#vine leaves press

[rozmorris]

‘Let the narrative bend where it wants to’ – memoirist Joseph Lezza @lezzdoothis

Joseph Lezza’s first published book is a grief memoir, surrounding the death of his father from pancreatic cancer and the years that followed. It began as an MFA assignment to write a lyric essay, and once he’d finished he found he needed to write another and another, until he had a whole book, full of unexpected turns, resolutions and reconciliations – I’m Never Fine: Scenes And Spasms on…

[readerviews]

"Raven's Grave" by Charlotte Stuart

A multi-layered novel crime drama fans will love. #books #bookreview #reading #readerviews

Raven’s Grave Charlotte StuartVine Leaves Press (2023)ISBN: 978-3988320223Reviewed by Tammy Ruggles for Reader Views (11/2023) “Raven’s Grave” by award-winning Charlotte Stuart is a powerful drama set against the stunning backdrop of the Alaskan wilderness. It focuses on the mysterious death of a young boy who dies in a late-night ceremony meant to heal a permanent limp. The only person…

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

Fairy x Reader PT2

PT1

warning: somno, dubcon to consensual, size difference, aphrodisiac, tentacles(?)(vines😩)

Your little fairy friend became more enamored with you as time went on. Every night he came into your home and fucked your soft, plump lips.

And recently, he had gotten brave. Tonight he flew to the middle of the bed, standing over your lower belly and peeking down at your panties.

He had been waiting for a night hot enough for you to sleep in your underwear since the blanket was too heavy to lift.

He reached out his hand and felt your damp panties, his wings fluttering in excitement as he pressed down, biting his lip when his hand met your clit.

He could tell it was your clit when your hips bucked slightly, causing him to be tossed in the air before landing on your chubby belly.

The fairy shook off the fall before returning to his task, this time sticking out his tongue to get a taste of your pussy for the first time.

Licking the damp fabric made his wings twitch, his cock rising to attention from your taste alone.

How could he go back to being a good little fairy when you were so tempting?

For the first time he, he was finally able to pull back the fabric off your pussy, revealing it to him.

It was so pretty, smelling so sweet and when he touched it, the fairy noticed how soft and wet you were.

He chittered in excitement, some of his fairy dust landing on your cunt, causing you to whimper softly in your sleep.

The fairy purred, positioning his pretty little cock at your entrance, trying so hard to fuck you. It frustrated him, not being able to fill you up and make you cry out in pleasure.

As he focused on fucking you, the opening of your eyes and shifting of you upper body went unnoticed by the little fae.

He out a squeak, his wings flapping in distress as he was picked up by his tunic, held in the air. The fairy’s face turned beet red when he spotted your sleepy face looking at him.

It looked like he had been caught.

“So you’re the one that’s been giving me wet dreams every night…”

His face turned red, and a little jingle could be heard as he shook his head and held up his hands to try and act innocent.

“Don’t lie, I caught you, you little-“

You lifted his tunic, causing him to squeak and squirm, his cock still hard and at attention.

“Here’s the proof, you’re covered in my cum…”

He whimpered when you brought him closer to your face, his pointed ears twitching as he pouted apologetically. He reached out his hand to touch your nose, hoping you wouldn’t be too angry with him.

“You should have just introduced yourself. Hmph, better than leaving me all wet and needy every night.”

The fairy nearly yelped when you poked out your tongue, touching it to his tip. “Ahh… it’s really sweet…”

He held onto your chubby cheeks as your tongue twirled around his leaking cock, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.

His little hips bucked and his wings fluttered pathetically while you looked into his eyes.

You teased the poor thing, giving his flat tummy kisses and toying with his cock until he was crying and begging you through tears to give him a break. Once he had cum all he could, you sat him down on your breasts, watching as he panted and buried his head into your cleavage.

“There, is that what you wanted, little fairy?” the feeling of your finger petting his head made him coo and reach out to pull your hand closer.

The fairy was completely attached to you now, wrapping his legs around your hand and clinging to you desperately.

In the following months you and the fairy grew closer, and he was eventually able to communicate his name. It was Fern, and the fairy seemed very adamant that you know his name.

“Fern, are you coming in for lunch?”

You always called out to him through the window by the garden, and he always came flying in, hovering in front of your face and planting a kiss on your lips before settling on your shoulder to accompany you wherever you went.

Fern kept your garden alive, making sure your vegetables grew large and your fruit stayed fresh and sweet. He always came when he heard you…

But today, he hadn’t answered when you called.

You donned your coat and stepped into your shoes before walking out into the forest, calling his name ever so often.

Through rumors you had heard trolls and evil spirits lived in the forest, but before you met Fern you haven’t believed in such things. Now that you knew fairies existed, was it that much of a stretch to say evil creatures existed as well?

It made you worry that something had hurt or captured him! He had told you a few things about his people, communicating through writing. Although you knew he could take care of himself and knew the ways of the forest far better than you did, you still wanted to find him as quickly as possible.

“Fern? Are you here?”

A rustling noise to your left made you jump, and before you could reach you were being lifted up and carried away by a humanoid figure. A scream left your throat, but your mouth was quickly covered, a familiar scent making you pause.

“Shh, shh, my love. It’s just me.”

You blinked rapidly, looking up to see… Fern!?

He was nearly six feet tall now, his glimmering wings shining as he ran through the forest. The sound of trees being crushed and stomped on had gone unnoticed by you until now.

You were being chased!

“Ahh, I hadn’t expected them to be that angry…” Fern said, holding you to his chest as his wings began to flap. You caught sight of a few trolls charging towards you, their mossy, rock like bodies making easy work of the trees around them.

“Hold on tight, dear. We’ll leave for a bit until they calm down…”

He launched into the sky, his face nuzzling you softly to keep you calm as the two of you flew away just before the trolls could reach you.

“W-what did you do to make them so angry with you!?” you yelled over the wind as he dipped closer to the ground, landing in a field of flowers.

“Stole a growth potion.”

“WHAT!?”

He smiled, peppering kisses on your neck. “I had to… can’t you understand how unbearable it is being unable to properly mate with my lover?”

He set you down on a bed of flowers, and their vines tickled your body, wrapping around your legs and pulling at your underwear. “Now that my body is bigger, my control over nature is much stronger…”

The vines pulled your legs apart, keeping them spread open so he could watch the vines rub against your clit.

“F-Fern…”

Noticing your flustered expression, Fern purred in satisfaction, his wings fluttering as he lined up his cock with your tight hole, pressing on it. “Tight… might have to stretch you out…”

He pulled back, and the vines slowly pushed into your warm cunt, stretching and growing inside of you. You cried out in pleasure, whimpering while he rubbed circles into your clit.

Something was pumped into your body, making your mind grow hazy and your body hot. All that was on your mind was getting fucked stupid by these vines, taking them into your holes like a good girl…

One entered your ass, pumping in and out as it lubricated you with the aphrodisiac it produced. It was enough to have you drooling and clinging to your lover, unable to do anything but babble and beg for more.

“You can’t comprehend how badly I’ve wanted this… how much I need you…”

The feeling of his soft, lithe fingers grabbing your fat was overpowered by the vines pulling out, making you whine needily. “P-Please, fern…”

One look at your hazy eyes had his cock drooling with need.

“Shh, shh, love… I’ll fill you back up, don’t you worry…”

He cooed, his shimmering wings flapping uncontrollably as he finally pushed his cock into you, his entire body shaking. “Oh gods, oh my love..”

It was better than he could have ever imagined. You were so warm and tight, and looking down as your fat pussy swallowed his cock was enough to have him flushing red.

You looked so good, fucked out of your mind and holding onto him like a lifeline. It made home feel like a proper mate to have you in this state, dependent on him for pleasure.

“That’s it, darling, my precious flower… cum for me again, just like that…”

He pressed against your cervix, biting down on your neck. You would have never thought he was capable of this, dominating you in such a primal way.

The tables had really turned…

But he was still the sweet fairy you had come to love, burying his face into your neck and letting out the prettiest of moans, tears of pleasure pooling down his cheeks…

It was nearly nightfall when the effects of the aphrodisiac finally wore off, leaving you exhausted and a bit sore. Fern seemed tired too, but he quickly scooped you up, flying back home with you.

“I don’t have much time left before the potion wears off… and I want to spend all of the remaining time holding you…”

He settled down on the bed with you, gently brushing back your hair and kissing your forehead. It felt so good, getting to hold your plump form on his lap and grab fistfuls of your fat with his hands. Fern had wanted this for so long, yearned to touch and feel your warmth with the body of a man.

“Fern… you know I love you no matter what form you take, right?”

You caressed his cheek, leaning forward to muzzle him softly. He sighed and pulled you closer so he could rest his chin on your head.

“I know… that doesn’t mean the knowledge of being too small to give you what you need doesn’t hurt any less…”

The two of you stayed like that, curling up together in bed, too exhausted to stay sitting up.

“… I enjoyed today, Fern…”

He blushed when you kissed his cheek, your body pressed against his. “I did too… more than you could ever know.”

“We should do it again sometime…”

The two of you held hands, his eyes softening as his wings fluttered gently. “… yes…”

He couldn’t help but look at your chubby belly, knowing he’d bred you so full of his seed that it was slightly distended.

Fern began to think of ways he could make the potion more… permanent. Now that he had a taste of life as a human… he wanted more.

When you woke up the next morning, Fern was sitting on your pillow, his form returned back to that of a fairy. All you could do was hold him close, kissing the top of his head to comfort him as his wings drooped.

He wanted you… and he’d find a way to be with you…

part 3?

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @buckoothecow @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans

[ervotica]

please don’t go, i love you so

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x reader

warnings: a lil toxic!coriolanus, he’s rough with r, possessive talk, quite tame in this but imma tamp it up soon, a bit of making out and being lovey

note: i do not careee about who likes this character or who doesn’t okay i am writing about him because he is literally one of the hottest men i’ve ever seen, kay? i’m not here for moral dilemmas thank u, enjoy (yes i will follow up w smut and my young!coriolanus snow reqs are OPEN!) please please remember to comment and rb, it helps me so much!

hunger games masterlist

Coriolanus is possessive.

It sickens him to his very core, sends nausea rolling like a wave through his chest; he’s not a child. Yet, the mere sight - thought - of you engaging with any other man, even innocently, is enough to have him seeing red: white-knuckled, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to eliminate any and all threat standing between him and his girl.

It's the way those boys look at you. As if you're a piece of meat, a toy to play with that they're just begging, aching to sink their teeth into, to leave a permanent mark on. The boys in this district are barbaric- that's what Coryo thinks anyway. It's disgusting, the things that he knows they think about you.

It's been a long day in District Twelve. Coriolanus' grey jumpsuit rubs and itches and his skin crawls with an uneasiness settled at the pit of his stomach. It's a warm day, his skin sticky as he peels the top half of the jumpsuit from his slender arms and ties it neatly around his waist. The grass by the lake is damp with the leftover dew from the morning.

He catches sight of you amongst the trees, weaving and bobbing through the undergrowth as you do, your lithe fingers brushing against leaves. Your head dips and then raises as his tall figure creeps into your peripheral vision. A smile graces your features, real and earnest with all your teeth.

There’s a slight waver in your countenance when you catch Coriolanus’ own expression; his brows are knit, pushing his forehead into a crease, lips pushed together tersely.

You walk straight into his arms, balancing yourself on one leg and pushing your shoulder underneath his armpit. You needle your way in, your forehead rested against his chin, so close you can feel his breath against your face.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you murmur. You reach up to push out the ridge in his brow and your thumb traces the bridge of his nose in a way that couldn’t be perceived as anything other than unbridled affection. “Something wrong?”

His slender fingers settle against your waist. You shiver at the contact when he spins and pushes you back into a tree. The bark digs into your back as you shuffle to meet his eyes— his eyes that have suddenly clouded with something dark and possessive.

“What is it?” you ask again; your voice is becoming more strained the longer he stays quiet, your own hands snaking up his arms like vines and squeezing.

He shakes his head and drops his face to look at you properly.

“Nothing. I have you.”

“Okay.” You click your tongue, tilting your head at him. His face gravitates towards yours, breath hot and mixing with your own. “You gonna kiss me or what, handsome?”

He doesn’t need any encouragement, surging forward to catch your lips between his own; his hands are rough, kneading the soft flesh of your hip. His other makes its way up to your jaw, fingertips pressing so hard you’re sure he’s branding you. You’ve never been kissed like this, with such fervour and passion and need. You gasp into his mouth and your arm wraps around his neck to pull him further into you.

