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mv1simp · 20 days ago

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requested : dark mafia max!!

Devilish ♥️

Mafia!Max Verstappen x Reader

Girl who you tryna call, it’s a quarter past four, can’t nobody hear you scream right now

The Leeuw of Holland - or Mad Max, as he was referred to in his teen years - is well known for establishing his father's control over most of Eastern Europe. No one would dare to stand up to him for fear of losing their head - until you, the sweet daughter and lawyer of Monaco's mayor - who's determined to protect her small city from the Verstappen familia by putting the Leeuw behind bars.

Leeuw = Lion in Dutch

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, mafia boss! Max falls for mayor’s daughter! Reader, reader is also a boss ass bitch, kidnapping, violence, explicit mention of murder/dead bodies/mutilation, nothing towards reader cuz maxie is a simp 🥰 9.5k WC omg my longest yet

You feel a shiver run up the back of your spine from where you stand in the high court. Knowing exactly who’s dark gaze is raking down your body, taking in your small figure that's stylishly dressed in a tight Chanel dress and matching heels, you deliberately keep your gaze fixed forward. The judge looks like he's about to have a heart attack, sweat dripping down his forehead as he glances back and forth between you - the fiercely passionate lawyer who'd presented the numerous charges on behalf of her father, the Mayor of Monaco - and to the tall, Dutch man who sat watching you with a cocky smirk. The blonde’s large thighs spread wide and the Leeuw of Holland, as he was famously named, looked far too calm for a man who'd just had 76 counts of murder brought forward against him.

You'd had no idea who the Dutch Lion was when you two had first met. You'd just returned with your law degree from college in America, only to find things in a state of disarray in the idyllic city of Monaco. Your father had always struggled to maintain his citizen's safety as the Mayor as the neighbouring Leclerc and Sainz familias battled for territory - but in your absence the now established, much bloodthirstier Verstappen familia had seized control of the profitable area. Monaco's location served as prime real estate to ship all the drugs and black money a criminal could wish for to the rest of Eastern Europe, and Jos Verstappen had personally sent his own son and underboss - Mad Max - to secure your father’s territory.

You'd head rumours, of course, even all the way abroad in the States, of this Verstappen heir. He was known for his rage and callous violence that earned his nickname, the perfect hitman for his cold, calculating father. You’d thanked your lucky stars you had never come face to face with him, because you were sure he would kill you - or worse, you think with a shudder - if he came across the Mayor of Monaco’s daughter. But after coming back home for the last two months and finding things in such upheaval, you became more determined to do right by your family’s citizens. Your mother - who had passed away when you were young, at the hands of a Sainz thug - had been very passionate about helping those who couldn’t protect themselves, so you always lived your life in a way you knew she would be proud of.

So that’s why you spent endless days poring over the city’s legislature and laws, overturning laws that had made civilian’s finances and livelihoods hard and submitting proposal after proposal of new laws that were severely harsh on crime. The locals quickly noticed the change from the Mayor’s office, and you became idolised as Monaco’s princessa.

Your father, bless him, although his heart was always in the right place, he had gotten too old to go head to head with the gangs, choosing to bargain with the gangs instead and buy his citizen’s safety that way. You argued that it was only a matter of time before Jos Verstappen showed up at your family’s doorstep to demand more and more from the city of Monaco - until he owned it himself. You were determined to catch him, or even better - catch his son, the one who’d inherit the Verstappen empire, and put a stop to this rapidly expanding mafia before it grew out of control. Your dedication to do right by your people inspired your father to once again champion for the safety of his city.

And for a while, everything seemed to be flowing smoothly. You’d set up many a new school, local trade centres and businesses, and even medical clinics by using money redirected from paying off the gangs to keep your citizens safe. Life was thriving for the first time in a decade in Monaco. You’d even found your own small peaceful spot of solace in the chaotic city, behind one of your new clinics where a collection of streetcats would assemble. You fed them dutifully, coming daily in your lunch breaks and laughing delightedly when you saw one of them had kittens. But one day when you’d been late due to a court hearing, you’d been surprised to see that the cats had already been happily munching on some freshly ground tuna meat. It was good quality too, very expensive to come by these days, your keen eye noted from being born into the luxury of a Mayor’s daughter. You smiled sweetly and fondly patted the purring cats’ ears. Someone else found you too adorable to resist too, hmm?

From then on, whenever you’d come feed the cats, you’d always look around curiously, wanting to see if you could find that person - but you never did. And then, one day, you stumbled across an impossibly cute scene of a tall blond man, clearly broad shouldered and muscular even though he was casually dressed in a hoodie and jeans. He was warmly laughing as he held one of the cats in his arms while another yowled at his legs, wanting to also be picked up. Oh! You clapped your red manicured hands excitedly as you ran over, all sense of stranger danger forgotten as canoodling with streetcats wasn’t really a common mafia thug activity. The man’s head had slightly tilted towards you as soon as you had appeared on the other end of the street, but he turned to greet you fully as the sound of your dainty Chanel heels clicks against the pavement. You’d energetically started talking about how nice it was to finally meet whoever had been spoiling the cats, wasn’t it so cute how there were even kittens now? But when you finally drew your eyes away from the purring feline in his thick arms, you couldn’t help but blush at the curious blue-eyed gaze on his handsome face.

You introduced yourself, apologising for being rude, and after setting down the cat, he took your small hand in his own much large, warm palm. You flushed again as he raised it to his lips, leaving a gently kiss in a very traditional Monaco fashion, introducing himself as Emilian. You formed a quick friendship with him, eager to talk to someone your age after spending so much time with stuffy politicians all day. You find yourself excited to run into the gorgeous blonde on your lunch breaks, to laugh about some of the playfights you’d witnessed between the cats, or other times talk passionately about the current state of government affairs. Emilian, like many of the jaded younger generation, held a strong disdain for your father’s office and its weak position towards protecting citizens. In a somber moment you’d both realised you’d lost your mothers to the hands of the Sainz familia. But you passionately argued for your cause, remaining fiercely loyal to the goverment office of Monaco, spending your lunch hour easily talking about the many legal and restructuring plans you’d been working with the council to establish that had already improved so many household’s livelihoods. Emilian couldn’t help but quirk his attractive lips as he leaned a head on his palm, content to watch you animatedly talk for hours. The two of you sat across the waterfront, enjoying a late afternoon danish pasty in the lazy Monaco sun. When you’d turned the conversation to him, curiously asking what exactly he did, he dismissed it as per usual, vaguely mentioning something about working in the security business.

