#but I'm pretty frazzled still

[darkmatters-ghost]

update: the reason my house flooded (someone broke a sewer pipe) isn't the only reason. Apparently there's at least 8 different houses in my neighborhood that got hit with water damage one way or another. The city is gonna have a fun time trying to pay for all that.

Still. My house is up there in terms of the who suffered the most severely from this game.

So... My house flooded. At least my basement, where my room is.

I'm not going to go into details, because Internet privacy and all that, but the fanfics I'm working on, I'll either publish faster, or much, much, slower. I'll do my best to keep you updated :(

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

wavy hair pericles save me..... wavy hair pericles. save me wavy hair pericles

[snowballseal]

Them as supernatural creatures (LaDS)

Summary: This is my take on what supernatural creature each guy would be. They're pretty long, and either a fic where reader discovers what they are or a domestic moment they share together.

Rafayel - kitsune

Zayne - vampire

Xavier - guardian angel

Sylus - demon

Word Count: all roughly 1500 words

Note: These honestly came out soooo much longer than I expected. I might add a fic for Caleb, cause honestly, I'm really warming up to him. What supernatural creature should he be?

I'll probably come back and edit later, so let me know if you catch any mistakes!

---

Rafayel / Kitsune

“Rafayel…” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“What?! They deserved it,” Rafayel defends himself as he flops down onto the couch. 

“That doesn’t mean you can screw with people whenever you want,” you chastise softly and sit next to him, “You’re supposed to keep your identity a secret.”

Rafayel gives you a pout. Letting out a dramatic huff, he falls over into your lap, stretching out lazily instead of giving you any kind of response. You bite back a laugh, his weight pressing you into the couch, effectively trapping you as he makes himself comfortable. It takes everything in you to not give in to his usual cute tactics, the concern gripping your chest not quite letting go.

“Seriously, Raffie, it could be dangerous,” you continue, worry seeping into your voice.

“It’s fiiine,” he sighs, ocean eyes glinting up at you with amusement, “You worry too much, cutie. You wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t told you.”

“Still-”

“Nope, no more worrying,” he cuts you off quickly, reaching up to pinch both your cheek with a teasing, cheshire grin, “Miss Bodyguard is off duty now. This spirit wants his girlfriend to cuddle with him.”

Swatting at his hands, you can feel a blush creeping up your neck. Sometimes it still surprises you how care-free he is, like nothing could ever touch him. Which maybe he’s right. And you know he’s never going to stop his antics. Still, you worry. It’s a part of your nature, wanting to protect people, especially the ones you love, especially him.

But Rafayel is persistent, coaxing you to relax with playful touches and banter. He knows exactly how to unwind you, and how to rile you up, every button, every nerve. You feel almost powerless to resist, to hold onto your lingering doubts. And it’s not even his powers, it’s just Rafayel, your Rafayel.

And of course you give in. With a weak sigh, you settle into the couch, your fingers finding their way into his curls to calm what’s left of your frazzled nerves. Rafayel hums, low and content, his eyes flickering shut as he arches up into your touch like a cat.

“Do you want to stop hiding your ears?” You ask quietly, something warm and tender winding through your ribs.

Rafayel lets out another low rumble, eyes opening a fraction to look up at you suspiciously, “You know, sometimes I wonder if you like my ears more than you like me. That wouldn’t be true, now would it, cutie?”

“Of course not,” you tease, ruffling his hair, “I just want you to be comfortable.”

“Mhm, sure.” A small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, because of course he knows that you do truly love him for him, but the fox does love his games.

It’s almost unnoticeable, the way he dismisses his transformation magic. Every time you can’t help but watch, fully enraptured by the change. A pair of soft ears flicker up from his hair, as if they were simply hiding in his curls the whole time. And his tails. You blink, and suddenly they appear, fluffy and plush, the same color as his hair. They curl around you, as if seeking out your warmth, the same way Rafayel turns to nuzzle into your stomach. The spirit gives a happy rumble when you rub his ears, pressing impossibly closer.

“You have no idea how irritating it is to hide them all the time.” His voice comes out  muffled by your sweater, his ears flicking back before pressing to your fingers again. “I imagine it’s how you humans feel when you wear itchy clothes.”

“That doesn’t sound fun,” you agree, “I’m glad you don’t have to hide them around me anymore.”

“You’re the first human I’ve allowed to see my true form in a long time, ya know.”

Your heart flutters a little at that. It’s a fact you’re well aware of, and one you try to never take for granted. It had taken a long time for Rafayel to share this with you. 

Ever since you met in the park, you knew something was different about him. He was beautiful, after all. More beautiful than you thought a person could be. And there was always something about his smile, something that set you on edge but also drew you in. The mischievous glint in his eyes never wavering, the almost unnatural grace he moves with, even the way he talks, as if he remembers times long gone by.

It all clicked when he finally told you. When he showed you his true form. A fox spirit. Everything made complete sense, but also no sense at all in that moment. First, you couldn’t comprehend it. Wanderers, yes, those you could wrap your head around. Mystical fox spirits? No. No, that took a few days to really settle in.

Still, it was Rafayel. It was always Rafayel. And the moment he came to you after those few days of distance, tentative and quiet in a way you had never witnessed from the artist, you made your decision. 

A life without him wasn’t possible. Not for you. Not with how you had fallen in love with him.

“So, tell me again why you tricked those guys into thinking a bear was chasing them?” You ask, tone fond as you continue to rub the soft fur on his ears.

Rafayel huffs, rolling on his back to meet your gaze more easily. The swirling colors of his eyes gleam with that familiar mischief, his canines flashing sharply in a dangerous grin, “They were hunting for sport, so I showed them what it’s like to be hunted.”

He really is scary sometimes, you think to yourself, biting back a smile.

“I’m sure they’ll think twice about hunting in your woods again.”

“They better,” he snips, “If I catch them again I’ll send a real bear after them.”

“I’m sure the forest thinks you’re quite a good guardian, mister fox spirit,” you tease, ruffling his hair fondly.

Rafayel suddenly shifts, and in the blink of an eye he’s leaning over you, his arms braced against the couch on either side of your head. You freeze, eyes going wide as you look up at him, pulse racing in your ears. The fox spirit leans down, nose brushing yours, that same dangerous smile pulling at his lips.

“And what do you think, miss hunter?” He asks, breath warm against your lips.

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, to even breathe with him this close. And Rafayel can tell, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He lifts one hand, fingers tracing delicately along your cheek so you feel the faint edge of his claws.

“What? Fox got your tongue?” He all but taunts, leaning closer. His eyes slowly trail down to your lips, his grin widening. “I could show you what that really feels like if you want.”

…

Heat flares across your cheeks. You gape at him, shock mixing with embarrassment mixing with something you don’t want to admit to. Did he just say what you think he did?

Rafayel keeps his cool facade for only a few more seconds before he cracks, bursting into a fit of laughter. You stare at him, blinking wildly, brain slowly catching up with it all. And then you’re shoving him.

“Rafayel!” You squeak, and he only laughs harder, which in turn, makes you more flustered. “You’re such a- I can’t believe you! God, you’re insufferable.”

The artist catches your hands when you go to hit him again, his ocean eyes crinkling along the edges. Snickering softly, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your angry pout.

“Sorry, my bride,” he hums unapologetically against your lips, pressing a scattering of chaste kisses along your pink cheeks. “It felt like the best way to change the subject.”

“My lover is such a sadist,” you grumble, trying to turn away from him. It’s difficult to keep pouting when he showers you in such soft affection. “My poor heart can’t take this, you know.”

Rafayel cups your face, drawing you back to face him so he can press another kiss to your lips, this one tender and gentle and slow. And just like before, you’re powerless to resist him. Your fingers brush against his neck as you return the kiss, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you. Everything about him is so addicting, so enthralling, like you could get lost and never find your way out. It almost scares you, how much you’re willing to lose for this man.

Eventually Rafayel draws away, if only to let you catch your breath, still teasing you, “Now do you forgive me, cutie?”

“Hmm, I guess so,” you sigh, pretending to be appeased. Your fingers trail innocently up into his hair, until you’re close enough to give his fluffy ear a playful pinch. Rafayel squawks and pulls away, giving you the most dramatic look of betrayal. Grinning, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Okay, now I definitely do.”

Rafayel whines, reaching up to rub his ear, “Who’s the sadist now?”

“Watch it, or I might just pull your tail.”

“Okay, okay, we’re even…Now can we cuddle?”

---

Zayne / Vampire

You’ve known Zayne practically your whole life. Well, all of your life that you can remember, at least. He’s always been something constant, if not distant at times. And while you never assumed you knew everything about the doctor, you thought you knew more than most.

That is, until you wander into his office one day to find him passed out on the floor.

“Zayne?” You freeze in the doorway to his office, eyes blowing wide. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t show a single sign of life. Fear sinks deep into your bones, wraps around your lungs like a noose. And then your legs are moving. Your shoes desperately try to grip the tile as you dash across the room, panic dulling the throb in your knees as you drop to the ground beside him.

Pulse. You need to check his pulse. And his breathing.

Hands shaking, you press your fingers below his jaw, only to inhale sharply at the shock of how cold his skin is. Like ice. Too cold. No one should be this cold. And you can’t find a pulse. You skim your fingers down his neck, looking, looking, but still nothing. 

Leaning over the still doctor, you press your ear to his chest and wait. Your lungs start to ache from how you desperately hold your breath, but it’s nothing compared to the terror gripping your heart. Because you hear nothing. Nothing at all.

You draw back, lips parting, ready to call out for someone, anyone.

Until a hand clamps firmly over your mouth.

A surprised scream escapes you, muffled by cold fingers, as you find yourself flipped, a hand holding the back of your head to prevent it from hitting the ground. Chest heaving, you draw a fist back, ready to fight back against your attacker, only to freeze when your eyes meet a pair of hazel ones.

Zayne.

Relief washes over you. Quickly followed by confusion. You quickly push his hand away, brow knitting together.

“What the hell, Zayne?” You bark, pushing yourself onto your elbows.

The doctor quickly backs away, resting back on his haunches. You take a moment to look him over, worry still clinging to your bones. He’s pale, somehow more pale than usual at least. Dark shadows rest under his eyes, which appear almost bleary as he gazes back at you. He looks exhausted. 

Dead, even.

“You weren’t breathing,” you whisper, getting to your knees so you can check his temperature again. “Your heart wasn’t beating. I checked. What happened? How are you awake right now?”

Zayne grimaces, flinching away from your touch, and you freeze.

A deafening silence fills the office. It’s an odd stand-off, you staring him down, confusion burning behind your gaze, while he does everything he can to avoid it. For a split second, though, you see something you’ve never seen in the doctor. Uncertainty.

“Zayne?” You call again, voice going soft, “Talk to me. Please.”

Zayne hesitates, seemingly debating in his head before he speaks, his voice a low rasp, “I apologize for scaring you. That must have been startling to walk in on.”

“I’m fine,” you dismiss, slowly making your way closer to him, “I’m more concerned about you right now. You were dead. At least, I thought you were. So what happened?”

Another beat of silence.

“I must have lost consciousness from exhaustion. I haven’t slept much the past few days,” he tries, but even to your ears, it sounds like a weak excuse.

“Zayne, your heart wasn’t beating. You-” You press a hand to his chest, perhaps to prove a point, perhaps to knock some sense into him. To do something.

Except his heart still isn’t beating.

You're paralyzed. Eyes locked on his chest. Confusion creeps over you, like tendrils of ice spreading through your chest. Sharp. Suffocating. This isn’t right. This can’t be real. It can’t.

Zayne lets out another sigh, this one resigned and tired. Like he’s finally given up. His cold fingers gently cover yours. He draws your hand away from his chest, though he never lets go of it.

“I suppose there’s no hiding it anymore,” he murmurs, voice stiff, like how he speaks when he’s working. “Come, let’s sit on the couch. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

You don’t say a word as he helps you to your feet. You can’t. Your tongue feels like a dead weight in your mouth. And even if you could talk, you don’t know what you would say. A million questions rush through your head, so blurred that you can’t pick out a single one, except-

“What are you?”

It echoes in your head raucously as you take a tentative seat on the couch. Zayne’s lips press into a tight line, and he clears his throat.

“That depends. There are many names for my condition.” His leg bounces ever so slightly as he continues, eyes still not meeting yours. “Though I suppose the most common term is vampirism.”

Vampirism.

You blink. 

And blink and blink.

Vampire. He’s a vampire.

A vampire?

“Those aren’t real,” you immediately breathe out, mind racing.

A humorless smile pulls at the doctor’s lips, “I assure you, it is. I’ve suffered from the symptoms for as long as I can remember.”

A vampire. He’s a vampire. Your childhood best friend is a vampire.

“How did I not notice?” You all but squeak, examining him with this new information. 

Sure, he’s pale, but Zayne’s always been pale. And it’s not like he avoids the sun. Aren’t vampires supposed to be weak to the sun or something? Plus, he’s aging, isn’t he? A million new questions race through your mind.

“Wait, do you have fangs?!”

Before you can stop yourself, you’re touching his face, basically making him open his mouth. Zayne startles, brow raising at your brazenness, but he does nothing to stop you. At first, his teeth look normal, the only thing worth noting being the excellent care he’s given them. But then you notice it. His canines seem to sharpen, just a touch longer than they should be.

And that’s all the proof you need.

“You’re a vampire,” you breathe, fingers settling along his jaw.

Zayne watches you carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. Horror. Fear. Anger. All of those would be appropriate. But you don’t show any of them. Instead, you look at him with a mixture of disbelief and…curiosity? 

Brow knitting together, Zayne reaches up to touch your wrist, just to check your pulse to make sure you haven’t gone into some sort of shock. Your pulse is steady though, if not a little accelerated.

“You’re not…frightened? Of me?” He asks slowly, confusion gleaming in the depths of his eyes.

You shake your head, a smile threatening to break out across your features, “No, Zayne, I’m not scared of you. I probably should be, but hey, I fight wanderers for a living. Do I have a lot of questions? Yes. But if you’ve really been like this since we were young, that means you’re not going to suddenly do something to me now, right?”

Your lack of concern should be worrying, but Zayne finds the tension is his shoulders slowly dripping away. Of course you would surprise him like this. You’ve always been too trusting, in his opinion, though he’s not about to correct you now.

“So, do you drink blood? I’m guessing you don’t hurt people, considering how strictly you follow your oath.” Head tilting, you give him a questioning look, eyes wide and almost innocent in their curiosity. “So where do you get it from? Blood bags? I’ve read that in a few books. Or animals? I’ve read that, too. How accurate are all those stories?”

“I could answer your questions if you slow down,” Zayne murmurs, fighting an amused smile. “I assure you, we have plenty of time.”

You flush, biting off the rest of your questions. Right. You’re not really giving him an opportunity to answer, are you? So where do you start?

“What is your first question?” The doctor prompts, thumb brushing calmly over your pulse.

“Hmm. The blood question. Do you have to drink it?”

“Yes,” he answers, though his voice rings with distaste, “I have to consume some form of blood every few months to keep my senses about me. I’ve perhaps waited too long this time.”

“Do you need some right now?” You press, brow furrowing.

Zayne hesitates. His lips pinch together again, a sign you recognize.

“No.”

“Liar. That’s why you passed out,” you accuse, though you keep your voice somewhat gentle.

He says nothing for a long moment, a mixture of guilt and discomfort crossing his features. Sighing softly, you give his cheek a light pinch.

“Zaaayne.”

“I’ve tolerated longer periods than this between feedings,” he murmurs, trying to sound dismissive, though you can hear the exhaustion creeping back into his voice, “My body must simply be enduring higher levels of stress due to the season. As long as I rest more, I’ll be fine until my next supply arrives.”

“Oooor,” you hum, hesitating only a moment before you offer, “You can draw some of my blood. Just enough to get you through till then. We know it’s clean since you always run so many tests on it, so that shouldn’t be a concern right?”

Zayne blinks in surprise. Even if you were taking this all well, he certainly wasn’t expecting you to make such an offer. But you meet his gaze, unwavering, expectant, mind already made up.

If his heart were beating, he’s sure it would stutter.

While he hates his condition, hates what he has to do to appease it, he can’t deny that the smell of your blood has always been tempting to him. Cloyingly sweet, like the sweetest dessert. 

He should say no. He should just endure, as he always has. 

But the determination in your eyes makes him waver. And Zayne is a weak man when it comes to anything related to you.

“It’s not advisable…” He starts, jaw tightening.

You perk up, not actually expecting him to consider it. It was a crazy idea after all, but you want to help. You hate the idea of him suffering by choice when you can do something about it.

 “But…?”

“But I am not completely opposed to the idea,” he concedes, almost looking ashamed.

“Good,” you chirp, a smile lighting up your face as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. “Then let’s get to work, doctor.”

God, you would be the death of him.

Well, if he were fully alive, that is.

---

Xavier / Angel

“How is it that you seem to find danger wherever you go?” Xavier murmurs, voice as even as ever, yet cradling a hint of exasperation.

Biting back a smile, you keep your attention focused on his fingers. They work with a practiced precision to bandage the laceration on your arm, adept from the years of dressing your wounds. It has become a near weekly occurrence because of your work. Getting hurt is an unfortunate side effect of being a hunter.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so reckless if I didn’t have such a sweet angel to take care of me afterwards,” you hum, tone bordering on teasing.