“Coryo,” you pant.

“Shh,” he forces out, his fingers suddenly an iron grip around your neck; the hollow of your throat is bared to him and bobs under his cruel touch.

“Coriolanus, that hurts,” you say, strangled. His eyes are alight with a fire, a blazing inferno roaring in his head as he squeezes your throat and laughs.

You wheeze, clutching at his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip. He obliges you, running a thumb over the indents he’s left in your soft skin to smooth them away.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?” he asks. His head drops to the juncture of your neck, arms hooking loosely around your middle as he relaxes into you. “I just wanted to feel you. To know you’re mine.”

The incident is forgotten as soon as it ends. He has a charm in that sort of way; you don’t see his faults even when he shows them to you clear as day. You’ll never see what’s right in front of you even if he wants you to.

“Of course I’m yours, Coryo. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The way they all look at you here…” He falters. “Like they all want you. Like they want to take you away from me. You’re mine- they have to understand that.”

“No one could take me away from you,” you giggle, your temple resting against the tip of his shoulder so you can duck your head to meet his eyes. “I know where I belong. And that’s right here with you.”

“Good.” He mouths at your neck like a man starved, arms coming right up until they’re hooked just underneath your own. He pulls away heaving for breath.

“Wanna show me just where you belong?”

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Okay but imagine sex pollen with Miguel fucking you on your back and then even when he cums he just keeps going and it’s spilling out and refractory period who and you’re overstimulated and he’s like no no you’re not allowed to tap out and he — and he —!!!!!

Sorry

MONA. You put me in a fucking MOOD LMFAO This is way longer than I intended. And its pure filth 🫣

Word Count: 2k+

NSFW below the cut.

Part 2

...

Earth 703- A post-apocalyptic world in which New York was nothing more than a ferocious jungle.

You stared off into the distance, the familiar city skyline overrun by wild flora and thick green vines sneaking in through broken windows and cracked concrete. 

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself, eyes now trained on the massive dragonfly that whizzed by you. Miguel grunted, punching a large finger over the screen of his watch.

The mission was supposed to be simple: Catch the anomaly—send them back to their own universe—go home. That’s it. No detours, no distractions. In and out.

“Are we close?” You questioned, pressing up against Miguel’s side at the sight of another massive insect, “I wanna get the hell outta here.”

“We just missed him.” He sucked his teeth. His mask disappeared in a flash of digital pixels to reveal his scowling face, narrowed red eyes and brows furrowed in frustration.

You’ve been wandering around the city for forty-five minutes, trekking through the godforsaken jungle with no luck. The anomaly, a Prowler from some random universe (you couldn’t remember, you weren’t paying attention at the meeting), was clever, quickwitted, and inconspicuous. You’d wished Miguel had chosen Jess for this one, but he’d refused. He’d used the excuse of her pregnancy but really, she’d already complained to you beforehand that the humidity would do her hair no favors. 

“What now?” You questioned, plopping down at the base of a bulky tree trunk a few feet away. The trees were so massive that the branches seemed to kiss the sky, monstrous green leaves blocking out most of the morning sunlight.

“Keep lookin’,” he huffed, running his fingers through his hair, “we’re getting close.”

“Miguel,” you whined, your head thumping back against the trunk, “you said that forty-five minutes ago.”

“Get up,” he demanded, shooting out a web of electric red to swiftly pull you toward him. You yelped, crossing the distance within seconds, crashing into Miguel's sturdy body.

“I hate when you do that.” Your words were muffled by his broad chest, peeling your sweaty cheek away from the synthetic material of his suit. The tiniest smile ghosted over his lips. 

“I know.” 

… 

You’d left Miguel on his own for a few minutes. 

You’d gotten distracted, swinging up into one of the treetops to observe one of the colorful parrots squawking in the distance. It’d looked just like the ones back home, except this one was enormous, probably bigger than a medium-sized dog. 

“Fuck!” You’d heard Miguel yell from down below, spitting out curses in Spanish, choking on the words as coughs racked his body. He’d been waving his hands in front of his face to clear his vision to no avail. You watched as his body reacted immediately to whatever it was that ailed him, his body hunching over as if in pain.

“Miguel!” You dropped to your feet in front of him and attempted to reach for him, but he recoiled, fearing your touch. 

“Stay back!” he wheezed, crouching down and holding his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” he groaned, his eyes screwed shut as his body trembled, his fingers weaving through his thick hair strands to violently tug from the root.

“Stop,” you scolded, getting on your knees in front of him to pry his hands away, “tell me what’s wrong so that I can help you.” You shoved him down by the shoulders so that he was sitting with his knees out, bringing a hand to his face and yanking it up by his chin. His eyes, normally a mahogany shade glowed a disturbing red, his pupils dilated. 

“Ran into a plant,” he forced the words from his throat, his skin gleaming with sweat, “s-some flower, I don’t know, some kind of pollen.” He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shit, ok, ok, ok, we can fix this,” you panicked, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning, skin blistering hot. “Where does it hurt.”

Miguel remained silent, breathing harshly through his nostrils as beads of sweat began to trickle down his face. He looked down between his legs and you followed his line of vision. Oh. OH.

His bulge was tenting through his suit, fighting against the restraints of the digital fabric. The area glimmered brightly before his cock burst through the pixels, flopping out and twitching with need.

Miguel was big. 

His cock stood tall and proud, bobbing against his stomach, the tip leaking a thin bead of precum that ran down his length. 

You stared for a moment, transfixed on the angry red tip before you found your voice. “Miguel—”

“You need to go,” he spat viciously, his fangs protruding as if to scare you away, “if you don't I’ll—” He stopped himself, lips pressed into a tight line as his chest began to heave. You could hear his heart rate accelerate with every passing second.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, your hand hovering over his cock. He looked away from you, his skin flushed from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. “Miguel, please, let me help you.”

“I don’t want to force—”

“You’re not forcing me,” you breathed, letting the pad of your finger tap against his tip, smearing his precum over the surface. Your cunt throbbed, squeezing tight with an overwhelming desire to be filled. “I want to.” You cooed, your tone causing his eyes to flutter. 

Miguel grunted, grabbing your hand and placing it over his throbbing cock.

“Then help me.” He hissed.

…

You needed a new suit. Immediately.

Miguel had torn into it, ripping the seams apart from the crotch, all the way up to your neck, revealing your chest and glistening pussy. You had no time to complain, mewling when he spread your thighs apart with his large hands, his eyes trained on the heat between your legs before diving in to eat from you.

You squealed, your hands flying to his head as he kissed and licked and spit over your cunt, his nose pressing against your clit. His tongue dipped into your hole a few times before licking one long stripe up to your bundle of nerves, swirling his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth.

Okay—you’ve had your pussy eaten before, but goddamn never like this, never like it was a matter of life or death, as if your pussy alone was the answer to all things.

Miguel continued his ministrations, releasing a growl every few moments, licking to oblivion until you thought his jaw would lock. 

He made you see stars, groaning loudly as you gushed into his mouth. He savored your tangy taste as he lapped at your wet folds, making sure to lick up every drop he could find. 

His mouth and chin were soaked in your juices when he came back up, and it shot a fresh wave of arousal through your veins. His hand reached out to cup your face, his thumb smearing over the traces of his cum dotting across your cheek when you’d sucked him off earlier, catching some of it in your mouth before he'd pulled out, wanting to paint your face with it at the last moment. 

He dipped his thumb into your mouth, forcing you to clean it as he slid his cock over your messy pussy, smearing the underside in your juices. His body shook with need, his eyes glazed and lidded, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he whimpered something about you being so wet.

He pulled out his thumb from your mouth with a pop and watched how you panted underneath him, your exposed skin now covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, positioning your legs over his shoulders before draping himself over you, folding you in half, “I’m sorry if I’m not gentle.”

Gentle? You were a big girl, you didn’t need him to be—

You cried out as soon as he pressed his fat head into your tiny hole, forcing your pussy to open up for him as he pushed in deeper without giving you much time to adjust.

“Fuck,” you sobbed, your hands scrambling to grip his arms as he began to thrust his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you at a bruising pace. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Miguel began to babble, grunting when your cunt squeezed the life from him, the slick noises of your drenched pussy egging him on. 

Maybe…gentle would have been nice knowing now how big he was, but you understood the circumstances of the situation. This was meant to be anything but gentle.

He had you coming again, your back arching and your bare chest pressing against his clothed one before he filled you with his own spend, pushing it as deep as he could into you. He pulled out harshly causing you to moan, watching his cum leak from your swollen pussy before slapping his length over your folds a few times and dipping back in.

He fucked you harder this time until your pussy throbbed and burned from the size of him, filling you up with so much of his cum, and delighting in the way it dripped out of you. 

“Again.” He grunted, pushing his cock into your convulsing walls, slamming in deep as he licked and sucked on your nipples, leaving red love marks over your skin. You sobbed from the pleasure, feeling his weight push you into the ground.

“I can’t!” You cried, pushing weakly against his shoulders.

“You can and you will.” Miguel commanded. He couldn’t stop, barely giving you a minute to catch your breath after making you both cum again before sinking into your searing heat, stretching you beyond your limits.

You were lightheaded and spent, losing count of the number of orgasms he’d given you. Miguel growled, pulling out his cock from your abused hole and shooting his load over your body. He pressed it into your skin, smearing it over your breasts and tender nipples, down your abdomen, and finally, over your burning pussy. 

He paused, his eyes tracing over your fucked out form before reaching down to pump himself with the leftover cum in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Hermosa,” he whispered, draping himself over you again, “I can’t stop, you feel too good. So fucking tight.” He slurped your nipple into his hot mouth, sucking the taste of him from your skin as he pushed his large cock into you. 

Your eyes fluttered and you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth, focusing on nothing but Miguel's rich voice:

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m—

…

It was nightfall by the time Miguel was satiated.

You felt weak, eyes heavy with sleep and body limp. Miguel sat against a tree and had you cradled in his arms, your body nestled comfortably between his legs. He rested his head over yours, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt trapped in your hair. 

“See that flower?” He muttered, pointing straight ahead at a few giant white daisies clustering around a tree. They were massive, like everything else in that universe, the stems taller than Miguel when he was standing at his full height. You nodded sleepily, ignoring the ache in your still exposed cunt. “Don’t go near it.”

“Got it.” You absentmindedly played with the frayed pieces of your suit, letting Miguel shield your exposed skin from the elements.

You probably should’ve left already, should’ve gone back to HQ for a much-needed shower and rest, probably schedule another meeting, but Miguel wouldn’t budge, his grip on you tightening whenever you so much as shifted against him.

“Quèdate quieta.” He grunted.

“Miguel,” you protested, “we have to go home. The anomaly—”

“I know, hermosa,” he murmured softly, “I know.” You never seen him this soft before, nor speak in such a gentle way, not with anyone and least of all, not with you.

You both sat there in silence, processing what happened while listening to the sounds of the jungle, the birds chirping in the distance, the leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You sighed, playing with his interlocked fingers over your stomach. It was strangely intimate (despite everything else that happened), having him coddle you. 

“Miguel?”

“Mm?” 

“You better get me a suit like yours.” 

“What’s wrong with the fabric ones from HQ?”

“It’s a waste if you’re just gonna rip it off again.” You heard him snort out a breath, just the tiniest thing that implied he understood your meaning. You were hoping this wouldn’t be the first nor last time you’d be under him. “We got a deal?” 

Miguel chuckled, his hand leaving the safety of your abdomen to venture down into your sopping-wet folds. You bit your lip, spreading your tired thighs, whimpering as his thick fingers swirled inside.

“Deal, Hermosa.”

...

Quèdate quieta- Keep still

[moonstruckme]

hello mae! I had a request I’d like to give you. I was wondering if you could write a poly!marauders x reader where reader has never slept beside anybody before bc intimacy isn’t something she’s used to therefore she’s not used to being that close to anybody. everytime she shifts she’s afraid to wake up the boys, or she just doesn’t know what to do.

I know you have “first night with marauders” so if this is too similar I totally get it. 🖤

Hello sweetheart, thank you for your request!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 990 words

You’re terrible at this. 

Each of the boys is sound asleep. Sirius has his leg hooked over yours and one of his arms tossed over James’ chest, Remus’ hand has to be halfway numb underneath your pillow, and James is snoring softly on the far side of the bed from you. They’re all so obviously comfortable, practiced in resting like this, whereas you started to get stiff a half hour ago and you’ve been unable to make yourself relax since. 

