing, nodded, “Did you know?” 

He looked up to you, feeling suddenly small in his office chair, swallowed by the dark office around him, “No.” 

You looked for any sign of doubt, “At least that makes me no longer the last one to find out.” 

You finally took your seat again, the burden of truth taken from your weary shoulders. You had expected some sign of recognition, some familiarity to betray itself across the stony face of the man in front of you, but there had been nothing. Watching his expressions page after page, there was no tell of pre-existing knowledge. 

“Had you spoken to him about these?” Nanami asked, eyes still scanning over the table strewn with dirty laundry. 

“Yes, we had an infidelity clause in our prenuptial agreement. He knew that if I could prove it, I would get half of everything. The company, the houses, the inheritance, even the trusts. He told me it was over in August, but he admitted to the affair. He promised me that was the end of it, that we could go to counseling. That he would change, that he…” Your voice tipped you off to the tears welling in your eyes before you felt their sting, “I knew he was lying. And when he left again in October, with his friends, I knew. I tried to call her at the office and they said she was on leave due to a death in her family. How convenient. And ironic, looking back.” 

A sick chuckle left you before you could catch yourself. Nanami couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. Your lawyer had copies of everything, filed cleanly in a manilla folder marked with your married name. A folder that had been added to while your husband was still alive, a back up plan if things progressed more.

“There is a certain expectation of confidentiality that is appealing to our clients here. Non disclosure agreements, privacy laws, it's all very…bureaucratic. Many clients have similar discrepancies in their financial portfolios that, if they were catalogued, I imagine would bring about the same conclusions. I won't pretend that this is uncommon, or that your trepidation in bringing them forward is unwarranted. But,” He leaned across the table, “I find myself at times struggling to hold my tongue, when spouses come to me directly.” 

You looked at him a moment, trying to figure out what inside of him motivated this admission of knowing passivity. As though him admitting that this is something that happens, would be any boone to your opinion of him. 

“Do you tell them?” You didn’t want to play office drama anymore, a headache was beginning to bloom behind your eyes.  

“No, the closest I have come is flagging purchases as potential fraud enough times that they can put it together themselves and can keep them on hand, just as you have. But, it’s never…come to fruition, at least that I have seen .” He felt guilty that he couldn’t say he had done more. 

He should have done more. 

Part of the reason he hated this job so much was the type of people that he had to service. Liars, gluttons, cheaters, lecherous fat cats that cared only for their own whims. His boss had been conducting an affair for over five years, one that Nanami had turned a blind eye to. One of many, that he had decided were not his place, despite any personal disgust he allowed. The shame of those choices burned his throat sitting before you. 

The parallel burn in your throat was not shame, it was disgust. Disgust at the seemingly endless system of men who would protect each other through anything, no matter the costs. Even this phallic building standing tall and at attention served as a perfect symbol of the passive patriarchal assertion that men will keep their secrets for each other, weighing them out perfectly against their own sins and finding the scales too level to intervene. Were they all so callus, so loyal to their sex that they couldn't break for even a moment? For even the sanctity of marital vows? 

Pathetic. 

“Is that supposed to make you better than them?” You cocked your head, “Because you know about it, and how wrong it is? You still do nothing. You still don’t care about the wives. You think flagging a few missed anniversaries or ill-given gifts makes you some kind of hero?”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“ I’m sure you didn’t. Because you are a coward just like the rest of them. If anything, you’re worse. Clearly you have some kind of conscience that you choose to ignore, to what? Work here? Pay for your own affair? Excuse your own greed?” 

You sat silently, eyebrows raised in waiting to see if more excuses could be roused to fill the space you let open. But he said nothing. He would say nothing more. 

“Dissolve the trust, reallocate it into a savings account under my name alone.” You stood and began to collect the annotated bank statements from the desk, “From there I will redistribute to various humanitarian organizations that I see fit, with no influence from this company or the Kubota family. Or from you, whatever bankroll you were on from my husband died with him, do you understand?” 

This disdain in your voice was palpable, filling the room with an invisible sludge of hate for every foot that crossed this wretched building's threshold. Still, you continued:

“All I require from you will be a comprehensive breakdown of the remaining assets, and acknowledgement  that when the dissolution is complete, the partnership between the remaining Kubota’s and myself will be nullified and my personal involvement with your services will be over. I see no reason this should take more than the remaining days of this week, but from what I understand to be your pay cycles and commission earning spots are, I will give you until the thirty-first of March to complete the severance of assets. Any contact or input you require from me will be conducted through my attorney, with whom you are already acquainted.”

You stacked your brought papers neatly, edges aligned, corners met, before folding them along the tri-folded seams and sliding them carefully back into your pocket. 

“Wait, please.” Nanami stood, trying to preserve…something…do something to…atone, maybe, “Mrs.—er Miss—“

Without thinking he reached for your hand, his fingers barely brushed the joint of your wrist before you pulled it away. 

“I don’t think it's necessary for us to continue speaking. Surely if you have held your tongue this long, you won't mind continuing.” the look in your eyes was haunting, embers of fury trapped behind the iris, Nanami felt himself still, “Am I understood, Mr. Nanami?”

Wordlessly, he nodded. 

You turned and left the conference room, the cup of coffee nearly completely full sat no longer steaming where you had left it. 

You hadn’t raised your voice at anyone since he died. He was the last person you had fought with. Every day since his death your voice felt like it no longer belonged to you. Or at least could no longer be swayed by your emotions. When you were sad enough to feel your body was made of cement, your voice never wavered. When you spoke at the funeral, although briefly, your voice remained steady. You began to wonder if you could emote at all anymore. All your emotions and attempts at explaining them felt the same, this bizarre numbness that filled you completely had coated your vocal cords and now operated them for you like hammers in one of those self-playing pianos. Programmed to emulate the sound of human speech, over and over, but holding no real feeling.

 In the office you had felt more emotion than you had in nearly two months. Confusing swirls of frustration and nausea that all covered something more brutal. The sorrow, the crushing, aching, never ending sorrow. Your heart was lead, it barely beat. Your feet could barely be moved, they were too structural, it would risk collapse to step. Your eyes were boulders moving only when demanded. Even your hair pulled your neck down, be it onto the pillow, the car headrest, or the surface of the dining room table.  

Exactly the position you were in now. One cheek pressed onto the once cool surface of the hard mahogany table in your dining room, back slouched over its dark grain, hands falling limply at your sides, eyes locked on the venetian plaster walls. At one point you had thought they looked dynamic and expressive. But now it looked splotchy and unfinished. Dirty even.

You hated this room. But you couldn’t leave it. You hated this apartment. But where would you go?

Technically in a month’s time you would have more than enough resources to start over. You could go anywhere in the world, you could spend the rest of your life traveling with no responsibilities or ties anywhere. 

God that sounded lonely. 

But maybe that was what the rest of your life would be. It was part of marrying young, you knew it when you did it. You spent less time socializing, which meant you didn’t have a lot of chances to make new friends. And it became harder and harder to socialize outside of the pair of you.You had once thought of yourself as so lucky to have found the person you wanted to be with forever so young. But over the years you began to feel like an extension of him rather than a person yourself. You began to dread attending events alongside him, feeling the glaring lack of personage with which you were met draining. So eventually in the last ten years you had stopped trying. And now here you are, alone. No husband to be identified as an accessory of, no family to emphasize the marital status which landed you among them. Still your once marital status would follow you in its place. 

 Widowed. 

You are a widow now. You would never not be a widow ever again. You had felt an inverse sublime feeling when you had been married. Although those days it felt best expressed through the phrase “you’re married now! And you’ll never have to be alone again.” And now the phrase “you’ll never not have been married, ever again” felt more earnest. 

What time is it? 

The sun had probably set, the room was dark, but it had always been pretty moody. Thick curtains drawn to give it a dramatic, intimate feel. Your headache from this morning was still mumbling behind your forehead. A rolling thunder above the diamond enough to bring caution to the umpire, but not enough to cancel the game. Your aching back pulled your body forward, arching and straining like an overloaded fishing rod. You sat up, checking your thin banded watch. 

7:27 PM.

You groaned, dissappointed by it still being a time in which saying fuck it and just going to bed felt pathetic. If it had been even one hour later you would have done exactly that. Instead you felt the hot, acrid gurgle of shame rise in your throat. Your husband's infidelity had not been the fault of the man who sat across from you today in the conference room. He said himself that he didn’t know anything about it. From what he had said his involvement in your finances had been primarily investment, not day to day. And yet you had launched more anger at him than anyone else. You knew it wasn’t right, per say, but, you couldn’t deny that there had been something intoxicating about yelling at him. It felt cathartic to blame someone for something as unpredictable as a spontaneous death, timed in cruel serendipity around the revelation of adultery. Something so brutal and random and intangible, something where you couldn’t blame him for dying, because it was completely by chance, but you couldn’t be angry with him for cheating either, because he died. 

That bastard really got off easy. Fuck. 

You had been stuck in the loop for so long now the anger had nowhere to go. You didn’t have any interest in directing it toward the mistress. While she knew, obviously, he was married and she should have known better. She was too young to really understand, fresh out of university and painfully, frustratingly naive. You certainly didn’t feel bad for her, losing her lecherous boyfriend and all, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do any of the rom-com revenge movie antics that you sometimes wondered about. It didn’t seem worth the energy. You would be more than fine to just pretend she, specifically, didn’t even exist and that the adultery had occurred in some kind of vacuum. 

You didn’t care to confront his brothers, either, the ones who had begrudgingly embraced you, then lied to your face. The ones who knew everything and stayed quiet. You had wanted to scream at them, make them feel how you felt. But you knew it wouldn’t have worked. You can’t instill this numbness in another person. It’s far too organic. 

Mr. Nanami had become the perfect target for the anger that could go nowhere else. Despite his lack of involvement, earlier this afternoon in a millisecond decision you made him into the sole inheritor of your own misery. It wasn’t fair. But you couldn’t quite come to regret it entirely, there was something so good about releasing all of this frustration. The gratingly monotonous logistical proceedings, the meetings with Hiromi, the funeral arrangements, the calls from doctors detailing the genetic components of what had taken his life as if you had any children to make aware of it, the financiers, the property managers calling to see about their contracts, endless fucking pedantic organization had robbed you of space to grieve properly. You wanted to yell at every single one of them, but you didn’t. 

So you had just yelled at him. And he…took it. He didn’t seem perturbed at being spoken to so informally and cruelly, just…concerned, maybe? You had felt the most this afternoon than you had in months. You had already been mourning when the emergency services called you that night, you had been mourning for half a year. The relationship you once had, the marriage that you had once been so grateful for. But the grief, the grief was still waiting in the wings for room to consume you. The numbness and the anger were taking up too much space inside of you, it couldn’t find the room.

It was wrong, nonetheless. You can’t use other people as catharsis, it isn’t fair. Especially not with something so personal. Mr. Nanami was not your husband, nor was he one of his brothers, or the doctors, or your mother in law, or the friends who called or friends who didn't, or the flowers that were delivered regularly but now dispensed their saccharine sweet rot into the air of your kitchen. He was just a man. A man you were now scapegoating to relieve yourself of the pain you would have forever, even if just for a moment. He didn’t deserve it. You didn’t know him from Adam but you were sure he was a fine enough man who just wanted to do his job. 

You pulled your laptop to you from the side of the table, opening it and logging in. Your email opened automatically, the blue-white light straining your aching eyes. You should take one of those sleeping pills the doctor gave you. It had been a big day already. The email open on your screen was the confirmation email sent to you by Mr. Nanami yesterday morning, confirming the time of your meeting, the address of the office, and your parking validation. You read it over again, it was incredibly traditional. Likely some template that he had made to fill in for appointment confirmations, but your eyes wandered to the little circle icon next to the subject line. You clicked. It expanded. There he was. 

You had been laser focused this morning, well, as focused as you could manage to be in the foggy state you were often in these days. Let's call it, fine mist diffuser focus, one with one of those nozzles you can make bigger or smaller depending on room size. You had been so diffuser-focused on the bank statements that you hadn’t taken much time to really look at him. Beyond when he was reading them, waiting for a tell of recognition to reveal itself. Studying his micro expressions as he read over the papers you should have noticed the fine, angular lines of his face. The sharp line of his nose, the high cheek bones hollowed to meet a strong, square jaw. He was an incredibly proportionate man, thin, shapely lips, the color a bit too close to the skin, betraying how well defined they really were. But his eyes struck you. His expression was completely neutral in what you assumed was a work ID photo, but his eyes seemed to be looking right into you. A light, suede brown, like a perfectly risen, deliciously proofed loaf of sourdough bread. Dark bags hung under them, the ones you had seen in person were worse. But the shadows contrasted the golden brown making them appear to shine. He was handsome, very handsome. 

On reflex your heart pulled and your brain kicked you for even thinking so. The loop of shame and confusion starts again, pulling you along. 

You are a married woman. No. You were a married woman. You are a grieving woman. You are someone’s wife. No. You were someone’s wife. You are--. You…

You are-------fuck----You…fuck you. 

Who are you even supposed to be now? You crumbled against the table in a pile of arms. Hot tears burned your eyes and fell freely. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything felt wrong, you didn’t know what mattered anymore. None of the titles you once held so close fit anymore. You didn’t know what promises to keep, which ones to allow to fall away, what--if any--expectations stood before you. When you looked up from the table and back at your computer, you met Mr. Nanami’s eyes again. A flash of today in the office came to you, the same eyes but blown wide, reading over what had been done to your marriage. You should at least apologize. You looked at the clock on your computer screen. 

7:37 PM

He would surely be out of the office by now, but he would see a message tomorrow morning. You typed out an email quickly, read it over and hit send before your better judgement could kick in. 

Mr. Nanami, 

I would like to extend an apology for the way I spoke to you this morning. My behavior was inappropriate and frankly it was unfair. I did not mean to implicate you in my husband’s infidelity, and I regret doing so. I hope you can understand how it feels, losing your grasp on grief at what seems like the worst moment. But, that does not make what I did okay. 

 Thank you for your work over the years and your continued work for the remainder of the settlement. 

If possible, I would like a chance to apologize in person. Could I treat you to lunch tomorrow? I understand it is unorthodox, but my behavior this morning was unorthodox as well. I find unusual problems can sometimes require unusual solutions. 

You sighed out once it was sent. The inside of your cheek was swollen where you held it between tight molars as you typed. The pulse in your head, adrenaline temporarily lifted, returned and had now become a drumline. The bottle of sleeping medication was calling to you from your nightstand drawer. It didn’t matter that the clock had just barely passed the hour, you were going to bed. Unshowered, unceremoniously, it was time. It didn’t matter anyway, you hadn’t regularly shared a bed in months. The only filth on your sheets would be your own.

 You stood on sore, fatigued legs, pushing back your chair, not caring to realign it with the table’s edge as you once would have. It no longer mattered if the place was nice or put together. The team of cleaners would come and fix it. You had once been uncomfortable hiring people to clean up your messes, but now it didn’t matter at all. None of that life mattered anymore. Turning away to cross out of the room, you hear a faint chime. You stopped, turning back to the still lit screen. A new email. You huddled over the screen, reading too many words in the wrong order at once. Eyes jumping all over the response in search of confirmation. 

Please do not feel as though an apology is necessary. You have not wronged me in any way, nor have you hurt any feelings. I understood, and continue to understand the position you are in. I won't pretend to know how it must feel, but any empathetic mind can surmise the amount of strain you are under. For that I am sorry. 