You eyed him suspiciously, imagining that like many young men in the area he’d turned to dabbling in underground business to support his family. It always started as selling the occasional party drug for profit or working as hired muscle for a night, sure, but you’d seen innocents with good hearts get sucked into the murderous world of gang violence too often. You definitely weren't just going to sit by and let someone as gentle and sweet as Emilian fall prey to it - the man had 3 separate albums on his phone dedicated to the stray cats, for God's sake! You told him this earnestly, even gently brushing your hand across his as you offered him a job as a bodyguard instead. Your father had been making more public appearances lately as the public perception grew positive of the Mayor’s office.

Emilian had hummed, contemplating, his gorgeous blue eyes glancing at where your small palm had grasped onto his much larger one. Then he’d reached across the cafe table to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, making a pretty blush spread across your caramel sun-kissed skin. So cute, he’d said, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. You promptly forgot all about what you’d been trying to convince him on as your eyes drifted down to his lips instead, the rising fluttering of romantic feelings swirling in your stomach. He’d gotten a phone call then and sighed, telling you he’d see you later, leaving after another kiss to your fingers. You’d pouted, feeling like you were crushing a lot harder on the handsome blonde than he was on you.

Next time when you met him, though, the only feeling you had was panic and fear as you saw him slumped against your stray cat’s alleyway, blood quickly oozing from a stab wound to his abdomen. You’d forced yourself to hold back a scream and avoid attracting attention in the quickly darkening evening, grabbing a hold of Emilian’s soft jumper and tugging him with you to your clinic. He’d held firm, far stronger than you even with a goddamn knife wound that was bleeding so much, oh my god-

He told you to leave, because whoever had done this was likely still in the vicinity, would see you two walking into the clinic and then would target you too. You hissed at him that he was crazy if he thought you would ever abandon him like that and if that’s what he was worried about you’d take the back alley route to your downtown apartment then! He’d finally given in, now looking paler from the blood loss and making you internally freak out. As you guided him into your cute 2nd floor apartment, all warm lighting and trailing pot plants, he smirked and murmured that if this was all it took to get you to invite him back to your place, he’d have gotten stabbed a lot sooner.

Shut up, you’d blushed, setting him down on your bathroom floor and grabbing your extensive first aid kit. Secretly though, you were glad that he still felt well enough to make jokes like that. You miss how his ice blue eyes intently watch you compress his wound, relieved that it hadn’t gone too deep into his body to injure his organs, and biting your lip with concentration as you slowly stitched the wound. Later, when you’d been nursing a glass of whiskey to settle your nerves, your many lamps casting a glow across your face, you’d answered his questions about how you learnt to fix an injury. You told him about how powerless you’d felt when you’d seen your mother be stabbed to death in front of you, how your child sized hands couldn’t stop the bleeding and you had never wanted to feel so useless ever again.

You hadn’t realized your mind had wandered back to that memory, triggered by Emilian’s own blood that you’d scrubbed thrice over from your own hands tonight. When you felt his warm hand run across your clenched ones, soothing the tension, your for eyes focused back to look at his contemplative gaze. You’d never thought you’d see the handsome man sitting in your apartment like this, now shirtless as you’d thrown his bloodied one away. You averted your gaze, suddenly feeling shy despite the desire coursing through you, secretly glad he had declined your offer of your pink pastel knit to cover up with so you could enjoy the view of his broad, muscled shoulders.

Tilting your head back up to look at him, Emilian murmured that he was indebted to you, that you would always be under his protection. His words send a flutter through your heart, although frankly you're not sure how he was meant to protect you when you were the one with access to security resources as the Mayor's daughter. But still, his words have an undertone of assured confidence to them and you find your eyes drifted down to his lips again. You're ecstatic when he breaks the tension and finally leans in, giving you what you'd been wanting for a few weeks now as he captures your lips in a passionate kiss. He definitely knew what he was going, and soon you're sweetly moaning into his mouth and grinding onto his skilled, thick fingers that have slipped into your jeans and pulled your panties to the side. He brings you to bliss within minutes, and you can't resist pressing yourself closer to him as you come down from your high. You want to make him feel good, too, but your hands accidentally brush against his stab wound and you don't miss his low, painful hiss. Pulling back immediately, you apologise profusely, worriedly looking over his bandages again to make sure there was no bleeding. He chuckles, telling you he was fine, you were very welcome to continue?

Flushing, you told him that you'd had a slip in judgement and were not going to put his already hurt body through any more accidental pain tonight. He pouted rather cutely as you stood up, grabbing some spare blankets and pillows for him to stay on the couch. Not having your hands on him was far more painful than the stab wound, he says teasingly, making you blush. You felt a little embarrassed at how quickly things had progressed tonight, unable to keep your head on straight around the handsome tall Blonde in front of you. You give him a firm goodnight, but just before you enter your bedroom, you turn to shyly tell him that you’d like to return the favour and make him feel good when he had healed. Grinning at your cute, blushing face, Emilian’s ocean look eyes look at you fondly as he lowly murmurs that he’ll look forward to it, shcatje.

That night you dream about handsome men in mysterious alleyways, who pin you to the wall and pepper your neck with soft kisses that turn hungrier and hungrier. You’re gasping and asking for more, please, please as his strong hands roughly palm your ass, your tits-

You wake with a start in your now empty apartment, Emilian’s name on your lips. Late morning light floods through your windows as you curiously notice the empty sofa, where a blanket is neatly folded up. Your face brightens when you see a note, that reads sorry I left without a goodbye kiss, schatje, the cats were getting possessive.

Rolling your eyes at his usual mysterious antics, you toss his note into the bin. But you’re humming as you went about your morning routine, buzzing with excitement at the thought of seeing the attractive blonde later on. But oddly, Emilian hasn’t been in your usual spot that afternoon, and you look around with concern as the cats meow at your feet, wanting to be fed. When he isn’t there the next day either, or the day after, you’ve started to get very worried now, wondering if something had gone wrong with his wound or worse - the man who had stabbed him had decided to retaliate with more gang members this time. You’d been thinking about it so much that you decide to the police station that day and asking the chief to look for the Dutchman who's found his way into your heart.

It turns out that Emilian’s safety was not something you needed to be concerned with. Because the one who has been in danger was not the mysterious blonde, but instead you, who had unknowingly caught the attention of many mafioso in the area by protecting him. You realised this when you came home from your visit to the police station, only to find your front door unlocked. You'd barely taken a step inside when you’re pushed against the wall by a heavily pierced man you’d never see before. The mocking silver pendant that he wore around his neck, of a horse rearing, signified his alliance with the LeClerc familia. You’d been unable to control the tears running down your face when he'd painfully begun choking you, demanding to know where the hell Max was. When you’d tried to tell them you had no clue what he was referring to, he just tightened his harsh grip on you to slam you against the wall again. You cry out in pain, bruises already forming along your delicate hands from the intruder's grip, as you keep trying to plead and explain you didn't know who they were talking about. A part of you knew there must be some link between this Max they were looking for, and your Emilian - but you sure as hell were not going to tell these criminals a single thing.

