#i’ll make a meet the artist one day

[caffeiiine]

wanna make a “meet the artist”, held back by my insatiable need to always be in the background and never be seen.

[sinnbaddie]

OC I made for Raphael

[doomsdaydragon]

ITS ME!💥

[poisonf0rest]

Intertidal Zone

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Nightly Rendezvous card, but now we finally understand why rafayel was so desperate when he came back to the hotel room.

♱⋅── word count: 6.7k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, the belt scene, slight exhibisionism, fem! masterbation, sooo much kissing, slight oral fixation, Lemurian mating bond, needy raf

art credit to @/khouxy on instagram

You swear Rafayel is doing this on purpose. 

The first time it happens is right after your flight, the two of you only just managing to check into your hotel and change for dinner.

It's a fancy restaurant overlooking the vast desert, and the outdoor patio offered a clear view to gorgeous sunset. Furious spirals of orange and vermillion cast their light across the sand, making it appear to glow as winds kick up waves of golden dust along the horizon.

It’s beautiful, almost as much so as the man across you, who is still staring longingly into the distance as though committing every color to memory. As if repainting it entirely in his mind. 

Not hues of warmth, but those of the deep sea. Blues and purples and colors so dark they’d only come to life in the night. 

“How’s your drawing?” 

Rafayel sighs at your voice, tossing his pen across the dinner table with a huff before leaning back against the sofa. A stack of crumpled sketches litter your table among half-finished plates of food. He insisted on traveling here to relax, and yet he seems to be doing everything but. 

“If a few lines count as a drawing, then wonderfully.” Sassy as ever.

He sighs again, but this one sounds more pained, and you notice the red tinge highlighting his ears and neck as he leans against your shoulder. 

“You still don’t feel good?” You ask, voice hushed as you place a kiss against his temple, the skin burning beneath your lips. Raising a hand, Rafayel immediately nuzzles into your palm as you pull his chin up towards you, feeling the rising temperature along his cheek and forehead. “We can head back if you’d like. Take a bath, or shower?” 

You hoped the together was implicit by now.

But Rafayel only nods, placing a chaste kiss against your exposed shoulder. “What about the sunset? I saw you admiring it, and squandering a beautiful view is unacceptable for an artist. It’s one of the greatest offenses.”

Rafayel’s breath is minty and dry against your ear, and when you turn to look at him, his face is doused in the fiery hues of the sunset, each one casting deep purple shadows that only make his features all the sharper, half his face veiled in darkness. 

Some days you wish you were an artist as well, if only to capture moments like this—to show Rafayel just how gorgeous he was. 

Perhaps it’s only natural for a god. After all, no mortal could ever need beauty so violently arresting, so worthy of worship. 

You’re leaning in despite yourself. 

Rafayel meets you halfway, one hand on your waist as the other traces your jaw and bottom lip. But as soon as you feel the brush of his lips across yours, he pulls away. 

You open your eyes in confusion. Rafayel’s never denied you before. 

When you look at him in question, he only gives you a tired smile and pulls you to your feet with a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Sorry. I’ll feel better as long as I’m close to you like this.”

The second time it happens is when the hotel reception mixes up your and Rafayel’s rooms, leaving you to deliver some sort of formal invitation to him. 

But the letter is soon forgotten; you can’t be bothered thinking about it, not when Rafayel still looks so absent.

He’s right next to you, knees brushing yours as you sit side by side on the couch, and yet he seems to be miles away, gazing out the window as the dunes shift and rise like waves under the moonlight.  

"I used to really enjoy scenic spots before," Rafayel says, voice barely rising above the hum of the heater. "Catching sights of subtle things that might be easily overlooked used to feel like enough. More satisfying than finishing a painting, even."

A laugh. Dry, humorless. 

His fingers grazed the edge of his glass, tracing the condensation absentmindedly. A droplet trails down his wrist. "But now, sometimes, I forget why I even decided to travel in the first place.” 

You watch him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your gaze.

"I think," Rafayel continues, "somewhere along the way, I stopped just... noticing things. And I started needing them. Like the world wasn’t worth looking at unless I could turn it into something. Capture it, hold it in my hands, and call it mine." He shakes his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "It’s not a very generous way to live, is it?"

"You don’t need to be generous with everything," you say carefully. "Some things are just... for you to enjoy."

"Enjoy," he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth. A pout. "It doesn’t feel like enjoyment anymore. It feels more like... hunger.” 

Like he’s always fucking starving.

Rafayel finally turns to look at you, eyes eclipsed in the dark. Nearly dilated black. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid that if I feed it, it’ll only grow worse.”

You turn to face him on the couch, sliding your leg between his thighs before perching yourself on Rafayel’s lap. It’s not lost on you how his heartbeat picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly as each shallow breath hits your lips. Perhaps it’s cruel, but you can’t help but touch him again, fingers tracing his full lips, up his jaw, fluttering against his eyelashes and into his hair.

“You think hunger gets worse when you feed it?" You finally ask, voice quiet, slow, daring to push back. "Doesn't it stop when you're full?"

Rafayel’s mouth quirks, a sharp, fleeting twist of a smile. "Not always. Sometimes it makes you realize just how much more you want. Or how much more you could take."

You frown. “You’re not demanding anything. Not from the world, not from me."

"Maybe not yet. But, if one day, I become someone who only takes… If I were like that, would you leave me?"

The confession hangs for a moment, the truth of it hidden. Something about the way his shoulders tense under your touch— like he's bracing for something, but it hasn’t yet arrived. A phantom pain from centuries ago, and a pain to come for a thousand years more. 

“Silly fishie, I’d never leave you.” 

Rafayel smiles in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty.

“Thank you…” he hums, finally pulling you closer as his lips skim alongside the curve of your neck. “for accepting me the way I am.”

His breaths come out in desperate huffs against your skin, and he inhales sharply, freezing, before finally placing a kiss against the crook of your neck. And then another, and another. 

“You’re just anxious,” you whisper, sucking a mark into Rafayel’s neck as he moans so sweetly against your ear. “I can help you relax.”

You wiggle your hips to better balance yourself on his lap and Rafayel looks almost near tears, one hand forcing you still while the other grabs your wrist, trailing kisses from your fingertips back up to your neck.

More. You need more. Rushing, your hands fly up into his hair, about to tug Rafayel to lay down on the couch when a crack echoes behind you. 

The glass lays shattered against the floor. 

Panting, Rafayel stares at the spilled water for a long moment before pulling away. You feel his erection digging into your thigh, the warmth of his fever spiking yet again as his skin burns against yours, yet he still refuses. 

“As you said, I’m anxious…” Still panting, Rafayel picks you up, gently lifting you up as he stands from the couch. “Or, more like restless. In every sense of the word.” 

The need in his eyes almost makes your knees buckle. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he could ever crave, like a bite would both be salvation and leave him hungry forever. 

“But see, now I can’t stand the idea of letting you go again, and you don’t want me to either.” He sets you down just a little farther than necessary, but his hands don’t leave your waist, trembling, waiting. “What should we do?”

“Rafayel…” You want him. You want him so badly it hurts. 

“Fuck.” 

You nearly jump at that. Rafayel curses again, his head falling onto your shoulder as his breath hitches. “I can feel your concern. That and…” another convulsion, his body burning up. “Fuck. You have to leave.”

You don’t even have time to retort before you’re pushed out of his hotel room, and the door slams shut behind you. 

By the third time, you know something is wrong. 

It’s not that you and Rafayel haven’t kissed yet. Hell, you’ve had sex before. The last time was quite literally on the night before you were supposed to leave for this trip. Obviously, Rafayel suggested that you stay at his place for the night—insisting he was closer to the airport and getting an Uber would be quicker this way—and one thing led to another, as is what happens nearly every time Rafayel and you are left alone for too long. 

But now it’s been nearly a week and Rafayel has barely touched you, let alone picked up on your not-so-subtle clues. 

So yes, it's safe to say you’ve become rather pent up. 

You’ve fallen asleep in the off-roader the two of you rented out for the day, bobbing up and down the dunes like waves flecked white not with seafoam but snow. There’s a chill as you drift off, but your dreams are anything but, plagued with memories of Rafayel. 

His hands, deft and talented with a brush, are even more so when teasing your skin, knowing exactly how to trace delicate circles against your thighs before roughly curling into your cunt. His tongue, every smartass comment and teasing grin now silenced as he licks and sucks against your clit. His body, the warmth of it, bearing down on you with every thrust, or perhaps writhing beneath you as you take him again and again and again— 

It’s the cold that wakes you up. 

Your eyes flutter open, first noticing the dim light of the hotel parking lot, and second, the burning desire still aching between your legs. 

“Rafayel?”

A shuffle makes you turn, and you find said man still seated in the driver’s seat, unbuckled as he sits with his head resting on his hand. 

“Yes, cutie?” Rafayel’s tone is teasing, but the way he stares down at you feels like anything but. The hunger is back. 

Sitting up, you clear your throat. “How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You seemed like you were having such a nice dream, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

You inhale sharply. Glaring, you try and see if he’s teasing again or being serious, but Rafayel doesn’t let you read him for long, already leaning over the middle console. 

He places his lips gently on your temple, brushing over the skin, and then moves down to your cheek, his breath warm against your neck. He whispers your name, so softly you almost think it was a trick of your imagination.

Your mind goes blank when he kisses your jaw, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as you feel his hair tickle your skin.

"Raf," you mumble under your breath, but you know he hears it because he exhales sharply against you.

Rafayel trails a series of kisses up your neck, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, cutie." His body temperature is rising again, and the air in the van feels dangerously thin as he sways in your grasp. "I'm trying."

The hunger is back, all-consuming and hot as you genuinely fear you might burn up. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and you finally cup Rafayel's jaw, leading him towards your lips.

Yet again, he stops you halfway.

“Do you want to go back to your room first?”

At first you think he’s suggesting moving there before continuing, but you know better at this point. 

“You’re not coming with me?” 

Rafayel pulls out the invitation from before, waving it between the two of you as if all this was the letter’s fault. “I still have to attend my friend’s salon thing.”

“But you’re still burning up! Forget this, I can’t let you go out to who knows where when you’re still acting strange. Maybe we can see a doctor—”

“Cutie…”

“—No, no. Or maybe I can come with you.”

Rafayel says your name this time. Firmer. Cutting off your rambling as he places his forehead against yours. 

“Do you want me to turn into a sea creature that’s beached on the sand after the ocean recedes? Leaving me to suffocate when I come out of the water?” 

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, feeling his desperation in every word even as you struggle to make sense of it.

Rafayel continues, pulling away from you again. “Don’t you trust me? How about we make a promise?”

“What kind of promise?”

A smile. “I promise… I’ll be okay without you tonight.”

There’s no joke, no hidden meaning, just Rafayel who so violently hopes that this promise will hold true. 

So you relent. “Okay, just take care of yourself.”

Finally, Rafayel opens the car door, letting the desert night winds sweep in with a biting chill as he leans back against the driver’s seat. He lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “You can head back. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rafayel promised he’d be okay without you tonight, but you don’t think the opposite could hold true. 

Not when the dizziness Rafayel caused remained. Not when you still feel the phantom touch of his lips and hands all over your body, burning you up, leaving you cold and empty and aching. 

You’ve been burning for the better part of a week now.  

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you as you fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is pathetic.”

Even the damned sheets smell like Rafayel, pillows deeply laced with his shampoo and the smell of his cologne—amber, yuzu, and something salty like the ocean—surrounding you as though this were his hotel room and not yours.

Desert nights were cold, but even the room's chill could do nothing to quell your desire, arms shaking with it as you quickly stripped yourself of your shirt and bra. The room spins as you stumble around, leaving your clothes on the floor, another delirious whimper seizing you as you sprawl against the silk sheets. 

You need him. 

Fuck, you need him, and you hate him for leaving you while the growing ache between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole.

The sheets are deliciously cool against your flushed skin, and you turn your head to rest your cheek in the cool embrace of the pillow. But it only needs a second to heat from your desire. 

And then the room is all too hot once again. 

Kicking off your pants, your hand snakes down your bare torso, leaving half-hearted squeezes to your breasts and hips, failing to replicate the touch Rafayel already has you addicted to. The memory only makes you more frustrated. 

A hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and fuck, you’re dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. You force yourself to slow down, rubbing slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to have your hips bucking up against nothing. 

Inhaling sharply, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. It’s not enough.

You force yourself to draw each movement out, the curl of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside your ragged breath. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the fingertip, two plunge back in this time, and your back arches off the bed with violent tremors as you imagine it was Rafayel's hand instead.

How he’d tease you in the early mornings to wake you up, how he’d take special care of every sensitive spot on your body, how he’d draw his fingers along your clit just the way that will make you come undone.

And as your fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you cry his name into the empty room is no different.

Your head is spinning, falling, your thighs shake, and it's not long before you're gasping out, "Rafayel, please.”

Still not enough. Every rough thrust of your fingers brings you higher and higher, but without the pressure of Rafayel's chest pressed to yours, or his hot breath ghosting across your ear, his voice, his lips, his touch—

Without him.

A sob rips from your throat, your hips bucking uselessly against the air as you fuck yourself harder, deeper. But your fingers are only so long, and your free hand, fisting the sheets, is unable to make up the difference. "No, no please," a whine, and your free hand rushes to circle your clit, the other picking up pace.

You're close, so close, sobbing his name when the dizziness from the car returns tenfold, overtaking your body in waves as your eyes roll back. "Please, ah! Rafayel, m’cumming-"

The world goes silent as pleasure surges through you, muscles convulsing, a choked, garbled sound escaping as you come. Collapsing back against the sheets, you struggle to catch your breath, the stickiness of both the heat and your orgasm coating your thighs. 

There’s another tug, a violent pull against your chest, but the dizziness remains. 

You know you should change the sheets or at least move them aside, but you can’t manage to do either as you rush to shower before Rafayel returns from his friend’s exhibition. 

It’s only when you stumble into the bathroom that you notice it. 

Shit. This is Rafayel’s room. 

You must be trying to kill him.

Surely, this is the gods' cruelest trial—a final test of his resolve—to see if he’d bow once more, forsaking divinity and succumbing to the temptation of you.

Because it’s been barely an hour, and Rafayel has already resigned himself from the party, passing blank smiles and empty compliments as he quietly counts down the minutes until he can return to the hotel, when suddenly he feels it.

The tug of your bond flashes through his body as his dick aches.

Rafayel freezes mid-sentence, the polite smile he'd been wearing slipping from his face. The conversation at the bar around him, something about chiaroscuro in the artist’s latest piece, become muffled static as the chains tighten, digging into his heart. 

It’s unmistakable now. The rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that don’t belong to him but still manage to spark delirious heat up his veins.

Rafayel’s breaths quicken, body temperature rising as his Evol flickers out of his control. He glances around the room, feigning interest in the conversation, the glittering glasses of champagne, the faint hum of the crowd. It doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on is you.

He should leave. Go outside, breathe in the night air, and let the tether between you both loosen, just to regain control. Just to prove to himself it’s not too late.

But the bond tightens, as invasive as it is intoxicating, demanding Rafayel’s attention like a leash coiled around his neck. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s primal, every nerve in his body pulled taut like you’re screaming his name over and over into the depths of his soul. 

It’s not fair.

No god can deny the prayer of a worshipper.

Your pleasure becomes his, and when Rafayel closes his eyes, he swears he can feel your phantom hands on him, dick already heavy and throbbing, leaking through his expensive trousers.

Are you in bed, thighs trembling as you grind against your own palm? Or maybe the shower, steam curling around you as you chase release? Or worse—are you riding something of his? His shirt? His pillow? Is this vengeance a cruel punishment meant to shatter what little resolve he has left? 

Shit. He’s hard.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You good?” 

The slam of a glass brings him back. Gods, he hates these rich socialites. 

The champagne glass Rafayel was holding is now covered in cracks, blood trickling down his ring finger. He’s unraveling, composure fracturing with every pulse of your pleasure surging in and out as violently as a full moon’s tide. 

Rafayel looks up, smiling. “Stress. And apparently a very needy pet.”

The man laughs at what he assumed was a joke, but Rafayel sees his hesitation, the type animals give when they pick up rustling in the bush. Fear. 

Rafayel’s grin only widens, all teeth. “I should probably go check on her. Wonderful party,” he adds, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast before setting it down with a sharp clink.

As he steps outside, the desert air does nothing to soothe him. If anything, the dryness makes it worse as the pull becomes sharper, like you’re reaching for him, your need coiling tighter around his chest.

A growl, almost feral, rumbles low in his throat as he staggers down the cobblestone streets. He doesn’t need directions. He doesn’t even need to think. His body moves instinctively, guided by the bond, by you. 

Rafayel swears he can feel you all across his body, your heartbeat picking up as you get closer, the smell of your skin and arousal, the cries of his name that only become more and more desperate as you fail to bring yourself over the edge without him. 

You’re begging for him in a way his bond mistakes for worship, because Rafayel’s body feels like it’s burning. Like blood spilled on his altar, an offering of yourself to your god, your husband.

The thought that you might be doing so unintentionally only drives him further into madness.

But, beneath the frustration, there’s something else. A glimmer of something Rafayel hates to name but knows all too well: relief.

Because as much as he might deny it, Rafayel could never leave you. And now that you’ve reciprocated, now that you’ve begged for him oh so sweetly, he would gladly submit to his bond and become chained to you once again, forever at your mercy, unable to escape the inevitability of his fate.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches the hotel room door. It swings open under the force of his hand, and the sight of you standing there—wide-eyed, startled, only in a bath towel—hits him like a blow to the chest.

There's a soft click as Rafayel locks the door. A hurried shuffle of shoes as he all but stumbles toward you, closing the distance between you in one hurried, unstoppable motion. A startled gasp as he grabs your face in his hands.

It's the last breath you take.

An arm wraps around your waist, blocked by only a flimsy hotel towel as Rafayel violently spins you around. Your surprise is swallowed by his lips as you’re pinned against the window, the chill of the desert snow, frosted against the glass, a harsh contrast to the burn of his touch. His hand pins yours at the wrist as he stares down at your fingers.

“Rafayel? What are you doing here?” 

The question barely gets out, not before he rushes forward to claim you in a kiss, if it was even that. A desperate, consuming need overtakes him, Rafayel pushing you back so insistently that your head hits the window with a thud, pain immediately distracted as his clothed knee grinds up between your bare thighs. 

Holy fuck, just a towel. Right.

You try to push him back, one hand pressing against his chest as the other flies back to tighten the towel. “Wait–”

Rafayel kisses you again. And again. And again. 

You can feel the cloth slipping.

But Rafayel makes it very hard to care. His hand traces your throat, your heartbeat, then drags you closer by your hips as he thrusts forward in time, still caging you against the window. He’s relentless, every kiss only broken with a ragged breath or gasp as though he’s given up on breathing entirely, content to consume you instead, his tongue sweeping against your lip before it coaxes yours to meet it halfway, licking and sucking into your mouth.

It’s obscene, animalistic, and you swear that there has to be something wrong with you because the dizziness is back, and this time it’s enough to make your knees buckle, the two of you blindly stumbling across the hotel room.

So you bite him. 

“Why–” Breathe. Remember how to breathe. “Why are you here?”

Rafayel almost looks offended, thumbing his bitten lip before licking away the smudge of blood with a lopsided smile. 

Fuck, he’s hard. You feel the heat of his cock jolt against your thigh, pressing into you as he surges forward again, kissing you as his hands squeeze and cup your waist, lifting you up.

"Why?" Rafayel laughs, roughly grinding up against you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. "This is my room, remember? You’re the one who decided to come in here." He growls the last part, licking, biting, sucking at your throat. 

“Or was that intentional?”

The look in his eyes is feral. 

There’s no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of your devoted lover. Just hunger. He’s rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge. In punishment. Your teeth click together, foreheads bumping, unable to talk because when you try to open your mouth his tongue only slides in deeper. 

The wet sounds echo against your ears alongside your racing heartbeat, only causing you to grind harder, rougher, before Rafayel ungracefully drops you onto the bed. 

Your body bounces on the mattress, but it gives you a moment, and you scramble to cover Rafayel’s lips with your palm before he can begin devouring you again. 

“What I meant was, shouldn’t you still be at that art salon?”

He all but collapses into your touch. Lips parted, he grabs your wrist, tongue darting out as he licks up your middle and ring fingers, moaning against your skin. 

“I tried. I tried going, leaving.” He's panting, breathing in your scent before biting your palm. “But you called me back, you cruel, selfish human. And now I’ll never leave again.”

Your words come out between moans, unable to look away. “I called? I didn’t do—” You’re cut off as Rafayel licks up your skin, sucking lightly at your fingertips as his eyes, half-lidded and blown out stare down into yours. 

Oh.

A hot flush of embarrassment seizes you and Rafayel must sense it because his eyes flutter closed. His hips snap forward, grinding his erection into the side of the bed, and he lets out a low whine.

Gods, the taste of your cum lingers in Rafayel’s mouth. Every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume until—

“You don't think I know? Don't think I can’t tell?” Rafayel goes back to kissing your wrist, needing something more, something stronger. His hand ventures to the edge of your towel. ”Can feel everything you do, no matter how far away I go. Gods, I feel it, feel everything, and it drives me insane. Need you so bad, need to hear you, feel you, taste you..."

A shudder runs up Rafayel’s spine at the mere thought, and he can't stop himself anymore, leaning down to suck your fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the digits, saliva coating your fingertips. He rips the towel from your body.

"Say you need me too," He’s begging, sinking down to your knees. "Say you need me just as badly. I–ah fuck—I can smell how much you want me."

Throwing the towel to the floor, Rafayel runs his hands down your chest, rougher, long fingers cupping and massaging your breasts as his mouth trails wet kisses down your stomach, his tongue dragging against the smooth skin, a clear goal in mind as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you as though you were a thing worthy of worship. His Goddess. 

He’d offer himself to your alter time and time again. So long as he was the only one who got to bleed for you. 

“Yes.” You’re already soaked, the sight of Rafayel panting between your thighs enough to have you babbling, ”Yes, Rafayel. I needed you so, so badly all week. Couldn’t help m’self, please.”

He freezes at that, pouting. “Right, you already came, didn’t you. So mean, cutie. Leaving me out.”

Before you can argue, Rafayel dips his head, dragging his tongue up your cunt before sucking roughly at your clit. 

Your legs thrash above his shoulders. “Ah– wait, not so!” It’s too much too soon. Still sensitive from your prior orgasm, your back arches violently off the mattress, but Rafayel pays it no heed, deaf to your cries as he sloppily makes out with your pussy, drool and slick connecting his lips to you in sticky strands even as he pulls away just far enough to talk. 

“She’s already so sensitive, s’not fair,” he pouts, mouthing against your thigh as he flicks your throbbing bundle of nerves. You jolt, gasping at the sharp jolt of pain. At the same time, Rafayel fucks his tongue into your cunt, just barely dipping in before he moves back to rub nonsensical patterns on your clit. “But this is mine. I don’t want you touching it without permission anymore.”

Fuck, if you had any semblance of a coherent thought you would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man.

Instead, all you can manage is a pathetic whine of his name, because the strange swirls and harsh lines he’s licking into your clit aren’t patterns at all but letters, spelling something over and over and over again. 

R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y—

The ring of the hotel phone buzzes from the nightstand. It’s the artist whose party Rafayel left only minutes ago.

“Tch,” Rafayel scoffs in annoyance, whiping his chin as he goes to decline the call.

But this gives you a moment to breathe, and all you can think of is getting revenge. Especially on the bastard who tried to take Rafayel from you tonight. 

“Wait,” you grab his wrist. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it was something important?”

Rafayel turns to you with narrowed eyes, knowing there’s no good intent behind your wicked smile. It turns you on more than you can admit, the sight of his glare, mad at both the call and you interrupting his feast. But Rafayel can't deny you anything and does as he’s told, pressing accept. 

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message.”

Instantly, you have Rafayel on his back. 

His neck looks far too bare, and you climb onto his lap, enjoying the way his pulse kicks up under your palm.

Ripping his shirt’s buttons off, you begin biting dark spots down the pale expanse of his chest and neck. You’re about to aim right for the glowing mark on his chest when the phone beeps again, playing a voice recording of a clearly very drunk man. 

“Why did you leave, bro? Come back here r’now. One more round of drinks a—” Incoherent laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. 

No. No, Rafayel’s not allowed to leave you, not again. 

You don’t know where the fear comes from, but you force yourself closer on top of him, breasts pressing into his abs as Rafayel shivers beneath you. Leaning down, you kiss the glowing mark atop his heart, admiring the way it flickers and glows when Rafayel bucks into your touch, moaning as you begin to nip and suck in earnest. 

And then you’re flipped onto the mattress once more. 

Rafayel’s heaving, arms trembling to keep himself up. Away. “...Are you sure?”

“If I don’t, then you might actually leave. What will you say if you’re asked why you didn’t go back?”

Rafayel smirks, and you catch a glimpse of fangs as he sits back on his knees. There’s a click, the rough sound of metal on metal as he undoes his belt, unzipping his trousers with one hand as the other cups the inside of your thigh, yanking it over his shoulder as he drags you down the bed. “I’m busy.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

You’re lost, so hopelessly lost in each other that you fail to notice the phone beep once again, the monotone voice of the machine saying, “Please leave a message at the tone,” before flashing twice, still running. 

Again, Rafayel seems to forget the concept of breathing, gasping into your lips as he ruts his hips into yours. “You’re not leaving me, right?” Fuck, he’s leaking all over his stomach, pre-cum splattering across your thighs.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Rafayel.”

“Then tell me you’re mine. Tell me, please, please—hah—tell me and I’ll do anything, promise cutie, promise.” He’s all but gasping between kisses, cock trapped between his body and yours as he grinds forward, voice a pitch or so higher than it usually would be. “Say it, say you're mine, tell me, I need to hear it again."

He's talking in circles, rambling, the desperation in his voice palpable. Grasping the base of his cock, he sloppily fisting himself once, twice, before thumping against your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafayel.” You writhe, grinding yourself up against him in hopes that he’s just hurry the fuck up.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, yours Rafayel.”

“Again, ah—again,” he’s nuzzling into your neck, lifting your leg higher and higher, pinning it to your head as he folds you into a matting press. Still, he refuses to press in, cock throbbing against your clit as he hugs you tight, every muscle in your body screaming in protest and pleasure. “Again, please, please.”

“I’m-” You’re either gasping or crying, words flooding out, ”Rafayel’s, I’m Rafayel’s.”

At that, Rafayel’s entire body convulses. He sobs, finally thrusting forward, bullying up into you bit by bit, forcing you to count every inch as the entirety of his weight bares down onto you. 

You can feel the way his muscles shift, the way his arms bulge and contract as he holds himself above you, hips flush against yours. The desert air must be infecting him, because Rafayel is dripping sweat, flushed from his ears to his chest as he begins to pull out and slowly grind himself back in. 

His voice is wrecked, breathless as he tries to kiss you, missing slightly as he sucks against your bottom lip, drooling. "I'm yours too, I'm yours." At the same time, his cock jerks in you, burying deeper with every filthy roll of his hips, throbbing against your sweet spots. 

Then something snaps, Rafayel’s lips sealed back on yours, and the rhythm he sets is brutal.

Rafayel's cock drags over your walls, molding you in ways you never thought possible. Each thrust is hard, deep, and leaves you gasping, eyes rolling back into your head as you arch off the mattress, nowhere to go as his body folds yours damn near in half, weight bearing down on you.

It's all you can do to wrap your arms around him, nails scratching into his back, drawing thin lines of blood across his shoulder blades as you try to stay grounded, keep your mind from being swept away as the dizziness returns.

But the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach makes it hard.

Harder still as Rafayel begins mumbling into your lips, the filth pouring from his mouth making you clench, cunt fluttering around his cock as he pounds into you.

He can see and feel everything like this. Unable to look away from your face only inches away, watching every expression with love-drunk eyes, hugging you closer, fucking you harder.

"Can feel you, can feel you getting tighter. You're close right? Say you're close, please, mhm fuck." he's panting, and if you focus hard enough you can hear the sloppy noises of him sliding in and out, wet and obscene, the harsh slap of his balls against the curve of your ass.

But then Rafayel’s pushing himself lower, your legs dangling uselessly in the air as his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath.

"You're mine, only I can touch you like this, feel this. My wife. Say it, say you're mine, wanna hear it, please. Please, ah, I’ll do anything, say it."

He's barely pulling out anymore, resigning to quick, deep grinds as though he can’t bear to part.

Too uncoordinated to kiss you, Rafayel's head falls to your neck, sobbing into your marked-up skin before messily kissing atop the bruises.

"Yours. Yours. I'm yours, your wife," the words spill from your lips before you can even think, and Rafayel nearly passes out trying to stop himself from cumming then and there. 

It’s like you’re trying to milk him, hugging him closer and ankles wrapped around his neck as he’s lifting your hips right off the bed. But now he needs to see it.

Needs to know the way you'll cry out his name, how your eyes will glaze over and roll back into your head, the way your chest will heave, the sweat that will pool at the valley between your breasts, the way the skin will flush from a soft pink to a burning red as you lose yourself in the feeling. To him.

It's the only thing he's able to concentrate on, the only thing he's able to think of. The feeling of your body beneath him, the sound of his name on your lips. 

And that alone is enough.

Rafayel’s orgasm is sudden, a jolt of pleasure that surges up his spine with enough intensity to have him collapse, pinning your body beneath him. You can feel it, the way his cum splatters against the walls of your womb, painting your insides, filling you up until the excess squirts out around his cock and your intertwined thighs. He can't stop his hips, can't stop the way he grinds his pelvis against yours, trying to get deeper and deeper still. 

"Mine, mine, mine," is all he can say, eyes wide and pupils blown out as he watches the way your body twitches, a mixture of sweat and cum painting your body as you nearly pass out in exhaustion. "Gonna- gonna fill you up, fuck, so pretty, my pretty girl, pretty wife, gonna make sure it sticks, so I’ll never leave. So you’ll never leave me again."

You're cumming.

He can feel the way your cunt spasms, the way your walls lure him back in, the way you tremble and shake as you throw your head back with tears. 

Rafayel can't stop himself from leaning down and biting, teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, his hands grabbing at any bit of flesh he can find. All the while he fucks you through your orgasm, the mess of fluids creating the most obscene noises as they squish and bubble out, pooling out from between your bodies. 

As you’re swaying in and out of reality, you think you see it. A field of red flame lilies, a poison so sweet that when you drink it, you lick your lips and thank the gods. 

God. Just one, the one of the sea and the flaming sun. 

The one who's still kneeling before you. 

The one who you love. 

"Maximum voicemail length reached, recording sent."

♱⋅── a/n: Uber now canonically exists in the lnds universe, thanks. Also, I would have included the absolutely gut-wrenching aftercare included in the card with MC asking Rafayel to sing for her, but honestly I would not change that scene in the slightest and am content to believe that is exactly what happened next.

Oh the things I’d give to hear Raf sing~

[wandaverse]

meet me in the pale moonlight.

vampire countess!wanda x human painter!reader

summary: In the early 1870s, the young and renowned Y/N arrives in the bustling New York City looking for a new start. Little does she know that a creature of the night lurks in the shadows and that there’s something sinister about the woman she’s become enamoured of, the elusive Countess Maximoff.

warnings/tags: dom!wanda, fem sub!reader, smut, oral, cunniIingus, fingering, mas0chism, blood klnk, hints of humiliation and praise klnk, thigh and foot riding, age gap if you squint, wanda calls r pet, 18+ / MINORS DNI

word count: 10,284

moodboard

Clipping your bag safely back onto your belt, you bid the kind dressmaker farewell and motion to leave her Madison Avenue boutique.

Several days ago and after a rather lengthy trip aboard a steamship across the Atlantic, you finally arrived in the hustling and bustling New York City, the city of dreams in the land of opportunity.

Over the years, you have developed quite a respectable reputation as a commissioned portrait artist for the wealthy with an admired talent that both boosts their egos as well as your own wealth. After a lifetime of travelling across the European continent, you decided to migrate to the Americas in search of a new opportunity, or rather a muse to reignite your inspiration and maybe for a little fun on the side too.

The dressmaker quickly assures you that she’ll have your clothes ready by the end of the week, a welcome relief since you’re still waiting for your remaining belongings to arrive by sea.

On your way out of the boutique, you thank her one last time, not paying attention to your surroundings and distractedly bumping into another woman with a fright.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry! Are you quite alright?” the esteemed lady apologises profusely.

You swiftly regain your bearings and brush her off. “It is no problem at all. I apologise as well for not watching where I was going,” you say guiltily.

The instant you both glance up though, she seemingly forgets about the entire ordeal. You recognise immediately the starstruck look on her face that can only mean that she somehow knows who you are, that word of your talents has already travelled across the seas through migrated aristocrats and the like.