While an in person apology is not needed, I accept your invitation. There are a few more questions that were left unanswered this morning that I would like to circle back to. I would be willing to extend my work into my lunch time hour if it would not be too much of an imposition to you. 

How is 12:30? There is a patisserie and deli I enjoy near to the office, if you wouldn’t mind coming back to this side of town? 

Awaiting your answer, 

Kento Nanami. 

You read it again. And again. You looked at the sender’s email, then back at the message. You read it one more time. 

You hadn’t expected this so quickly. And so thoughtfully. You had been so rude to him and he returned with nothing but understanding. Who the hell was this guy? What was his problem? You had spent the last month talking to similarly imposing job titled men, all of whom had to actively fight their fear that you would cry in front of them, only to then struggle to hide their confusion when you didn’t. You hadn’t anticipated this level of compassion, especially not from the previous email exchanges you had had. They were brief and deeply professional. No personality or attempts to be jovial, just purely informational. Perhaps after meeting him, being able to hear the voice writing the email made it clearer to you, giving way to his stoicism and sensitivity to feel balanced and apparent, without being forced. 

You pictured him sitting in a dark office, the light of his computer screen highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Blonde hair falling from its neat style, chunky silver watch, you didn’t realize you had noticed, ticking away far from the end of the work day. Feeling sad for him still working, you typed out a quick reply. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

You hesitated briefly, pinky finger hovering above the enter key. Was this message too casual? It was late, so maybe there was no reason to be as formal as you would be? However the lateness of the hour could require more care on your end to avoid seeming overly casual. 

Whatever. He said he was “awaiting an answer”, you didn’t want to hold him up any longer. You hit send. 

You let out a huff, excitement and guilt swirling together in your chest, making you remember your aching head. It was time to go to bed, you shut your laptop, pulled yourself through the central room of the apartment and into your bedroom. You were too tired to think about the guest room, you passed the door without stopping in front of it and wondering if you could push yourself to enter. You stripped your clothes off and let them fall at your feet, not bothering with pajamas, climbing into your large, empty bed. Finding the prescription in your nightstand you took one and swallowed it down with the stale water beside your bed. 

Did you put it there last night? Or the night before? 

It didn’t matter. Surely it was psychosomatic but feeling the pill descend your throat, you began to feel the sleep take you. 

Kento sat in the conference room after you left for a while. Weighing out what he should have done, what he did do, what you said, and how it all leveled on an elaborate mental scale, trying to figure out exactly how badly he screwed up. He felt so much sadness in his chest, it pulled his sternum down toward his pelvis, he had to fight to stay sitting straight. He hadn’t seen someone so destroyed since high school. And he always expected that to be a unique kind of grief. But he saw it in your eyes, the waver of your voice, the way your hands clenched, the dangerous calm that filled your kinesphere. He could recognize misplaced anger. He just had to look in the mirror. 

He barely registered the lecture his boss had given him for losing them one of their biggest clients. Something about expectations, something about the ‘guys upstairs not being happy with him’, something about being on thin ice. He didn’t enjoy being told his work performance was poor, but he also didn’t enjoy his work, so it was hard to dwell on it for too long. And there was still the meeting’s itinerary that hadn't been completed, along with your demands. He considered contacting your attorney to see if he could pass along a message about the work that had been superseded by your outburst. He still needed your personal information to create this savings account you requested, his work previously had been in your late husband’s name, so in order for him to create a separate portfolio for just you he needed a lot more of your input. Then there were the concerns he had about holding so much money in a single personal account, it could be dangerous to have too many eggs in one basket, it left too much to chance. Kento wanted to help you create a diverse and protected financial set up for your future, and he couldn’t if he just followed your requested course of action. 

But the work day had still only just begun, so he opted to set it aside for the time being and try to work elsewhere. But still your words hung in the space of his cubicle. The switch in your face from collection to fury. The careful way you had stacked and folded your papers, the careful swirling lines of your handwriting in the margins of those vicious forms. The level of care you exhibited in not just the presentation of evidence, but in the way you had sipped your coffee, the way your hair had been pulled up. You must be an incredibly thoughtful woman. 

After lunch he found his dwelling had migrated. The shape of your hands, the soft skin against his own when he had shaken it in introduction. The strong line of your shoulders and neck. The fullness of your cheeks, the shape of your lips, the shade of lipstick you had chosen complimented your coloring perfectly. He wondered if it had a flavor, not even an artificially added one, but the round, mineral taste that most quality lipsticks carried. Kento wasn’t sure why he had become so conscious of your charms. It was incredibly inappropriate for him to be replaying the events of a bereavement settlement and finding he can only think about how your lips would feel against his. You were mourning for Christ's sake. Mourning your husband. He was disgusted with himself.  Hours ticked by, the boss left promptly at five, others began to trickle out. He usually would have been in the elevator and out to the train station promptly, but he found that he was stuck to his desk, your file open before him, lingering over the contact for your lawyer, wrestling with how to proceed.  

That was when your email had arrived. His laptop was permanently set to silent, but he watched as an unshadowed line in his inbox appeared, signalling an unread email. Your name and email along the left side, no subject line attached. It opened itself in an instant, he didn’t even feel his fingers click over the trackpad. He read it closely, and when he finished he found his eyebrows had netted themselves together at the center of his face. An apology? Your husband was a lech and worse, a dead one, and you were apologizing to him? Guilt sunk his already deflated heart further. He didn’t deserve your sorrys, no one in this office, or any office like it deserved any kindness from you. You could have done worse, thrown the coffee in his face or shattered the glass windows, you could have told him to go fuck himself and he would have taken it. The horrid id in the back of his mind wonders if he might have done it. He typed out a response before the voice could speak again. Wanting to release you of any lingering guilt that he may have caused you. You had more than enough to deal with without him making it worse. But the voice didn’t like being ignored. 

She wants to see you outside of the office.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of the flash of fantasy that struck him. How perverse, how disgusting. Your kindness was not some kind of veiled invitation into your life. You were his client, he was the manager of the acquisition of your late husband’s estate, there were plenty of things that needed to be discussed. Professionally, and without distraction. He needed to get himself together before tomorrow. And he would. This was his chance to make this right, to do his job and do it well. He had begun packing up his stuff when your final response came in. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

A smile creeped along the lower half of his face, but he controlled it and set it aside. A professional work lunch, out of the office, to plan out the next steps of the acquisition, how mutually beneficial. Nothing to be alarmed by, nothing to prepare excessively for, certainly nothing to feel this strange giddy hum in his chest about. He slide his laptop into the center most pocket of his briefcase, organizing the interior of your file into a clean stack and folding it safely inside, turning out his desk lamp, and returning the pens he had used into the pencil cup on the top left corner of his desk, cap side down to allow for easy retrieval, capped securely protecting the ink inside. He pushed his chair in once he stood up, making sure the back was even with the edge of the desk and turned out the break room light as he made his way to the elevator. 

Normally Nanami would have taken a moment to relish the feeling of being the only body in the elevator. He wasn’t a small man, tall and broad, sharing an elevator made him feel like an imposition, as though he took up too much space by default. His neatness and cleanliness had stemmed from that same feeling of existing in a world that he felt he didn’t quite belong in. Trying to be as orderly and unimposing as possible, to make up for the characteristics that could be deemed rude or inconsiderate. On the average day there would have been immense relief upon finding the elevator empty, but tonight there was nothing to relieve. His routine executed to perfection, a clear plan for the next day, an assurance that your work together wasn’t yet finished. This feeling of weightless ease carried him into his apartment, into the shower, to his kitchen island, through the cooking of the same dinner he always had on midweek nights, to the half bottle of wine that sat in his fridge, and eventually to bed. Laying in the cool, clean sheets he wondered what tomorrow would bring. The uncharacteristic lightness carried him to sleep, and he did not push it away. 

PART TWO

“Can’t believe you would show your face back here again.” You spat at him, wet saliva hitting the buzzing reddened skin of his cheek. 

He nodded, already feeling his breathing getting slower, harder, wetter. He could feel himself slipping away already.  

“Take your shoes and coat off, where the fuck do you think you are? Tracking mud and shit and blood onto my floor.” You hissed again, taking a seat in the upholstered wingback armchair you favored. 

Kishibe removed his jacket and hung it near the door, in the hook you kept open for him. He made sure to keep his eyes on the floor as he moved. 

“Shoes, too.” he heard the crackle of a freshly lit cigarette and felt his back tense with remembrance, he hurried off his shoes, setting them neatly by your door. 

“Stay down.” You instructed, your voice holding smoke. 

Kishibe froze in his crouched position, keeping his eyes locked on the pairs of shoes by the door. Your heels clicked toward him, devastatingly needle thin stilettos, black as oil, red bottoms pristine. These heels had never seen a sidewalk or city street, they were solely relegated to inside the walls of your office. The clicks stopped next to him, he could see the immaculate shine of the pointed toe, overhead lantern light warping in their reflection, making oblong amber blooms. 

“Hand.” 

He hesitated. 

“Kishibe put your goddamn hand on the floor.” Your voice was stern, unwavering, and positively filled with hate, “I won't ask again.”

The use of his name made him crumble, he put his left hand on the cool wood floor, spreading his fingers wide. You pressed the front sole of your shoe onto the back of his hand, not yet using the heel. Rolling his knuckles into the floor, feeling each bone in his hand individually, feeling the ligaments shift between bones and skin, the pressure of your foot growing harder. Kishibe clenched his jaw and tried not to let his eyes close, knowing what would come if they fluttered shut. But your pressure, rolling ligaments across the metacarpal muscles, made him hiss, and his eyes squeeze tight. It was precisely then that you drove the point of your heel into the groove of the back of his hand, between his middle and ring fingers. His eyes shot open, looking at the point driving into his skin, threatening to break the skin, break through the fine sinews of muscle, the fragile bones of his hand. He hissed as you stepped harder, his hand strained under your foot, fingers flexing off the floor, begging for mercy. But still you pressed harder, letting your weight drive the spike further into the gaps between his bones, waiting for him to yelp. But he did not, he knew better. He groaned and hissed and writhed, but took it. He gasped when you pulled off, the indention already abbrased and blooming red underneath his fine skin. 

You drug your heel down his long middle finger, feeling every groove and valley of the winkles of the skin that encased his fingers. Kishibe turned his face up to you, eyes trailing up your smooth, long legs, he just barely saw the hem of your skirt when he was slapped again, his face recoiling back down to the floor. 

“Don’t fucking look at me.” You pressed your heel into the back of his hand once again, right in the center, sharp and precise.  

This did make him grunt, not quite a yelp yet, but the surprise and the combined fury of your hand and foot at once making his mouth water and his vision go white. The harder you pressed, the more he was brought onto the floor, his knees slid out from under him, his chest and stomach meeting the floor along with his forehead. He pressed into the wood, as though it would take him and suck him into itself, alleviating the deliciously hot pain searing into his hand. It only made you press further, watching him writhe beneath you. You let up slightly, listening to him draw in a shaky breath. You moved your foot off of him, studying his body now prone on your floor. You caught him then, pressing his hips hard into the floor, trying to find some kind of friction, some kind of press to relieve the erection you knew had been awakened just from his walk over, and grew harder with every step you took. Your silence and lack of movement tipped him off right away, his hips stalled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating what would come next. But instead of moving right away, you let him sit in anticipation, taking a long, thoughtful drag of your cigarette, watching him fight to keep still. But the ache, the discomfort, was too much, you saw his hips shift again. Full, hard cock begging to be freed from between hard body and harder wood. You crouched next to him. 

“You wanna fuck the floor?” You blew smoke out into his face, filling the gap between his neck and floor, he stayed still as he could, eyes fixed on the floor, following your instruction not to look directly at you. 

He shook his head. 

“Out loud, pleeeeease,” You hissed out the last word, “I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.” 

“No.” 

“No, what?” You leaned close to his ear, the black piercings mirroring your own face, stretched out and distorted, back to you. 

“No, I don’t want to fuck the floor.” He spoke through gritted teeth, both palms on the floor sweating, making it harder to keep a steady grip. 

“Hmmm.” You thought for a moment, taking another drag. 

You leaned in to him, using your cigarette free hand to guide his chin to face you, “I don’t believe you. And since you want it so bad that you can’t even help yourself, I think I’ll let you. Just this once.” 

Kishibe cringed at the humiliating thought, “…please don't make me..”

“Fuck the floor Kishibe. Now.” You stood up. 

Kishibe groaned at not being able to see you anymore, he should have looked harder, but he was too distracted, he didn’t appreciate what he had when he had it. He never did. That’s why he was so unhappy in the first place, he could never appreciate a good thing in the moment, only wishing for it to come back after it had been stolen from him. 

“Now.” You commanded again, clicking your heel hard on the ground, “while I'm still feeling nice.” 

Kishibe steadied his grip on the floor, pushing down the rising feelings inside of him, and pressed his hips into the floor of your entryway. It was a sweet shame, digging his covered cock into the hardwood again and again. Grinding himself against it, wishing it was your pussy instead. Praying that if he did well enough you might let him inside. So he fucked himself into your floor, listening to that nasty voice in his head that reminded him how badly he wanted this. How sick he was for needing this. How far gone he really must be if he craved this treatment over and over again. 

You watched him pump his hips into the floor, groaning when his cock would snag or press too hard.

 He really could be so sensitive. 

“You like that?” You mocked him with a little laugh, inhaling your cigarette’s offerings once more. 

“Yes.” He couldn’t help the moan that colored his words. 

You only smiled because you knew he couldn’t see you, furrowed brow and tight shut eyes, “say thank you.” 

“Thank you.” He nodded, pushing his hips harder, breathless and desperate. 

You circled around to his head, listening to the sweet sounds of exertion and humiliation filling your space. He began to fuck faster, his hips moving in a semi circle slide that let him drag the length of his cock along the floor, rather than have it mashed into the hard surface over and over. You slid the point of your toe against where his forehead met the floor, and he lifted his face to you. Eyes big, mouth open and wet and panting. 

“Open your mouth,” You pressed into his bottom lip, moving your shoe into his mouth. 

He was quick to slide his tongue across the patent leather of the front of your shoe. His dark eyes rolled back, you watched him lick your shoe, his fat tongue flopping out but careful not to touch your skin, staying against the sole and the toe of the heel. You hummed, you had trained him so well. Or you thought you had, until his hips stalled. He let himself become distracted. Too busy tasting your shoe, inching too close to the skin of your foot for your liking.

 That wouldn’t do. 

You pulled your foot back quickly, letting the heel drag on the floor loudly, letting him know that you caught him. 

“No, please, I'm sorry. I’m sorry.” He sputtered out, trying to resume his grinding to show you how good he could be. 

You step hard on his hip, killing his momentum, keeping him from moving further. 

“Uh-uh.” You pressed harder, letting your full weight press on his lower back, “I gave you an order. And you couldn’t even do that.” 

He winced as you stepped up and onto his back, letting your heels drive into his pressure points.  

“What kind of soldier can’t take orders? Huh?” you shifted your weight, letting your right foot press harder. 

“Agh!”, he cried out, no longer holding his voice behind clenched teeth. 

“What kind of dog,” You squatted down over him, moving your center of gravity closer to your feet, to his aching, pin struck back, “doesn't obey its master, huh?” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be good.” Kishibe’s hands were balled fists by his head, the muscles in his back were straining against your weight, making you shift and sway. 

He’s begging now, a pathetic, stomach churning sound. You stand, making him wince and whimper again as you step off and back onto the floor. He pants under you for a moment, trying to savor the sweet relief of relentless pressure giving way to trembling, buzzing skin now.   

