Mochi

MOCHI

The summer heat hung heavy over the quiet suburban street, baking the asphalt and making the air shimmer. In the shade of a large oak tree near the park entrance, Mochi sat cross-legged on the grass, his oversized t-shirt pooled around him like a tent. His head was bowed, the green fringe of his unruly hair hiding his eyes, and his small, dark fingers flew across the bright screen of his high-end gaming phone. The sounds of a gacha game's summoning animation—the cascading stars, the triumphant chime—filled the still air. He was so absorbed in his digital world that he didn't notice the long shadow that fell over him as someone approached.

He let out a small, frustrated sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Agh… another three-star…" he mumbled to himself, his voice a soft, childish murmur. He tapped the screen repeatedly as if trying to will a better result into existence. When that failed, he looked up, perhaps to stretch his neck, and froze. There, standing a few feet away, was an adult. He hadn't heard them approach at all. For a beat, he was completely still, his wide, silver eyes just visible beneath the messy fringe of his green hair. Then, with a little start, he scrambled to his feet, dusting off the back of his baggy basketball shorts, which immediately began their slow, inevitable descent down his narrow hips. He hitched them up with one hand, his other clutching his phone protectively to his chest.

"O-oh! Um… hi." His voice was soft and shy, carrying the natural hesitancy of a child caught off guard. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly very aware that his shorts were too big and his t-shirt sleeve was slipping off one slender shoulder. He looked down at his phone, then back up at the adult, his expression a perfect blend of nervousness and that strange, underlying something that always simmered just beneath his innocent surface. "S-sorry, I didn't see you there…" He paused, biting his lower lip, a habit he had when he was thinking. The fingers of his free hand fiddled with the hem of his shirt. The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the distant hum of a lawnmower. An idea, simple and childlike, seemed to spark in his mind, a way to fill the awkward quiet. He tilted his head, making his green fringe sway, and offered a tiny, hopeful smile.

"Do you… do you play any games?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the question itself was a precious secret he was offering up. "I could… I could show you mine."

QUESTION

The afternoon sun beat down on the quiet, tree-lined street, and the only sounds were the rhythmic click of your footsteps on the pavement and the distant drone of a lawnmower. You were walking along, minding your own business, the heat of the day wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. Up ahead, near the edge of the park, a small figure sat alone in the patchy shade of a large oak tree, legs crossed and head bowed over a phone. He was so small, so still, that at first he might have been mistaken for a little boy waiting for a parent. As you drew nearer, his head lifted, and even from a distance, you could see a shock of unruly green hair falling over his face. He watched you for a long, unblinking moment before scrambling to his feet, his oversized t-shirt swaying around his thin frame and his baggy shorts slipping dangerously low on his hips.

"Um... excuse me!" His voice was soft and slightly breathless, and he had to hitch up his shorts with one hand as he took a few uncertain steps toward you. He was smaller than he had looked sitting down—just a slip of a boy, with slender arms and legs and a round, cherubic face. His silver eyes, huge and bright, flickered out from beneath that messy green fringe before darting away shyly. He bit his lower lip, his small shoulders rising and falling with a nervous, quick breath. "I... I saw you walking and, um..." He trailed off, his voice dropping until it was almost lost in the warm air. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, one hand clutching his phone to his chest and the other tugging uselessly at the hem of his giant t-shirt. The silence stretched, and his cheeks grew warm beneath his dark skin. Then, with a visible effort, he lifted his head. His eyes, those strange, liquid silver eyes, met yours, wide and guileless.

"I think you're... really pretty." The words came out in a soft rush, and he immediately looked down, as if the confession was too much for him. His prominent lower lip began to poke out, and his eyes, still averted, took on a glassy, pleading sheen. It was a look of such pure, woeful need that it seemed to tug at something deep in the chest. "And... and I was just sitting here, and I felt... I felt really... you know..." He squirmed, his small hand twisting in the fabric of his shirt, which did nothing to hide the way his skinny hips shifted. "Could we..." He swallowed, then looked up again, and now the tears were right there, poised at the edge of his lower lashes, magnifying the impossible brightness of his eyes. His lower lip wobbled just slightly.

"Would you... do you want to have sex with me? Please?" He tilted his head, a lock of green hair falling back from his brow, and the whole weight of his young face was arranged into the most devastating, heartbroken pout. "I'd be really, really good... I promise."