“My word! You’re Y/N Y/L/N, aren’t you?” she asks breathlessly.

With a smirk that you try your best to mask as humble, you can’t deny the pride of being so quickly recognised in this new city.

“Indeed I am, a pleasure to make your acquaintance Ms…?”

“Agatha Harkness, dear, but my friends call me Agnes. It’s lovely to meet you,” she introduces with a shake of your extended hand. “Say, I don’t believe I heard word that you were in our fine city. And I assure you, I would have if it were known. No news gets past me. If anything, I’m always the first to know.”

You bet she is, you nod overwhelmed, quietly taking in the words of someone who is clearly a gossip.

There’s an odd and rather manic intensity about her, you notice. You brush it off as the typical artificial friendliness of the elite and especially of the nouveau riche, which you suspect Agnes is.

And yet, it still feels like something is off about her, like she’s not quite herself, a peculiar strain in her smile and an emptiness behind her eyes. How odd.

“I only arrived a few days ago, is why. All my luggage hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“I see… if that’s the case, why I don’t suppose I could commission you then? Be the first American to have their very own Y/L/N painting?” she requests giddily.

Her excitement rubs off on you, no matter how eerie, and you can’t deny her. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll have my people be in contact with you to sort out the details soon.”

“My, I can’t believe my luck!” she celebrates. “Oh! You must attend my gala tonight. Please, be my guest of the evening. Let me have the honour of being the one to introduce you to our society here.”

Once again, you’re charmed by her fierce enthusiasm. “Of course, the honour shall be mine.”

Frankly, you don’t really think it’ll be any different from the circles you traversed in Europe, but who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone intriguing.

—

Later that evening, long after the sun has already set, you step out of your personal carriage at Harkness Hall, located in the newer district of the Upper East Side.

Politely being escorted through the manor, you finally arrive at the ballroom and when the grand doors open, all eyes instantly land on you as you are faced with similar expressions of recognition as Agnes’. Said woman speedily and yet somehow elegantly races up the steps, rushing to your side.

Delicately tapping a fork against the side of her champagne glass, she easily silences the commotion in the crowd below. “Might I have your attention, my friends, to introduce you to my esteemed guest of the evening, the wonderfully talented Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

As soon as she finishes, a rush of wealthy men and women alike gasp and rush to the foot of the stairs. Agnes proudly links her arm around yours, as if you were childhood friends instead of mere acquaintances, and leads you down the stairs into the pit that awaits you. For a second, and only a second, a rush of anxiety ambushes you but you mask it with some well-practiced charm.

For the next while, Agnes personally introduces you to all the socialites interested in portraits of their own, showing off the fact that she is your first client.

You quickly tire of their suffocating attention and it’s only when you peer past the crowd that you notice that one lone woman hasn’t so much as flinched at your presence, instead remaining in the shadows along the walls and gracing you with only a mere glance.

As the night rages on, you curiously observe the intriguing woman from across the ballroom. With a keen eye, you take note of her every detail. Of her deep burgundy gown so dark it almost resembles blood when illuminated in the light, of her thin black birdcage veil that covers her eyes behind the intricate lace, and committing it all to memory.

She moves with a certain refined grace you’ve only seen few nobles possess and despite primarily keeping to herself, exudes an intimidating and rather domineering aura felt throughout the hall. Only a few dare to approach her, some men who don’t know any better and a few attendants who don’t have any other choice. Every so often, she catches your gaze and you almost feel the air leave your lungs.

When the crowd eventually disperses, you pull at the link between your and Agnes’ arms and inquire about your newest interest. “Agnes, might I ask, that woman over there standing alone by the fireplace, who is she?”

“Ahh, why that would be the elusive Countess Maximoff. Our Lady Wanda hails from a distant European kingdom, or so she says. Frankly, she could be anyone from anywhere in the world considering how little we all know about her,” she briefly explains.

Countess Wanda Maximoff, you recite in your mind. A fascinating yet beautiful name for an equally as alluring woman.

“She’s a well-known and respected socialite in this city. In fact, she might even be the richest of all of us, but no one knows for sure, just as no one knows exactly what she is a Countess of,” Agnes continues, unprompted. Internally, you thank her for being so nosy.

“I must apologise, unfortunately that is really all I know about her. She was already residing in New York when I arrived from Salem many months ago,” she admits. “I do know, however, that she has no husband or family of her own. The rumours are that she had a husband once and that he either died or simply disappeared. Either way, she isn’t a typical woman of our society.”

Lost in thought, you take in her words, all serving to only interest you more and more in the stunning yet seemingly solitary woman.

“Miss Y/N,” Agnes calls, breaking you out of your intense trance as you stare at the mysterious woman. “I must tell you, Lady Maximoff is actually currently staying as a guest at Harkness Hall. For a few days now actually, and for the next while when you complete my portrait.”

Oh?

Why doesn’t that make things all the more interesting…

“Y/N, it’s best that you stay away from her. Trust me, there’s something unusual about her that one must not associate themselves with,” Agnes warns you seriously, a stark contrast from the enthusiastic and bubbly person you’ve become familiar with today.

You turn to her and look in her eyes again. For the first time today, you detect a clarity in them, a genuineness that only confuses you more.

“Agnes, may I ask, why did you accept her as a guest if you dislike her so?” you question.

“No one says no to Wanda Maximoff,” Agnes replies ominously. “Every so often, she requests to stay with one of her ‘friends’ for a short while. It turns out that this time I drew the short straw. She always has some sort of excuse, she told me that her estate is undergoing works, but I’m certain she has other properties. All I know is you don’t disobey a woman like her.”

You give some thought to Agnes’ words, to her warnings and the seeping fear that comes through. And yet, the idea of such a strange woman, defiant to the strict norms of high society, who you don’t disobey, only intrigues you more and more.

You regard the woman in red and decide in the moment that no matter what, you’re going to solve the mystery of the elusive Wanda Maximoff, even if it kills you.

Dismissing Agnes’ warnings and brushing off her arm that attempts to pull you back, you waltz across the room and beeline toward Wanda. In the corner of your eye, you spot horrified looks from the other socialites around the room, but ignore them all the same and focus only on the woman in front of you watching you approach her with an amused yet impressed eye.

And you’re glad you do because up close, the Lady Maximoff is absolutely and entirely striking, breathtaking and enchanting and every other word you would use if you were a poet instead of an artist staring at her new muse.

Her milky skin is notably pale and perfectly contrasts against her chocolate brown hair, so soft you almost want to run your hands through the layered strands. Studying her bone structure, you note that it’s incredibly sharp and accentuated by the shadows, making her resemble a sculpture carved from marble come to life. Even under the lace veil, her eyes are enchanting, a clear sage green that complements her dark maroon dress.

For the first second or two, you find yourself rather speechless, the entire English language suddenly disappearing from your vocabulary as you take in her beauty.

In the same second, you notice offhandedly that she too rakes her eyes up and down your form. Feeling a shiver run down your spine under the weight of her gaze, you hope she appreciates the sight as much as you appreciate yours.

“Hello, Y/N Y/L/N, my lady,” you manage to say and extend your hand towards her.

“I know,” she replies with a smirk, seemingly entertained by your courage (or stupidity). “You’ve been quite popular tonight, among the ladies especially. The woman of the evening I hear.”

A part of you is secretly delighted. That means she’s noticed you just as much as you’ve noticed her. The other part is dazedly captivated by the deep lilt in her accent, hinting at whichever secretive European land she originates from, a part of the mystery you seek to soon unravel.

“And whose company do I have the pleasure of being graced with, might I ask?” you tease.

In response, she simply smirks at your charming attempts and finally accepts your hand. “Countess Wanda Maximoff,” she formally introduces, “but I’m sure you already knew that too.”

Delicately, you clasp her gloved hand in yours and place an innocent kiss below the back of her silk-covered knuckles. Proudly, you earn another smile from her at the endearing impropriety of a young girl pressing a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand.

“You’re awfully bold, aren’t you?” she remarks with a cock of her head.

“Artists love beautiful things,” you smirk. “It just so happens I’ve found the most beautiful of all.”

She scrunches her nose as she cringes at your flirtatious attempt. You don’t regret your words though when you mean it so sincerely.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Y/L/N?” she asks, skipping the pretenses. “I’m sure you’ve already heard all the things they say about me.”

“I don’t care about them and what they have to say. I’d rather hear it all from you instead,” you profess.

Peering down at her wine glass, she smiles again at your attempts to charm her. This one seems a little more genuine though, a sign that your persistence (and perhaps, foolishness) is slowly piercing through her walls.

She looks back up at you and seemingly ponders your unsaid request as she pensively sips her wine. At last, she says, “Alright then, what would you like to know?”

You grin cheekily at having so easily won her favour. “Well for starters, pray tell me, which land do you come from?”

“Europe,” she answers simply.

You both know that you already knew that, both because Agnes already told you as well as the evident hints of Slavic you identify in her accent.

“Where might one find your county of ownership though, my Countess?” you attempt to press.

“I’m sure you’d like to know,” she teases with another smirk, just as mysterious and secretive as Agnes described.

You’ve spent your entire life travelling through Europe’s High Societies, from the Parisian aristocracy to Florence’s art scene, and yet you’ve never heard of or seen her before this night. And you’d certainly remember if you did, she’s not a face one forgets.

“So, we’re playing this game, are we?”

“You started it, Miss Y/L/N,” she matches your teasing tone.

You’ve noticed that she only calls you by your name formally, keeping a distance between the two of you despite having let you in more than anyone else tonight.

You’re even more aware of all the eyes on you, watching like hawks as your interaction plays out. How odd of a pair you must be, a sight to behold you’re sure. You’re keenly aware of how you’re likely equally as intriguing and alien as she is. How your existence defies the rigid social norms; a girl of your standing able to dance through high society while working to accumulate your own wealth and remaining single at a less than conventional age. You wonder if perchance, in this way, you interest her as much as she interests you.

Clearing your throat, you decide to accept that this is as much as you’ll learn about her tonight. “Agnes tells me you’re staying as a guest at Harkness Hall,” you segue instead.

Tilting her head once again, she lifts an eyebrow in curiosity. “That would be correct.”

“As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, I have been commissioned to paint a portrait for Ms Harkness.” Gently, you once again place a kiss on the back of her resting hand. “I suppose we’ll be seeing more of each other then,” you quietly bid farewell before walking away, not turning back although you know she’s following you with a curious eye.

Later throughout the night, the other cautious elites approach you one by one, all warning you to stay away from Wanda. There’s a certain look in their eyes that you can’t quite decipher yet, resembling that of Agnes’ expression if you really think about it. Something akin to fear or intimidation or something in between and like they’re trying to tell you something they can’t say with words. Their warnings only serve to further interest you in the Countess and the mystery that surrounds her though.

Returning your gaze to the woman before you depart for the evening, you find her already staring fervently at you with a smile you can only describe as devilish. Her pearly white teeth seem to sparkle under the chandelier’s light and you swear that from this side of the ballroom, you spot a glimmer of red in her eyes under the veil.

But, when you remember her beautiful green eyes, you suppose it’s simply a trick of the light.

—

The day after the next, you return to Harkness Hall for your first session with Agnes.

The moment you step foot through the doors, you instantly search for Wanda but are dismayed to fail in your pursuit, not even hearing word of her throughout the entire day. From morning to night, while you’re painting in Agnes’ drawing room or enjoying lunch with her in the garden, you never see Wanda even once.

You suppose it’s a large estate so it’s not hard to believe that your paths wouldn’t cross, but the thought does nothing to dispel the persistent pout on your face.

You honestly try your very hardest to focus on the woman posing in front of you, but the task is near impossible. You almost want to ask Agnes about Wanda, where she is and what she’s doing, but you suppose that would be highly improper. Not that you would typically care, you’d just rather not let it be known how taken you’ve become with her.

It’s only later that evening when you walk through the estate to take your leave, around the eleventh hour after the sun has already set and the hustle and bustle of Harkness Hall has come to a standstill, that your eyes once again find the Countess’ solitary form.

Bathed in the moonlight, the Lady sits by herself in the courtyard facing away from you. You’re once again struck by her beauty. In this pure light and under the night sky, her ivory skin almost glows. You briefly ponder the idea that she could be an angel descended from the heavens above.

Seemingly sensing your presence, despite how stealthily you’d hidden yourself behind the doorway, she spins around faster than you can blink and catches you.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she remarks with a drawl and that sinisterness that makes you think that more accurately, she must be a fallen angel sent to this world by the devil himself.

Matching your intense gaze, she simply says, “Come,” beckoning you to her side.

And you obey without a single objection, padding across the courtyard and placing yourself in the seat beside her obediently.

“I heard you were here painting Agnes today,” she brings up cordially.

Your eyes drop down and you notice her drinking something in her glass that oddly looks a little too dark and thick to be wine, that leaves a deep cherry stain on her lips that would otherwise be an unusual lipstick shade. You equally notice that despite her attempts at pleasant small talk, she doesn’t make any attempts to offer you a glass of whatever it is she’s drinking.

“I was,” you affirm. “I was….” hoping to see you, you trail off and keep to yourself, not wanting to seem desperate in her eyes despite how desperate for her attention you truly are.

She smiles to herself, seemingly hearing your confession all the same. She has a way of reading you without you saying a word.

“And how are you finding it so far?”

“It’s going as well as it can. Agnes is a wonderful subject,” you share, hiding the fact that the only woman you wanted to paint today was her.

A beat of silence passes, only the soft breeze of winter heard in the space you share.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait before?” you ask.

Shaking her head thoughtfully, she answers “No, never.”

“Why, might I ask? Your beauty is one I’m sure hundreds would flock to capture on canvas and stone.”

Inwardly, she smirks at your unrelenting boldness. “Yes… be that as it may, it’s not one I’m happy to share with the world for all to see,” she answers just as cryptically as everything else she’s told you thus far.

You suspect there’s a deeper and very real reason to it, but don’t question further. You’re happy to take as much as she gives you, as little as it is.

“Would you let me paint you one day?” you ask honestly.

Wistfully, she turns to glance up at the scattered stars in the clear sky, musing on your offer. “Perhaps,” she finally turns to look at you again, “if you’re a good girl.”

A fierce blush rushes to your cheeks as she gets up and caresses your chin with her gloved hand before leaning down and placing a fleeting kiss on the very cheek reddened by her teasing. As she saunters away from you, you watch her go and dazedly wonder if whatever she was drinking left its own stain on your skin.

Only when she walks past a statement mirror in the hallway are you pulled out of your trance. You can’t see her reflection, you remark.

Confused, you give it little thought before reasoning that it must be your tired eyes playing a trick on you.

—

Over the coming days, you return to Harkness Hall for your work with Agnes and continue seeking Wanda’s company.

Every time though, you only ever locate her after the sun’s gone down or alone in some secluded space like the library or tea room with the windows shut.

This time, you lose the fight and ask Agnes about her peculiar behaviour. She tells you that the Countess typically goes out at night and only returns in the early hours of the morning. Otherwise, during the day she either slumbers until the early afternoon or rests indoors.

Agnes doesn’t quite understand it either, but she’s neither questioning it nor complaining when it makes it a little easier for her to avoid the Lady. You thank her for her explanation (gossip), but it only piques your curiosity more and more, as does everything else you learn about Wanda.

Every time you do cross her path though, she always invites you to sit with her. Most of the time, she nurses a glass of the too-dark-and-too-thick wine. You never ask for a glass of your own or a taste and she never offers.

And every time, you find yourself entranced by her beauty for at least a minute or two or typically, much more. At times, you think she must be from another world, one so delicate and divine that man cannot and must not touch it lest it be corrupted. Other times you think her beauty is simply not human and must be a form of corruption of its own. But maybe that’s just the dramatic artist in you.

You’re saddened to say that after all this time though, you still don’t know much more about her, the mystery still largely unsolved. You know that she’s rich, she’s alone, and she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on, which is essentially everything you already knew from the first night you met her.

She does occasionally share some stories with you though, of her life when she was younger in the foreign Slavic land you still haven’t identified. She tells you of growing up in a castle at the top of a mountain, of being bathed in the riches of love. “I’ve lost all the family I’ve ever known,” she confesses the next evening after you share stories of your own rough upbringing.

As always, she remains cryptically vague with every word she offers you, never giving you details and always leaving you wanting more.

Sometimes, she even reveals glimpses of her other facets like her interests and apparent appreciation for the theatre. “There’s a new musical on Broadway that I believe you’d enjoy,” she remarks offhandedly. Despite your attempts to suppress it, you feel a fluttering sensation within you at the prospect of seeing the Countess outside the walls of Harkness Hall, of even courting her if she allowed.

You’d like to think that you’re the only one honoured to hear these words from her, that you’re someone special to her as she is to you.

Other times when you come upon wherever she’s hiding and she doesn’t instantly detect you, you watch her quietly from the shadows, hiding away and observing her peaceful form. You fetch your pocket pad from the bag on your waist and roughly sketch her reading, birdwatching, embroidering or simply gazing at the night sky.

Then, you return home and paint her as accurately from memory as you can, attempting to capture her beauty with oil paints and canvas.

One day, you hope you’ll have a chance to show her how she’s become your muse and how you see her unlike anyone else.

—

Almost a week has passed since you started painting Agnes and you only know because you’ve been committing every encounter with the Lady Maximoff to memory.

Over the days, you’ve become comfortable and developed a routine of sorts for yourself. Around mid-morning, you arrive at Agnes’ manor and recommence work right away. Once noon comes, you have lunch with her in her expansive garden and enjoy tea with Wanda in the mid-afternoon if you can locate her, otherwise you greet her on your departure in the evening.

For the short while, you develop a new normal, which makes it all the weirder when a sense of unease overcomes the city and its inhabitants. From your own maids and coachmen to Agnes and the other elites you come across, everyone all of a sudden seems on edge. Almost like a blanket of doom and gloom has been laid over the city.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s only Wanda who seems normal and unperturbed when you find her in her usual lounge chair in the courtyard under the moonlit sky. Once again, you obediently take the seat beside her.

Tonight, you can’t help but notice that she’s not nursing her favoured drink and if it were possible, she appears more pale than ever. You want to ask if she is well, but instead of overstepping, you decide to ask why everyone seems so off.

Pensively, she oddly smiles at your question and peer up at the sky. You follow her line of sight and see that the moon tonight is full and bright.

“Be careful, Miss Y/L/N,” is all she says as you turn to her again. There’s an unsettling look in her eye, like she knows something you don’t.

“You never know what’s hiding in the shadows, what creatures of the night lurk in the dark,” she warns ominously before turning to you and flashing a blinding smile. “One wouldn’t want something to happen to a pretty young thing like you.”

You gulp at her forbidding words and sudden predatory appearance, left only more confused and unnerved than ever. Flustered, you avert your gaze and miss the flash of crimson in her eyes.

—

The following evening, you’re half asleep in your carriage home when you abruptly realise you forgot a broken easel that you wanted to have fixed at Harkness Hall. Having requested your coachman retrieve it for you, you now patiently wait in your carriage in front of the estate.

Leaning your cheek on the window with a pout, you’re a little saddened since you didn’t see Wanda at all today, the first time it��s happened all week.

When you asked one of Agnes’ maids where the Lady was, she said she hadn’t seen Wanda all day either which meant she must’ve still been asleep since she didn’t hear her return until just before dawn. But then even on your way out a few moments ago, you still couldn’t find her in any of her usual hiding spots to your dismay. 

Staring out solemnly at the Upper East Side streets, you notice that it’s a lot quieter than usual. This district is typically much busier, even at this late hour with the wealthy enjoying their night on the town. 

However, it seems everyone is as on edge as they were the previous day. Most people have opted to stay inside with the windows shut, leaving the streets mostly empty barring a few passersby and dimly lit lamp posts. Even your coachman seemed a little less willing than usual to fulfil your request, as if he just wanted to rush the both of you home to safety. From what, you’re not too sure.

Sleepily, you lift your gaze and stare at the moon, slightly fuller and even brighter than it was the night before, having just reached the peak of its cycle. 

You admire its alluring beauty for a brief second until something in the alley across the road from your carriage catches your eye; a lone man and woman hidden in the shadows. You think they must be one of the only people who don’t fear what everyone else does to be lingering in the darkness like this. 

Intrigued, you study the pair when something strikes you. The woman throws her head back laughing and you catch a glimpse of her canines, so pearly and sharp you’re almost sure they look like fangs.

It’s only when you narrow your eyes and the woman leans forward out of the shadows into the light that you realise with a start, it’s Wanda.

—

When the sun rises and morning comes, you wake up safe in your bed but just as shaken.

With the calming of your heart, you reason that the events of the night before must have been a dream or even a hallucination of your tired mind. But you’ve been making the same excuse a lot lately and the image is etched so realistically in your memory it must be real.

In a daze, you ready yourself for the day and go to the dining room for the breakfast awaiting you. Perhaps some food in your stomach will wake you up from whatever this is, you think.

You’re distractedly munching on some berries when your handmaiden enters the room with a boiled kettle for your morning tea. It seems that the water isn’t the only thing bubbling this morning though.

“Miss! Have you heard the news?” she asks worriedly.

“I can’t say I have,” you answer, shaking your head. “What appears to have happened?”

“My, there’s been a murder! In an alley near Harkness Hall!”

Your blood instantly runs cold and you freeze like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on you.

“W-what?”

“A young man in his early 20s, foolish enough to stay out late on a full moon. They say his body was otherwise unmarked except for two puncture wounds in his neck. The sheriffs think it’s the Moonlit Killer again!” she frantically explains, every word striking your shaky bones.

“The Moonlit Killer?” you whisper to yourself in thought. “Who is that?”

“The city, no the state’s, very own serial killer, miss! No one knows who it is and they haven’t been caught yet, but for over a year now there have been murders across New York every full moon,” she tells you, the kettle completely forgotten as well as your breakfast which you know for certain you can no longer stomach with the tightening of your throat.

“The victims always match each other too, always young men taken in dark alleys and left with only two punctures in their necks.”

Like fangs…, you piece together.

It all makes sense now, why everyone was so on edge with the arrival of the full moon.

Quietly, you think back to what you witnessed last night. You’re sure it was Wanda. You would recognise her anywhere, in a crowded ballroom or even a… dark alleyway.

An image forms in your mind and you quickly race to your studio, ignoring the concerned calls of your handmaiden. You pull out a fresh canvas and your brushes and you paint and paint and paint.

You paint Wanda’s unusually pale ivory skin. You paint her red irises that you’ve seen on occasion. And lastly, you paint the sharp fangs you saw last night that lie where any other person’s canines would.

Once you’ve finished, you step back to take in your rough portrait and drop your brush in shock.

It can’t be…

You’ve only heard tales of them during your travels when instances similar to last night’s rocked the cities you visited. You’ve only seen frightening drawings of them in books that told farfetched legends of the undead.

Creatures of the night, skin as pale as the moon, pearly white fangs as sharp as blades, and most of all, eyes the colour of scarlet.

Everything suddenly makes sense now, pieces fall into place as the mystery is finally solved.

The glasses she’s always drinking of some liquid that looks too dark and thick to be wine must have been blood all this time and her main source of sustenance since you’ve never seen her eat a single crumb.

The way she oddly sleeps during the day and always shies away from sunlight, because if she didn’t she would quite literally be burned.

How you’re sure you’ve never seen her reflection in mirrors or water or windows because she doesn’t in fact have a soul to reflect.

Why no matter how much you asked around or researched about the elusive Countess, you could never obtain any information dating back earlier than over a year ago, precisely when the Moonlit Killer started taking their victims.

And how you’re certain that if you matched the homes of the other aristocrats she stayed with to the locations of the killings, it would all line up perfectly.

Countess Maximoff is… a vampire.

With the realisation, you’re filled with frightening clarity, both proudly smug at having unearthed her secret and slightly fearful at the true nature of the woman you’ve become enamoured of. Foolishly, you thought it was your eyes playing tricks or simple coincidences, but it’s too much to be.

For a second, you even think you must be going crazy to be entertaining this thought. Wanda… the beautiful, alluring, and bewitching woman… is a vampire. A monster? How could someone so enchanting be so horrific, though? So cruel…

But then you remember the old wives’ tales about sirens and succubi and creatures of sin that seduce and corrupt with their otherworldly beauty and frankly, now you’re only more sure of your discovery.

And that’s when it hits you… there’s only one way to test your theory.

—

That evening, you put your plan into motion. You haven’t much time. You figure in a few days she’ll announce her departure from Harkness Hall and return to her estate until she has to hunt for the next full moon, so why wait to confirm something you’re already so sure of.

In the dead of night, you pad through her designated wing and sneak into her bedchambers, awaiting her eventual return in the early morning. Earlier, you sent your carriage home with a feigned excuse and listened carefully to confirm that Agnes had retired for the evening.

Making yourself comfortable on Wanda’s loveseat, you patiently survey the door and await her arrival, alone in the dark room lit only by a few ruby candles and the bright moonlight.

In the Winter night, you feel the cool breeze on your exposed skin and shiver, pulling your coat tighter around you. Beneath it, you wear nothing but a lace blood red nightgown that leaves your neck bare in hopes of enticing her.

As expected, she’s absent for most of the evening, you assume too preoccupied with hunting her prey. Tonight, the moon is at the absolute peak of its cycle. Her lust for blood must be uncontrollable, but the thought only excites you more.

You almost fall asleep against your hand propped up on the armrest when finally, sometime between the second and third hour, you hear a shuffle outside the door that instantly wakes you.

Creaking, the door opens to reveal the Countess you’ve been waiting for, clad in a black hooded cloak and dark burgundy dress. Dark enough to conceal any bloodstains, you realise.

You suspect the city will awake to news of another victim at the hand of the Moonlit Killer, but that’s for whatever awaits you after the sun rises. Right now, you have your mystery standing in front of you, surprised to say the least to see you in her bedchambers and especially at this hour.

In the dimly lit room, you can barely see her if it weren’t for her skin that seemingly glows under the moonlight and the fleeting glint of red in her eyes that show themselves when she lifts off her hood and removes her cloak.

She’s as beautiful to you now as she was before you knew what kind of creature she really is. The thought leaves you as breathless as the sight of her. You think you would have fallen for her no matter who, or rather what, she is.

Fully facing your standing figure now, she smirks, knowing that there is something different about you tonight and this encounter. A sense of pride fills you at her sinister expression.

“Miss Y/L/N, what a surprise to find you here. Have you gotten lost in the middle of the night, sweet thing? Sleepwalked from the other side of the city, perchance?” she asks playfully. There’s a hint of something new in her tone, something a little demeaning. You can’t say you hate it. No… not at all.

“No, my lady. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

She simply lifts an eyebrow in response, signalling you to continue while she hangs up her cloak and only offers you part of her attention. You almost want to beg to have all of it.

“I’ve been watching you,” you admit.

“I know you have. And what have you so skillfully unearthed, Miss Y/L/N?”

With a nervous gulp, you confess, “I know your secret, what you hide from the others.” Her ears seem to perk up with interest at your admission, but she’s still unsettlingly calm about the revelation.

“I know why you sleep during the day and what you do during the night. I know why you avoid sunlight at all costs and why no one seems to know anything about you. I know what you are.”

At last, she turns to you and gives you her full and complete attention. As much as you previously desired it, you quickly find yourself wilting under the weight of her stare.

Crossing the room in three strides, she stands face-to-face before you. “Oh? And pray tell, what exactly am I?” she teases and finally unveils the true scarlet hue of her eyes with a tilt of her head, equally as stunning as the green if not more bewitching.

It leaves you in a state of vulnerable immobility like prey trapped in the clutch of its predator and you pull at the sleeves of your coat in an attempt to regain your courage. Distantly, you wonder if perhaps there’s more to her species that the myths don’t yet know about, that perhaps she wields sinister abilities to influence the mind which would explain the eerie nature of Agnes’ facade.

“You’re… you’re a…”

Intimidatingly, she stalks to you in a few weightless steps almost like a bat. Delicately pulling her satin gloves off and haphazardly tossing them to the wooden floor, she reveals her long sharp nails, claws really.

Getting closer in your space now, she takes your chin between her thumb and index finger and tilts your head up to face her, the chilled skin of a soulless body sends shivers through your bones.

Menacingly, she grins, no leers, at you and detracts her fangs, glistening in the moonlight and bared for you to see. Up close, it strikes you with an immediate fear, but also something equally as exciting that leaves a tightening sensation deep in your belly.

“Say it,” she whispers, her cool breath against your lips and sending a chill down your spine.

With a gulp, you finally bring yourself to say out loud, “You’re a vampire.”

If it were somehow possible, her grin grows even wider and more sinister and you briefly think that she might just eat you alive.

“Good girl, I knew you were a smart one the second I laid my eyes on you.” The term of praise, as proud as you are to have received it, only intensifies that feeling in your belly and for the first time this evening, you question if you’re actually capable of surviving a night with the vampire Countess.

Patting your cheek with her other hand and cocking her head amusedly, Wanda continues. “Although, you were foolish enough to have come here alone and approached me like this.”

Maybe she’s right…

“No one would know if I killed you right here and now. No one would even hear you scream before I sank my teeth in your neck.”

Or maybe, that’s exactly what you want from her.

In a heartbeat, you instantly regain all your confidence. You know her secret and you came here for a reason. It’s time to claim what you’re owed, what you came to this city searching for.

Hastily, you untie your coat and drop it to the floor, revealing your barely clothed body to her stunned eyes. A rush of excitement goes through your veins at the sight of her dilated pupils, a telling sign that she just might desire you as much as you desire her.

Placing your own hands atop the ones she still rests on your face, you confess, “I want to be yours.” She lifts her eyebrow in curiosity at your proposition. “You don’t need to feed on other people, or hunt when you’re desperate anymore… You can just feed on me.”

For the first time ever, you hear her laugh, throwing her head back with her imposing fangs on full display. A deep and maniacal sound that’s degrading and humiliating as you stand there before her exposed and yet, you decide you’d do anything to hear it again.

It takes a second or two for her to regain her composure and you think you spot tears in her eyes, only further reddening your blushing cheeks.

“You know,” she says in between huffed laughter. “I typically only drink animal blood, as I’m sure you’ve seen on occasion. It’s a lot more… convenient and certainly a lot less messy. But the real reason,” she confesses, whispering almost secretively as her ruby coloured irises stare into your blown out pupils, “is that blood from a human source is dangerously addictive. That’s why I only feed on humans on days like this when the moon’s pull is too strong. Because everyone I drink from ends up dead and somehow, I just know that if I drank yours… well I’d be addicted for eternity.”

But what if that’s exactly what you want?

Blindly reaching towards a nearby table, you grab what feels like a glass and smash it against the surface, successfully slicing your left palm and sending drops of blood rolling down your skin.

In the same heartbeat, Wanda instantly freezes, her enhanced sense of smell immediately picking up the intoxicating scent of your blood. Tightly closing her eyes and letting go of her hold on you, she takes two steps back from you, seemingly struggling to restrain herself.

Fearlessly, you take two steps towards her, crowding her space just as she crowded yours.

“Let go,” you tempt, lifting your bleeding hand in an attempt to flood her senses and lure her further into your trap. “Let me be yours,” you whisper teasingly into her ear.

In a second, her eyes burst open, now blazing scarlet and burning into you. Roughly, she wraps her hand around your throat and pushes you against the nearest wall, uncaring of how you wince at the strength with which she slams you.

Just as harshly, she finally kisses you, her icy lips meeting yours and moving against each other as one as she almost devours you in her eagerness. And just as eagerly, you let her, drowning in the rush of losing yourself in something so wrong that feels so right.

The cautiousness with which she treated you before has completely disappeared as she dangerously tightens her grip around your throat, claiming your lips over and over again.

In her lust-clouded haste, her sharp fangs faintly slice your bottom lip and you quickly start bleeding with a wince that’s promptly muffled by her soft lips. Her greedy tongue licks it all up and you’re blessed with her deep moans at the rich and teasing taste.

To your dismay, she pulls away and releases her grip on your throat. But when you look in her bloodshot eyes, pupils blown and glittering in the moonlight, you’re thrilled to see a complete lack of resistance, a surrender to the offer you’ve presented.

And yet, there’s a hidden question in them, if you’re really willing to cross this line with her. In the back of your mind, you wonder that perhaps you're the first person who’s ever shared this secret of hers, who's ever willingly given themselves to her.

You hope to be the only.

Without saying a word, you simply crane your awaiting neck towards her, offering the expanse of it to her on a golden platter.

“I’m yours,” you whisper into the night for only her to hear.

In the blink of an eye, she becomes a predator before you. Still trapped between her body and the wall, you watch in equal amounts of fear and lust as she bares her fangs and sinks them into your naked neck.