Every movement takes a year, you’re trying so hard not to wake them. You feel like the girl in a movie who’s trying to sneak out of the bed of a one-night stand, all taut muscles and bated breath, except you only want to roll over. Slow, microscopic movements have to be the key. 

Your back crackles softly when you shift your weight onto your other hip, and a sigh escapes you before you can stop it. 

A low, croaky hum comes from just in front of your face. Your brain is a tempest of expletives. 

“Hey.” You can nearly feel the gravel of Remus’ voice buzzing against your lips. “You’re up.” 

Muddled with sleep, you can’t tell if his tone is reprimanding or simply observational. “Sorry,” you whisper regardless. 

“Wha’ for?” Movement under the pillow beneath your head, and then a long-fingered hand is nestling beneath your cheek. His scars and calluses slide familiarly over your skin. “Can’t sleep?”

Nope, and now it’s two of you. Guilt grows vines around your ribcage. Remus sounds more awake by the second. 

“I’ll be okay.” You press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, hoping to mollify him. “Go back to sleep.” 

Your boyfriend makes a half-aware disgruntled sound. “No, not without you.” 

As exhausted as you are, you have to bite down on a smile. When he’s uninhibited like this, Remus really is quite the flirt, all his dorky, sweet thoughts coming out before he can remember to stop them. He’s nearly as bad as James. 

You think he must see a hint of your smile in the dark, because Remus’ own lips tilt upwards. He leans closer to kiss the cool skin of your cheek, the only cold part of you thanks to a heavy duvet and the body heat of three lovely boyfriends. A kiss for a kiss. 

He leaves his lips there as he murmurs, “What’s wrong, dove?” 

Well, funny he should ask. What’s wrong now is the slight tickle of his stubble against your cheek, the hoarse quality to his voice in your ear. His breath warms your cold skin, and he slides a hand across the space between you to rest on your hip, layered in between the sheets and your pajama bottoms. 

But you know that’s not what he’s asking. 

“I can’t get very comfortable,” you confess, speaking so softly he wouldn’t be able to make it out if his ear weren’t two inches from your lips, “and I didn’t want to wake anyone up.” 

Remus hums, as though this is a prognosis he’d already reached and was merely waiting for you to confirm. You can hear Sirius’ voice as clearly as if he were awake: know it all. 

“They can sleep through anything,” he says. “One time the fire alarm went off, and James didn’t even stir. Don’t worry about them.” You must be emanating guilt, because he strokes his thumb over your hip pacifyingly. “And I don’t mind being woken up. I’m in and out of sleep all night anyway, it’s not hard for me to get back. You’re not used to sleeping with so many people, yeah?” 

Your face warms at his phrasing, though of course you know what he means. “Or with anyone,” you murmur. 

“Mm. I think I know what you need.” 

You don’t realize Remus’ plan until he’s already sat up. He reaches over you, rubbing James’ shoulder gently while you protest vehemently through whispers. 

James wakes with a yawn, taking Remus’ hand automatically and bringing it close to his face. “Wha’s’it?”

“Take her,” Remus requests drowsily. With his other hand, he nudges you forward. 

James starts to blink his eyes open, and you see no way out. You start climbing over Sirius as delicately as you can. “Sorry,” you whisper, to him, to them, to the room in general. 

Remus helps you out by tugging Sirius into your place. The other boy whines but settles quickly, rolling over to sling his leg over Remus’ instead. 

James welcomes you as heartily as his sleep-addled state will allow, adjusting the covers over you and smudging a few toothpaste-scented kisses onto your face. 

“Y’can’t sleep?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “Sorry.” 

He makes a soft dismissive sound. “C’mere, angel.” 

You refrain from telling him that you’re already here as his arms find their way around you, soft and firm in all the right places and deliciously warm. He starts to make slow, sweeping circles onto your back with his hand. 

“Jamie,” you murmur, grateful but embarrassed, “don’t stay up for me. Go to sleep.” 

“M’basically there,” he replies. “You first, yeah?” 

You can hear Remus’ breathing evening out behind you, syncing with Sirius’, and you’re suddenly sure that this is part of a routine he and the boys shared before you ever met them. That’s how he knew to hand you off to James, and how James knew exactly what to do. Something about that comforts you. And far be it for you to mess with tradition. 

You shuffle closer to James under the covers. He obliges you happily, adjusting his grip so he’s holding you more securely, with your leg resting against his and your forehead an inch from his nose. The shushing of his heavy palm on the material of your pajama top is the only sound in the world. 

You hear his breathing starting to deepen again, but James is right; you beat him there. 

[heirofnight]

between you & i

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: reader departs on a solo intel mission after ignoring azriel's warnings of danger. reader ends up captured, and guess who ends up coming to her rescue? you guessed it, a pissed off az. enemies to lovers. reader and az do not like each other. yum.

warnings: talk of injuries, being captured, abuse, minor self-deprecation.

you currently found yourself in a bit of a ... precarious situation. to say the least.

your sweat-dampened hair was matted to the sides of your cheeks, your forehead.

holy gods, was it fucking hot in here.

you pressed the back of your head against the stone wall behind you, hoping that the cool brick would offer some reprieve against the sweltering heat.

oh yeah, by the way, the stone wall that you were sat against belonged to a cell. a cell that you were definitely, undoubtedly, locked inside of.

your wrists were bound in chains, your arms bunched behind you haphazardly. this really, really fucking sucked. rhysand would be so pissed.

you huffed out a breath, eyes cast towards the ceiling that was covered in vines, weeds, and moss. you zoned out, reflecting on the happenings that consequently landed you here.

"are you absolutely sure that you'd rather travel alone, y/n?," rhysand had questioned you the evening prior, expression littered with apprehension and hesitation.

you'd rolled your eyes at his protective concern, a smirk playing on your lips.

"rhys, it's a singular little mission to the autumn court," you'd countered, "i'll be back in what - two, three days?," you'd continued, flicking strands of hair over your shoulders. you were hardly concerned - after all, you'd collected intel for rhysand countless times, and you'd always walked away unscathed.

you were a scholar, and this was a huge part of your job within the night court - the chance of running into trouble was slim-to-none. your task involved meeting eris within the outskirts of his territory, collecting confidential information on the inner-political developments occurring within the crisp autumn court for rhys. easy, peasy.

something you could have done blindfolded, hands tied.

which, now, considering your current circumstances, that part had literally come to fruition.

azriel had stood in utter stoicism next to the head of rhys' polished mahogany desk, brows cinched together, eyes hard.

"no, it's unwise," he'd uttered, voice cold and deep - the first words he'd spoken since you'd arrived for your mission debrief.

you and azriel were - well, complicated. while you didn't absolutely loathe each other, there was this very prominent undertone of thick, suffocating tension that had formed a barrier between the both of you. you'd both opted to tread lightly each other - civil when necessary, silent and aloof otherwise.

he'd never really seemed to give much of a shit about you, so this outburst was unlike him.

his words caused you to sit up infinitesimally straighter, eyes locked on his strong frame from across the room.

"and why's that?," you'd questioned, voice sounding bored, dismissive of his opinion.

"too much unrest across his lands as of late," he offered, shifting within his boots just slightly, "we aren't entirely sure who, or what, is patrolling that area. it's dangerous, i should accompany you," he'd finished, sounding as though he'd already made his mind up.

you'd scoffed at the suggestion, standing with the intention of taking your leave before azriel was able to convince rhys any differently.

"no, thank you, shadowsinger," you'd waved a hand in dismissal, waltzing towards the large, wooden double doors of the office.

"i don't need to be coddled, i think i can manage on my own just fine," you'd added, back turned to the two males.

it was azriel's turn to scoff in exasperation, and although you couldn't see him, you could hear his wings rustle in irritation. the thought made you smirk to yourself, reveling in the idea of getting a rise out of the normally impassive spy.

"now, y/n,-," rhys began, his voice laced with consideration.

"i'll see the both of you in a few days," you'd cut him off, letting the door shut behind you with a resounding thud, the sound echoing down the stone halls.

and that was that. you'd decided to depart first thing this morning, hoping to avoid either one of the busybody males just in case rhys had commanded azriel to travel with you, after all.

you rolled your eyes, shuffling slightly against the cell floor as you thought of the verbal lashing you'd receive once you got back to velaris.

azriel would probably be present while rhysand berated you for this catastrophic mistake, and if you thought hard enough, you could just picture the smug smirk that would more than likely be adorning his polished features. az would be enjoying the fact that he was correct, sunbathing himself in your downfall, your failure.

the thought filled you with so much rage, so much embarrassment. it caused your skin to flush and grow even hotter, which was a feat in itself since you didn't think it was possible for the stifling heat to get worse.

you'd been captured by a lone group of autumn court rebels, who'd just happened to be traveling along the exact same path you'd taken to meet eris. you weren't sure what their plans were for you - a night court female. they knew who you were, they knew you were employed with rhys. if you had to guess, they were holding you hostage to use as some sort of bargaining chip.

regardless, it'd been twelve hours since you'd been tossed into this cell. you had not the slightest clue where you even were in relation to the court itself. you'd been blindfolded and jostled about, and your sense of direction had been destroyed in the process.

you were so, so thirsty. your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, throat dry enough that it felt like you'd ingested hot coals each time you struggled to swallow.

you were nervous, yes. on edge. your feathers were ruffled. but you knew eris would report your absence to rhysand. it was only a matter of time before someone found you. and when they did, you'd be reprimanded endlessly. you'd probably never hear the end of it - never be allowed to depart on solo missions again. you'd probably be stuck with azriel, that self-righteous, arrogant -

your thoughts came to a screeching halt once you noticed that the cell had become dark. it was mid-afternoon, and barred holes in the wall had been allowing the afternoon light to filter into the small space. which honestly, with this heat, felt like an additional form of torture.

but now, a chill filled the darkened air. no light filtered through - not even a pin-prick of luminance could be accounted for. you couldn't see inches ahead of you. your spine straightened, your head perked up. and before you could make heads or tails of the odd infiltrating darkness, it had dissipated entirely.

you blinked several times, weary, exhausted eyes struggling to acclimate to the warm light.

but once you'd righted yourself, you saw it. saw him.

azriel stood before you, half of his body swathed in swirling shadows. his arms were folded across his chest, eyes narrowed in distaste as he took in the sight of you - battered, bruised, filthy, restrained. his wings rustled several times before pulling tightly into his back, clearly agitated.

his jaw ticked in anger, and he dropped his head to avert his gaze to the cell floor at his feet. his muscles flexed with tension, and he was pissed.

and while you assumed the anger was directed at you, at your stupidity, azriel was biting back the urge to level the entire autumn court for what those males had done to you.

you swallowed hard, throat burning from the action. you opted to not speak, fully understanding how monumental this fuck-up was. you hadn't even departed velaris with a weapon strapped to your body, completely void of protection. so, so stupid.

"how could you be so foolish," azriel sneered, his arms dropping to his sides, clenched fists flexing. his voice was so low, so cold, you'd finally understood how he was able to intimidate his victims to the point of broken resolve.

you looked down, ashamed, embarrassed.

"i didn't-," you started, voice hoarse.

azriel huffed angrily at the sound of it.

"no, you didn't," he cut you off, stepping towards you with a leveled thump of his boots. "you didn't," he continued, tone laced with contempt.

"you didn't think. you didn't consider how dangerous-," he paused, having to take a deep, steady breath to compose himself.

you continued staring at the floor, anywhere but him. you definitely didn't dare look at his face, his eyes as they bore into you.

"look at me," he commanded, voice growing harsh.

you averted your gaze from the floor, choosing to stare at the bright, barred window that was cut into the upper left wall instead.

"y/n," he growled, stooping down to your level to grab your chin between his thumb and pointer fingers. his grip wasn't harsh - probably due to him being careful of exacerbating any potential injuries - but it was demanding. "look at me," he repeated.

you caved, meeting his hard hazel eyes with hesitation. you tried your damndest to look as unfazed and unwavering as possible - as though being captured and beaten hadn't taken a toll on you. but when you met his familiar face, took in his features and realized you were being saved, you faltered. relief flooded your veins, overflowing until it reached your softening eyes.

unshed tears began to well up, and you used every ounce of willpower that you had left to not allow them to fall.

azriel's expression became tender as he took you in, as he studied your expression. he saw your bruises and scrapes up close now, and he dropped his head once more, shoulders drooping slightly.

"you could have gotten yourself killed," he croaked, anger still lacing his words.