Xavier’s ears flush a soft pink, his wings ruffling in some kind of indignation, which only makes your smile stretch wider. He’s always so easy to fluster, and his wings give him away every time. It makes you want to tease him even more, but when you go to do exactly that, all that escapes you is a low hiss when he swipes a pad of alcohol across another of your cuts.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing tenderly along your knuckles.

“S’okay,” you sigh, taking a deep breath, “Just stings. I hate the shallow ones more than the actual cuts, you know?”

Xavier gives a low hum, neither agreeing or disagreeing. You’re sure he would prefer you avoid all physical injury, but that is an argument the angel lost a long time ago, not long after you first met. And what a day that was.

Xavier came into your life in a flash of light. Literally.

You remember the day with quite a bit fondness despite how horrible it was. Everything had gone wrong that day. Exams were kicking your butt, as was training for the Association. To say you were down in the dumps was an understatement, which is why you had been out in the woods, trying to enjoy a bit of silence. 

That is, of course, when a wanderer decided to appear.

You did your best to handle it, but you were still just in training at the time, and it was clear you were outmatched. Things would have taken a turn for the worse if Xavier hadn’t shown up.

All you really remember is seeing a blinding light, almost like a flashbang, and then there he was. Ethereal, face set with stone-cold focus, hair silvery white like a star, but most striking were the large wings stretching from his shoulders, impossibly white, the edge of each feather glinting like a knife. With a flourish of his sword, he clashed with the wanderer, killing it in seconds.

In that moment, you were convinced you were dead. That made a lot more sense than what you were seeing, after all - an angel. Sure, he didn’t have the halo, but what else could he be? And how could you be seeing an angel if you weren’t dead?

It took him kneeling down in front of you, eyes sharp with concern as he scanned your entire body for injuries, for you to realize you were, in fact, not dead. And that’s when the questions started.

“Who are you?”

“What are you?

“Where did you come from?”

Xavier being Xavier, he danced around each answer. And you being you, you didn’t relent until you got the answers you wanted.

Not only is he an angel, he’s a guardian angel, and you’ve become his charge. And since he revealed himself to you, he can’t go back to his realm without getting in serious trouble.

That’s how you ended up here, with an angel as your roommate. What else were you supposed to do with him? The man was like a lost puppy with wings. Sure, he can take down a wanderer like it’s nothing, but ask him to work a toaster and he’ll sit there for about an hour just staring at the thing. You couldn’t leave him to fend for himself.

And it was the best decision of your life, really. Not only has he become your best friend, but maybe something more.

“I do wish you would stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger,” Xavier rumbles suddenly, pouting a little bit as he examines your now bandaged hand.

“It’s not unnecessary,” you chime softly, slipping your hand from his to poke his cheek playfully. Satisfaction curls in your chest at the blush that spreads across his beautiful features, his pout only growing cuter. “If I don’t put myself in danger, then other people will, and then innocent people can get hurt.”

“Being so selfless could get you killed,” he sighs, rising to his feet, wings flaring behind him.

Your eyes follow him, steady and warm, head craning up to hold his gaze, “I’m perfectly capable of staying alive, Xavier. And if I’m ever in trouble, I know you’ll be there to help me.”

The angel huffs. You’re not wrong, as much as he’d like to argue. What was once just a job to him, a responsibility, is now something more, something carved deep into his soul. Every fiber of his being longs to keep you safe, even if it means breaking every rule he once followed. Even if it means he must fall some day.

Ignoring that thought, Xavier settles onto the bed next to you, letting out a heavy sigh as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. His hair brushes your neck, soft and ticklish, drawing a light giggle from you as you curl your arms around his shoulders.

“You really shouldn’t worry so much, starlight.”

“You make it incredibly difficult not to,” he grumbles, voice low and muffled, “I just want to keep you safe…”

“Hmm, such a sweet angel,” you hum and card your fingers through the feathers at the base of his wings.

Xavier holds back a shiver, his body arching into your delicate touch. His wings have always been sensitive, especially when you’re the one touching them. You don’t miss the way his blush spreads down his neck, or the way his wings instinctively curl around you, as if they can block out the rest of the world, as if to make a space just for the two of you. The smile that pulls at your lips is overwhelmingly fond, just like your touch.

You love the feeling of his feathers under your fingers. At first glance, they look almost sharp, but they’re surprisingly soft, downy and warm to the touch. Without thinking, you trail your fingers along the curve of his wing and fix any out of place feathers with the utmost of care. Xavier lets out another, shaky sigh, his eyes flickering shut.

It’s a soft moment. Everything else is muted, the only sound being that of your steady breath and his lazy, content hums. Xavier nuzzles even closer to you, his body impossibly warm, his weight too much for you to support. A giggle escapes you as you lean back onto the bed, the angel settling on top of you without an ounce of shame in his expression.

“I swear, sometimes I wonder if you’re actually a cat disguised as an angel, “ you tease, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his lips. He leans into your palm without hesitation.

“Being a cat wouldn’t be so bad,” he murmurs, as if he’s given the idea some thought before. “I’d get to sleep all day and eat whenever I want instead of chasing a certain, reckless hunter around.”

He nips at your finger lightly, but your smile doesn’t waver.

“I think you’d get bored eventually.”

“Is that so?”

“Yah. I think you enjoy chasing me around, you just don’t want to admit it,” you chirp, tilting your head innocently, “And you’d miss me horribly, don’t you think?”

Xavier hums, turning his face to nuzzle into your palm. His lips brush your skin, a whisper of some kind of promise, making your heart flutter unevenly.

“I suppose I would…and would you miss me?” His eyes flicker back to you, narrowed, an undeniable spark of affection kindled in their blue depths.

You both know the answer.

“I’d miss you more than anything, angel.” Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his cheek. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “Then, I guess I’ll have to stay by your side.”

“You better.”

“Of course, my lady.”

---

Sylus / Demon

“What does your real form look like?”

You perch on the edge of his bed, feet kicking in the air as you watch Sylus get ready for whatever meeting he’s about to go to. Something to do with one of the other head crime bosses in the N109 Zone, you’re sure. One certainly down on their luck and looking to make a deal.

Sylus glances at you through the mirror, long fingers slowing as he fixes his cufflinks. His eyes bore into you, glinting with something violent, something vicious and bloody that should unsettle you to your core, but you don’t flinch, you don’t even blink.

Such a brave kitten, the demon thinks, amusement curling his lips.

“Curious, sweetie?”

The smile he gives you is sharp, too sharp, and your skin prickles with an instinctive kind of unease. It’s something you’ve grown used to, the way your body reacts to him. Like a lamb cornered by a wolf, everything screaming at you to run, yet you chose to stay cornered. Choose to trust the teeth pressing so gently to your throat, violence and desire so perfectly restrained to keep you safe.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you chime, head tilting ever so slightly. “I just…want to understand you better, you know?”

Sylus hums and turns his focus back to straightening his cuffs, “Is that so? Aren’t you scared of what I might look like?”

“No.” Your answer is quick, unwavering, and Sylus perks a brow.

A brave kitten indeed. He’s almost impressed. The rumors about him are none too kind, and yet here you are, seeking the truth. Without knowing what the truth means.

Giving himself one last look in the mirror, the demon turns to you. He studies you for a long moment, gaze dark, pensive, intense in a way that makes your breath hitch. His eyes darken, something predatory glinting in their cardinal depths. You look at him so innocently, as if you’re not staring down the devil himself, as if you know he’d never hurt you. It makes him want to ruin you, to see that pretty blush stain your skin all over, just to curb the morbid desire burning in his chest.

But you are right, he’d never hurt you. You’re too pure, too good. So he lets himself be soft, to the best of his ability at least.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” he murmurs eventually.

His shoes barely make a noise as he slowly approaches you. Each step is measured, confident, like he always is, and each step makes your heart flutter a little more. You’re all but holding your breath as Sylus comes to stand in front of you. His fingers, calloused and rough from a life of violence, graze your jaw so tenderly, drawing your face up to his.

“Are you sure you can handle it, sweetie?” He asks, voice almost taunting, though his features remain soft, unassuming.

Still unwavering in your decision, you nod, “I want to know you, Sylus. All of you.”

He holds your gaze for another long moment, as if he’s trying to read your soul. Which he very well could be, you realize. But when you look into his eyes, what you see isn’t his usual smug composure. Instead, you see a flicker in hesitation. Uncertainty. And it makes your heart ache.

Lifting a hand, you carefully cover the one Sylus holds against your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his touch, a gentle smile pulling at your lips, “You won’t scare me away, Sylus. I promise.”

So perceptive. Sylus gives a low chuckle, shaking his head, “You really aren’t like most humans, sweetheart. Most wouldn’t want to know me even in this form.”

“Well that’s their loss,” you hum, eyes crinkling up at him, “But that means I get you all to myself, so I can’t feel too bad for them.”

“My, what a selfish little kitten I have.” His thumb brushes lovingly over your cheek as his expression turns more serious. “If you want to see my true form, all you have to do is ask. Your desires are mine to fulfill, and I will do so with pleasure.”

“I want to see it, Sylus,” you repeat, “I want to see you.”

“Alright.” He draws back, that wicked smile returning, “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, kitten.”

You watch, enraptured, as he rolls his shoulders, tendrils of dark smoke curling around his body. It envelopes him completely and the air in the room grows tense, fizzling with a static that has the hair on your arms standing on end. The lights flicker, plunging the room in darkness for a split second.

And when they come back on, you have to swallow down a gasp.

Because there he is. You’re not sure exactly what you were expecting. You had heard the rumors, the whispers about the monster that haunts the N109 Zone, but this somehow seems different from everything you’ve heard.

Smoldering eyes, sharp and cat-like now, stare you down with an apprehensive gleam. A pair of dark horns curl from his silvery hair. Veins of the same color curl around his neck and down his forearms like webs, the skin of his hands bleeding pitch black. His fingers look more like claws, glinting dangerously in the dim light of the room. Your eyes catch on the tail waving behind him, the spade-tip just as sharp. And the wings. They unfurl slightly, ink-like feathers brushing the floor.

What’s most shocking though, is his size. He stands almost a foot taller, his already imposing stature now threatening. The air shivers around his form, and you can feel that familiar, foreboding sensation creeping up your spine.

But the only thought running through your head is that he’s beautiful. Beautiful like a storm. Devastating and destructive, yet you can’t tear your eyes away. And you just want to be closer.

“Are you scared, kitten?” His voice rumbles with an almost imperceptible dissonance, a hint of concern beneath his tone.

You blink, gaze snapping back up to his, “No, of course not, Sy.”

The tension seems to fall away from his shoulders at that, but he still doesn’t dare move, like he’s still worried you might run away. So you, in a bout of confidence, push off the bed and walk right up to him. Sylus watches you carefully, expression reserved. 

“Can I?” You ask, keeping your tone soft as you brush your fingers against the back of his hand. You look up at him questioningly, and Sylus relents, allowing you to take his hand in yours. Your touch is unbearably soft and curious, trailing along the dark tendrils marking his skin. “Does any of it hurt? To change, I mean. Are you comfortable in this form?”

“I used to spend more time in this form,” he hums, tail flicking back and forth, “but to do business in the N109 Zone, one must be able to live in the shadows without being noticed. This form did not benefit me, so I took the form of a human to…blend in, one might say. Humans are more willing to make a deal when they believe they’re on equal ground.”

“That makes sense, but it didn’t answer my question.” You pout, tapping his hand. “Does it hurt to switch between the two?”

A small grin pulls at Sylus’ lips, revealing a sharp set of fangs, his eyes narrowing in amusement, “No, sweetie, it doesn’t.”

“Good.” You nod and brush your thumb over his knuckles. “Then I want you to take whatever form you’re more comfortable in when it’s just the two of you.”

Surprise flickers across his face, barely noticeable, but you catch it. Sylus covers it up quickly, his smile turning mischievous, “I didn’t expect you to be so comfortable with this. Does my kitten have a soft spot for monsters?”

“Maybe,” you hum, stretching up to curl your hands around his neck despite how much taller he is than you now. 

Sylus relents once more, leaning down so you don’t have to balance on the tips of your toes, even though he finds it quite cute. His hands rest tentatively against your waist, his fingers nearly interlinking at the small of your back. The size difference makes you bite the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your neck.

Pushing the thought away, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, humming happily, “You’re not a monster, though. I think you actually look quite…charming like this.”

The demon huffs out a laugh, his forehead coming to rest against yours, “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll be whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

“You make me happy, Sylus.”

“Well then, I suppose this arrangement will benefit us both greatly.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, “I suppose it will.”

---

I felt most of my choices were pretty expected, but let me know if you guys think they'd be other supernatural creatures! And Happy almost Halloween!

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Hi please can u write Edward Cullen x sick reader. Where the reader is stubborn and still shows up at school despite being sick. (I’m sick rn and can’t find any Edward fics) hope u have a nice day

Thank u :))

Nurse

Warnings: none really, sick!reader, potentially getting other people sick 😅, stubborn!reader, firm and patient edward, thank you for the request btw and sorry it took so long for me to get to it ❤️

Words: 1307

Edward knew immediately when you sat in the front passenger seat of his car that you were sick.

His brows draw heavy with concern. "You're-"

"I'm fine." You croak and buckle up. Moreso lying to yourself than to Edward. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and you were pretty sure a small fever was beginning to rise on your forehead. Like hell you were missing school that day. You'd studied day and night for your test; was finally confident that you were going to pass.

Reading your thoughts, Edward sighs and leans back into his seat. "(y/n), a test doesn't matter when your health is in question. Your teacher will let you take a makeup test. You need to go back to bed."

There was no energy in you to roll your eyes. "After I take my test then I can rest. I just want to get it over and done with."

"You won't do well if you're si-"

"Edward, please. I know my body. I can survive until second period." Arguing did nothing to help you feel better.

He could just grab you and take you back to your room. Doing that would further enrage you.

"You promise to let me take you home after second period?" The pleading in his voice softens you.

"I promise."

Exhaulting another sigh, Edward nods to himself. "Alright. I'm holding you to that."

A part of you doubts that you'll be able to make it to second period, but you would try to.

Edward may not have fought you more, that didn't mean he was pleased watching you struggle that morning. You were bumping into other students and walls as you lost your balance several times.

Alice pulled Edward aside, her honey eyes narrowed. "Why would you let her come to school like that? She's obviously sick, Ed!"

"I know. Believe me I tried. She promised to let me take her home after her test in second period." Edward lowers his voice, he doubts you can hear him. His gaze is on you as Jasper helps to steady you.

"I don't think she'll make it." Alice frowns and folds her arms in front of her chest. "I don't have to look into the future to see that."

"You try telling her then. See how easy it is."

She wouldn't even try, having experienced your stubborness before. You always wanted to appear tough to the Cullen family as you were selfconcious of being the only human among them. Compared to them you were weak. You compensated by doing whatever you could as a human to appear strong. Including refusing help when you were sick. Edward knew it would wound your pride greatly if he forced you home. So did Alice.

You didn't share first or second period with Edward. He kept tags on you via his mind reading to see how you were faring.

Struggling to stay up in your chair, your eyes were fighting every second to remain focused on the whiteboard at the front of the class. You don't remember much of what the teacher was talking about. Conserving your energy and mentally going over things for your test the following period. You were fading fast. Chugging water helped a little.

When the bell rang, finally alerting of the end of the first period, you were slow to get to your feet. If you tried to move any faster than your current pace, the world would slip from under you.

You use desks to coast your way to the classroom door. Barely making it to the door, there appears Edward. Frazzled when he takes in your flushed face.

Before he could object to you continuing the school day, you stop him by placing a hand on his chest. His mouth closes as he quietly surrenders.

Help me to my next class. Please. You ask him via your thoughts. Doubting you could talk without feeling vomit rise up your throat.

Edward breathes through his nose but doesn't complain about you overworking yourself when you needed rest.

Ever the gentleman, Edward cups your elbow and guides you.

"The moment the class ends, I'm taking you home." He whispers to you as he helps you through the scattering of students running late.

You'd smile if you could. I love you.

You catch the quirk in the corner of his lips and the brightening of his eyes.

It cost you the rest of your strength, but you did it. You fucking did it. All questions answered to the best extent of your knowledge.

There were few steps that were between you and the teacher's desk.

You suck in a breath and stand, hand gripping the edge of your desk for support. Navigating through rows of kids bent over their paper's, you focus ahead of you.

When your teacher notices you, she pauses at the waxen sheen of your face. The moment your test is on the surface of her desk you quietly croak "Can I go to the nurse's office?"

Edward was right outside the door, prepared to take you into his arms. You wanted to laugh.

The thought of a mother hen pops into your mind, making Edward scoff. "If I'm a mother hen so be it." You were unable to protest when he easily scoops you up and dashes to his car. Alice is waiting, rocking back and forth on her feet until she spots the two of you. There's a plastic bag in her hand that looks overly full.

"I'll tell the office." Alice takes Ed's car keys to opening the passenger door for you. Then she places the grocery bag in the back seat. "I googled what made people feel better when they're sick."

"Thank you Alice." You manage to get out as Edward opens the door with just one finger. He sets you down and straps the belt across your chest but not before tossing your backpack into the back seat.