You watch him for a moment, enjoying the sight of a killer of his stature whimpering at your feet, “Stand up, old dog.” 

He’s quick to his feet, his inhuman recovery assisting him even now. For the first time since his arrival tonight his full height is on display for you. He really does tower over you, all 195 cm or so giving him a clean head and shoulders above you. But still he cowards before you, keeping his dark eyes turned down, along with his face. There is no killer’s confidence to be seen here, there is only a man. A very damaged man who needs you. He needs your help. He needs to be put in his place by someone, that’s why he comes to you. You hold all the power here, he needs that.

 He needs to have someone treat him like every bit of the disgusting dog he is and always has been. He has given everything to killing devils; his body, his youth, his life, innumerable years, all his friendships began and ended within the parameters of devil hunting. There is nothing more to him than that. And that is nothing to hold dear. It's only pain, it's only hurt, it's only blood on his hands and dead friends and loneliness. And rot, then endless, unending rot of his soul and his self. 

You studied him as he stood before you, deep, humid breaths leaving his wet, defiled mouth. Your cigarette was far past its end, far past the point of hissing on the filter, fully extinguished. You flicked it at him, it fell at his feet, and you moved back to your chair, crossing your legs in front of him. 

“Take your shirt off.” You cocked your head at him, resting it on your fist. 

Kishibe undoes his tie, dropping it beside his feet. He begins buttoning his shirt, pain shaking fingers scrambling, rushing down the column of buttons. 

“Take a breath.” You ordered. 

He does, deep, trying to keep his head on straight.  

“Now go.” 

He resumes his unbuttoning, hands sturdier, moving one button at a time. He reveals his chest to you slowly, scarred and flushed. You were familiar with the map of his body, the visible muscles that age did not seem to yet touch. The carved abs, the v of his hips, the decades cultivated pectorals. You enjoyed his hard, weathered body. He really was beautiful; the soft, dark hair under his navel leading into his pants, the one nipple ring a memory from another time, the scars on his sides from swipes that just barely reached, and the ones that made it much deeper. You enjoyed inspecting him, and the way he shifted under your gaze. For a man as beautiful as him to be this cautious being admired was curious to you. His shirt joined his tie beside his feet. 

“Turn.” you drew out another cigarette and lit it. 

He turned for you, letting you look him up and down. Facing away from you, he felt the heat rise in his face. Even in the dim light of your office, and with a body like his, he still felt uncomfortable being studied so closely. You approached him from behind, he heard you click against the floor, and felt you inch toward him. He could feel the heat of your body, the energy radiating off you, the sultry sweet smell of your skin, the sickly stuffy smoke cloud that followed.   

“You think you deserve to still be here?” he felt your breath on his neck and shivered.

“Answer me.” You barked at him. 

“No.” he answered, turning his face to try and see you. 

“Then what the fuck are you still doing standing?” You hit the back of his knee making him kneel, knees thunking to the harder wood in a horrible sound. 

The pain shoots up to his hips, but he swallows the agonized groan. The momentum makes his head fall back, finally able to see you fully. You were so beautiful, so vicious, looking at him with so much disgust, so much sickening pity and disgust. He felt his cock twitch at your distain. His mouth fell open, only desire pulling his jaw downward. You grabbed it, holding it hard in your hand. 

“You want a kiss?” You cocked your head once more. 

He nodded, lips starting to quiver. 

You slapped him hard once again, not letting him recoil, catching his cheeks again. 

“You think I want to kiss you?”  You leaned in to him, keeping his eyes locked on yours, he could see the rotating firelight behind them. 

Kishibe’s brows furrowed, he didn’t have an answer. You pressed your body against him, moving a hand down his bare chest, enjoying the peaks and valleys of his chest and stomach. You reach the waistline of his pants, not touching the prominent bulge in the front, but gripping him by the belt. You let him rest his head against your breasts, allowing him to indulge for just a moment. You leaned down to his ear, letting your tongue slide across the shell. He moaned at the feeling, wanting to grip you tighter, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to move you onto your back and take you right there on the floor, to have you entirely at his mercy. His body begs for you. But his mouth stays quiet. 

“You think I want your old cock anywhere near me?” You hissed right in his ear between nasty, wet licks. 

Kishibe whimpered, his face scrunching in shame and pleasure at once, “..no.” 

“That’s right.” You spit on his cheek, “I don’t need your dirty fucking cock. You’re so used up and desperate for it, you’ll come all the way here just to pay someone to touch your nasty shriveled dick.”

Kishibe watches as you move around him to the front, keeling to face him. He feels your saliva drip down his cheek, his jaw, his neck. 

“You were made to be used. But you’re not even good for that anymore, are you, huh?”

Kishibe nodded, shying away from your look. He didn’t see when you reeled back and slapped him once again. 

“Fucking, answer me.” 

“No!” Kishibe stayed turned to the side where your slap had directed his face. 

“That’s right, Kishibe. Nobody wants you. These girls you go after, you think they want an old man like you?” 

“No.” Kishibe shakes his head, you were giving him exactly what he needed, what he knew. 

You grabbed the back of his neck, tilting it back, “No. That’s right. You’re only good enough to take my spit.” 

Pulling his head back, his mouth falls open, tongue falling out, reaching for you. You gathered spit in your mouth and shot it right onto his tongue. He draws it into his mouth, savoring the smoke latent flavor, letting the tobacco sting on his tongue. It burned at the taste, his cheek burned from the slap, his hand still stung, echoed in his throbbing back, his knees were growing pained. Every inch of him hummed and simmered with your abuse, your pain. His cock was weeping, precum seeping into the fabric of his pants. His mind felt fuzzy, the whole evening making him feel lost, the room around him dissolving. Every hit reminded him where he was, what he was, and exactly where he deserved to be. 

You sucked in more smoke watching him shiver at your taste, his body starting to sway. You brought the cigarette to his lips, making him take a reluctant drag, the smoke covering your taste he had worked so hard for. He whined, his eyes downturned as they met yours, showing you how sad he was to lose it, but he accepted, taking a large puff, mourning the spit he swallowed and the taste that left him. 

“Kishibe.” You pulled him from his dizzy, pleasure and pain filled mind, “Kishibe.”

“Mhm.” He made eye contact with you, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears.  

“More?” You put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady. 

Kishibe caught his breath, despite its shaking. He looked at you, your neutral face, not gentle but not chiding either. He looked at the shape of your lips, the lipstick atop it, the way your eyes studied him. He nodded. 

“Yes?” You raised your eyebrows. 

“Yes.” Kishibe nodded. 

“Okay.” You nodded, releasing his shoulder, letting him hold himself up again, “Then get on your back.” 

Kishibe feels his body electrify, this was what he had been waiting for. He slides his legs forward, laying his back against the floor. He felt something round and metal clunk against the back of his head. He forgot. He slid his body down, eyes tracking you as you moved to the chest of drawers along the opposite side of the room. He watched your body. Its smooth and confident movements, nothing unnecessary and so enticing, hypnotizing him. When you pulled forth the thick leather bands, buckles on either loop he put his hands up, on either side of the floor secured metal ring that sat above him. You turned back to him, grinning wickedly. 

“Eager today. You must have done something very bad.” You straddled his lap, just above his hips, above his groaning, aching dick. Sitting prettily on his lower stomach, your skirt hiking up further on your thighs, showing him the soft, plushy flesh of your hips and thighs, not enough to see the cleft of your pussy, the sacred meeting place of your long, torturous legs. But he could feel her warmth, the damp heat that transferred onto his skin. 

Kishibe nodded, not shy about how badly he wanted you. He loved you. Closest he had come to loving anything, probably. And he knew you liked it when he showed you how much he wanted you. How good he could be, only for you. 

You leaned over his body, not caring about how lucky he was to have your breasts so near to his face. On other occasions you would have made him close his eyes, or blindfolded him, to limit his indulgence, but hell, you could throw your dog a bone now and again. Tits in his face, you looped his wrists into their leather straps, tightening them until you saw the skin pinch and heard him hiss. Bone aside, a tight leash makes for less accidents. The o-ring slotted perfectly into the shackle on your floor, sturdy and unmoving, it was attached to the foundation, even a man as superhumanly strong as Kishibe couldn’t pry up the floor. You had learned this was the only form of restraint that would work on him. After the first session where he ripped two different hooks from your ceiling, you had it installed, all under his billing, obviously. And he looked better on the floor, anyway. 

“Pull.” You finished your binding. 

He pulled his arms hard, veins emerging from his arms, biceps rounding and straining. Not even a creek. Perfect. Kishibe couldn’t even contain his delight, a sick smile cracking across his face, his scar creating a second, sidelong smile. You let your hands slide down his arms, feeling the skin, the muscle, the joints, the bones, the soft hair of his forearms, the coarser collections under his armpits, feeling your way down to his chest. His breath hitched, his hips jolted upward, but your body above them, pushed him back down. 

“So sensitive.” You rolled your eyes at the way his long lashes fluttered as you touched him, at how  his nipples perked up as your hands grew close, at the gooseflesh your fingers left in their wake, “So desperate for someone to touch you.”

He nods along with your mocking. 

You lean closer forward, letting your hair fall against his face, your chest press against his, letting your body weight press him further and further against the floor, still not letting your hips slip down to meet his. 

“You just want someone to touch you, you don’t even care if they're using you.” You let your lips fall towards his, inching closer. 

Kishibe’s eyes scan over every inch of your face, praying that this is the time that you won't pull away, “No, I don’t.” 

“No.” You shook your head, mirroring him, “you don’t care.” 

“No.” he repeats. 

You let your lips just barely brush his as you speak, “You’re pathetic.” and pull away just as his chin inches upward to try and close the gap.

He cruses in frustration, an angry, heated cry that makes his voice break. You watch, face unmoving as his arms try to pull at the restraint, almost out of his control, tugging hard, making the skin of his wrists pinch and pull as he does. Your face is stone, unfettered and unfazed by his upset, he so desperately wants to reach for you, to touch you, to kiss you, to be kissed by you, so much time has passed in anticipation he feels dizzy again. He’s been denied too many times. He feels delirious. He feels drunk. He feels high. He feels sick. He needs relief. 

“Fuck!” He tried the restraints again, knowing they are immovable, “Yes, fuck, yes, I’m pathetic, I’m sick, I need you to use me. Use me, please, please, fucking use me, please.” 

Another hard crack on his scarred cheek shuts his babbling, pleading mouth. You grip his face hard in your fingers. 

“You wanna be used?” You bark at him.

Kishibe stays silent, delirium has spread to his brain, no longer to think about anything except your fingers pinching his face. His eyes roll back at the harsh touch, his hips buck up once more, rocking your forward this time. You may have really broken him this time.   

“Huh?” You snap again, jerking his face closer to yours, his upper back coming off the floor, arms bending unnaturally behind his head.

“Yes!” Kishibe’s voice may have found him, but his mind, his ego were long gone, “Yes, fuck, please use me. I’m pathetic and disgusting please. Fuck me, baby please. Fuck me, mommy, please.” 

Oooooooh, yes. The magic word. 

So beautiful in your ears, you nearly cum right then and there, right onto his stomach. Sick fuck would probably love that too. He may even cry in joy, or in envy. His sputtering, breaking voice, begging you, pleading with you to use him. Use him solely for your pleasure, and he can lap at whatever remains. Begging for his mommy to help him. Oh, how perfect. 

“Shut the fuck up!” You shout at him, letting his head fall hard back onto the floor, the crack it makes against the wood is no concern of either of you. 

You move off his lap, and his begging starts again, even more pathetic somehow. As though he had some untapped miserable pleading reserves locked away that even he didn’t know he could access. 

“Please! Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry mommy, I’ll be good. I won't argue anymore, I’m sorry, Please touch me, Please. I’m a dirty dog that doesn't deserve your touch, I know. Please, Please. Pl-” The least please falls from him unfinished as he feels a single tear starting to sting the outside of his eye. 

You watch his heaving chest, tension taut stomach buckle at the revelation that he had begun to cry. Crying did not happen easily for Kishibe. It usually took a lot longer than this, and a lot meaner treatment, sometimes hours worth of degradation. Poor bastard must have really had a hell of a day. 

Writhing against his restrained arms, he whimpers in defeat, resigning himself to the idea that this very well may be one of those sessions. The sessions where you bring him to an agonizing edge without any release. You round his body to his legs, finding his belt and undoing it. He pants as the tight leather is removed from his hips, even the only mental relief, is still enough to make him moan. You weren’t shy with your nails on his hips, letting them dig angry red lines into his skin as you removed his belt and undo his pants just enough to reveal his wet, buldged  underwear. 

“Such a fucking mess.” You hiss at him, shaking your head disapprovingly, hoping it will cover the way your mouth waters already, “fucking filithy.”

You don't even get his pants all the way off before you stand over him again. Letting his cock flop out from the zipper of his pants, not caring if the metal teeth bite at his hard, desperate shaft. This would be the quick, desperate, only for your pleasure fuck that he needed. You reach under your skirt and pull your panties off, sliding them down your legs, the black lace bunching as you did so. Kishibe can't stop watching, mouth drooling, getting whiplash from being stripped and now trying his hardest to see even a glimpse of your perfect pussy. 

“Yes, use me.--agh fuck-- Use me. Use me. Ple--” You shove your panties into his mouth shutting him up. 

“I’m so fucking tired of hearing you talk.” You straddle his stomach again, letting the wetness from your pussy only be felt by the hair on his lower stomach. 

He keens back, the sudden drop of your body on him and your hand pushing lace further into his mouth sending him reeling. He can taste your wetness, the way it's collected in the fabric, sunk in and saturated into the dripping lace and cotton. His tongue works over every inch, trying to suck out every last drop of your pussy slick that he can. 

Grinding against his body, you let your clit drag along his happy trail, you can feel the heat of his cock against your ass, making sure to remind you that it is ready and waiting for you. Begging, more like. The sweet sting of his hair against you, prickling at your most sensitive organ, the organ of your body used solely for pleasure, its only purpose to feed you, make you feel good. Just like the man under you. Serving no purpose other than to make you cum. You cock your head down at him, watching him struggle to keep his eyes from closing, hard arms struggle against their binds, gasping breaths leave his mouth through flimsy, wet fabric as you inch closer and closer to his quivering pelvis. Without warning, without prep, without fear, you mount him, letting his desperate, already leaking cock inside of you. You feel him slide through your muscles, slip into the tight rings that you know are so covetous. 

You don’t penetratively fuck all of your clientele, but Kishibe, oh Kishibe, you can’t deny him anything. He’s too raw, too honest, too damaged. You know it cliche, to want to fix a man who is broken beyond all reason to repair. But you can’t help yourself. Feeling him fill you completely, and then some, his long, thick, angry cock pushing into the deepest, most untapped parts of your body. Short of killing you with his own hands, you two could never be closer. You wondered how the devils and men he killed felt in that final moment. If they could ever comprehend the reality that laid before you now. The man who destroyed their lives writhing beneath a woman like you, begging for comfort, begging for pleasure, begging to be useful. 

You sank your hips down completely to meet his, your ass clapping down onto his still clothed legs. Both of you couldn’t help but keen back. The perfect meeting of two. Wet and whole and succulent and slippery and snug and dangerous. The breath in the room was recycled, hot and humid and laced with smoke and spit. You would need a respirator to take a clean breath in a room like this. One rife with sex and thick with yearning as this. When your hips pull away and meet again you both reel back in its decadence, feeling the weight of your previous dance pull you further together. Despite your best efforts to remain detached, you can’t help but paw at his chest, digging not your nails but your fingertips in, feeling his skin, his muscles, his bone, his heart underneath, as though you could pull it outward to feast upon if you wanted. You wonder if he would let you devour him. Only until you remember that he would. He would let you in a moment, in a second, were you to ask him. 