You swallow you fear and try to bargain with them, offering money, access to shipping resources, security - all things you could provide in your role as the mayor's daughter, you insisted. But they laughed it off, confusing you when they said currently, you were the most sought after bargaining chip for the gangs in Southern Europe. And everything had faded to black then, after one of them pressed an acidic smelling cloth over your nose.

When you woke up, hours later and with a pounding head, you're in an unfamiliar room. You groggily sit up, and find yourself instantly alarmed by the thick ropes tied tightly around your wrists. At least they hadn't tied your legs, too, you think with relief, sitting up in the dark room - only to come eye to eye with the barrel of a gun. Ah, that explained it - apparently they thought you were such a precious commodity they'd assigned someone to literally guard you with a gun. You're still confused, unsure why suddenly these street criminals seem interested in kidnapping the Mayor's daughter. Everyone knew who really held the power in Monaco - the Verstappen familia.

You get your answer then, when the sound of gunshots start filling the air from outside your room. You look up in alarm, and your guard eyes the door warily. He growls at you to not to move an inch as he leaves to go investigate, closing the door behind him. You flinch as more and more gunshots fill the air, accompanied by screams and yells. And then, when it becomes eerily silent for minutes on end, you wonder if this is your chance to escape amidst whatever chaos was going on. You're nervously peering around the hallways, finding yourself in a creepy, abandoned looking mansion - somewhere probably on the outskirts of the Monaco township, if you had to guess. Moonlight is the only thing lighting the way as you try to quietly navigate your way out of the winding hallways. It's strange, there had been so any gunshots but you had yet to see a single person anywhere-

And that's where you saw it, around the next corner. Scattered haphazardly throughout the hallway, illuminated by moonlight shining through the large window, lay body after body, all freshly dead with expressions of terror still on their faces. And then, soft murmurs from the opposite end of the hallways, as three men rounded it - and you finally find your missing Dutchman. Emilian? You whisper breathlessly, half reassured to find him alive and half confused at what he was doing inside a property that clearly belonged to the LeClercs. He stops abruptly, halting the two men behind him as he stares at you with a look of pure relief. He was dressed so differently to his usual casual attire, too, with his blond locks slicked back, wearing a fitted white shirt and dress pants, and an expensive looking black overcoat that highlighted his tall, broad frame. You'd looked puzzled at the large watch on his wrist - a renowned luxury brand you recognised from the many elite charity galas you'd attended. Well out of the yearly income someone like Emilian would make in...what had he said? Security?

You're so perplexed at the sudden appearance of the half a million Euro worth watch that you don't even notice the sleek gun in his hand, until he's raising it up and pointing it straight at you. Don't move, schatje, he murmurs, his deep voice carrying across the hallway. And those ocean blue eyes of his that you'd fallen in love with were now ice cold, without a trace of any human emotion behind them. Your own doe eyes widen in fear, tears gathering, because you have no idea who the man standing in front of you is, just who you’d fallen in love with - and now he's going to kill you. You don't even get time to flinch when he's pulling the trigger. But to your surprise the bullet never hits you. Instead, you hear a thump behind you - and turn to see a body fall to the ground, his own gun that had been raised towards you clattering across the floor.

You'd stood frozen in fear, silently shaking and willing yourself not to pass out from the sheer amount of blood that pooled onto the floor, staining your pretty white Chanel heels. And then a tall figure is at your side, guiding you away from the horrifying sight with a large palm in the small of your back. His warm hands making quick work of the ropes that still bind your hands. His familiar voice is murmuring to you gently that you he was here, you’re safe now, schat and no one was going to hurt you again. You’re finally pulled out of your frozen shock when you feel his touch. You look down at large palms softly rubbing the red marks on your skin from where the rope had dug into your skin.

You're outside now, standing in the moonlit gravel in front of the eerie mansion, with an equally haunted looking garden around you. The chill of the night time air helps you start clarifying your racing thoughts. I don’t think Emilian is your real name, you begin. And for a casual security hire to wear a Patek Philippe watch...who are you, really? You finally ask, your voice surprisingly firm despite fear coursing through your veins. He sighs, draping his thick black overcoat over your shaking figure, the clothing completely dwarfing you.

You’re a very smart woman, liefje, he murmurs lowly, his intense gaze studying your face. He tells you that he's sure you've probably already figured it out by now. Releasing a deep breath, you recount his Dutch origins, clear as day in his deep accented voice and blonde locks, and the fact that he obviously had an established presence in one of the mafioso gangs. Most likely the Verstappen familia, then. He was high up enough to have command of his own group of men, the ones you now spotted through various windows, no doubt cleaning up the piles of dead bodies in the house. He watches you with a small grin on his face, enjoying how even if this frightening situation you were able to gather evidence and form a logical conclusion. And when you told him your theory - that he was not Emilian but Nicolas Hulkenberg, left hand man to Jos Verstappen, he chuckled, telling you almost fondly that you were so close. He was in the Verstappen family, and he was high up in the chain of command - but Nico's my cousin. He'd probably have a hissy fit at being confused with me, the handsome blonde in front of you mused. The new information sends a jolt through you, because even though your knowledge of the gangs is not extensive, if this man was Nicolas Hulkenberg's cousin, then...

Max Verstappen. Your breathless voice given away the fear rising within you as your doe eyes widen in shock. You instinctively take a step back as the infamous underboss of the Verstappen familia takes a step closer to you, tilting his head like a lion eyeing up his prey, looking very much like the Dutch Leeuw he’s famously named for. Max Emilian Verstappen, he corrects, saying that most people didn't know the middle name - making it a useful nickname in public.

It's certainly more discreet than Mad Max, you reply hotly, rage and betrayal now replacing your earlier fear as you realise just how deceived you'd been. The man standing in front of you was no innocent citizen, or anyone to be protected. No - he was set to inherit the richest and most powerful gang family in the continent. Max's ice blue eyes narrow at your hurt expression, at the tears that are now running down your cheeks as you tell him what as absolute psychopath he was, to use and manipulate you into helping him, just because - you gasp, sobbing uncontrollably now - just because I'm the mayor's daughter? And you wanted to know about my redevelopment plans!? Max's heart aches at seeing you so upset, and he softly tells you it wasn't meant to be like this, you weren't meant to find out so unexpectedly. All of the heated looks and sweet words he’d spoken to you were real, because he’d fallen in love with you, too. But those Leclerc bastards had gotten their hands on you, wanting a bargaining chip and thinking you were something disposable to be used and tied up - A dark expression has taken over Max’s face now, storm clouds in his steely eyes. He'd let your captors off far too easily, he says menacingly. A shiver runs through you as you remember that the man standing in front of you had earned his title not just through family blood, but with his status of a deadly hitman with the highest kill rate this side of the globe.