Wondering what Alice had bought you, your forehead presses against the passenger side window, you momentarily fall asleep.

Only waking up when Edward is carefully picking you up from the car's passenger side. He's so careful with you. Always.

You realize when he opens the door that he's brought you to the Cullen house when the front door doesn't match your's.

"I don't want to leave you sick and home alone." He explained while hurrying up the stairs.

And. . .

"Ed. . ." Are you scared?

His jaw clenches. In his room he makes sure you're comfortable with whatever you needed. Water. Pillows. Blankets if you got cold.

Then he settles next to you. His face unreadable. You curl up closer to him and just that mere contact melted him.

"My mother and I. . . we were very sick when I became a vampire." This was something he'd told you a while ago. They'd become sick during the Spanish influenza outbreak. "I know the medical world is much more evolved than it was during my time, but it still terrifies me when you get sick."

"Oh Ed," You sit up even when Edward urges you to lay back down. "I should have-"

He furiously shakes his head. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. Sickness just reminds me how human and fragile you are." Rolling onto his side, you copy him. Head comfortably cradled by a pillow.

Rest.

You could finally rest.

His fingers brush along your brow, soothing your warm skin. You shimmy closer against him. Edward's much larger frame conforms around you.

"I know you won't die from this. Not that I'd let you die from illness." Adding the last part a bit under his breath, you still caught it.

For a second, Edward pulls away from you to retrieve a bottle of medicine from the bag.

"Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Sooooo…….how do you think Benny boi would handle being caught half-naked from out the shower by his darling?? He’s showering after winning his match-up she thought he was finished but to her surprise…….. this scenario has been stuck in my brain 💀💀

Adrenaline.

oh baby... thank you for this.

warnings - smut. cursing.

Masterlist. Inbox.

"Ben? You in here?"

You walk through the locker room, looking for your partner as you go. Eventually, when you reach the showers, you hear the water running.

"Babe?" Benny yells from behind the curtain. "That you?"

You pull it back and pop your head around, trying to keep your eyes on his.

"It's me. I'll just wait for you on the bench out here."

Before you can blink, a strong hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into the shower, water drenching you immediately. You shriek, swatting at his chest to try and escape.

His palms find your hips, plastering your bodies together.

"Need you," he murmurs into your ear, brushing your hair away from your face. "Can't wait until we get home."

"I'm soaked," you whine.

"You will be."

"Asshole," you laugh, resting your forehead on his sternum. "I like this dress. Dry."

"Stop worrying," he soothes, rucking the material up and over your head, throwing it onto the tiled floor. "Let me take your mind off it, hmm?"

He pulls your underwear down your legs, chuckling when you step out of them willingly.

Benny places your hands on the wall, kicking your feet apart. Pressing kisses down your spine, he sighs softly, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he goes.

"Fuck, this is what I needed. You, all pretty and pliant for me. So good, baby. Such a good girl."

Benny lines himself up and slides home in one smooth movement, both of you gasping in unison.

"That's it," he coos. "Take it, baby. Like you know you can. Like you were made for it."

You drop your head onto your arm and let him mould you however he likes, clearly needing the outlet. He gets like this, after his fights. He vibrates with the energy of it, looking for a release in any way he can get it.

You've become his favourite solution.

"Ben," you whine. "Fuck, babe."

"Yeah, honey. Keep saying my name just like that, please."

Benny's rhythm is frantic, frazzled, rushed, but he still manages to hit exactly the right spots. He knows your body like the back of his hand, that much is clear.

"Close," you choke out, trying not to swallow the water that still beats down. "Benny."

"Come for me, pretty girl. Give me all you've got. Please. I want it baby, that's it."

His honeyed words send you over the edge, muscles tensing and eyes rolling back. Benny joins you, groaning lowly against the wet skin of your back.

You both try to catch your breath for a moment, Ben reaching over to turn off the water. You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

"Better?"

"So much better," he chuckles.

You're about to respond when you hear the locker room door open, the sounds of multiple heavy footsteps filling the room.

"Benny! Champion! Where you at?"

You look at him with wide eyes, both of you realising the hilarity of the situation. Benny reaches out of the curtain to grab his dry shirt from the bench, tossing it to you and wrapping a towel around his waist. You throw it on and follow him out towards the boys sheepishly, knowing you're not about to get away with what you've just done.

"There you are!"

The boys look between you and Benny, putting the pieces together.

"You two are ridiculous," Frankie laughs.

Santiago winks at you as you bury your head in Benny's shoulder, laughter bouncing off the lockers around the room.

[audliminal]

It's Just a game, Right? Pt 7

Masterpost

It's just a game, right?

Tim turns his head at the soft their of a grappling hook, and a moment later Steph has joined him on the roof of the building.

"Not much happening tonight, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," Tim responds as he watches traffic pass on the street below. She is right; the night so far has been unusually calm. It's a distinct contrast to last week- it seemed like every night some big villain was pulling out some ridiculous plan or other, but somehow they had all been stopped without serious harm. Of course, there are still plenty of rogues still scurrying around Gotham but there's no murmurs of anything coming from any of the big hitters for the moment.

"You don't sound very sure about that," Steph says, stepping up beside Tim and elbowing him lightly.

"Yeah," Tim answers. A flashy silver car cuts someone off and the resultant horn echoes harshly.

"Okay, you're being weird. What's up?"

Tim shrugs.

"Guess I'm just used to emergencies," Tim shrugs. He knows Steph wouldn't be weird about him bringing up Bernard, but he really doesn't need any of his fellow bats thinking he's compromised or overstressed. God knows he doesn't need anyone else pestering him about getting enough sleep, like he's staying up on purpose.

"Okay..." Steph trails off. "I mean I guess it has been pretty hectic for a while. Takes a bit of time to come down from all that?"

Tim is saved from having to respond by the sound of Oracle cutting into comms.

"Red Robin, Spoiler, looks like a store robbery in progress and you're the closest. Head for the intersection of 25th and Oak."

"Got it," Tim answers and doesn't wait for Steph's response, already halfway through the motion of taking off for the next building.

Pretty soon they're both dropping in on a pair of goons. One of them is aiming their gun directly at a frazzled-looking employee, who doesn't seem interested in putting up a fight.

Two-on-two makes it an incredibly easy fight though, and it's almost over before it begins, with both of them able to sneak up on the distracted thugs as the cashier hurriedly pulls money out of the cash register. Once they're both in position, it's easy enough to grapple, disarm, and restrain them in a flurry of movement, and the criminals never get a chance to even process the arrival of the bats.

"Not today, I think," Steph says as she handcuffs her guy. "Threatening people with guns is a real dick move, y'know?" Tim gets his guy handcuffed and turns to the startled employee.

"Cops on the way yet?" He gets a frantic nod, and Tim surveys the shop as he waits for the sirens. They'll bounce just before the cops get here, but until then, he wants to look around for any signs of something bigger. The two would-be thieves seem too shocked and terrified at the appearance of bats to be proper goons, but they could still be bait, or a distraction of some kind. And the shop itself could theoretically have been targeted. But by the time the sirens are closing in outside, he's not spotted signs of anything sinister.

"Right, the police are almost here, so we're gonna bounce!" Steph announces as Tim walks back towards her. "Tell your boss I said he should give you hazard pay for the night, 'kay?" and then she bounces out the same way they came in. Tim nods once at the employee and then follows.

He changes directions once he's on the rooftops again, though. His phone had buzzed about six times in a row while they were waiting, and that means it's probably Bernard. And he really doesn't want to explain the arg thing to anyone yet.

Once he's far enough away from anyone, he pulls his phone out, and sure enough, he's got six text messages from Bernard.

Dude

Babe, holy shit

Like seriously

This is fucking crazy

Like I cannot believe they replied to us

Us!!!

Attached to the series of texts is a screenshot, and Tim feels the anxiety coalesce into something abruptly solid in his chest.

At first glance, he can't tell what language it's supposed to be. It looks like it might be Romantic in origin, but a couple spellings look almost Slavic in nature, and there's only two and a half lines, which really isn't much to go off of.

It's certainly an interesting development, to say the least. He should be excited. This is a new clue for the mystery, after all.

No way! Tim sends back.

Yeah! U busy? Comes the immediate response. And like, technically the answer is yes, Tim supposed. But Steph literally just pointed out how calm things are tonight, and he can already tell he won't be able to focus, with this news.

"Um," Tim clicks on his comm. "I think I'm gonna call it for tonight."

"Something wrong?" Bruce asks immediately, all gruff-batman-voice.

"No, just- it's slow tonight, and Bernard wants my help with something so I thought, um. If you want me to finish my patrol, I can." He can't help it. Even now, he always kind of feels like he isn't doing enough to be a good vigilante.

"Nah, kid. I think we'll be fine without you." Hood answers, unsurprisingly.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah go make out with your boyfriend or whatever."

Tim smiles at Hood's usual ribbing. He's almost gotten used to it; mostly he can keep himself from blushing too violently when anyone teases him about Bernard.

"Okay. I'll make sure to get my report submitted by eight, promise." Tim is already en route to the nearest safehouse where he can change out of the suit, when he remembers he hasn't responded to Bernard yet.

Heading home rn. My place or yours? He hits send and then takes off once more. Excited to see his boyfriend, and determined to work through the newest puzzle.

[phantomdreamgirl]

How Can I Refuse You

Gator Tillman x fem!reader

A, not so simple, request from the handsome, Sheriff's deputy forces you to confront your burgeoning feelings for him and what an actual relationship with him would entail

"Spend the night with me," Gator breathes, into your neck.

He presses several wet kisses along your skin, as he awaits your response. The feeling of his lips against any part of you is almost enough for you to immediately give in to whatever he wants. Though, in this moment, you hesitate.

"I can't, it's too risky..."

"It'll be fine," he instantly assures, raising his head. "Its late, and everyone will already be asleep. We'll just have to be real quiet though."

"That's all you're worried about?" You then ask, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"Pretty much, yeah," he confidently replies. "This isn't the first time I've snuck a girl into my room."

You decide not to question him further as you begin to pull away with a sigh. His hand is quick to cradle your jaw.

"I just really want to be with ya tonight, is that so bad?" He softly asks, while tilting your head up slightly, to have your eyes meet his.

Even the darkened cab of his truck can't hide the infatuation in his eyes.

"No, it's just-"

He stops you by pressing his thumb to your lips.

"From the way you were moanin' my name a few minutes ago, I would think you'd wanna be with me..."

"Its not that I don't want to be with you, it's just..." you pause, trying to think of a way around revealing the level of repulsion you feel at the thought of being in the same house as his father.

His smug expression fades as you search for the right words.

"Why don't we just go back to mine, like we usually do?" You counter, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Because I wanna have you in my room tonight," he replies, pulling you closer. "In my bed, where I know you're really mine."

"You shouldn't be so paranoid," you say, dismissively. "I'm not seeing anyone else, Gator, you know that. I only want you."

"Then you should want to spend the night with me," he practically pouts.

It's exasperating how childish he can be sometimes, you think, as instead of rolling your eyes, you kiss his plush bottom lip.

"You're too cute for your own good," you breathe, into another kiss, before pulling away.

"Does that mean-?"

"Yes," you sigh. "You win, now let's go before I change my mind."

You find the stillness of the Tillman house unnerving as you quietly follow Gator through the kitchen. You never had the desire to set foot here, though you knew if you kept dating the Sheriff's son, you would have to cross its threshold eventually. Dread prickles at the back of your neck as you climb the stairs, making you cringe at the slightest creak beneath your feet.

Your frazzled nerves have you squeezing Gator's hand as he leads you towards his room. He smiles as he opens his bedroom door, still silently reveling in his victory.

You're surprised to see his room is illuminated by a soft, purple light. It casts shadows over the posters on his wall, leading you to think it hasn't changed much since he was in high school. Your thoughts are interrupted when he steps in front of you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you to him. A smile still plays on his lips as he gazes at you.

He takes a few steps back, guiding you further into the room. He then sits on his bed and pulls you onto his lap. Your knees settle into his comforter as you straddle him. His large hands frame your face as he takes a moment to admire you again. He notices your lingering uneasiness before leaning in to kiss you, softly. His tenderness catches you off guard, as you were anticipating the opposite.

"Does being here freak you out that much?" He quietly asks, with his nose pressing into your cheek.

You nod, slightly.

"Just focus on me, then, baby," he breathes before kissing you again. "I'll make ya feel so good, you'll never wanna leave."

You allow yourself to melt into his kiss despite how wrong it feels. Something inside of you urges you to leave, but you're anchored to the man below you. Your lips desperately meet his, over and over, seemingly never wanting to stop.

You quietly sigh his name when his attention switches to your neck. He grins against your skin, loving the way it falls from your lips. He greedily wants more as he presses wet kisses and little bites along your skin. He instantly gets what he wants when he sucks harshly right above your shoulder. Your fingers curl and claw at his shirt as you moan his name a little too loud.

"We gotta be quiet, remember?" He reminds, pressing his finger to your lips.

You nod, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. You kiss the tip of his finger, before whispering an apology.

"Its okay, baby," he soothes, lowering his hand so he can kiss you again. "I know you can't help it... always whinin' and cryin' for me, and I haven't even fucked you yet."

You whimper into another kiss while your nails lightly scrape at the back of his neck.

"That's what you want, right?" He breathlessly adds, between kisses.

"Yes," you reply, nearly delirious with desire.

"Make me yours tonight."

That's all it takes before he's pulling your shirt off. The sensation of his rough hands gliding over your skin makes you shiver.

You're then laying completely bare beneath him as he kneels between your legs. The sight of him is like something out of a dream, or possibly a nightmare, you aren't sure which.

He runs his hands up and down your thighs, making sure your legs stay spread around him. Your eyes linger on how he's throbbing for you, knowing you're aching for him just as much. He places his left hand on your stomach, while his right reaches for your face. His long fingers brush your cheek before he rests his thumb against your lips. He applies only the slightest pressure and you open your mouth just enough so he can drag his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Fuck, look at ya..." he breathes, as his eyes travel your body before meeting yours. "Prettiest fuckin' thing I've ever seen."

You hum in approval, flicking your tongue over the pad of his thumb. He then inhales sharply, pushing it into your mouth. You happily wrap your lips around it and suck, while gazing at him sultrily.

He softly moans before pulling his thumb away, worrying he'd blow his load then and there if you kept on.

"You're too fuckin' good at that, shit..." he pants, while you smile up at him.

"You already know I can't help myself when it comes to you," you defend, as he strokes himself. He smears your saliva over his leaking tip, gasping as he pumps his hand a few times before lining up to ease himself inside you.

Your hands twist into his sheets as his hand covers your mouth. The other on your stomach drifts to your hip, as he pushes himself as deep as he can.

Once his hips meet yours, his gaze darkens as he asks, "Are you gonna be good?"

You nod, your eyes pleading for him to move. With a smirk, he slowly lowers his hand, but keeps a loose grip on your jaw as he begins thrusting his hips in languid strokes. You whine, turning your head to the side, trying to use his pillow to muffle any sounds that might escape.

"No, no, baby," he scolds, using his hold on your jaw to turn your face towards him. "I want ya to keep your eyes on me."

You whine again as you look up, into his eyes. He grins while gently caressing your cheek with his thumb. It's another surprising display of tenderness that he seems to reserve only for you. Your mouth falls open after whispering his name and he immediately places his thumb back, between your lips. You lazily lick against his skin with every thrust as you fight to keep your eyes open.

He curses under his breath, while his hand glides over your stomach, to your breast. He squeezes roughly at first before leaning over to place wet, soothing kisses across your chest. He notices the hickies he left are starting to fade and he's determined to leave new ones. He has to mark you as his, one way or another.

His hair, now a sweaty mess, falls around his face. It tickles your cheeks as he hovers over you. You reach up and brush it out of his eyes, not realizing until then how long it's gotten. He kisses you deeply, while the coarse hair on his chest brushes against you, making you writhe against him.

He breaks the kiss to catch his breath and gaze at you again. You wonder what's going through his head in these quiet moments, but you're too afraid to ask. Afraid that he'll confirm what you already know... that his interest in you goes beyond simple infatuation. You're not sure if you could handle his confession of love, now or at any point.

This wasn't meant to be anything more than a series of casual hookups, but his possessiveness soon changed that. He couldn't stand the thought of another man having you like this. Even the way his own father looked at you infuriated him. For once in his life, he was going to have something that was his and only his.

"Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?" You softly ask, surprising him and yourself.

He shakes his head. "Just you."

You smile before he kisses you again. He softly moans into your mouth when he feels your legs tightening around his waist. It's your silent way of urging him to keep going.

"Yeah?" He breathily asks. "Ya want more?"

Nodding, you whisper, "Please."

He grins before picking up his pace and roughly thrusting into you. It's all you can do not to scream as you quickly pull him into another kiss. It's sloppy, filled with little whimpers as he fucks you into his mattress.

"This better?" He teasingly asks, with his wet lips at your cheek.

"Y-Yes," you answer, almost too dazed to speak. "Just don't stop, please..."

You hate how whiny your voice sounds but you know it's such a turn on for him.

"I don't plan to. I'm gonna keep ya like this all night," he breathes, into a kiss.