You raise your hips again, feeling him exit you to the edge of the head of his cock, before sliding back down, your hands at his chest giving you the leverage to rise and fall completely. WIth this new found leverage you can set a perfect, nasty pace. Driving yourself up and down on him again and again, a brutal, lip gnawing, back arching pace. You are using him, just as he begged so prettily for. Using him for your own pleasure, using him to reach the high you deserved. Putting so much work into his own release, which you recognize was the reason he came back to you, you still deserved your own victory for your efforts. 

“Agh--yes, fuck, baby, uhhh” Kishibe couldn’t stop his messy mouth, begging you for kindness, begging you for softness only to be met with your fingers shoving your panties further into his mouth, muffling his pleas. 

“Shut up shutupshutup.” You hissed through clenched teeth, moving your hips faster and faster, pushing your fingers in further to his mouth, relishing the feeling of the lace between his tongue and your fingers. 

Kishibe’s eyes rolled back, the whites showing themselves to you before they closed completely, resigning himself to the hardwood with a sturdy clunk of his skull. Drooly mouth and flushing chest, helpless beneath you with his arm stuck behind him. His hips can only thrust upward, hoping to meet your messy, sloppy thrusts back down upon him. Rarely does he match your rhythm, his thrusts erratic and unsynced to your own. A reminder that as good as it feels to be joined together, you are not some kind of divine set of missing pieces. You are not destined, nor ordained together, you are simply joined together in circumstance, that any divinity or godliness would abhor. You are doing nothing for the believers of fate or soul mates. Neither one of you would ever be anyone’s soulmate, nor would you find your missing piece in the arms of another. You were both missing things too large, too hearty to be completed simply by the union with another. It wasn’t that simple. Life wasn’t that simple. Nothing was. But you both knew that. 

And riding him now, you didn’t know a thing. Except the sweet sting of him stretching you open, the harsh push of his cock head at your g spot, the hissing, nasty roughness of your clit against the tuft of pubic hair at the base of his pelvis. You could only watch the show he was putting on for you, writhing body, sweating face, struggling arms and hands clasping around nothing, wishing they could pull your hips against his, pull you closer, have you tighter, feeling you everywhere. You pulled your top off, letting your pressed, heightened, pushed up tits fall free in his face. Letting them flop openly up and down as you rode him. He let out a disgruntled, restricted noise of yearning. The crack of his throat letting you know just how badly he wanted to feel the bouncy fat of your tits in his palms, against his face, along his tongue. 

“You wanna feel, Old dog? Huh” You teased him, feeling yourself up, cupping your tits, pinching your nipples in front of him. 

Muffled by your panties in his mouth, grinding his teeth hard enough to rip the flimsy fabric you could barely make out the “mhm” but you could see the feverish, delirious nod. 

“Yeah, baby?” You pressed forward, letting your freed chest hang in front of him, putting one hand behind his head. 

He spit your panties to the side, tongue reaching for your sweat, soft skin. 

You slotted two fingers into his mouth instead, which he was quick to curl his tongue around. 

“You’re so fucking dirty.” You reminded him, stealing back your spit soaked fingers and using them to circle your hungry, aching clit. 

“I--I I’m gonna..” Kishibe couldn’t take the sight of you, bare before him, touching yourself on top of his cock. 

You slapped him hard once more, spit and slick soaked fingers leaving his cheek sticky, “Not yet, don’t you dare cum.” You moved your hips harder, faster, nastier, dirtier. 

Of course your hard treatment spills him over completely, filling you, painting your walls white. Spurt after spurt of hot, thick, pent up cum into you. You can feel him twitching inside of you, and even if you couldn’t you can see the way the veins in his neck make themselves known, emerging one after the other in his strain. The way his mouth falls open, into a full capital O, against his wishes, against his better judgement, against his knowledge of what will come after. He simply can't help himself. You’re too tight, too wet, too hot around him. He needs to fill you, he needs to spill himself free. The hour of torment leading up to this moment, the slaps, the floor, the abuse, the disgust, the way you had worked him up so much before even laying your hands on him. He needed you before he even got to the door. He needed you before he even knew you.  He needed you before he even knew what he was missing. 

“Oh, kishibe…”You shook your head, slowing your hips only slightly, just enough to let him catch his breath. 

“I’m sorry, i’m sorry ---agh, i--”Kishibe’s head rocked back, still against the floor, barely able to find new ground to traverse behind him. 

But only to just catch his breath, because you sped up once again, not caring for his overstimulation as he panted and pleaded. His chest grew red, the drool from before dried and migrated to his tear ducts, starting to well at your devious, devastating hips. You weren’t done yet, you dropped down on him again and again, circling your clit with a renewed fervor, desperate to join him. Kishibe couldn’t form words anymore, barely able to keep his eyes open, the sight of you too much when combined with the feeling of your trembling walls closing around his cock. The white circle of creamy, hot cum on his cock that peeked back at him every time you rose your hips before slotting them back down. He thought he might die. And of all the devils that had threatened his life thus far, you didn’t scare him in the slightest. He knew death at your touch would be right, maybe just even. 

“You think you can cum in me without my say so? Huh?” You smacked one of his thighs hard, making his drooping eyes snap open. 

Before he could speak again you pulled off him, sliding your cum leaking, oozing push across his bare chest. 

“Huh?” You shouted again. 

He shook his head, not willing to risk the words that would only anger you further. 

“That’s right. And sense you made the mess. You’ll clean it up.” 

That was the last thing he heard before you straddled his face, plopping right down onto his mouth. The positioning wasn’t graceful by any means, your knees were pressing his arms further against the floor hard, painfully so. But his tongue went to work anyway, burrowing itself into your hole, pulling out the globs of sticky spent that he had left there so carelessly. So selfishly. He couldn’t breathe, nose and mouth both covered completely by your pleasure swollen lips. He didn’t deserve to still draw breath. 

Your hands pulled at his hair, the natural silver and the bleached strands cording through your fingers, exposing the darkened roots. The dark underneath him. You tugged harder, wanting to guide his hungry tongue up to your clit. But the bastard was too focused on your previous instruction, sucking his load out of you like he could render you completely untouched once more if he just worked hard enough. Realizing your tugging was useless, you rocked your hips against him, feeling the hard bridge of his nose grind against your clit, all while he licked at every inch of your vulva, from cleft of pussy lip down to the tight rim of your asshole. Finally, finally, you were feeling the build to the climax you had worked so hard for. You gasped up into the humid air, your back curving, pushing against his tongue harder. You can just barely hear him groaning underneath you, between hungry slurps. 

The moans grow faster, louder, higher, you can’t stop the way your hips ride his face, you can only tug for support at his hair, and hold yourself upright as you finally tip over into your orgasm. 

He feels it too, the quivering of your pussy against his tongue, the way your hips can’t move anymore, your thighs shaking against his arms. Even with his ears covered, he can hear the sweet break of your moans, the delicious honey dipped sounds of you in ecstasy. He feels his chest warm with pride, his body relax, his sensitive, over used, abused cock even twitches with interest. 

Kishibe still slides his tongue gently under you, cleaning your release in real time. Every swipe of his hot tongue makes your body twitch. The glimmering euphoria falling blissfully away. Letting the dimly lit room around come back into your purview. You cast a look down to the man below you, and see his droopy, exhausted eyes. You stand slowly, Kishibe takes his first full breath in dangerously long, letting his lungs fill completely. Already mourning the loss of your weight above him. He licks his lips clean, letting his eyes close, righting his mind, and letting himself lay in his own bliss for a moment. It’s over, he knows that, so like the last, perfectly constructed bite of any meal, he savours fully. 

You stepped away from him, studying his breaths, watching as his lungs and stomach expanded completely without hindrance. He was fine. The bruises would heal in a few days, there would be no lasting damage. He really wanted it harder and harder each time, you were starting to worry it would take a toll on him eventually. You don’t want to truncate his already stolen life. No matter how badly he may want you to. You pull on a robe, soft satin that cools your fevered skin, letting out a sigh at the feeling of your muscles relaxing and growing sore from your exertions. You turn back to Kishibe on the floor, he has not moved, still in his closed-eye bliss, savoring the end of your session. You kneel next to him, sliding your kinds, kindly this time, up his arms and undoing his binds. He moans a bit at your touch, he really is so sensitive. Your fingers are soft over the indentions in his wrists, massaging the angry, reddened skin. He opens his eyes now, starting to sit up and you help him, offering support that is more energetic than it is physical, moving on hand down his back, feeling where your heels had pressed in hard, still not bounced back to smoothness completely. He breathes heavily, the move to sitting making his head spin slightly. 

You hold his neck, not pressing hard to guide him, but holding firm to support him were he to topple forward or back. 

“Kishibe.” You pose softly. 

He hums in response, moving to tuck his flaccid cock back into his pants. 

“You’re okay? Does it hurt too much anywhere?” 

Kishibe lets out a sigh before looking at you. His wall hasn’t completely gone up yet, his black eyes have not yet become still and unmoving, they are instead unending and fluid, as though they could draw you in further and further, in perpetuity into the universe. 

“No, baby. I’m okay.” He gives a small smile, or at least one edge of his mouth does. 

“Okay.” You nod, giving a soft smile back, and stand to retrieve the water glasses. 

“Got anything stronger?” He raises his eyebrows a bit, but accepts. 

“I’ll fill your flask, but drink that first.” You sip your own, happy to see his personality is unbruised. 

He sips, watching you as you dig in his coat pocket and find the silver flask he always carries. You look so much softer when you aren’t working on him. You cheeks fuller, your figure plusher, like he could rest on any part of your body and sleep sounder than he had in decades. He wondered what your bed felt like, if it smelled like your perfume, or if it had a scent completely unknown to him, its own atmosphere untouched by clientele, completely your own.

“So, long day today?” You asked, filling his flask with the bottle of whiskey you kept on hand for sessions, but was exclusively reserved for your current company. 

Kishibes soothed his thumb over each wrist, sipping the water down again, and hummed in affirmation again. 

“Lotta devils, not a lot of hunters, same old story.” He shrugged. 

You nodded, you would never know all of the complexities of his work, but you knew enough to count yourself lucky for that. You didn’t want to know the horrors of the place you called home, as long as you knew he was out there watching your block, you considered yourself safe enough. You screwed on the top of the flask, tipping it once to make sure it was sealed. And you poured two glasses over ice, the flask would be for his trip home. You brought it to him, alongside a warm, wet towel. He accepted the drink gratefully, swallowing the last drops of his water before indulging. 

“Want me to, or you want to?” You offered him the rag. 

“You.” Kishibe put his hand around yours and pressed the rag to his chest, your hand in between.

 Your hands together cleaned any lingering bits of filth from his chest, his stomach, his hips, his face. You worked carefully over his cheeks, it’s long scar getting reverent attention. Kishibe let you wash his face yourself, but watched you closely. Feeling his breath return, the aches setting in to his muscles, his joints, his jaw had started to ache, his back would need some time to heal. You ran the damp cloth of his bottom lip, seeing where he had bitten it raw, giving a tender dab of warm water. 

“I’m sure the whiskey will keep it clean, huh?” You hoped he would laugh. 

He didn’t but he smiled. Kishibe was more focused on how your eyes had changed. Full and big and soft and wet, the sharp analytical gaze that you kept during your session had faded completely. You really were so beautiful. He touched your wrist softly, stilling your hand on his cheek. Your lips part briefly, two sets of eyes meeting. THe collar of your robe has slipped from your shoulder, his chest was still bare. Your hand with the rag falls off his face, landing between your bodies. Kishibe’s other hand cups your soft cheek, running his thumb on the plump skin under your eye. 

“May I?” He asks, a secret. 

You nod just barely, not wanting to break the line of gaze between you. He leans in, letting his hand round your face to the back of your neck and pull you to meet him. Kishibe kisses you, soft at first. Just lips touching, then pressing enough to feel the teeth held behind. Your hands find his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him, he moves you to the side, one hand holding your back, the other keeping your head in place for him to kiss you again, this time daring to open his mouth, wet tongue sliding against yours, waiting for your say so to progress. You give it, opening your mouth and letting him inside. Your tongues move together, old lovers desperate to meet one another once more. He holds you close against his body, you keep your hands on his shoulders, his neck, wanting to keep him here with you as long as you can. He moves you back to your original seated position, letting his lips break from yours with a soft peck. 

You feel butterflies looking at him afterward, even now his kisses still surprise you. How tender he can be, how passionate he is. Kishibe really is unpredictable, you can never quite place what he is thinking. But when he kisses you, you at least know how he feels about you. He kisses you like he loves you, and for that one moment he may. You may love him right back. 

“Kishibe, do you want to st---?” You hadn’t thought about the words before you spoke them.    

“Same appointment next week?” He interrupts you, his wall has gone back up, you lost him. 

You knew better than to ask for more. You were a professional, and you wouldn't lose out on one of your best customers just because of the occasional incredible kiss. This was enough. Having him here, giving him the release and the security he needed, only for an hour or two at a time was enough. 

“Of course. Next week, same rate. Page me if you need anything specific.” You nodded. 

Kishibe kissed the side of your head, “Sure. Thank you.”

He stood, finding his shirt on the floor and began to dress himself. You sipped your own drink, watching him.

His kiss was electrifying, he moved his hands over your waist, slipping under your shirt, moving up to feel your back’s musculature. You followed suit, digging your fingertips into his warm skin, pulling him closer to you, wrapping your legs over his hips. He rocks your bodies together as you both shed your shirts, skin now against skin, sweat commingling, breath recycling. He moved his lips down your chin to your neck, his teeth showing themselves just enough to make you gasp. Geto’s hand found the button of your pants, unfastening them and pushing inside. His fingers traced your lips through your thin panties. You slipped your hand under his waistline, feeling the back turn to waist turn to hip.

You could barely speak through the huffs and moans he was pulling for you, the joint stimulation at your neck and pussy driving you wild.

“O-off.” You requested having trouble getting his trousers off his hips.

“So eager…” He mocked, voice humid and wet next to your ear, making you shiver.

You nodded your head, reaching for more of him. You whined as his hand left your panties, and you whined again as he rolled his eyes at your desperation. He pulled his pants off his legs, you followed, shimmying out of your own, leaving both of you in just your underwear. You could look his body over now, the clean, clear tanned skin, the tattoo on his hip he swears no one knows about, the barely present red lines that you had made with your fingers. He gripped himself through his boxers, feeling himself getting harder, swelling. He looked at your panting, desperate body heaving for him, a pulse shot through his groin, pinballing up and down his spine.

“Fuck, spread your legs.” He instructed, you obeyed.

He could see the curve of your pussy, the seam in between, where the wetness had made the fabric cling, revealing even more of your specific complexity. You watched him drool over you, your chest burned with pride. Feeling emboldened by his gawking, you trailed a finger down your body, tracing the slit that he seemed mesmerized by.

“Suguru…I need you.” You whined, moaning out the sound of his name, savouring every syllable.

He smiled, his perfect, devious smile that had been the reason you crawled into his bed in the first place. He reached to follow your fingers trail, feeling the wetness that soaked past the fabric wet his fingertip. He brought it to his mouth, relishing the taste of you. Geto encases your wandering hand in his own, bringing it to the front of his boxers, sliding your hand along his length which had…expanded. Your mouth grew wet, drool slipped past the edge of your mouth, you couldn't help it.