You scream in pain and tightly scrunch a hand in her hair until, almost like you're hearing yourself outside of your body, you realise that your screams have become moans, the pain in your neck abruptly replaced by pleasure racing through your bloodstream.

“Mine,” you hear her snarl in between your moans and you only barely manage to yell, “Yours”, back.

Wanda is equally disarmed as she buries her face in your neck. She drinks and drinks and drinks, and as predicted, loses herself in you. It’s a criminal understatement to say that your blood is the best she’s ever tasted in her centuries-long life and endless list of victims. It’s rich and thick and if you hadn’t already offered to become her pet for eternity, she would have stolen you away anyway.

She revels even more in the sounds of your very evident pleasure, which when mixed with her instant addiction to your taste leaves a tight sensation in her core.

As she continues feasting on you, she slots a knee between your open legs and tightly grips your waist in her hands, harshly thrusting you down on her leg and surely leaving bruises in her wake. Eagerly, you grind against her firm thigh, head lolling back and hitting the wall with a resounding thud.

Somehow, your unabashed moans get even louder as you feel your blood starting to drip across your chest. Distantly, you consider that maybe you should quieten yourself lest someone hear of your tryst, but that thought swiftly disappears when Wanda presses her knee against your core while pushing you down to grind against it and deepening her fangs in your neck.

She’s everywhere. Pressed against you, piercing you with her teeth, becoming one with you. Suddenly, the overwhelming sensations become too much and you come undone in her arms, climaxing unexpectedly from the equally consuming mix of pleasure and pain.

In a lust- and blood-drunk daze, Wanda takes little notice of your state and attempts to keep drinking every ounce of the red liquid left in your body. She feels you start to loosen your hold on her hair and slacken against her thigh though, so she reluctantly stops lest she loses her pet as quickly as she got her.

Regrettably, she pulls away from you but you’re glad she keeps her knee between your legs because you immediately slump against her from an exhaustive combination of the severe blood loss and intense climax.

Surprisingly tenderly, she captures you in her arms and holds you up against her and the wall. You take a second to regain your breath as your heart races to pump more blood through your veins.

“That was…” you trail off, dazed and half struggling to hold on to consciousness.

“Delicious,” she finishes for you.

You eventually manage to open your eyes and watch her sadly remove a hand from your waist to wipe your blood from her mouth with the pad of her thumb, serving to only spread it across her face even more.

The sight is more arousing than it should be and as you stare at her, you discover that with her porcelain moonlit skin, scarlet coloured eyes, snow white fangs, and mouth covered in your dark blood, she’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

In the haze of the afterglow, your gaze lowers to her bloody lips and you briefly wonder how you taste. Somehow reading your thoughts as she always does, she places a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips and you’re equally surprised by the taste of your blood on her lips. It’s different from what you expected, not as jarringly metallic as when you bite the inside of your cheek but rather smooth and rich like a well-aged wine.

As you deepen the kiss searching for more, she returns the eagerness by tracing the surface of your lips with her tongue, easily parting them and entering your mouth. Distracting you with the feel of your tongues swirling against each other, she sneakily reaches behind your back and unties the fragile bow tying your nightgown together.

Pulling away, she lets the sheer fabric fall in a heap to the floor and leaves you chasing her lips like a lovesick fool. You feel even more foolish when you look up and find her staring intensely at your entirely exposed body while she remains fully clothed, almost moving to wrap your arms around your bare chest in an attempt to hide yourself from her scrutiny.

Just as quickly though, she captures your wrists and traps them beside you against the wall. “Don’t hide from me. You’re mine now, pet,” she whispers in her criminally deep voice.

Not to mention her apparent assignment of a new title for you, a stark contrast from the formal way with which she has been regarding you until now. A fierce blush rises to your cheeks at her choice and when combined with the sound of her voice, you think you could come from the short sentence alone.

Softly and slowly with all the time in the world, or at least the few hours left before the sun awakes, she places delicate kisses across your shaking body. Her icy cold touch cools every inch of your burning skin that it contacts, along the curve of your jawline up to the space below your ear, down your neck and especially taking care to lick your puncture wounds clean before travelling across your chest and licking up any blood that previously escaped her.

Taking your left nipple in her awaiting mouth, she latches on and sucks greedily before switching to the right. You squirm and try to free your hands wanting to touch her, but her bruising grip around your wrists unrelenting keeps you trapped. If she notices you continue to painfully twist yourself in her grasp anyway in an attempt to amass more marks as proof of her ownership of you, she doesn’t utter a single word.

A second later, she withdraws from your body and sighs against your wet skin, which when coupled with her chilled touch and the cool winter night leaves you shuddering with goosebumps.

Stepping back from you entirely now, she reaches behind herself and undoes her own dress. When it falls to the floor, so does your jaw as you shamelessly stare at the pale expanse of her skin, almost completely unblemished and illuminated by the moonlight.

You carefully place your hands on the curves of her waist, hidden beneath her burgundy corset. For a brief moment, she lets you admire her body like an artist admires their muse before she gets impatient and turns around in your arms.

Pulling her hair to her front, she demands, “Won’t you lend me a hand, pet?”

Wordlessly and obediently, you unlace her corset while leaving delicate kisses behind her ear and along her neck. She buries her hand in your hair and you almost let out a moan from the way she tugs at it. Under your breath, you curse the corset for being so intricate as your shaking hands struggle against the detailed binds.

Luckily for you though, it finally becomes undone and drops to the floor with the rest of your clothes. With your hands returning to her waist again, now soft and bare, you turn her around to face you and almost collapse.

You’re not sure how it’s possible, but she continues to take your breath away. She’s more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your lifelong travels. More than any of the marble Grecian sculptures or oil paintings of Aphrodite.

Just as she did, you take your time peppering kisses over her ivory and cool skin. You gently kiss every inch from right under her jawline to the dips of her collarbones and down along her chest to the mole of her left breast, from the curve of her shoulder down to the edge of her fingers and even lightly sucking your blood off her thumb.

Delicately, you devote yourself to kissing her perfect skin marked only by a few moles littered across her body, mapping them like constellations, and licking away any of your blood that stains the porcelain surface of her chin and neck.

Here and there, when you get to a particularly sensitive spot like the space under her jawline, she writhes in your arms and lets out a breathless gasp. You continue sucking on the same spot lightly, proudly drawing pleasure out of her as she did with you, but only lightly and not harsh enough to mark her flawless skin.

Internally, you think you could spend an eternity worshipping her body if she let you. You wouldn’t mind all the pain if you had the pleasure of being hers.

As you take your time exploring her body, her thin patience finally runs out and she roughly wraps your hair around her hand, pushing you down to exactly where she needs you.

“On your knees, pet,” she demands breathlessly and you instantly obey, falling to your knees with a thud and ignoring the bruising pain, proudly collecting more evidence of your tryst.

Diligently, you continue trailing your kisses down between the centre of her chest and her taut stomach until you reach her core, which you brazenly pass in favour of nibbling her inner thigh.

Roughly yanking your hair though, Wanda makes her annoyance known. “Oh, don’t be like that now, sweetheart. I thought it was clear who’s in charge here,” she bends down and sneers in your face.

“‘Mm sorry…” you frantically nod and apologise while keeping the enticing idea of disobeying and testing her patience in the back of your mind for another time. Right now, though, you desperately want to taste her.

Lifting her leg over your shoulder, she increases your accessibility or rather traps you and pushes your head back towards her centre.

“Be a good pet now won’t you, darling?”

You don’t need to be told twice, swiftly diving in between her thighs. You’re pleasantly delighted to feel how wet for you she already is, probably since the moment she sank her teeth in your neck.

Burying yourself against her core, you greedily part her folds with your tongue and lap up all her juices. Immediately drunk on her taste, you moan against her and the resounding vibrations apparently stimulate her even more as she whimpers above you and tightens her grip on your hair.

As you eagerly stroke your tongue against her pussy and brush your nose against her clit, you decide that between her legs must be the best place on Earth. And if anything, you so quickly become addicted to her sweet essence just as she was with your rich blood.

Almost crazed, you both want her everywhere and to be all over her, meticulously switching between placing kitty licks between her folds and latching onto her bulb.

Losing herself in you, Wanda somehow pushes the back of your head even deeper against her and bucks against your face. “Good girl… just like that,” she murmurs.

If your mouth wasn’t so preoccupied, you would’ve begged her to pull your hair harder.

Glancing up as you devour her, you realise that she truly is a fallen angel sent from the depths of hell to corrupt you. As you stare at her lust hazed eyes and domineering form stalked over you, you find yourself getting pleasure just from her pleasure alone.

You think that whether she suffocated you between her thighs or sucked out all your blood with her fangs in your neck, you’d be honoured to die by her hand.

With her moans getting louder and her body writhing above you, you catch on to her rapidly increasing need for more and raise your right hand to rub her clit with the pads of two fingers.

Catching her off guard, you swiftly thrust the same two fingers between her folds and earn a blissed out scream. You fit perfectly inside her as she clenches around you, sending a tightening sensation to your own core.

Latching onto her clit with your mouth again while your fingers slide in and out of her, you proudly smile against her at the tightening grip on your hair.

“Faster,” she manages to demand and you once again obey, pistoning your fingers in and out of her even faster and setting a ruthless rhythm. Soon after, your fingertips locate her g-spot so you curl the ends of your two fingers, hitting the spot with every thrust.

As you watch her, you notice that her hands are preoccupied with gripping the back of your head in pleasure and her bedpost in an attempt to stay standing.

With so much of her immaculate body shamefully left unattended, you reach your sliced hand back up her still cool body and cup her breast. As you massage the supple mound, the pain of the fresh cut stings your skin but you hear yourself whimper in time with her own moans.

You’re everywhere and the stimulation of your touch starts to make Wanda go crazy. Releasing her hold on your hair, she glides it down your back and scratches the skin below your shoulders with her claws in an attempt to pull you even closer.

Shuddering against her, you wince at the pain but proudly add the scratches to your long list of scars from tonight.

With her hand on your back, she feels you pathetically grind down against nothing and decides to take pity on you, placing her foot below your core. Finally getting some much needed friction, you rub yourself against her in a frenzy and practically ride her foot.

In a daze, she peers down at you and is entranced by the sight of you on your knees for her, looking up obediently at her with doe-like eyes, your face covered in her juices and skin covered in bite marks and hickeys she placed haphazardly, all while servicing her every demand and devoting yourself to her every need.

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she climaxes. Feeling her clench around your fingers and hearing her scream, you quickly follow and come against her foot. Bewitched, you see her arch her back in satisfaction and let her ride out her high against your face.

Once she calms down, you greedily lick up all her cum and clean up her centre just as you did with your blood on her skin. When your mission is complete and she pushes you away, overstimulated by your persistent touch, you stare into her eyes as you slide the same two fingers that were just inside her mere second ago into your own mouth, sucking them clean and taking care to not leave even a single drop.

If it were possible, her already blown out pupils dilate even more as she watches the show you put on for her. Pulling you up with a strength that’s probably owed to her inhumane cells, she tugs you into a kiss once again, tasting her essence on your tongue just as you did with your blood on hers.

Fitting your waist in her hands again, she hastily throws you on her bed before straddling your hips and pressing you against the mattress. She wastes no time and leans down to reclaim your lips, carelessly letting her fangs nick your lips again.

In the corner of your sleepy eyes, you see the glowing moonlight illuminate the stars in the night sky outside, the sun still a lifetime away. For this next little while, all that matters is the cool feel of her touch against your scorched skin and the pleasure of the pain she brings.

For under the full moon, you are completely and irrevocably hers; a vampire’s pet for better or worse.

[venusjeon]

angel in the marble

after you fail to pickpocket him, the famous yet arrogant artist Jeon Jungkook takes you off the streets to make you his servant, and the more you know him, the more you realise he's not as detestable as everyone claims he is.

♔ PAIRING: michelangelo!jungkook x servant!reader

♔ GENRE: high renaissance au, angst, smut, humour

♔ WORD COUNT: 8k

♔ WARNINGS: homelessness, stealing, mild swearing/violence/drinking, 90% of this is bickering lmao, mentions of minor characters' death, jealousy and kinda possessiveness?, referenced unconsensual groping (not by jk), a bit of blasphemy, making out, groping, fingering, rough angry sexxx, choking, slapping

♔ AUTHOR'S NOTE: fun fact this is mostly historically accurate! jk's characterisation, the grocery list doodles, the sack of rome, the beef with his brother, the encounter with his rival (raphael)... are all taken from michelangelo's actual life, even some stuff is quoted from his letters lol. man was fanfic material.

1529, Rome

“How much for that one?”

“No, that one’s sold already.”

It was a lively morning. After days of heavy rainfall, those of high social class were eager to get out and meet under the gentle sun of spring, whose glare reflected on the precious stones of their jewellery; while those of low, out of necessity, couldn’t wait to reopen their businesses or set up their stalls and get back to work. You liked to eye them all as you strolled the streets of Rome.

“To whom?”

“Your friend Taehyung.”

“Agh… How much is that prick paying you?”

The point of the matter was that it was bustling, some colliding if they looked away from where they were going for more than a breath. It worked in your favour for it was then easier to make yourself scarce right after stealing bags of coins, such as those of the three men seemingly bargaining by a workshop’s entrance out of which a large block of marble was being dragged. Perfect.

“Three ducats.”

“Three?! He’s robbing you of two ducats. I’ll pay you the five it’s worth.”

You kept your head low as you approached the pair that seemed wealthier and with those stealthy hands of yours unfastened the bags tied to their belts. After all, pickpocketing was a skill you’d had under your own for some years now, so this was bound to go smoothly.

Because you didn’t realise there was a guardian with them, perhaps you’d grown arrogant.

“I’m sorry, maestro. It’s reserved.”

“But it’ll become a waste in his possession!”

As you slipped away into the crowd, mouth watering at the fresh-baked bread you were going to devour as soon as bought, this brown dog leaped up at you out of nowhere, ignoring your desperate efforts to shake him off. If anything, they caused him to bark.

No, no, no…

The three men turned to the scene playing out not so far, and thinking his dog was bothering you one of them shouted, “Bam, come here, boy!” but as he obediently ran to his owner, you were too slow to hide the bags in your hands. It only took the pair a second to make them out, check whether theirs still hung on their belts, find them not, work out you’d stolen them, look back up, and find you not either.

Of course, you’d made your escape by then, dived into the sea of people and swum through them as quickly as possible, only stopping when you reached an empty vaulted alley to catch your breath.

That was ridiculously close. If you weren’t more careful next–

Your train of thought was interrupted by someone grabbing you by the arm from behind and pushing you against the nearest wall. A grunt accompanied the thud, and a gasp followed at the sight of the two men from before—dog included. Pinned in place, it’d be a bad idea to fight back or attempt to run away again. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what happens to thieves?” the one cornering you asked so close that when the cold breeze rustled his hair, some strands grazed your face. You looked away to avoid the tickling rather than out of fear, or so you wanted to believe. “They have a hand cut off. Seems fair, doesn’t it, Jimin?”

By contrast, that Jimin didn’t look intimidating, otherwise still catching his breath from the chase, but he did snatch the coin bags from your hands. “It doesn’t have to be so, maestro. We got our money back. She’s… just a girl.”

“And that exempts her of crime?”

“Please, don’t report me,” you begged, humiliating as though it was.

“Why shouldn’t we?” the maestro scoffed. Maestro… You were being threatened by a damned craftsman, the other one probably his assistant.

“Because I don’t want to lose a hand?”

“Oh, but we wanted to lose money, did we?” You rolled your eyes, and he released his grip only to step away. “Take us to your father, brat. He’ll answer for you.”

It took you a moment to respond, “I don’t have a father, or anyone... Only I can answer for my actions.”

“You’re a beggar?” Jimin asked, taking pity as he studied your appearance for the first time. Dishevelled hair, tattered dress, unpleasant smell… Yes, they should’ve guessed.

“She doesn’t beg, though, does she? She steals.”

“Only from cunts.”

His head snapped to meet your glare, and Jimin laughed, “You seem to not know whom you speak to.” He could be Jesus for all you cared. Uninterested, you petted the dog, Bam, seeing as he’d leapt up at you again. “This is Jeon Jungkook.”

You froze. The Jeon Jungkook? The famous artist who painted and sculpted for the Pope? Whom faraway kings and even emperors commissioned? The one whose genius was said to be changing the world?

At the lack of attention, Bam returned to his master, and that snapped you out of your shock to ask, “Then why do you whine?” The two men frowned, having clearly expected an apology paired with the usual bootlicking. “As if you need that bag more than I!”

“What nerve,” he scoffed again, making you wince by grabbing your arm tighter than before and starting to drag you into the next street. “You’re going straight to the authorities!”

“Wait,” Jimin intervened, thank God. “Weren’t you in need of a servant, maestro?”

“So?”

Jimin pointed at you with his gaze as though it was obvious. “You’re in need of a servant, she’s in need of a roof.”

“I would rather have a hand cut off.”

“I would rather have her hand cut off too.”

Jungkook tried to resume dragging you, but Jimin blocked his way with a soft smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N…”

“Do you know how to take care of a household?” Slowly, you nodded, melancholy engulfing you at the memory of cooking or sweeping the floor with your mother once upon a time. Somehow, she always found a way to make chores fun... “Then you qualify for the job. You’ll have three meals a day and a bed to sleep on. And you, maestro, a servant who’ll work her hardest, lest you fire her and she ends up in the streets again.”

Both you and Jungkook reluctantly glanced at each other. Truth be told, you didn’t prefer losing a hand to living with him, you just didn’t like him. Despite being a celebrity, he was a stranger. It just wouldn’t work.

But then, why were you holding your breath, hoping he’d accept?

“We shouldn’t have left Namjoon’s workshop. The marble is about to be delivered,” he said walking away. The air left your lungs in disappointment. It seemed you were to remain a stray cat. Jimin pressed his plump lips apologetically as he gave you enough coins to buy that bread, and you nodded, grateful all the same for his trying. You watched him rush to Jungkook’s side but when this one saw him, he turned around. “Hurry up, brat. If Taehyung gets that block of marble, I’ll not take you in.”

Since the first day, you could attest to Jeon Jungkook’s nature being as rough and uncouth as the rumours claimed, and after living alone with him for two months still believed gossip such as that he’d got the scar on his left cheek in a tavern fight—in which, if you’d chanced to be present, you would’ve rooted for the other individual.

It appeared it wasn’t just others Jungkook was harsh to. However rich his talent had turned him, he behaved like a poor man, consuming food and drink sparingly and out of necessity instead of pleasure, spending only the money required to live decently, sleeping little in order to work on commissions from dawn to midnight…

Why he chose to take little care of himself was a mystery to someone who previously had not been allowed a choice, even if putting work before all was in order to thwart Kim Taehyung’s plans of ruining his career, as he claimed. You doubted his rival was obsessed with him so, but had learned to agree with whatever Jungkook grumbled to avoid disputes. Most times.

Deep down, you had a feeling your boldness amused him. Who else dared get on his nerves?

“I think all you artists fluttering around the Pope are no more than slaves to money,” you let drop once while making his bed. Bam was sleeping peacefully under the window, while Jungkook leaning against the door’s frame behind you, offended to the core. He could help, you thought, or at least loosen my corset a little…

“I, a slave? I’ll be damned… There is an angel inside every block of marble, and I’ll have you know I carve to set it free.”

“Is it the angel that charges the Pope, then, master?” You could feel him barely restraining the urge to throw you out the window, smiled as you finished smoothing out the blankets.

“You missed a wrinkle there.”

Hands on your hips and frown on your brows, you examined the neatly arranged coverings of his bed. “Where?”

“On your face,” he muttered before making his leave.

Not his finest jibe, but the metaphor did stay with you. An angel inside the marble… It perhaps applied to Jungkook himself, though you’d never tell him.

One instance it came to mind was recently, when his assistants and apprentices were invited over for dinner.

Usually, he’d tell you which meals he liked and you’d ask at the marketplace which ingredients to buy, but now that about ten meals were to be cooked a list was needed. So there he sat on his desk in his study, inking said list as you waited in front of him, fiddling with the undershirt that peeked out of your dress’ sleeves. Given that your eyes were fixed on it, you only learned Jungkook was done when the sound of his quill scratching the paper ceased.

“Be back no later than dusk,” he ordered, “I bet there are still Germans and Spaniards lurking about.”

A year had passed since the Sack of Rome, but the mention of it sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Whatever the political reasons for it, you hated everyone involved, for Hell itself would’ve been a more beautiful sight to behold those nine months when the Tiber’s waters remained painted red…

You were lucky to make it through. Your family wasn’t.

“Yes, master.”

“Here,” he said handing you the paper, then picked another letter from a pile of correspondence he’d been going through before your arrival. Jungkook was about to snap its wax seal when he looked up to realise you hadn’t moved an inch. “Why are you here? Away with you!” He saw the reason in the way you avoided eye contact. “You can’t read, can you?” Met with a silence charged with embarrassment, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Give me the list.”

Getting hold of the quill again, Jungkook began… doodling?

You tilted your head but couldn’t see well what he was drawing until he finished and returned the list to you. Then, your lips parted. Each item on the list was illustrated next to its name: ten loaves of bread, a jug of wine, tortellini, four anchovies, two fennel soups…

“I’ll teach you to read when I have time. This will do for now.”

“You’d do that?” For me?

Jungkook ignored you, before he went back to reading his letters complimenting the good gesture with an irritated, “Hurry up.”

That night his co-workers arrived one by one, Jimin the first. The sight of him when you opened the door brightened up your mood.

Unlike a certain someone he was always sweet to you, genuinely interested to know how you fared even if you were just a servant. He claimed that mattered not to him, that you were both commoners and thus equals.

“Look at this place, it’s spotless! And you know I’m furtive, so I won’t get in your way,” you told Jimin as you escorted him through a hallway, bright from the torches hung on the walls that you’d lit up earlier.

He laughed, “I cannot make you my servant, Y/N, you’re maestro’s.”

“But he’s going to drive me mad… To tell you one of many examples, he often falls asleep in his clothes, and who but I is to take his boots off so they don’t get the sheets dirty? If the chalk on his fingers or the dust from the chiseling on his hair won’t already. Bam is far cleaner…”

Jungkook had a workshop he barely set foot in, preferred his team made use of it instead to not be bothered by their idiocy. His words. So it was in a chamber on the ground floor of this house he gave way to artistic insanity. In your book, that meant constant cleaning.

Jimin looked at you fondly. “Sounds nightmarish.”

“It truly is!”

As soon as the two of you entered the dining hall, Bam ran from Jungkook’s side by the fireplace to Jimin, who was as excited to see him.

“Good night, maes–”

“Do you think I’m deaf, ungrateful brat?” Jungkook interrupted him to bark at you. “Rome is full of people begging to get a piece of me, so if you don’t like it here, I’ll just get someone else!”

“You say that and yet keep me like a prisoner!”

“As if you don’t have it better here than anywhere you’ve burdened with your presence before!”

“There, there…” Jimin interjected to de-escalate, kneeling to better stroke Bam. “Maestro, I’ve seen your latest sketch of the Virgin and Child. She resembles Y/N.”

Both you and Jungkook failed to fight off the embarrassment, gazes unable to find a place to settle. Sitting down on the large table, he explained, “It was just one time… I had used Yoongi as a model, but the Madonna looked too masculine... and rather than going through the trouble of finding some girl and hiring her, I had Y/N pose for me… So what! Why bring it up out of nowhere…”

“Because maybe you just need a bit of distance from time to time. With permission, I too would have Y/N pose for m–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now, why the hell not?” you groaned stamping your foot, startling poor Bam. Hope had been born inside you in a second and cruelly crushed in the next.

“Because I say so. And watch your tone with me.” As usual, the mutual glaring would trick anyone into thinking the next step would be murder. Jimin, who knelt there awkwardly, certainly thought so, at least until the bell rang. “Now go answer the door!”

What happened later, though, rendered the fury Jungkook had evoked in your heart nonexistent and instead seized the thing in a clasp of distress.

In the morning, he walked in when you were sweeping the kitchen. At once you forced the sobs to stop and turned around so he wouldn’t see you wipe your tears.

“It’s past nine, where’s breakfast?” he asked in shock that you hadn’t even started making it, the table there empty.

You swore under your breath before leaving the broomstick leaning against the nearest wall, flushed face kept out of Jungkook’s sight, then in a haste fetched a plate, a knife, and a leftover bread loaf. “Apologies, master, I forgot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”

Sniffling betrayed you, at which Jungkook frowned. “Are you crying?”

Great, the question just about especially designed to make one well up. Not trusting your voice anymore, you shook your head. Jungkook approached, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the task at hand, now cutting a few slices of the bread.

“Have you broken something?” You shook your head again, the suppressed sobs making your chin tremble. Jungkook took a deep breath before asking with a surprisingly soothing tone, “Then what’s wrong?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Within an hour, he’d summoned a meeting consisting of all who’d attended dinner the previous night.

A seemingly calm Jungkook was sat at the head of the table, elbows sunk on it and fingers interlocked. You stood behind him, head still low out of shame. A tense silence had fallen in the chamber some time ago, and sick of it, Jimin shattered it.

“Have you anything to tell us, maestro?”

“I was waiting for Biagio to do so.”

The man was one of Jungkook’s favourite assistants who had worked with him for years, even longer than Jimin. And if it was possible for your position to be trickier, he belonged to some noble family.

“Me? But I’ve nothing to say, maestro.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair. “My servant will, then. Y/N?”

Bastard. If you are going to fire me, why make me go through this?

“Last night, w-when I left this hall to go refill the wine jug… Messer Biagio followed me into the kitchen, and… h-he trapped me from behind, and started t-to touch me…” Your vision soon blurred, hence why you couldn’t see clearly how concerned Jimin was for you, or how Biagio jumped up in outrage. “I managed to push him away, and ran upst–”

“How dare you slander me, wench? Maestro, you do not believe this!”

“Do I not?”

“She’s lying! I caught her stealing sketches from your study, likely to sell them, so she’s trying to get rid of me!”

You almost scoffed. Only an idiot would choose the one occasion guests had come over and her absence would be noticed to carry out a theft.

Jungkook tilted his head. “I thought you had nothing to say. Why would you keep such a thing just now?”

Biagio gulped. “I deemed it best to mention it later, in private... You won’t believe a pickpocket before an old friend, will you?”

Silence returned, your breath still as you saw all the assistants and apprentices visibly take pity on him. The only one who didn’t was Jimin, but even on his face there was a hint of hesitation. Jungkook’s, you couldn’t see from behind, but after an eternity he stood up and walked over only to put a hand on the shoulder of Biagio, who smiled in relief.

A quiet sob broke through your lips, heart sinking. You’d needed Jungkook to believe you in this. Not because of the consequences his protection as your master could save you from, but because, like it or not… he was the closest thing to family you had.

It turned out he did believe you, judging by the punch landed on Biagio’s jaw out of nowhere. And the next one on his cheekbone, and on his nose. Before everyone around the table had barely stood up to stop Jungkook, he’d already thrown Biagio down and straddled him, pulling his doublet’s collar in a close, tight grip as he continued beating him up. Blood was drawn, but for once, you didn’t mind having to scrub it later.

Jungkook’s influence trumped a whole noble house’s, you learned in the course of the months Biagio tried his mightiest and failed most miserably to have him arrested. Perhaps because of the Pope sitting on his shoulder.

That he’d taken your side was still hard to believe, all he’d grumbled with a shrug when you thanked him while tending to his wounds from the fight being, “I’d been waiting for the chance. I always thought Biagio was a weasel.”

With the matter resolved, life returned to normal—well, whatever that meant in Jeon Jungkook’s household. Because calling for you at the top of his lungs like a madman was not normal. The first time he’d done it you’d raced downstairs, afraid something horrible had happened, only for him to have you close a window as it was getting chilly. Devil rot him. You rushed no longer after that, much to his complaints.

Today, he didn’t notice right away when you appeared under the cased opening, and good thing he didn’t, for he was polishing a bust with sandpaper… shirtless.

Product of hours carving stone into his desired shape or occasionally beating someone up, he could brag of having muscles, which the current task had covered in a layer of sweat and dust. The way they flexed with each movement had you compelled, wanting to reach out, feel if his skin was as hot as the blood pumping through your veins faster and faster. Then your gaze moved to the bust and whatever spell you were under broke.

Hardly an angel was that widowed noblewoman, whom you wished had stayed trapped inside a block of marble. Her name was Madonna Maddalena, and she’d come some weeks past to make a commission covered in pearls, gold, and boldness.

“My friends refused to accompany me today. You’re said to be… disagreeable, which I’m sure is untrue. However, all of them do want to know if you’re as fine-looking as is also rumoured, maestro” she told Jungkook within minutes of meeting him, still by the entrance!

Now you can tell them he’s not, you bit your tongue before it remarked, as this wasn’t Jimin but a patron not to be scared away by your bickering. It wouldn’t be true anyway. All your master lacked in manners, he made up for with looks… Which you’d never say out loud. You’d never say either that he looked even better when irked.

“I’ve heard many rumours about myself, most of them nonsense. My appearance was involved in none.”

She smiled seductively. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to spread them.”

“The weather is pleasant today,” Jungkook changed the subject, flustered beneath the formal demeanour. “Shall we have wine in the garden?” You left to prepare it not before catching Maddalena raise her brow at you in disapproval. She must’ve been able to tell you thought she was a pompous cunt.

The beautiful flowers you cared for tried their best outside, but the air didn’t get any better.

Sat around a small table, Maddalena explained she wanted a bust of herself by his talented hand to decorate the main hall of her palazzo. You served them wine, not really listening until Jungkook started playing hard to get. The hundred times you’d told him it wasn’t a good tactic to make his labour out to be too prestigious had apparently fallen on deaf ears.

“Any other artist could carry this out, Madonna. I am working for the Pope these days…” he subtly scolded her, a mere mortal, for wasting his precious time. And he wondered why he had a reputation for being arrogant.

Maddalena put his thoughts into plain words, “So why should you stoop to taking commissions from an insignificant widow?”

“Correct,” you said under your breath, luckily heard by none from the background, where you stood holding a wine jug until the madonna raised her cup and you approached to refill it.

“It is then fortunate I’m to marry a nephew of the Pope’s.”

Swayed by her future influence, Jungkook smiled back. “So it is.”

“But not for another week. ‘Till then, I belong to no man.” The suggestion in her tone almost drove you to spill wine all over her. No, better yet: order Bam to sic on her. He’d do it.

Just, who did this woman think she was? And why did Jungkook not kick her out right afterwards? It made you wonder whether he’d enjoyed the flirtation. Whether he would’ve been the one to take things further had his inconvenient servant not been present. It was common for men to have affairs and lovers, but it didn’t sit well with you that Jungkook might. Not that you ever imagined him doing any of that, for goodness’ sake–

“What took you so long?”

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to the present, under the cased opening.

“I was lazing about, as always,” you quoted his favourite false reprimand, making him roll his eyes, your own dropping to the floor when he walked closer.

“In that case, prepare a bath for me.”

“Yes, master.”

You sighed at all the work ahead. That being a servant was worlds better than living in the streets didn’t mean you looked forward to collecting gallons of water from a well, carrying them back, heating them, transferring them to a tub, then washing Jungkook—because you did wash him.

Biagio had hurt his left shoulder bad and ever since, he’d needed assistance in certain activities. Curious how he could otherwise chisel a goddamned bust without problem.

Jungkook’s full nudity only made you blush if you stopped scrubbing, so knelt with tucked up sleeves before the wooden tub he was reclined on, scrubbing away the dirt on his skin with lavender-scented soap you were. Maybe all the stupid feelings you’d been suffering lately stemmed from there…

Head resting on the edge, he was exhausted from the long day of work, taking your rubbing as a relaxing massage. You, however, couldn’t ignore the stinging guilt, what with the scar on his shoulder right in front of your face. He probably felt your breathing on it.

“I’m sorry you got hurt…”

Jungkook fought heavy lids only to see you avoid him. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable in front of him was embarrassing, as when he’d caught you crying, but he didn’t take advantage of the fact to humiliate you. Jungkook may be an ogre, but he wasn’t cruel.

“I’ve received worse for less,” he assured you in a calm, low voice. It sounded soothing to your ears.

“That, I don’t doubt,” you scoffed, glancing at his other scar on the cheek. “Did you also get that one in defence of some lady?”

“You’re nowhere close to a lady.” It could be done, you mused. Drowning him. “This was courtesy of my brother.”

“You have a brother?” It dawned on you how little you knew of him. Surely, most had heard it all about the divine Jeon Jungkook, but you’d never cared enough to learn past the shell of gossip, even after months of living with him. In fairness, he’d never asked about you either. You preferred it that way.

“Brothers,” he corrected you. “The one who did this to me was a wayward fool. Had to teach him a lesson.”

“Looks like he taught one to you.”