You gasp his name against his plush lips, while your back arches from just how deep he's fucking into you. You're not sure if it's ever felt like this until tonight, so deep and raw.

He needs you to know you truly belong to him. It's something you've known for some time now, but didn't want to admit. It's the dull ache that lingers after he leaves. An ache that increases when you're alone, laying in bed or otherwise. You shouldn't want this, or him, but you're drawn to what's underneath his brash facade. There's a sweetness that's been dormant since childhood, a sweetness that he only feels comfortable revealing to you.

You feel privileged to be the person that gets to experience this side of him. It also frightens you because of how easily you could fall in love with him.

The feeling of his teeth biting into your shoulder jolts you back to reality as you softly cry his name.

"Sorry baby," he breathily apologizes, "ya just feel too good."

"Its okay, just don't bite so hard," you dreamily reply.

He kisses the top of your shoulder, soothing what's going to be one of many marks that litters your skin. Your vision is a purple tinted blur as you struggle to keep the gaze of the man above you.

"I know you're close, I can feel it..." he whispers, as the tip of his nose brushes yours.

Your nails dig into his biceps as he fucks you hard and fast. You're both desperate for release, mouths barely touching, only exchanging low moans and grunts.

You finally connect your lips when your body begins to tremble around him. It's so intense that you can hardly kiss him, as you really just need his lips to absorb all the tiny whines and whimpers of his name.

His bedframe begins to squeak as he thrusts even harder. Your nails claw at his shoulders, through his skin's almost too slippery for you to properly cling to.

"I'm the only one who fucks ya this good, right?" He asks, roughly holding your face.

"Yes, j-just you," you breathe, gasping for the air that's been punched from your lungs.

He flashes a grin before rewarding you with a messy kiss.

"You were made for me and only me," he continues, as he gazes into your watery eyes.

You whine his name one last time and his hips finally still. He presses his forehead to yours as he fills you with everything he has. He's so overwhelmed by the intensity of it, that he doesn't move until his body stops shaking. You're practically being crushed underneath him, but you still too dazed to care.

He's looking at you with renewed adoration, like you're his most cherished possession. Before tonight, this would've frightened you but now it evokes a different emotion. A warm realization settles within you as you think maybe hearing those three little words from him wouldn't be so terrible. For the first time in your life you seriously consider the thought of truly belonging to someone.

A smile spreads across your lips as your hand reaches to cradle his face.

"Will you spend the rest of the night with me?" He softly asks, leaning into your touch. "I don't want to let ya go."

You nod, before guiding his lips to yours.

"And I don't want to go," you whisper into a kiss.

You would worry about the world that lies beyond his bedroom door in the morning. As for the few remaining hours before sunrise, they belonged to you and the man you loved.

[100vern]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Angel Dust: (smirking) "Ya know toots-"

Vaggie: "You're insufferable. Yeah. We all know. What else."

Angel Dust: "-speaking of teasin' and toyin', ya sure do wear a pretty short skirt for someone who's datin' miss prim and proper. Don't she mind you lookin' like hell's saddest a knock-off halloween party costume hooker?"

Vaggie: "I dress nothing like you."

Angel Dust: "No shit. Ya barely dress at all. Zero effort."

Vaggie: "More like zero fucks given for any opinion other than Charlie's."

Angel Dust: "Oh so she DO like it?"

Vaggie: "Just because she's not the one calling her girlfriend 'sweetie' doesn't mean I'm not eye candy to her."

Charlie: (skidding into room) "-ISN'T IT SO PRETTY ON HER?? THE SKIRT!!"

Angel Dust: "Hot."

Charlie: "I KNOW RIGHT!!!!"

Angel Dust: "I ain't talking about the skirt."

Charlie: "Huh? But, but it is hot-"

Vaggie: "Sweetie, he means your flaming skid marks."

Charlie: "My what? Oh!" (starts stomping out her flaming skid marks) "Oh shit not again- the carpet!"

Vaggie: (smiling) "Got a little fired up huh babe?"

Charlie: "I can handle it! Nooo problem do NOT swap out the skirt!"

Vaggie: "Looks like it might a workplace safety hazard."

Charlie: (taking off jacket and desperately smothering the burning carpet with it) "NO NO IT'S NOT!!! It's, um, a key part of keeping up workplace morale!"

Angel Dust: "Pity it can't make anything wet other than you, huh Charlie Puff."

Charlie: "Not a workplace appropriate topic!"

Vaggie: "Want help babe? I could just beat the fire out with his corpse."

Charlie: "No one's beating anything either!!" (still beating the fire out)

Angel Dust: "Suuuuure ya won't be..." (sigh) "How's it you two disgustingly sweet flaming gays haven't burned down the hotel already?"

Vaggie: "It's fireproof. Mostly."

Charlie: "And after that one time, so's our bed!"

Angel Dust: "The BED?"

Vaggie: (groans) "Sweetie, why."

Charlie: (soot stained) (frazzled) "I'm sorry! I'm all hot and bothered now, okay??"

Vaggie: "Well that I can help with."

Charlie: "O-oh?"

Vaggie: "Easy fix. Wanna go check if our bed's still fireproof?"

Charlie: "Yes." (drops jacket) (flops into vaggie's waiting arms) "Yes, that's an amazing idea!"

Vaggie: (scooping gf up) "I have them sometimes."

Charlie: "Everything about you is ALWAYS amazing, Vaggie." (smooch) "Especially in a skirt. Um...... is this one fireproof?"

Vaggie: "We'll find out."

Charlie: "Should we take it off first then? For safety!"

Vaggie: "If you want, sweetie. It's one option."

Charlie: "Oh."(grins) "And the other one is...?"

Angel Dust: "Get a room!"

Angel Dust: (already alone)

Angel Dust: "... these are some shit work place standards." (yelling after them) "Make sure that skirt's a natural fiber before ya start some kinky hellfire stuff or it'll melt all over ya! If I smell shitty chemical smoke coming outta there I'm barging in with an extinguisher!"

Chaggie's door: (locks)

[sukunastoy]

Only Love Can Hurt Like This, Chapter 1, Part 1 (CEO! Sukuna x Fem! Reader, MDNI)

Continuation from the Prologue Here

Next Part Here

⬇️PLEASE READ BEFORE STARTING THE STORY! ⬇️

Modern age AU, no curses. Sukuna still has his tattoos, but his face ones are carefully hidden. This story is set in Japan, and I've done my best to implement real life into it. For example, tattoos in Japan are still taboo, and people associate them with the yakuza, so its not normal to see everyday people have them. Though I know I won't have all the details of modern day life in Japan correct, I hope you still enjoy.

Pairings: CEO Sukuna x Fem Reader Content/Trigger warnings: In full on the Prologue chapter Wordcount: 4.1k+

This chapter is a backstory of how Toji and Reader met. Since Toji is not necessarily a main character in this story, I don't want to focus on a lot of detail for this backstory. But it needs to be told.

Toji and Reader are in high school, Toji is a senior, and reader is a freshman. Though I don't specifically put anything into detail, since everyone is a minor, you get the basic idea. Toji is not a good guy.

Since this is backstory, Sukuna isn't mentioned or appears in this chapter at all.

Sighing quietly, you stowed your street shoes in a cubby before putting the school slippers on. This semester came up too quickly. Your parents decided to move over the summer, so you were starting this new school year with no friends or acquaintances. Sure, making new friends wasn't the most impossible of tasks, but it could be difficult. Sitting alone in class was for the weirdos.

Not to mention, picking a club to participate in wasn't easy either. Usually, you and your friends would have joined in something together, so it didn't even matter what the club was. Now, you actually had to find something you might enjoy for the next few years to make friends. Browsing the choices during the first of many weekly assemblies, it was stressful to pick. After reading another pamphlet and being disappointed, you turned from the booth to head to the next, but bumped into what felt like a wall, nearly smooshing your nose into your face.

"Woah princess, those eyes of yours don't work?"

Rubbing your nose and cursing under your breath, you glanced up to the tall guy you just collided with, your cheeks easily becoming speckled with your embarrassment. "Uh, they work just fine. You're the one just standing in the way." you retort, trying to regain your dignity while others looked over in curiosity of the small situation. "And don't call me princess."

The guy chuckled and turned to fully face you, putting his hands up in a defensive way. "Calm down, no need to get all fussy. I'm just teasin'." He grinned and put a palm atop your head, slightly ruffling your hair that you had spent over an hour on this morning. A pretty little pout pulled your lips down and you swatted his hand away, bashful at his actions. "Well, excuse you." You snort out, lifting your nose and passing by him, though on the inside you were riddled with panic.

The guy watched as you walked away, though he couldn't deny he was intrigued with your little attitude. He smirked while licking his upper row of teeth before following. "You know, I haven't seen you before, new this year?"

Your frazzled expression didn't go unnoticed by him as you tried to walk faster, wanting to ignore him. Of course, him being much taller, it didn't take long for him to catch up with you once again. "M'guessing those ears of yours don't work either?" he teased, flicking your left ear gently. You whipped around to face him, cheeks puffed in irritation and shyness. "Why are you following me?"

"Just tryna' be friendly." he chuckled and leaned over, placing his palms on his knees to lower his face to yours. It only made the blush on your face darken.

"You think it's friendly to follow girls shorter than you?"

"Short girls that are cute." He smirked, tossing his head lightly to knock the black lochs from his eyes. His cockiness made you fidget and you tried to smile in defiance, not wanting to be flustered by this obviously older and attractive guy. Was he a senior?

"Name's Fushiguro, Toji." He stepped back to offer a little bow and you looked left and then right, afraid people might be watching this little interaction. Why was this guy talking to you? You were already feeling weird to be without your friends from middle school, and now this cute upperclassman was introducing himself to you?

"I, I'm L/N, F/N." You managed, giving a little polite bow in return. It wasn't a bad thing for someone to want to know your name, right? Maybe making new friends wouldn't be so difficult after all.

"So, you new here?"

You nodded while letting out a sigh. "Yeah, moved from Kyoto. My dad got a new business opportunity. So he goes wherever the money is. Just sucks because I had the same friends since I was a little kid, and now I have to start high school with no one." you gestured with you arms before letting them flop to your sides.

"That does suck. Highschool is a big deal, and to go in alone isn't that great. But hey, you know me now, yeah?" He smirked while pushing a thumb into his chest. "Well, I don't know you." you laughed, though smiling with fondness for at least having someone introduce themselves to you already on the first day. "Lets hang out after school, then you can get to know me."

"Damn, so your parents must be loaded then." Toji exclaimed after you presented more information about your home life, or lack of home life to be honest. "I guess. They're pretty absorbed into their jobs. I'm lucky if we even have dinner together a couple times a month. Usually my dad is at his office still working through the evening and my mom is visiting some of her clients." you shrugged while sitting on the bleachers with Toji near the track field. "My parents have basic jobs. They come home stressed and bitch and fight with each other and then my dad passes out drunk most of the time." He laughed as if it was just normal. "That really sucks." You murmured, looking to him with sympathy though he didn't seem to mind his home life.

"Hey, so one of my friends is having a party, or rather a gathering, Friday night for the new school year, wanna go with me?" He asked, changing the subject entirely.

"Oh, I dunno. I know how those parties are." you laughed while stuffing some of the club brochures into your bag. You'd have to pick something by next week, this was a tough choice.

"Ah c'mon. Its not one of those where people are just fucking on couches everywhere." He said so nonchalantly through a laugh.

Your face burned with his lewd comment and you hoisted your bag over your shoulder. "I should head home." You stated, taking your phone out to text your parents that you were on the way, not that they would really pay attention, or even respond.

Sensing your uneasiness, he stood up as well, taking hold of your wrist gently. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that. It's just a simple get together for everyone to meet and get acquainted before we get too far into the semester. A good way to meet new people and make friends." He said with a suggesting tone, noticing you didn't have anyone else talk with you all day.

"I don't know if a freshman girl should show up to a party with a senior guy." You laughed, gently tugging your wrist against his grip. "Look, just think about it. I can pick you up at like 7, and I'll bring you back at an early time." He offered, and then took your phone from your other hand. You tried to protest but he smirked and held your phone up out of your reach, going into your contacts and adding his number in. You tried to climb up higher to get your device but he pressed call on your phone to make his phone ring, easily getting your contact info into his own phone.

"Did you just get my number?" You pouted, finally able to snag your phone back after standing on a taller bleacher row. He chuckled while letting you get it back. "It's your first year of high school. Don't be boring and stay at home. Come out, meet some people, have a good time. Where's the harm in that?"

The blush on your face refused to leave, and you pulled your lips in. "I think you're going to be a bad influence, Mr. Fushiguro." You stuck your tongue out while hopping down to the lower bleacher row.

"Maybe." He said while ruffling your hair again. You scowled and quickly whipped around, though losing your footing in the process. A little scream fell from your lips as gravity began to pull you, but it was cut off as Toji quickly caught you with a strong arm around your waist.

"Apparently, your little feet don't like to work either." He said quietly, holding you safely to keep you from falling.

Your hands had instinctively grasped onto his shirt and you gulped hard as he pulled you back up, the two of you standing ridiculously close together. Okay, this guy was incredibly hot, but he was several years older than you. Sure, a lot of senior guys dated freshmen girls, it was rather cliche. But jumping into that immediately upon starting high school wasn't in your plans at all.

"I, I have to go!" You nearly bleated out, letting go of him and turning to run down the bleachers, hoping you wouldn't trip and fall flat on your face.

"I'll see you tomorrow!" he yelled after you, raising a hand to wave as you continued your flustered run from him.

Friday, 6:55 PM

Sitting on your bed, you looked over the upcoming school schedule, planning your study time that was soon to start once you were assigned homework. When your phone dinged out with a message, you glanced to it curiously, hoping it was a continuing conversation from one your friends that you moved away from.

-"Hey, I'm here. Come on out."-

"What?" You said aloud, re-reading the message a few times to make sure you understood it. -"Nice try. You don't even know where I live."- You texted back through a laugh, shaking your head at his obvious joke.

Hearing a knock upon the front door down the hall, you completely froze. No way he was actually here, right? You slowly slid off your bed, going to your door and looking out as the knocking came again. Tiptoeing down the hall, you gulped as there was another knock right as you reached the door. You looked through the peephole, and nearly dropped your jaw when you saw Toji on the other side. The two of you got to see each other at school all week, as he sat with you at lunch and after school. It was nice, honestly. Having at least one person you were happy to see when you arrived each day. It made you feel less nervous walking into a school full of new people.

"Oh my god, are you a stalker?" You playfully gasped while opening the front door dramatically. An arrogant grin adorned his face as he shrugged in response. "Told you I'd be here. And you don't look ready at all, tsk tsk." You stuck your tongue out to him and turned to walk down your hall, leaving the door open so he could come in. "I honestly wasn't expecting you to show up at my house."

"Hey, I'm a man of my word." He chuckled and closed your front door before following you down the hall. "Your parents home?" "Nope. I mostly only see them in the mornings, if they're in town. Like I said, I'd be lucky if we even eat dinner together a couple times a month. Mom is in Kyoto and dad is in Osaka. They couldn't even bother to be here for my first week of starting high school."

You grumbled while rummaging through your closet, trying to find something cute to quickly change into while Toji casually looked around  your room. "Damn, got enough stuffed animals on your bed?" He snorted and you pouted to him while pulling out a short, little dress. "Stuffed animals are great to have on the bed."

"I think I'd much rather have a girl on my bed than some stuffed animals."

You rolled your eyes while holding up the dress to yourself and looking in the mirror. "You boys all have a one set mind. Doesn't it get boring?" "Boring? Absolutely not. How can you say sex is boring?" He laughed while plopping down onto your bed, some of your stuffed animals falling over against him. You shrugged nonchalantly and turned away from him, hiding behind your closet door to change. "Well, I've never done it, so I guess I can't have an opinion on it."

Of course, you weren't aware of the interest you just sparked in this guy. He also wouldn't let you know that if he leaned back enough, he could see your reflection in the nearby mirror as you changed, despite you thinking you were out of sight. A smirk tugged at his lips as he watched your young and untouched body with perverse desire. The younger girls were more susceptible to his advances, not usually ones to put up a fight or resist because they were ignorant and shy. He cocked a brow at your lacy thong before letting out a slow breath of air to calm himself.

Patience. Must be patient.

"Oh, a gentleman." you cooed as Toji opened the passenger door for you to his car, well, his dad's car. You got in, tucking your short dress under your thighs while doing so.

"I'm full of surprises." He smirked, leaning in and buckling you into the seat before you had a chance to do it yourself. Your breath hitched at his closeness and feeling his palm brush over your thighs while he moved the seatbelt across your lap. He turned his head and smirked at you before stepping back and closing the car door. A little shaky breath left your lips as you sat alone for a moment. This was certainly new for you, and you weren't sure if the pounding in your heart was from happiness or anxiety. Or maybe a mix of both. Your parents never paid a lot of attention to what you did, but you really weren't a wild child. Maybe you never let yourself get into situations that could be a mix of excitement and adventure. This senior guy was clearly flirting with you, so what? People flirt all the time. Its fun and innocent. Especially being new to town and to school, you weren't going to deny the attention from someone. Not like you got any from home.