"so, what," you deadpanned, voice rasping, "then you would have been right, about me - about this mission. about how foolishly incapable i am," you said solemnly, jerking your chin from his unfaltering grip.

he snapped his head upward, meeting your eyes immediately. his brows cinched, and you momentarily observed the splattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose - you'd never noticed them before, had never been this close to him.

he blinked once, twice - his long, thick lashes whispering across his skin as he did so.

"that's what you think this is about?," he questioned, voice breathless in disbelief.

you scoffed weakly, pushing yourself up further against the damp wall behind you.

"please, azriel. you've never been subtle about how incompetent you find me," your voice coated in disdain.

he let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he absorbed your words.

"no, y/n," he grunted, his hands moving forward to begin working at the cuffs around your wrists. you'd both needed to get the hell out of here, urgently. it had been hours since you'd last seen your captors, and you were both painfully aware of the likelihood that they'd return.

could azriel singlehandedly fight off an entire hoard of rebels? absolutely. did he want to dismember and mutilate the males that did this to you? abso-fucking-lutely. but more than that, he wanted to get you home, safe, and with madra.

you hissed as he began to work his deft hands around the harsh chains. they'd been pulled so tightly to your skin, that you'd already come to terms with the possibility of losing circulation to the limbs.

his eyes flickered up to your face at the sound of your discomfort, and he winced at the realization of causing you further pain.

"i've never thought that you were incompetent," he continued as he worked, using his words to distract you from the pain he was inflicting, "hotheaded? yes, confident to a fault? sometimes," he continued, and you scoffed at his jabs.

"azriel, just shut the fu-," you blurted, his words bristling your already raw skin.

"but," he cut you off, continuing on with his tangent, "you are also strong, brave - obviously. loyal to your court, to rhys," he went on, pausing for a moment, "and i've always admired you," he finished, voice lowering.

you went silent, considering his words. you became painfully aware of his close proximity, of his hands against your swollen wrists as he fought to free you.

his eyes flitted to your softening expression, gauging your reaction to his words.

and internally, you were realizing for the first time, that maybe you and azriel were more alike than you'd initially thought.

he finally freed your hands, and you groaned at the relief, at the blood rushing down to the stiff limbs.

he helped you gently, bringing your arms back to the front of your exhausted frame. you closed your eyes for a moment, taking deep, even breaths at the feeling of being free, being saved. by azriel.

"how did you know where to find me?," you croaked, peeking one eye open to look up at the male before you. he was crouched closer to you now, poised to catch you if you careened over.

"eris relayed the information to rhys - the general whereabouts of your planned meeting location," he began, eyes flicking over your entire body to scan for any other injuries.

"and rhysand sent you to track me down?," you questioned, assuming that it was a command from his high lord - a decision he didn't make.

"i didn't give him the chance to," he offered, swallowing thickly, "i was at autumn's border before eris finished his report," he cleared his throat, cheeks tinting the slightest shade of pink.

there was a slight pause.

"he didn't have a choice," he spoke, voice deep and gravelly. he met your eyes with that last statement, as if to make a point.

you sat up slightly, reeling with the words azriel had spoken. they blanketed the both of you, sitting heavy against your chest.

azriel had chosen to track you down, to save you? not only that, but it seemed like it was almost second nature for him. to seek you out, to rescue you.

you opened and closed your mouth several times, looking for the right words. nothing you'd come up with was good enough.

"let's get you home," he said softly, reaching under your limp frame to hoist you into his strong arms. you whined quietly, your body rebuking the movement.

"i know," he soothed, bracing you against his chest.

and then you were both wrapped in endless shadows and night.

cradled against your tall, strong salvation.

things had irrevocably changed between you and azriel after that. you'd both known it.

and sure enough, from that day onward, he was your chosen partner on every mission you'd decide to embark on. and azriel had insisted the same.

choosing each other, time and time again.

and sometimes, when you'd both inevitably need to stop for the evening - finding reprieve in a shoddy inn after a grueling travel day, azriel would request a room with just one bed.

and what happened under the covers on those evenings - when your body would melt into his, his forehead pressed against yours, explorative hands learning each other -

well, that was just between the both of you.

a/n: another one shot that just demanded to be written immediately. brought on by scrolling on tiktok lmao. hope u loved it! let me know your thoughts <3

[monamipencil]

— on love and cats | j.ww

genre; fluff, established relationship, gn! reader | tw; mentions of cat food? |a/n; oh, life would be better if i had a jeon wonwoo 😔

a giggle, a meow and the soft breeze of the autumn air fills your vicinity. a soft smile graces your lips, watching your lover play with a kitten.

the sun is slowly descending, leaving way for the moon to rise. the soft yellow fades into a muted grey, cascading the world in a serene silence at its beauty. a lone breeze tousles and plays with wonwoo's hair.

a loud laugh rumbles from his throat. he squats down, playing with the kitten. you watch the interaction with a smile on your own. he looks up at you, grinning.

he takes the little furball in his hands and walks towards you. you lean down, and coo at it. he introduces the kitten to you, waving it's hand at you. you do the same, waving back.

“she's the cutest,” he sighs, admiring the little life in his hands. you hum, echoing a 'she is' back to him.

yes, the cat is cute but you can't take your eyes of your boyfriend. the little quirk of his lips, the mirth dancing in his irises, the scrunch of his nose, his wind-tousled hair and the list goes on.

you step closer to him. he stays still. you step closer again. he doesn't move. you lean your head on his shoulder, and rub the kitten's head. it meows and closes it's eyes, content with all the attention.

“i give her food most of the times. she only eats expensive-ass tin food.” he whispers the latter part as if not to upset the kitten.

“yeah, i can see it.”

it lays on it's back, showing it's chubby stomach. you giggle and rub it's tummy. you're unable to contain your coos and laughter. you let your mind wander for a few seconds, wondering if this is how it'd be to start a family with him.

the thought urges you to tuck yourself closer to him. the warmth of his body repels the harsh cold of the autumn air. you circle your hands around his waist, as he lets down the kitten. it gleefully waddles across the street to it's mother.

wonwoo encloses you in a side hug, his hand coming to rest on your back. you watch the mother cat grooms the kitten and soon, a few more kittens come in view.

“and incase you're wondering why i decided to not buy the latest game i like, it's 'cause of this.”

he gestures towards the little cat family. warmth blooms in your chest, and it slowly grows vines, spreading throughout your body. the air messes your hair and caresses your face harshly. you don't feel your face, and hands. the cold autumn does not spare anyone, even lovers.

but wonwoo warms his hands and holds your face, pressing his palms on your cheeks. you giggle, leaning towards him. you do the same and hold his face. he leans his forehead on yours and you close your eyes, trying to engrave this moment in your head. this feeling, this warmth, wonwoo.

and you decide that you can forgive the world as long as it has jeon wonwoo in it.

ditching the taglist cuz literally no one tagged interacts much. hope you understand <3

[astraystayyh]

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick. 

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth. 

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within. 

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

… 

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party. 

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore. 

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers. 

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?” 

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne. 

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit. 

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes. 

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch. 

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood. 

A week ago. 

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request. 

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem. 

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively. 

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.” 

He knew. 

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.” 

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings. 

“What did he do?” 

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke. 

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking. 

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?” 

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.” 

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.” 

You heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes. 

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives. 

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom. 

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again. 

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him. 

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him. 

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle.  “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp. 

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body. 

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter. 

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are. 

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then. 

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most? 

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes. 

Could it be? 

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered. 

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use. 

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer? 

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?” 

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine. 

Breathe. 

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.” 

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time. 

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin. 

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.” 

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw. 

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.” 

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.” 

“What do you want from me then?” 

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.” 

He remains silent. 

“Hyunjin, please.” 

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.” 

8 minutes. 

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side. 

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce. 

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face. 

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales. 

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.  

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing. 

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in. 

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down. 

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers. 

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him. 

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared. 

Cute. 

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads. 

Time’s up. 

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both. 

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. 

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him. 

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you. 

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right. 

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over. 

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground. 

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach. 

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.” 

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.” 

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders. 

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last. 

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him. 

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.” 

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you. 

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge. 

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too. 

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach. 

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other. 

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.” 

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.” 

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again. 

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.” 

One month later. 

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it. 

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him. 

He really missed you. 

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight. 

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

[heartlogan]

all coming back to me

✮— logan x f!reader (set in x-men days of future past)

✮— summary: logan didn’t realise you would be here in the past. all that follows.

✮— a/n: first time writing for logan / the xmen films, be gentle pls. also wrote this in like 20 mins at 1am so kindness pls. ok goodnight.

✮— warnings: character death, major character death, (mentioned mostly, not the most graphic depictions), logan’s relentless guilt, reader’s insensitive curiosity, muddled timeline maybe idk, mutant reader (unmentioned power) , kind of abrupt ending , lmk if there’s more!

MASTERLIST

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When Logan had realised he was the only viable candidate to do this job, he had felt the immense weight on his shoulders, had known that he had no choice but to succeed. He had been prepared for that part, mostly. But even still, the plan was sudden, and he hadn’t thought most things through. After all, Logan was more of a fight now, think later type of guy.

So waking up in some random woman’s waterbed was unexpected, yes, but even more unexpected was the bone cutting through his skin when he had to face those goons. It had been so long since the adamantium had been melded to his skeleton, that he could almost forget it hadn’t always been that way. If it weren’t for the pain that still haunted his every nightmare, that was.

It was an adjustment, definitely, especially because it had been so long since he hadn’t felt completely indestructible — untouchable. There was no metal safety net, here.

Seeing Xavier’s school falling apart was certainly an adjustment, too.

He had known this school only in its prime, when Charles had already formed the X-Men, had already settled many kids into their new home. Logan couldn’t ever imagine this place being so devoid of life.

“Can I help you?” A young man asked, after a few silent moments of Logan waiting for the door to be answered. He sounded vaguely familiar.

“Uh… yeah, what happened to the school?” Logan asked, eyebrows raised as his eyes trailed over the vines crawling up the building, the dust coating the glass.

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, looking at Logan strangely before he decided to speak. “The school’s been shut for years. Are you a parent?”

Logan scoffed. “I sure as hell hope not. Who are you?”

“I’m Hank. Hank McCoy. I look after the house now.”

He’s doing a great job at that, Logan thought to himself, surveying the damaged grounds, before he clocked on to what the man had introduced himself as. He squinted at the small stature of the guy, half hidden by the door he was pressing himself into the gap of.

“You’re Beast? Look at you,” Logan commented idly, “Guess you’re a late bloomer.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hank warned, features hardening instantly at the name he hadn’t heard for a long time. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The man started closing the door in Logan’s face, not expecting him to shove himself against it, keeping it open. They strained, muscles tensing on both sides, before Logan inevitably won without Hank’s extra strength that accompanied his transformation.

“Where’s the professor?”

“There’s no professor here.” Hank responded, before Logan soon managed to shove the door open, flinging him back.

“Professor!” Logan yelled into the empty house, hearing his voice rebound off of the walls. The echoing made him uncomfortable, and seeing the house that had been destroyed so long ago in his time was odd. It was familiar, and yet so different. Logan wasn’t sure he could ever get used to the empty manor, despite his many complaints about the kids at the school.

The moment Logan began to ascend the stairs of the manor, Hank leapt at him, freshly transformed. Logan was momentarily shocked by the appearance of his blue fur, but he quickly got over it, defending himself from Hank’s admittedly rather weak attack. The Beast managed to stun him, tackling him onto a table in the middle of the foyer, while the blue man hung from the chandelier above.

“Hank?” A voice called out, confused and slightly concerned. “What’s going on here?” He asked, descending the stairs and squinting down at the vaguely familiar man on top of his table.

“Professor?” Logan asked, surprised, sitting up on the table to make sure he was seeing things right.

“He doesn’t like to be called that.” A new voice said, coming from Logan’s left, and he startled, head whipping towards where you were standing. You were leant against the doorway, arms folded across your chest as you watched the situation unfold with unhidden entertainment.

His heart practically stops.

He hadn’t seen you for almost three years. Three very long, very difficult years.

Logan didn’t even want to think about the last time he had seen you. It had been one of the worst days of his life to date, and he’d had a lot of bad days. And yet, here you were, alive. Trying to tamp down your amusement, though it was written clearly on your face, evident in the slight curve of a smile that he had missed.

“You know this guy?” Hank asked Charles, who made his way down the rest of the stairs while Logan only continued to stare at you.