“This what you need? Hm?” He mocked you, watching how you salivated over the feel of him.

You nodded, the show he was putting on in front of you making you leak, you didn’t know how much longer you could take it.

“Go on, baby, take it.”

You were quick to your knees, slotting in between his legs. He let go of your hand, letting you decide where and how to touch him. Your droopy mouth pulled you forward, running your tongue along the lengthened, fabric covered shaft. You could feel the heat, the weight, you wanted it on you, in you, in your mouth, in your pussy, against your face, against your palm. You run your cheek against the spit stripe that you had just made. The hot, growing muscle against the fevered skin of your cheek sending you further into your fantasies of exactly what he would do to you.

Geto couldn’t help the moan you pulled from him. The sight of your lapping at him, rubbing against him through his boxers was almost enough to make him cum already. He was growing, he would be at full mast soon. He bit back the plea of mercy on his tongue, opting to clench his hands together, needing to see how you proceeded.

Finally, your dizzy brain urges you to the next step. You lace your fingers into the waistband of his underwear, peeling them off his hips, watching the topography of his body change. Smooth, tanned skin growing lighter, the sun not having seen as much as you were about to. The softer hues contrasted against dark, coarse hair at the base of his pelvis, manicured and maintained to precision. Finally his boxers have no more footholds and then fall from your hands, limp at his feet, forgotten, ignored in favor of the gorgeous, dream worthy, drip worthy cock in front of you. Long, six or seven inches at least, thick in the center, tapering slightly at the base and tip, a drool inducing curve to the left. Uncut, a pearl of precum dripping past his foreskin. Just as gorgeous as the rest of him. You should have known. You take him into your hand, encircling the full girth and bringing it close to your mouth, and give his tip a sweet lick, feeling the shaft pulse in time. The precum is sweet and sour on your tongue, and you have to taste it again. This time you pull it into your mouth, closing around it in a soft suck.

His stomach clenches, fighting to stay steady rather than thrusting in completely, he wants to see how you take it first. The look on your face when he's full and ready for you. You circle your tongue around the head, using your hand to pull the foreskin back and stimulate the rest of him while you focus on the most sensitive part. Pulling off him for a breath, you're quick to return to your work, taking more inches inside, feeling him prod at the back of your throat. He lets out a throaty moan above you, his grip on your hair tightening but not pushing or pulling, just holding you, letting you lead the dance.

You spit and drool, using the saliva and your hand to get the rest of his cock wet, when you pull back to admire your work you see he's grown, tip coming free from its confines, even thicker in the middle, longer, definitely. You look up at him in shock and delight.

“Told you I wouldn’t disappoint.” He moves the hair holding hand down your face giving you a soft tap on the cheek for doubting him.

You can’t help but giggle in delight, the building ache in your knees out of your mind. His hand on your face makes you drip onto the floor below you. You take him further, now locked into a game of how deep you can take him versus how much more he can grow for you. Every pump feels wider and deeper, but your bob your head all the same, trying to taste as much of him, make him feel your artistry in every centimeter. The sloppiness of your mouth proves beneficial as he grows more, he must have grown nearly three inches since you began. Delicious, rock hard inches that the more you take, the louder and prettier his sounds become.

“Yes baby, deeper. Please.”

You slurped more of him inside, running your tongue along the full, pulsating vein along the underside of his shaft. You bobbed your head more, taking in as much as you could and pulling out for haughty, deep breaths. Swirling your tongue around the newly uncovered tip, you moved your hand underneath to cup his full, heavy balls. He tugged on your hair, his hips shuttering against your lips.

“Careful baby,” He warns, feeling himself getting close, all too close.

But the wet, warm cavern of your mouth suctioned around him was too much. Suguru could feel himself twitching, he scraped his nails across your scalp. Your eyes fluttered as he hit the back of your throat, you looked up at him with thick, wet lashes. And he couldn’t stop himself, he pulled at your hair, pulling it back, releasing himself from your mouth.

You whine, pulling at his hips, but he swats at your hand, squeezing himself at the base, now fully erect, leaking already, begging to continue. He panted, leaning his head back so you could see the bob of his Adam's apple, the flexing muscles of his neck, the sweat shining against the lamp lights. Watching him huff into the dark of the room, you put your hands on him again, grabbing at his hips, raking your nails down the fine skin.

He wants to tell you to stop, that if he cums now he can’t cum inside you, and fuck does he want to cum inside you. He wants to feel you clench and tremble around him, to feel himself changing your make up, your shape. But when you slide your tongue around him so kindly, you suck him in further into your soft mouth, he can’t tell you no. It feels too good, he can’t help his own selfishness, his own indulgence.

You have him. You know you have him, the way he’s panting above you, biting his lips, trying to stifle the haughty, pathetic moans fighting to spill out. You pump and circle your hand in time with the way your tongue laps and circles his desperate, leaking tip. You don’t miss the way he grips the edge below him, the crack of his voice as your name rips through his chest. Your eyes are closed, giving your full focuse to the task at hand, and mouth, and tongue.

“Fuck” he whines, the duet of your ministrations making his heart pound and the cramping electricity underneath him spark again.

Giving your jaw, and Geto, a break, you palm over his tip again and again, faster than you could with your mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stop the babbling moans coming from him. Your name, various pet names that you knew or he had never tried before, he was giving you ever title in the book. How generous of him. Not to grow lazy, your mouth still works underneath him, circling each ball, lapping at the thin skin and at the way he brings a hand down onto your shoulder. He wants you to finish him off, to stop, for the teasing to be over, to cum. He wants it so badly he can’t see, his eyes may be permanently closed. What a horrible world to imagine, without those beautiful violet eyes to take it in. You couldn’t have any part on the creation of such a world.

So you give.

You resume the work with your hand and your tongue in time. Circling over him, tasting the early dregs of his release. Savoring each note.

“Let me see it.” Is the last thing he manages before the shock is sent through his whole body.

Rippling up his arms, down his legs, knocking his head backward, screwing his stomach tight. His whole body rocks, pushing himself further into your mouth. You let your jaw go slack, letting him drive himself past the finish, take what he needs from you. He keeps one had at the base of your neck, holding you in place, the other can’t seem to decide where to land, your cheek, your jaw, thumbing at your bruised lips. He lets his eyes open to meet yours already watching him, small tears welling at the corners but an open, slack jawed smile. He feels his chest burn with pride, watching as you let him fuck your face. His hips stutter with the spurts of cum. He has to look away from you, throwing his head back again, moaning up into the dark.

His hips thrust into your mouth again and again, purse desire pistoning his hips. When he finally looks back down to you, your mouth is still closed over the head of his cock. Obeying him so perfectly already, he steadies his breath.

“Open” his hand finds a home now, cupping your cheek, cooing down to you.

You open your mouth around him, showing him the collection of his milky white cum you had held in place on your tongue for him. He marvels at your depravity, at the small bubbles of breath breaking through the silken surface. The sight alone pulls another line of cum from him, merging with the concoction in your mouth. He runs his thumb over your lip, wet and sticky. Beautiful, swollen, generous lips fully and plump. He can’t stop looking at you.

“Swallow it.” He commits the sight to memory, keeping it for himself forever.

You close your mouth, tasting him even closer, swallowing it down, feeling it move all the way down your throat, any sore parts smoothed and salved. You look up at him again, panting in time together. Without the hedonistic decadence to occupy your mind, the joints of your knees began to demand leniency. You shifted under him, feeling the air of the room grow cold against your skin, starting to feel bare under his gaze.

He joins you on the floor, pulling you in to kiss him again. His tongue diving forward to taste any lingering taste of himself on you. Your mouth, having worked so hard, is so willing to open and let him lead you through the kiss. Suguru pulls you close to him, feeling your body, wanting to return you kindnesses. Hebrings a hand to your chest, palming at your peaked breasts, kissing down your neck. Laying you back onto the floor, he knocks your knees apart, moving his fingers down the sensitive skin of your thighs. He slides his lips and tongue down your body, tasting the dewy sweat on your skin as he retreats. You shudder between him and the floor justified by how quickly he has moved on. Suguru moves so his shoulders are end capped by your legs, looking down to the sopping, wet mess between your legs.

Shiu Kong only had your phone number for one reason. Anyone who had access to your direct line only had it for one reason. To vanish. You were blessed with a special gift. Nothing magical or cursed. Something, beyond that, something that was destined. You had a calling. And the skill set to back it up. You could make anything disappear, anything or anyone. The latter was your true calling. Your true passion. FInding the exact manner and location for someone to completely fall off the grid, supplying them with everything necessary to start a completely new life. It made you feel like god. No. No, it made you god. Deciding who is lost into the cracks of society, using all their tools against them, their precious processes of documentation and surveillance as props for escape of a lifetime. Each lifetime. Shui had called upon your services before, specifically your…disposal services. Both post mortem and object focused vanishings. Tonight he caught you up late at work, running a series of false identification numbers to check for matches and current users. 

“Got a package for you.” You could see him on the other end of the phone, the sound of city rain dappling the awning he stood under outside of some building in the shady, crowded but discrete areas in which he was observing something…someone…who really knows. 

“Yeah? Is it big?” You can’t help but flirt a bit, Shiu was sexy, especially when he needed something from you.

You had worked with him for years, fixing whatever he needed to be rid of: evidence, vehicles, weapons, CCTV footage, bodies, people, whatever. He was a living link between the broken, who desperately needed help, and the fixers, like yourself. Your talents made you dependable and your discretion made you irreplaceable. You had indulged in each other socially, a few nights spent together seeking the confidence and understanding that could only be provided by each other. You could hear his own flirting tone lying beneath his work voice, strong and sexy, even and controlled.  

“Mmhm,” He pulled in a line of cigarette smoke, “Needs Priority Shipping. Overnight, if possible.” 

Overnight? 

That was an ambitious timeline for any disappearance, especially one of the weight that was being alluded to. You stilled your keyboard busy hands, the call now holding all of your attention, your sliding plastic phone tucked between your cheek and your shoulder. 

“Overnight, hmm…that won't be cheap. The rate of stamps being what they are.” But you couldn’t deny the adrenaline beginning to itch through your veins toward your thumping heart. 

He exhaled his lungful of smoke, you could smell the wet warmth of his breath through your receiver, “Understood. How soon can I have it picked up?”

He sounded terse now. No one liked talking about the finances of disappearance. Scrubbing an entire existence from human record was expensive. Hours of work, crafting new documentation, falsifying medical records, employment records, the potentially endless travel, supplies, not to mention your own personal risks. You clicked your tongue, running a quick series of mental calculations before answering. 

“Well if you already have it wrapped then it can be picked up in an hour. It’s late but I should be able to have it sent off before tomorrow evening.” You leaned back in your desk chair, awaiting his answer. 

“One hour. Good.” Shiu was always beautifully concise. 

“Will you be accompanying your package to its retrieval?” You cocked your head, although he wouldn’t see your coy expression, you hoped it translated through your phone lines. 

His low chuckle told you it did, “I’ll see that it gets sent out properly but I think it's best if the reception remains a surprise. Don’t you?”

“Good man.” You smiled, “Will you be needing to sign off upon its deliverance at its destination.” 

“Notification is good enough. No signature required.”

“Understood. One hour.” You clacked your phone shut, setting it down upon the desk in front of you. 

You carefully removed the SIM card from the plastic spring loaded pocket in which it had resided all of two hours since you had programmed it, and split it in two. 

Fifty minutes later Toji stood in the only memorized, never written down, location that Shui had brought him. A small underpass where a rarely used frontage road passed below a slightly less used highway that roared above. It had taken nearly the whole hour since the call to drive out here, he had less time to pack than he expected. Even less time to say goodbye, so he opted not to. Slipping out while the children were still sleeping, not willing to risk lodging any memories of emotional departures in their still impressionable minds. 

The smell of the rain and Shui’s smoke surrounded him, they gave him something to link himself to while he still felt foggy. Since he had decided to depart he had felt like he was in a dream, not alive but not yet dead. The truck that arrived was weathered, a faded, sun bleached flower delivery advertisement had once been painted along the body. He could barely make out the slogan underneath the bouquet. 

24 Hour Flowers

Discounts, Deliveries, and Disposals. 

Disposals. An odd thing to put on the side of a real truck, but fitting for its true purpose. 

“Alright Zenin,” Shui nodded towards the truck, “Here’s where part ways.”

“Zenin…” Toji groaned. 

“Indulge me one last time, huh?” He shrugged, the thin smile on his lips was jovial despite the tug at his heart. 

Toji nodded. The driver, a short man in thick glasses, gave them a look to get things moving. Toji opened the sliding door to the back and slid it open, crates and petals littered the inside. The bag he brought with him looked even smaller inside than it had in the open air. He looked back to Shiu, offering his hand forward. 

“Thank you, Shiu.” He felt true gratitude for his partner, in a way he may never have before, despite the many favors and jobs he had helped Toji with. 

“Sad to see you go, Zenin.” Shiu had snuffed his cigarette against the wet side walk with a hiss, clearing his hand to shake Toji’s. 

Both men nodded as their hands raised and lowered, one clean shake to celebrate the end of their work together. 

“I’ll keep an eye on them for you. A distant one, can’t promise I’ll do much about it. But I’ll keep an eye.” Shiu wasn’t even sure if he meant it, but he was compelled to say it nonetheless, “She’ll get you where you need to go. I hope we don’t meet again.”

Toji feels the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, “You know it freaks me out when you act sweet on me.” 

Shiu rolled his eyes, but smiled the same, sliding the van door shut. Toji would never see him again, probably the closest thing he had to a friend, his family, all gone. He was gone now. Toji Fushiguro was dead. Toji Zenin had already been dead. 

Shiu watched the van turn and race back the way it had come, flinging puddled rain up into the air. He forced himself not to think about never seeing Toji again, it would be put aside with all the other parts of his job he chose not to think of anymore. Some things were simply events, necessary happenings that he had no control or investment in. Those things were not for him to dwell on. He turned and made his way back to his car.

It was forty past the next hour when your delivery driver arrived with your cargo. You buzzed in the van to the garage, watching it pull in on your security camera. Its lights dimmed as you stepped away from the monitor, heading down stairs to begin. You entered the garage right as the van door was pulled away. A man in his early thirties stepped out, his hair still wet from the rain outside, a vertical scar along his lips, dark green eyes. It’s such a shame when the pretty ones make such a habit of ruining their own lives. He had a tan work jacket over a dark grey t-shirt, and a clean(ish) pair of loose pants. You looked him over for a moment as the driver unloaded the single duffle bag that your client had brought with him. He watched you just as closely, clearly catching your reaction to the state (or absence really) of his luggage. 

“Traveling light. Good call, makes things easier.” You nodded, “I trust Kong got you up to speed?” 

“Yeah.” His voice was low, casual, you wondered if it ever took on a tone of sincerity or desperation. 

The driver took his leave and van out the back. The two of you stood in the garage and listened to the hums and squeaks of the gate shutting behind him. Toji looked over the space, the deceptively normal, boring even, mechanic’s garage, tools and dust scattered around, cans and trash serving as totems for the perceived workers to have indulged in between jobs. He wondered if this place was an actual functioning garage or if it was all a perfectly dressed ruse. He looked at you, the casual clothes, the soft, jovial look in your eye. You didn't look how he expected a fixer to look. No fixer he had met before was so…like you. 

“I was expecting a flower shop.” He looked around. 