"So, are you some stalker or something? I never gave you my address." You teased, looking over to Toji as he drove. "Maybe I followed you home." He said with a fake scary voice and you scoffed while rolling your eyes playfully. "Well, you did say you followed short girls." "Short girls that are cute." he corrected. You blushed at his handsome grin and looked the other way out of the window, letting the thought of how he knew where you lived leave your mind. Oh, you poor girl. You clearly had no idea the kind of guy Toji Fushiguro was. Or rather, the kind of monster he'd turn out to be.

It was definitely one of those types of parties. A lot of the other students in attendance were seniors and juniors. There were a handful of sophomores, and you weren't sure if there were any other freshman besides yourself or not. There was the usual drink buffet in the kitchen as most parties had, and you were more than certain someone had spiked everything, so you drank with caution. This might not be your normal scene, but you weren't going to be a chicken shit and whimp out. A senior guy, a hot senior guy, invited you here. No one was being rude to you, and other than seeing several people making out in various corners, grinding on each other on couches, or rolling joints in little huddles, nothing dangerously bad was happening. You still stuck close to Toji, only cause you had no idea who anyone was. A couple other guys had commented on your sexy little dress, and you can't deny the little thrill of approval you got from it. However, Toji didn't approve of their little comments. He'd give a dirty look to any guy making a comment on your dress, telling them to piss off. You thought it was cute, and you admired the little protective side he was showing, especially when he put an arm around your shoulder each time another guy was too interested in the amount of skin you were showing off.

"Are you jealous?" you teased while getting another drink from the kitchen. "Heh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He snorted while getting a beer from the fridge. "Maybe? Cute, little freshman girl with a big, jealous senior guy? I have scary dog privilege." You laughed while pushing against his arm playfully. He drank his beer while smirking down to you. "I'll fight anyone that tries to touch what's mine." A shudder went through your body, and it wasn't of fear or worry. It was a new feeling of interest and curiosity. Maybe it was the spiked drink, or the result of growing hormones, you weren't sure. "Okay, I really need to use the bathroom." You quickly excused yourself before the blush on your face could get any more intense, shuffling past others to head in the direction you hoped was right.

You splashed some water on your face and let out a heavy breath, calming your nerves. Were you feeling, turned on? Sure you were still young, but you knew people who had started fooling around when they were your age and even younger. But, you've never done anything with anyone before. You always tried to be on your best behavior for the sake of your parents, but you were really bummed from the recent and sudden move. It was a new place, new people, a new school year. It should be harmless to have fun and play around. Teenagers messed around a lot. Wasn't uncommon. You didn't want to come off as immature or a prude when you finally got your moment. But, you definitely knew you didn't want that moment to happen any time soon.

When you came back from the bathroom, Toji was in some drinking contest with another guy, and you watched with amusement while sipping on your obviously spiked drink. It was fruity, and had a little kick to it, but it tasted good. You were feeling a little fuzzy though, and it didn't help with how you viewed Toji. When he slammed his empty drink down on the counter and licked his lower lip, you swallowed hard. You were definitely falling into some cliche scene right now, but whatever. It was cliche cause it happened often, and was pretty normal.

When he noticed you, he left the guys and headed your head, a big grin on his face. "Like what you see? You're staring at me like you're hungry." "Maybe I'm just hungry." you said while setting your now empty cup down. "Wanna ditch this and get some real food? Just the two of us then?"

Your heart skipped a little beat at the idea of sitting down at a restaurant with just the two of you. Felt like a little date. Is this how dates went? You asked if he was good to drive, which he waved you off and said obviously. Apparently he'd already been drinking for a few years, and some beers and a few shots at a party weren't anything to get him too intoxicated. Good for him, cause your head was pretty foggy still.

He took you to a decent little restaurant, and you smiled bashfully when he got out of the car and opened your door for you before you could even get unbuckled. "You just continue to be a gentleman." you laugh, shaking your thighs to make sure your short dress wasn't up too high as you stepped out of the car. "All for you, princess."

"Nah, you don't want that." Toji laughed as you started to name off what you'd like to eat. "No?" "It wouldn't be good." "Well what should I order then? Since you seem to know more than me." You stuck your tongue out at him and he chuckled while looking over the menu. "Here, this. It tastes way better anyway." He pointed to something and you shrugged. "Fine with me then." It didn't seem like a lot of food came with his choice, but it was delicious. Nothing wrong with great tasting food. You did enjoy Toji making an effort to keep talking with you though, and not just checking out his phone, even though you heard it chime several times while the two of you ate. The food also helped clear your mind a bit, getting the buzz out of your system. Though, you still admired him all the same.

"Shit..." Toji grumbled while putting his face into his hand. "What's wrong?" "I forgot my fucking wallet at home." He sighed heavily, rechecking his pockets. "Oh, no problem." You said while finishing the food in your mouth. "I can pay for it." "It doesn't particularly look good if I let the girl pay for dinner." He scoffed, looking aggravated about his wallet.  You shrugged and pulled your wallet from your purse. "I can just give the money to you and then you can pay for it."  "You sure?" "It's not that big of a deal. My parents give me plenty of money all the time. I think it's their way of pretending they're in my life." You laughed a little sadly while handing over a decent amount of cash. He looked at it in surprise but didn't hesitate to take it from you.  "I appreciate it." 

Toji put the car into park outside of your home and you let out a heavy breath while looking over to him. "Well, this was actually a pretty fun night."  "Yeah?" He grinned over to you while putting an arm behind your headrest. "Glad you had a good time. Told you it wouldn't be that bad."  You smiled and held the hem of your dress, experiencing those fuzzy feelings all over again. You could have sworn he was leaning in a little closer to you, and you'd be lying if you weren't leaning in more to him as well. 

One of his large hands slipped up under your chin, pulling you into him as his lips connected with yours. Your eyes widened in shock, but you didn't move back from him, you weren't sure you could even if you wanted to. As his tongue slipped into your mouth, both of his hands suddenly gripped onto your arms, pulling you from your seat and into his onto his lap.  "T-Toji!" you whimpered through his lips, finally pulling away and looking up to quickly breathe as his mouth moves down to your neck, sucking on your skin and making you tremble. It certainly sent feelings through your body you never experienced, but feeling what was growing between his legs caused you to panic and you put your hands against his chest. His hands started to slide your dress up from your thighs and you shook your head, trying to struggle in his grip.  "Wait, please, not like this, Toji please." You begged through panting, closing your eyes tightly.

He pulls back from you, aggravated but nodding his head in understanding. "Sorry princess, little bit of that alcohol still getting to me." You're lightheaded while still in his lap, trying not to let your own recent alcohol fuzzed mind lead you into something you weren't ready for. A heavy blush comes across your face as he sighs and gently kisses your forehead, holding you close while opening the door. "Mind if I come in and get something to drink, let the rest of this buzz wear off?" You quickly nodded while licking your lips, still embarrassed from what just happened. You've literally never kissed a guy on the cheek before, let alone get a mouth full of tongue.  Your breath was shaky as you changed in your room, and you looked at yourself in the mirror, not sure if you should be happy or ashamed. 

"Would you like some hot tea?" Toji asks through your closed door and you smiled to yourself. He was really nice though. "Yes please!" you called back, putting on some comfy clothes to relax in.  You sat in the living room, excitedly texting your friends that you just had your first kiss, and with a senior guy no less. They certainly cheered you on, saying it was about time.  Toji glanced to you from the kitchen, seeing you were preoccupied on your phone. He chuckled to himself, pulling out a small packet from his pocket. Checking on you one final time, he made sure you weren't going to look up as he poured the contents of the packet into your tea.  "Here, princess." Toji grinned with charm while handing you the cup of hot tea. You smiled fondly up to him, slowly blowing over the top of it and getting more comfy onto the couch.  "Thank you, Toji." You said before taking a small sip. He nodded with an arrogant grin on his face, drinking his own cup of tea.  "Of course, hope it tastes alright?" "Tastes perfect." You smiled, feeling giddy while still texting your friends and taking another big drink.

I hope you enjoyed! <3 I'm happy to actually be writing this story again. I truly LOVE comments so please leave some! They make me smile so much. ヾ(•ω•`)o

The next chapter will be the final part of the backstory before I more or less fast forward it several years. This wasn't included in my original story, because I didn't think it would be approved of or liked, but like I said, I'm writing this now the way I've wanted. <3

Next Part Here!

[moonlightspencie]

part 2 of the fake dating!james drabble as suggested by @simp-for-fiction!

part 1 here : part 2

pairing: james potter x reader

——————————

It had been two weeks since the night he kissed you and then proceeded to pretend as if he hadn't. You really couldn't blame him considering that you had also been hesitant to bring it up. After all, it was a part of the act.

But then again, it felt so real.

He was dragging you to yet another event today, telling you to dress nice. You complained, of course, but the second he mentioned that you'd be getting a nice fancy dinner for free... who were you to turn down such a compelling evening?

You showed up at his flat in your sleek black evening gown, feeling quite pretty, and knocked on his door. He opened it a moment later, looking a bit frazzled: his hair was a mess, his tie undone, and his glasses absent from his face.

"...hey?" you greeted.

"Hi," he replied quickly, ushering you inside before scurrying through the flat. "Sorry, promise I'll be done soon!"

"You okay?" you asked hesitantly, following him to his room.

He shuffled through things in his room, spraying himself with cologne and trying to smooth out his hair.

"Fine. Just... maybe, accidentally fell asleep and only started getting ready fifteen minutes ago," he winced a little.

You snorted a laugh. "Alright, that's fine. Do we need to be there right on time?"

"No... I guess we don't, but," he sighed, finally taking a good look at you. "You showed up on time looking... beautiful. The least I can do is get you there when I said I would."

"James, we've known each other for years. I'm not exactly expecting you to turn things around for a girl you're pretending to date."

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess that's true. Still, though."

"Don't worry about it," you reiterated, sitting on his bed.

He continued getting ready, now quite a bit less frazzled, and you were on your way before you knew it. He led you inside some charity event that he'd been invited to. You knew his family was rich, but this... this was something else.

"So... Lily is gonna be here?" you ask in a bit of surprise as he walked you through the ballroom.

"No," he replied simply, bringing you to sit at a table with little place-cards indicating your seats.

You furrowed your brow. "What... then, why are we here?"

"Photos, of course. They go in the Prophet. Evans will see them, and hopefully get jealous."

"Thats a pretty elaborate plan, Potter."

"It'll work," he said, waving off your concerns. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing here."

You snorted, but didn't really feel like complaining the second the food and drinks came out. Even more, you were perfectly happy once dancing began. It felt like a really fancy school ball with a bunch of people who were much more intimidating than your classmates. But... James made it easy.

"And spin," he instructed with a laugh, twirling you around. He caught you, pulling you into his chest again. "See? You're a natural."

"Far from it," you laughed. "If it weren't for you, I'd be tripping over my own two feet."

"Nah. You're great," he smiled brightly, annoyingly charming as always.

"I didn't grow up with this stuff. You dont have to lie to make me feel better."

"I'm not lying. Swear. You're good."

You smiled a little, shaking your head. "You know, we should really hang out more. I think I like hanging out with you when I'm not being paraded around for you to get Lily's attention the whole time."

"We hang out," he said, tilting his head a little.

"Not really," you smiled a little. "I hang out with Remus and Sirius, and... sometimes you're just there. I wouldn't quantify us as friends, per se."

"I would. Per se," he snorted a laugh. "We are now at least."

"Maybe."

"Don't maybe me," he laughed cheerfully.

You chuckled right back, about to respond when a flash went off. You blinked, looking in the direction of the light.

An older man who looked far too happy with himself, held up his camera. "Beautiful young couple! That will make a lovely photo for the papers."

"Oh, we're not--"

James cut you off. "Thank you! We've been told."

"Oh," you nodded a little. Right. This was the whole point of the event.

The photographer gave you another overly-peppy grin, then bid you adieu. You glanced at James.

"You really think she'll see that?"

"Everyone will see it," he shrugged.

"Everyone?" you swallowed. "Ugh. James, I don't know if that's a good thing. For everyone to think we're..."

"What, am I not enough for you?" he teased.

"That's not what I mean, James. It's just that people talk. Do we really need a public break up from a relationship we were never in."

"Eh," he shrugged. "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

"It's supposed to be cross that bridge."

"Either way," he grinned.

"Quit worrying," he kissed your cheek. "Now, come on. We have the whole rest of the night to have fun together, now."

"Right. Lead the way, Potter."

[glassmermaids]

kinktober day five: threesome with art donaldson/tashi duncan (29/01/25)

a/n: we're literally in the new year lmao I'm so sorry

It feels like your brain is turning into mush. Everything feels too much, dialed up to one hundred, yet you still find yourself wanting more. Maybe that's you're just greedy like that, but it's hard to resist when it's being presented to you on a silver platter; the opportunity to overindulge, to take as much as you want without much repercussion.

A particular swipe of Tashi's fingers on your throbbing clit has you moaning obscenely, head dropping down into the crook of her shoulder, her hair tickling your face and the sweet scent of magnolia and citrus invading your senses in the most overwhelming way. It all feels like too much, so you try to run away from the intense feeling settling deep in the pit of your lower belly. Tashi's not having that, obviously, and her hand almost immediately stills, softly chastising you for your apparent disobedience.

"Lift your head," she says softly, voice sweet like a siren's but an unmistakable underlying authority. "Art can't see your face, baby."

At her words, your attention is brought back to Art and you lift your head to meet his eyes, sitting idle on the armchair facing the bed, stripped down to just his boxers as he intently watched the scene unfolding infront of him. "Look at how hard he is," Tashi speaks into your ear, making a shiver run down your spine.

To no one's suprise, his boxers are tented, and a pinkish hue overtakes his entire body, hands gripping his upper thighs in a way you think might leave marks. He's so pretty, you think to yourself, watching him as he watches you, giving him a small smile in the hopes that it looked somewhat flirty.

Her fingers start moving on your clit once your attention is back on Art, and you watch the way his fingertips and knuckles turn white with the force he's gripping his upper thighs with, lower body lifting from the chair in a futile attempt to find some kind of relief.

Your mouth hung slightly open in a silent moan, instead a punched out gasp makes its way past your lips. His reaction mimicks yours, face struck with pleasure, even if he isn't doing anything to get himself off, per his wife's demand request. His eyes drop down to Tashi's hand that's still languidly playing in the witness of your pussy, other hand too occupied pulling and twisting at your exposed nipples.

He watches the way his wife's fingers dip down to your entrance to collect some of the wetness there, her wedding ring glittering in the white light of the hotel room. His eyes drift up the expanse of your body, watching your breasts heave with every quick breath and how the thin sheen of sweat makes your body glisten. The way he looks at you, really looks at every exposed detail of your body has you growing hot, orgasm suddenly so close you could taste it.

She works you through it as you cum, praising words spoken next to your ear that are unintelligible to your fucked out brain, but appreciated nevertheless. A kiss is placed to the side of your head, before Tashi's retracting herself from behind you. Your frazzled mind takes a little longer to process everything, but you see Art stand up from the armchair and makes his way to the bed, mattress dipping with his weight.

Your head drops down to the pillow below, and you feel Art's weight on top of you, pressing kisses to your collarbones and up the expanse of your neck. "You okay?" he asks against the spot just behind your ear, kissing and biting there as he speaks. "Mhm," you hum in confirmation, legs wrapping around his strong waist, encouraging him to press closer to you so you could really feel him.

Next to you, Tashi's ridding herself of her underwear before she presses next to you, the sight of her naked body leaving you clenching around nothing. "You gonna help me out now? Make me cum?" she asks almost coyly, and you nod without hesitation, making her smile. Art moves to sit upright, pulling off his boxers as Tashi moves her body until she's hovering on top of your face. Just as Art slowly starts pressing against your entrance, rubbing himself against the wetness there until he's rubbing the tip against your still sensitive clit, Tashi slowly lowers herself until she's planted on your face.

Her voice is airy and sweet with her moans as you start to softly lick up the seam of her cunt, just as Art starts slowly easing inside of you untill his hips are pressed right against you. When he slowly starts pulling out just to push back in again, reaching that special spot inside you on the way, you moan, and the vibration goes straight to Tashi's cunt, making her moan as she unconsciously rubs herself harder against your tongue.

You know you're already dangerously close, and you know Art is, too, if his sped up thrusts and heavy breaths are anything to go by. It's all too much — it always feels like too much with them — and all you can really do is bask in the heavenly feeling as they both use you to get off.

[sapphirelightningbug]

Love, Actually [Chapter 1: Jingle Bells]

Series Summary: Christmas 2005, you and Aegon meet in a dog park in your hometown of Newark, New Jersey. He’s a strange foreigner who you’re hesitant about at first but he’s enamored by you. The only thing that can help you two is a Christmas miracle, and maybe a New Years kiss.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Comment if you'd like to be tagged!

Taglist in the comments!

“Bandit one, ‘Other Dog’ four,” Madison chimes in as you two gaze upon the dogs frolicking in the snow. They are barely visible as a white sheet of snow covers them. You had watched as they, just minutes ago made friends before beginning to play fight. It was commendable the way dogs bond so easily, only truly interested in the exhilarating.

You glimpse Madison as she overlooks what she has deemed a very serious match. It's almost wholesome the way she's able to appreciate such a mundane act as excitable in her head. She's rooting Bandit on when you hear a crunch in the snow. “Oh seven… and there goes Bandit,” she snorts as he face-plants into the snow. You giggle as you see the dog sneeze and shake off to get as much snow off himself as possible.