“I left with a scratch, he with a limp.” The conception of two brothers hurting each other so harshly widened your eyes for a second, and Jungkook noticed, for he added, “He was whoring around, wasting the money I worked hard to send, bullying our other brothers as well.”

Much made sense about Jungkook all of a sudden. Not his personality, that was incomprehensible. But why he killed himself to earn money and yet barely spent it… He had a family to provide for. Once again, you were reminded of his metaphor. Could an angel be in there?

Carrying on washing Jungkook, you dragged the sponge over to his neck. Then his collarbones, his chest, his abs just peaking above the water... They did look like a sculpture’s, especially wet and soaped, reminiscent of polished marble when the light of the torches reflected on them. Swallowing hard, the back of your fingers gingerly graced Jungkook’s muscles, both soft and firm. Slippery. Whatever possessed you to keep feeling them, you lacked the will to expel from your body, and so without realising your grip on the sponge loosened until it fell to float away, fingertips now free to roam over his abs.

You were slowly trailing downwards, past the water’s surface, when your wrist was seized and held in the air in a warning manner, the startle almost making you scream.

Sat upright, Jungkook was glaring at you so fiercely you feared for your life. But he didn’t say anything and instead just breathed hard, jaw clenched… almost as if he was holding back. Your rising heartbeat was deafening in the silence waiting for something to happen, anything, but what did wasn’t what a side of you anticipated with excitement.

Jungkook just let go of your wrist and returned to his previous position, and you got hold of the sponge and finished washing him, albeit holding your breath the entire time.

Days later, you came dangerously close to being fired.

The Pope had summoned Jungkook—something about a portrait commission—and you were to carry his bag filled with sketches for him due to his shoulder injury. As you navigated the ever-busy streets of Rome with him, the cold autumn breeze made you regret not putting on an overgown. The cioppa you’d bought with your own salary and not stolen. It brought a smile to your lips that faded at the realisation your mother would’ve reminded you to put it on before going out.

The sorrow pestering you turned to confusion when Jungkook stopped walking and tsked, telling you loud enough to be heard by all, “Look at him, the chief of police, with such an assemblage.”

A well-dressed man and what appeared to be his entourage walked in your direction, halting near enough. You didn’t have to ask to know this was his rival, the renowned painter Kim Taehyung.

“Whereas you, like an executioner, walk alone,” he mocked Jungkook, then noticed you standing behind him like a timid child. “Not completely, my mistake. Maestro, where in your barren soil did you plant such a flower?” He walked over to you, intentionally bumping Jungkook’s wounded shoulder as he passed, causing him to grunt lowly. From up close one was bound to marvel at how handsome Taehyung was, but you didn’t need proximity to tell he was a prick. Miles away, you would’ve known. “Why don’t you come work for me, flower? I’ll make you my muse.”

Jungkook scoffed again, “What, for your horseshit paintings? She’d be a fool to.”

Taehyung turned around to face him, feigning confusion with a smile. “But, maestro, how could they be so if you were once heard saying that all I have in art, I got from you?”

"You naturally have to resort to plagiarising my master’s genius if all you do is horseshit,” you countered, earning surprised looks from every man present, some laughs too, you were proud to say. Jungkook was certainly smirking. Taehyung opened his mouth, but you walked past him uninterested before a response came out of it.

“Good girl,” Jungkook laughed while leaving the crime scene, and for some reason your cheeks burned hot.

The incident happened once inside the Vatican.

Its grandiose corridors alone made you feel small, too unimportant to walk them, whereas Jungkook did so with determination, knowing he belonged at the top of the world. What with your tempestuous relationship, it was easy to forget he was famous throughout Europe. His feet would still never be kissed by you. Someone had to humble the man, right?

At some point the two of you arrived at a door flanked by guards, and averse, you grabbed the sleeve of Jungkook’s doublet.

“Do I have to go in?”

“Too good for the Pope, are you?” He shook you off. “Come on.”

“Damn you…” you muttered.

“What did you just say to me?”

“After you, master.”

Telling himself he’d be late if he scolded you, Jungkook turned and nodded at the guards, who opened the door of a chamber whose walls were frescoed with angels and saints, likely by Taehyung, giving off the impression one was in Heaven. When you saw him sat on a golden chair, old and grey, enjoying the tune of a lute player, you felt as though you’d just entered Hell.

The audience lasted for ever. While you stood by the door, Jungkook showed the Pope some sketches of the portrait for him to choose his favourite and then they talked and talked of politics. All you could do was fix your gaze somewhere on the floor and sigh.

“Yes, Your Holiness, this is the servant I mentioned…” A frown proceeded your looking up to see Jungkook somewhat embarrassed, scratching his nose as if to hide his face. He talked of you to others? Doubtless to complain…

With a sweet voice as if he was talking to a little girl, the Pope asked you, “What is your name?”

“None of your business, Your Holiness.”

The musician’s tune ceased abruptly, allowing Jungkook’s faint gasp to be heard. Then fell a short silence spent by the Pope blinking, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Jungkook was quick to fake a laugh, though sweat formed at his temples. “A jest! She meant no offence, Your Holiness, but to make you laugh.”

You held the Pope’s glare in defiance, indifferent to the fact he was the most powerful man in the whole of Christendom.

By some miracle, he let it go, and you left that chamber minutes later with your head as yet attached to your body. Your arm wouldn’t be for much longer, though, given Jungkook was forcibly dragging you all the way out to the streets, pushing you into the first alley he saw.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he shouted, towering over you menacingly. Unlike the day you’d met, you weren’t scared, rather furious as him as you stood your ground. “That was the Pope, you fool!”

“So?”

Jungkook was in utter disbelief. “He could’ve ordered your execution– mine too!”

“Well, nothing happened!”

“Nothing?! I’m sure to fall out of favour!” He paced around, anxiety quickening his breath. “Years of pouring my soul into my craft, of grovelling before the right people, all thrown away! Good God, your attitude may cost me everything…”

“And what about me?! Everything lost to me does not matter?!”

Jungkook stopped to frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

It was now you who walked up to him. “I didn’t have a job, or a reputation, or admirers. I had only a family, and I never wished for anything else! That monster you work for took them from me. When the foreigners’ armies came and everyone rushed to Castel Sant’Angelo, he gave the order to close the gates as soon as he was safe behind them! You must have been there with him, weren’t you? Well, we weren’t. We were left outside to be slaughtered. And I wish I had been, like my parents, so I didn’t have to suffer the likes of you any longer!”

Tears were streaming down your face by the end, Jungkook just staring back at you. It didn’t surprise him that your parents were dead or that they’d been killed during the Sack, but that it was so deep a wound left festering in your heart that you didn’t mind being put out of misery. He surmised your disrespectful behaviour towards him was also fruit of your pain, especially if you deemed him an ally of the one who caused it.

“The few things I own… They’re wasted on me. Throw them away or give them to your next servant,” you sobbed, taking for granted you were fired. Anyone with half a brain would indeed have you dismissed, and part of you knew it was bound to happen, that you would go back to breaking in fucking churches to spend the night.

So you turned around into the main street, set on wandering until your legs became too sore not to collapse. With any luck, a carriage would run over you. But warmth then surrounded your hand, and you looked down to see Jungkook’s holding it tight enough to force you to halt. Though still mad, a hint of compassion sparkled in his eyes.

“Let’s… Let us just go home.”

Home. His house had felt so for a while now, truth be told. Himself too.

After that, you non-verbally agreed on a ceasefire—avoiding quarrels, that is, which was quite the task for both.

Such as now that Jungkook had you inking down a letter in his name. First of all, did you look like a scribe? If you’d known in advance the lazy arse would teach you to read and write for this, you’d have chosen to remain illiterate. And second, this was your short break before making dinner, intended to be spent playing with Bam. The poor thing was also in the study, at least being stroked by his owner, who was sat beside you on the desk.

“… I send you my regards, may God keep you from all harm. Jeon Jungkook in Rome,” he finally finished dictating, and you recording. “Give it to me, I’ll seal it.”

He was melting the wax with which to do so when the bell rang, to his surprise. Sighing, you stood up and went to open the door to whom turned out to be Jimin. The sight of him brightened you up, and yours stretched his lips into a smile.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Good evening! I didn’t know the master was expecting you.”

“He isn’t…” You welcomed him in, brows joining at how he continuously chewed on his aforementioned lip and breathed deep through his nose as he followed you. Had something happened…? A decision to eavesdrop was made en route to the study.

Though Jimin requested for you to stay once there, and nothing could have prepared you for the reason why.

“This actually concerns Y/N…” You and Jungkook exchanged confused looks, him leaning against the desk and crossing arms as though he didn’t like the sound of that. Jimin fixed his already perfect clothes before addressing him, “I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.” Your jaw dropped. “I know it’s sudden at the lack of previous courtship, but I thought I should ask for your permission before engaging in it, maestro. She’s a lovely girl… and I think she’d be happy as my wife. Worry not, I won’t ask for a dowry or for her to stop working… Although on second thought, fewer hours of service would be ideal.”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening.

Jungkook must be thinking the same, for he squinted to ask, “Are you drunk?”

“N-No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? You want to marry a servant with little to her name.” He had a point, so you weren’t offended. If politics weren’t the reason for a union, did this mean… Jimin had feelings for you?

“Maestro, you say it as if I were a lord,” he chuckled. “I don’t care about Y/N’s possessions, I’ll provide for her anyway. I’ve… always been fond of her. And I dare say she shares the sentiment.”

Betrayal hid safely behind a look that asked if there was any truth to that. Obviously not! There was no romance in your own fondness for Jimin. If anything, you had thought he saw you as a younger sister to look after, therefore as a protective older brother you saw him. But so shocked were you still that no words managed to come out, and Jungkook’s gaze shifted back to Jimin.

“I’ll think about it. You may go.”

A curt tone was the norm for Jungkook, it was not being granted his blessing that disappointed Jimin. He knew for a fact he was an honourable man, so why wouldn't he entrust you to him?

“Quite well… I’ll show myself out.” he uttered, before making his leave failing to hide his low spirit by giving you one last shy smile you hadn’t the heart to return.

An awkward silence filled the air that even Bam daren’t break. Only once the front door was heard shutting did you walk closer to Jungkook.

“You won’t agree to this, will you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have to get rid of you at some point.”

“Rid of me? Like I’m a burden?” you asked, voice rising. How a servant could be so was unknown to you until, like wooden ship toys did when you’d submerge them in a bucket of water as a child, certain guesses surfaced in your thoughts. Trying to pickpocket him, the constant clashing, Biagio, that bath, the Pope… Yes, you may perhaps be described as a burden. But you didn’t want to leave. With a calmer tone, you pleaded, “I’ll behave from now on. I won’t cause any more trouble, I swear.”

Jungkook didn’t deign to look your way as he left, followed by Bam. “You have to marry at some point, Y/N. Otherwise people will gossip.”

Since when did he care about what people said of him? And why should you?

Winter having dropped its anchor, nightfall arrived early. Not early enough, you brooded as you cooked dinner, longing for the day to end once and for all. With any hope, all of this was a nightmare and upon waking up in the morning life would go back to normal. You didn’t even know why you wanted to stay with Jungkook, as the occasions in which you’d begged Jimin to employ you to leave this house were countless. The only certain thing was that you were upset.

Later, after washing all plates and cups, you began to put off all torches lighting the house, finding out in the hall that Jungkook hadn’t moved from the seat he’d dined in. You considered carrying on with your job and leaving him in the dark, but he wouldn’t find it as funny. Instead, you stood before him.

“Will that be all, master?”

The coldness in your expression made him sigh, “Y/N–”

“I shall retire, then.” You turned to leave but were made to stop in your tracks.

“It’s an advantageous proposal for you,” he lectured to whom he must believe an idiot. “Jimin works for me, he’s wealthy. A better match than you could ever aspire to. And he asks for no dowry because he doesn’t want money, he wants you…” His words were tainted with resentment. “He’ll take good care of you.”

Skirt of your dress swirling along, you faked a smile. “If you think so, master, then it must be so.”

He shook his head as he leaned back in defeat. “Suit yourself, but I won’t be the one to reject Jimin. You crush his heart.”

A laugh escaped you. “If you genuinely cared about him, you wouldn’t let him marry a woman in love with–” Oh no. It only hit you as you were saying it.

Jungkook had appeared annoyed, but now he was mad. “Who?” He stood up abruptly—chair’s feet scratching against the floor making you wince—and walked so close you were backed against the wall, face forced to turn to a side. In a low, deep voice, he repeated, less as a question and more as an order this time, “Who.”

There was no way in the nine circles of Hell you’d say it, when you didn’t want to believe it in the first place. For fuck’s sake, why? Jungkook only ever made you want to get away from him. That was the case right now, but then… why were your feet frozen?

Some unreasonable part of you seemed to have prevailed upon the others, casting away all resistance from your body and allowing yourself to indulge in Jungkook’s proximity. You met his eyes without fear, held his dark gaze. It didn’t take him long to work it out, yet he kept close, so close your unsteady breaths mingled, the effect akin to intoxication. He was visibly trying to hold back, telling himself it’d be a bad idea, but you prayed he wouldn’t care.

By God or the Devil, your prayers were heard.

Jungkook finally smashed his lips into yours, devouring them with a hunger you shared and felt growing as he gripped your waist to press you against him. A minute ago, you wouldn’t have imagined his tongue belonged inside your mouth, swirling around your own, and now you wanted it all over your body. As if reading your mind, Jungkook broke the ardent kiss to move down to your neck, which he licked painfully slowly before sucking hard, making you hiss with pleasure. He knew that would leave a mark, the bastard. You wondered if it was meant for Jimin, so he’d see you were Jungkook’s, and in such case you didn’t mind, let your eyelids close to enjoy it.

Steered by the lust possessing you, one hand grabbed his soft hair in a fistful, keeping his head in place where he was sweetly abusing your neck, while the other travelled southwards until it reached his crotch and held it over the trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. Jungkook groaned—a vibration to your skin—in retaliation lifting your skirt. You’d thought he'd take his time, tease you, but after ensuring you were wet enough by gliding his middle finger along your core, he slid it inside and began making beckoning motions.

“Master…” you moaned, legs shaking. Jungkook forsook your neck to pull back, watch how you struggled to keep it together as he added another finger, curling and uncurling them both, hitting all the right places, and unwilling to give him that satisfaction without consequences you groped his erection with the same vigour. Although he was in good control of his expression, his breath quivered against your lips, so he kissed them again, biting hard into your lower one.

He exhaled, “You’re driving me to sin…”

Indeed, the same fingers that held the brushes when he painted religious artwork were buried deep inside your cunt, bringing you the most sinful ecstasy. It made you chuckle. Jungkook took that as the mockery it was and, crossed, pulled his fingers out of you to drag you by the arm to the edge of the table, where he had you sit. Without delay he lifted your skirt again, only this time he also pulled down his trousers to reveal his cock, thick and throbbing, which he pumped as he watched you spread your legs eagerly, ready to take all of him.

With his free hand Jungkook cupped your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip, coated with saliva and reddened still from when he’d bit it. He could sense your desire, that you craved him inside, had for a while. Desperately. And however much tempted he was to make you beg for it, his own arousal led his cock to your entrance and eased it inside already, another groan hitting the back of his bared teeth. You didn’t have time to gasp, his thrusts so quick they earned only moans, so wonderful did it feel.

Jungkook’s hand on your cheek then wrapped around your neck. “Do you know how often I’ve fantasised strangling you?”

You chuckled again as you slapped him across the face. Jungkook halted his movements in shock, glared at you. “And I slapping you?”

It took him a moment, but he scoffed and pushed you back so that you were lying down, climbing next atop you, confident that the wooden table was sturdy enough to hold both. So legs hooked around his torso and arms around his neck, you welcomed his thrusts, rough enough to make your eyes water. But it felt heavenly, how he ravished you... The mutual irritation and tension building up for over half a year translated into indescribable pleasure.

He kissed you again, flicking his tongue against yours as he pounded into you without mercy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, all you could do to express you were nearing your limit was sink your nails into Jungkook’s biceps at each side of you, moan inside his mouth. He took the hint and fucked you as fast as his body would allow, within mere seconds your walls clenching tight around him. The sight of you collapsing under him, overcome with bliss, made him reach his own highest shortly, spurting his warm seed inside you.

As his movements gradually ceased, so did your panting. Before a complete silence fell, you asked, “Am I still to marry Jimin?”

Jungkook grabbed your face and growled against your pouted lips, “You’re not going anywhere.”

[piastrixpole]

tattoo my heart - carlos sainz

pairing: carlos sainz x tattoo artist!reader

genre: smau

faceclaim: maggie lindemann

liked by charlesleclerc, carlossainz, landonorris and 838,213 others

f1: it’s a paddock debut here at COTA for the smooth operator’s new body art

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charlesleclerc: looking good mate😉 didn’t think you’d actually go through with it

carlossainz: a bets a bet🙂↕️

landonorris: save a horse🤤

carlossainz: aye cabrón not in public

pierluigi_della_bonna: caliente chili🌶️

user1: god he looks so good with tattoos

user2: fell to my knees in a walmart when they showed them on the broadcast

user3: he is THE Ferrari driver of all time tbh like just look at him😭 he’s like a walking ad (no hate to Charles ofc!!)

scuderiaferrari: that’s our driver🌶️

liked by yourbsf, oliviarodrigo, calumhood and 15,113 others

yntattoo: in honour of race week I’m doing a new f1 themed flash at 50% off this weekend❤️

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oliviarodrigo: gorgeous gorgeous girl💜you’re making me want a tattoo

-> yntattoo: omg please!! it would be an honour my love💜

calumhood: these are sick yn! will need to come and see you again soon

-> yntattoo: cal!! you better

user12: the Ferrari ones?? ok im obsessed😍

user17: making an appointment as we speak

user14: oh to be going to COTA so I could also get tattooed by yn sigh😭

user9: omg imagine if she was the one to tattoo carlos user55

messages

tiktok

transcript:

“carlos you surprised everyone in the paddock this weekend with your new look, what can you tell us about it.”

“well i have been thinking about getting one for a long time and a friend of mine knew a girl who was running a special on f1 tattoos for this weekend so i called over and she did an amazing job.”

“charles, will you be following in your teammates footsteps any time soon?”

“definitely not. carlos of course looks very good but I do not think I could pull it off as well as he does.”

“aye that’s not true cabron, I think a full scale on your chest would be quite eye catching…”

oliviarodrigo posted a story!

(pic 1: best day with my girls tattoyn, yourbsf) (pic 2: 🏎️)

liked by oliviarodrigo, yourbsf, scuderiaferrari and 27,390 others

yntattoo: forza ferrari sempre❤️🏎️ thank you for inviting me scuderiaferrari

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scuderiaferrari: so happy to have you with us❤️you’ll have to come back and give all the team matching tats

-> yntattoo: say less admin🤭❤️

yourbsf: hottieee😍 had the most amazing time with you

-> yntattoo: love you so much girl

oliviarodrigo: ferrari girls🏎️✨

alexandrasaintmleux: it was so lovely to meet you girls❤️

-> yntattoo: you too Alex!!

twitter

carlossainz posted a story!

Replies…

charlesleclerc: finally got the girl?😉

-> you know it mate

yourbsf: take care of my girl

-> I promise Bella

alexandrasaintmleux: that’s MY wife!!

-> stop trying to steal her from me you have Charles

liked by carlospriv, yourbsf, alexpriv, charlespriv, livpriv and 72 others

ynpriv: my man my man my man my man my man my man (ps the tramp stamp is fake…for now🫣)

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yourbsf: iconic, legendary, never been done before

->ynpriv: that’s you💋

alexpriv: my ferrari wifey❤️🥰

->ynpriv: run away with me xx

carlossainz: princesa❤️

->ynpriv: love u papi😼

charlesleclerc: can you give me the tramp stamp next win?

->ynpriv: I’ll hold you to that leclerc

messages

📍mexico

liked by carlossainz, charlesleclerc, yourbsf, oliviarodrigo and 100,346 others yntattoo: who would have though a tattoo appointment would bring me you❤️ congratulations mi amor

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yourbsf: making me believe in love again

oliviarodrigo: omg you’re the mystery girlfriend and not me whaaat!?!

->yntattoo: wait no i thought it was you??

carlossainz: gracias mi amor❤️ couldn’t have done it without you by my side

->yntattoo: ❤️

user33: yn is really living my dream life huh tattooing carlos sainz and then ending up as his girlfriend

user50: wattpad protagonist vibe

user27: I wonder if carlos is gonna get more tattoos from her??

->user92: he shouldn’t be with someone messy and skanky like her, she’s not Ferrari girlfriend material…

liked by landonorris, yntattoo, scuderiaferrari

carlossainz: my good luck charm

view all comments

landonorris: the other woman🎶

->yntattoo: hands off my man norris I will punt you into the sun

yntattoo: panties fell off at the sight of you on the top step🤤

->user3: YN??

->user12: i know ferrari pr are screaming rn

->scuderiaferrari: yn🫣👀 training being scheduled as we speak

->yntattoo: boooo!! they hated me for being right😔

[potato-on-your-head]

THIS BLOG JUST TURNED 10 TODAY ONE WHOLE DECADE WITH YOU WEEABOO SHITS

[jinwoosbabyboo]

“We Still On For Tomorrow?”

LADS Men responding to “We still on for tomorrow” and plot twist it’s your wedding day.

Zayne

MC: We still hanging out tomorrow?

Zayne: Hanging out?

MC: yea you know meeting up

Zayne: Ah I see this is one of your little pranks yes we’re still “hanging out” tomorrow

MC: Okay what are you wearing?

Zayne: A navy blue suit

MC: ooouu fancy should i wear a dress?

Zayne: Yes preferably white

MC: I’ll look like somebody’s bride

Zayne: My beautiful bride

Rafayel

MC: We still on for tomorrow?

Rafayel: Are we? 🤨

MC: Don’t answer my question with a question

Rafayel: Is this a trick question? Are you going to be a runaway bride? I will scream moan and throw up

MC: I’ll be there you drama king calm down

Rafayel: What are the signs of a heart attack?

MC: You’re not having a heart attack

Rafayel: Maybe it’s organ failure

MC: oh yeah? Which organ?

Rafayel: All of em’

Xavier

MC: We still hanging out tomorrow?

Xavier: Are you playing another trick on me? Are you getting cold feet?

MC: I’m asking you a simple question

Xavier: I’m worried

MC: Yes or no?

Xavier: Are you mad at me because I ripped your Astro Penguin plushie?

MC: You what….

Xavier: Yes we’re still hanging out I’ll be the handsome guy in the white suit waiting for my gorgeous breathtaking understanding bride

Sylus

MC: We still on for tomorrow?

Sylus: No I have to make a rain check sorry sweetie

MC: the fuck?

Sylus: Urgent meeting for a rare protocore

MC: A protocore is more important than our WEDDING???

Sylus: Nothing is more important than you

MC: ….

Sylus: Your little tricks aren’t so funny when they’re directed at you huh?

MC: I was about to start crying….

Sylus: We still on for tomorrow?

MC: …..yes

Artist: zs_hetao on danbooru

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 (𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈'𝐌 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆) ❞

❝ PROF. GETO IS SO HOT AND NOW HE’S A DEPARTMENT HEAD !! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part four of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you and suguru enter a new phase in your relationship— long distance. the two of you work hard to keep your relationship alive and well — but what happens when distance and work starts to weigh on your time together?

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut , fluff, but also angst depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student, but age is vague, long distance relationship, phone sex, shower sex, fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, yuta appears *gasp*, fanart found on pinterest (if anyone knows the og artist, pls let me know)

✧ wc: 14,288 | part one | part two | part three

“Baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “c’mon, you have to wake up, we can’t be late,” your boyfriend groans, pulling the covers over his head, and you giggle, gently tugging at the comforter held taut over his head.

“No,” he’s murmuring, as you roll your eyes, “a few more minutes,”

“A few minutes for you will turn into a few hours,” you chuckle, as your fingers finally find the inside of the comforter.

And you’re finally able to pull it off, Suguru’s long locks askew as his pretty obsidian eyes flutter half open, and your lips curl.

How did you get so lucky?

Your fingers run over his cheek, before you press a kiss to his forehead, “C’mon Mr. Department Head, you’re going to be late at this rate — you have to get the keys to your new apartment today and you have a meeting with the staff too,”

Suguru groans, his lips in a rare pout — mornings were truly his most vulnerable times, “Does it have to be today?” He draws close to you, burying his face in your neck, and your fingers slowly rake through his locks, gently easing the knots that formed in the night.

“Unfortunately yes,” you murmur, your fingers tucking a few locks behind his ear, “but I’ll be visiting you in two weeks, it will pass by quick,” it did feel like forever — but you knew it wouldn’t be. The summer would end one way or another and now he was leaving for Kyoto — officially three weeks before classes start, “and we’ll be spending the whole week together — we can explore a little more than we got to before,”

“I know,” he still is surely unconvinced, moving back to look up at you with certifiably the cutest purse of his lips, his warm hand finding your cheek, “but then why does every minute without you feel so much longer?”

Your lips find his in a lazy kiss, your hand sliding to the nape of his neck, his soft locks brushing against your knuckles, “But that will make the minutes we do spend together that much more special, right?”

He hums, pressing his forehead against yours, “how are you so positive about this?” And you sigh, your nose bumping against his, as you press a chaste kiss to his lips again.

“Because it’s the only way I can not completely break down,” you sigh, and his arms wrap around you, pulling you back into his embrace, your head resting on his chest, heart thudding nearly right under your ear, “what time do you have to leave?”

He glances at his phone, “not for another two hours,” and you curl up, fingers sliding against his smooth skin.

“Then a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt,” you murmur.

And you’d take any minute that you could get with him, especially now.

~~~

“Do you have everything?” Suguru never knew quite how much you could fuss over him, until the last few days. You seemed to obsess over every detail — his credentials, his electronics, his clothes — it’s as if you wanted everything squared away — and you simply couldn’t focus on anything else.

Because, you probably didn’t want to.

“I do, I have everything — I have things I didn’t need that you put in the car,” you pout as he chuckles, and he can’t help but lean in and kiss the pout from your lips, “I’ll be okay, I’ll call you as soon as I get there,” he murmurs, “can you pack yourself up and get in the car? Then I’ll really have everything I need,”

You blink rapidly, as if to ward off tears, as you can’t quite meet his gaze, “I wish I could,” you murmur, as your arms wrap around him, and his do the same, pulling you into a tight hug, “how am I going to survive the next two weeks without you?”

“It’s just two weeks right? Like you said it will pass by quick—“

You shake your head, “I just said that to make you feel better,” you look up at him, glassy eyed, “I changed my mind, stay here,” you whine, and he laughs, running his fingers through your hair.

“Think it’s a little late for that sweetheart,” he sighs, his fingers sliding under your chin, “after all, you packed up the rest of my things into my car, so unless I’m living out of it—“

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, as you rub your eyes, and he pulls your hands away gently, kissing your tears away, “I’ll miss you so much,”

“Not as much as me,” and you lean up to kiss him, a sweet kiss that only leaves him aching for more. Why was it the more he had of you — the more he always needed? He knew these first two weeks would be the hardest, but honestly, he’s not sure if it would ever get easier.

Because he needs you. Always.

“Ah wait,” you smile, reaching into your pocket, “you forgot one thing—” and you pull out a key, and he tilts his head, “it’s a key to my place,”

And he blinks, “You don’t—”

“I want to,” you kiss him again, even softer somehow, “please take it,” so he does, as you place the piece of metal into his palm, “plus, it’s practical, if I’m not around, you can let yourself in,”

“Make myself comfortable?” his lips quirk.

“Very comfortable,” you press your forehead to his again, “Go,” you murmur, you pull away reluctantly, his body already mourning the loss of your touch, your fingers still intertwined, “otherwise, I’ll just block your car with my body to get you to stay,”

He rolls his eyes, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “I’d like to see that,” he presses his forehead to yours, “promise you’ll stop me from ever accepting a job that makes me be away from you for any amount of time again?”

“Now that’s a promise I’ll keep,” you squeeze his fingers one last time, “I think it’s what’s owed to us isn’t it?”

He knows he would never be able to repay what he owes you for everything you’ve done for him — how happy you’ve made him—

“It is,” he smiles, one last kiss to your lips, as he slips into the driver’s seat before he can change his mind.

—But he would try.

~~~

When you go back to your apartment — it feels far too empty. Even though Suguru didn’t live with you — it felt as if he had made a place for himself here, and he had, but he had left it. For now, you remind yourself. His place would be here for him, when he came back.

But it turned out two weeks was a lot of time to kill when you still hadn’t started classes — your days filled with nothing but time for you to spend. None of your friends from class had made it back yet either — so you were stuck trying to find things to do. Suguru was busier than expected — dragged to meeting after meeting and showed off more than a show dog to the department’s professors, alumni, and donors. Suguru often fell asleep on the phone with you, his soft snores filling your ears, as you fell asleep along with him.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if all semester would be like this — especially once his classes started. You understood — you did — this is what you signed up for and it was far from Suguru’s fault. But you couldn’t help but miss him. And that wasn’t surprising — but what was surprising was how much you missed him.

Your bed was bought for one, but now it felt empty with only you occupying it — a cold barren front without your usual refuge in his arms. And the days weren’t bad — you found things to keep you busy — but the evenings and weekends that you usually had spent with Suguru dragged like a child dragged their feet at the grocery store — reluctantly and without patience.

So maybe you needed to do the same that you’d do for a restless child — a distraction.

“Do you know of any organizations I could join?” You had asked Suguru on one of your video call dinner dates — and he hummed thoughtfully as he picked up soba noodles between his chopsticks, “I just feel like I need something to fill my time,”

“The semester hasn’t even started and you’re already thinking about other things to do?” He raises an eyebrow, and you suppress a giggle at the sight of a bit of the soup that remained on the side of his chin. The very same you wished that you could thumb away for him, “my favorite student is as ambitious as always,”

“Your girlfriend is even more so,” you roll your eyes, as you gesture to your own face to signal, and he wipes his, “c’mon, I know my favorite professor must have something to recommend. I know how he looooves to give me suggestions,”

And he snorts, setting his chopsticks down on his bowl as he finishes his meal, “Then I suggest you think about joining the student government — they have a specific section for graduate students and professors, it would be a good opportunity for you to branch out, and put the philosophy department’s brightest on the map,”

Your lips curl at the compliment, “you think I’m the brightest?”

“I was talking about myself,” and you roll your eyes, as he smirks at you, as he picks up his phone and his dishes to clean up, “I think it would be perfect. Why don’t you speak to Yaga about it? He was trying to goad me into recommending some students,”

“So this really is self-serving, huh?” the water of the sink runs in the background, as you do the same, placing your dishes in the sink — tomorrow’s problem — as you washed your hands, “what would I even know about student government anyway?”

“Philosophy has a lot to do with governance, you know that — Cicero, Plato, Aquinas, Machiavelli—“

“Saving the most benevolent philosopher for last,” and you can hear him chuckle, as the water squeaks shut, and he picks up his phone, a smile playing on his lips, “do you think I could help?”

“I think you can do anything, sweetheart, except get a 100% in my class,” and you gape at him, as he laughs, and your heart aches for that sound, more than you thought was possible, “you should do it, what’s stopping you?”

And you bite your lip — yes, you wanted to be busier, but you didn’t want to be too busy for this. To spend time with Suguru — no matter how little it was. But you knew it would be good for you — for both of you. The last thing you wanted was to be needy — even if this week was proving that you were needier than you thought you were.

“Nothing I guess,” you sigh, as you make your way to your bedroom, “I’ll email Professor Yaga in the morning,”

“Good,” Suguru is sat on his bed as well now, his phone propped up, “and your boyfriend has another suggestion,” and you raise an eyebrow, “I suggest my favorite student brings my favorite t-shirt with them when they come to visit me,”

You gasp in mock shock, “You gave this shirt to me,”

“No, I asked you where it was and you said you packed it already, but I see you pilfered it away when I wasn’t looking,” he tilts his head, “now take it off,”

“Professor, that’s not a proper way for a department head to speak to a student,” you still let the shirt ride up as you lean back against your pillows, “have you not gotten your ethics training yet about appropriate behavior?”

“That’s interesting, you didn’t seem to mind last night when you asked me to send you a very improper picture of my lower half fresh out of the shower,” and you can’t help the giggle that escapes your lips, but your expression grows more serious.

“So it’s all about quid pro quo, Professor?” you sigh exaggeratedly, before pulling the shirt off, “I’ll take it off, but how about if you let me keep it, I’ll give you something else?”

God, you know that look in his eye, and you just wished he could do what he wanted — his fingers would find your waist and your back, pulling you quick and eager into his lap — his hard-on pressing through the thin material of his sweatpants he wore around the apartment.

“And what would that be?” And the shirt finally up and over, a soft gasp leaving his lips at the sight of your bare body, only your shorts left on. You smile.