Well, never mind, he drawls nonchalantly, his observant gaze not missing the fear in your sweet doe eyes that you tried desperately to supress. He was sure the Leclercs had gotten the message that you were not someone they could touch so casually. You were under Max’s personal protection, after all - he was indebted to you. Like he predicted, your Monegasque pride didn't take the offer from your political enemy kindly. You tell him to fuck off, Verstappen, you didn’t need his protections and he could just stay the hell away. He laughs at the fire in your brown eyes that’s returned in full force, glad you no longer had the lost, glassy stare he’d found you with earlier. Refusing to let him drive you home, you demand he hand over the keys to that S Class Mercedes parked in the driveway that you assumed was his, given the outrageous price tags and the bulletproof glass. He presents them to you with a smirk, watching you take off after shooting him a furious expression over your shoulder.

Of course, he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again, not after you’d been hurt. You didn’t know about the guards he had assigned to you at all times, but you did receive a package a few days later. Unboxing the black and white designer wrapping, you tried to remember if you’d ordered something and forgotten about it. But when you see the identical Chanel heels you’d been wearing the night everything had happened, a new pair to replace your old, blood stained ones, you knew exactly who had sent them to you. You shove the box to the back of your closet and scowl as you continue about your research of collating the list of charges to bring against Max Verstappen.

So now, a month later, you see him for the first time since your kidnapping. It’s in the courtroom where you confidently list our your extensive evidence condemning the Leuw of Holland - who’s intense gaze you can feel raking over your well dressed form. You’re stunned when the judge, who’s sweated through his wig and gone through 3 jugs of water from all his nervous gulping, anxiously says that he finds the accused, Max Emilian Verstappen, not guilty. You knew that the Verstappens were powerful, had connections in every place and access to unlimited money - but to buy off the judge of the Monaco Supreme Court, really, Max? Have you no integrity? You hiss at him, much to the shock of onlookers as they see the Monaco Princess go toe to toe with the son of the Verstappen Familia. Good to see you too, schatje, the Dutch Lion croons at you, enjoying the frustrated blush on your face from his sweet nickname. Can’t say I’m a fan of going to jail for offing a few bastards, no. Besides, those Leclerc goons definitely deserved it for putting their hands on my woman. You gasp, stammering out your response as he catches you off guard. You were not his woman, and he had no right to call you that-

Sure, whatever you say, schat. He’d given you enough space - over a month, and he missed having you by his side every day. You’d gotten your revenge with this whole dramatic court case - one that he would never have allowed anyone to go so far with, slitting their carotids well before any court date was set. Now, it was time for Max to have his fun with you again, and this time he doesn’t have to hide behind the mystery facade. Wear that pretty little pink nightdress you wore for me that time I stayed over, hmm?

You flush prettily again, giving him a venomous glare before storming off. Cute, he thinks as your heels click on the marble floor. He admires the view of your lush ass in the tight pencil skirt you wore. He’s thinking about what colour lingerie he should have sent to you to match the heels you’d worn today, all dressed up for him - when the Mayor of Monaco approaches him. Your father looks very suspicious as he shuffled from side to side, asking Max if he would like to join him for a drink that evening.

Max watches him stoically, agreeing to a meeting only out of respect for him as your father. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care less about the puppet leader of Monaco. Everyone knew who the real power lay with, after all. So he isn't surprised when the pathetic excuse of the man who calls himself your father offers you up as a trade in exchange for the return of some of the power the Verstappens have stolen. Your father had heard the rumours of how infatuated the Verstappen heir had become with the Princess of Monaco - and was happy to just hand you over. A political marriage, of course, so that your father was guaranteed to have a familial link into the powerful new family. And if Max was no longer interested in you, then your father was sure there would be no shortage of buyers in the Leclerc and Sainz families who had become aware of the new princessa thrown into their game.

Max narrowed his ice blue eyes at the pitiful father figure in front of him, his attention finally caught with this new threat to your safety. And from your only living family member, no less - the one who you'd painstakingly resurrected from political ruin. God, the Mayor of Monaco was almost as bad as Jos. But then again, Jos had never pretended to be something he was not. Your father, on the other hand, was someone who you loved and cherished dearly. It would break your heart to see him hurt - even though he was now trying to sell you off to become a mafia bosses's wife without your knowledge.

Good thing your daughter got her fire from her mother, the Verstappen heir says coldly, his voice commanding enough that it makes the Mayor gulp nervously. Since her father clearly has no balls. Max doesn't respond well to threats - he much prefers making them, instead. And although he wanted to do nothing more than leave a bullet inside the Mayor's chest, he wouldn't touch your father out of respect for you.

So instead, when he gets word that evening of another secret hit out for you, he takes this as the oppurtunity to take you under his protection - permanently. He wouldn't allow your father to marry you off to one of the many ruthless mafiosos in the region. This time, the abduction attempt comes from the once powerful Hamilton-Rosberg family who were trying to restablish their hold after Max Verstappen himself had tobbled them from the inside. You'd impressed Max by fending off the first few attackers with the handgun you now kept at your bedside, injuring them but avoiding any critical areas as you ran out your fire escape. Good girl, Max thought with pride as his men relayed the situation to him over the phone. But you'd not expected the attackers waiting for you at the end of back alleyway. You were out of bullets, and closed your eyes in resignation as you prepared for what you were sure would be a nasty end...

When that infuriatingly attractive, confident Dutch voice appears at your side. Missed me, schatje? Max Verstappen makes quick work of the men who dared to attempt laying a hand on you. This time he rips one of their heart out, rather gruesomely, before shoving it inside the dead man's mouth. A very clear warning to all others who went after you again - since apparently the massacre at the Leclerc mansion had not been enough.

You're snifling and shaking when Max returns to your side, your back firmly to him to avoid seeing the horrific sight. And when he sighs softly again, draping his familiar, warm coat over our shoulders, you ask him if he was here to kill you, too. You'd realised that many of Max's enemy gangs had started to come after you, hoping to use your connection to the Verstappen heir against him. Of course, for a man as coldly efficient and powerful as Max - it made sense to eliminate any source of weakness to his status. But the enemy Dutch Lion you'd somehow fallen for suprises you once again. Brushing a stray curl behind your ear, and wiping away the tears now gathering in the corner of your wide eyes, Max gently murmurs No, schatje. He was going to marry you.