“A flo-- oh! The van, yeah, better to not have the cargo vans be branded, harder to trace. They’re all something vague and easy to forget, come in and out for ‘maintenance’. Nothing gets back here. You’re safe.” You smiled, and turned back toward the staircase that led up to the “office” of the garage and up even further to your loft, “Come on up, can I get you anything, coffee? Tea? Beer?”

It would probably take years before he lost the assassin’s wary way, maybe never depending on how well behaved he was in his retirement. The office, again, was normal. Papers and appointment books scattered about, a small looking security monitor, if he didn’t know better, if Shiu hadn’t been the one to send him here, he may have even believed it. You opened a small mini fridge from under the desk, retrieving a beer and passing one to him as well, pulling a desk chair over. 

“Have a seat.” You pulled a folding chair off the wall and set it up for him across from yours. 

He sat in front of you, the can cold against his palm, watching you take your seat on the wheeled stool tucked away by the leaking water cooler in the corner. The crack of the can’s breakaway made him blink down to the drink in his own hand. 

“Not a drinker?” You hummed curiously. 

“Not often, but not never.” He popped his own tab, listening to the crack, the hiss, the bubble. 

You took a sip, the refreshing and starchy tastes easing your tongue and mind at once. You pulled a small legal pad from the desk and flipped a few pages of notes back. 

“Okay, so, logistic wise, you’re not being tailed or even investigated right now, so that’s good. No heat is better. Last tip under your name was give or take seven months ago, also good. No one has reported you missing yet, either. How long would you say that will last?” 

The beer was sour against his tongue, “Dunno. Few days.”

Toji didn’t miss the surprise and subsequent judgement that came over your face. 

You nodded, “Okay good. Gives us more options.”

“Didn’t Shiu tell you, I have to get out tonight?” His face crinkled in confusion and a bit of annoyance, he wasn’t here to stop over, he needed to get the fuck out. 

“He did. But he also told me you want to stay in Japan.” Your tone was warning, reminding him that he had no powers of negotiation here, “If we went international I could have you on a plane with a new identity, new job, and new apartment waiting for you before the sun came up.” 

He clicked his teeth, his eyes rolling back, “I’m staying in Japan.”

“You’ve made that clear. Disappearing locally requires more…logistics.” You nodded, returning to your notes. 

A tense silence holds between you, he's clearly unhappy with this arrangement. Whether it was you or the circumstance or the timeline, it didn't matter, everyone who came through your door was unhappy, you could work past this. But you couldn’t work past cold feet. 

“I gotta say, if you’re staying here because there are things you have to finish or keep your eyes on from this life, that time has passed. Once you called me, once you came here, that life is gone, it's over. You’re dead already. As far as your family, your son is concerned, you will have died last night. There isn’t any going back, or any watching from afar anymore. Not only does that kill you in this new life, but that kills me, kills Shiu. And I don’t let my work be discovered. I’m sure you know what I mean when I say that.” 

You stared at him intently, making sure the severity of your implication was not lost on him. You would kill him before he tried to reintegrate into his old life, whether it be through contracts or trying to contact his family, his child, you wouldn't let that happen. It’s not personal, and sure, his position as a father did make you hurt for the kid, but you wouldn’t be ruined because of some deadbeat dad having a change of heart. 

“Fine. How long’s  all this going to take you?” He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. 

“Not long. Not like you have anywhere else to go, though, huh? So maybe just be patient and help me out with these notes?” You tapped your pen against the pad, trying to remain jovial despite his growing arrogance. 

He grunted with a nod, gesturing for you to continue. 

“Phone’s busted, right? SIM card snapped and disposed of?” 

He nodded. 

“No goodbyes, no one to follow up with when you're out of here. We can take care of them for you, if you need the help?”

“No. No one.” 

You nodded, “Okay, I need your driver’s license.” 

He lifted his hips enough to pull his wallet from his back pocket, you tried not to linger too long looking at the motion of muscle underneath his shirt. He extracted his license and handed it over. You pulled a small metal bin from one corner of your desk and over it, you cut the plastic card into strips. With a cigarette lighter on your desk and a cotton ball that had soaked in a disinfectant you started a small fire inside of the basin. You watched as the edges of the strips charred and curled, the ink blotting into circles and beginning to melt. 

You stood up, walking over to the opposite side of the room and pulled down a backdrop, a pale blue backdrop. 

“Mind standing here for me?” You tapped a small taped X on the floor with the toe of your shoe. 

Toji was watching the flames consume his identification but turned at your voice, standing and joining you at the back drop. 

“Here, please.” you tapped the X again, he moved into position. 

You pulled a tripod and camera forward and aligned it about six feet away from him, angling it properly. 

“Smile if you like, nothing too big, no teeth. Up to you!” You smiled hoping he would join you, he did not. 

You snapped the photo and checked the results in the display window. Looked sterile and personality less, how very government issued of you. You snapped the camera closed. 

“Looks good, tuck that backdrop back up for me?” You asked him while you pulled a laptop forward and began to upload the photo. 

He tugged the line down and watched as it rolled itself back up, he couldn’t help the confusion at how casual this all felt. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, some kind of pristine, shady facility that thrived underground that could whisk him away unheard of. More aligned with the style of Jujutsu, that, but this was the real world. No flashy powers, no disparities. 

“Blood or teeth?” You asked, taking your seat and sipping your beer again. 

“Excuse me?” The instincts of the assassin were tripped once again. 

“About a week or so from now we will light a car on fire, inside of that car they will find a few of your personal effects and some of your recognizable genetic material. Which can either be blood or teeth. It;s up to you. I know teeth sounds harsh, but the car won't get hot enough to burn the bones, so even just one will be enough for identification. Blood, we’ll have to take a lot more, a lot of it is going to get lost in the blaze, so more quantity to work with, more likelihood that it gets found.” 

“Don’t they need to find a body?” Toji questioned, unsure of the level of detail you were expecting, and surprised at what he was learning. 

“They will, we already have it, were sort of fudging the numbers a little bit. But with car fires the time of death becomes kind of hard to find, no tissue to date, nothing like that. And the teeth, or blood, will be enough for them to tell who, and they’ll pair it with whatever date you had been missing and they’ll take an easy win. That’s why it's good you’ve been on such good behavior recently.” You assured him evenly, maybe you should try and give this part of your schpiel a little more sincerity, but what is the point? It’s not like it would make a difference with these types, anyway. 

He took a seat in the chair again, letting what you said wash over him, “Okay, blood then.” 

You tried not to look disappointed, teeth were just so much easier. But harder to…source…so you understood the choice, so you nodded. 

“Great. I’ll get set up upstairs, you drink two more of those incase they wanna test your blood, there's more in the fridge, help yourself. And then I'll bring you up to start, okay?” 

He nodded, taking a larger sip of the beer in front of him, watching as you slipped into the hallway and based on the creaking, up a set of stairs. He looked back at his ID curling and burning inside of the bowl on your desk. The yellow-white flame licked at his photograph, the one you were no doubt replacing upstairs. He watched the fire encircle his own face, the liquid you had added beginning to bubbled the plastic, he watched as his own face boiled and burst, before being eaten away by the fire. 

How fitting. 

He had finished his third beer by the time you returned. He felt fine, a collective thirty or so ounces of beer wasn’t going to affect him yet, but the night was catching up with him. The hours spent in the van, the sleepless final night he shared in what was his home. His eyes were beginning to feel heavy, but he knew it wouldn’t be over soon. You descended the stairs, they creaked under your feet, letting him know you were returning. 

“Took a while.” He complained, gesturing to the empty cans in front of him. 

“Short notice means setting up takes longer. But as I understand your time is not exactly a commodity right now.” You looked him over, taking into account his tired eyes, “Let’s go ahead and get started.” 

You led him up the narrow staircase, he had to side step in to follow you, and you took in  a breath before letting him into your loft. The door creaked as you pushed it aside, the dim lighting of the staircase now overtaken by the cool, computer light of your studio.

Toji took in all in with a single turn of his head, the three tower computer set up along the back wall, where you had been creating a new identification card on one monitor and looking over surveillance feed from around the city in another, the disheveled bed under the small, single window to the side, the kitchenette opposite, with a small fridge, a stove, and a sink, one small door behind that contextually he assumed was a bathroom. 

“Welcome, make yourself at home.” You shrugged, knowing you didn’t have much to show for yourself despite your substantial earnings from your business. 

He followed you in and watched as you pulled your desk chair out towards a small rolling table and an IV tower that you had presumably set up while he waited. 

“Have a seat, the sooner we get this started, the better.” You tapped at the back of the chair, beckoning him forward. 

“Quite the set up, you go to medical school?” He removed his jacket before taking a seat. 

You took his coat and laid it over the bed, out of the way, thankful for the distraction from the show he and his arms were putting on. You rolled a stool over to the right side, where you had set up the tower, and pulled on a pair of clean latex gloves. 

“Not allergic to latex?” You kept your hands off him. 

“Nope, not a fan though…” He gazed over at you from under his thick lashes. 

“Funny guy, huh? Shiu never said you were funny.” You ripped open the alcohol swap and gestured for him to present his arm. He laid it on the arm rest, you could already see the veins along his bicep and forearms.

“Shiu doesn’t have a sense of humor.” Toji settled back in his chair, laying his arm out for you.

You cleared your throat, “Is that comfortable? Gotta do this a few times so it’ll be better if you’re comfortable.”

“It’s fine.” 

You nodded, wiping down the juncture of his inner elbow with the alcohol pad. You tied the rubber tourniquet about four inches above his arm, the main vein beefing up, presenting itself for you.

“You’re not a fainter, are you?” You teased. 

“I’ll be fine.” You thought you saw the side of his lip curl up. 

Retrieving your needle you attached the back to the vacutainer and pulled off the plastic sheath. He winced a little bit at the sight of it. You aligned it with the most prominent vein. 

“Just a little pinch, okay?” You soothed, before pressing in. 

The vacutainer began to fill, you pulled one line of tubing forward and attached it to the back, watching as the blood carried itself up the line and into the bag. Toji watched too, as his blood left him, climbing its way up to its next purpose. Maybe that's exactly what he was doing. You rolled back, peeling the glove off your hands. 

“Alright, that’s all for now. Bag fills in about ten minutes, we’ll do two more after this.” You stood up, “I’m gonna keep working on your new card, You need a coffee or anything, you let me know. You feel like passing out, you let me know, okay? We can take breaks.” 

He nods and you pass him back to your computer, taking a seat and watching how the new ID was coming together. 

You changed his bag after about ten minutes, you made coffee during the filling of the second. Tomorrow morning a driver would pick up the blood and bring it to the disposal site, two local vagrants waiting on quick money would light the car on fire after it was loaded with the blood and the body by Shiu’s guys. They were hand chosen not to be the type to look inside. You brought him a cup of coffee, sitting with him as the next bag filled. 

“You mind the cold?” You asked, sipping on your own cup of coffee. 

“Don’t prefer it but I’m not being picky.” He shrugged, not having the energy to do much but lean back against his chair and raise his cup to his lips. 

“It’ll take more time to get you all the way up to Hokkaido, but people are less prone to asking questions up there. Gets you out of the way, ‘bout as far as we can still in Japan, if you change your mind and go international, you can also jump ship to Seoul and leave from there.” 

“I’m not going international.” He fussed tiredly. 

“Or we keep you in the Kanto region and take you down to Kanagawa, find you a coastal town, you can fish or whatever you like to do. Maybe we get you a boat, less documentation needed for a aquatic residence.”

He thought for a second, picturing a life on the water, sun leathering his skin, salt cracking his lips, stinking like fish and shit. He thought then of the cold in Hokkaido, the brutal winters, wind whipping his face, snow piled high above his head, and isolation.  

“Nowhere in the middle? Either next door or the tip of the fuckin country?” He groans, his head rolling over to face you. 

“Just ideas. I had a great farm picked out for you in Arizona before I knew all your specifications.” You rolled your eyes, looking up to see the second bag almost full, “Let's take a break before the last one. You need a break.”

He didn’t argue, he didn't flinch when you pulled the needle from his arm and disposed of the used equipment in the trash. 

He stood up on weak legs, “Mind if I…”he gestured to the bathroom. 

“No, go ahead.” 

He retreated to the bathroom to relieve himself. He hadn’t done so since his departure. Afterwards he looked at himself in the mirror, maybe it was the bloodloss, or maybe it was the reality of what was happening finally catching up to him. But he looked…scared. It was unfamiliar to see his own face turned up in fear like this. The muscles bringing together the expression felt weak. Fuck, he felt weak. 

A knock came at the bathroom door. 

“Toji?” your voice came muffled behind its wood. 

“Hm?” 

“Don’t faint on me in there. If you’re gonna pass out, at least lay down. I don't get paid if you hit your head and die before I deliver you.” Your half hearted chuckle barely made it past the door. 

The attempt at keeping things light. It should have annoyed him, it would have annoyed him, but it was…kind of you to try and keep things transactional. He exited the bathroom while you were still standing next to the door, he looked down at you, your wide, gentle eyes looking up at him without pity, without fear or malice, just…looking at him. 

“The cans clear if you need to…” he can’t stop his big mouth. 

“I’m good, Just wanted to make sure I didn’t take too much. You sit back down, I made some food, should help you get your strength back up enough to get the last bag.” 

He did just that, you brought over a bowl of some very aromatic soup for him, and one for yourself, along with a few more beers. You took your seat next to him and began to eat. The soup was good, a little simple but as he began eating he realized it had been nearly a full day since he ate. 

“How long have you been getting rid of people?” He asked between slurps. 

“A while, ten years or so. Not very frequent work, but even the downtime pays well, so.” You shrugged, mouth full 

“Ten years…what the hell, you start at like fifteen?” He scoffed, opening his beer, the can’s crack sounding his surprise. 

“Nineteen. It was this or university, and this was a lot less expensive.” You remember the day you left, the day you chose this, your first time helping someone disappear, it felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once, “better than going into debt or barely making an entrance exam.” 

“I didn’t do university either. I got into…my business…pretty young, it’s not easy. Got out for a while but this life has a habit of bringing you back.”

“You mean your wife?” 

His heart pumped in his ears, of course you had done your research, and since you had you should know better than to bring her up so easily. 

“I’m sorry about what happened, death’s not exactly fair with his selections, is he?” 

Toji sipped his soup, not looking at you, trying to decide if he would give in and blow up or if he would be able to quell the blood pounding in his ears. 

“What was she like?” you pressed further. 

The blood stopped, the anger stopped, in a millisecond he decided. 

“She was incredible.” He sipped his beer, “Smart, patient, beautiful.” 

You smiled, watching the images of her play behind his eyes, memories you would never know. A type of memory you would never have for yourself, most likely. Toji couldn’t hear the waver in his own voice, if he had he may have been too embarrassed to continue. 

“She could…always wrap the perfect present. The perfect cut of paper every time, the scissors would do that slide thing where they kind of hiss and glide through the paper. And she always folded the corners in so they made these perfect, clean triangles on the sides. When our son was young she would put a ribbon on the inside that he could just pull and it would all fall apart like…magic. She made that magic for him…for--for me. She was…she was incredible.” He looked down into his nearly empty bowl, the residual steam misting his face, stinging his eyes. 

Your own eyes stung, the portrait he made so intimate and reverent it brought tears to your eyes, “She sounds incredible.” 

You had done this enough times to know this was a unique case. A lost love wasn't uncommon, a lost job, a bad breakup, severing ties with family, whatever it may be. But this was love, that love was uncommon, the kind of love that held onto details like that with years in between wasn’t something you saw in your line of work. Your heart ached for the man before you. 