“Me, of course,” and he’s adjusting his phone, face up, a small groan leaving his lips, “sir?”

“Is that all you’re offering, sweetheart?” and you hear the slight shuffle of fabric, “because that shirt is quite special to me,”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugs at your lips as you see him come back into focus with his phone in hand, his eyes drifting from your eyes to your chest and back, “Is it?”

“If you remove your clothes, I’ll forgive this small transgression,” and his other hand is out of sight, no doubt stroking himself, though you were no better, fingers toying with your cunt through your drenched panties.

“I think that price might be too high, Professor— you might have to give me something in return,” you smile, toying with the elastic of your shorts, and he bites his lip, gaze heavy even through the screen of your phone.

“And what do you want, princess?”

“I thought it was obvious,” as you slip off your shorts, propping up your phone on the pillow designated usually for him, nothing else underneath, “I want you.”

“Fuck,” he’s hissing, as you can hear the distinct sound of the squelch of his hand running up and down his cock, “sweetheart, do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

And your fingers are teasing your wet folds, imagining it was his own, his thick fingers sinking into one by one, he’d fill you so much better than you do — “show me, Suguru,” He does, flipping the camera to show his erection — flushed red and pretty — beads of pre-cum dripping from the tip, “all this just for me?” And your fingers push past your entrance, a gasp leaving your lips, “my fingers aren’t enough for me, Sugu—“

“show me now, let me tell you how to fuck yourself,” and you’re nodding, hand shaking as you flip the camera around to show your fingers notched inside, gleaming with your pre, dripping down your knuckles, “move,” and you do, slowly at first, and his hand moves too, starting to fuck his fist, “faster, curl your fingers just like I would,” and you do, a whine leaving your lips, “good girl,” he grunts.

The sounds of both of your pants and moans fill your ears, your eyes fluttering open to watch him touch himself, “Tease the tip for me, baby,” you murmur, fucking yourself deeper, when you see him thumb his slit, “wish I could taste you, suck you off, until you’re cumming down my—“

“Princess—“ you know he’s close by the way his dick twitches in his fingers and the way his lips moan your name, “add another finger,” and you do — fuck, the stretch is nothing like his cock, but you can almost imagine it is, “I’m sure you’ve gotten tight without me to fuck you — have you been touching yourself when I’m not around?” You bite your lip, your hesitation was all the answer he needed, “what do you think about?”

“Think about you,” you’re fucking close too, your fingers drenched in your own precum, “think about you coming back, about you kissing me at the door before pinning me against it,” And he’s groaning, the sounds of his hand pumping his cock ringing in your ears, you can’t hang on— “Suguru—please—“

“Be a good girl, and cum for me, sweetheart,” and you do, your toes curling and eyes squeezing shut as you do, phone slipping from your fingers, as you hear him groan too, the distinct sound of his cum splattering against his sheets.

You both come down from your highs, pulling your fingers from your cunt, grabbing tissues from your bedside table to wipe off your hands.

“Sugu?” You pick up your phone, and your boyfriend does the same, his cheeks flushed a gorgeous red, slightly more rumpled than before. And you can’t help but wish you could lean over and kiss him as you would, running your fingers through his hair, “I miss you,”

He sighs, gaze filled with affection and longing, “I miss you too, so much — you have no idea, princess,” as you tug his shirt back on, and you lie back, turning on your side, “just one more week,”

“I’m counting the days,” you murmur

“I’m counting the seconds,” and you snort, his lips curled in the damned smile that dragged you into his mess.

“Always have to one up me don’t you?” you bury your nose in the fabric of the shirt, the scent still very distinctly him.

“It is my job after all,” and you smile, “I love you,”

“I love you too,” but you know where this is going — as it always did almost every weekday night.

“I should hang up — I have to clean up and—“

“Review for meetings before bed, I know,” you finish and he raises an eyebrow, “very predictable, Professor Geto,”

“I’ll work on that — watch, I’ll surprise you,” and you chuckle, but you can’t help but frown, “what is it?” and you shake your head, “sweetheart,” and you know he won’t let it go.

“Just call me after you’re done, before bed, okay?” you sit up, glancing at your shorts on the floor, shifting uncomfortably with the wetness between your thighs, “I have to change my shorts and my sheets,”

“You’re welcome,” and you roll your eyes, his lips curled in a small smile reserved just for you, “love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” the call ends, and you’re left looking at your lock screen, a sigh caught in your throat.

Just one more week.

~~~

You stood before the door of one of the university's conference rooms — on one of the floors you did not tend to frequent. You spent most of your time in the classrooms if not the library — but you had attended a few meetings up here for one reason or another. But this was the first time you were walking into a room in quite a long time that you didn’t know anyone.

The student government met once before the semester started — a getting to know you forum for new members, such as yourself. There was no real formal election process for your position as senator — as long as other students were not vying for the position. And luckily for you, no other philosophy graduate student had chosen to volunteer for this entirely optional and unpaid position — a mystery really.

But the nerves still remained — though there was nothing more to do than enter. So you did — opening the door and finding the room filled with quite a few faces, but none of them familiar. You took a seat in a relatively empty section, but adjacent to enough faces, an empty seat on either side of you. The people around you chatted, while you pulled a notebook and pen out — your phone face down on the table, before you grab it and shoot Suguru a quick text.

You: in my first student government meeting! wish me luck!!

The meeting started without much formalities — a simple round table introduction that had you close to going last, but you had a chance to learn more about the other graduate students — most of them were students representing different departments, as you were, while there was also the traditional roles of president, vice president, secretary, and treasurer.

Eyes slid to you now, the president gesturing to you, her name escaping you, “And our newest member,”

They finally turned to you as you waved to the group, introducing yourself by name, “I’m a graduate student in the philosophy department, I’m a third year in the program, and I heard about the group from my department head—”

“Professor Geto?” one of the girls piped up, a literature graduate student who you didn’t recognize, but you were sure had taken Suguru’s class or at least had heard about him.

You shook your head, forcing a polite smile on your lips, “Professor Yaga actually told me about it,” she nods, and the president claps her hands together.

“Alright, this meeting is just to mingle and get to know each other, so please enjoy the refreshments and food provided,” and her eyes flicker down, “I think we’re only missing one person from the group—”

And the door bursts open, “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to run late—” a student with dark black hair that rested past his chin, bangs that framed his face on either side, and a small smile on his lips.

“Students keep you again, Yuta?” the president asks, and the dark haired boy known as Yuta slipped into the room, and took a seat beside you, sighing with a nod, as he set down his things, “good timing, you can help our newest member get acclimated,”

His eyes flicker to you, a smile pulling at his lips, “I’d be happy to,” and the group begins to get up to grab food and refreshments, as Yuta offers you his hand, “I’m Yuta Okkotsu, it’s nice to meet you.”

~~~~

“I hope you stay a part of the organization,” your eyes snap up at Yuta’s words — a curious look on his face, “you just seemed a little overwhelmed in there,” he tilts his head, as the two of you walk towards the metro station, “I may be wrong, but—”

“No I was,” for someone who looked so…innocent, he was really observant — his dark eyes felt like they could pierce right through you — even if he wouldn’t let them do so, “it was a lot — I’ve never been a part of a formal structure like this so it was just a lot—”

“It’s not as formal as you think — the proceedings do drag on but Maki, the president, tends to skip the formalities for the most part — she’s as bored of them as you are,” he chuckles, his fingers adjusting the strap of his backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, “usually the meetings don’t take very long — the events mostly take up our time when it comes to planning and organizing, but we hold a couple in conjunction with other organizations so that helps take the load off,” he explains, “we also organize issues important to the students to present to the president of the university quarterly, so we tend to have more meetings around that time, but we schedule the meetings after midterms, and after finals, so it doesn’t interfere with studying,” and then he catches himself, rubbing the back of his neck, “sorry, I’m going on and on, I should have just asked you if you had questions instead,”

“No, it was really helpful, Yuta,” you smile, “you’re very thorough,” and you don’t notice how a faint flush appears across his cheeks.

“I was new last year to the organization, and I remember being really overwhelmed — the professor I usually T.A. for roped me into it, he’s been away on research for the last year or so, but I stayed apart of it, because,” he shrugged, a smile on his lips, “I made some really good friends, and I hope you do too,”

You pull out your phone, no reply from Suguru, a small sigh on your lips — it’s fine, he’s busy, “Good friends are exactly what I need right now I think,” you check the time — Suguru wouldn’t be out of meetings for dinner at this rate, “do you want to grab dinner? I know a good ramen spot not far from here,”

“Sounds great,” and you led the way, not noticing the way Yuta’s eyes lingered on you a second too long, before he started to follow you, keeping pace beside you.

A week would pass by quick.

~~~

“What time will you be here?” Suguru asked, as you had him on your laptop this time on video call to watch you pack for the couple days you were spending with him before the semester started.

“I’m taking the 8:00 AM train, so I’ll get there probably by 10:15, so like two hours,” you weren’t sure how much to pack — you didn’t want to do a ton of laundry right before classes started, but you weren’t sure what you wanted to wear, “can you come here pack for me and go back?”

He snorts, “I’ll be right over, but at that point, wouldn’t it be more conducive for me to just stay with you?”

“But I want to come see you,” you pout, and he shrugs, as his eyes flicker up from his work.

“Then you’re going have to pack,” and you give a heavy sigh, continuing to choose what clothes to take. Your phone goes off and it’s a text from Yuta;

Yuta: hey! are you free next week to get dinner after the meeting? But this time I’m choosing the restaurant :)

You pick up your phone and text back: if it’s that chapati place you mentioned, I’m down — otherwise, you’ll have to deal with my severe disappointment

Yuta: I’ll have to leave you in suspense then

You snort, tossing your phone down, as your eyes go back to the screen to find Suguru smiling at you, “What?”

“Just enjoying the view,” and your cheeks burn, as you roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you mumble, rolling up a shirt in a hurry in a manner that definitely doesn’t qualify as folding, “what view? Me in an oversized t-shirt and shorts?”

“Exactly, with that pretty smile on your lips? Best thing on anytime,” he replies, and you bite back that same smile he complimented — but it’s the one reserved for him.

“You dork,” you mutter, “don’t say cute things or I’ll take the last train tonight to see you sooner,”

“I’d never make you do that so I’ll stop, for now,” he sighs, resting his cheek on his palm, his gaze growing a little more heady, “but tomorrow? I’ll be sure to tell you every single thing I love about you,”

And your lips curl, as you sigh, “I love you, but you should get some rest and I should finish packing and do the same,”

He gives a small smile, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll see you tomorrow, pretty girl,”

“I’ll be the one running into your arms,”

“Undoubtedly very late,”

“What was that? The sound of me missing my train tomorrow?” And he laughs, as you cross your arms, head held far too high, “that’s right. I’m holding myself hostage,”

“Well if you’re both hostage and hostage negotiator, tell both of you that I’ll bring you your favorite drink and buy you the breakfast of your choice,” and you peek at him, “coming around?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, you better have the ransom ready,” you let a smile escape your lips, “I love you,”

“I love you too, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and he hangs up after, and you sigh — tomorrow, finally.

You’ll see him again — you just hoped these few days didn’t pass by quickly.

~~~

Suguru waited at the station for you, your preferred hot beverage in hand, along with your requested pastry, both in hand as he waited. He opted to have his hair up in a bun due to the weather, a slight wind that carried the warning of fall in the crisp air that morning. But not whenever a snowstorm could have kept him from you that morning — it had been far too many days and nights spent without you by his side while spending them instead in stuffy rooms filled with colleagues and donors.

But now — and he sees people pour from the platform, a throng of harried travelers looking to get to their next destination, and among them all, he spots you — with the red suitcase you insisted made it easier to find amongst the others (it didn’t).

And he’s approaching you, slipping past others, and your eyes find his, your lips in a grin at the sight of him, as you find your way into his arms in a moment — suitcase clattering to the floor probably to the other travelers’ dismay. But he grabbed the handle and turned it upright in a moment, before his arm curled back around you.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he could have stood there forever — it had felt like forever since he had held you. His palm cupped your cheek, a thumb brushing back and forth against the length of it.

“You always know how to make an entrance sweetheart,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, as your fingers intertwine slowly but surely — as if they hadn’t parted, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way,”

“Uh-huh, don’t act like I forgot about the ransom I’m owed,” and he’s rolling his eyes, as he takes your luggage, wrapping an arm around you, “where is it?”

“In the car, how about we stop by my apartment, drop off your things, rest for a bit and then we can grab breakfast, as promised?” You smile, leaning into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“As long as it’s with you.”

~~~

“You made breakfast for me?” you gasp, as he had set the table with all the breakfast staples — “i thought we were going to ‘grab breakfast?’”

Suguru wipes his hands, as he brings over two pairs of clean chopsticks and sits beside you, “Well I thought you might be tired from the train ride so I thought we could have breakfast in and relax before going out before lunch,”

You take the chopsticks from him, fingers brushing as you do, leaning into his side, “It’s not fair being this perfect,” you murmur, your head against his shoulder, nose brushing against the soft fabric of his t-shirt and his skin, “when are you going to show me your flaws?”

“I think I’ve shown plenty of those the last few months with how things have went before we even began dating,” his lips brush against your forehead, “now I just want to treasure you — as much as I can,”

“Me too,” you lean up and meet his lips in a soft kiss that steals the logic from your head and the air from your lungs — and only leaves his touch behind, “Suguru…” and you want to admit to him how hard it’s been without him, how much harder it's been than what you expected — and how you worried about how hard would it get during the semester, when you both were busy? “I really missed you,” you bury your face in the crook of his neck, and you speak before he can get even a syllable out, “but I’m so glad we’re together now,”

He didn’t need to know — he would only feel bad. You could handle it—

“Me too,” his gaze is soft, as he pulls back to find your lips in another achingly gentle kiss.

For him.

~~~~

“This weekend is supposed to be for you, why are you shopping for me?” Suguru says yet again as you peruse another homegoods store, looking for something to decorate what you claimed were the “barren landscape” of his apartment, “we should do something you want to,”

“This is something I want to do,” as you inspect a globe with the same scrutiny you’d apply to a Aristotelian text — brow furrowed in thought as if this knick knack would give you some unintelligible insight on metaphysics (it did not), “you’re going to be living there for a while, I want you to have an apartment that doesn’t look like a serial killer resides there,”

“Why does it look like that?”

“Because it doesn’t look lived in,” you pick up a set of matching bookends, “these things make your house look lived in and feel welcoming,” and then you put the bookends down thoughtfully, “although we should start with more basic things, like frames and a full length mirror,”

“Well if I look like a serial killer, you don’t have to worry about anyone who comes over, because they will think I’m a murderer and feel very unwelcome,” and you laugh, intertwining your fingers with him, “I don’t care about other people — I care about you, so will this make you happy?”

You nod, “Because I want you to feel happy here, and that will make me happy,”

And he wants to say the only thing that would make him really happy would be if you lived here with him — to wake up beside you each morning, to come home to you each evening, and fall asleep beside you — but he couldn’t say that. It would almost be cruel to say something that wasn’t possible right now. But it would be — it would be possible.

“Okay, let’s find some things,” his arm curls around your waist, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “but remember, you do love this serial killer,”

“That’s only because I’m far too wonderful to murder,” and he rolls his eyes, as the two of you continue to shop, and he watches you continue to pick up and examine things — and he can’t help but wonder if this is what it would be like when you both shop for your place together. And he bites back a smile.

Only a few more months — and you could be together. It wasn’t forever.

That’s what he kept telling himself.

~~~~

“You said no work while I was here,” you were doing your best pout if only to change his mind, but he was unrelenting, his shoulders slumped in resignation, and his lips in a purse at his desk in his bedroom, “Suguruuuuu,” you’re officially whining, and you know it’s not his fault, but you have such little time with him, you don’t want a minute to be wasted.

“I know, sweetheart, but Yaga wants to speak about the semester starting, and I didn’t have much of a choice—” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in the crook of his neck, lips pressing kisses to the hollow of his throat, “princess—” he groans.

“I want to get in my cuddles before,” and your teeth graze the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and he sucks in air between his teeth, “how long is your meeting?”

“About half an hour,” and you hum, kissing his lips, languid and slow, your fingers threading his lengthy tresses, “it’s about to start—” and you’re kneeling down in front of his chair, as the video call starts to go off, as you look up at him between his knees, “sweetheart—” he’s hissing, wide eyes, as you undo his belt and the zipper of his pants.

“Then let’s not waste any time,” you grin, toying with the waistband of his boxers, “pick up the call.”

And you thought he would kick you out from underneath, nudging you away, and you would relent if he really didn’t want this — but he doesn’t. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing as he picks up the call, placing his earbuds in his ear.

“Hi Professor Yaga,” Suguru says, and you’re almost surprised how normal he sounds with you between his legs, but Yaga can’t see the way his muscles tense when your fingers spring his already half hard cock free, “Yes, we do have a couple things to cover. No, I don’t mind starting,”

Well if he insists, you’d start too.

Your fingers slowly stroke him to fully erect, pre-cum dripping over your fingers as you do, your eyes flickering up to see his expression still perfectly normally, the only telltale sign being the way his fingers white knuckled the armrest just out of sight. His cock was so unfairly pretty — a deep red at the tip with a slight curve that had your thighs pressing together at the thought of it sinking into you. Your lips press a kiss to the tip and he wavers mid sentence, as you smirk against his cock, as your mouth parts to suck him off.

And it seems like Yaga is the one speaking now, as he seemingly mutes himself, resting his chin against his hand, covering his mouth with his fingers, “Fuck, sweetheart,” he swears under his breath, as your tongue traces along one of his veins, sucking at the tip, as your fingers drift to toy with his balls.

The tip of your tongue flicks against his weeping slit, bobbing your head along the length, as a hand of his drifts down to thread in your locks, nails digging into your scalp.

“S-sorry, what was that?” he seemingly unmuted himself at a question, and you’re sucking even harder, nose brushing against his pubes as his tip brushes against your throat, “N-no, I’m fine, sorry, I’m not feeling well,”

You suck one more time, and he’s gone, as he barely can mutes himself and turns off his camera, groaning, as he spills down your throat, as you swallow it, his head thrown back against the headrest of his chair. And he’s panting, as he looks down at you, half lidded and lost in pleasure, gaze darkening as he watches you pull away, a string of spit and cum connecting you to his softening cock, as you adjust his boxers and clothes.

“What happened to Yaga?” and his glance tells you he certainly does not care — chest heaving, as he runs his fingers through his hair.

“Disconnected after I went silent — I’ll tell him my internet went out,” and you’re slowly rising out from between his legs, and his fingers find your waist, tugging you close, “you really are a bad influence,” and his lips find yours, your fingers cupping his cheek.

“I told you I didn’t want to waste time,” you grin, and in one smooth motion, he’s dragging you into his bed, giggling leaving your lips as he showers you with kisses, “Suguru!” you yelp as you fall backwards into his plush bed, and he’s tugging off your shorts and panties with ease, folding your legs up, one of them brushing against his shoulder, as he kisses your inner thigh, a smile against your heated skin.

“My turn.”

~~~~

“How did this week go so quickly?” you sigh, burying your face in his chest on Friday night, knowing you have to get on a train tomorrow morning, “it’s not fair, it’s not enough time,” you murmur, tracing circles on his skin, “and now I don’t get to see you for a month,”

“I know, I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “but it will pass by quick — you’ll be busy with classes and I’ll be busy with work — it won’t be as bad as we think,” And you don’t want to admit your fears to him — it would make it all too real, as if they would emerge from the syllables your lips spoke into a new reality before you — and you couldn’t take that risk, no matter how illogical it was.

“I know, I just can’t imagine spending this much time apart,” you glance at him, “don’t know what I did without you before, I don’t even remember what I spent my time doing,”

“Revising the essays I made you write?” and you pinch his cheek, and he’s laughing, “sorry, couldn’t resist making that joke,”

“Yeah, I recall you couldn’t resist me either,” and his fingers drag lazily over your cheek, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“Well, who really could resist you?” he sighs, content seemingly in just the act of touching you, “I tried and failed — and I am a master at resisting temptation,”

“A paragon of morality truly,” and he snorts, as you kiss his neck sweetly, ghosting over the places you had left marks, “though there was definitely nothing moral about what we just did,”

Your lips find his again, a lazy kiss that grows slowly with more heat the more your lips meet again and again and again — until he’s parting, “It’s just a month,” he says as if he can sense your anxiety, “I’ll come see you, I promise,”

“So if you don’t come, I can summon Immanuel Kant to scold you for not fulfilling your promise?” and he laughs.

“A scolding from you would be far more effective, but Kant is able to come if he can make it — death’s a worse commute than to Tokyo,”

“Who says?” you mumble, pressing your forehead to his, “you’ll take me to the station?”

“Of course,” and you have only one request.

“Don’t come inside ok?” his brow furrows, but you softly smooth it with the back of your knuckles, “Otherwise, I’ll end up crying — and I rather not subject you or the passengers near me to that,” and he chuckles, a frown still on his lips.

“Are you sure?”

It wasn’t just the crying — you knew if he walked you to your train, you’d want to make him come with you or let yourself stay — and you couldn’t do that, not to either of you. This was temporary — it wouldn’t be forever—

“I’m sure.” you kiss his lips again, rolling over so you were on top, your bodies brushing against each other with the familiar heat you’d miss when you were back home again.

—so why did it feel like forever?

~~~

“You promised me a better meal and this place nearly burned my taste buds off,” you grumble, as the two of you stand outside the restaurant, rain pounding against the awning as it starts to come down, the spicy food from the chapati place doing little to keep you warm now against the frigid wind of the autumn carrying the promise of being drenched with it.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Yuta chuckles, holding a hand out for the rain, “now at least the spice will help on the way home,”

“The only good thing about this place is that it's close to my apartment. I have a ton of work to do already — and it’s only the first week of classes,” you sigh, pulling out your umbrella, and glancing at him, hands still empty and unmoving. You hold up your umbrella, waving it, “Did you not bring one?” as you pull out your phone to check the weather reports.

“I didn’t know there was rain in the report for today,” he sighs, waving you off, “go ahead, I’ll wait for it to let up or find a convenience store nearby— I just need to make it back to the station—”

“Trains are down because of the storm,” you raise an eyebrow, as you glance at him, “come on, you can stay at my place,”

He’s shaking his head, holding his hands up, “No, I don’t want to—”

You tilt your head, glancing around at the clearing street and the distant rumble of thunder, “So are you going to camp out here outside this restaurant for the night or?” and he’s chewing his lip, as you chuckle, “it’s not far, we can share the umbrella, and hopefully we won’t get completely soaked,”

“Well, we’re not completely soaked,” you close the door behind you both, dripping water onto your floor, as you sigh, “hold on I’ll grab towels,” and you do, coming back quickly so you both can dry off.

And you notice the damage done to his clothes are far worse than yours, completely soaked through, the towel doing little to help aside from stopping the water from forming a larger puddle near your entryway.

“You held the umbrella mostly to my side, didn’t you?” And he pauses, his hesitation the answer you needed, as you sigh — “you’re more of a martyr than you need to be,”

“Well, I want to help my friends,” he gives a small smile.

“Even at the detriment of yourself?” And he shrugs.

“I can handle it,” and you shake your head, as you head to your closet pull out a fresh towel and clothes — but not your own.

“Go change,” and he glances at the clothes, hesitates, but takes them, as he frowns, “it’s fine, Yuta, go shower and change,” you show him where the bathroom is, and how to turn on the water.

You head to your bedroom to change and dry off, grabbing a fresh t-shirt and shorts — chewing on your lips — you had to give Yuta some of Suguru’s clothes you had stolen — your clothes wouldn’t exactly fit him properly. But you pouted, now you couldn’t sleep in Suguru’s shirt tonight, and you sighed, it was just as well — you had to wash the shirt so now it didn’t smell like him now.

You come out into the living room, hopping onto your couch and flipping on the TV, looking for something to watch. And then you hear the bathroom door, glancing behind you, “Done?”

“Yeah, thank you again for this,” he shifts in place, steam escaping from the bathroom behind him, his bangs still a little damp and cheeks flushed with a tinge of pink along his cheekbones, “what are you doing?”

“Just looking for something to watch,” and he comes over, sitting on the other side of the couch, “do you have any preference?”

He shakes his head, “No, not really,” and you choose a random movie to put on, a cheesy rom-com that had just come out on a streaming service, “is that what you like to watch?”

You shrug, running your fingers through your hair, “I like watching bad movies — it’s something I do usually while I do my work — the genius is, I don’t have to pay attention to follow the storyline,” and your eyes still on the TV, you don’t notice how his eyes linger on your face, a smile pulling on his lips, “now look at this, it’s the classic ‘guy likes girl, but girl is too dense to notice,” you shake your head, “does that even happen in real life?”

And Yuta parts his lips to reply when your phone rings, and you grab your phone — a video call — Suguru’s name flashing on your screen, and you can’t bite back the smile on your lips, “Hold on, I have to take this — just make yourself comfortable, I’ll be in the bedroom,”

You head into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you, as you pick up the call, “Hey stranger,” you smile as his face comes into view, glasses perched on his nose, as he grins back at you, “I miss you,”

“I miss you too,” he rests his face against his hand, “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk much — there have been a lot of issues popping up because its the first week — a lot of department requests from professors and students alike,”

“Mr. Bigshot Department Head has forgotten about his girlfriend, huh?” you mock pout, and he shakes his head, a longing gaze that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

“I could never forget you — how can I when all I dream about is you?” and you bite your lip, cheeks burning, “did I make you smile?”

“Shut up,” and he laughs, and then you hear a noise from the living room, a clatter that catches your attention.

“What was that?”

You wave him off, “It was just my friend, he’s staying over because of the rain — he’s in the living room,”

And he pauses for a moment, expression unreadable, “Which friend?”

“His name is Yuta — I met him during my first student government meeting — he’s kind of showing me the ropes,” and he nods, his silence palpable, gaze downwards and then it dawns on you, “Are you jealous?”

And his eyes flicker up, “Sweetheart—”

“Oh my god you are, that’s so cute,” you smile, as you delight in the slight dusting of pink that settles over his cheeks — he’s far too pretty for his own good, and your voice softens, “you have nothing to worry about, Suguru — I love you, no one else can even compete,”

He sighs, and you wish you could kiss him, “I know, I know — I’m just,” his brow furrows, his lips stuck in a frown, “I just miss you,”

“Then come over,” you tease, and he gives a small smile.

“You have company,” he reminds you, and you sigh, glancing at the door, “you should go back,”

“I’ll work on inventing an instant teleportation device,” a forced laugh leaves his lips, “Suguru, are you sure—”

He shakes his head, “I’m fine, really, just call me before bed if you have time okay?”

“Yeah of course, I love you,” a genuine smile gracing his lips.

“I love you too,” and you hang up, heading back out to find Yuta watching TV, “sorry about that,”

“It’s fine, is everything okay?” he glances at you, tilting his head, “nothing wrong?”

You shake your head, sitting down beside him, grabbing a cushion to place in your arms, “It was just my boyfriend — he usually calls me around this time,”

Yuta gives a slight nod, “Oh, is he away this weekend?”

“No, we’re long distance — he lives in Kyoto,” you explain, sighing, leaning back on the couch, “that’s why I took the call, otherwise, I would have called whoever back,”

“You don’t have to do that — you should be allowed to do whatever you need to. It’s your home,” and you smile, shaking your head before you toss the pillow at him, “w-what?”

“You’re important too, Yuta — you’re my friend and a guest — I’m not going to just leave you out here by yourself without saying anything,” you hold your hand out, “can I have the remote?” And he passes it to you, fingers brushing, as you flip through more movies and TV, “are you tired at all?”

His gaze stays straight ahead, as he shakes his head, “No, not yet,” and you’re choosing a movie to watch, his fingers clasped over each other — the warmth of your touch still lingering.

And you had no idea that his heart was aching at the thought of you being taken — much like the very someone who had taken you.

~~~

“I understand, Suguru, really I do,” and you did — you always did — but this time, it was a little hard to swallow.

It had been weeks since the two of you had seen each other, not over a screen. It was already a month and half into the new semester — and each time he was supposed to visit you, something or another came up — a faculty event, a staff meeting, grading to do, and god knows what else.

And you could bear it the other times — it wasn’t his fault. He had work to do. He had things he had to take care of with little choice in the matter. And you couldn’t always come to Kyoto either — not with your program in full gear and events for the student government around the corner.

No it wasn’t his fault — but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt — especially with what he was missing.

“I really tried to get time off — and I probably still can make it, but I might run late—“ Suguru’s sighing on the phone, and you know his brow is knit together — mind desperately trying to grasp at a solution, as if he thought hard enough one would emerge that he hadn’t considered.

Your footsteps pause, as you bite back your own sigh, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s okay, really — we can celebrate my birthday the next time—“

“It’s not okay, sweetheart,” he cuts you off, “I’m really going to try to make it. I’ll get my work done, or put it off—“

“I don’t want you jeopardizing work—“

“I’ll be fine, Princess — I want to be with you,” he says so softly that your refusals all but melt, “really, I do,”

You bite your lip, as you continue to make your way, weaving between the students herding towards their next classes, “Okay I just don’t want you stressing out or worrying—“

“I’ll be fine, just, make any plans you want to, okay? I don’t know what time I’ll get there on Saturday, but I’ll be there, okay?”

“You really don’t—“ you’re outside the room for your meeting, leaning against the wall.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, and your lips curl, fully submitting to his whims.

“You really don’t — know what time you’re getting here?” You nailed that — apparently not by his chuckle over the line, as you hear the tapping of his laptop as he checks train times.

He pauses, a rustling of papers, and a sigh, “I’m not sure, but once I’m on my way, I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Okay, that’s fine,” you give a half hearted smile despite the fact no one would see it, “I’m outside my student government meeting, but I’ll talk to you tonight?”

“Of course, good luck with your meeting, and I’ll call you around 8:00 PM?” And the two of you hang up and you’re left with disappointment hanging mid air — like a mystery waiting to be solved, wondering if you’ll be satisfied or saddened.

“What’s wrong?” your gaze snaps up to find Yuta, who offers a small smile, “are you disappointed that our meeting never starts on time? Because you should give up on that now,” you roll your eyes, as he holds the door open for you, and you step past him.

“It’s nothing,” you set your things down, sitting, as he takes his own seat beside you.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Yuta tilts his head, leaning on his arm, a hint of concern across his features in his slightly furrowed brow and pursed lips, “you don’t have to talk about it — but if you want to, I’m here,”

You lean back in your chair, “It’s just my boyfriend — he’s been really busy with work so we haven’t been able to see each other, and now…” your gaze fixes itself to the table in front of you, taking in the faint scratches on the laminate wood, a sigh caught in the back of your throat, “he’s not sure if he’ll make it this weekend for my birthday, he said he would try his best,” and you shake your head, “and I know it’s a little…childish, but—”

“It’s not childish,” he gently cuts you off, “it’s understandable to want to spend your birthday with the person you love,” he leans forward to meet your eyes, “how about this? We can hang out on your birthday until your boyfriend comes down, because I’m sure he will,”

“How do you know?” and other people begin to file into the room, as he offers you a small smile.

“Who would ever keep you waiting?”

~~~~

“You don’t usually call at this time,” you yawn, rolling over in bed, as you hear Suguru rustle on the other end too — it was already late and you had already buried yourself under your comforter, scrolling on your phone before bed (even though you knew very well that you shouldn’t).

“Sorry did I wake you, sweetheart?” and you hum.

“What do I get if you did?” he laughs, his voice making your heart flutter in two seconds flat, “my sleep comes at a very high price, Professor,”

“Oh I know, I’ve paid that price several times, and you have willingly given it to me as well,” your lips curling, you knew he was lying on his back as he always did before bed, arm under his head as he looked up at his ceiling, “what’s the price this time?”

“Video call me,” and he does in an instant, his face popping up on your screen, lips quirked upwards at the sight of your face, glasses perched on his nose.

“Such an easy price this time,” and you yawn, turning over in bed onto your side, hiding your pout in your pillow — god, you wished he was beside you right now.

“The late hour’s making me soft,” you say, a strand of black falling in front of his face, and you only wish you could reach over and run your fingers through his silky strands, “did you need something?”

“I need someone,” and you snort.

“Well, you have me, congratulations,” you turn over onto your back, “now what do you plan to do with me?”

He smiles that same smile that had stolen your heart from the start, “Treasure you? Kiss you? Love you?” and your lips curl again, “apparently get a poodle and a dozen cats with you,”

“That’s a guarantee,” and he smiles.

“If it will make you happy, then yes it is,” you purse your lips, “what?”

“What’s gotten into you?” And his eyes seem to flicker elsewhere for a moment, “Suguru?”

His lips form a full smile, “Happy birthday, princess,” and you blink, glancing at the clock and realizing it was midnight now, “each and every day with you in my life has been the happiest I have ever been and ever hoped to be. I spent my life searching for the meaning of life — but I didn’t find it, until I met you,” his voice is soft as tears burn at the corner of your eyes, “I don’t know what it is that I’m owed — but I don’t know what I did to deserve you,”

“I love you,” you whisper, “I wish I could hold you,” your fingers caress the screen, as if your touch could teach through it, and he presses a kiss to his hand.

“I love you too — and I promise I’ll hold you soon,” he lays back on his bed, “you’ll be sick of me soon enough,”

“Never,” you settle onto your pillow, “will you stay on the phone with me until I fall asleep?”

He only smiles, “Anything for you.”