Shock courses through you, as you gasp at his unexpected confession. But then everything is going blurry, and the last thing you remember is his ocean blue eyes, looking into yours with their familiar warmth and intensity. The next time you wake up, you're in Max's private jet, somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea. You’re panicked, trying to angrily demand that he take you back, but whatever drugs he’d had given to you make your efforts futile. You’re slumping tiredly against his broad shoulders after a few minutes, his strong arms around you, falling into a deep sleep as he murmurs reassurances that he was doing this for your own protection.

And when you wake up again, he’s made sure that it’s goddamn near impossible for you to run away. Because he has you on a godforsaken large private island of the Sicilian Coast, a beautiful place surrounded by turquoise beaches and dotted with ancient temple ruins mixed in amongst trendy Italian boutiques. It’s the sort of place you would normally be enraptured by - but in the week you’ve been here you’ve been plotting escape attempt after attempt.

Of course, you’d argued with Max every night when he returned from whatever shady business he’d conducted during the day, taking his private plane. You put your law degree to good use with the heated debates over the dinner table as he watched you with an adoring grin, finding your ever present energy and passion captivating. It had made you flush and look away from his gorgeous eyes. You stabbed into the deliciously flavoured lobster pasta in front of you, hating how your stomach did backflips when Max looked at you in this way. Your heart and brain felt like they were at odds with one other constantly, torn between the gentle, cat loving Emilian you’d fallen in love with and this protective, commanding Max who you couldn’t deny your growing desire for. Confidence greatly suited the Dutch Leuw, who now came back to the mansion he kept you in dressed in a black suits and wristwatches that was no doubt worth the combined income of a middle class family. But at dinner, with just the two of you over the flickering candlelight each night, enjoying the Italian summer air, he’d be in those cozy soft tees and loose linen shirts you’d always liked because of how they showed off his broad arms. Meanwhile, you pointedly only wear the plainest and drab outfits you could find in the luxurious walk in closet you’d been given. You’d gotten shocked as you opened each drawer in the room, finding it filled to the brim with designer clothes and luxury bags and heels, all in your favourite brand and colours and with matching jewellery in gold - as if it had been curated specifically for your tastes. At least he had the decency to give you private living quarters, you supposed. One night over fresh seafood paella he teasingly asked if you didn’t like all the clothes he’d had ordered for you, schat, because he can have more delivered? You scathingly tell him to stop being such a stalker, did he even know how creepy it was to find all your favourite items in that closet when you’d never even told him about them?

Blue eyes darken at your bratty note, but you aren’t nervous of Max anymore - even through the Leuw of Holland had been notorious for terrorizing your hometown streets. You’d realised that for some reason or the other, you were more precious to him than you’d ever imagined. It made you hesitate and wonder if maybe there was some truth to the romantic feelings he’d confessed to having for you, the night of the Leclerc mansion bloodbath. Forgive me for wanting you to feel comfortable here, schatje Max responded coolly, drinking from his whiskey glass. You argue back that a girl couldn’t possibly feel comfortable if she was kidnapped and help captive by a man who had technically led to her family’s ruin. And if you expect me to get dressed up for you, so that you can have your way with me…you can forget it! You retort angrily, face flushing.

Now smirking into his palm, Max assures you that despite his reputation, he promises to be the perfect gentleman. He’d never lay a hand on you…not unless you begged him too, first. His cocky tone made it clear he thought you found him impossible to resist. The playful look in his gorgeous blue eyes makes you bite your plush lips as you remember the last time Max had placed his large palm on your very willing body in an intimate way. After all, you'd sounded so sweet when you kept moaning for more when you came on my fingers within minutes, remember schat? The blonde teases you, clearly also thinking back to the same night you were. Standing up abruptly, you hotly retort with a Last time, I'd also been asking for Emilian, not Max Verstappen, before dramatically flipping your thick curls and storming off. The Dutch Lion watches you go with an amused chuckle, once again enjoying the view of your curvy ass even despite the horrid pants you were wearing. Same man, schat! he calls out to your retreating back, to which you respond with a mannered middle finger in the air.

Your game continues like this over the month. As the days pass, you start to become more relaxed with Max. You still get flashes of the cold eyed Mafioso heir when you catch him on the phone angrily discussing a business deal, or when you spot a fleck of red on his pristine white designer shirts when he returns from being out. But your heart gets confused when you also see the gentle and caring Emilian when he's with you, who chooses to make your favourite breakfast every morning despite the full staffing in his mansion, who feeds and walks the dogs he has running around his gardens and plays with the snarky housecats. And when you'd woken up in the middle of the night crying in terror from the memory of seeing all those bloodied dead men in the Leclerc mansion, Max had been the one to hear your cries and storm into your bedroom. He'd taken you into his broad, warm arms, and you'd buried your sobs in his neck as he murmured reassurances of how you were safe now, you had nothing to ever worry about with him at your side. When you'd woken up the next morning, finding Max's toned chest underneath your cheek from where you'd both fallen asleep in your bed, a bit of your drool on his shirt, your heart swirled with conflicting emotions. You hated how safe and protected you feel in his embrace, knowing that this domestic bliss lifestyle with one of the most handsome and richest men you've ever met was something he'd kidnapped you for.

Still though, as you get more comfortable, you negotiate for more freedom with Max. You're an excellent lawyer, and now that you were temporarily out of your political position, you were going crazy sitting inside the mansion or walking it's beautiful gardens everyday. Max hadn't allowed you to go anywhere else without him at your side, his intense gaze eyeing any potential threat that approached the pair of you. Not that anyone did - the aura the Dutch Lion radiates was so powerful you kept wondering just how you'd thought he was some soft-spoken young citizen needing your help and guidance. So when Max reluctantly agrees to let you go outside without him - it's with the rule of 5 trained bodyguards at all times, of course. You roll your eyes but let them trail behind you as you terrorise the multiple designer stores dotted on the large island with Max's black Amex. It was the least he could do considering he had basically abducted you, you think with a smirk, as you watch the total at just the jewellery store alone add up to over half a million Euro. The Verstappen security guards nervously sweat behind you.

However, their boss has no such qualms. Max lets you spend his money however you wanted, thinking you were finally starting to accept his offer of marriage and coming under his permanent protection. So you surprised him a few weeks later when you finally made an escape attempt. The island was actually much bigger than you'd initially thought, and you found there was a small population of a few thousand elite, rich Italians living on the other side. That's where you headed too that afternoon, having picked a day where Max was away on business. You escaped the watchful eye of your bodyguards and ran towards the first policeman you saw. Confessing that you'd been kidnapped, and you needed help urgently to get back to Monaco where your father was Mayor, you'd been relieved when they guided you into their policecar with concerned looks. You thought they were going to help get you on a plane back to your hometown - but to your shock they drive you back the Verstappen mansion. With a sinking feeling you realised that the influence your captor had went beyond anything you could have thought possible.