Charles looked at Logan with a vague sense of recognition. “Yeah, he looks slightly familiar.” He commented distantly, already appearing completely checked out of the situation. “Get off the bloody chandelier, Hank.”

The sound of the glass above him clinking together brought Logan to his senses, reminded him that he had a job to do. And no matter how much he had missed you, your presence couldn’t get in the way of that.

“You can walk.” Logan stated, checking back into the conversation with shock still darting down his spine. He watched the Professor carefully, brows furrowed in thought.

“And you’re perceptive.” Charles replied dryly, “Which makes it slightly perplexing that you missed our sign on the way in. This is private property, my friend. I’m going to have to ask him to ask you to leave.” He said, nodding towards Hank who stared between the two men as if watching some sort of tennis match. He looked uncomfortable with the confrontation occurring. “Or her, if you’re more inclined.”

You raised your brows.

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

Logan didn’t end up leaving, much to your surprise. It had been a long time since anyone had managed to get Charles to do anything he didn’t want to do. Hell, it had been a long time since anyone had managed to speak to the man, save for you and Hank. He turned everybody away, never heard anyone out, no matter how desperate they sounded.

Instead, Charles seemed to accept the fact that this man was from the future. A future which sounded dire, by the way.

And if his glance towards you when he had spoken about watching good people, friends, die, told you anything, it was that you didn’t make it very far in the future. Which didn’t faze you all too much. It didn’t sound like much of a future for those who lived, anyway. But that knowledge had taught you something about this Logan. He had cared for you, some years from now.

It was as clear as day. He looked at you like he had been missing you, like he was greeting you at the airport after a long trip. He seemed to think he was being discreet about it, always glancing away when you turned to him, but you were observant.

You sidled up next to him while Hank went on the hunt for the phone book, and Charles wandered off to regret his decision.

“So, how’d I die?” You asked, feeling bad but also slightly amused when Logan practically choked on air.

“What? How did you—”

“Oh, please. It’s all over your face. I may not know you, but I can see that much.” You responded, cutting him off and watching the cogs turn in his head.

You had always had a strange way of reading him better than anyone else. Not that this version of you knew that, but Logan did. It made his chest ache all the more, feeling like you were so close to being in his grasp, and yet so far away from him. He had to remind himself that you didn’t know him, and he didn’t exactly know this version of you.

You seemed… not happier, exactly, but something was different. Perhaps you had suffered less at this point in your life. He had met you in one of the most difficult times you had ever been through, and it was strange to see you without the baggage that had followed you from that.

“I’m that transparent, huh?” He replied, going quiet soon after. He didn’t want to talk about this with you. With anyone. He didn’t want to relive that moment any more than he already did. He saw it every time he closed his eyes, every time the Sentinels had approached in the future.

“You are.” You paused. “So? What happened?”

“You don’t want to know about this, kid.” Logan stated, pointedly not looking at you. You were so young now, and he missed the lines on your face. This wasn’t the you that he knew or loved. He didn’t know this version of you. And you certainly didn’t know him.

Logan had the fate of the world resting on his shoulders, the fate of every mutant and human who had the decency to be kind towards them. Your fate. The fate of everyone else he had lost. He couldn’t get caught up in this, in seeing you here, as much as he wanted to soak in the sound of your voice, the colour of your eyes, the glow of your skin.

“Why not? We’re going to save the world anyway. It can’t hurt.” You said innocently, regretting the latter part of your statement the moment you realised how it came across, how Logan’s face creased.

He wanted to appreciate your optimism, mostly because he knew how much of it you had lost by the time you died, but you couldn’t understand. It did hurt. Logan had watched you die in front of his very eyes, his adamantium and courage powerless to stop it. He had been dragged back to the jet, forced to leave your body there to rot, or to be taken and experimented on. He didn’t know which was worse.

Even now, he could feel the pressure on his chest from Storm pushing against him, the pain of Magneto pulling at his skeleton, forcing him to leave you behind.

He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat, eyes flickered across the room, never quite landing on you. It hurt him every day. He could feel the weight of your loss even now, knowing that if he failed to do this, you were lost. This version of you, the one who had so much suffering to come, would die at the hands of a Sentinel, and he would be powerless to stop it.

“Sorry,” You said, when the silence stretched on, Logan seemingly getting lost in his own thoughts. You could see the pain written across his face, could see him getting distant, reliving whatever had happened in the future. “That was insensitive. I was curious, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here to save us all. And I’m here to help this time.”

He finally looked at you, and you could see the exhaustion on his face. Perhaps putting more pressure on him wasn’t the best idea.

“Okay, I’m messing this up,” You admittedly, fidgeting nervously now, eyes flickering between him and the door as if expecting Charles or Hank to walk in on you embarrassing yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Logan paused, apparently trying to find his words. “You don’t need t’be sorry. None of this is your fault.”

You looked at him, seeing him more clearly then. You didn’t know his past, and you certainly didn’t know the future, but this man cared about you. That much was obvious. “It’s not yours either, you know.” You said, and the slight grimace he made didn’t escape you. He clearly didn’t agree. “However we know each other in the future, it can’t change the fact that I am an adult. I would never expect you to take responsibility for me dying. Or want you to! I take care of myself.”

He blinked at you. “We were meant to take care of each other.”

You faltered slightly at that, struggling to imagine yourself relying on someone that much, but then you understood.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now? You’re here, fifty years into the past, trying to make things right. The war wasn’t your fault, Logan.”

Despite knowing that was true, it still didn’t quite dislodge the guilt that pulsed in his chest. He felt more vulnerable here, without his adamantium. With your prying eyes. Even now, it appeared that you saw him in a way nobody else ever could.

“You know what? This might be totally inappropriate, but…” You trailed off, and he had just opened his mouth to question you when suddenly you were wrapping your arms around his neck, squeezing him close in a way that finally let him breathe again.

His hands hung idly by his sides for a few moments, before finally wrapping around you, holding you tight. He seemed as though he may never let you go, but you could understand that. Logan was in pain, and it seemed that despite your slight uncertainty, this had been a good path to go down. Taking care of one another, or something like that, right?

A heavy sigh left his chest, and you squeezed him tighter, letting out a short breath into his neck. You only pulled away when you heard Hank’s footsteps creaking on the aged floorboards, heading your way. Logan let you go, with much reluctance, but you lingered. Your arm brushed against his jacket.

If Hank noticed anything, he didn’t say a word, simply holding up the phone book victoriously. You glanced at Logan, watching the creases slowly come back to his face as he was reminded of his burden once more. You leaned against him the slightest bit, and pretended not to notice him glance at you.

This would all work out, you were certain of it. And if it didn’t, well, at the very least there was something to look forward to in that bleak future. Logan seemed worth the pain.

[rozmorris]

Signs from a murder of crows: publishing a posthumous collection. Interview with Alycia Vreeland

Alycia Vreeland is a visual artist and dancer embarking on a new venture in the world of words. She’s releasing two books at once, on the anniversary of the death of her husband Jon Vreeland. Jon is the author of The Taste of Cigarettes: a Memoir of A Heroin Addict and is strongly present in both these new volumes. First there’s Laughing In Her Sleep, a collection of poems by Jon, illustrated…

[readerviews]

"Two for the Money" by Steve Zettler

A 90s thriller with a noir feel that consistently raises the stakes. #books #bookreview #reading #readerviews

Two for the Money Steve ZettlerVine Leaves Press (2023)ISBN: 978-3988320261Reviewed by Alex Ceko for Reader Views (11/2023) Good detectives are named Sam: Sam Spade, Samuel Benjamin Marlowe, and Sam Christie. “Two for the Money” by Steve Zettler is a detective thriller about a former government employee named Sam Christie. When visiting a friend’s grave in Philadelphia Christie is offered a…

[rafey-baby]

sweet treat 4

Construction worker!rafe and shy!reader spending their day off together as one does but Rafe simply can not keep his hands off her, can he? And maybe she just really needs him. 

cw: fluff, Rafe being a tease, semi-public thigh riding

wc: 1.9k

part 1 part 2 part 3 & part 5

i have such a soft spot for him so hope u enjoy xx

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It’s a tranquil Tuesday; they’re strolling around town and soaking up the last lemony rays of the August sun before autumn drops all the marmalade leaves and brings a chilly breeze along with its visit. 

The balmy weather of the sunlit afternoon coaxes her to remove her cardigan; a featherlight fabric she brought in case the wind decided to pick up. However, she doesn’t need it, not when it’s so pleasantly mellow and thermal. Without a word, Rafe reaches an arm out and plucks the piece of clothing from her, nonchalantly throwing it over his shoulder and holding it for her.

She mumbles out a soft thank you, and even if the thin material really doesn’t weigh a thing and it wouldn’t have been that much of a bother to hold onto it herself, she still feels all gooey inside from the attentive sentiment. 

They have lunch at her favorite place; a small picturesque restaurant with leafy vines and scarlet roses trickling down the brick wall as they sit outside on a little patio, enjoying their meals with cheery bluebirds chirping and the passing laughter of pedestrians on the lively streets as their background music. 

When their tummies are full of yummy food, they decide to get ice cream. But as they’re padding along the pavement and she’s licking her cone contently, some of the sweet treat drips down her chin without her noticing. 

”You’re so messy,” Rafe tuts and reaches out to grab her jaw in his hand, tilting her up to face him.

”What would you do without me, hm?” he murmurs out as he swipes a thumb under her bottom lip; catching the cold dessert and tucking the digit into his mouth, humming when strawberry ice cream melts on his tongue.

Her eyes round out at the nearly obscene sight. 

”Mm, that’s good. But mine’s better,” he thinks out loud, laving his tongue over his own mint chocolate chip flavor. 

He notices her gaze lingering, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Want some?”

“Um…no. It tastes like toothpaste,” she complains, trying to clear her suddenly foggy head. 

”Yeah, but in a good way,” he grins.

”There’s no good way for ice cream to taste like toothpaste,” her brows crease.

”There is, alright? Here, try it,” and instead of offering his cone to her like a normal person, he dips his thumb (the one that was just in his mouth) into the frozen delicacy and pushes it past her lips before she has the chance to refuse. 

A surprised noise escapes her throat when he presses down on her tongue, letting her get a proper taste of the minty sweetness. He lingers for a moment too long when there’s an itch in his lower abdomen from the sight of her sucking on his thumb; an urge to tuck another digit in and push in deeper, make her gag around his fingers. 

He clears his throat in order to shake the thoughts away, pulling his thumb out from her greedy little mouth, no complaints or grumbling about toothpaste following after. She solely blinks up at him with her doe eyes all dumb, seemingly having lost the ability to speak. 

”It’s good, right?” He asks, a mocking lilt to his tone.

”Mhm,” she manages out, brain mushy and mind clouding over with a starry haze that seems to follow her for the rest of their walk, merely nodding and humming out responses to his questions. He finds all this entirely too amusing, unable to wipe the taunting smile off his face. 

When a group of people pass them by on the narrow sidewalk, Rafe settles a heavy palm on her waist, pulling her closer and preventing her from stumbling into them. However, instead of removing his hold on her altogether after they’ve successfully bypassed them, he opts to slip a warm hand in the back pocket of her jeans; tugging her to his side. And she really can’t withhold a stupid smile from pulling at her lips or the way her cheeks dust over with a plum tinge. 

He continues on with whatever story he was telling her (she stopped listening halfway through the moment she felt his touch on her) as if this is all completely mundane for him and they aren’t walking around like an enamored couple right now.

Then, as if for good measure, he mindlessly squeezes her ass with the hand stuffed in her back pocket, making her look up him, but there’s merely a lazy grin hanging on the raspberry mouth she remembers all too well kissing just the other day on his couch. 

Her cerebrum short-circuits and she has half the mind to scold him. After all, they’re in public and he’s groping her rather immodestly. However, how is she meant to do that when he gazes down at her and his eyes mirror cerulean droplets of early morning dew underneath the amber glow of the waking sunbeams? 

”So, what do you think?” His question suddenly reaches her eardrums. 

”About…what?” 

An amused chuckle tumbles from his throat. 

”Said your boss wanted to renovate the cafe, right? Could help with that, give her a discount and shit?”

”Oh. That’d be— great, yeah. I’ll make sure to…let her know,” she barely manages the words out because his palm resting on her ass is making her thighs press together and it’s getting more arduous to inhale and exhale like a regular human by every passing second. 