~~~

Anything but being able to be here by lunch or dinner at this rate. You checked your phone — only to find his last message — “I’m almost done. I’ll let you know when I leave for the station,”

But it had been over two hours and there had been no update — even after you had texted him twice to ask where he was. You were caught between worry and disappointment — anxiety pricking at your skin, enough to annoy but not enough to pierce through to full panic. And disappointment felt like a weight that hovered above your heart, close enough to feel, but not enough to hit yet.

You didn’t want to feel this. It wasn’t his fault. You knew that he was trying — and you didn’t resent him in the least for it. But that didn’t mean you wanted him here any less — especially after it had been almost two months without seeing each other.

And a knock at your door made your eyes snap over, as you tripped over yourself to get to the door, “Who is it?”

“It’s me—“ but it wasn’t Suguru — it was Yuta. And you opened the door, a small smile on your lips, as Yuta stood in a black sweater tucked into dark gray jeans, and a deep maroon jacket pulled over it, “happy birthday,”

“Oh, thanks—“ and you blink, “oh my god, we had plans I’m sorry — I forgot,” you groan, and he leans sideways to take a look at your apartment, spotting the blanket on your couch and a pillow.

“Did I interrupt your date with your couch?” you roll your eyes.

“You did actually, it was a good one too—“ he cuts you off with a look, “I don’t know if I really want to go out. I was thinking I’d just—“

“What? Sit here and become one with your couch?” he raises an eyebrow.

You pout, “Yuta, I don’t know. I think I rather stay home—“

And that’s what you had done all day — Suguru had checked in here and there — trying desperately to finish up work to make it for some part of your birthday but hadn’t checked in for two hours now. You were sure he was going to be on his way soon — but that didn’t make waiting any less depressing. Your phone even had sighed at you as you checked your messages for the millionth time to find no new ones — low battery life only taunting you in return.

“That’s what you’ve done all day — I’m sure your boyfriend would want you to go out and have fun—“ he crosses his arms in front of your doorway, “come on, we can just go watch a movie, no big deal — we can have some fun and kill a few hours, okay?”

And you stare at your phone again, before locking it — “let’s go,”

~~~~

Finally, Suguru sat down right as the train began to roll forward — he had barely made it. The meetings stacked up the day before had put far behind on his grading — he nearly couldn’t make it.

Not if he hadn’t stayed up until 3:00 AM.

He checked his phone — he should make it by 5:00 PM, which should leave plenty of time for dinner and he checked his bag for your gift — it was just what you wanted — a necklace you had pointed out to him, a dragon with multi-colored gems. He laid against the seat, his forehead leaning against the cool glass.

God, he missed you.

It had been too long. Since he had even seen your face not through his phone screen and heard your voice whisper in his ear not through his cellphone. But that’s all he saw and heard of you lately.

He didn’t know the department would be this much of a mess when he took over. The last department head was truly enjoying his retirement months before it began. It was enough he had his department head duties but to teach two classes on top of that was enough for work to pile up until it was untenable. And he was unavailable.

How many times had he fallen asleep on the phone with you? How many times had he canceled plans to come see you? How many times had he missed dates?

And how many more would there be?

He knew you said everything was fine, he knew you understood his circumstance, he knew it wouldn’t be forever — but still — he wrung his fingers in his lap — why did it feel like it already had been forever? Since he had seen you smile, seen you laugh, held your hand, kissed your lips — it felt as if you were disappearing from his grasp.

But he wouldn’t let it happen — he couldn’t.

~~~

“Please turn your cellphone off and place it in these bags before entering the movie,” the ticket attendant told you and Yuta as he handed you both your tickets for something called, Human Earthworm 4, handing you both phone pouches.

You knit your brow together, “But—”

“This is an early screening of the movie, so the staff has been told that all persons seeing this movie today must lock their phones in these pouches before entering the theater,” the attendant explains, gesturing to the cardboard cutout of the movie with a sign that said ‘early screening’ in bold letters, “otherwise you could exchange your tickets for a different movie,” you purse your lips — you had been looking forward to seeing this movie, especially early. And Yuta had even bought the tickets ahead of time after hearing you talk about it at one of the student government meetings.

Yuta’s eyes slide to you, “We can see another—”

“It’s fine,” you shake your head, giving a small smile, “Let me just send a quick text,” you step away for a moment, texting Suguru — I’m going into a movie, I have to turn off my phone. Let me know when you’re on the train.

You lock your phone with a sigh, placing it in the bag — either way, he hadn’t texted, so you were sure he wasn’t on the train yet. And you weren’t sure if he would even make it. It was fine — you glanced at Yuta, walking over to the movie theater — it really was.

Because it wouldn’t be forever.

~~~~

The screech of the train jerks Suguru awake, his eyes burning, as he glances out the window — the sun beginning to give up the sky already, starting its descent. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand as he checks the time — fuck, it had been an hour already. He leans back, glancing through his notifications and he sees a text from you.

Fuck, he had forgotten to respond to your messages earlier. He was a mess trying to get to the station, a flurry of papers, caffeine, and adrenaline — and he had spotted your messages before he left the office, only to make a mental note to reply once he was on the train. Where that note had been left in the recesses of his mind he could only guess.

He types: I’m so sorry, sweetheart — in my rush to get here, I didn’t let you know — I’m on the train already—

And then he pauses, he could surprise you — at your apartment. You’d be home after about an hour it seemed by the time he got to your place — it was perfect. He could pick up your cake (the one he had pre-ordered) and set everything up just in time — and then he could take you out for the dinner he had promised you.

He deletes the text, rewriting it — I’m so sorry sweetheart. I just finished work. I should be there by 7:00 PM. I love you. I’ll see you soon, birthday girl.

He sends the message, a smile on his lips — maybe there was something special he could do today, as he watches the train continue on its way.

He only hoped it would work out in his favor.

~~~

“It was perfect — the metaphor? Did you not see the metaphor?” Yuta nodding along to your rant as the two of you make it back to your apartment, “I know it seems like a dumb movie but if you read between the lines—” and you glance at Yuta, who continues to nod, and you stare, “you hated the movie, didn’t you?”

“No, no, I didn’t—” and then you raise an eyebrow, “it was really bad — have you seen good movies before?”

You laugh, shaking your head, “There’s no accounting for taste,”

“Clearly,” he replies, and you push him playfully, crossing your arms, as he grins back at you, “well, I’m glad you enjoyed it, that’s the important part,”

“And you got to bully me about my movie taste so that’s a lovely end to the evening,” he snorts, as the two of you make it outside your apartment door, “thanks for dragging me out — it was really nice,” you dig in your bag for your keys, “it was fun,”

“I’m glad I could help — I hope I made your day a little better,”

“You already do that by just being you, Yuta,” you pull your keys out, your phone slipping out with it — “shoot,” you kneel down and Yuta does too, fingers brushing as you pick it up — as your phone springs back to life, “shit, I guess i forgot to turn it back on,” as you rise, beginning to unlock your door as your texts start to come through — and you blink, right as you turn the knob, slowly reading the first message as you open the door only spotting Suguru’s back through the crack in the door.

Fuck. And you quickly shut the door.

“You okay?” Your eyes flicker up, forcing a small smile, as Yuta tilts his head.

“Yeah, sorry — my boyfriend is inside I think,” your mind in a dizzying panic, “I should go talk to him, alone,” you shift from foot to foot, looking incredibly awkward — but it seems to work, as Yuta nods.

“Right, of course, I”ll go,” he bites his lip, “let me know if you need anything ok?” And he’s gone, as you turn back around, taking a beat, before you open the door.

“Surprise?” you say, and Suguru is holding a cake with lit candles, lights dimmed, a small smile on his lips.

“I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he frowns at the expression on your face, “what’s—” and you shake your head, walking over.

“We’ll talk about that later,” you stand in front of him and your cake, “All I want to focus on is you and my cake,” and your lips curl, “and I believe I’m owed a song?”

“Happy birthday to you,” he sings softly, jawline illuminated by the low light of the candle, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my dear sweetheart,” and you bite back a grin, “Happy birthday to you,” he holds the cake up a little higher, “make a wish,”

You hum, “I don’t know what to wish for,” you blow out your candles, before taking the cake from his hands and placing it down before slipping into his arms, “I have everything I want right here.”

~~~

Suguru had almost gotten it right. Almost.

“Yuta almost saw you earlier,” you admit, “he didn’t, I realized before and made an excuse but,” you sigh, as the two of you sit on the couch, your fork toying with your slice of cake, “it was close,”

Close. Close to revealing your relationship. Lose to jeopardizing your future. Close to ruining your friendship. It was far too close — or was he far too close to you?

His brow knit together, “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have let myself in and I should have texted earlier—“

“It’s not your fault, Suguru, it’s fine,” you offer a smile, “I don’t even mind if Yuta knows — he’s a good friend,”

“But still—“ you drag a finger through frosting and place a dollop on his nose, “sweetheart—“

“Let’s not focus on that right now. This is the first time I got to see you in weeks,” you lean over and lick the frosting from the tip of his nose, a warmth spreading across his face from your touch, “I want to enjoy the rest of my birthday with my boyfriend, okay?”

But he still couldn’t bring himself to pull away — not now.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips — it had been far too long since he had felt the soft press of your lips against his own. He could taste the frosting, the sickly sweetness didn’t begin to compare to your taste, and how much he had ached for it.

But it also didn’t stop him from dragging a finger dipped in frosting across your cheek.

“Suguru!” You gape at him, looking utterly too adorable with your pout and the frosting across your cheek, “on my birthday too?”

“Well, you’re so sweet, I wanted to see if it was possible for you to be even sweeter,” and he leans over licking the frosting from your cheek, “looks like it’s not possible—“ and you swallow his sentence with a kiss, as your plate and fork clatter as you set it down on your coffee table, climbing into his lap, your knees on either side, “our reservation — we’ll be late,” even so his hands drag down to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“I think I want dessert first,” you murmur, before finding his lips in a kiss again.

It’s hours later, and you’re fast asleep beside him, your face buried against the crook of his neck, as Suguru runs his fingers through your hair. But he can’t sleep. Not when he keeps thinking about what you said.

You didn’t deserve this. To spend days waiting for your boyfriend to be free, to spend your time wondering when he would be able to call you, to spend your time stressed out at the idea of getting caught. A relationship should be easier, it should be fun — but you haven’t had either since he had to move.

His fingers brushes against the curve of your cheek and then tracing the chain of the necklace, thumbing the dragon charm. He loves you — he loves you, but was it enough when you deserved so much more? How many more things would he miss because of work? How many more things would you hide because you didn’t want him to feel guilty? How many more times would he let you?

He had felt you slipping from his fingers these last few weeks — he presses a kiss to your forehead — but he had never considered whether he should let you go.

Until now.

~~~

Can we call tonight? I miss you.

Suguru glances at his phone, students already filed in and sitting, the quiet chatter before class began. It had been like this for a week. He locked his phone, tucking it away in his pockets.

“If you all will sit and settle down, we’ll begin today’s lecture,” he says to the class, “we’re going to continue our discussion from last class on Scanlon — we’ll start with any questions left from our conversation,”

Several hands fly up, and he chooses one to speak, “I had a question,”

He blinks, spotting you amongst his students, “What are you—“

“Professor, you haven’t let me ask my question,” you pout, as you lean against the desk, arms crossed, “I need to understand the material to pass, don’t I?”

All replies get stuck in his throat — as words fail him, as they always did with you. He’s only able to nod. And you smile, lips curling wide.

“Scanlon posits the question “what do we owe to each other?’ But there is no one answer — we are meant to figure that on our own,” you lean back in your chair, “and I believe I’m owed at least a text back,”

The students’ quiet murmurings and piercing stares drawing heat up his neck, and you were the one who lit the match, flames licking at your heels.

“Sweetheart—“

“Do you get to call me that after how you’ve treated me?” you scoff, as you slide from your chair onto your feet, “no visit in weeks, barely any phone calls, and once we even got on the phone, you would fall asleep. Have you asked how I’ve been? How have I dealt with all of this? Do you even know how my semester is going?”

His mouth is a desert, and his words have all but deserted him — as he fumbles for any syllables he could grasp onto, but finds none. Because he has no excuses to be made.

You walk down the stairs of the lecture hall, as the slow steps you take ring in his ears, “do you know what I’m risking? My reputation, my career, my future — for what? For you? I know my answer to what I want in life. I know my answer is you — can you say the same?”

And the class is gone — and it’s only the two of you.

“I’d do anything for you, I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to. I—“ his voice breaks, and your hand finds his cheek, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“Except let me go, apparently.”

RING. RING. RING.

His eyes flutter open, a breath caught in his throat, as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, before reaching blindly for his phone. He glanced at the screen now, turning off the alarm, spotting a text from you at the top.

Morning Sugu — I miss you <3, can we call tonight?

And he stares at your message before locking his screen and placing his phone down and turning around.

He needed to talk to you.

~~~~

“You’ve checked your phone like for the millionth and one time,” your eyes find Yuta’s as the two of you continue to put up flyers for the student government hosted dinner later in the week, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” and he stares at you, “what?” And then you sigh, “my boyfriend — it just feels like he’s been avoiding me, and I don’t know why,”

“Have you asked him why?” He holds a flier and tapes it a bulletin board outside, and you shake your head, “maybe you should try,”

“I want to, I just never get a chance to — he’s been so busy with work and I haven’t—“ and you sigh — it had been over a week since you and Suguru had even spoken on the phone, much less even video called, “I feel like something’s wrong — something is bothering him,” your voice falters, as you swallow your emotions, a sigh on your lips, “I don’t know,”

Yuta takes a pause, stealing a glance at you, before he turns to look, “You’ll only know if you ask — and the longer you wait, the harder it will be to be honest,” he glances away, “trust me,”

You crumple the flier in your hand, squeezing, “I’m just scared of the answer,” you admit. It had been so difficult to get to this point — tears roll down your cheeks — to see Suguru slip away because of this would be too much.

“I know,” Yuta says softly, as he gently places his hand on your shoulder, “but you still need it regardless,”

And then you hear a voice call your name, and you wipe your tears hurriedly as Yuta pulls his hand away, your gaze snapping over to see Professor Yaga and—

Suguru?

~~~

“Look who’s here for a meeting,” Yaga says, clapping a hand to Suguru’s shoulder, “did you hear that Professor Geto had become department head of the Kyoto sister university?”

And Suguru knew you very well had — but you hadn’t heard he’d come here for a meeting. To be fair, he didn’t know until this morning — but to be even more fair, he had plenty of time to tell you. But he didn’t — because he was hoping he wouldn’t see you, not like this.

“I did,” you force a smile, “it’s good to see you, Professor Geto, how have you been?”

You’re a natural at acting as if nothing is the matter — but he’s become a master at seeing right through it. He spotted the way your fingers wiped away your tears, your red rimmed eyes, and the plastered on smile that was nearly pulling into a frown. He resisted the urge to purse his lips — he had wondered for a split second what had made you cry? Until he saw the flicker of a glare in your gaze, and he knew he was the reason.

And it was yet another reason he needed to end this.

And this — Suguru’s eyes flicker between you and your friend — was the friend he assumed was Yuta, his brow knit in confusion, “I’ve been well — it’s good to see you, I hope the semester has gone well for you?”

You shrug, your expression unreadable, “Well enough, you know how the semester goes — it’s very busy around this time. Easy for things to slip through the cracks,” and he forces his gaze to not waver.

“Very true, it’s important to keep on top of things,”

“Especially the important things,” you give both him and Professor Yaga a stiff smile, “It’s good to see you both, but we have more flyers to hang up for the event coming up later this week,” you take Yuta’s hand, “if you’ll excuse us,” and the two of you disappear off around the corner.

“It was good to see her, wasn’t it?” Professor Yaga says, a smile on his lips, “she’s come a long way after your class — she was already an excellent student, but now, I see even brighter things on her horizon,” as he continues to walk down the hallway in the opposite direction, and Suguru spares a single glance over his shoulder, before pulling out his phone and texting you:

Can we talk later? I’ll let you know where.

“It was.”

~~~~

“Old habits die hard?” you sat on Suguru’s old desk as he walked in, your arms crossed in front of you. And Suguru tilts his head, closing the door behind him.

“Did something happen in this room?” and you roll your eyes, as he steps forward, “ah, yes, you’re referring to your grades right?”

“Yes, my grades — I’m still upset about that 99,” but the playfulness all but dies on your lips as he draws close, your eyes unable to meet his gaze, as if you would see some truth you weren’t ready to uncover, “Suguru, what’s going on?”

“Sweetheart—”

“You’ve been distant since my birthday, avoiding calling me, you barely text me — and today, you didn’t even tell me you were in Tokyo,” your voice breaks — even if you had thought what you wanted to say to him a million times today — it didn’t make it any easier, “are you upset with me?”

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he’s shaking his head, as he cups your cheeks, “you didn’t do anything except be completely wonderful,” he swallows, voice catching, as he seems to struggle with his words, “and that’s why I have to let you go,”

The sentence repeats in your mind over and over — and you still can’t make sense of it. No, no, it didn’t make sense. Why would he want to break up?

One word was all you could manage to respond with — “What?”

“Sweetheart, you deserve someone who can be there for you, someone who will be there with you when you need them, who will call you, prioritize you, give you all of their energy — and with this distance—”

“We can make it work—” and you know you’re crying now, tears rolling down his knuckles, filling the chasm he’s making between the two of you.

He’s running his fingers through his hair, “You’re making this work — I’m trying too but I haven’t been able to visit you, I haven’t been able to see you or talk to you properly in weeks—”

“It’s not forever, it won’t be like this. I’m almost done with my degree, I can move down to Kyoto—”

“And I don’t want you to limit your options because of me and my career,” he cuts you off gently, as his thumb rubs back and forth, wiping your tears away, “you have such a wonderful future ahead of you — whether you decide to pursue a Ph.D. or a lecturer position or whatever else — I want you to make that decision without my presence being a factor—”

“But—” and he’s pressing his lips to you softly, it’s gentle and sweet — his hands holding you as if you would break apart in his fingers before him, as his lips finally part yours “Suguru, I know what I’m doing—”

“I know, but so do I,” he murmurs, as he begins to step away from you, his warmth leaving your body, “if it’s easier for you to hate me, hate me — if it’s easier to be indifferent, be indifferent — I just can’t hold you back, sweetheart. I can’t do that to you — whether it’s professionally or personally,”

“Suguru, you’re not letting me have a say in this,” and he takes your hands, lacing your fingers together, “I want this, I know it’s been hard, but don’t you want this too?”

“I do — I love you, but that’s why I can’t do that to you. I want you to be happy—”

“Even if it comes at the cost of your own happiness?” you scoff, “Are you subscribing to utilitarianism? Are you okay being a happiness pump?” Your fingers try to find purchase on his cheek, but he pulls away, hands falling away from yours.

“I am, if it means you’re happy, then I am,” Suguru whispers, glancing away from him, “it’s not worth the risk,”

Your words are quiet, as you swallow your tears, and you force your voice to be steady, “You’re making this about me — when it’s about you too,” you brush past him, “I didn’t expect you to be a coward, Suguru, but I suppose, I got the answer I deserve.”

And the door shuts behind you, tears burning as you walk off — and you know that he wouldn’t follow.

But you still hoped he would.

~~~

Suguru stands by the window, watching students file in and out of the building.

It was the right thing to do. That’s what he kept telling himself — over and over and over. But if it was so right, then why did he feel wrong? Wrong for breaking your heart. Wrong for letting you wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He spent his time debating amongst others what right and wrong really was, but he always knew there would never be an answer.

And then he spots you leaving the building, before you bump into someone who stops you, your head down, but it doesn’t work, as the person pulls you into a hug. And he knew who it was — it was that student from earlier — Yuta. He had seen the way he looked at you — the same softness that Suguru had recognized because he saw it in himself.

He knew you deserved better, just because you were his answer —- he watched you sink into Yuta’s arms — doesn’t mean he was yours.

✧ a/n: ahhh the anticipated fourth part!! there’s gonna be one more part of the main series and then it’s onto extra credit fics :). Don’t worry it will be a happy ending!! I promise!

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy , @difficultdomains , @diogodxlot t, @that-goth-bisexual , @dazailover1900 0, @aliyalala , @ashhlsstuff , @blue041803 , @mwtsxri , @bblgumfairy , @sukunasleftkneecap , @xo-evangeline , @fiannee , @teatreeoilll , @chalametet , @ryukaver , @d1gitalbathh , @saga3ious , @seventhcinema , @satosugucide , @your-l0nely-star , @sokkasmoon , @deegausserr , @hyookka , @oggsyy , @littlebitb , @higuchislut , @ti-mame , @itoshisins , @cerene-dipity , @onionsoop , @sinlillith , @izzythenaive , @lalacute03 , @rxndou , @c-themoon , @xxrag-d0llxx , @hqtoge , @sugarxlumps , @hopeluna , @actualdeemon , @enchantedpendant , @serendididy , @soulstealercat , @neuviloved , @simply-a-s1mp , @satorusmochis , @maddietries ,

[jiminomenon]

assistant! reader ignoring model! karina after a fight

pairing: model! karina x female assistant! reader

word count: 942

summary: after a heated argument, y/n had enough of jimin’s antics and decided to ignore her completely. at first, jimin didn’t care—or at least, that’s what she told herself. but as the silence stretched on, frustration turned into something she didn’t want to acknowledge. jimin never apologized—she never had to. but for y/n? she just might make an exception.

from my series: the devil wears prada

jimin had never been good at saying sorry.

in fact, she rarely ever had to. apologies were for people who made mistakes, and as far as she was concerned, she was never wrong. people always bent to her will, never the other way around.

but this? this was unbearable.

it all started earlier that day, when jimin, in all her bratty, self-important glory, had snapped at y/n in front of an entire room of people.

the day had been chaotic—photoshoots, fittings, meetings with designers—and jimin had been running on nothing but black coffee, four hours of sleep, and sheer irritation.

y/n, ever the responsible assistant, had tried to remind her of a scheduling conflict, something about overlapping appointments and the need to reschedule one of them. but jimin, already overwhelmed and not in the mood to be nagged, had brushed her off.

no—brushed off was too soft. she had outright snapped.

“oh my god, y/n, just shut up for a second and let me think!”

the room had gone silent.

the stylists, the makeup artists, even the photographer—everyone had turned their heads, the tension so thick it was suffocating. jimin, in her frustration, hadn’t thought much of it at the time. she had simply turned back to her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the outfit she was wearing like nothing had happened.

but y/n’s expression had flickered, lips pressed together as she inhaled slowly through her nose. she hadn’t said a word in response. instead, she had simply nodded, composed and professional as ever, before quietly stepping away.

jimin should have known then.

should have known that y/n was really mad.

and now, hours later, as they sat in jimin’s penthouse, jimin was suffering the consequences.

y/n was ignoring her.

not in the petty, passive-aggressive way that most people did, where they sighed dramatically and stomped around to make a point. no, y/n was doing it with precision. calculated indifference.

she still did her job—setting down jimin’s evening tea, organizing her schedule, responding to emails. but she did it all without a single glance in jimin’s direction.

no sarcastic remarks, no witty comebacks, not even an exasperated “jimin, please.”

just silence.

jimin hated it.

she was used to being the center of attention, used to people doting on her, catering to her every whim. even when she and y/n did fight, it never lasted long because, inevitably, jimin would do something to annoy her into speaking again.

but this? this was like being invisible.

and jimin hated being invisible.

finally, she snapped.

“are you seriously still mad?” jimin demanded from her spot on the couch.

silence.

y/n didn’t even look up from her tablet, fingers tapping away like jimin hadn’t spoken at all.

jimin narrowed her eyes. “y/n.”

nothing.

she huffed, draping herself over the armrest dramatically. “come on,” she groaned. “you’re acting like a child.”

y/n continued scrolling.

jimin was starting to lose patience.

“y/n, i swear, if you keep this up, i’ll—”

y/n suddenly stood, grabbing the empty teacup from the coffee table before turning towards the kitchen, still not acknowledging jimin.

jimin scoffed. “oh my god. you do realize you work for me, right? ignoring me isn’t exactly part of your job description.”

silence.

y/n rinsed the cup under the sink.

jimin followed her, stopping at the counter.

“so that’s it? you’re just going to act like i don’t exist?” jimin pressed, crossing her arms.

y/n continued drying the cup, her expression unreadable.

jimin tapped her fingers against the counter impatiently. “y/n.”

y/n set the cup down.

“y/n,” jimin repeated, her voice a little softer this time.

nothing.

the frustration bubbling inside her started shifting into something else. something… unfamiliar.

jimin sighed, shifting her weight. “look.” she rubbed her arm, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically awkward. she averted her eyes before forcing herself to meet y/n’s gaze.

“i guess—i might’ve—been a little…” she grimaced, struggling to force the words out. “harsh earlier.”

y/n raised an eyebrow.

jimin exhaled sharply. “ugh, fine,” she relented. “i was rude. there. i said it.”

y/n remained unimpressed.

jimin clenched her jaw. “what more do you want?”

y/n sighed, finally setting the towel down. “i just don’t get why you have to be like that sometimes.”

jimin frowned. “like what?”

“mean,” y/n deadpanned. “you treat people like they’re disposable when you’re stressed out. i get that you have a lot on your plate, but i’m not your punching bag, jimin.”

jimin opened her mouth to argue but promptly shut it when she realized… y/n wasn’t wrong.

and that was a hard pill to swallow.

she scowled, rubbing the back of her neck. “i didn’t mean to snap at you.”

y/n tilted her head. “then why did you?”

jimin hesitated.

she wasn’t used to admitting when she was wrong.

she wasn’t used to… this.

after a long pause, she sighed heavily. “because i was frustrated,” she muttered.

y/n blinked, taken aback by the rare moment of honesty.

jimin clicked her tongue. “but i shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

y/n crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “you think?”

jimin rolled her eyes. “don’t push it.”

y/n smirked. “i dunno, i think i should push it. this is the first time i’ve seen you be considerate.”

jimin scoffed. “shut up.”

y/n laughed, shaking her head before stepping away.

jimin watched her go, feeling… lighter.

she still hated apologizing.

she still hated admitting she was wrong.

but for y/n?

she supposed she could make an exception.

[evanpetersmybf]

Be mine?

Tate Langdon x female!reader

Summary: Meeting you was his destiny. He had to make you his so he could feel alive... It was meant to be.

Genre: Smut.

Word count: 3,172

Warnings: Virgin and inexperienced reader, mentions of bullying, self-harm (just once and is nothing detailed), obsessive and stalkish behavior, swearing, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p in v and cumshot.

A/N: English isn't my first language and this is my first time writing smut, so sorry if it sucks or if I have grammatical mistakes or something TT. Btw, also sorry if Tate's out of character. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ཐི ♡ ཋྀ

Tate had another bad day. It was the usual. Bullying, failed tests, the teacher humiliating him after he couldn’t solve a simple equation on the chalkboard, his mother scolding him. Nothing seemed new, and it seemed that nothing wasn’t going to change at any point.

He needed something, a reason to live, something to make him feel alive. Because he was dead. Dead in life, which in his own opinion, was even worse than being a rotten corpse.

He headed to the music store after secretly stealing some of his mom’s money, just a few bucks; the enough amount to buy a vinyl or some CD’s. Tate was sort of a music elitist, always believing that the artists nowadays just created pure, hollow, and trashy songs. In fact, he didn’t believe those could even be considered music.

Walking around the nearly empty store, rummaging through the shelves filled with Nirvana vinyl’s, someone bumped into him.

“Oh, sorry.” You spoke, after accidentally taking too many steps back and bumping into Tate’s behinds.

He frowned, somewhat annoyed at you for disturbing his moment of peace. The blonde turned around to look at who it was, scanning your body from head to toe, taking note of your appearance. Then, his dark eyes drifted to the sign that was on top the shelf, which indicated the musical genre of the records that were on that rack. Alternative pop. His gaze went to the album you were hugging to yourself.

“Cry Baby? What type of crap is that?”

“Huh, excuse me?”

“Never mind, you won’t understand.” Tate talked in such a volatile and rude manner, already feeling superior because of his likes.

You arched an eyebrow. What was his problem? You did nothing to him and yet he was here, judging your amazing music taste.

“Well, people’s free to like whatever they want to, hmm?”

“Uh, yeah, but what’s the point of that if everything is so generic?”

“Have you ever listened to Melanie Martinez at least once?”

He shook his head no, still scowling, now fidgeting with a ring that was on one of his fingers.

“Have you listened to Nirvana?”

“Just like… Two songs?”

“Don’t tell me. Smells Like Teen Spirit?”

“Guilty.”

Tate rolled his eyes. What was going on with this generation? What happened to good music, to the greatest artists? Why was everyone just listening to trash?

After sharing your names and a few more words, debating about who was right and who wasn’t, you placed one of your hands over his right shoulder, as an attempt to stop his rant of how superior he was. And indeed, it worked. The teen stopped venting and stared at you, all confused and a bit uncomfortable. You noticed it and quickly stepped back, apologizing for touching him without permission. He told you it was okay, that you just surprised him. But deep down, that simple yet complex touch meant a lot to Tate, even if it was absolutely nothing to you.

For the first time he felt something more than sorrow.

“So… What do you think of this? I’ll make you listen to some songs by Melanie and other artists, and I’ll listen to your beloved beautiful grunge music.” You said those last words in a mocking way.

Tate huffed, clearly offended by the way you referred to his taste. Nevertheless, in the end he agreed with you.

After paying the stuff you two picked, both of you went to Tate’s place. As you walked next to him, your fingers brushed his, making his cheeks turn a light shade of red and his heart flutter. He felt dizzy, not sure about what was going on.

In his house, he took you to his room. The boy didn’t want his mother to see you, otherwise she’d be too nosy and probably scare you and push you away from him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Get comfy.” He mused, extending his hand as if inviting you to take a seat wherever you feel to.

“Thanks.” You sat on the floor, using one of the sides of the bed as a support for your back. He did the same and sat right next to you.

He was nervous. So damn nervous and excited. He brought a pretty chick to his place. The Tate Langdon, the outcast, the bullied, that Tate Langdon was in the same room with a girl? He couldn’t believe it.

“Ladies first.” Tate pointed the record-player with his thumb, and you obeyed, placing the CD in it. The music started playing.

“We could’ve used Spotify, y’know?”

“Nah, I don’t like it. I prefer the old school.”

‘Cry Baby’ was the first track that was listened to.

He squinted his eyes and rubbed his chin, analyzing the sounds, the melody, the harmony and of course the lyrics.

Although it wasn’t his style, you definitely were. The way you looked, talked, walked. How you stood up for your beliefs and didn’t allow him to step on you (even if you just discussed about music). It was new for him. He craved your independence. He craved you.

That was the very moment when he realized that you were the thing he was looking for all his life. You were the one who was meant to be his, he was meant to be yours. It was destiny. Tate truly believed it was some kind of divine prophecy, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He was so immersed in his mind that he didn’t pay attention to the song anymore. He was solely focused on you, remembering how warm and kind your touch was, how sweet your voice was. ‘Oh, she’s mine’, he thought.

“So… That was the first track. Its name’s Cry Baby. Did you like it?”

Tate snapped out of it and bit his bottom lip. He didn’t listen to your question.

“I’m sorry, what did you?—”

“Did you like the song?”

“Ah, yeah yeah. It’s quite… Innovative. I’ve never heard something like that.”

You smiled and clapped your hands. “Of course! She’s such a genius. Let’s finish the album, hm?”

He just nodded, as a little smirk appeared on his face.

The days flew by, and Tate asked you out on many friendly dates. Or at least that’s what you thought because you were so oblivious at the fact that he had a fat crush on you.

With every hang out, you noticed that Tate was lonely. Like, really lonely. Maybe that’s why he was so clingy with you.

He told you about his family, about how annoying Constance was, about his siblings and about how his father left him behind. He also mentioned the bullying he suffered and almost talked about the self-harm but stopped himself.

Both of you grew closer, as his obsession.