“How did you get that scar?” You wanted to offer him a redirection for him to tell you to fuck off or to change the memory before his eyes. 

Toji blinked a few times, clearing the steam and tears away. 

“Fucked up family, fucked up kind of punishment.” He finished his soup. 

You nodded, “Zenin clan’s no joke. Guess you don’t wanna go back to Kyoto?”

He raised his eyebrows at you. 

“I’m kidding.” you stood up, taking both bowls to the sink and dumping them there, “Still feeling shaky or ready to keep going?”

It was nearly three, you didn’t have a lot of time before you had to really pull the strings. If he was going to get any sleep he would have to do it soon. 

He nodded, finishing the beer, “Let’s go.” 

You hooked him up again, setting a water next to him and returning to your computer. Your list of available residences wasn't massive, but it was varied. It was easy to disappear into a city, but the increased collection of cameras and sorcerers alike proved dangerous. Hokkaido was off the table, Kyoto was too populated, Osaka was interesting but your contact there had gone quiet for the last few weeks, still paid his rent so it was likely just personal. You sighed back into your chair, stealing a glance back at him. His hair had dried, but stayed down, his features seemed softer in the light of your room. Maybe it was the story about his wife, or the blood loss, but he seemed…gentler. Not the career killer that you had read about before his arrival. 

“You said,” He spoke up, maybe feeling your eyes on him, “There was a farm?”

“United States, about fourteen in flight hours out of your specifications.” You sighed, looking over the listing on your other monitor. 

“A farm, I’d like a farm.” He sounded drowsy. He would need to sleep after this. 

You hummed out a response, an affirmative one, you looked over your listings again. One illuminated itself to you finally, a small house in the mountains of Tomi, in the Nagano Prefecture. A long abandoned family home high enough in the mountains to be kilometers away from any of the village centers, acres away from the nearest neighbors. It was once a farm, it would be hell bringing it back to life, but not impossible. For a guy like him, it would probably be a dream. Nothing like the countryside to die in. You could smell the grass and the fresh air, the crispy winters, the nearby river. This was it. 

You stood and pulled the last bag free, bandaging Toji’s arm, and helping him toward your bed. He let you slump him back, feeling the weight of loss internal and external bringing him towards sleep. 

“Get some rest, I found your spot. I’ll wake you when it's time to go. Trucks get here in about five hours.” You laid him out, he hummed, barely still awake. 

“Don’t you need---” He mumbled. 

“I’m good, you’ll be okay. Sleep.” You let him go, watching your bed sink under his weight. 

You returned to your computer, finalizing the details of his new identity. He would be Ko Ueda in his new life, meaning happiness and peace. He deserved that much. You wished it for him. The details came together well. You managed about forty minutes of sleep at your desk before waking with a start and putting on a pot of coffee. Your death cover team was right on time to retrieve the blood, along with a spare t-shirt he had packed. 

The man of the hour slept soundlessly in your bed as you printed his new documentation. School records uploaded into local Nagano servers, a few bumps and bruises in their medical files, a broken arm, a split lip, things like that. You gave him a few parking offenses, just for some real life. This was the fun part, creating a new life from nothing. Conjuring forth the history of an existence that no god, other than you, had. Ko Ueda was completely your own to muster. You didn’t use any of your flashier tricks, marital record, subsequent death certificates or divorces, you kept it simple. He wasn’t going to be too far, after all, you didn’t want to raise any alarm bells for the bureaucrats who did care about their jobs enough to keep track of those records to notice. Once the documents were alive both physically and digitally, you memorized your route to Tōmi, to the house that was now his. You burnt the notes you made last night in the same basin that held his license’ ashes. Only then did you wake up. 

You weren’t sure how you wake a guy like this without getting grabbed or slugged. He had slept harder than you expected. Soft snores reminding your working mind that you weren’t alone tonight. You approached the bed carefully, not wanting to spook him awake. His lips were parted in soft breath, eyes shut and still in a dreamless sleep. But you noticed the slight pinch of his brow, he may not have been dreaming, but he was feeling. Maybe feeling was all dreaming actually was. You marveled at him for a second, taking in his sharp features, now laid before you. When was the last time anyone had seen him this still? He was beautiful, you chose only now to realize it fully. How handsome he was, the threatening nature of his appearance softened into allure by sleep. You wondered about his wife, if she only saw this side, if she knew both and loved them equally. You wondered what you would have preferred, both for her and for you, were you to be in her position. Time is still moving, you have to leave soon. So you opted to grip his shoulder. 

“Alright big guy, go time.” You shook him softly, his eyes blinked open easily, he didn’t seem startled, he looked right at you, taking you in, no doubt remembering the connection that brought him here. 

“Good morning.” You chirped, “I made coffee if you’d like any. We’ve got about five hours ahead of us.Getting up those mountains aint easy, I hope you don’t get car sick easily.” 

He sniffed as he sat up, taking it slowly, his body still wary from its having been drained the night before. Toji took in his surroundings, putting together the pieces of the last two days. He ran a hand over his face and nodded, getting up from the bed. 

“You sleep at all?” He stood, feeling the stretch in his back. 

“Got a few minutes, had to work out some of the nitty gritties so couldn’t get all my beauty sleep, like you. But…we’re all set.” You shrugged, pouring more coffee into your mug, offering him one, which he denied. 

He made his way to the bathroom while you packed your own bag, just an overnight bag for the drive, some toiletries, your work computer, the deeply encrypted one that was a total pain in the ass to use but was virtually uncrackable were it to be taken from you. 

“Come downstairs when you’re ready! We’ve got about ten before we have to head out.” You called to him from over your shoulder, pulling on your bag. 

He met you downstairs with his jacket donned, hair a bit wet from what must have been the fastest (and also uninvited) shower of all time. You stood before a large delivery truck, the interior of which was deceptively small. It was unlabeled, a vaguely industrial road shaped paint job featuring lined roads and a bird that could be a moving company’s or a repairman’s.  

“Alright, you’re in the back, at least till we get out of the heavily camera-ed areas. We’ll see about getting you some time up front once we’re in the sparse parts. It’ll be about five hours up to the house, that’s if the mountains are kind, which they usually aren’t. Again, I really hope you don’t get car sick.” You popped open the back, gesturing to two crates which were merged together in the center to form some kind of trunk. Or coffin. At least Toji felt like it was a coffin. 

“That’s it? Just lay and wait? To what, get caught? Till some traffic cop stops and searches?” He didn’t want to get in that box, just looking at it was making his stomach turn. 

You sighed, you expected as much as him, “you’re not going to get searched, it’s going to be fine. Just lie down and take a nap or something. Count to a million, hum quietly. It doesn’t matter.” 

“You think anyone cares if I’m sitting up front?” 

“Not yet they don’t but once you’re reported missing every second of footage with your face in it is going to be studied and I’m not risking even the top of your nose being spotted in my trucks. You’re not in charge here, Fushiguro. I am. Get in the fucking crate.” You could feel the vital seconds slipping away like ants in your blood. 

Finally he stepped inside, lying on his side and letting you close the lid over him. Darkness consumed the small space. The wooden crate lid had a small hole where he could see the ceiling of the truck bed. He heard the sound of you entering the cab, the door slamming shut, and the engine purr to life. His shoulders pushed against the sides of the box as he moved onto his back. The last thirty hours have whirred by in an instant, the call, the van, the blood, the loft, and now he found himself running away from everything with only one thing on his mind. Megumi. The boy had been sleeping when he left, dark hair matted on his head, curled in his cot, his little fist tucked under his chin. Toji had smoothed his thumb over the furrow in his tiny brows, frustrated even in sleep. He wondered what else his son would carry into his life from Toji. Would he be angry, or lonely the way he had been. No, Toji could already feel the energy coming from the infant, he knew he was gifted. He wouldn’t know the denial and ostracization that his father had lived. Good, he would be better for it. Better than he was. 

You spent most of the drive on the phone, coordinating with your suppliers about the state of the house, how to stock it, what you would need. You got the power and water set up before your arrival, you heard from your car burn team about their set up, all happening perfectly. In a few days, the man in your cargo would be dead. This limbo was the strangest part. The space in between the life left and the life that would continue gave you vertigo. The sloping curved roads of the mountains didn’t help, you felt yourself getting dizzy and having to focus that much harder on the roads in front of you. The midday sun was starting to slip downward when you arrived at the farmland that was to be his refuge. The house took shape before you, over a fenced hill, tucked back where the treeline gave it a backdrop, something to blend into. You pulled up along the side of the property, cutting the engine and taking a breath, righting your equilibrium. 

Toji felt the truck halt, he must have fallen asleep at some point, anything was better than white knuckling the boxes’ sides to try and steady himself as he felt every rock and tuck of the trailer. He looked through the small hole and watched the light cut through the darkness as the door clunked and creaked open. He pushed against the top, sitting up, ignoring the ache in his back from being stagnant with no support. 

“Alright, come on out, stretch a bit.” he walked past you and out the back doors, not really waiting for your permission. 

Toji winced at the change to open daytime light, after his eyes adjusted, he took in the land around him. The mountain air was crisp and clear, the early fall chill more present at this altitude. He could see some resilient asparagus plants in a fenced grow area on one side of the house still fighting forward. The house, his house. Clearly it had once been a home, it was in good condition, the paint job on the outside could use a refresh but the structure was solid, unmoving. A big change from the small townhouses and apartments he had grown accustomed to in the city. It felt cavernous, like a taunting labyrinth beckoning him forward into docile ruin. What he did not see was anyone else, no other houses, he couldn’t hear vehicles, or children yelling, or pinging electronic advertisements. The silence drilled at his ears.

 Toji watched you walk to the front and unlock the door, stepping inside without inviting him. Although he didn’t need an invitation. This was his now. He followed you in, looking over the entryway, a neglected snake plant drooped in between the front and inner screens. He pressed further inside looking into the hallway, screens hiding the rest of the house's contents, all for him to discover. 

“Two bedrooms, one large one on the upper level with a bathroom across the hall, and one on this level with a bathroom attached. Both have sleeping mats already. Bathtub downstairs, the water is on. They said on the phone it may take a moment or so for it to run clear, so don;t just drink straight from the tap like a dog, okay?” You swiped your hand over one of the kitchen counters, leaving the trail of your finger in the spread of dust, “There's enough food stocked for two months, a chest freezer with fish and a few steaks. There’s a cellar for whatever you like, wine, rice, hobbies, whatever. Do you cook?” 

“Not really.” Toji took in the kitchen, it was sparse but had a working stove and refrigerator, he opened one of the cabinets, seeing a few plates and cups inside, a sick gluttonous shame started to sink in. 

“Well you should learn. I can bring cookbooks if you’d like on my next stop.” You leaned against the counter. 

“Next stop?” Toji cocked an eyebrow, turning to face you, “you’re coming back.”

You smiled, “Yes. In sixty days I’ll be back to talk about rent, utilities, all that fun annoying stuff.”

“I thought…” 

“That I was just giving you a house and bankrolling your power and water? And why on earth would I do that?” You popped your head to one side, trying to keep this from getting more awkward than it was, “This is a safe house. Safety is expensive, safety like this…that's a luxury. What you and Kong have already paid is your extraction and settlement fee, but if you want to keep living here after two months, you pay again. Understand?” 

“So you’re what? My landlord?”

“Basically.” You nodded, crossing your arms, “I’ve gotta keep an eye on you somehow, how else will I know if you decide to fuck me over and hop back on grid.”

Toji lowered his eyes, now understanding more of why you cared so much about this. And the levels at which you benefit from people ruining their own lives. 

“Kinda fucked to take money from people with no other options.” 

“You’re literally a hitman.” You rolled your eyes.

“Still, a landlord…that’s dirty work. Didn’t expect you to be so heartless.” He leaned on the counter catty corner to you, having traversed the kitchen over to you. 

“It’s not my problem if you were to stupid to understand how this was going to work. Maybe ask more questions in the future.” You stared right back at him, unmoving, unafraid, “This isn’t the kind of contract where you get to decide what happens now. Now you do what I say.”  

Toji watched you not so much as flinch at his approach, the way your eyes were so cocky back at him, calling him stupid, pretending to be so much better than him when you were the same kind of bottom feeder that he was--is-----was. He drew closer. 

“Then why don’t you tell me what I do now.” 

“Ko Udea, 28, born in Sendai, moved up here after inheriting the house from your late grandmother. Tend the land or don’t. Get a job in town, it doesn't matter. Just make enough for me to not lose money keeping the lights on, got it? I’ll be here every two months to drop off food, supplies whatever you need, and to collect. You need something from outside the town, you wait until I’m back, give me a list and it’ll be here next time. You need something faster than that, it doesn’t matter. There’s a shed at the bottom of the hill, you’ll find seeds, fertilizer, and the irrigation controls. You wanted a farm, I got you a farm. Don’t leave the doors open in summer, even if the heat inside is too much, you don’t need a house full of grasshoppers” 

“Ko Ueda?” Toji laughed, “Kinda…hopeful i guess.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter, your shoulder brushing against his, “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.” 

You led him around, showing him the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the den, and the extra room that had been used as an office, too small for a real bedroom, no closet either. But you felt his eyes on your back, your hips, he wasn’t paying attention. The furniture was terribly dated, but it fit the grandmother narrative, dressers and bookshelves sparsely filled. 

“If you want books I can get you some on my next trip.” You gestured to one of the emptier shelves. 

“Not much of a reader.” 

“Shocking. You play cards?” 

He shrugged but nodded. 

“You play solitaire?” 

“No.” 

“I suggest you learn, be a while before anyone is up here again, helps pass the time, especially in winter.”

Toji pictured it, the fireplace warming the house, snow piled outside, dead crops, and him, totally alone. He looked at you again, your back turned, realizing he didn’t know the next time he would see someone else other than you, the next time he could. 

You led him back into the kitchen, pulling out the file folder with his forged documentation, “This is you now. Everything that makes you a new person. Read through it, memorize it, store it somewhere if you need it.” 

The sun was dipping, inky purples taking over the sky, just shimmers of pinks and oranges at the horizon line. He studied it at the counter, huffing his displeasure every once in a while, you sighed at the darkening window. The two nights of no sleep were catching up to you, the prospect of driving back was becoming draining just to think about. It would be an hour’s drive to even get into town where you could get a decent meal and a cup of coffee to keep your road weary eyes open. 

The thought of food made your empty stomach twist and groan. 

“Hungry?” Toji piped up from the counter. 

“Keep reading.” You looked back at the window, watching the light fade. 

“You could stay, have dinner at least before you drive back.” His eyes licked over you, seeing the exhaustion taking its toll over you, weighing out his options. 

“I gotta leave soon, I don’t have time for you to figure out how a kitchen works.” 

“Then you cook. Give me one last decent meal before I’m on my own.” 

You looked back at him, a stupid smirk all too pleased with himself over his features. Green eyes twinkling with manipulation and ulterior motives, but you were hungry. And you were tired. 

“I don’t bite.” Toji’s smile widened. 

You sighed, your stomach twisting again, “Fine.” 

He stayed at the counter while you cooked. Nothing fancy. Eggs, rice, carrots and broccoli. You saved the meat for him later, figuring it would be a more familiar cook than anything else for him. He watched you tut about the kitchen, the practiced way in which you moved in the space, confident and smooth. He watched your arms as you stirred and cooked the eggs, the soft skin catching the sunset light, illuminating the soft sheen of sweat that popped up from the kitchen’s heat. He watched your neck glisten, muscles underneath shifting like dancers. He watched your hips as you checked the fridge door closed, the jiggle of your ass as you moved. Leading down to your legs, long and shapely, your jeans hugging the meatier parts of you. The smells in the kitchen gave his drooling mouth the perfect cover. 