“You seriously can’t be keeping track of this,” you say while laughing. You whistle to call Bandit over, hand brushing over his damp, cold face to get any icy remnants off. He’d need a bath soon. Your gloved hand comes off with ice crystals that quickly melt against the temperature.

The night was arriving in the park, you and Madison had nearly gotten frostbite twice by the time you assumed it was smart to go home. When Bandit came trotting up to you in his magnificent glory, so had the other dog. So after tending to Bandit you look at Madison confused but observe the dog. This one wasn’t so fit for the cold, a bright golden shined in its fur despite the dull air and sky, and a small Christmas-themed bandana was wrapped around its neck.

“Uh, hey buddy,” you look down at the puppy and then turn to Madison as if to ask ‘What do I do with it?’. She lets up a little shrug, which wasn't helpful. You gaze through the rest of the park trying to find its owner, which came up pretty futile since it was 5 pm in the middle of December in fucking New Jersey! It was foggy and snowing which meant about ten feet of visibility. You clip the leash back on Bandit, and gesture for this other dog to follow, Madison behind you three as if she were herding you like sheep.

“Alright, let’s see if anyone’s looking for you,” you say as you pull the eclectic bunch through the park until you come face to face with a blonde-haired man. He looks a little frazzled and out of breath like he’s been running around in the crisp air of December. Honestly, he looks like he'd never expected it to be cold in the height of winter in the Northeast.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, but we’re trying to find this dog's owner. Is he yours, or have you seen anyone looking?” Before you could finish getting the words out he was on the snow-covered ground petting the ice out of the dog's fur. She realizes then why he looks drained: This is his dog.

He straightens out the golden retriever's bandana before looking over him once more and glancing up at you. “Thank you for supervising him Sunfyre likes getting himself into trouble sometimes.” Sunfyre? What kind of name is that? Nodding your eyes flick back at Madison, who was still staring at the man with a bit of a confused expression, slightly glazed over, like she couldn't tell he was actually there.

Finally, you turn to him and look over him. He is probably around their age, blonde, with slight stubble and severely underdressed for the weather. He realizes you are staring at him and he puts his hand out which you reluctantly take. The hand feels damp through your glove. “Aegon,” he smiles, Aegon? Again what kind of name is that? Apparently this guy has a tenacious appetite for odd names.

“Right, well I'm sorry if Sunfyre," the name feels weird in your mouth, "If Sunfyre had worried you. He and Bandit were just play fighting,” you gesture towards your dog. Bandit sits with a gaze that could only be considered admiration, dogs tend to do that to their owners it was one of the many things that made you fall in love with them. With his warm gaze on you, you rub his head with the hand Aegon wasn't shaking as you peer at the stranger and let go of his hand.

“Yeah, he’s a little rascal, basically a gremlin you know can’t feed them past midnight!” He was chipper much more than you’d expect, or the joke landed the wrong way you weren’t exactly sure. You assume his attitude is due to the excitement he felt over receiving his dog back. Snow fell over his beanie that he had on and you chuckled at the reference to a very beloved Christmas movie.

"We were just about to head out glad you got your dog back though,” you nod, looking down once more at the golden dog sniffing at its owner's feet. Aegon gazed over you as if copying your image to memory. It made you feel almost uncomfortable but it was subsided by the cute lopsided grip he had on his stubbled cheeks.

“Right maybe I can walk you two just out of thankfulness for you returning my dog,” you look back at Madison's eyes asking if they should when she interjected.

“Well I live just a little down the road so I have to go in a different direction,” Madison chirped always smiling, and feeling of a warm aura. You swallow realizing that you would have to walk alone with the man.

“Oh yeah, I have to walk to this coffee shop my other friend works at so she can drive me home I live a bit out of the way and I’ve got this guy,” you wring your hands together as you speak before gesturing to Bandit who was absentmindedly chewing on a stick he found Gods know where.

“I have no gripes walking you to the café,” he just would not give up would he? You mentally groan. “I mean I have nowhere to be really,” he smiled trying to seem normal about it. You hoped this wasn't a ploy, but how could it be really he couldn't have planned any of this. You were slowly becoming okay with the idea of him walking you to the café.

“Oh, okay, yeah, sure, we can go walk to the shop,” you turn to Madison and hug her before waving her off. “Get rest! Don’t want you getting a cold,” you yelled after her she smiled and gave you a thumbs up as she walked away.

You turn back to Aegon who is standing there admiring you, he looks away quickly. “You’re not gonna like serial murder me, right? Chop me up into little pieces and feed me to your weirdly named dog?” you chuckle nervously, not that you thought he would but you didn't know the man he could be Ted Bundy for all you knew.

He bursts into laughter, “No I’m not gonna chop you up into little pieces and feed you to my dog,” he chuckles. “Sunfyre is a very picky eater,” you laugh with him and begin to walk to the café as soon as Madison is out of eyesight. The snow’s still coming down in a drizzle and it crunches on the ground under you as you walk.

“Oh, so the only reason you’re not gonna kill me is because your dog is sassy with his meals?” You retort jokingly shaking your head. “I'm just kidding I get it Bandit gets a tummy ache when he eats most human foods too,” You run a thumb over the frayed bits of the rope that made Bandit's leash. When you looked up Aegon was staring at you. “What?” He looked away back down at Sunfyre before he clipped his red leash on him.

“So where is this coffee shop?” You glance back at him as you begin on the sidewalk, he's shivering slightly clearly cold from being in below-freezing temperatures underdressed for the weather.

“Just down the road there,” you point down from where you stand to a small shop that has a sign with a candy cane on it outside. There are very few others in sight; a couple walking on the sidewalk across the street, and one lone individual down the road walking in the opposite direction of them.

“So are you from New Jersey or did you move here recently?” You assume he hasn’t lived here for a while, less than a year probably. It was evident by his lack of a winter jacket or gloves. He was dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a plain green sweatshirt. His blonde hair was mostly covered by a beanie. The tips of his fringe hung out slightly dampened by fallen snow.

“Not from here,” his slightly foreign accent only adds to the evidence of that fact. You look at him with a questioning look, “German," You nod. His fair skin is dull and dry, there are snowflakes in his eyelashes and his pink lips are chapped, dry skin peeling slightly.

“So what made you come to the great city of Newark?” Sarcasm drips from your lips. You gesture to the general area and look up at the snowy sky. Your nose is red from the cold, and it’s running faintly.

“Needed a change of scenery,” you look surprised. Most wanted out of Newark, not moving in for a 'change of scenery'.

"What'd you wanna see? Chihuahua sized rats frozen from winter snow?" A self-deprecating chuckle falls from your lips at the words before continuing. “But does your whole family live here or just you?” You almost feel bad for asking so many questions,—maybe even rambling—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He has a small smile on his face, more satisfied than anything, he just seems happy to be in someone else's presence.

“Well my sister, mother, and brothers live here with me, but my dad, his daughter, and their family still live in Germany,” you nod and scan over his face. Under the satisfaction of the moment, he looks tired. There were slight bags under his eyes their violet a little sad and his face pale, drained of color. Maybe it was just seasonal depression. Or maybe it was living in Newark?

"Thank goodness, and here I was thinking you were an only child," you both laugh a slight pink tone coming to his face; he shakes his head.

You’re feet away from the shop, the warm amber light flooding out on the cool-toned snowy street. The cottage windows are in a wooden frame, with frost in the outside corners. The wood is chipped a little from the years of it standing there.

Once getting a closer look at the sign it was visible that the painted candy cane was wrapped in mistletoe, the greens and reds contrasting each other perfectly. Next to the candy cane are the words 'Sips of the Season'.

Looking inside it was homely, a small library sits in the corner and the counter was decorated with tinsel and Christmas lights. A small pine tree sat in the corner drinking from a black pot underneath it. The tree was decorated with various colors, red, green, gold, and white ornaments adorn the branches catching on the needles.

Other than the ball ornaments there was a few personalized trinkets hanging off the tree. One from Greece, one from Italy, one from England, and one of your own that you had made for Jennifer, a small globe with a reindeer inside.

There was also gold and silver tinsel hanging from the tree. Multicolored lights garnish it as well, twinkling slightly. For short: Sips of the Season is decked out for the holidays.

A wreath wrapped in a scarlet bow welcomes you and Bandit at the door as you enter Sips of the Season, Aegon and Sunfyre following after you. Jen is at the counter back leaning against it, she turns around when she hears the bell. You take off your winter coat and gloves, and unclip Bandit’s leash. Bandit makes his way to an armchair in the corner of the store.

"There you are!" She beams, her ever-smiley face lights up with a warm contented grin. "You know I was just about to get out," it is then she notices that Aegon is in here with you. She has a small downturned smirk as she raises her eyebrows at you and gestures for you to approach her.

Aegon doesn’t realize your movements gazing around the shop and enjoying the warmth of it. You reach the counter and she looks at you with a predacious, toothy smile, the feeling she was going to say something ridiculous washing over you. "So who's the cute blonde?" She whispers, her shit-eating grin getting even bigger. Before you can get anything out she speaks once more, "And, when were you going to tell me you were dating again?"

"It's not like that," She rolls her eyes at your words.

"'Not like that'? Gosh, do you even hear yourself you're basically screaming that you want him! Plus you're like totally blushing," you are certain you are not but her saying that makes your face tinge pink ever so slightly.

"I am not," you mutter back. It was then that Aegon decides to nudge his way into the conversation when he finally moves from the spot he was standing looking around the room. "Oh, hey," you raise your eyebrows as if to ask 'What's Up?'.

"I'm going to go back to our den for the evening," he gestured to Sunfyre and himself, "But it was great to meet you." His voice is smooth like velvet, it makes your stomach tingle.

"Oh! Right," you look over at Jennifer trying to figure out what to do. "Do you want Hot Chocolate or Coffee or Tea?" you list off awkwardly trying to get as much out as possible. "On the house of course," you add quickly before turning to Jen and looking at her as though you were saying 'Sorry', she rolls her brown doe eyes.

"Hot Chocolate is good, to-go of course," you nod and look over to Jen and she starts making the Hot Cocoa. You and Aegon stand there awkwardly not really knowing what to say to each other.

Jen comes out with the warm drink in a festive red and white disposable to-go cup you hand it to Aegon and he thanks you. He guides Sunfyre back to the front door and the bell above it rings as you two wave each other off as a pit grows in your stomach.

"So did you like give him your number... or at least write it on the cup?" You shake your head and she looks at you like you’re hopeless.

"I fudged that didn't I?" You wring your hands together the sweat on them making them slip out of each other quickly.

"Definitely," she murmurs. At least she was honest, but that isn’t what’s on your mind there was only one word that is.

Fuck.

[chocolilies]

okay i caved here's an extract of my toji x babysitter!reader fic I started but never finished... i'm still not sure about continuing it or not so lmk if I should! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

the jarring sound of the doorbell cut through the strangely calm atmosphere, forcing toji to get up and face the dreaded “interview” shiu had put in place for him. behind him, megumi pulled himself up to a seating position, chubby hands wrapping around the plastic bars of his confine, lower lip trembling from the combination of the loud sound and his father walking towards the door, thinking it was time to be once-again left with toji’s tobacco-stinking friend. 

“don't be too mean,” toji remembered shiu’s words as the handler forwarded your contact to him. “she’s a sweet girl. not the smartest tool but definitely one of the kindest.”

his stupid analogy didn't even make sense. 

before he even started to open the door, toji angled his head to peer through the peephole, being greeted with a skittish expression pulling at a pretty face. 

he felt his mouth go dry the moment he laid eyes upon you, the tiny, blurry picture he’d seen on shiu’s phone doing you no justice whatsoever. despite the fisheye lens he was staring through, he could still tell you were absolutely gorgeous. 

too gorgeous to be working for him.  

he hoped you’d come to the same realisation once you saw him, the bratty infant or the neglected flat, that you’d take one look at them and turn right back around, as toji didn't know how the hell he’d be expected to behave with someone as tempting as you around. 

maybe it was the loneliness speaking, or maybe you were just that attractive that you were causing toji’s brain to short-circuit with a single, not-even-proper glance at you, but toji didn't care to elaborate, not when you were waiting so patiently for him to greet you. 

you were taking deep breaths, clearly trying to shake away the nerves written on your face, bringing up your manicured hands (had you really gotten a manicure for this?) to your artificially blushed cheeks, makeup shining beneath the fluorescent lights of the corridor.  

unbeknownst to him, you were actually silently debating whether to stay or turn on your heel and run right back down the funky-smelling corridor you'd initially hesitated to walk through, especially in the new heels you'd impulsively bought the moment shiu had told you of his friend's offer. 

now, you were truly thankful for this opportunity, excited at the prospect of finally getting to do something with your life except mope around shiu’s apartment thinking about your stupid ex-boyfriend, but that feeling of hope didn't cancel out the borderline fright that filled you at the idea. 

despite this not being an official job interview, you had spent the last few days straight up stressed at the notion of meeting toji. 

you didn’t know him. yes, you’d heard his name mentioned by shiu, but you'd never formally met him. 

which, of course, only added to your already frazzled nerves. 

you didn't know what to expect when you rang the doorbell, giving your cheeks a few slaps as a way to get yourself focused, blush and highlighter sticking to your palm due to the sweat your body was creating in response to your anxiety. 

you cursed out loud, attempting to wipe your hands down on your skirt, but were interrupted as the sound of the door unlocking reverberated around the hallway. when nothing happened after the few clicks, you subconsciously leaned into the wooden door to get a better hearing of whatever might be going on inside, wondering whether you'd imagined the sound or it was actually someone locking the door, and you'd gotten the wrong apartment. 

you straightened up with a jump as the door pulled back open into the flat, an action that sent you reeling backwards, heels clacking against the faux-marble floor as you skittered back into a wall, lifting your embarrassed gaze towards the man who'd pulled it open. 

what you certainly hadn't expected, was for toji to be absolutely stunning. 

you noted the shaggy bangs messily cut above his crinkling green eyes, the sharp jaw that framed the lips that were twitching up into an amused smile, a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth that only added to the raw attractiveness he radiated.  

although… as you looked him up and down, taking in the outfit he was sporting, you noticed he clearly hadn't put in as much effort as you had in dressing up nice for this “interview”. you felt your palms grow sweaty in embarrassment, looking down at your own clothes in comparison, mortified that you’d dressed up this cute and presentable only for your possible employer to show up to the door… like this. 

you let the slippers, the joggers, the eyebag that framed his eyes, the dishevelled state his hair was in soak in before fully committing to an idea of him in your head… 

normally, a man wearing such an outfit would make your face scrunch up in disgust, but toji… somehow made it work. 

he said your name, clicking his fingers a few times and forcing you to stop gawking, staring down at you with an unreadable expression on his worn-down face.

[chrysalind]

sweet and sour

pairing: suna rintarou x reader wc: 880 tags: fluff, fake dating, (real) jealousy, party setting ofc, reader wears makeup and is shorter than suna

Sometime last Wednesday, Suna Rintarou had discovered inner peace.

It had been after his last linear algebra exam, during his third consecutive hour of mourning, when it finally occurred to him that it didn't matter. Of course, it mattered in the sense that it would affect his GPA, and as a result, his job prospects, career, ability to be approved for a mortgage and become a homeowner, and of course his retirement. But in a more 'in the moment' sense, it didn't matter at all.

This was because, he'd rationalized, it had already happened and there was no use agonizing over it after the fact. And so, for a few short days, Suna abided by the belief that if he couldn't change something, he simply wouldn't bring himself to care about it.

So when you drag him into the tiny bathroom of someone's apartment with a swipe of glitter under your left eye and a frazzled expression on your pretty face, Suna is fully prepared to put his new philosophy into action.

The door shuts behind you, muffling the din of music and people and he tries not to think about how precariously close your drink is to the edge of the sink when you set it down.

"I need a favour," you begin, wringing your wrists as he tries not to fall backwards into the shower. It is, in fact, a very tiny bathroom.

"Nah," he replies, managing to right himself against the towel rack.

"'Nah'?" you repeat, jutting out your bottom lip. "But you don't even know what I'm going to ask."

He rationalizes that it can't be anything worth putting in the effort for. Therefore would it even make sense for him to hear you out? He thinks not.

However, as he eyes the door behind you, your face bobs into view, obstructing his path to escape.

"Please," you whine, dropping down from a tippy toe. "Just hear me out."

He glances once at his reflection in the mirror before his gaze slides up to the ugly white light on the ceiling.

"Fine."

"Yes," you exclaim, your elbow narrowly missing the cup. Suna looks away.

"Okay, so my ex is here with his new girlfriend," you begin, your hands moving fast, "and so I would really, really be so grateful if you could maybe, possibly, pretend that we're together."

He blinks. "Nah."

Your face falls. "But I'm gonna look like a loser out there."

He wonders if the glitter is supposed to draw attention to your eyes. If so, why just one side?

"That doesn't even make any sense," he says. "No one cares that you're single." After all, no one cares that he's single. Except for himself, sometimes, although, he's learning to let go of that.

You're pouting again. "I care. And I'm pretty sure that he cares. Chiharu said that he told the other guys on the soccer team that he was bringing her because he knew that I'd be here. Like, isn't that kind of fucked up?"