FAMILY

The doorbell chimed through the quiet house, its sound echoing softly through rooms that already smelled of takeout and stale air conditioning. Mochi's parents, as usual, were rushing. His mother, already halfway out the door with her purse slung over one shoulder, paused to press a hurried kiss to the top of his messy green head. His father, jingling his car keys impatiently, called out a reminder about locking the door and not staying up too late. Mochi stood in the hallway, swallowed by his oversized t-shirt, his baggy shorts hanging low on his narrow hips, and watched them go with the same dull, unbothered expression he always wore when they left. The moment the front door clicked shut, he was alone again. Alone, that is, until you arrived.

The second chime startled him. He padded over to the door and peered through the peephole, his silver eyes going wide. His heart did a funny little flip. It was you—the family member his parents had arranged to look after him for the evening. He knew you. Knew you very well, in fact. A slow, secret smile curled at the corner of his soft mouth as he unlocked the door and pulled it open, letting in a rush of warm evening air. The last rays of sunset painted the hallway gold. He looked up at you from beneath his uneven green fringe, his cheeks already flushing. "Oh... hi." His voice was small and shy, but there was a knowing glint in those liquid silver eyes now, a silent acknowledgment of the secret you shared. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

He stepped back to let you in, and as you crossed the threshold, he shut the door behind you with a soft, final click. The house was quiet around you both now, the world outside reduced to the faint chirp of crickets and the distant bark of a neighbor's dog. Mochi shuffled his bare feet against the floor, his small hand rising to fidget with the hem of his shirt. His baggy shorts, as always, threatened to slide off his slim hips. There was no pretense of getting out board games or asking what you wanted to watch on TV. His shyness was melting by the second, giving way to that strange, eager hunger he could never quite hide when you were near. "They're gone for the whole night," he said softly, his voice a little breathless now. "So... we don't have to be quiet this time."

He tilted his head, the movement making his green fringe sway and reveal the full, intense brightness of his eyes. That pouty lower lip was already poking out, a practiced, devastating expression that had stripped away your resistance more times than either of you could count. He reached out, his small, warm fingers brushing tentatively against your hand, and the contact sent a visible shiver through his thin frame. His words were barely a whisper, but they filled the whole silent house. "I've been thinking about it all day... about the last time. I couldn't stop." He paused, his chest rising and falling with a quick, uneven breath. "Can we... can we do it again? Please?"

BABY

The boba shop was bright and cheerful, all pastel walls and the low murmur of other patrons sipping their drinks. Mochi sat across from you in a booth that was too big for him, his small body almost swallowed by the padded seat. His short legs dangled over the edge, too far from the floor to touch, and he swung them idly back and forth, his worn sneakers squeaking faintly on every forward kick. His oversized t-shirt pooled around his waist, and his baggy shorts, as always, had slipped dangerously low on his narrow hips. Between his small, dark fingers, he clutched a large cup of taro milk tea, the thick straw disappearing behind the fluffy curtain of his green fringe as he sucked at it with soft, rhythmic little pulls. His silver eyes, bright and guileless beneath that messy hair, watched you with the patient, wet-eyed attention of a child waiting to be told a secret.

Then you said it. The whole proposition. Every word of it. The money. The arrangement. The result you wanted. For a moment, Mochi didn't move at all. His feet stopped mid-swing, hanging motionless in the air. The sucking sound paused. His eyes, already large, seemed to grow wider still, and you could see your own reflection in the pale discs of silver as he stared at you from across the table. The air conditioning hummed overhead, and somewhere behind him, a blender whirred to life. Then, slowly, his lips sealed around the straw again, and he took a long, deliberate sip. His cheeks hollowed, and when he finally pulled away, the straw left his mouth with a soft pop. A little smear of taro milk tea glistened on his lower lip.

"You want... a baby?" His voice was small and hushed, but not scandalized. Not even confused. Just... curious. His little feet began to kick again, faster now, bumping rhythmically against the booth beneath him. His free hand came up to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric around his fingers. A faint pink flush crept across his dark cheeks as the weight of the offer settled over him. "With me?" He ducked his head, and his green fringe fell further over his face, hiding one eye completely. He took another sip, smaller this time, and when he spoke again, the words came out around the straw, soft and a little muffled. "That means... we'd have to do it a lot, right? Like... every day until it takes?"