Since you went to a different school, he would skip class and infiltrate your campus just to see you. He couldn’t stand being away from you. And if he did, his mind was full of you, thinking of you all day, unable to focus on his homework and tests. Tate didn’t care anymore if he failed subjects, as long as you were next to him, he was happy and alive.

The void he once felt, was now fulfilled with your mere presence. You could step on him, and he would thank you. In his twisted little mind, you were free to have everything of him.

He was willing to do anything to keep you by his side. The thought of losing was so terrifying that it would make him throw up.

Tate learned every single detail about you. Your mannerisms, your likes and dislikes, your dreams, and your fears. Everything. And that includes your schedule since you wake up, and since you go to sleep.

That was his definition of love. No one ever taught him about how to express it, and he ended up being the way he was with you.

One day he invited you over to his place. The Langdon's house was empty, and he was going to take advantage of it. No doubt.

“Your mom isn’t home?” You questioned as you followed him behind, going upstairs straight to his bedroom. Little did you know this wasn’t going to be another afternoon of playing board games while listening to some music.

“Nah, dunno where she went but she won’t be back any time soon.” He shrugged and let you inside of his private space,

You went to lay down on bed, feeling relief in your aching back after a long day at school. “Damn, I need some rest!”

Tate chuckled softly and sat on the edge, looking at you as you closed your eyes and tried to relax. He was focused on your steady and calm breathing, on how your breasts went up and down with every inhalation and exhalation. His eyes stared at your lips, at how kissable they looked. He felt a sudden desire, the intense urge to make you his. Feeling conflicted, he shook his head and tried to distract himself, pretending to ignore how aroused he was getting.

He wasn’t going to say it out loud, but of course he already had some wet dreams of you. He imagined you beneath him, your precious body shivering and responding to his touch, to his kisses. Your cunt wet and ready for him, just how he wanted to.

“Y/N…” Tate cooed, unable to hold back any longer.

“Yeah?” You opened one of your eyes and spotted him, sitting on the bed with his fists clenched over his thighs, while his breathing looked kinda rapid. “You ‘kay?”

“No.”

“Uh? What’s wrong?” You reincorporated and sat straight beside his warm figure. Your right hand touched his left, rubbing it up and down with your thumb.

Tate shoved you to the bed, pinning your arms above your head and holding them tight.

His breathing pattern was no longer normal. It was a heavy one.

His dark brown eyes locked with yours. Your orbs were wide, not understanding what the hell was going on. Or maybe you did but were in denial.

“Please. I want you.” He purred, seeing you with puppy eyes, the ones he knew you couldn’t resist.

“Hahah, you funny.”

He let out a frustrated whine, almost begging on his knees for you to get the hint.

“I’m not kidding. Pretty please. I need you.”

“Do you mean…?” You raised your head a few centimeters to look at his crotch in order to confirm your suspicions. Your cheeks had a cute blush as soon as you noticed Tate’s erection restrained by his jeans. It looked painful, and it actually was.

“Yes. I want to. Please, I truly need it. Please, please, please?” His voice was shaky and low, a needy desperate whisper. “Can I?”

This wasn’t what you expected for today. You saw Tate as a best friend, but you couldn’t deny he was handsome… And that he already provoked butterflies in your stomach before.

Hesitantly, you gave a shy nod with your head, giving him consent to continue. “But Tate… I’ve never done this before, I dunno what to do, I—” You trailed off, being cut off mid-sentence when Tate placed his lips over yours. The kiss was slow and tender, not rough at all. Your bottom lip was between his, as he nibbled it with extreme care to not hurt you.

After some seconds, he pulled apart and led his hand towards the side of your face, brushing some hairs away. “Don’t ya worry, princess. Leave it all to me, hm? I’ll be gentle. Unless you don’t want me to.” With that being said, he leaned into your neck, pressing his mouth on your sensitive flesh. He left sweet kisses, making you hum as you melted under him.

His lips continued to tease your skin, leaving some little bites between every kiss, trailing down to your collarbone. Tate stopped there and helped you get rid of your blouse, tossing it aside and continued his journey, this time kissing your sternum while his right hand cupped one of your breasts, kneading it gently over the fabric of your bra. He pulled down the straps and took off the piece of lingerie, setting your tits free.

The cold air hit you and your nipples perked up, looking ravishing and making him desire you even more.

He introduced one of the hardened buds into his warm mouth, sucking it greedily and making lewd wet sounds as he did so. His left rubbed the other nipple in circles, taking it with his thumb and index, pulling it and pinching it.

“Hmph… Huh…” You let out soft whimpers, slightly arching your back meanwhile he abused your breasts.

Tate stopped after some minutes, letting go of your nipple and looking at you, grabbing your chin and tilting your head to the side. He approached your ear and whispered, “You like this?”

“Yes…” You begged. Your voice was already ragged and shaky.

Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, rubbing them as a pathetic try to feel some relief. Tate realized it and spread your legs with one of his hands. He took his digits right to your clothed pussy, eagerly rubbing the spot where your clit was.

“Someone’s already wet? Cute.” He giggled and took off his striped sweater, throwing it away. He positioned himself between your limbs and pulled down your pants, mesmerized as he saw your damp panties. Tate continued rubbing your bundle of nerves over the fabric of your underwear, still fascinated at how humid you were.

This was the moment he had been waiting for the past weeks. He wasn’t going to need to jerk off to your photos anymore, because now he would be able to jerk off to your tits in person.

Tate removed the last barrier that was stopping him from touching your womanhood directly. He pulled them down to your ankles and you helped him to get rid of it by shaking your feet.

He got closer to your cunt and placed your legs over his shoulder, spreading your folds with two of his large digits, blowing some air at the sensitive meat. Finally, he started sucking on your swollen clitoris, enjoying the feeling of your dampness against his face.

“Mmh…” He moaned, still toying with the nub. You grabbed him by the hair, not thinking about what you were doing. You just let yourself go and pulled him closer to your pussy, wanting to feel more. Your body twitched, unconsciously bucking your hips against his mouth that was currently making slurping sounds.

His attention changed and was now on your slit, teasing just the entrance with his hot tongue, while his nose rubbed against your clit. He lapped your pretty cunt, savoring your juices as if they were a delicacy.

Looking at your adorable face contorting in pleasure, he introduced his ring finger into your wet, tight hole. It was a slow and kind movement because the last thing he wanted was to hurt you. He slipped it deeper, pumping it in and out with care, increasing speed after a few seconds once he saw you comfortable. “Tell me if it hurts…”

“Mhm… It feels nice. Huh…” Your melodic whimpers and moans were just too much for him. He could listen to you for the rest of his days and never get tired of you.

Without further ado, he introduced his middle finger, now finger-fucking you with two. Tate’s thumb was also working wonders on your lil’ bundle of nerves in circular motion.

She was clenching around Tate’s large fingers, that he curled inside of her, hitting the right spot to make you squirm and feel a new and foreign sensation in your lower belly.

“Fuck it, I can’t wait anymore.”

He undid his belt, unzipped his pants and pulled down his boxers, quickly getting rid of them and letting them fall to the wooden floor.

You just stared in awe; it was the first time you saw one in real life.

Tate grabbed his hardened cock and stroked it a few times on top of you, finding amusing your silly reaction. The reddish tip was glistening with pre-cum, which he used as lube. He spat at your pussy and rubbed his slick saliva with two digits, before finally thrusting his dick.

He did it slowly, beginning with the head. Eventually, he pushed his entire length, hitting your cervix and stretching you out for the first time.

“Fuck, you’re so tight!” Even if he was taking the lead, he was a whiny mess, vocal and loud.

He continued pounding into you, his gaze never leaving your face. Tate loved how you rolled your eyes to the back of your head and how your little mouth was letting out such nasty sounds.

The room was filled with slapping and wet sounds, created by his skin slapping against yours, his balls always hitting you with every stab. Again, he placed your legs on his wide shoulders to have a better angle and pump into you deeper than before.

His big veiny hands were roaming all over your body, specifically your breasts. Within minutes, he developed an addiction to them. Probably because of his mommy issues? He grabbed them roughly, tweaking both of your nipples as he fucked you mercilessly.

Tate lolled his head as he felt your hole gripping him tight. Very tight.

He increased the pace and moaned your name, begging you to squeeze him tighter.

“Oh, please, please, please!” The blonde kept whining. He left one of his hands taking care of your nipples, while the other went back to torture your clit. He stroked it in circles, and then up and down, applying the enough amount of pressure to make you beg for more.

“Tate, I feel like I’m—”

“It’s okay, let it go, mhm?”

You couldn’t hold yourself any longer and squirted all over him, coating his lower body with your warm fluids.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, gonna cum!” Tate pulled out from your cunt and pumped his cock with his hand finishing with a loud moan. His hot sticky white cum coated your breasts and abdomen, creating an incredible sight that he always imagined.

All spent, Tate threw himself next to you on the bed, pulling a blanket to cover both of you as he filled your pretty face in candy pecks.

“Did it hurt? First time usually does.” He looked at you, concerned for your wellbeing. “I was too rough?”

You laughed and shook your head no, caressing his messy locks with your fingers, tenderly scratching his scalp. “Don’t worry, I’m fine, really.”

Tate smiled at you and kissed you on the lips, “You’re so pretty, Y/N.”

You hugged him from behind, him being the little spoon this time. Your mind was going wild; you were still processing what happened and was about to drift to sleep when he whispered.

“Y/N…?”

“Mh, what is it, Tate?”

“I love you… Please be mine?”

[angelbarelywrites]

♡ slashers scenarios | first meeting

info;

♡ fandoms; The Boy, House of Wax, Halloween, Hannibal, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, slashers (general), DBD

♡ characters; Brahms Heelshire, Vincent Sinclair, Micheal Myers, Hannibal Lecter, Thomas Hewitt

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡ cw; mentions of blood/violence

The most random array of characters. All 5 are my bfs tho. Also this is written very very informally because it was originally just for myself lol.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Brahms Heelshire//

> approximateplotofthe movie. jpeg

> honestly you mind your own business once you realize it’s a doll but assume there’s cameras so mostly behave

> you find yourself naturally coddling his doll like a real child when you’re bored, speaking to him constantly

> even though you’re not doing much to upset him, weird things do start happening around the house

> he mostly wants attention

> you leave a note one day

> “dear brahm’s ghost; i’m sorry if i’m not doing a good job as a nanny. i’m really trying my best. I hope we can be friends”

> he scribbles a smiley face on it and you’re a little freaked out / excited

> when he finally shows himself you’re really stunned. but it makes more sense than a genuine ghost

> you’re in such shock that you just. keep going with the evening and make dinner.

> but even once you come to your senses, you end up more sad than scared

> “…they left you all alone. I’m so sorry.”

> he gives you puppy eyes

> “…I won’t do that to you. I promise. I’m staying.”

> he’s even more in love with you than he first thought. even if you’re going to make him shower six times before bed.

> to his chagrin you don’t help him bathe

> but you do kiss him goodnight

Vincent Sinclair//

> bo brings you to him

> at first he’s making some big deal, “special delivery” and all that

> you’re cute

> really cute

> and bo clearly knew you’re the kind of person vincent would like

> but he’s still got a job to do

> damn it

> “h-hey- wait- i can help you—?”

> that makes him hesitate

> “i’m an artist too. i can help with the sculptures. “

> …

>“i’ll be good. promise.”

> he didn’t need much more convincing than that

> bo is surprised he kept you but makes damn sure you’re not escaping

> but you don’t even try because you just feel so deeply for vincent, and he’s so gentle

> you weren’t lying about being an artist so you’re genuinely helpful

> he falls madly in love when you help him resculpt his mask

Micheal Myers //

> Meet because you wrote letters to him

> Not to interview him or as an obsessive fan

> At first out of curiosity, then as a sort of way to vent, because he never responds

> But as it turns out your letters are the only ones he keeps or even opens at this point

> So his psychologist wants you to meet him to see if you can get him to open up- of course there’s a cash incentive

> He doesn’t say a word from the other side of the glass.

> Obviously.

> But you treat it like a normal visit to a friend and just chat mindlessly a while

> And you’re so much tinier and cuter in person

> He wants to stab you so much

> But realizes that if he killed you, he might miss you

> Ew that’s a scary thought

> Still wants to make you scream tho uwu

> He escapes

> Because he’s Micheal Myers that’s what he does

> After his spree he finds himself in your house, bloodsoaked and honestly not all that sure what he’ll do when he sees you

> You don’t even scream, just give a tiny ‘eep’

> “…Micheal?”

> He regrips his knife so he can get it over with. You’ll just tattle

> “Oh gosh- you’re soaked from the rain. And all that blood-let’s get you a shower? I can get you some fresh clothes too,”

> He’s staring down at you in disbelief

> “…what? You thought I’d try and call the cops? I like talking to you.”

> There’s something very wrong with you

> It’s kind of hot

> He puts him knife away and follows you

Hannibal Lecter//

> you’re his patient lol

> at first he doesn’t have much interest in you outside of work

> but god, you’d be such a perfect subject to manipulate with that little authority figure problem you have

> and even though you’re young

> you do recognize some of the finer things in life

> mostly his artwork and cooking. you’re really good at inadvertently stroking his ego

> he starts diving into darker subjects in therapy

> you’re a bit of a morbid person under the sunshine-y exterior

> perfect

> he’s still chipping away at something big you’re keeping from him

> he could do some digging online and through your files but where’s the fun in that

> he gets you tipsy and then starts with the psycho babble

> you finally crack

> you killed some guy that was stalking you years ago

> god that’s hot

> you liked it, at least a little bit

> even hotter

> you licked the blood off your hands and it tasted good

> he’s in love ; good luck leaving

Thomas Hewitt //

> car trouble! it’s always car trouble

> honestly when you rock up to the gas station alone Luda Mae is thinking that it’s a shame the fridge at home is already full

> but you’re the sweetest little customer

> “your name is really pretty ma’am. ever since i was little i decided if i had a daughter, her name would be Audrey Mae”

> new plan, she’s playing matchmaker

> there’s just something about you that’s so gentle

> and mildly off-putting, like the rest of the family

> she brings you out to the farm to see if they have the car parts you need

> and to stay the night, if you really need to

> you run smack dab into Thomas in his old half mask walking in- even Luda expects you to recoil at the least

> instead you turn a bit pink

> “oh gosh- I’m so so sorry sir-“

> Thomas stares at you

> You just shyly introduce yourself, talking enough for both of you

> Luda Mae is already planning the wedding

> “That’s my youngest Tommy- why don’t you show em around? Alright baby?”

> Thomas is a bit hesitant but you’re so little and cute and smell so good—

> He’s already obsessed oops

[fanficlolsblog]

TASTE

back to my main masterlist

pairing: fem!reader x sabrina carpenter

summary: your favourite artist, sabrina carpenter asks you to be in her new music video, ‘taste’, which of course you couldn’t refuse…

warnings: none.

a/n: i posted this on wattpad to, i would appreciate it if you would go check it out :) loversxoxoxo.

It was an ordinary Wednesday when an email arrived that made my heart race with excitement. Sabrina Carpenter, one of my favorite artists, was reaching out to me. She wanted me to be in her new music video for ‘Taste.’ I could hardly believe it—I’d been a fan for years, and now I was being given a chance to work with her. I agreed without hesitation.

The day of the shoot arrived, and I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. Sabrina’s team met me at a chic studio, where the atmosphere was buzzing with creative energy. When Sabrina walked in, she looked even more stunning in person. Her smile was bright, and her energy was infectious.

“Hey there!” Sabrina greeted me warmly. “You must be the one I’ve been hearing so much about from my team! It’s lovely to meet you dear.” She takes out her hand for me to shake.

I tried to keep my composure but felt my cheeks flush. “Hi I’m Y/N. I’m so excited to be here. Thank you for inviting me.” I grab her hand, her hands are so soft.

Sabrina’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she shines her beautiful smile. “Of course! I have a feeling we’re going to make a great team.” She says as she shakes my hand and winks at me. My cheeks probably look so read right now… “Let’s go over the concept, shall we?”

We went through the details, and that’s when I learned about the kiss… it was part of a scene in the video where Sabrina and I were supposed to share a moment of connection. My stomach did a little flip at the news. The idea of kissing Sabrina Carpenter was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

As the scene approached, Sabrina came up to me with a playful glint in her eyes. “Ready for our big scene?” she asked, her voice low and teasing.

I nodded, trying to stay calm. “Um yeah, I think so.”

Sabrina stepped closer, her proximity sending butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “It’s just a kiss. Just trust me, okay?”

When the cameras started rolling, Sabrina and I were caught up in the intensity of the moment. We shared a tender, lingering kiss that felt both surreal and exhilarating. I grab ahold of her face pulling her closer. As we pulled away, I caught a glimpse of Sabrina’s warm smile and the way her eyes sparkled with genuine affection. “Wow…”

Sabrina giggles a bit as she lets go of my waist. Shit did i just say that out loud? “Was I that good darling?” I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out as Sabrina walks away from me to her team.

Once filming wrapped, Sabrina walked over to me, her demeanor relaxed and flirtatious. “You were amazing today. I really enjoyed working with you.”

I grinned, feeling a mix of elation and disbelief. “Thanks, Sabrina. It was incredible to be a part of this. It felt surreal,” I say as i slightly laugh. Sabrina grins at me, I swear i see her eyes glimmer again.

She leaned in slightly closer to my face, her voice playful. “You know, we should hang out sometime. I’d love to get to know you better outside of all this.”

My heart skipped a beat. “That would be… great.”

Sabrina reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. “How about you give me your number? I’ll text you so we can set something up.”

I quickly gave her my number, biting my bottom lip slightly trying to hide my excitement. “Here you go.”

Sabrina took the number with a smile. “Perfect. I’ll be in touch soon. It was lovely to meet you, Y/N.” She pulls me into a hug.

“You too,” I pull away as she starts to walk away. She turns around to give one last look back and glimmers her pearly white teeth one last time. I smile back to her as she fully turns around to continue walking.

As she walked away, I was left grinning from ear to ear. The day had been a whirlwind of emotions, from the thrill of the kiss to the unexpected invitation to hang out. I couldn’t wait to see what would come next.

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 5

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Words: 2066 Click here for Part 4

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

Lando stood in the lobby of the hotel checking his watch and rehearsing his lines mumbling to himself. A sleek black car parked outside was ready for their drive. Luckily he didn’t have to wait long before Y/N emerged. She looked stunning, even though she was only wearing some jeans and a semi-elegant black top but it complemented her complexion perfectly. Lando’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her. He approached with a warm, nervous smile.

“I’m sorry if I’m a bit underdressed,” she apologized with a low voice. “I didn’t expect you to ask me out, so I didn’t pack anything fancy.”

Lando’s smile widened and he shook his head gently. “You look gorgeous, Y/N. I’m just glad you agreed to going out with me.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, her cheeks flushing slightly after hearing the compliment. “You look great too.”

Lando stepped forward to open the car door for her and she slipped into the luxurious interior of the car. He quickly got in the driver’s seat and soon they were driving through the streets heading toward their destination.

The drive was filled with a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the soft music playing on the radio. Lando kept sneaking glances at Y/N, stealing moments to admire her profile and the way the city lights danced on her face. Y/N, for her part, seemed content, occasionally turning to him with a smile that made his heart race.

The restaurant’s terrace that Lando had reserved for their table overlooked the city, offering a breathtaking panorama of the city below. “This is beautiful,” she said and admired the view. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Lando said, his gaze lingering on her. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter arrived to take their drink orders and soon they talked about everything and nothing - shared memories, future dreams and light-hearted banter. Each moment seemed to draw them closer and Lando found himself more captivated by Y/N with every passing minute.

“Speaking of quirks,” Lando began at some point, leaning in slightly, “Years ago I tried to impress my team with a homemade dinner.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh really? How did that go?”

“Well,” Lando said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I thought I’d go all out and make a fancy pasta dish with some chocolate mousse for after but I got so carried away that I accidentally used salt instead of sugar in the dessert.”

Y/N chuckled, “That sounds like a disaster. How did they react?”

“They were polite at first,” Lando said, trying to keep a straight face. “But halfway through the meal one of the guys said, ‘Well, at least we know Lando can make us laugh.’”

Y/N laughed, imagining Lando in the kitchen with a confused look on his face. “Sounds like you’re quite the chef.”

“More like an accidental comedian,” Lando replied with a wink. “But if you ever want a taste test, just let me know. I promise to stick to the recipe.”

“Deal,” Y/N said with a smile. “And I’ll bring my own sugar, just in case.”

The moment was light-hearted and endearing and Y/N couldn’t help but feel even more charmed by Lando’s playful and self-deprecating humor. 

A little while later, while he was telling her about his early karting days, she took a moment to really look at Lando. She couldn’t help but think how he looked like he’d stepped out of a fairy tale. There was something almost magical about the way he carried himself. The sharp lines of his black pants served timeless elegance, while the white shirt accentuated his toned body. His hair was perfectly styled, every lock in place as if it had been sculpted by an artist.

He reminded her of a Disney prince, the comparison making her smile. He had that same kind of defined, classic appeal, a blend of charm and grace that seemed almost otherworldly and she was the lucky one to share this evening with him. 

What had started as a simple Meet & Greet for the sole purpose of making her son happy, had turned into something much more. She had come to the event knowing very little about Lando, only the little bits Noah got excited about and told her but he was a toddler, so how much could he really know? But now she was fascinated by who Lando was as a person.

She was surprised at how Lando’s passion, his down-to-earth nature and his genuine kindness had drawn her in so quickly. The more they talked, the more she found herself appreciating the real person behind the public persona. She was falling for more than just the image of the driver; she was falling for the person he was, the one with a great sense of humor, love and genuine care.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lando met her gaze and Y/N realized that this was more than just an ordinary night. It was a magical moment and Lando was indeed her very own prince charming, making the evening feel like something out of a storybook.

“I have to tell you,” Y/N began at some point, “this is actually the first date I’ve been on since before Noah was born. It’s been a while, but tonight feels... special.”

Lando looked at her with genuine surprise. “I can’t believe no one has asked you out,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing, anyone would be lucky to spend time with you.” He meant every word he said but soon noticed the change in her demeanor. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”

“Oh god, Lando no,” Y/N tried to calm him down immediately, then took a deep breath, her gaze momentarily drifting to the city. “There’s something I’d like to share with you, if that’s okay.”

Lando nodded encouragingly, sensing the gravity in her tone. “Of course. I’m here to listen.”

“Noah’s dad…” Y/N hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I already told you he left shortly after Noah was born, he was just two months old. It wasn’t easy and I’ve been doing everything I can to raise him on my own. I guess I’m just a bit unsure about opening up to someone new, especially with Noah involved.”

Lando’s heart ached as he listened to Y/N’s words. He could sense the insecurity and vulnerability in her voice and he wanted nothing more than to reassure her that he was genuinely interested and understanding.

“I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you,” Lando said softly. “I want you to know that I respect you immensely for how you’ve handled everything and for how much you care for him. The fact that you’re willing to open up and share this with me means a lot.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty but there was also hope. “It’s just that I’ve been so focused on protecting Noah and making sure he’s okay. I’d hate for him to get attached to someone else who’s going to leave and disappoint him.”

“I understand that completely but I want to be clear about how I feel. From the moment I met you and Noah I felt something really special. It’s not just about being interested, I’m here because I genuinely care and want to see where this can go.”

Y/N’s gaze softened and she took a small but relieved breath while Lando gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m serious about wanting to get to know you and Noah better. I understand that trust takes time and I’m more than willing to be patient and supportive. I genuinely believe there’s something here and I’d like to explore that with both of you.”

Just then he decided to share a small but - what he hoped - meaningful gesture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen to show Y/N. It showed the photo from when they first met at the Meet & Greet.

“This has been my phone background from the moment you two left that day,” Lando said, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I have been thinking about you nonstop since then.”

She looked at the photo, then back at Lando, her heart swelling and with slightly shaking hands she pulled out her own phone, showing it to the young man sitting across from her who got a perfect look at the exact same picture on her device. “Looks like great minds think alike,” she giggled softly.

Once they had finished their meal Lando led Y/N to the edge where they stood side by side taking in the stunning view. He turned to her, his eyes reflecting the city lights. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and soft.

“It is,” Y/N replied, her gaze fixed on the horizon before meeting his eyes. “Thank you for this night, Lando. It’s been absolutely amazing.”

Lando’s eyes were locked onto Y/N’s, his gaze intense and filled with an emotion that spoke volumes. The air between them was charged with a palpable energy. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

His eyes softened and he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away if she chose. Y/N’s own heart raced as she felt the pull of his presence and slowly but surely her eyes fluttered shut. She tilted her face upward, her lips parting in anticipation.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying. At first, it was a soft, lingering touch, a gentle exploration of what had been building between them. Lando’s lips were warm and reassuring against hers, his kiss a promise of all the words he hadn’t yet said.

Within seconds the kiss deepened, it became more urgent, more passionate. His hands moved to frame Y/N’s face, his fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. The intensity of the kiss conveyed everything they had both been feeling but couldn’t quite put into words. Y/N responded eagerly, her hands grasping the front of his shirt, drawing him even closer. The world around them seemed to disappear, leaving only the sensation of their lips moving together. 

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, both of them were breathless, their hearts racing from the intensity of the moment. Y/N opened her eyes slowly, meeting Lando’s gaze with a look of pure happiness and love.

“That was…” Y/N began, her voice trembling slightly and she was unable to put the buzzing feeling in her stomach into words.

Lando smiled, his eyes shining with the same emotion and a soft smile on his features. “I’ve been wanting to do this the whole weekend.”

They stayed there for a few more moments, simply holding each other and enjoying each other’s presence until Lando gently took Y/N’s hands in his, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“So,” he started with a grin, “when you tell Noah about our date, how do you think he’ll react? Will he be thrilled to know his mom’s got a new boyfriend or will he just want to know if I’m bringing him a toy car next time?”

Y/N laughed, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh, Noah’s definitely going to have a lot of questions, he’s been very curious about everything lately. I’m sure he’ll be excited but he might also want to know if you have any cool stories to share.”

“Well,” Lando chuckled, shaking his head, “I’ll have to make sure I have some good stories ready. Maybe I’ll even bring him a little something again next time. I have to make sure he still likes me.”

“You’re already his hero, so I don’t think you will have to worry about that,” Y/N replied smiling.

Lando’s gaze saddened slightly as he added, “I’m not looking forward to you two leaving tomorrow but I’ll be there to help you get to the airport. It’ll be nice to spend a bit more time with you before you two have to go.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Lando and we will find a way to make this work.”

_________

Click here for Part 6!

Tag: @barcelonaloverf1life @remmysthings @poppyflower-22 @vickykazuya @hadids-world @ririyulife @deafeningunknowntyrant @lexiecampos @littlegrapejuice @eloriis @yawn-zi @landossainz @taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @casuallyeating @dramallama9 @hc-dutch @alana4610

[pinkmoontaco]

It all started with a song || Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Producer-Idol Jihoon x Producer-Solo Idol Reader

Genre: Fluff, Idol romance

Summary: Jihoon, the reserved genius of SEVENTEEN, unexpectedly finds himself drawn to Y/N, a rising junior idol from HYBE, after collaborating on a duet. What starts as a professional partnership blossom into a heartfelt romance, captured in their respective songs

Author's note: This is my first time writing a story, and I truly appreciate you giving it a chance. Please forgive me if there are any mistakes—I’m still learning and growing as a writer. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and support my work. It means the world to me, and I hope you enjoy the journey I’ve created.

If you have any requests for any member or any other groups feel free to do so

Jihoon was preparing to release his solo album, which included a heartfelt duet about two lovers. After finishing his own parts, his next challenge was to find the perfect female lead for the song. With Bumzu’s help, he sifted through several demos of the female section.

After an exhaustive search, one demo finally stood out to him—it was exactly what he was looking for. When Bumzu visited him the next day, he asked, “Did any of the lyrics catch your attention?”

Jihoon nodded and showed him the demo.

“Oh, so you liked Y/N’s lyrics,” Bumzu said with a knowing smile. That’s when Jihoon learned that the lyrics had been written by Y/N, a junior solo idol from HYBE.

“You’ve never met her, have you?” Bumzu asked.

Jihoon shook his head. It was no surprise—everyone knew Jihoon wasn’t one to socialize much.

“I’ll bring her to the studio tomorrow,” Bumzu said confidently before heading out, leaving Jihoon to ponder the upcoming meeting.

The next day, Jihoon arrived at the studio earlier than usual, his mind a mix of anticipation and curiosity. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He knew Y/N by name, but meeting her in person would be different.

As he set up his equipment, the door swung open, and Bumzu walked in with a bright grin. Behind him was Y/N, her presence soft yet commanding. She wore a simple outfit, but her confidence and aura made it clear why she was a rising star.

“Jihoon, meet Y/N,” Bumzu introduced.

Jihoon stood, his usual calm demeanor masking his nerves. “Hi,” he greeted simply, bowing slightly.

“Hi! It’s so great to finally meet you Sunbae-nim" Y/N said with a warm smile. Her voice was light and melodic, just as he’d imagined. “I’ve heard so much about you and your music.”

“Likewise, but please don't call me sunbae-nim, you can call me by my name,” Jihoon replied, his words brief but sincere.

Bumzu clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. “Alright, let’s get to work! You two have a duet to perfect.”

Jihoon gestured toward the recording booth, silently inviting Y/N to take her place. As they started working through the song, Jihoon found himself impressed—not just by her vocal ability but by her understanding of the emotions behind the lyrics.

They went over the harmonies and phrasing, fine-tuning every detail. By the end of the session, Jihoon was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly everything had gone. Y/N wasn’t just talented; she was professional and insightful, bringing a depth to the song that exceeded his expectations.

“You’re really good,” Jihoon said as they wrapped up, his tone earnest.

Y/N beamed. “Thank you! Your composition is amazing—it makes it easy to connect with the song.”

For the first time in a while, Jihoon felt a genuine sense of excitement about the project. Maybe working with others wasn’t so bad after all.

After their first session, Jihoon couldn’t stop thinking about how seamlessly Y/N had brought the song to life. It was rare for him to feel this level of connection with another artist, especially so quickly.

The next day, Bumzu texted Jihoon. "How was it working with Y/N? She said she had a great time."

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before typing back. "She’s talented. The song’s coming together well."

Bumzu responded with a teasing emoji. "That’s high praise from you! Maybe you should tell her that in person."

Jihoon frowned slightly but didn’t reply. Compliments weren’t exactly his strong suit.

Their second studio session was scheduled later that week. Y/N arrived on time, as cheerful and prepared as before. Jihoon noticed how her energy seemed to brighten the room, even when she was just warming up.

“Good morning!” she greeted with a bright smile.

Jihoon nodded. “Morning. Ready to dive in?”

“Always,” she said confidently.

As they worked through the song again, Jihoon found himself more at ease. Y/N’s suggestions were thoughtful, and she wasn’t afraid to ask questions or offer input, which he appreciated. Somewhere in between harmonizing and tweaking lines, they started to find a rhythm—not just in the music, but in their conversations.

During a short break, Y/N leaned back in her chair. “You know, Jihoon, this is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever worked on. It feels so raw and real.”

Jihoon glanced at her, caught off guard by her sincerity. “Thanks. That means a lot,” he said quietly.

“Is it based on a personal experience?” she asked cautiously, as if afraid to overstep.

He hesitated for a moment before replying. “Kind of. It’s… inspired by the idea of love. Not necessarily mine, though.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to write about emotions from a distance.”

Jihoon nodded, appreciating her understanding. Their conversation drifted to other topics—music, inspirations, and even random stories about life as idols. For someone he’d only met recently, Y/N was surprisingly easy to talk to.

By the end of the session, the song was nearly complete. As they packed up, Y/N turned to Jihoon.

“I think this duet is going to be really special,” she said. “Thank you for letting me be part of it.”

Jihoon looked at her, feeling a rare warmth in her words. “You brought the song to life. I should be thanking you.”

Her eyes lit up at his unexpected praise. “Well, I guess we make a pretty good team,” she said with a grin.

Jihoon allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah, we do.”

As Y/N left the studio that day, Jihoon couldn’t help but think that meeting her had been one of the best things to happen during this project.

In the weeks that followed, Jihoon and Y/N spent more time together polishing their duet. Each session seemed to bring them closer, not just as collaborators but as individuals. Y/N’s infectious laughter and unfiltered enthusiasm often pulled Jihoon out of his shell, while Jihoon’s quiet determination and thoughtful approach inspired Y/N to push herself even further.

One day, as they wrapped up the final recording, Bumzu entered the studio with a wide grin. “So, how does it feel to be done?”

Y/N clapped her hands together excitedly. “It feels amazing! I can’t wait for people to hear it.”

Jihoon nodded in agreement, his usual stoicism giving way to a subtle but genuine smile. “It’s better than I imagined.”