Something like irritation wriggles in his brain but he quickly shuts that down. After all, what can he really change about the situation? Even if he does pretend to be your boyfriend for tonight, your ex will continue to be a convincing piece of evidence that Neanderthals might still walk amongst modern humans. And even then, you'll still be hung up on him and things between you two will just stay the same. So why should he bother?

"I'm gonna pass," he says dryly, squeezing past you to get to the door. Your elbow brushes against the cup and it falls, clattering into the sink and splashing red liquid down the sides.

"Just tell him to go fuck himself or something," he shrugs, before twisting the doorknob. "Or just pretend he's not there at all."

"But Rin," you pout as he lets the chaos of the party flood into the small space, "I thought we were friends."

And you are friends, he thinks, as he shoulders his way back through the crowd. That's the problem.

That's the fucking problem.

So when he spots you, fifteen minutes later, with your back up to a wall and that Cro-Magnon specimen crowding you, he thinks it's finally time to seriously reconsider his philosophy.

And sometime in the five steps it takes to cross the room does he finally come to the conclusion that enlightenment just isn't for him.

"Hey, angel," he says as he turns you around to face him. Your lips are parted in surprise and the glitter reflects fuchsia and gold in the low light.

He's acutely aware that the two of you are not alone, but he can't bring himself to look away. Something like a second epiphany dawns on him.

"Sorry it took a while," he murmurs as he leans down to meet your gaze.

"But better late than never, right?"

Sometime last Wednesday, Suna Rintarou had discovered inner peace.

But right now, tonight, as you let him kiss you in front of all the people you know, he decides that inner peace is entirely overrated.

[notiddygothgf]

8. Addictive

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★ ❝ He took everything from me. ❞ ❝ Then leave him. ❞

★ c.w.: smut. cigarettes and confessions. (more content warnings and tags)

★ a/n: IM BACKKKK! I'm soooo excited for yall to read this. I loved writing this chapter, and im ngl i broke my own heart writing the end of it. (no spoilers tho). my heart yearns for them to be happy but alas i am the writer and i love torturing you guys (jk... kinda....) keep those comments coming! ily all 

★ w.c: .7.2k

shameless ; chapter index

"JUST RELAX, BABY," he mumbled into your dripping wet cunt. His lips departed from your flesh briefly, but only to roughly scoot your ass closer to his face. Then, completely disregarding your concerns, he quickened the pace of his fingers. His hair was tangled in your fist while the rest hung in strings over his face. 

"Let me take care of you," He groaned, the sound muffled by your trembling thighs. "Gonna make you feel real good, promise."

"Mmmfuck– wait," You gasped. Your body, however, gave a different signal. You yanked his hair, and then trapped his head between your thighs with your legs – broken pleas of his name were the only thing coming from your lips. Your legs spasmed once more before you gushed all over his wrist again, spraying him in the face this time. He eagerly licked you up. 

"You look so perfect with my fingers in you, pretty mama," Aki moaned against your clit, but the sound seemed to be swallowed down every time he sucked on the sensitive bud. "Keep going-- doin' so good."

"M'gh... fuck–" You pleaded, sentences reduced to mere gibberish. "Aki, baby..."

He pulled away from your pussy, letting his fingers work you open, pressing deep into your g-spot like he knew your body better than you knew it yourself. "I got you, baby," He panted, peering up at you with such feverish hunger that it made you squirm. "Feel good?"

Desperately, you stumbled to find the right words. What came out, whatever, was a broken cry of "Mhm".

"You feel so fuckin' -- So good–" It slipped out. Truly, you had never intended to let it slip. Yet, still, when his fingers curled up against a particularly sensitive spot with all of the ease of a harpist plucking at the strings of your core, your lips spilled praise of his name. "Aki, I'm g'nna cum, fuck."

"Do it, baby," His smirk grew in size. He licked some of you off of his lips, and then hummed, "Cum for me."

Instantaneously, somehow, his fingers pressed the right spot – just the right amount of pressure – then it snapped. The coil of your release snapped with all of the power of a freight train, your orgasm slamming into you in a way that had your back arching up off of the bed. Your hips jolted up against his fingers and his tongue, lips chanting his name like a mantra while feeling every last stroke of his long fingers against your walls. You could feel the shock tear through you in waves, tearing trembling gasps from your lungs while you rode it out. "Aki!" you gasped again once the pleasure had cleared long enough for you to think. Not your husband, but him. 

It felt so good to breathe his name, to claim him – even if he wasn't necessarily yours. 

"Fuck," You mewled. 

Aki slipped his digits out of you, peering up at you with messy hair, with frazzled eyes. Then, the devil that he was, he popped two of them into his mouth, collecting the gooey mess you had left behind onto his tongue.

"Aki..." You panted – chest heaving a mile a minute. You couldn't stop now, even if you were sore. You needed him, all of him. You didn't need time to recover; you needed him. "Aki, if you don't fuck me right now, I swear to God, I'm going to explode."

"Yeah?" He laughed quietly, breathlessly. The entire bottom half of his face was shiny, soaked with the slick of your arousal. He wiped it on the back of his hand. "How badly do you want it?"

"Bad enough," You huffed. 

"Wanna ride me, baby?" He grinned. It was odd, hearing such vulgar words come out of such a stoic man's mouth. 

"I thought you would never ask," You giggled. "Get your ass up here, Hayakawa."

You didn't have to tell him twice. You shifted over to make room for him on the couch, and he sat right down next to you like he had been waiting his whole life for you to say those words.

He closed the difference between the two of you, hand tilting your chin up so your faces were aligned. Your lips met in the middle in a searing kiss, filled with all the passion and intensity that had been building between the two of you for so long. You couldn't resist.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders as you climbed into a straddling position over him. You paused briefly before tugging his sweater clean off of his body – over his toned arms, thrown off somewhere in the distance, and fuck, you felt weak at the mere sight of him.

You dove back into the kiss, your lips moving hungrily against one another as if this were the last. Time seemed to stand still. Slowly, you felt yourself get lost in him.

Your bodies pressed up against one another, the heat and urgency of your longing evident in every delicate touch. You could feel the gentle ripple of his muscular torso beneath you as he breathed through the kiss. You knew you shouldn't be indulging in him so shamelessly, but you simply couldn't help it.

You didn't care if it was an illusion. He looked so ethereal beneath you, hair splayed out on the couch cusion around his face like a halo. He was so vulnerable, so perfect. 

He raised a hand up to your face, rubbing his thumb over your cheek, "You're so beautiful."

You felt your resolve crumble as you crashed your lips down on his, mouths melding together for what must have been the hundredth time that night. You moaned softly, moving your hands from his waist to the couch beneath his head as you felt him brace his hands on your hips.

You drew a hand back to slip between your heated bodies, tracing the skin of his chest with a new purpose. He was harder than a boulder beneath you, and you couldn't help but rock back and forth.

"Mmh," he hummed happily, letting you explore his body. "Wish you could see yourself from down here."

"And see my double chin? No thanks," You teased, already reaching for the drawstrings on his gray sweats – which, for the record, left absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

He laid back, letting you tug his sweats down just enough for you to be able to spit into your palm and wrap it around him. It didn't take much to get him wet for you, considering he was practically dripping already by that point.

"I wish I could have you like this every day," He muttered, sliding his hands up your waist while he watched you hover over him. This was moving quickly. Not like you had any objections to that, of course. Clearly, he didn't either. 

You didn't grace him with a response, instead positioning the tip in line with your dripping hole and then sinking down on him. 

He gasped, letting his eyes fall shut. You made a sound somewhere between a moan of pleasure and a moan of pain. Once you bottomed out, the two of you sighed in perfect tandem. It took everything you had to not collapse on him right then and there, and just let him sit inside of you for the rest of the night. Hell, for the rest of your life.

He stretched you out perfectly – like he was made for you.

You lifted your hips and then sank down on him again. You were still wet from the last few hours of your night with Aki, yet the filthy squelching sound your cunt made as it squeezed around him caught even you off guard.

"What happened to behaving?" He tutted, though he let you set the pace, sliding back and forth in a way that had the both of you panting for more. The stretch felt amazing – like you could feel him in your stomach. His eyelids fluttered. 

Fucking back onto his dick, you couldn't fight the strangled noises that seemed to pour out. "You're so fuckin' big," You gasped. It took all of the strength you had not to collapse from the force of your tremble as he braced his feet on the couch. 

Sensing your struggle, he fucked up into you, meeting your thrusts in the middle and sliding in even deeper. 

"Fuck, I feel it in my guts," You giggled.

"Fuckk... I missed you," he moaned – sinful, sultry, tantalizing. When you looked down, his brows were scrunched together, face contorted with concentration. 

You felt something odd inside of you as you peered down at him – your heart felt full. You knew it was dangerous.

"Missed you more–" You panted right back. It was an honest mistake. (You were thinking it, though.) You didn't mean for it to come out.

His eyes widened. "Yeah? I- hah," he breathed. "You missed me?"

You nodded.

"Shit," he groaned, arching his head off the back of the pillow. His lips parted to make way for an uncharacteristically high-pitched whimper. "Say it again, please."

Aki laid his head back against the seat, biting his lip. He released a shuddering breath. 

You slid down further and further each time you bounced, feeling yourself stretching around him like you were made for it, like taking it was your job. And then, right when you had gotten about half way down on it, you looked at his pretty face. His pretty face flushed with pink, eyes squeezed shut. His head thrown back, hair beginning to stick to his forehead, sweat beading at the base of his neck.

And then you took him down to the hilt. 

"Ah, shit," He trembled, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. He was beginning to lose his composure. Fast.

You rose up a bit, and then sank back down on him. He was deep, so deep that you could feel your walls fluttering around him. You picked up the speed a bit, rising and sinking on his dick with newfound purpose. The stretch burned – made your eyes water, tears blurring your already weak vision. 

But, fuck, it hurt so good. 

You shut your eyes.

"Look at me," He said. When you came to, he was already looking at you. Eyes half-lidded and desperate, tongue running across his lower lip. "Say it– Say it again. That you missed me."

Those words alone were enough to make you vocalize your desire for him. Still too shy to ask him for more, you bounced obediently on his dick. Up and down, up and down – until you were panting like a bitch in heat. "M-Missed you."

Aki's hips twitched beneath you, hands tensing on your backside. Then, slowly, he began to meet your thrusts – lifting himself up to meet you halfway.

And somehow, if it were even possible, he slid in deeper. 

"Oh, fuck..." You cried. "Missed you so fuckin' badly."

"Is that why you called me?" He sighed happily, thrusting up a little harder. "Couldn't stay away?"

"Yes," You answered. "Yes– Missed you so– fuck! Fuck me harder."

Aki's lip twitched. "Feels good, doesn't it? I told you I'd take care of you." 

Then, with no further warning, he gripped your hips roughly and slid into you at full force. You gasped, reaching for his shoulders. The couch lurched, and you felt yourself move with it. Every quick drag of his dick against your walls had your body squeezing him for dear life. 

Aki groaned, deep and guttural, slowing his thrusts for a minute to a much slower pace. "Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, that's good."

The man bit his lip, pulling all the way out again before slamming back in. He repeated this action a few more times, clearly relishing in the way you squirmed and gasped. Or maybe it was the way you looked all fucked out like this, bouncing on his dick like it was your job.

You threw your head back. Aki gasped, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You drew your eyebrows in, letting him do the work, letting the pleasure consume you. You felt so full. "Aki, fuck," you moaned. 

Then he was picking up the pace again and you felt like a fucking ragdoll ; up and down, up and down.

"Harder!"

"Yeah?" He stammered. He sought out your lips with a newfound urgency, snapping his hips up against your ass almost mercilessly. His quiet grunts and gasps turned into moans against your sore lips. Louder and louder. 

So much for being quiet. Shit, you didn't know who was worse – him and his pornographic little moans or you. You sounded like you were being murdered.

It had never felt this way with your husband. Shit. You had no idea sex could even feel so mind-numbingly good. So addictive.

Then, like some sort of miracle, you felt him hit that spot inside of you -- the one that made your toes curl. As your eyes widened, a desperate moan was torn from your lungs.

There it was. 

"You got a lot of nerve, walking around here like you didn't miss this," He mused. He kept his hips in the same spot, moving at the same pace, the same angle, while letting his fingers explore your chest beneath your sweater – and then further up, applying pressure to the sides of your neck. "In my fucking sweater. Telling me to behave."

You were going to pass out at this rate. Letting yourself be thrown around on his hips, you took his strokes, eyes glazed over with mind-numbing pleasure.

And with every thrust, that familiar knot in your stomach began to grow again. You were – for lack of better words – in another realm. You felt yourself get lost in the sensation. Your surroundings dissipated. At that moment, all you saw was his angelic face below you, eyebrows scrunched together, sweat rolling down his scarred chest, lips parted to make way for those sinful, wonderful noises of his. Every time he moved, his muscles tensed and rippled beneath his skin. 

It was breathtaking. He was breathtaking

In your head, there was no room for your husband. This pussy was his.

His hand gripped your throat – using his thumb to cut off your blood supply for seconds at a time before loosening his grip, letting you gasp for air as the blood came rushing back.

"Don't fucking stop," You cried out for him, "Fuck– don't you dare fucking stop."

"You're taking me so well," He grunted against your neck. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin. "So good. Like you were made for it."

He reached for your throat again, and you felt your eyes roll back. You felt lightheaded, and dizzy, and it was almost too much. You were getting close.

Sparing him another glance, you quickly realized how much you wished you hadn't done that. Those lust-filled blue eyes of his were burning with a desire so intense you felt yourself grow even more sensitive – full of nothing but adoration for you, like you were spat out from the heavens onto his lap.

Then, without so much as another word, he stood up, throwing your legs around his waist and taking you with him. He walked you over to the arm rest, laying you down so that your head laid atop the couch cushions and your hips were inclined on the armrest. Then, he spread your legs open and guided himself right back into you.

He bottomed out inside of you once more, but it was different this time. At this angle, he had you seeing stars. At this angle, he found your sweet spot with every single thrust. His brutal speed was unrelenting. Eyes unfocused, your nails scratched at the surface of the couch, searching desperately for something to grab onto while he abused your sore pussy, fucking you like his life depended on it.

"Aki, fuck me!" You gasped out, clutching his bicep for dear life. 

He threw your legs over his shoulders. "Don't worry, I got you, baby."

His hips threw you forward onto the couch. A glass tumbled off the coffee table and fell to the floor, shattering loudly as it collided with the ground. 

"Wait– " you managed to get out. "Wait, I think some– ah– somethin' fell!"

Aki didn't so much as check on the table (where your cookies sat on a plate, long since forgotten, just like the horror movie that was well near finished.).

You felt bad for his neighbors, at this point, because your moans had become a lot more similar to screams in lieu of recent events (recent events, of course, being Aki's goal of repossessing your ability to walk tomorrow). This angle was lethal, and it had your vision going spotty.

"Good girl," he hummed. "Good fucking girl."

And there it was again. The overwhelming, uncontrollable urge to give him everything – your body, your heart. You wanted him to claim you. You wanted to belong to him. 

You wanted to be his, and you hated it.

You were so fucking close to the edge, all you could do was scream his name, letting your eyes roll into the back of your head while he fucked you hard and fast – nothing like the way he had fucked you when the two of you had first hooked up.

"This pussy belongs to me, doesn't it?" He smirked, pressing a kiss to your knee. 

Don't give into him.

Have some decorum.

You couldn't take it anymore. The pleasure was far too much to bear. It was making your fucking mind go blank. 

"You're not cumming until I tell you that you can," He practically commanded you.

You bit back a moan, feeling your legs begin to tremble again with the weight of your impending release. You were close, too close to resist the promise of paradise between your legs, in your core. You raked your eyes up his bare, chiseled chest – his pale, glossy skin, watching as his mouth parted to release a few shaky breaths. The muscles in his abdomen tensed up.

Guess I'm not the only one getting close to losing it.

"Can he fuck you better than I can?" He gasped out, landing another smack on your thighs. 

Mentioning your husband while he was blowing your back out was a low blow. Still, though...

"No, baby, no–" you pleaded. "No, he can't, I swear!" You were desperate to finish, crawling towards your release with the last strength you had left. "'S yours! This pussy is yours!"

His.

You had always been his, hadn't you? The little game of cat-and-mouse the two of you had been playing for so long – the hidden motives, the stolen glasses, the hushed whispers... it all led up to this.

"Mine," He purred, deep and buttery-smooth, and the sound of it almost made you cum right then and there. "You getting close, baby?"

Blissfully, you let the pleasure take over you. "Mhm."

"That's why you can't stop comin' back," He added, "Who else is gonna fuck you like me?"

You gasped out, clawing at the couch, "No one!"

The sensation of being filled to the brim was driving you up the wall. 

"That's fuckin' right– Oh, fuck– Cum with me," He gritted out, persisting and chasing after the promise of paradise. 

You hadn't even noticed, but his thumb had begun rubbing circles on your clit – it had been doing that for a while now. 

Being in no position to refuse, you obeyed. For the second time that day, the coil snapped, and your hips jolted rhythmically against him. You felt your walls clench around his dick, a sensation that made him lurch forward and reach his own orgasm, warmth coating your insides.