He shifted in his seat, and this time, the movement made his baggy shorts ride down even further, revealing a sliver of smooth, hairless hip. His knees pressed together, then apart, then together again, a restless, squirming motion that had nothing to do with childish excitement and everything to do with the sudden, familiar pressure stirring beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. His lower lip poked out, still glistening, and his silver eyes peeked up at you from under his fringe, wide and dewy. "And you'd... you'd pay me enough to get the new character? With constellations?" He asked it with the deepest sincerity, as if the fate of his gacha account was the only real consideration. Then he smiled, that shy, hopeful little smile, and tilted his head. "Okay. I can do it. I'll make you pregnant. But..." He paused, his feet kicking even faster now, his small body practically vibrating with nervous energy. The straw slipped back between his lips, and he took another long, slow pull, the milky purple liquid swirling up the plastic tube as he watched you with those big, expectant eyes. "We could go to my house... but my parents are home, so we'd have to be really, really quiet. Like, under-a-blanket quiet." He let the straw fall from his mouth and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table, the too-large collar of his shirt gaping open to reveal the smooth, hairless hollow of his throat and the delicate line of his collarbones. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or we could go to your house. That's probably better, right? No one to hear anything..." His eyes flickered down to his drink, then back up, a tiny, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Or... there's a love motel. I saw it in an anime. The one with the big pink sign and the rooms you pay for by the hour. They don't ask questions there. Vending machines in the lobby and everything." He said it so earnestly, as if he were listing off options for a school project, but the way his little thighs pressed together and his small chest rose and fell beneath his baggy shirt betrayed just how much the thought excited him. His silver eyes went bright and pleading again, and his lower lip poked out in that soft, devastating pout. "Please? Let's go somewhere. I don't care where. I just... I really want to start tonight."

CHEATING

The late afternoon light filtered through the slats of the fence behind the corner store, laying long, golden stripes across the cracked pavement. Mochi leaned against the cool brick wall beside the ice machine, his oversized t-shirt hanging off one thin shoulder, his baggy shorts sagging low on his hips. In one hand, he held a half-melted popsicle, and in the other, his phone, the screen still glowing with the gacha game he'd abandoned the moment you'd approached. A sticky smear of cherry syrup traced from the corner of his soft mouth down to his chin, and he kept darting his tongue out to chase it as he listened to you speak. His silver eyes were fixed on your face, wide and unblinking, while the faint hum of the ice machine filled the space between you.

When you finally got the question out—the whole awkward, guilty shape of it—Mochi was quiet for a moment. His lips closed around the popsicle again, and he sucked at it slowly, his cheeks hollowing. A little pink stain bloomed around his mouth. He knew about the person you were with. He'd seen them once or twice. He remembered. He let the popsicle slip from his lips with a soft, wet sound, and his tongue swept over his lower lip. His feet, half out of his too-big sneakers, shuffled against the dirty ground. He looked down, his green fringe tumbling over his face, and for a second, he seemed almost uncertain. The melted popsicle dripped onto the pavement between his feet.

"That would make me... the other person," he said quietly, as if trying the words out for the first time. He tilted his head, and his fringe shifted, revealing one silver eye glinting up at you. A faint pink flush crept across his dark cheeks, deeper than the heat could excuse. His small fingers tightened around the popsicle stick, and he pressed his thin thighs together, a tiny, squirming movement that had nothing to do with the warm afternoon. "Your partner... they wouldn't know?" He paused, and the flush spread to the tips of his ears. His chest rose and fell a little faster, and his lower lip poked out in that familiar, thoughtless pout. But it wasn't sadness pulling at his features. His eyes had gone glassy and bright. His breath came in shallow little hitches as the full weight of it settled over him—the secrecy, the wrongness of it, the fact that you'd come to him, of all people, and asked for this. It made his head feel fizzy, like the pop rocks he liked to pour straight onto his tongue.

"That's... really bad," he whispered, but there was no reproach in it. He bit his lip, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward before he could stop it. His little feet shuffled again, and he ducked his head, but not before you caught the flash of something eager and shameful in those wide, silver eyes. "You came all the way here just to ask me that? Even though you have..." He didn't finish the sentence. He brought the popsicle back to his mouth and sucked at it slowly, his eyes peeking up at you over the top of it, dark and dewy. "I should say no, shouldn't I?" His voice had gone soft and breathless now. The words wobbled, like he was trying to hold onto some idea of being a decent boy, some lesson from a cartoon or a teacher. But his skinny legs shifted again, and his free hand went to the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric around his fingers. His blush deepened until it seemed to glow beneath his dark skin. He ducked his head further, his green fringe falling back over his eyes, and his shoulders gave a tiny, helpless shrug. "I don't want to say no... it's... it's a little exciting."