Bumzu raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Wow, Jihoon actually giving compliments? I need to write this down.”

Y/N laughed. “He’s not that bad. He’s just… selective with his words.”

Jihoon shot her a mock glare, but there was no malice behind it. Instead, he found himself smiling along with her—a rare occurrence that didn’t go unnoticed by Bumzu.

As they packed up, Bumzu pulled Jihoon aside. “You know, you’ve changed a bit since working with her,” he said casually.

Jihoon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you seem… lighter. Happier, even,” Bumzu said with a knowing grin. “It’s a good look on you.”

Jihoon didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced over at Y/N, who was chatting animatedly with a staff member. There was something about her—something that made him feel less burdened, more open to the world around him.

The song’s release day arrived, and the response was overwhelming. Fans praised the emotional depth of the duet, calling it one of Jihoon’s best works yet. Many were also captivated by the chemistry between Jihoon and Y/N, evident not just in their vocals but in the behind-the-scenes clips shared online.

As they stood backstage during a live performance, Y/N turned to Jihoon. “Are you nervous?” she asked, noticing his unusually quiet demeanor.

“A little,” he admitted. “Not about the song, though. I just hope people feel what we tried to convey.”

Y/N placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “They will. This song has so much heart in it. You’ve poured yourself into it, and I’ve never been prouder to be part of something.”

Her words struck a chord with Jihoon. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone in his creative journey. “Thank you,” he said softly.

When they stepped on stage and began to sing, Jihoon realized something unexpected. The song, which he’d once viewed as merely a project, had become something far more personal. And in that moment, as their voices blended and the audience’s applause filled the air, Jihoon understood just how much Y/N had changed his perspective—not just on music, but on life itself.

After the performance, Y/N grinned at him. “See? We nailed it.”

Jihoon met her gaze, his expression warm. “We really did.”

And as they walked off stage together, Jihoon couldn’t help but think that this was only the beginning of a story far greater than either of them had anticipated.

In the days following the song's release, the hype only grew. The other members of SEVENTEEN were quick to congratulate Jihoon. Mingyu, with his ever-present energy, was the first to bring it up during one of their group practice sessions.

“Hyung! That duet is insane! Everyone’s talking about you and Y/N,” Mingyu said, clapping him on the back.

Joshua added with a smile, “Yeah, the fans are loving the chemistry. You two sounded amazing together.”

Jihoon felt a rare flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. “Thanks, guys. It was a lot of work, but she made it easier.”

“Oh-ho!” Seungkwan chimed in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hyung admitting someone made his life easier? This must be a first!”

The room erupted into laughter. Even Jeonghan, who always had a teasing comment up his sleeve, smirked. “So when do we get to meet this famous Y/N?”

Before Jihoon could respond, the studio door creaked open and in walked Bumzu—with Y/N beside him. The sudden appearance of their guest caught everyone’s attention.

“Speak of the devil!” Vernon said, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N waved nervously, a bit overwhelmed by being surrounded by the full force of SEVENTEEN. “Hi, everyone. It’s nice to finally meet all of you.”

Dino bounded over with enthusiasm. “You’re the one with that amazing voice! Your part in the song gave me chills.”

“Thanks!” Y/N said, her smile growing as she relaxed.

Hoshi, never one to miss a moment, stepped forward and grinned. “Are you ready to dance with us too? Because in SEVENTEEN, we don’t just sing—we dance.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a small smirk. “Don’t scare her off, Hoshi.”

Y/N laughed, feeling at ease now. “I’d love to try sometime, but I don’t think I could keep up with you guys. I’m more of a singer than a dancer.”

Jun nudged Jihoon playfully. “Looks like you’re not the only one who’s found a great collaborator.”

Over the next hour, SEVENTEEN welcomed Y/N into their world, joking and sharing stories. The room was filled with laughter, the group’s usual dynamic enriched by a new presence. Jihoon found himself observing the way Y/N blended in so effortlessly, as if she’d been part of their chaotic family all along.

As the evening went on, Minghao approached Jihoon with a knowing smile. “You look happy,” he said simply.

Jihoon glanced at Y/N, who was now in an animated conversation with DK and Woozi, sharing anecdotes about their vocal warm-ups. A small, content smile played on his lips. “I guess I am.”

A few weeks later, SEVENTEEN was preparing for a group livestream, and Y/N was invited to join as a surprise guest. Jihoon wasn’t thrilled about the idea at first—he preferred to keep things professional—but the rest of the members were insistent.

“Come on, Jihoon,” Seungkwan pleaded. “The fans already love you two together. This will be fun!”

“It’s a great way to promote the song even more,” Mingyu added. “Plus, we want to see how she handles being in one of our chaotic lives.”

Reluctantly, Jihoon agreed, and Y/N arrived at the dorm just as the livestream was about to begin.

“Is this what it’s like before you go live?” Y/N asked, watching the members scramble to adjust cameras, lights, and snacks.

“Always,” Jeonghan said with a smirk. “It’s controlled chaos.”

As the livestream began, fans flooded the chat with comments. The members introduced Y/N, and the reaction was overwhelmingly positive.

“Y/N’s here! OMG!”

“She and Jihoon look so good together!”

“The duet is my favorite song right now!”

Jihoon, who was reading the comments on his phone, shifted uncomfortably but managed a small smile. “The fans seem happy,” he said quietly to Y/N.

“They’re so sweet,” Y/N replied, her eyes scanning the messages.

The members took turns asking her questions, each one more playful than the last.

“Hoshi,” Y/N said, laughing, “why are you asking if I’d join the Performance Team? I just told you I’m not much of a dancer!”

“Because we can teach you,” Hoshi replied with a dramatic flourish.

DK chimed in, “Or you can join the Vocal Team! We need more people who can hit those high notes.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Minghao said. “You’re a solo artist. Stay in your lane before they rope you into our madness.”

The banter continued until Seungkwan leaned into the camera and asked the question everyone wanted to know.

“So, Y/N, how’s it working with Jihoon?”

The chat exploded with reactions.

Y/N glanced at Jihoon, who was clearly caught off guard but tried to mask it. She smiled. “Honestly? It’s been amazing. He’s a perfectionist, but in the best way. I’ve learned so much from him.”

Jihoon cleared his throat, his ears tinged pink. “She’s talented, so it wasn’t hard to work with her,” he said simply, earning exaggerated “oohs” from the members.

As the livestream continued, Y/N fit right in with SEVENTEEN’s dynamic, laughing and joking with them like she’d known them for years. Fans in the chat began calling her an “honorary 14th member,” a title that made her laugh but also secretly warmed Jihoon’s heart.

After the livestream ended, the members sprawled across the couch, tired but happy.

“You handled that like a pro,” Mingyu said, tossing a cushion at Y/N.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied, catching the cushion. “You guys are a lot of fun. I can see why your fans love you so much.”

As the group began to disperse, Jihoon found himself alone with Y/N for the first time that evening.

“You were great today,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Thanks. I was a little nervous, but you all made it easy,” Y/N said, leaning against the back of the couch. “Your members are like family, huh?”

Jihoon nodded. “They are. It’s chaotic, but it’s… home.”

Y/N smiled. “I can tell. You’re lucky to have that.”

There was a comfortable silence between them before Y/N added, “And thanks for letting me be part of all this. I didn’t expect to be welcomed so warmly.”

Jihoon met her gaze, his usual stoicism softening. “You’re part of it now. Whether you like it or not.”

Her laughter filled the room, light and genuine. “I think I like it.”

And for the first time in a long while, Jihoon felt like the walls he’d built around himself were no longer as important.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N continued to bond with SEVENTEEN. She found herself invited to more studio sessions, group meals, and even impromptu dance practices. Despite her initial hesitation about being in the spotlight alongside such a well-known group, their warmth made her feel at home.

Jihoon, on the other hand, started noticing the subtle ways Y/N was changing the dynamic around him. She wasn’t just a collaborator anymore; she was becoming a friend. Someone who could pull him out of his creative tunnel and remind him to enjoy the little moments.

One day, after a long recording session, the group decided to hang out at their dorm. Y/N hesitated when Seungkwan invited her along.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” she said.

“You? Intruding?” Seungkwan scoffed. “You’re practically one of us now. Come on!”

When they arrived at the dorm, chaos quickly ensued. Mingyu was in the kitchen, trying to cook something “special,” while Hoshi and Dino argued over which choreography to show Y/N.

Jihoon sat on the couch, quietly observing the scene. Y/N was laughing with Jeonghan, who was undoubtedly up to some mischief. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“You like her, don’t you?” Minghao’s voice pulled Jihoon from his thoughts.

Jihoon turned to him, his expression unreadable. “What are you talking about?”

Minghao smirked. “You’re not as subtle as you think. The way you look at her—it’s different.”

Jihoon sighed, leaning back against the couch. “She’s… easy to be around. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Minghao said, clearly unconvinced. “Just don’t wait too long to figure it out.”

Later that evening, as everyone settled in for a movie, Jihoon found himself sitting next to Y/N. The room was dimly lit, and the sound of laughter and popcorn crunching filled the air.

Y/N leaned closer to whisper, “Thanks for letting me hang out with you guys. I didn’t expect this when we started working on the song.”

Jihoon glanced at her, the soft glow of the TV reflecting in her eyes. “You’re not just here because of the song anymore. They like you. I… like having you around.”

Her eyes widened slightly at his admission, a soft smile forming on her lips. “I like being around you too, Jihoon.”

For a moment, the noise of the room faded, and it was just the two of them, sitting closer than either realized.

“Jihoon! Pass the popcorn!” DK’s voice broke the moment, and Jihoon blinked, quickly grabbing the bowl to hand over.

Y/N chuckled softly, leaning back into the couch. The warmth between them lingered, unspoken but undeniable.

As the weeks turned into months, their bond deepened. Whether it was through shared late-night studio sessions, casual dinners with the group, or quiet moments away from the chaos, Jihoon and Y/N found themselves drawn closer together.

And while neither of them said it out loud, they both knew that what had started as a simple duet had grown into something far more meaningful.

As time passed, Jihoon and Y/N’s bond became increasingly apparent to everyone around them. The other members of SEVENTEEN had a field day teasing Jihoon about it, though they were careful not to push him too far. Y/N, on the other hand, took it all in stride, her easygoing nature making her a natural fit within the group’s chaotic but loving dynamic.

One day, they found themselves in the studio late at night, working on a new song. The other members had already gone home, leaving just the two of them.

Y/N leaned over the desk, scrolling through the playlist Jihoon had prepared for inspiration. “This one’s good,” she said, pointing to a track.

Jihoon nodded, playing it without hesitation. The soft melody filled the room, and they both sat in comfortable silence, letting the music wash over them.

After a while, Y/N broke the quiet. “Do you ever think about what this all means? The music, the fans, everything we do?”

Jihoon looked at her, surprised by the sudden introspection. “All the time,” he admitted. “It’s why I work so hard. I want it to mean something—to leave something behind that matters.”

She smiled softly. “You already do. Your music touches so many people, Jihoon. Including me.”

He felt a warmth spread through him at her words. “What about you? What does it mean to you?”

Y/N took a moment to think before answering. “It’s about connection. Every lyric, every note… it’s a way to reach people, to let them know they’re not alone. I think that’s why I love working with you. You get that.”

For a moment, Jihoon was at a loss for words. Her sincerity, her openness—it was something he wasn’t used to but found himself drawn to.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I don’t say this often, but… you’ve changed the way I look at things. Working with you—it’s made me realize how much more music can be when it’s shared.”

She looked at him, her eyes shining with gratitude. “You don’t know how much that means to me, coming from you.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, the weight of unspoken emotions filling the room. But before either of them could say more, Jihoon’s phone buzzed, breaking the moment.

The next morning, as they arrived at the practice room, the other members were already there. Hoshi immediately noticed the way Jihoon and Y/N seemed closer than usual.

“Did something happen last night?” he asked, his eyes darting between the two.

“Nothing happened,” Jihoon replied quickly, his ears turning pink.

Y/N, however, laughed. “We were just working on music. Don’t let your imagination run wild.”

The members didn’t buy it, but they let it go—for now.

Later that week, the group had a fan meeting, and Y/N was invited as a special guest to perform their duet live for the first time since its release. The fans erupted into cheers as Jihoon and Y/N took the stage together, their voices blending seamlessly as they sang.

During the performance, Jihoon couldn’t help but glance at Y/N, her presence radiating warmth and confidence. He realized that what had started as a professional partnership had grown into something far more personal.

After the performance, as they stood backstage, Y/N turned to Jihoon, her eyes sparkling. “That was incredible. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before replying. “Thank you… for everything.”

Y/N smiled, her hand lightly brushing his arm. And in that moment, Jihoon knew that whatever this was between them—friendship, partnership, or something more—he wasn’t ready to let it go.

A few days after their fan meeting, the duet performance went viral. Clips of Jihoon and Y/N on stage, their undeniable chemistry and harmonies, flooded social media. Fans couldn’t stop talking about how perfectly their voices blended and how natural their interactions seemed.

The buzz didn’t go unnoticed by SEVENTEEN.

“Have you seen the comments?” Seungkwan said, shoving his phone in front of Jihoon’s face during a break in practice.

Jihoon glanced at the screen, where fans had flooded the comments section with messages like:

“They’re perfect together!”

“Jihoon and Y/N need to release a whole album together!”

“Am I the only one who feels like there’s more to their story?”

Jihoon sighed, pushing the phone away. “It’s just the fans. They like to speculate.”

“But they’re not wrong,” Mingyu chimed in with a sly grin.

“Not you too,” Jihoon groaned.

That evening, Y/N visited the dorm for what was supposed to be a casual hangout. As usual, the members couldn’t help but stir the pot.

“So, Y/N,” Jeonghan started, leaning casually against the couch, “what’s it like being the most shipped person with Jihoon right now?”

Y/N nearly choked on her drink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Hoshi said, joining in. “The fans are calling you the ‘power duo.’ Some are even saying you’re a better fit than us!”

“Don’t listen to them,” Jihoon muttered, his ears turning pink.

Y/N, recovering from her initial shock, laughed. “Well, I guess it’s a compliment? I mean, Jihoon is an incredible artist, so I’m honored.”

The room erupted in exaggerated “oohs,” with Seungkwan dramatically fanning Jihoon. “Did you hear that? She called you incredible!”

Jihoon buried his face in his hands, muttering, “Why do I even let you all talk?”

Despite the teasing, Jihoon couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at Y/N’s words. She always had a way of making him feel seen—not just as an artist but as a person.

Later that night, after everyone had settled down, Y/N and Jihoon found themselves alone on the dorm balcony, overlooking the city lights.

“It’s been a wild night, huh?” Y/N said, leaning against the railing.

Jihoon nodded, his gaze fixed on the skyline. “Yeah. I didn’t expect any of this when we started working together.”

“Me neither,” she admitted. “But I’m glad it happened. I’ve learned so much—not just about music but about myself.”

Jihoon glanced at her, his expression softening. “You’ve changed a lot of things for me, too. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to remind me why I love what I do.”

Y/N looked at him, her heart skipping a beat at the vulnerability in his voice. “Jihoon… I—”

Before she could finish, the balcony door slid open, and Mingyu stuck his head out. “Hey, are you two having a moment? Because we’ve got snacks inside.”

Y/N burst out laughing, while Jihoon groaned. “You have the worst timing, Mingyu.”

Mingyu grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As the night went on, the teasing and camaraderie continued, but something had shifted between Jihoon and Y/N. Though unspoken, there was an understanding growing between them—one that neither was ready to confront just yet but couldn’t deny any longer.

And as Jihoon watched Y/N laughing with his members, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something he’d been searching for without even realizing it.

The weeks passed, and Jihoon found himself unable to shake the feeling that had been slowly growing inside him. Every time Y/N smiled, every time their eyes met during a quiet moment, something in his chest fluttered. He had always been someone who let his music speak for him, but this time, it wasn’t enough just to express himself through lyrics. He needed to tell her, to be vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been with anyone before.

But how?

It was during a late-night studio session, after everyone else had left for the day, that Jihoon decided to do something about it. He had spent hours working on the song, tweaking the melody, perfecting the lyrics, and now it was ready.

The track wasn’t like anything he had made before. It was softer, more personal, and every note seemed to come straight from his heart. He had poured his feelings into it, capturing the emotions that he couldn’t say out loud. It was a love song. And the subject of it? None other than Y/N.

The next day, Jihoon invited Y/N to the studio under the guise of working on new material. She arrived, always eager to help or collaborate, but there was something different about Jihoon’s demeanor that caught her attention.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she walked into the studio. “You’ve been acting a little… off lately.”

Jihoon avoided her gaze, fiddling with the soundboard for a moment. “I… I have something I want to play for you.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, curious. “A new song?”

He nodded, his throat tightening slightly. “Yeah. But it’s… different.”

Y/N walked over to him and sat down, her eyes fixed on him. “I’m all ears, Jihoon.”

Jihoon hesitated for a moment longer before hitting play. The soft, melodic intro filled the room, and Y/N was immediately drawn into the haunting beauty of the song. As the lyrics began, she felt a stirring in her chest. The song felt… personal. Deeply personal.

She listened intently, her heart racing as the chorus hit, and Jihoon’s voice filled the space:

“I didn’t know how to say it, but now I know it’s true, Every moment with you feels like I’ve found something new. In the silence, in the music, in the things I never said, I’m falling for you, I’m falling for you, And I can’t take it back.”

The song went on, each lyric pulling Y/N deeper into the emotions Jihoon had poured into it. By the end, the room was thick with the unspoken words hanging in the air. The music faded, and for a few moments, there was silence.

Y/N slowly turned to look at Jihoon, her eyes wide with realization. “Jihoon… that song…”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s for you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She had known there was something between them, something that had grown over time, but hearing him express it so clearly, through music, felt like a confession she hadn’t expected.

“Jihoon…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He finally met her gaze, his eyes vulnerable in a way she had never seen before. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to tell myself I was just… overthinking. But every time you’re near, every time you smile, it feels like something more. I think… I think I’ve fallen for you, Y/N. And I couldn’t hide it anymore. Not after writing this song for you.”

Y/N’s heart raced as she processed his words, her own emotions swirling within her. She had felt it too—the connection, the way everything felt more meaningful when they were together. But hearing him say it out loud made it all so real.

She took a step closer, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been feeling the same way, Jihoon.”

His eyes widened, and he took a step toward her as well. “Really?”

She nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been too afraid to admit it, but… I’ve been falling for you, too. Maybe I didn’t want to admit it because I didn’t know if you felt the same, but… I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The tension that had built between them in the past few months suddenly lifted. Jihoon, overcome with relief and happiness, took her hand gently.

“Then… do you think we can figure this out together?” he asked softly.

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling. “I’d like that very much.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything else. The weight of the confession hung in the air, but the silence felt comfortable, like a shared understanding.

Jihoon squeezed her hand gently. “I don’t know what comes next, but I want to find out with you.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes shining. “Me too.”

And as they stood there, hand in hand, Jihoon knew that this song, the one that had started as a way to express his feelings, was just the beginning of a new chapter for them both.

For a few weeks, Jihoon and Y/N managed to keep their budding relationship under wraps. They weren’t intentionally hiding it, but neither of them was ready to face the whirlwind of teasing that would inevitably come from SEVENTEEN.

However, secrets rarely lasted long in a group as close-knit and nosy as SEVENTEEN.

It all started during a practice session. Jihoon had left his phone on the bench while the group worked through choreography, and a text from Y/N popped up on the screen:

Y/N: Can’t wait to see you tonight ❤️

Seungkwan, ever the observant one, noticed the notification first. “Oh? Hyung, care to explain this?” he asked, holding up the phone with a mischievous grin.

Jihoon froze mid-step, his face instantly turning crimson. “Give me that!” he snapped, rushing over to grab the phone.

But it was too late. Seungkwan had already shared the discovery with Hoshi and Jeonghan, who were now looking at Jihoon with matching expressions of glee.

“‘Can’t wait to see you tonight?’” Jeonghan teased, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Jihoon, do you have plans we should know about?”

The rest of the group quickly caught on, gathering around as Jihoon struggled to come up with an excuse.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Nothing?” Hoshi said, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like something to me.”

“It’s Y/N, isn’t it?” Mingyu blurted out. The room went silent for a moment as everyone processed the possibility.

Jihoon sighed, realizing there was no escape. “Fine. Yes. It’s Y/N. We’re… dating.”

The room erupted into chaos.

“What?!” Seungkwan exclaimed, looking both shocked and delighted. “When did this happen?”

“Jihoon, you sly fox!” Jeonghan said, clapping him on the back.

“You’re dating Y/N, and you didn’t tell us?” Dino pouted. “I thought we were close!”

Jihoon groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, okay? It’s still new, and we didn’t want any unnecessary attention.”

Joshua, ever the voice of reason, stepped in. “Guys, let’s not overwhelm him. It’s Jihoon, after all. This must’ve taken a lot for him to admit.”

“Yeah,” DK added, grinning. “But seriously, Hyung, we’re happy for you. Y/N’s great.”

“She’s not just great,” Minghao said thoughtfully. “She fits in with us, and most importantly, she brings out a side of you we don’t see often. It’s nice.”

Jihoon looked around at his members, their teasing replaced with genuine support, and felt a wave of relief. “Thanks, guys. Just… keep it low-key, okay? We’re not ready for everyone to know yet.”

The group collectively agreed, though Jihoon wasn’t sure he trusted their definition of “low-key.”

That evening, Jihoon met Y/N at their usual spot in the studio. She could tell something was different as soon as he walked in.

“What happened?” she asked, tilting her head.

“They know,” Jihoon said, sitting beside her.

“Who knows?”

“SEVENTEEN,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh no. How bad was it?”

Jihoon chuckled despite himself. “About as chaotic as you’d expect. But… they’re happy for us. They promised to keep it a secret, though I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

Y/N smiled, reaching over to take his hand. “Well, I guess it was bound to happen. They’re your family, Jihoon. And honestly, I don’t mind if they know. I like being part of your world.”

Jihoon squeezed her hand, his heart swelling at her words. “You’re more than just part of it, Y/N. You’ve made it better.”

The next day, when Y/N visited the dorm for dinner, the teasing resumed, but it was all in good fun.

“So, Y/N,” Jeonghan said with a sly smile, “what’s it like dating our Jihoon? Is he as romantic as he is in his songs?”

Y/N laughed, glancing at Jihoon, who looked like he wanted to disappear. “He’s perfect,” she said simply, her sincerity making Jihoon’s face flush even more.

The room erupted into cheers and playful jabs, but beneath the chaos, there was a palpable warmth. SEVENTEEN was more than a group—they were a family. And now, Y/N was part of that family, too.

As the night wore on, Jihoon couldn’t help but feel grateful. For his members, for their unwavering support, and most of all, for Y/N, who had somehow become the piece he hadn’t realized was missing from his life.

A few weeks after SEVENTEEN’s comeback promotions wrapped up, Jihoon surprised fans with the announcement of a solo track, titled “Only for You.” The anticipation was palpable, especially after fans connected the dots between the mysterious teasers and Jihoon’s recent duet with Y/N.

When the song finally dropped, it was an instant hit. A tender and emotional ballad, the lyrics told the story of someone realizing they’ve found the one person who completes them. Jihoon’s heartfelt delivery struck a chord with listeners, but eagle-eyed fans noticed something peculiar.

The release coincided with a few subtle interactions between Jihoon and Y/N on social media. Comments like:

“This song feels so personal… is it inspired by someone special?”

“The vibe reminds me of Jihoon and Y/N’s duet. Are we missing something?”

“Wait a second… some of these lyrics feel like they match things Y/N said in interviews!”

The speculation ramped up a notch when, only a few days later, Y/N teased her own solo track, “Echo of You.”

When Y/N’s song dropped, fans were quick to notice that it felt like a reply to Jihoon’s. While Jihoon’s track spoke of falling for someone who brought light into his life, Y/N’s lyrics told the story of being seen and loved for who she truly was.

Lines like:

“I thought I was just a shadow, but your light made me shine.”

“Every melody you wrote felt like a message just for me.”

Fans flooded social media with theories.

“Wait, these songs feel connected. Are they… about each other?”

“Woozi's ‘Only for You’ and Y/N’s ‘Echo of You’ are like two sides of the same love story.”

“If this is real, I’ll cry. They’re perfect together!”

The speculation reached its peak when a fan-made mashup of the two songs went viral, seamlessly blending the tracks into a duet that felt like it was meant to be.

Back at SEVENTEEN’s dorm, the members couldn’t help but join the buzz.

“So,” Seungkwan started, holding up his phone, “the fans are catching on.”

Jihoon groaned, slumping onto the couch. “I knew this would happen.”

“I mean, they’re not wrong,” Jeonghan said, smirking. “The songs do sound like they’re talking to each other.”

Y/N, who had been invited over for dinner, sat beside Jihoon, trying (and failing) to suppress her laughter. “It’s kind of impressive how quickly they picked up on it.”

Joshua leaned forward, grinning. “Are you two going to say anything? Or just let the fans go wild with their theories?”

Jihoon glanced at Y/N, his expression thoughtful. “What do you think?” he asked her.

Y/N smiled softly. “I don’t mind letting them wonder for now. I like that the songs are just ours, even if people are curious.”

The members all groaned in mock frustration.

“You’re both too private for your own good,” Mingyu teased. “Just admit it already and save us the headache!”

“Admit what?” Jihoon shot back, feigning innocence.

“That you two are the main characters in the greatest musical love story ever told,” Hoshi declared dramatically, earning laughter from the group.

Despite the teasing, Jihoon and Y/N decided to keep quiet, letting their music speak for them. The buzz around their songs only grew, with both tracks climbing the charts and becoming fan favorites.

During a live Q&A, Jihoon was inevitably asked about the inspiration for “Only for You.”

“It’s about someone who changed the way I see the world,” he said simply, his expression soft.

When Y/N was asked a similar question about “Echo of You,” she smiled knowingly. “It’s a song about gratitude and love—for someone who helped me realize my worth.”

The fans didn’t need anything more. To them, the connection between the songs—and their creators—was obvious.

One evening, as they sat together in Jihoon’s studio, Y/N turned to him with a playful smile. “So, do you think they’ve figured it out yet?”

Jihoon chuckled, shaking his head. “I think they know. They’re just waiting for us to say it out loud.”

“And when do you think we should?” she asked, tilting her head.

Jihoon thought for a moment before replying, his voice warm. “Maybe someday. But for now, I like that the songs tell our story. It feels… special.”

Y/N leaned closer, her hand resting on his. “I like that too.”

The weeks following the dual song releases were a whirlwind. Both tracks dominated the charts, and the fan theories only grew more elaborate. Mashups, fan edits, and endless analysis filled the internet, with fans piecing together subtle interactions and shared moments.

Despite their best efforts to stay under the radar, the buzz became too loud to ignore. SEVENTEEN’s members didn’t make it any easier, constantly dropping playful hints during interviews and live streams.

One day, Jihoon and Y/N found themselves at a joint event where multiple HYBE artists were present. It was a casual, live-streamed Q&A session, and the energy in the room was lively. Fans flooded the chat with questions about collaborations, their music, and, of course, the connection between Jihoon’s and Y/N’s songs.

The host, clearly aware of the buzz, decided to address the elephant in the room.

“So, Woozi-shi and Y/N-shi,” they began, a mischievous glint in their eye. “The fans have been talking nonstop about how your songs seem… connected. Care to comment?”

Jihoon, caught off guard, glanced at Y/N. She met his gaze with a small, encouraging smile, her eyes silently asking, Are you ready?

He hesitated for a moment before leaning into the mic. “Well,” he started, his voice calm but tinged with nervousness, “the fans aren’t wrong. The songs are connected.”

The room fell silent for a moment, everyone—including the other artists—hanging on his every word.

Y/N chimed in, her tone light but honest. “We didn’t plan for it to be a big mystery. We just wrote from our hearts. And, well… our hearts were in the same place.”

The host’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait, are you saying—”

Jihoon nodded, cutting them off gently. “Y/N and I… we’re together. And the songs were our way of telling that story without saying it outright.”

The room erupted into applause, cheers, and a few playful whistles from SEVENTEEN and the other HYBE artists. The fans watching the live stream went wild, the chat filling with messages like:

“I KNEW IT!”

“This is the best plot twist ever!”

“Our musical power couple!”

Later that evening, Jihoon and Y/N sat together backstage, scrolling through the flood of messages on social media.

“Looks like the fans are taking it well,” Y/N said, laughing as she read a particularly enthusiastic comment.

Jihoon smiled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in weeks. “I guess I shouldn’t have worried so much. They seem… happy for us.”

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder. “Of course they are. We’ve been honest in the best way we know how—through our music.”

Jihoon wrapped an arm around her, his voice soft. “I’m glad we finally said it. It feels good not to hide anymore.”

She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Me too.”

As the weeks passed, their relationship became a beloved story among fans. Jihoon and Y/N didn’t share much beyond their music and occasional glimpses of their dynamic, but their authenticity resonated with everyone.

Their next collaboration—a duet explicitly written as a continuation of their story—became one of the most anticipated releases of the year, cementing their status as not just two incredible artists but as a couple who had found love in the heart of their shared passion.

And as Jihoon often said in interviews, with a small, knowing smile: “It all started with a song.”

The announcement of Jihoon and Y/N’s relationship didn’t just excite fans; it gave SEVENTEEN endless new material to tease their usually reserved member. And, of course, they weren’t going to let the opportunity go to waste during their next content shoot.

The group was filming an episode of their popular variety show, “GOING SEVENTEEN,” and the theme for the day was a mock courtroom trial where members had to defend themselves against outrageous (and often ridiculous) accusations.

As the camera rolled, Jeonghan smirked, ready to unleash chaos. “Today, I bring a serious accusation against Jihoon,” he began, standing dramatically as the self-appointed prosecutor.

Jihoon, sitting at the “defendant’s” table, raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

Jeonghan held up an imaginary piece of paper, squinting at it for effect. “Jihoon, you’ve been accused of… secretly writing love songs instead of working on group projects. How do you plead?”

The room erupted in laughter, with Seungkwan clapping his hands. “Guilty! We all know it’s true!”

Jihoon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes!” Hoshi chimed in, his grin practically splitting his face. “We’ve all noticed you humming random melodies lately. Are those for us, or… someone else?”

The teasing didn’t stop there. As the trial continued, the members took turns “presenting evidence.”

Mingyu dramatically placed a notebook on the table. “Exhibit A: Jihoon’s lyric book. Do we need to open it to find the word ‘Y/N’ written a hundred times?”

Dino jumped in, mimicking an investigator. “Exhibit B: The way Jihoon smiles at his phone during breaks. Suspicious behavior if you ask me.”

Even the usually quiet Wonwoo joined in. “Exhibit C: The recent duet with Y/N. We all heard it. It’s basically a confession set to music.”

By this point, Jihoon’s face was a deep shade of red, though he couldn’t help but chuckle.

During a break in filming, Joshua leaned over to Jihoon. “You know, they’re only teasing because they’re happy for you, right?”

“I know,” Jihoon replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But they’re relentless.”

“Hey, it’s good content,” Joshua said with a wink. “The fans will love it.”

Later in the shoot, the tables turned when it was Jihoon’s chance to act as the judge. He banged the gavel dramatically. “I have an accusation of my own,” he announced, his tone firm but playful.

The members gasped in mock horror.

“I accuse SEVENTEEN of being the nosiest group in the industry,” Jihoon declared, pointing at them one by one. “Always prying, always teasing. How do you plead?”

“Guilty!” Seungkwan shouted, raising his hands in surrender. “But we do it out of love!”

Hoshi stood up, grinning. “Your Honor, I’d like to counter-accuse. Jihoon is guilty of smiling more these days. We all know the reason why.”

The room burst into laughter once again, and Jihoon couldn’t help but shake his head, a reluctant smile on his face.

As the shoot wrapped up, the director praised the group for their energy and humor. The episode, once edited, was full of golden moments that had fans laughing and cooing over SEVENTEEN’s antics.

And while Jihoon might have been the butt of the jokes, the camaraderie and genuine affection from his members shone through.

In the comments section of the uploaded episode, fans were quick to notice the playful dynamic:

“SEVENTEEN teasing Jihoon about Y/N is peak family energy!”

“Jihoon trying to act annoyed but secretly loving it is so cute.”

“The way they all support him in their own chaotic way makes me emotional.”

That evening, as Jihoon returned to his studio, his phone buzzed with a message from Y/N:

Y/N: Saw the episode preview. They’re so obvious, lol.

Jihoon smiled, typing back:

Jihoon: They’re impossible. But at least they’re on our side.

Y/N: Always. And so am I.

As he leaned back in his chair, Jihoon couldn’t help but feel grateful—not just for Y/N, but for the family he’d found in SEVENTEEN.

Even if they never let him live it down.