You had barely managed to get away for an hour - in fact, Max hadn't even landed back in the island yet. When he did arrive that evening, having been told by his men of what you'd attempted that day, he strides into his private living room to find you. He dismissed everyone standing guard, and for the first time since you'd come here you note that he actually looked annoyed with you. You shuffle your hips nervously, from where you're seated on the low chaise. To your embarrassment, the policemen had even put a pair of handcuffs on you that Max's guards hadn't bothered removing, and they clink noisily in your lap. The handsome blonde towers above your seated figure, tilting your face up with his firm hand as he glowers at you. He's angry, and he lets you know it, telling you how stupid it was of you to compromise your safety like this, did you even know how hard it had been for him to find out when he'd been 3 hours away by plane and couldn't protect you!? Logically, you know that you should feel terrified of having pissed off a cold hearted man like Max Verstappen. But you're tuning his words out, instead biting your bottom lip at seeing him get so passionate over you. You couldn't deny that despite everything, the man in front of you was so attractive with his muscular, tall build and gorgeous light features - just your type, and the object of many a dirty fantasy in the last few months. Even after you'd found out his true identity as a Verstappen - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

But of course, Max's keenly observant gaze doesn't miss a thing. He sees it all - the way you press your thighs together, the delicious thickness easy for him to enjoy with the ridiculously overpriced Prada miniskirt you're wearing. So tiny that at this angle, with his much taller height, he catches a glimpse of your white lace panties - which are soaked straight through to reveal your dripping pussy. He smirks, knowing there was a far more effective way to punish you now. He gets his confirmation when he leans down to huskily murmur in your ear how much of a bad girl you'd been, how he clearly needs to teach you a lesson, thoroughly, so you don't disobey him again. You blush prettily, tits heaving with the gasp you let out as your eyes become dazed thinking about finally letting Max have his way with you, giving up all control and letting him take over, would feel like - after months of agonising tension.

He has you right where he wants, and he doesn't let you forget his promise. Not until you're begging me to touch you, remember liefje? he whispers darkly, his lips barely brushing your forehead as he leaves you pouting in frustration to go take a shower. He'd figured you'd angrily brood over his teasing for a few days, but when he emerges from the bathroom, he finds you sitting on his bed. Max looks especially mouth watering in grey sweats and dripping wet, tousled blonde locks and his broad, muscular chest. Rubbing your plush thighs together again, you hold up your handcuffs, innocently telling him you were only here to get free, nothing else, of course! The raw strength he uses to break the cuffs open with just his large hands has you holding back a breathless whine. God, this man was so insanely attractive, and you weren't going to be able to resist him much longer.

That's why you play back at this teasing game, making sure he's watching you with narrowed blue eyes and crossed arms, biceps swollen, as you strut through the shared door to your own bedroom. You leave the door wide open as you rustle through one of the many overflowing drawers - picking out a sheer La Perla pink nightie with matching lace panties. And when you nonchalantly hum as you make your way back to his rooms, shutting the lights off and leaving the warm bedside lamps on, you slip into his inviting comforter. He watches your whole show with a clenched jaw and unamused expression, telling you that you were playing with fire, schat.

You bat your thick eyelashes at him innocently, tossing your dark curls over your shoulder as you deny any mischief. Just in case I get any nightmares, of course! He doesn't buy it for a second, but still reluctantly slides in next to you. You remain on your best behaviour, reading a novel you'd picked out and ignoring Max, who was trying his best to ignore the skimpy outfit he knew you had underneath the covers and focus on the budgeting spreadsheet open on his laptop. After all, mafia gangs still had to keep track of their finances.

And then, just when he lets his guard down for a second and is typing away, you begin your revenge. Your book is tossed to the side and your manicured hands are running over your sensitive body, squeezing your juicy tits and rubbing your aching cunt through the sheer lace. The Leuw of Holland is left powerless for the first time in his adult life as the covers fall away, exposing your tempting caramel skin, contrasting with the pretty pink lingerie he’d bought for you. Your brown doe eyes are half lidded with desire as you watch him swallow at the tempting display in front of him, his hungry eyes honing in on the way you played with yourself. When he asks you what the fuck you were doing, his voice low and deep, you tease him more by saying he'd never said anything about you not being able to touch yourself, right? Maybe you’d let him touch you, too, if he was the one begging-

He growls like a literal lion, then, making you giggle as he watches you with a desperate look in his eyes that’s making you even more turned on. He gives up when you slip the sheer fabric down over your tits, showcasing your pretty tanned nipples that pebbled in the night air. Liefje, he groans, pressing his lips to your thick curls and his large hand to a rapidly hardening erection, please let me touch you, let me take care of you…

His husky voice sends shivers down your already warm skin, and you can’t deny your need for him any longer either. Wrapping a delicate hand around his much bigger wrist, you slowly guide him over your body, making his intense gaze go dark with desire. You brush his thick fingers over your pink lips, where you teasingly flick your tongue out and make him groan, then down across your neck so he can admire how pretty you look with his hand as a choker, then over your bouncing tits as you breathe deeply. He can’t resist pinching a cute nipple, this time making you moan, but it’s still not where you need him most. And then you’re guiding him over your soft tummy, over your plush hips, and then-

Oh, fuck schatje. Max's intoxicating, accented voice moans into your ear, making you drip even more for him. You’re so wet for me, this sweet pussy needs me to take care of it so badly, hmmm? You whine breathlessly, nodding impatiently as his long fingers brush against your swollen cunny. You’re dripping through your skimpy panties, which are practically stuck to you now. The attractive blonde next to you has no inhibitions about manhandling you easily, ripping the scraps of lace off and tossing the ruined hundreds of Euros to the side. Bringing your slick cunt to his lips, he licks them attractively as he stares up at your blushing face with hungry eyes. You stammer nervously, never having been eaten out before, but he couldn’t care less. He dips his skilled tongue into your soaked pussy, inhaling in your addictive sweet scent as you gasp and moan. His strong hands lock your rocking hips in position as he fucks you with his broad tongue, lapping up the sweet juices your cunny gushes out for him. You’re in tears from how amazing it feels, especially when he buries his large nose or a thick finger knuckle deep, and soon you’re intertwining your pink nails in his blonde locks as he once again makes you scream in name in pure pleasure. This time though, he’s much more satisfied because you’re desperately moaning his real name. Oh, Max! Please!