Once they’re back in the shelter of his truck, instead of starting the engine, he turns to look at her. She shifts ungracefully in the leather seat, trying to ignore the ache deep in her marrow that’s been bothering her their whole way back. He’s wearing shorts and her eyes zone in on his legs, heavy lids blinking sluggishly as she avoids his piercing stare.

”You want something?”

”Hm? Oh, no… what— what do you mean?” She stutters. 

”You don’t think I see the way you keep looking at me?” He rasps out, brows raising. ”Been feeling a little needy after you sucked on my thumb, have you?” 

”I…um—”

”Bet you’re so sticky right now. Shit, must be uncomfortable at this point, no?” His face creases in mock concern as a faint whine leaves her.

”C’mere,” he encourages, patting his thigh. 

”O— okay,” she clumsily wobbles over the console, settling on his lap. 

”Didn’t tell you to sit there, did I?” He says before he’s lifting her up and then setting her back down until she’s properly straddling his thigh. ”Now that’s better, isn’t it?”

”Rafe…someone could see us,” she suddenly remembers, turning her head around, peering through the car window at the busy parking lot, people striding along the pavement; girls in bikinis carrying towels, couples laughing and chatty families all thriving under the beaming sun. 

”Honestly don’t really give a shit. Why don’t we just…let them see how much of a dirty girl you are, yeah?” He grins at her; showcasing pearly white teeth and making her whine in response. 

With her eyes flitting to the window once more, she inspects the seas of people loitering about, but she doesn’t think anyone’s noticed them yet. However, she doesn’t have any more time to observe them before he’s yanking her back to face him, fingers digging into her jaw. 

”Look at me,” his brows furrow, seemingly upset that her attention isn’t on him.

”Sorry, I just...”

”Relax, alright? They can’t even see your face, just a horny slut humping my leg,” he reassures her, mushing her cheeks together and smudging a sloppy kiss on her puckered lips when she drags out his name, flushing in humiliation. 

”Why don’t we take these off, hm?” He mutters, not even bothering to wait for a response before he’s dragging down the zipper of her jeans. Then he’s tugging them down her legs, leaving her in just a flimsy pair of underwear. 

She gasps, eyes rounding out when she feels his firm thigh against her drippy cunt, relieving some of the tension in her limbs.

“This shit gets you off, doesn’t it? The fact that anyone could just look through the window and see how fucking desperate you get for me?” He asks, something mean glinting in his gaze.

”Go on then, if you want it, gotta work for it, yeah?” He’s lazily leaning back against the seat, long legs spread out and a smirk painted on his face as he simply gazes at her. 

She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more embarrassed, cheeks burning when she gives a tentative roll of her hips against him, whimpering out because the fabric between them is not only paper thin but also soaked through at this point. 

”There you go, Sweetheart. That feel good?” 

She mewls, nodding all frantic; rutting against his thigh some more. Then he’s plucking at her panties, pulling the sodden material to the side, allowing for her to really feel the sturdy muscles there; skin to skin.

She’s becoming louder and louder as her swollen clit keeps occasionally bumping against him, making him smear his mouth on hers; muffling her whining in the process when her thighs begin to grow sore. 

”Rafe…I’m tired— can you…” she complains.  

”You’re tired? What if I’m tired too?” There’s something in his mocking question that tells her he’s anything but. 

 ”Rafe, can you just— can you help?”

”Where’d your manners go, hm? Why don’t you ask nicely?” 

”Rafe please, I need to…can you help me please I need you to— need you to help,” her distressed eyes are becoming watery and he chuckles, low from his chest.

”You don’t even know what you’re saying, do you? Get so dumb every time we do this. Couldn’t even fuck you properly before you passed out on me that night in your bed, remember?”

”Hey, that’s not fair. I was so sleepy—”

”What’s not fair is me constantly having to do all the work while you just whine like a helpless baby,” his voice is condescending, making wet droplets stain her cheeks.  

”I’m sorry, don’t mean to...” 

”I know, Sweetheart. I know,” he says while gripping at her hips, supporting her weight and dragging her over his solid thigh, making her moan out loud. 

”Can’t do anything yourself, can you? Need my help with everything, yeah?” His rugged paws roll her hips against him, hard, again and again. ”Mhm. Need you—” a loud noise leaves her throat when he pushes his leg up against her; forcing her puffy clit to harshly rub against the skin that her weepy cunt has made so wet, to the point where he can feel it whenever she glides against it. ”Rafe, I’m gonna…”

”Yeah? Gonna come? Soak my thigh more for me?” She whimpers when he presses her down firmer on his thigh.

”Shit, Sweetheart. Look so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters out, blue gemstones fixated on her trembling form before the knot in her stomach begins to loosen, the piece of yarn snapping as she begins to unspool in his arms, crying out because she feels so delighted she doesn’t know what to do. 

“There you go, just do anything I ask, don’t you?” He murmurs when her head drops against his steady chest as he rakes his fingertips through the strands of her hair; blunt nails scratching at her scalp.

There are stars in her eyesight, nearly a full blown galaxy and she thinks she could die happy right now; his strong grip steadying her and making her feel like nothing else matters. There’s only this moment. Him and her.

She wants to stay in the safety of his hold for evermore because she’s positive the only reason her poor heart is beating in her ribcage these days is because of him.

As an afterthought, she wonders if maybe she’s just in love.

[emilys-bangs]

sweet nothing | emily prentiss x reader

Tags: established relationship, fluff, use of scissors, hair cutting, use of pet names, no use of yn

Summary: It’s the weekend, and Emily’s bangs are overgrown. You offer to cut them.

Word count: 1.5k

You wake to Emily wrapped around you like a vine. 

Her nose is buried in your neck, her even breaths steadily hitting your skin in warm puffs. One of her still-chilly hands has slipped under your shirt and is lying on your stomach, and her leg is hitched over your hip, the baggy tee she’s wearing rising and exposing the skin of her thigh so that it directly touches yours. The fuzzy material of her socks brushes against your bare legs. For lack of a better word, you’re trapped.

And you never want to move.

It’s the weekend and the room is warm with golden sunlight, the slant of it through the windows telling you it’s still much too early to be awake. You don’t mind, really, but the dozing brunette in your arms never gets out of bed strictly before she has to. And you hadn’t made any plans, so you let her sleep. 

You try to wait her out, but some traces of exhaustion still linger, so you close your eyes again. You sink into a light doze until Emily begins to stir.

As always, this part takes forever.

You’re already back awake as she stretches slowly, unlatches her thigh from your hip and straightens her legs. Her hand leaves your stomach and she bends it until her elbow cracks, then wraps both her arms around your neck with a yawn.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you murmur, unable to stop yourself from being soft with her in times like these. “Finally ready to wake up?”

Emily’s responding hum vibrates through your skin. Even that is low and lazy as she sighs, rubs her eye with her knuckles.

“You’re comfy.” She says, her voice smoky and clouded with sleep. A small shiver runs down your spine at the rasp in the back of her throat, the way her tongue languidly wraps around those two words.

“And you’re lazy,” you run your hand over the curves of her waist. Your fingers find exposed skin above her hip and you poke it lightly, softening your words with the tender touch, “I’ve been awake for ages.”

It’s technically true.

Emily tilts your face toward hers. You smile when you meet sleepy, dark eyes, her lashes long and sweeping, her lips a little swollen from being tucked into your neck almost all night. Hi, you want to say, because sometimes she makes you want to say unnecessary shit like that, but she cradles your face before you can, bringing you closer.

“Sue me.” Emily murmurs, and leans in to kiss you. 

Time slows. It must, because she slips her hand in your hair and you slip it under her shirt and though the two of you spend decades in this moment, saying hello in the early morning light, only ten minutes pass by the time Emily’s eyes have lost their drowsiness.

Emily doesn’t say it, but you can tell she’s missed this. She clings to you, wraps arms and legs around your body and presses her cheek to yours, then kisses, then trails her hands and lips under your jaw. You sigh and soak up her attention, savoring the feel of her for when she’s later gone.

It’s hard when her job takes her away for too long. In brief stretches like these, days that she tries to twist and warp into weeks are when she recharges. Spending time with you, idly doing nothing, content with sitting around all day in your pajamas is how life is breathed into her again, after the BAU takes her and gives her back a hollowed shell.

Which is why both of you are always extra clingy when she’s home. Skin always pressed together, bodies always intertwined, no more than a few feet between you at any given time.

Her head is on your pillow now, the tips of your noses touching as you lightly trace the swollen outline of her lips. She has far, far encroached into your space, and what wouldn’t you give for her to do that every day.

Gently, you smooth her overgrown bangs behind her ear. They almost reach her lobes now, not much shorter than the rest of her hair, and you like the way the difference in length chips away at her polished, perfect exterior.

She doesn’t, though.

“I need to cut them,” Emily murmurs, a small furrow to her brows because she’d been saying she will for the past three months.

“Then you’ll go through the whole process again.” You point out needlessly, reaching out to play with a strand that hangs over her right eye.

Emily hums. “I’m liking the bangs right now. I think I want them for a little while longer.” 

You grab the bangs between your fingers, tuck the spiky ends out, and bring them up to brush her lip. Emily flinches away and you laugh, soft and low. “I’m liking them too.” Tucking those behind her ear, too, you cup her jaw and bring her down so her lips can meet yours in a soft kiss; an apology.

“Hm,” Emily grumbles against your lips. The strands behind her left ear loosen and fall across your face. You screw your eyes shut as Emily tucks them back behind her ear; she kisses your closed lids, signaling for you to open them again.

Your gaze is blissfully hair-free when you open your eyes again. “Y’know, I can cut ’em for you.” You offer.

Her gaze turns suspicious. “Can you?”

“I can.” Indignation drips from your tone as you cross your arms, feigning offense at her insinuation; you’ve had plenty of practice with your mom.

Emily’s eyes light up as she smiles. She bites her lip to try to hold it, but then it turns into a laugh, one that’s soft and so full of love you briefly flush with warmth all over.

“Okay, dolcezza.” She kisses your forehead. “I trust you.”

Her bangs fall across your face again.

You sigh and tap her hip. “Bathroom. Right now.”

Emily laughs as she gets off of you.

——

Even with her hair clipped back and her bangs hanging in wet threads across her face, she looks beautiful.

“Can’t you do it on my lap?” Emily teases, half joking, but her hands are intent as they wrap around the backs of your knees.

An amused huff leaves your lips. “Not unless you want to look like you got styled by Edward Scissorhands. Now,” you take her hands off your legs and grab the scissors, “keep those hands to yourself, Prentiss. You can’t keep distracting me.”

“You’re easily distracted.” She complains softly.

You bend down to be more level with her head, her seat on the closed toilet lid shortening her a considerable amount. “Sorry, my girlfriend has a magic touch.” You quip, taking the comb from her lap and quickly running it through the bangs over her eyes.

Emily begins to say something and you shush her as you gather the hair in your hands. “Quiet, love,” you murmur, brows scrunched in concentration as you snip off the edges of her bangs. Emily sucks in a breath and goes quiet, but the abrupt movement tilts her head.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Stay still,” you chide lovingly. She obeys, not moving as you slowly trim off length, shortening the bangs from mid-cheek to slightly above her brows. Your back hurts from the angle but you ignore it, steadily cutting until you feel the weight of coffee-brown eyes stare right into your soul. 

“Why hello there,” you grin, winking at Emily as her face finally comes into view, “whose pretty eyes are these?” Twisting the bangs into a rope, you cut away from her face.

Her cheeks tint red. “So you can talk and I can’t?” She grumbles, her mouth barely moving. Heat sears your skin as her eyes travel up, up, roving over your face with unashamed abandon.

Humming, you carefully slide the scissors between Emily’s hair and her forehead. “You get a kiss for each minute you stay still.” A few strands still hang over her eyes, so you lift them and trim a bit.

Those eyes of hers flutter shut, and the heat of her gaze disappears. A small smile plays at her lips, and a smile of your own appears when you see her dimples. A few more snips and you’re satisfied, placing the scissors on the sink and gently tilting Emily’s chin up, kissing her with her eyes still closed.

She responds with a sigh, one of her hands finding its way to the back of your knee again. “Think that was ten minutes, wasn’t it?” She mumbles against your lips.

The angle is hurting your back, so you crouch down in front of her. “Five, at the most,” you roll your eyes, brushing the damp bangs off her forehead to properly see her eyes. They shine, beautifully dark, and your heart stumbles. “But I don’t need an excuse to give you ten kisses, do I?”