“Say thank you.” You gave him his plate, already starting to eat,, not waiting for manners of politeness from him. 

“Thank you.” He said smugly, joining your feast. 

You didn’t expect he would talk, you didn’t even know if you wanted to. The food was fine, the frozen ingredients were a bit mushy and the rice was rushed, but you were happy to have something to fuel you. 

“You always make a housewarming meal, or am I just special?” He said with his mouth full. 

“You asked me to cook.” You shrugged. 

“But you didn't have to. You could tell me to fuck off and turn around back to the city. What’s keeping you here?”

You set your chopsticks down, “You looking for an answer here, Fushiguro?”

“Ueda, please.” he teased. 

You stared at him, waiting for an answer to your question. 

He looked back at you, the glint of oil on your lips, the same oil in his mouth, “Just wondering if I’m special, is all.”

“You’re something…” You rolled your eyes, annoyed at your younger self for indulging this kind of behavior enough to still feel heat climb in your cheeks at a dumb remark like that, “Just eat.”

He watched you fight the smile he brought out of you.

“I think…you’re warming up to me.” He said again, not touching his food anymore, too interested in seeing how far he could take this, “I think that maybe even…you like me.”

You can’t help but laugh, “What's the play here, big guy? Think you can flirt yourself into a discount?” 

“Maybe. Maybe I like ya?” He picked his chopsticks up again, “How often do you stay and eat dinner with your clients?” 

You hesitated before answering, the truth would only help his case but it's not like he really knew any better, “Sometimes, if I feel bad for how poorly prepared they are to be alone.” 

“Ouch.” he was not put off by your answer. 

You blew him off, picking at the end of your plate, “Finish up, I'm not doing the dishes too before leaving.” 

Toji looked to the kitchen window behind you, seeing the deep dark sky that the city's light pollution can’t dilute, true rural open blackness, “I don’t think you’re going anywhere this late. Those windy mountain roads aren’t safe when it's this dark.” 

You look at him, hard, your jaw set, the inside of your cheek clenched between your molars, “So that’s your game? Try and keep me here until it's too dark to drive, as if I don’t know these roads well enough to get down.”

Toji leaned back in his seat, a nasty ease settling over him, “Just don’t want my deliveries to dry up is all. That's a big truck with nothing in it, prone to tipping. Especially on the…curvier…parts.” 

He wasn't talking about the roads, his eyes directed down your shirt told you that much. But, he did have a point, without the supplies you had in the back, that trailer was going to rock a lot more than it had on the way up here. Even navigating around a car coming up the mountain at the same time could tip it. You didn’t like the idea of plummeting down the side of a mountain, but you weren’t too crazy about staying here overnight either, not with the way he was looking at you. No matter how…regretfully charming he could be. This flirtatious switch in him could have come out of nowhere, but you knew the steps. 

“I’ve seen this before.” You leaned back, mirroring him, “Sixty days is a long time. No one up here to pick up, balls might get a little full here all alone. Wanna drain em one last time before the real isolation sets in.” 

“Well I wasn't thinking that but if you’re offering.” The smile that splits his face should have cut his cheeks open. 

“I’m not.” 

The smile fades. 

“Toji, you think you're the first one who's ever tried this before. Sixty days of no touch will make anyone wanna fuck anything. My personal standards aren't exactly hinged on the idea of being the only living thing in the area.” You stood up grabbing your plate and dumping it in the sink, moving around the counter, but he grabbed your wrist. 

“Oh come on, it’s not like that! You helped me out, I wanna say thank you. You told me to thank you.” he tugs you closer to him, making sure to catch you in his stare, not letting you leave. 

Fuck, you had your convictions, you did. You never gave in when clients propositioned you, it's not like it happened often but it had happened before. But Toji wasn't like any client you had ever had. Big and broad, body trained to excellence, the ease of his motions, the curve of his waist and back. He was gruff and crass, and honestly kind of a dick, but you still felt your heart pain for him, for what he had undergone, for the way he spoke about his wife, his son…there was something under…all of that that you couldn't deny drew you in. physically it drew you in, your arm had bent, you had stopped fighting his grasp. His hand was moving up your arm, feeling the soft hair on your forearm, the crease of skin at your elbow. His hand was warm, softer than you expected, old calluses along the top of his palm that had healed, the time being a father changed his weapon hardened hands to ones fit to warm and administer baby lotion. 

“One last favor.” he scanned over your body, back up to your eyes, “stay tonight. Leave tomorrow.”

You couldn’t help it, you had been bluffing all through dinner and you had to fold. You let him pull you in, and onto his lap, you let him grip your face and pull you in to kiss you. You let his tongue enter your mouth and taste your own. He let you move your hands under his shirt. He let you kiss him back even harder. He let you move to straddle his lap, and listened to the groan you let out at the stretch. He let you rock yourself back and forth in his lap, and you let his hands guide your movement. 

Toji was quick to remove your shirt, pulling it over your head not caring that the angle strained your neck a little when he whipped it off. His hands traced the line of your spine, held your hips in place over his hardening crotch. He fought to keep his hips tied to the chair, not bucking up like some over eager idiot. His kiss was overwhelming, like being consumed rather than kissed. His tongue was hot and thick in your mouth, you worried you would choke, but you couldn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it. You lapped your own alongside, tasting the roof of his mouth, feeling the scarred texture of his lips across yours. The scar’s roughness titlated your neck as he made his way from your mouth, biting, nipping, teething at your skin, like he hadn’t just eaten. It made you pant, it made you yelp, it made you wet. 

“Take your fucking belt off.” You grunted out, tired of reaching between the two of you to try and unbuckle it. 

“Get on the table.” He bossed right back. 

You separated briefly, enough for your both to shed your pants, and for you to start to remove your bra. He took over, turning you around and unclasping it, his other hand racing around your body to feel the weight of your chest drop into his waiting palm. He pushed the dishes to the side, not caring about how they clattered to the floor, probably broken. He pressed his hips against your ass, caging you in between himself the the edge of the table.  

“Fuck, you think I didn’t notice these tits first time we met? You think I just wanna fuck cause you’re here?” Toji pushed you to bend over the table, both hands pawing at your chest hungrily, squeezing your nipples until you whined, “Selling yourself short, I think. I think you know you’re sexy and that’s part of your game.”

You felt your skin getting hot, your arms holding yourself up were getting shaky. His words were making you drip onto your thighs. You gripped the edge of the table hard, moving your hips against his, trying to get the right angle for him to be inside.  

“Shut up, Toji,” You whimpered, sounding more pathetic than you wanted to. 

“That’s right, say my name, baby.” He trailed his tongue down your neck to the slope of your shoulder.

He looked at the movements in your back, the way you were already shaking, the muscles hot and tight under the skin. He moved one hand down to your ass, feeling the soft, perky fat, pulling you open for him to see your hole fluttering, begging for him. 

“Pretty.” He spit down against it, two fingers spreading merging with the wetness that was already there, teasing your clit before he pushed them inside of you. You panted at his insertion, your walls clinging to his knuckles, not wanting to let go. He started a brutal pace, not giving you any time to breathe before pushing them deeper inside. 

“Been a while, huh, baby?” Toji teased you, his other hand holding you in place by the back of your neck, “When was the last time someone fucked you like this.” 

You didn't answer, he was pumping his fingers too perfectly, hitting every spot, every groove you could have wanted him to. He spit again, letting his saliva wet your ass and join the drooly mess between your legs. You could hear the squelching of him finger fucking you, the sound of his skin and yours meeting, your cheeks burned in pleasure and shame, but still you moaned for him.

“Whoever he was, must not have opened you up right, you’re so tight…” He leaned over your back, getting close to your ear, “It wasn’t Shiu was it?”

Your eyes shot open, where they had been screwed up tight together. That was enough for Toji to know he had hit a nerve, deciding he should hit more, he added a third finger. The stretch made the dim lights bloom, made you crumple further into his hold, made you whimper out some kind of bastardized portmanteau of his name and something like ‘soooo goood’. 

“You fuck him, too?” Toji hisses in your ear, not afraid of his canine teeth tugging at its edges.

You stay quiet, but he pushes his fingers in hard, deeper, making your knees wobble, barely able to keep yourself up. 

“Answer me.” 

You nod, begging for relief, for him to stop pressing deeper. He does, going back to his original, still ruthless pace. He lets out a mean laugh. 

“I should have known,’ He pushed you down so your chest was flush with the table, keeping you in place with one big hand in the middle of your back, leaving you with nothing to do but take it, “Feels like his skinny dick didn’t do you any favors back here.” 

Toji looked at your pussy, swallowing his fingers, the ripple in your ass as he pumped his hand, he noticed the shake in your knees, the way your hands flexed, your moans went up in pitch. 

That same mean laugh sounded again above you, “Gonna cum? Damn, it has been a while.” 

He wasn’t one to talk, his cock was standing upright at attention, begging, weeping to be involved. But nothing prepared a pussy better than an orgasm or two. He would have to opt for one, too fucking turned on to wait.

The relentless pumping of his fingers, the gradual build up of tension between you, the taunting, nasty way he spoke to you, it all was bringing you right to the edge. He moved his wrist slightly to mash his fingers right up against your g spot, watching as your whole body lept, forward. You screamed out into the empty house, rocking your hips back against his hand, wetting his wrist. 

“There you go, pretty girl.” He pumps through the crest of your orgasm, letting up when you finally slump limp against the table, weak arms no longer fighting. 

Toji removes his fingers and wastes no time licking them clean, swirling your climax against his tongue, watching you pant against the table. The surface is cool against your flushed cheek, you turn your face to look at him, watching him savor the taste of your cum, cleaning himself off. He catches your eyes, and you can see the spark of danger latent in his gaze. He pulls you by your hips onto your feet, turning you around and picking you up to sit on the table. You pull his shoulders to you, craning for his mouth, kissing him hard. You taste yourself on him, you taste the salt and sweet of your combined tastes, his spit, your cum, and that intangible taste of togetherness. You loop your leg over his hip,feeling the shaft of his cock move between your folds. His mouth falls open, hot, desperate breath filling yours. He grips your breast again, squeezing it as his other hand aligns himself with your entrance. The stretch of him pushing into you makes your head loll back. He pushes into you completely, heavy balls smacking against your ass. 

You both cry out, “Fuuuuck” in the space between your mouths, shared breath giving way to shared words.

He fucks into you at a devstating pace, making you cry out in staccato moans. Toji’s hand bruises your hip, pulling you in to meet his thrusts, you wrap your hand around his neck using it for leverage to fuck yourself. You look between your bodies, seeing the muscles of his body straining, the dark curls trailed from his stomach to his pelvis, wet and sticky against his skin from your fluids. The sight alone makes your eyes roll back. His other hand trails up your back holding your neck, bringing it to his mouth again. Sloppy, wet smacking kisses fill the air of the kitchen, alongside his hungry, animalistic grunts and groans. He pulls all the way out and pushes back in in the same breath, as deep as he can. 

“T-T--Toji…Fuck. Yes fuck, please.” You whimper. 

“Take it, take it, take it, fuck, take it.” He mantras, pushing you down on your back and leaning over you. 

The new angle allows him even further inside, your back arches up and you hook your arm over your head to hold on to the edge of the table. He watches you tremble under him, your breasts bounce and your jaw dropping open. Keeping pace, he slides a hand up your stomach, between your breasts, hooking two fingers into your mouth. You're quick to swirl your tongue around his fingers, he grins at you being the exact obedient slut he expected you to be. He pushed his fingers further, marking in his head how you didn’t gag. Pulling his fingers back he gripped your cheeks, pursing your lips and spit down right onto your mouth. 

“Swallow it.” he tells you, a dark, vicious look in his eye. 

You do, and fuck its incredible. Both your tasting and his watching send you both into a renewed fervor. He hikes one leg up on the table, new leverage allowing him to press against your g spot everytime. Your nails rip down his hip, praying he would ease up, but also praying he would never stop fucking you. He hisses at the scratches, the hand near your head giving you a harsh smack before moving down to circle your clit. The one-two punch of pain and pleasure sends you keening backwards into orgasm once again. You writhe under him, calling his name into the dark of the kitchen window behind you. 

The way you clench around him has him shaking. He’s a sturdy man, knows his body well, but the way you feel inside might have him questioning everything. He holds down on your stomach, circling your clit with his thumb, trying to last through your orgasm. But all too soon, the lick of pleasure behind his belly button is too close to avoid. You can barely raise your head when you feel him twitching inside of you. 

“Toji--fuck…” You plead weakly, wanting to feel his pleasure as wholly as you have felt your own. 

He looked at your wet face, your pleasure hazed eyes, the hair sticking to your forehead and it pushed him over the edge with both hands. He buries himself inside of you, balls nestled between your bodies. He scoots you forward, making him deeper inside of you, ignoring the way you grind away, over sensitive and sticky. His orgasm is enveloping, making him see white and fold over you completely. Arms caged around your head, his chest crushing yours. You feel him pulse inside, painting you white from the inside. 

He stays draped over you for a moment, catching his breath, relishing his last orgasm for the foreseeable future. You, and your lungs, really, are not willing to wait until hes had his retrospective fill, you tap his shoulder. 

“You're crushing me, big guy. Let up.” You push at his shoulder and he follows your instruction. 

He removes himself from inside of you, sitting in the chair he had pulled at the counter, leaning back blissfully, running a hand over his face. You sit up, still on the counter, feeling the harsh treatment and the hard surface settle painfully into your back and neck. You move your neck side to side trying to catch the building tension early, not realizing your spread legs put on quite the show from the man before you. 

Toji watches as his thick, white cum oozes from your pussy. His hand has stopped at his mouth, running a finger over his lips at the intoxicating sight before him. You catch on to his ogling and cross your legs. 

“Sorry about the counter. Cleans up easy, I'm sure.” You found yourself covering your breasts and body with your hands, unsure what to do now.  

“Nothing to apologize for.” Toji stands, legs shaking, sturdy as can be and moves your arms, “Nothing to hide from either.” 

He leaned in and kissed you again, still overwhelming but not as desperate or intense. You brought your hands up to his hair, feeling the shaved, soft hair at the back of his neck give way to longer, thicker strands. You feel the soft hair on his arms, his shoulders, his chest, mapping him out as he kisses you. 

“And you said you didn’t like me.” He mumbles against your lips smugly. 

You pushed him off, moving off the counter, “ I didn’t say I didn’t like you, i asked if you were trying to fuck to get a lower rent.” 

Toji follows you walk down the hall toward the bathroom, leaning his head against the wall when you stop at the door, looking over your naked body, “And?” 

“Not a chance.” You roll your eyes shutting the bathroom door between you. 

When Toji woke you weren’t in bed. You had fallen asleep next to him, he followed you soon. But as the morning light peeled his eyes open, you were nowhere to be found. You must have slipped out before light. He felt strangely frustrated by this, not that it mattered. Not that you, even, mattered. It just was…disrespectful. He didn’t bother dressing as he moved down the stairs into the kitchen. A still steaming cup of coffee sat on the counter, with a small note. 

See you in 60 days.

Full amount. 

Good luck, Big Guy. 

XX

Toji smiles, setting the note aside, looking out the window at the land that was now his. Unending potential, no divine purpose, only his to mould as he sees fit. The cicadas began to sing, new life began.