Days later, when you and him have formed a legal agreement of sorts, where you accept his protection against the ongoing threat of rival gangs and he agrees to let you resume your legal career, you fly back to Monaco with him at your side. He slid a hefty diamond engagement ring onto your finger, and you’re still shocked by how pretty it looks, glimmering in the light. Still, it was only temporary, you had no plans to actually marry the man. A union between the Princess of Monaco and the all consuming Verstappen Mafia heir who’d been responsible for stripping her city of its livelihood was a cursed match!

So when you excitedly run straight to your father’s home when you land, the Verstappen bodyguards in tow as per their boss’s instructions. You fling the doors open, shouting for your papa. The mayor of Monaco looks up in shock, thrown back a bit when you jump into his arms and tell him you missed him dearly, had he been keeping safe? He’d delighted you are safe of course, and tells you so numerous times over dinner, and then later when you two are poring over the city redevelopment plans. You’d been away for over two months now, and a lot had to be caught up with in your absence.

But when he continues that really, when he’d made the offer to Max he’d half expected to never see you again - after all, the Dutch Leuw of Holland was known to be ruthless. When you freeze, papers falling from your hand as you look at him in shock, he realises that your fiancée had never actually disclosed to you the circumstances under which he’d decided to make you his wife.

This whole time I thought he’d kidnapped me, like a madman…but really he was protecting me from you, wasn’t he? Because you were ready to sell your daughter off to whatever man would be the highest bidder? None of the pathetic excuses that come out of your father's mouth are enough to fix the trust that had been broken. Your heart had broken that night, and you’d left your family home and vowed to never look back, tears running down your face. Max had taken one look at you and taken you into his comforting arms, shushing your cries and murmuring that you were not alone, he was your family now, his home was now yours as well. Or rather, multiple properties, it might be more appropriate to say.

This time, you willingly return to the darkness, and you accept his offer of marriage, of protection, and of partnership, and he takes yours delicate hand in his when you walk down the aisle in a beautiful cream gown that same month. Like your now husband had noted when he'd first met you, you were a smart woman, the perfect wife to the likes of the heir to the Verstappen mafia. You understood that if the reigning government council couldn't resist the criminal takeover, it would be better to join them instead. But not with the pathetic bribing the Mayor had done, comprising his citizen's safety and then his own daughter's.

No, your style was far more ambitious than his. You'd gotten your fire from your mother, after all. So when the Princessa of Monaco married the powerful Verstappen heir, your citizens hadn't known what to expect, rumours flying of the whole thing being a forced arrangement. But when you and Max have eliminated both your fathers out of the way and claimed the city of Monaco for yourselves, you're quick to resume it's political redevelopment and advances in healthcare and education whilst running the largest drug smuggling ring in Europe in the underground canals. You had to get the funding from somewhere, and driving neighbouring gang's businesses into the ground to support your own local one seems a good a cause as any. This time, under your partnership, it's done in a much safer way for your citizens, and you firmly believe the means justify the ends.

And time passes in the now flourishing city. The handsome Dutch Leeuw is often seen out for lunch by the beach, laughing with his beautiful new wife in his arms. The power couple of Monaco, your citizens say, admiring your union of the darkness and the light.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: WHEWWWW this was a long one my dearest readers I am so sorry for the wait life has been crazy!! was a bit overwhelmed with work but max winning the sprint was enough to revive me thank you for waiting! lmk what you think! dark max simps do not worry I have many garbage pieces coming your way hehe

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #18+ mdni #mafia au #max verstappen x oc

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forlix · 1 year ago

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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excalibur-gone-missing · 7 months ago

Text

Paring: Tsukishima x fem reader

Requested: no

Genre: smut

Warning(s): cheating, unprotected sex, degradation

Summary: just smut

Word count: 837

Other works

Beta reader: none

a/n: I would greatly appreciate it if all of you could take a moment to comment on this fic. As an author, I find great value in your feedback, as it allows me to better comprehend my readers, and I thoroughly enjoy interacting with all of you. Constructive criticism is always welcome, so don't hesitate to talk about this fic or send me an ask.

[permanent taglist] [only for those interested, don’t fill the form otherwise]

Tsukishima knows you like him. He’s aware that given the chance, you’d let him take you to new heights, letting him make you see stars. I mean, he’s already experienced your passion firsthand, so there’s little to no one to stop him from seeking it again, except perhaps your boyfriend.

Now, don’t get him wrong. Tsukishima isn’t one to tolerate adultery, especially when one of his friends does it. But for you, he sure can bend some rules. It’s not as if he’s in love with you; no, you’re not the type of woman he could fall for. But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the intense pleasure he feels when buried deep inside you, releasing all his pent-up frustrations.

He’s aware of the fact that you love your boyfriend to death, despite all his flaws. As a matter of fact, he also knows that your boyfriend loves you just as much. Who else would forgive a cheating bitch like you over and over, even after she says she would change? Could never be him, but it doesn’t matter to him at all. All he cares about is getting his dick wet, and as it seems, you are one of the best pussies in the city, so why should he not use you to your full potential?

“Does your simp of a boyfriend have any idea that you are getting your insides rearranged by me right now?” Tsukishima taunts, thrusting into you with such force that it leaves your mind reeling.

“N-no,” you stutter, your grip on his shoulders weakening under the intensity of his movements. With a swift motion, he flips you over on the bed, positioning you to his liking, and plunges back into your slick, eager flesh, continuing his relentless assault.

“Can’t fuck you like I can, now can he?” he mocks, feeling your pussy clenching his cock like never before.

“N-no,” you barely manage to answer, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

“Tell me, who fucks you this good, huh? Who fucks you so good that you are fine with cheating on your bitch of a boyfriend, you whore?”

“You, Tsuki- ah-,” you manage to utter, your words barely coherent as he hits spots inside you with a precision no other man has ever achieved.

“Yes, you cheating whore, scream my name. Let everyone know who fucks you better than your boyfriend,” he groans as he slaps you hard on your ass, making you scream even more.

“God, you’re squeezing me so tightly,” he groans, his member throbbing inside you as your walls tighten around him, creating a velvety ring at the base of his shaft.

The sound of intense skin slapping fills the room, mingling with your wild cries of pleasure, making him almost come to the edge.

“Creaming my cock so well like the slut you are, gosh you are one of the best pussies I have had,” he says gripping onto your neck to cut off your air supply, as your insides start spasming.

Sensing that you were about to come, the man immediately went to rub your clit, making your body tense up even more. Without warning, you spill out on his cock, milking both of your juices.

It doesn’t take Tsukishima much longer to spurt his load inside you. With some more thrusts, he empties himself fully inside you. Plopping beside you, he slips his soft dick out of you and scoops the mixture of both your cums leaking from your pussy and makes you lick it off his fingers, as you whine because of overstimulation.