“No,” Emily sighs, fisting her hand in your hair and bringing you up to her. For all her hurry, when she kisses you it’s sweet, reverent, and you smile against her lips. 

When she leans back, you press a finger to her dimple. 

9 more to go.

taglist: @suckerforcate

Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Support your authors and lmk what you think <3

[pseudowho]

Sanguis et Vinum

Higuruma Hiromi's not afraid of blood.

Warnings: 18+, smut, period sex

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"Feeling good?" A dulcet whisper against your neck, hot and wine-rich. You moaned softly in affirmation, fogging your glass as you took another sip, the red wine velvety as it coated your tongue.

You straddled Hiromi's lap; he, perched at the edge of the sofa, massaged your lower back, belly and hips with warm oiled hands, your panties rolled down low, your tank-top curled up under your breasts. You couldn't help but rock and sway as his hands smoothed, liquid and malleable, over your body.

It was the heaviest day of your period, and you were feeling every minute of it. You offered Hiromi a sip of wine from your glass; he accepted gratefully, his hands never slowing around your belly and back.

Hiromi played you like an instrument, responsive to your sighs, the subtle press of your skin against his palms and fingers, the scented oil heady. He looked up at you in unabashed adoration, and felt his arousal bloom, a vine starting as a blush along his neck, creeping downwards.

"I love you, like this," Hiromi confessed against your collarbones, pressing a kiss there, staining the skin softly with wine. You smiled, eyes closed, and tangled your hand in the hair at the nape of his neck. Hiromi shuddered as you tugged it, sending prickles down his spine, the vine coiling as he felt his cock begin to harden beneath your lap.

Unable to resist, Hiromi nipped and licked at your chest, his tongue wine-stained and sanguine, and moved down towards your breasts. You wanted him so viscerally, your belly and clit thrumming with need and pain, creating an odd aching duality in the pit of your stomach.

Yet...no. It was too taboo. Gross. Embarrassing.

You sighed, murmuring, regretful; "Hiromi...you know I can't..." Hiromi made a noise of gentle disagreement, nipping the tank top between his teeth, pulling it down to expose one breast. You watched him, mesmerised, when he sucked your sore nipple into his mouth, lapping, licking.

You panted, involuntarily pressing Hiromi's mouth closer with a tug on his hair, and he felt his cock twitch, tasting you on the flat of his tongue.

"Hiromi," you breathed, warning, "I can't-- I want to, but--" Hiromi let go of your nipple with a wet pop, and you felt a twang of disappointment. He answered, nuzzling his aquiline nose lazily across your breast.

"You want to?" He pressed, hovering his opened mouth over your nipple again, holding your gaze. His tongue darting out to lick your nipple again made your pussy throb with need, your belly cramping, a deep and sultry ache.

"I'm no boy," he argued, "I'm not afraid of a little bit of blood," pressing you closer onto his lap by your lower back. You slipped down, your panties thicker with the presence of a pad, but nonetheless feeling his cock, hard and twitching, against your pussy. You felt a warm whoosh of blood seep out of you and onto your pad, and jumped a little as you felt it overflow, leaking through to leave a patch of sticky blood on Hiromi's groin.

You moved to stand, and Hiromi strapped you to him with corded forearms. He felt the damp spot of your blood seep through, sticky, and he shivered, his oiled hand now coming up to roll your other nipple between his fingers, his mouth still working to convince you, silver-tongued.

You felt lightheaded, your pussy so sensitive, the ache in your belly adding a delicious masochistic edge to the pleasure. Feeling you could be brought to orgasm by nipple play and dry humping alone, you weakly offered another retreat, and Hiromi chuckled against your breast.

He rutted up against your pussy, and you jolted, slopping wine down your arm. Taking the wine from you, placing it gently on a table, Hiromi licked languidly up your forearm, sipping the wine off you, leaving wet-mouthed nipping kisses on the inside of your wrist.

You felt drunk now, your pleasure positively Dionysian, and you nodded lightheadedly when Hiromi whispered against your neck; "Bedroom. Now. You need this."

Lifting you, still straddling his lap, Hiromi carried you to the bedroom, kicking the door open. The bedroom was barely lit, shadows dramatised by the flicker of candles. As he dropped you onto the bed, leaning over you, humping against your clothed pussy, you realised he must have fully intended to seduce you like this.

Eyes hooded, drinking in the erotic shadow-puppetry your moving bodies made against the wall, you allowed Hiromi's hips to chase you up the bed until your aching body settled against plush pillows, and perfectly crisp white sheets.

As if reading your mind, Hiromi rested his nose against yours, nuzzling slowly; "We're going to make artwork tonight, darling."

"Hiromi, you...are you sure?" You drank Hiromi in as he knelt back, raising his arms to yank his t-shirt over his head. You gulped as he stripped his pyjamas, his pink-tipped cock bobbing out to rest against your clothed pussy. Hiromi gripped his cock, pumping it as he reached under you, pulling off your panties in one swift tug. You moved to close your legs and Hiromi made a sharp noise of reproach.

"Oh no you don't," he ordered, eyes zeroing in on your pussy, bloodstained, thrumming with anticipation, "you're...so beautiful."

You saw his pupils dilate more, already blown, his eyes beetle-black and glinting in the candlelight. Kneeling between your legs, forcing your knees apart with his own, Hiromi continued to stroke himself from ball to tip, before slipping two fingers between your bloodied pussy lips.

In the dark, the blood looked black, its gore reduced to shades of grey. With the flicker of candlelight, the frame-rate of movement in the room seemed to shift, and Hiromi and you sink into a black and white cinematic masterpiece.

His fingers dipped into your fluttering hole, coaxing you to rock your hips upwards as he stroked the front of your plush walls. You shuddered, mewling, so sensitive as he thrusted two fingers into you with tender, soft strokes. Hiromi brought his thumb upwards, pressing against your clit, alternating the pressure until you moaned and squirmed beneath him. Your belly ached, desperate to feel Hiromi deeper, to feel his fingers soothe you.

"Please...Hiro--" you begged, pressing your pussy up against his hand, your moan ragged as you felt his fingertips brush your desperately sore cervix. Hiromi felt a trickle of pre-cum down his fist as his knees weakened at the glassy-smooth surface of your dimpled cervix on his fingertips.

Hiromi gulped, shuddering as he threatened to spill into his own fist, "We'll start gently," he pressed, maintaining your gaze as he released his cock, stroking your cervix with deft fingertips and lowering his mouth to your pussy, "because you're hurting...and when I fuck you, I want you softer than feathers."

You moved involuntarily away from his mouth, conditioned to be disgusted by your own bleeding, and Hiromi growled in displeasure, his freed arm cuffing round your thigh to yank your pussy back towards him. With a quirked lip, and a playful look of warning, Hiromi nuzzled between your swollen lips, drawing your clit into his mouth as his fingers continued to thrust gently inside you, so deep that he soothed the cramps in your belly.

Your vision popped with pleasure, and you twisted against the sheets, pressing your face into fluffy pillows, crying out in ecstasy. Hiromi rutted his cock between his belly and the sheets, edging himself, his mouth coppery with blood, mixing in a bitter bouquet with the tannins still on his tongue.

He had dreamt of making love to you through your blood and pain for so long, that what was once a fleeting curiosity had become a kink, eagerly awaiting fulfilment. Feeling your thighs flex around his head, feeling the clenching of your swollen pussy against his fingers, tasting the salty tang of blood and wine, had his head reeling, and he thrust into his own wet patch between his belly and the bed, his hips stopping and stuttering to take himself to the edge and back again.

"I'm gonna-- fuck, 'Romi-- gonna cum--" you cried, your hand tangled in inky black hair, humping his mouth and nose. The elastic band in your belly stretched, stretched, stretched...and released with a twang as you arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, your body hot with incomparable pleasure.

Hiromi groaned into you, fingertips grazing your cervix so your orgasm spread all the way from clit to sore, cramping belly. He felt blood seep out around his hand, spreading into the sheets beneath you. Still, he continued, easing his caresses as he brought you down from your high.

You trembled, one hand rested on your belly, the other arm flung above your head, your skin still fizzing with divine joy. Hiromi withdrew his fingers from you, your pussy clenching, reluctant to let him go. Wiping his fingers on the sheets, you vaguely heard the opening and closing of a drawer, your eyes flicking open as you heard a familiar buzz sound through the dark room.

You moved to sit up, and Hiromi moved over you instantly, caging you in, pinning your arms above your head. His weeping cock rested on your belly. With the light behind him, you could barely see his face, his eyes flinty in the dark.

"You're obviously not soft enough for me to fuck, yet," he hummed, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, "if you're still trying to sit up." You felt the thick round tip of the wand buzzing against your thigh, sliding agonisingly slowly down to your core.

As the vibrator slipped between your folds, pressing firmly against your clit, you almost screamed with the overstimulation, and Hiromi moaned, teeth pressed to your collarbones as you convulsed. You sobbed with pleasure, feeling the cramps in your belly build, feeling blood seep out of you.

Hiromi lowered his mouth to your breasts again, rolling your nipple with a shudder against his tongue, pulling back so it pinched between his lips, before licking it in again. You felt a drip of pre-cum run down your waist, so wordless with pleasure, that you were totally unable to tell Hiromi you were about to cum again.

You came with a pained sob, your thighs trembling with exertion, and pleasure stabbed through you, dragging you along through a second orgasm. Hiromi cooed, talking you through it, his lips moving against your nipple.

"Good girl, good girl...almost there...just one more...gorgeous." You whimpered, his body hot on yours, still pinned down. He rolled the vibrator in circles, wide, to slow, to wide again, over your clit, making your pleasure vague and distant, then sharp and sweet, and back again.

As Hiromi edged you away from your second orgasm and towards a third, you felt your body become floppy, loose, pliable, as if made of rubber, heavy on these soft pillows. Hiromi ghosted the tip of the vibrator down against your clenching hole, and you cried out, greedily wishing to claim your pleasure back.

"Shhh...trust me. I wouldn't leave you like this," Hiromi hushed, his voice low and sandy against your ear, "hold my hand." Hiromi released your wrists just enough for you to grip his long-fingered hand between his own, and he stayed nose-to-nose with you, as he sunk the wand into your pussy until the vibrations rumbled against your cervix and deep into your womb.

You came with a gasp, your orgasm ruinous and so sudden, that just the lingering flesh-memory of the wand against your clit sent you over the edge. You juddered, whimpering Hiromi's name like a prayer, blinded by pleasure. After what felt like an eternity, Hiromi slipped the wand from you, switching it off and discarding it onto the sheets as he stroked your hands in his, kissing your neck and mumbling soft reassurances into you.

You were warm, fluid and malleable as warm water by the time Hiromi settled between your legs, stroking his wet cockhead between your puffy lips. Hiromi thrummed with anticipation, shoulders clenched, his abs twitching with the exertion of holding back for so long.

"I...I'll be gentle, I'll be so gentle, I promise," he insisted, begging, taking your lazy smile as consent, before sinking into you, bottoming out with a twitching groan. Hiromi laid over you, desperate to be closer, holding your thighs up to clasp his hips.

You let him move you this way, totally pliable in his grasp, Hiromi's rhythmic, rocking hips casting shadows like ocean waves against the wall. You watched the shadows, feeling his cock move deeply within you, feeling the kiss of his cockhead against your plush walls like a balm, soothing you, sedating you.

Hiromi watched you, your candlelit profile, the happy glow on your face, your willingness to be helped by him, lighting a fire within him, and his delayed orgasm crept up his spine with urgency. You felt Hiromi's thrusts hesitate, his hand clasped in yours threatening to untangle, to move to your tender, spent clit again.

Certain that your completion could be achieved through the intimacy of him cumming inside you alone, you held his hand tight, and rocked your hips up to him, replacing the movements lost by his hesitation. Hiromi gasped, given permission to finish, and rolled his hips to meet yours, feeling himself overwhelmed by an innate desire to fill your belly with his seed.

"--perfect, so perfect, thank-- thank you-- fuck, I can't last--" Hiromi's hips stalled with a sandy gasp, feeling the ecstatic rush of his cum through his cock, buckling into you as his face crumpled with pleasure, moaning short sharp moans into your neck. You rolled your hips lazily up around him, the warm balm of his seed in your belly like a lotion, deep and soothing.

Lying in your arms as you trailed your fingertips down his back, Hiromi pressed one long, grateful kiss to your temple, before kneeling back, uttering a husky whine as he pulled out of you. Watching the slow drip of bloodstained cum drip out of you made his cock twitch weakly, another spurt of cum dripping out onto the stained sheets.