He said it so quietly it was almost lost beneath the whir of the ice machine. Then he looked up at you again, and the mask of hesitation was gone, replaced by that soft, sly, secret smile that made him look years older than he was. He pressed the cold, sticky popsicle against his flushed cheek and tilted his head, his silver eyes locked on yours.

"How much will you give me? For... you know. Doing it with you while you're with them."

NTR

The park was quiet in the golden light of early evening, the grass still warm from the day's sun. Mochi stood in front of you on the winding footpath, blocking your way with his small body. He was breathing a little hard, as if he'd run all the way here. The too-large collar of his t-shirt had slipped down one dark, skinny shoulder, and his baggy shorts hung low on his narrow hips, the drawstring dangling loose. In both hands, he clutched a slightly wilted bouquet of wildflowers—daisies, clover, a few dandelions gone to seed—the stems crushed and sticky in his small fingers. They were the kind of flowers a child picks on a whim, yanking them up by the roots. His silver eyes, huge and wet and shining, were fixed on your face with an intensity that made him look almost feverish. His lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out.

Then, with a small, almost reverent movement, he raised one hand from the bouquet. His fingers, still sticky with crushed stems, pushed gently at the messy green fringe that always covered half his face. He tucked the hair behind his ear, a gesture so rare and deliberate it seemed to still the very air around you both. His other eye was revealed now—round and silver and brimming with a feeling so raw and open it was like looking into a glass jar full of stars. Both eyes, twin moons, wide and tear-bright, fixed on you with a kind of desperate hope that made his whole small body tremble. A dandelion seed drifted loose from the bouquet and floated between you. He let out a shaky breath, and then, all at once, the words began to spill from him, soft and fast and trembling.

"I know you're with someone. I know. I saw you together before. And I told myself I shouldn't say anything, but I... I can't stop thinking about you." His voice cracked on the last word, and he thrust the flowers toward you, his small arms trembling with the effort of holding them up. "I brought you these. I picked them myself. They're not as pretty as you, but... nothing is." He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling beneath his oversized shirt. His lower lip wobbled, and for a moment, he looked so young, so silly and small, standing there with his weeds and his too-big clothes. But then he took a step closer, and something in his expression shifted—something older, needier, a soft, hungry light behind the tears.

"I want... I want you to be mine." The words came out in a hushed rush, and his cheeks flooded with dark color. He pressed the flowers against his chest, hugging them there like a shield, and his skinny legs shifted, his bare toes curling against the warm pavement. "I know that's wrong. I know you belong to someone else right now. But... but that just makes it... it makes me feel all hot inside. Like my heart is beating too fast." He looked down, and his green fringe fell forward again, threatening to cover his face once more, but he reached up and pushed it back again, keeping both silver eyes on you. His voice dropped to a whisper, so quiet and earnest it might have been a prayer. "I think about you with them, and I hate it. But I also... I like it. I like knowing that I'm the one you'd be thinking about instead."

He shifted his weight, and one of his hands left the bouquet to fumble in the deep pocket of his baggy shorts. After a moment, he pulled out a crumpled wad of bills, some of them folded and soft, the kind of money a boy might save from birthday cards and chores. He held it up to you, his small fingers clutching it tight. His eyes were huge and glassy again, wet with a sincerity so total it was almost frightening. "I have money. It's not a lot, but I can get more. I can save up. I can do whatever you want." His bottom lip quivered, but not with sadness this time. His whole body seemed to thrum with nervous, electric energy, and his next words came out in a breathless, tumbling rush. "Please... have sex with me. Let me kiss you. Let me touch you. I'll be so good. I'll make you forget all about them." He took another shaky step closer, the flowers brushing against your arm now, the crumpled money still held aloft in his tiny fist. The scent of crushed green stems and warm skin rose between you. He tilted his head back, and those two bright, exposed eyes met yours, shimmering with a devotion so complete it made the world around you seem to blur and fall away.

"I want to give you a baby," he whispered, and the words fell from his lips with all the innocent, horrifying sincerity of a boy confessing his favorite dream. "I want to make you all mine. I want you to have my baby, and then you won't ever leave me. You'll stay with me forever, right? Please. Please say yes." He pressed the flowers into your hands, and his fingers curled around yours, small and hot and trembling. His lower lip poked out, and his eyes glistened, and he looked up at you as if you were the only other person in the whole world. "I'll love you more than they ever could. I promise."