"Fuck!" You gasped. You felt your legs tremble at the sensation, walls milking him for all he was worth, ankles clawing at his back.

"You're so good for me," He murmured weakly against your lips, rolling into you – slowly – a few more times before stilling completely. He pulled out only a moment later, then he slid you up on the couch, crawling over the armrest until he was hovering over you, pinning you to the cushions.

You kissed him with every bit of strength you had left – which, admittedly, wasn't much. He grabbed you by the jaw, deepening the kiss. And it was in that warm embrace the two of you stayed for a while, sharing a few messy, open-mouthed kisses. It certainly wasn't the first time, but it felt different.

It was different this time. It was so much more than a post-sex makeout session. 

It was everything. Everything you'd been wanting. Everything you'd needed.

He was everything you needed.

So you continued making out with him, holding him, kissing him until your lips felt numb. Until he pried himself away from you – but didn't go too far, pressing his nose up against yours with a weak, satisfied grin.

"That was the best I've ever had," You remarked quietly. "I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my entire life."

"I can't even think straight right now," He laughed. 

Playfully, you retorted. "Can you ever think straight around me?"

He breathed out a quiet laugh – the sound made your heart squeeze – while leaning in to steal another kiss. "Fuck no," And then another. "But you must enjoy it, because you keep coming back."

"Unfortunately," You sighed. "I'd say that's, like... the only reason I tolerate you."

"What? Because I can fuck you better than anyone else?" He laughed, still a little breathless. "'Don't act like you weren't crying out "I missed you", like, ten minutes ago."

"Maybe I did," You retorted. "You and that big dick of yours."

"If that's what keeps you coming, then I'll keep you cumming," He added. He flopped down next to you. "Does my cooking make up for the week we spent apart?"

"Maybe," you hummed, too blissed out to fully participate in the conversation. 

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, murmuring, "I missed you, troublemaker."

You had just enough energy left to mutter the words, "Missed you, too," before passing out on the couch.

You stood in front of a tall mirror in the bedroom, adjusting the straps of a sexy red dress you hadn't worn in years. The fabric hugged your curves, soft against your skin, and you twirled, hoping to feel cute, desirable, like you used to.

But then your husband entered the room, and you knew something was off. He didn't smile, didn't offer the compliment you were silently hoping for. Instead, he stared at you with a strange mix of amusement and disdain.

"Are you really going to wear that?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your heart sank. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "You've put on weight. That dress... it's not flattering on you at all."

The words hit you like a slap, and you felt the air rush out of your lungs. You tried to hold onto your composure, to not let the hurt show, but it was impossible. The confidence you had been clinging to crumbled in an instant, leaving you feeling completely exposed.

"Fine," you huffed, your voice shaky as you turned away from him. "I'll go change."

You woke up in an unfamiliar, but surprisingly comfortable bed. The sheets were soft against your skin, a gentle warmth cocooning you, but something about the room felt off, foreign, but not at all disconcerting. The crisp white comforter you were swaddled in carried an aroma – notes of spice, amber, and the faintest hint of smoke – very distinct to someone particular.

Blinking sleep from your eyes, you slowly rolled out of bed, your feet meeting the cool floor. Immediately the warm drip between your thighs reminded you what you had done just a moment earlier. Your panties were on, though. Did Aki... put them back on for you?

How thoughtful.

Quietly, you padded towards the living room, your footsteps barely making a sound. The TV was off, the soft glow of the night outside filtering through the curtains. You noticed the table had been cleaned up, everything put away except for the plate of cookies, which now sat on the kitchen table, untouched.

You paused for a moment, glancing around before your eyes were drawn to the glass doors leading to the porch. Through the glass, you saw Aki standing outside, the faint glow of a cigarette illuminating a sliver of his face in the dim light. He was leaning against the railing, his posture relaxed as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around him in the cool night air. The faint breeze tousled his silky black hair.

He was so fucking handsome, it wasn't even funny.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching him. There was something peaceful, almost serene, about the way he stood there, clearly lost in his thoughts. Selfishly, you wondered if you were the only person occupying his mind.

You approached the plate of cookies tentatively. Were his roommates home? (Judging by the fact that all of the cookies were still very much intact and, from what Aki had told you, his roommates would never leave a plate of food untouched, you ventured to say no.) You plucked an extra-soft-looking one off of the tray, then tip-toed over to the glass sliding door anyway, pulling it open and slipping onto the balcony.

It was quiet outside. So quiet, in fact, that – save for the quiet noises of the Tokyo streets down below – you could hear the cherry of his cigarette sizzle as he took a slow, relaxed hit of it.

Aki didn't even have to turn around to know it was you. "Hey," he offered.

"Hey," You smiled softly, "What time'sit?"

Bare, cold feet pressed against the ground, you walked up to the railing, leaning against it right next to him.

"Sometime past midnight. Why?" He breathed out, smoke pouring out from between his pretty lips, "Do you wanna go back to your hotel?"

"Not really. It's getting kinda late," You sighed. You folded your arms over the railing, laying your head down atop them, "But I'd hate to overstay my welcome."

"You can stay here as long as you like, whenever you'd like," He hummed. He drummed his fingers against the balcony. "Stay the night. I can take you back tomorrow."

You took a bite out of the cookie. Then another, and another – and then it was gone. "We have that... that meeting tomorrow, don't we?"

"We do," He sighed, as if he, too, had forgotten about his responsibilities. Then, after a pause, he pinched his cigarette between two fingers, pulling you closer to him by your arm. It wasn't until the two of you were pressed chest-to-chest that he was content, wrapping his long, strong arms around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "We'll figure that out later, though. Just stay with me tonight."

He made a compelling argument. You pressed your nose deeper into the fabric of his sweater, inhaling his scent (and maybe motorboating him, just a little). Instead of answering, you wrapped your arms around his waist. For a moment, you could forget about the rest of the world. As long as you were here with him, buried in his arms, his chest, you were safe. 

You wished you could stay like this forever – nose buried in his sweater while he held you close to him. 

One of Aki's hands left your side so that he could take another puff of his cigarette. His chest rose against your cheek as he held it in, fell as he breathed it out. 

His words were a deep vibration against your ear, "Himeno was right. You are bad for me."

"And that thing you're smoking isn't?" You retorted. "Can't be worse than that."

"It can," He answered back calmly. "That's the problem."

You knit your brows together at that, peeking your head up so that you could peer up at him. Wordlessly, you asked him to elaborate.

Aki sighed, shutting his eyes, like it pained him to speak. Then, he uttered, "I don't think we should keep seeing each other after this."

​​Your heart dropped at his words, a cold wave of disbelief washing over you. For a moment, it was as if the air had been sucked out of your lungs, leaving you breathless. But you fought to tough it out, to keep your voice steady, even as a sharp ache settled in your chest.

"What?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Why?"

Aki didn't answer immediately, and the silence between you was heavy, oppressive. His hand that had been resting on your side stilled, and you felt him tense against you. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice low and strained.

"Because I'm getting attached," he confessed, each word carrying a weight that pressed down on you. "I think I'm falling for you."

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively backed away from him, your arms loosening from around his waist. You needed to see his face to understand what he was really saying. 

"You think or you know?" you asked, more forceful this time, betraying the slightest tremble in your voice.

Aki opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with a mixture of regret and something deeper, something you couldn't quite name. His silence was louder than any words could have been, the truth hanging in the air between you, undeniable and painful.

"I know," he finally admitted, the confession heavy with finality. He looked at you with a softness that made your heart ache even more. 

This is bad.

This is very bad, you thought. In fact, the only thing that made it worse was the fact that you found yourself caught somewhere between happy and devastated that he returned your feelings. What should you do? Should you run away? Run towards him? Say fuck it and pour your heart out?

"Shit," You sighed.

"I know," He nodded slowly, wrapping his lips around the butt of his cigarette and taking a deep breath. "Look, I don't... expect you to return my feelings. I know you've got a life back in Kyoto, and if you wanna pretend this entire conversation never happened, then I'm okay with that," He turned to you, breathing smoke out to the side, into the evening air, "But just... I can't keep pretending I don't want something more than sex from you. It's bad for me."

You couldn't think of anything to say. No, you could think of a thousand things to say, but would it be good enough? 

There was no possible combination of words that could convey your feelings. So, instead, you looked down on the street below – the cars and their dim, red lights, the people passing by – and you said nothing.

"I'm sorry," He offered after a beat.

"Why are you sorry?" You asked, gaze never once straying from the scenery. If you looked at him, you didn't know what would happen. Would everything – all of the feelings you'd been bottling up – come pouring out?

"Because I ruined everything," He uttered. His eyes were terribly sad, downcast like a rainy blue day as he continued to smoke. "This thing we have going on."

You huffed a quiet breath, shaking your head, "I don't know what to say."

After a pause, Aki ashed the end of the cigarette, "You don't have to say anything."

"But, I do," You trailed off, "I have so much to say, and yet, I can just... I don't want to say it."

"Why not?" He implored you.

"Because," You sighed, "If I say it, then it'll be real."

You turned to him, finally, and you wished you hadn't – he was looking at you like you had the entire universe and all of its stars trapped behind your eyes. Like you were everything that mattered to him.

Like you were everything he ever wanted.

"I figured that if I left it alone for a while, then it would go away, but..." Your voice trickled down to a whisper – it was difficult to continue the conversation when he was staring at you so lovingly, "You were right, earlier. I did miss you. More than I should have."

The words were painful as they slipped off of you tongue, invaded the space between your body and his. His eyes were windows into a calm shore, tranquil blue waves licking at the shore – and, gently, they searched your gaze for an answer you simply couldn't provide. The remains of his cigarette smoldered between his finger tips.

Similarly, the agony of your confession came in waves, sending tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"I was thinking about you every day we were apart, and I felt like the worst fucking person in the entire fucking world because," You choked back what sounded like a sob. Your chest was tight, so tight – it hurt to breathe around him. Finally, you broke, "Every time I looked into my husband's eyes, all I could think about were yours."

It was true. Every single last word of it. 

He stood before you broken, pretty eyes watering. Still, like the champ he was, he kept his composure.

You wished you shared his ability to do that so effortlessly. Chest heaving, you began to cry.

"He's so terrible to me, Aki," You sobbed, rubbing the tears away from your eyes like that would stop them from coming out, "It's my fault I settled down so fucking early, and I was supposed to be a good wife and– and deal with the consequences of the life that I chose." Clawing at your chest – at his sweater – you added, "He wants me to retire when I come back from this trip so I can be his housewife. I don't wanna go, Aki. I don't wanna lose what little freedom I have left."

Aki furrowed his brows, frowning softly as he took a hit of his cig, "You don't want to settle down?"

"With him? I thought I did, years and years ago, but I was dumb and stupid and young and–" You gasped, "I never had someone to intervene and tell me to slow down when I was young, but you– you..."

He looked at you so tenderly, so lovingly, that you had to pause to regain your decorum. 

"I hate that I miss you– that I want you, that I crave you," You choked out – as if the words were ripped from the very depths of your soul, blinking up at him with teary eyes, "I wanna leave it all behind sometimes and just– just– say 'fuck it'and run away with you. I'd give it all up in a heartbeat– all of it, and that scares me, because you could be gone tomorrow and I'd just be–" You sobbed, "A fucking trainwreck!"

You began to cry again, shoulders trembling with the weight of your sobs. Aki tutted softly, wrapping his arms around you once more and holding you tight to his chest. His arms were a large warmth that surrounded you, muffled the sounds of the city streets until his steady heartbeat was all you could hear – the deep timbre of his voice as he spoke so sweetly to you;

"I would never leave. I'll always be there for you."

Then he exhaled, breathing the scent of nicotine into the evening air.

You wished you could believe him. Though he had done nothing to disprove his loyalty to you, you couldn't help the slightest pang of pain you felt when you imagined him leaving you for someone younger, prettier... better.

"He took my youth, Aki," You sniffed. He smelled like home. "He took everything from me. God, I hate him."

Simply, he said, "Then, leave him."

"I can't," You sighed – something between a humorless chuckle and a sob prying itself from your chest, "I feel so trapped. My whole life has revolved around him for so long I–" You wiped your eyes, "I'd have to start all over again."

"Then start over again," He answered simply, again. His hand slid up from the base of your neck to the side of your face, thumb swiping your tears away oh-so gently, "You don't have to cry. We can figure it out together, yeah?"

You wanted to.

You wanted to do that so fucking bad.

Why couldn't you?

You deserved it.

"But I don't know what I feel," You retorted. How could he speak to you like you were anything less than a complete wreck? How could he speak to you like he wanted to sort it out? "I know there's something there between us. I think– I think I've had feelings for you, too, but I didn't want to label it, because that will make it real–"

"You don't have to know what you feel," He offered in response, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter, until the unique combination of notes that made up his scent flooded your nostrils, "Just let yourself feel it. I'm here for you whenever you need me, okay? No need to label it."

"No, that's not fair to you," You shook your head, but wrapped your arms around his lower back anyway, "I can't keep stringing you along when I don't even know where I'm at. You're right – it's not good for you."

Aki raised a brow, slightly humored by your words – as was evident by the teasing lilt in his words, "You just said you had feelings for me. That you'd leave your life with your husband behind to be with me. That everytime you look into his eyes, you wish they were mine instead. That sounds pretty clear to me."

You exhaled sharply, exasperated, "But, I don't know what–"

"You don't have to know what it means," He answered before you could even ask the question, "All you have to know is that they're there. We don't have to put a name on anything, right now – or make any big decisions just yet."

"Then what?" You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "What should we do now?"

"Enjoy the ride," Was his response. "However long it lasts. Tomorrow isn't promised, anyway, right?"

"I can't even promise you tomorrow," You replied. "My entire life is a mess right now."

"Are you busy tomorrow?" He asked, stepping back. His lips wrapped around the cigarette. Tentatively, he pulled another hit from it.

"No. Why?"

Aki shrugged, breathing smoke out into the air, "Then we'll take it one day at a time. No need to cry, okay?"

He was so kind to you – his gentle words were so starkly different to your husband's much harsher ones. Your heart thrummed wildly in your chest. Your lungs were moving way faster than they reasonably should have been moving.

So, after a few minutes – when the tears had subsided and it was nothing but you and him pressed up against one another on his silent balcony – you pointed at his cigarette (what little was left of it, anyway), commenting, "I kinda wanna try another one. Is that crazy?"

Aki laughed at that, instinctively reaching up to his lips with the cigarette to take a puff, "Nah, but why bother? You're gonna hack it up again."

"So?" You asked. "I haven't craved a cigarette in years before you came along."

"I'm a bad influence on you, aren't I?" He mused quietly. His hand ghosted over your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake, gripping your chin and gently tilting your gaze up to meet his eyes. "I have a better idea."

You raised a brow at his antics. Wordlessly, he took a long, lazy drag or his cigarette. His thumb tugged down on your lower lip, begging for entry – which you provided obediently. 

He was the image of sin, pretty blues half-lidded and trained on the place where his calloused thumb met your lip. He brought your face closer to his slowly, like he was trying to gauge your feelings before he made his move. 

Then – when his mouth brushed delicately against yours – he tugged your lip open in tandem with his own, breathing the smoke into your mouth.

You breathed it in – you didn't choke on it this time, but, rather, welcomed it. You welcomed the stream of smoke that flowed from his mouth into yours. Eyelids fluttering shut, you held it in, breathing it out just as slowly as it had entered you.

Aki's gaze flickered between your eyes and your lips. Then – though you weren't entirely sure who had moved first – he closed the gap and sealed his lips to yours.

It was slow, this time, a hot, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, and you clutched at his shoulders. It was sloppy and it left you feeling lightheaded, high off of the taste of him. 

With a quiet moan, your lips slipped against his, tangling your fingers in his hair, gripping the fabric of his sweater.

He pulled away slowly (probably sensing that this would escalate just as quickly as the last kiss had, and that you were still feeling a little sore), keeping his long fingers cupped around your cheek, toying mindlessly with the hairs at the side of your face.

You hummed contentedly, "I'm not sure what's more addictive; you or those cigarettes."

Aki's lips curled into a devilish little smirk, taking one last drag of his cigarette. "Put me in your mouth and you'll find out."

Right now, I'd like nothing more than that, You thought, but chose not to voice those thoughts.

Instead, you laughed, placing your hands on his strong shoulders and giving him a playful shove. It was all so painfully domestic – enough to make you forget about the rest of the world, your husband, your life in Kyoto.

Then, you stepped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, burying your head in between his shoulder blades. You took a deep whiff of his detergent (or cologne?), and thought, I could easily get used to this.

Like this, I could easily fall in love with him.

That thought was intimidating enough as it was. But, then, as he placed his hand over your hands where they were clasped around the front of his torso – and sighed peacefully – you found yourself thinking:

I never want this to end.

a/n: WHAT DID YALL THINKKKKKKKK! tehehe. I loved this chapter and i could NOT WAIT to release it. i just want my babies to be happy. thank you again for all of your support on this story! i'll have that new part out soon i swear!! mama loves yall, muah x.

credits: UNKOWN ATM. I found the cover pic on pinterest unfortch. If you know the artist, please let me know, so I can credit them properly for their work!!! This is NOT MY BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGGG. I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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