"Just...wait here," Hiromi insisted, standing on shaking legs. You lay back, cushioned on clouds, humming to yourself in your delicious afterglow. You heard the patter of the shower, and allowed Hiromi to return and grip your hands, leading you, eyes closed, until you felt the sweet embrace of water down your curves.

Hiromi had pre-prepared, and he pressed a hot flannel to your belly, urging you to hold it there while he cleaned you both with a soft sponge. The water beneath you ran pink. You delighted in the massage of Hiromi's clever fingers across your scalp.

A few minutes later, warm and sated, aching and floating above your own body, you stepped to the bedroom with Hiromi. His hand hovered over the light switch, a curious grin on his face. You caught his eye hesitantly, able to see the white sheets only in shades of black and grey.

A flick, and the room basked in light. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the bedsheets rumpled and decorated with blossoming petals of vibrant red, smears and fingerprints, all evidence of your lovemaking. Hiromi sidled up behind you, resting a chin on your shoulder, nuzzling into your temple.

"Art," he whispered, "we've made art."

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Hiromi coming up for air:

[tirasamu]

01. CRUEL BEYOND MY YEARS . . . you do the impossibleー you make dazai feel. that's why you're his, even if neither of you know it yet.

ft. pm!dazai + pm!reader, possessive behavior, descriptions of depression, oda, ango, and chuuya are there too, 2.4k w.c.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai knows he’s supposed to be in a meeting right now.

He yawns, hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow, overgrown legs hanging off the arm of the couch as he stretches out. The heels of his shoes graze his jacket, haphazardly tossed aside when he first came into his office and laid down.

Even with the sleep mask covering his face, blocking out the sun that pools into the top floors of the Port Mafia’s Headquarters, he knows it’s you who’s approaching his door.

He fights back a smile, something he rarely has the opportunity to do. He keeps his breathing steady and deep as he hears the familiar rhythm of your knuckles against his office door, knocking in a code. You both came up with it when you were younger, freshly sixteen against the hollow walls of his shipping container; your own shared secret. He hears the gentle creak of the old wood as you peek inside.

“Dazai?” he hears the soft sound of your footsteps as you come closer, then a sigh he’d recognize anywhere.  “Dazai. Take that thing off. It’s creepy.”

He remains still. He’s supposed to be asleep, after all.

“I see Mr. Executive is as busy as always,” you say sarcastically, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. You slip your thumb under the soft cotton padding of the sleep mask and slide it up his face, pushing his bangs back. The soft glide of your skin against his forehead leaves tingles in its wake, and it’s easy enough to ignore the burn of his one visible eye adjusting to the bright afternoon light when you’re hovering over him like an angel. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to me?”

A new mission. He sighs exhaustedly, as if was the one who was assigned. “How long will you be gone this time?”

“Not long, probably,” your hip presses against his as you sit on the edge of the couch. You rest your cheek on your hand, arm bridged over his stomach as your elbow props on the backrest. “Chuuya got assigned to it with me. Him and I make a good team.”

“You shouldn’t hang around him so much,” he tilts his head back. “You should be careful. He eats dog food, you know. He really is a dog, isn’t he?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, and the sound makes his heartbeat quicken without his permission. “I know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” he sits up on his elbows so he can meet your eyes, his own shimmering with mirth. “I even saw him do it. You trust me, don’t you?”

You flick his forehead, giggling as you stand back up and straighten your skirt. “You’re just jealous you don’t get to come on this mission with us.”

With us? Dazai swears he could be sick and die right there on the couch, as if there even was a ‘you and Chuuya’. The thought alone makes him nearly double over in pain. If anything, it should be him you were paired up with, and if you asked for his opinion, it was a joke that you weren’t by defaultー even if little assignments like this were below him now that he’s an executive. No one else knew you as well as he did, and no one else ever would; besides, he’d known you longer than that stupid slug. Mori's negligence on the matter makes his stomach churn and his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he grabs onto your jacket sleeve, where the cuffs are still a little too long and the fabric hangs over your wrists, before you can walk away. “Be careful.”

You smile at him brightly, giving him a thumbs up, but it barely fazes him. He watches you leave, gaze dark and mouth firm. Something bitter starts to crawl up his stomach, growing in his chest like thorned vines intertwining and tightening around his ribs.

When Mori first introduced you and Dazai to one another, you were both fourteen years old. The first thing he noticed when he saw you was that your clothing was too big, hanging awkwardly off your body. You’ve both grown since then, nearly identical black jackets and ties over white button-downs adorning your frames. The second thing he noticed was that you were different from him; he could tell from your eyes, bright and glistening.

He can't remember a time when he wasn’t burdened by the feeling of looking through a window, always a spectator. You were different; you had a seat at the table. Every bomb placed, every trigger pulledー you were there with him through it all, with the same fucked up feeling of adrenaline pounding through your veins, except you were attached to the world around you. You saw meaning in it somehow.

He wants to pick you apart piece by piece and study you under a microscope. He wants to understand just what it is about you that makes you so intriguing. What do you know that he doesn’t?

How are you so good at making him feel like this ?

He thinks about you on your mission, even when he tries not to. He flips through his paperwork lazily, pulling sheets from their stapled packets and folding them into origami shapes. He stares at his finger when he gets a paper cut on the edge of a report about some dispute in Kyoto, watching the blood dribble down his skin in small beads. He raids the infirmary for chemicals, slipping past the nurses and picking the lock to the medicine cabinet, pocketing bottles and extra rolls of bandages. He plays on his handheld console, sighing in frustration when his character dies again; if only it was so easy.

It's nearing the latest hours of the night when he decides to sneak into your office that he finds you again, back from your mission and chatting with Chuuya, whose arms are crossed as he leans against the edge of your desk. Dazai skims his eyes over you, noting with satisfaction that there seem to be no new visible injuries on you. He relishes in how Chuuya’s brows furrow when he sees him, and how yours rise in delight, Cheeks rounding in a smile. He throws his arms around your shoulders, your faces close enough for him to count your eyelashes as you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun without me,” he pouts, squeezing you against his chest. “Did you keep Chuuya on his leash during your mission?”

“Don’t talk about me like I'm not here, idiot.”

“Oh, there you are,” he eyes the aforementioned man lazily, as if he were a bug that landed near him. “I almost missed you because you’re so small.”

“I fell asleep right after we were done,” you giggle. “Chuuya had to carry me back.”

“Oh?” he tightens his arms. Dazai always thought you were the cutest post-mission, all sleepy and touchy; he always made sure he was around for those moments. “Did he?”

You’re talking, something else about the mission, but he doesn’t listen. Chuuya looks from you to him when he feels his gaze, eyebrow raising in a silent question. They screw up in irritation when dazai’s eyes narrow as his lips curl up into a cruel grin. He cranes his neck down, nose grazing your temple before he drags his tongue across your cheek.

“Ew, Dazai!” you try to shove him away, but he doesn’t go far, still clinging to you tightly. “What the hell? You’re so gross!”

He laughs in your ear, even as you try to pry his hands off his shoulders. You twist your hand around his wrist, tugging on it and glaring at him over your shoulder.

“Let go, Dazai.”

You’ve only ever looked at him like this when he woke you up in the middle of the night, knocking over one of your chairs after he broke into your apartment; you weren’t able to fall back asleep for hours, and when you finally woke up the next day, you realized he ate the last of the mapo tofu in your fridge.

He loosens his arms, stumbling when you shove him. The feeling of your hands pushing him away is nowhere near as warm as when you brushed his hair back earlier that day. There's no pretty, warm smile dimpling your cheeks either; just the dark wood of your office door grazing his nose, the sound of it slamming shut, and Chuuya’s annoyed glare still prickling his skin. 

His chest tightens. 

The flickering light of Bar Lupin’s sign penetrates the foggy night air, like a lighthouse calling lost ships home. Ango and Oda are already inside when Dazai arrives. A cigarette dribbles loose curls of smoke into the air as Ango cradles his glass between his palms and Oda tilts his head back to sip his whiskey. The bar’s most devoted patron hops from Dazai’s seat knowingly, landing on his little white paws as Dazai sits down on the stool with a huff.

He rests his chin against his forearm, sighing into his elbow as the bartender places his usual in front of him wordlessly. The two older men look at the pouty pile of messy hair between them. Oda knows he’s waiting for one of them to ask, so he does. 

“Did something happen today, Dazai?”

“Yes,” he bounces the sphere of ice against the bottom of the glass, feeling his fingertip go numb. “She’s mad at me.”

“What did you do now?” Ango eyes him wearily from behind his glasses.

“How rude,” he says flatly, his voice sounding hollow without his usual playfulness. “Immediately assuming I’m at fault.”

“Aren’t you always?” he sighs into the rim of his glass, taking a long sip.

They both wait in silence before Dazai shoots up in his seat, his stool spinning slightly.

“How can that stupid slug touch what’s mine?”

“'Yours’?” Ango asks, a thin eyebrow raised. “People don’t own other people.”

“I didn't know you two were dating,” Oda says.

“We’re not,” Dazai sags back down, folding his arms and laying his head down so his eyes are level with his glass again. “That's gross.”

“You’re not?” Oda repeats. “…Then why are you upset?”

He feels the bandages around his eyes loosen as he turns his head away, squishing his cheek into his elbow. The cat licks his paws across the bar, before reaching up and rubbing his little face. He catches dazai’s gaze, looking at him with round, unblinking eyes.

His chest tightens again.

The sun is rising, melting the black of the night sky to gold when Dazai arrives at your apartment. His hand freezes inside his pocket, fingers wrapped around his lock pick, glancing back to your door. He lets it go and knocks instead, beating his knuckles against the wood in your secret code.

You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and he notices the bruise on your leg that was hidden under your work uniform. He looks at you like a lost puppy; ears down, eyes big, with his nonexistent tail between his legs.

“Hey,” your eyes dart along his body, and he knows you’re scanning him for injuries too. “You okay?”

He doesn’t reply, and you let him meekly slip past you into your apartment. Your blanket is pooled on the floor from where you were sitting at your coffee table, chopsticks and a bowl of stir fry waiting for you; the schedule of a mafiosa has your circadian rhythm flipped, eating dinner as the sun rises.

“Did you eat anything yet?” you ask him, sitting back on the ground.

His big brown eyes blink down at you in a silent answer.

You open the side of your blanket expectantly, scooting over to make space for him. You nudge your food between the two of you when he sits beside you. His stomach flutters as he thinks about you feeding him from your chopsticks, a hand cupped under his chin, your soft thumb brushing his lips as you wipe them clean. He ignores it, plucking a shrimp out of your bowl with his fingers instead.

“You can have the rest,” you bundle the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders, sighing softly as you lay your head down on his shoulder. “I made extra. I knew you’d come over.”

“You did?”

“Mhm,” you rub your thumb along the edge of his bandages where his palm and wrist meet absentmindedly. “I know you.”

You do, scarily so. You like your stir fry spicy, but you kept it mild for him. because you knew he’d come over. Because you knew he wouldn’t have eaten otherwise. Because he only ever gets a home-cooked meal when you make one for him.

“‘m sorry,” he mumbles, voice barely audible.

You tilt your head up and look at him, eyes heavy. He holds his breath as you lift your hand and cup his cheek, tracing the dark circle under his one visible eye with the pad of your thumb.

“Let’s go to bed,” your voice is soft in the way it always is when you’re tired. “We can still sleep a little before we have to go back to headquarters.”

He knows every inch of your apartment, but he still lets you guide him into the dark of your room, and he’s suddenly surrounded by everything that is so quintessentially you. He has it all committed to memory: the title of the book on your nightstand you swear you’ll finish, the delicate splay of jewelry on your dresser, the pajama shorts hanging over the side of your hamper in the corner.

You practically collapse, falling into your bed and splaying your limbs with a happy sigh while he carefully lies down, staring at the ceiling and keeping his hands to himself. It's after a few quiet moments when he feels something warm against him, and when he turns to look at you, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re so much closer to him than anyone else would ever dare to be. You curl towards him even in your sleep, like a sunflower growing towards the sun. Your arm reaches towards his, fingers loosely clinging to his sleeve, as if you wanted to keep him anchored to the bed with you. He could almost make himself believe you really wanted him there.

He watches the daylight fall over your face, just as delicate as the sheet you draped over your body, still thin enough to show off the contour of your legs. You look so relaxed, cheeks full of color with the shadow of your lashes resting against them.

You looked so alive. So human.

His chest tightens.