After some time, he chirps up. “This will probably be the last time we fuck. Yamaguchi wanted to set me up with this girl, and I don’t want to do this while going out on dates with her.”

You look at him bewildered, “but what about us?”

“Huh?” he asks, clearly confused.

“About us, Tsuki, what will you do about the fact that I’m not with my boyfriend but you?” you ask.

“Maybe teach him how to fuck you for real. Also, if you think I would be in a relationship with you, you are wrong. You cheated on your boyfriend! I don’t want that shit in my life; I would very much like my partner to be loyal, unlike you,” giving you a look of disgust he continues.

“I fucked you because you are a good booty call, and are always available, but it’s time you get your shit together and stop involving me in your problems, plus it’s better if we don’t talk anymore. I don’t want my potential girlfriend to get insecure because of our past.”

With that, he collects his clothes and is out of the apartment in seconds, leaving you rethinking the decisions you had made and what exactly brought you to this place you are. What turned you into this cheating, lying woman, so much so that the boy you had called your best friend for the longest time ever, now looks at you with disgust.

The end

#kei tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima x reader smut #haikyuu x reader smut #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader smut #hq smut #tsukishima smut #haikyuu smut #hq x reader #hq #haikyuu #haikyuu x chubby reader smut #hq tsukki #hq tsukishima #hq angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu tsukki

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titforatat · 11 months ago

Text

let me remind you (with sweet tears in your eyes)

posted here on ao3.

check out pt. 1! — check out pt. 2!

warnings: nsfw

coryo pov, under-negotiated kink, light bondage, dacryphilia, forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, fingering, cunnilingus, blow jobs, nipple play, pinv sex, coryo just needs to prove that he can fuck you right, overstimulation, porn with feelings, aftercare, simp coryo!

word count: 9,328 (i’m literally so sorry)

summary:

All jealousy is rooted in control. After you visit him at the office, Coryo’s determined to remind you that only he can bring you pleasure beyond your wildest imagination.

excerpt under the cut:

“Well,” Phipps breathes. “Panem’s most beautiful victor, before my very eyes. I never expected such a pleasure.”

Something clenches in Coryo’s jaw.

You laugh modestly, giving Phipps a neutral smile. “The pleasure’s mine, I’m sure.”

There’s an awkward pause before Phipps rushes on. “I’m Julius Phipps, the Dean of the Academy. It really is a pleasure to meet you.”

Another polite nod from you, along with your own unnecessary introduction. Everyone in the Capitol knows who you are. Coryo understands that, having been the driving force behind it while promoting you for the Games—but being faced with it in the aftermath makes him nearly nauseous with jealousy.

No, not jealousy, he tries to mollify. I have you, and he doesn’t. I’ve had you wrapped around my cock, dripping down my chin, clawing at my skin—not him, not anyone. Just me.

“How long have you been in the Capitol?”

Ice crackles underneath his skin. You shoot Coryo a small look and say graciously, “Not very long at all.”

“Well, I hope you’re enjoying our beautiful city,” Phipps replies. “I was gutted when Juno told me you wouldn’t be at this year’s opening ceremony. It seemed, for a while there, that almost no one knew where you were.”

Coryo’s on his feet suddenly, chair skidding across the floor. It’s loud enough to make Phipps jump. “What is it you needed to tell me, Dean Phipps?”

You take advantage of the interruption, gathering yourself quickly. “I’ll head back down to the car, then. Tigris and I are stopping by the fabric shop. It was nice meeting you, sir.” You shoot Coryo a plastic smile and tilt your head in goodbye. “Goodbye, Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus. It shoots through him like a bullet, and the grip he has on the edge of his desk goes taunt enough to make the wood creek.

Before you can fully escape, Phipps reaches out his hand for you. You give him your own, and with a bow, he presses a gentle kiss to the back of your hand.

Coryo’s teeth grind together, and he tries to stop seeing the world in red. I’ll have your entire family name disgraced, old man.

“Have a nice afternoon,” Phipps tells you. Echoing the sentiment as politely as you can, you dash out the door.

Like a man with a death wish, Phipps watches you go. When he turns back to Coryo, he has a gleeful look on his face.

“Even prettier in person,” he marvels. “I thought so during the Games, although she looked quite wild at the end.” He gives Coryo a lascivious, conspiratorial look. “That’s a District girl’s charm, though.”

Disgraced isn’t good enough. I’ll see this bitch hanged.

please check out this fic on ao3 using the link above! 💕

#coriolanus smut #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus x fem!reader #coriolanus snow x you #coryo x reader #coryo x you #coryo x fem!reader #coriolanus x reader smut #coryo x reader smut #coriolanus snow x reader smut

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hadesrise · 2 years ago

Text

meet the addams.

previous part.

summary ➳ the bat family meets the addams family

pairings ➳ jason todd x addams!male reader

warnings ➳ fluff, strong language, pet names, hesitant bruce, weapons, typical addams family behavior ( homicide, dark humor, weird, etc ), jason and reader being a simp for each other, the addams being wholesome as always, implied reader’s atheism (i think the entire addams are atheist tbh), mention of torture

author’s note ➳ wow, hades updated !! shocking, i know. i'm sorry for the long hiatus and inactive, i wasn't okay and it was difficult for me to write when my mind was in such a messed up state. mental health can be a bitch, you know :D i'm trying to recover, and went back on writing again. hope this was a good comeback.

Letting his family meet you hadn’t crossed Jason’s mind at all until that very day when his annoying older brother caught him by the ice cream truck buying a dark chocolate and a mint chocolate flavored ice cream.

Dick was on officer duty patrol in undercover civilian clothes that afternoon, walking around the streets of Gotham in hopes of catching some shady business going around the city or just someone doing a simple act that goes against the law, being a good police officer that he is. Though, instead of seeing criminals like he assumed he would, his most rebellious little brother dressed in bad boy-ish clothes as usual buying ice creams caught his eyes.

He was supposed to walk right past since there really is no reason to approach Jason, but seeing him sit down next to a mysterious, old fashioned, well-dressed, expensive looking guy in all black with sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose and give the dark chocolate flavored ice cream to? Now, Dick certainly can’t walk past without knowing about you because he’s a little shit who just can’t help but stuck his nose into his brother’s business. That and, well, he also found you really cool. There’s not a thing in this world that can stop Dick Grayson from wanting to befriend someone who seems cooler than the Dark Knight himself.

So, in all his glory, Dick approached Jason with his usual charming smile dancing across his lips.

“Oh, god...” Jason groaned in annoyance as soon as he spotted the grinning male, rolling his eyes. Peace seems to never be an option whenever he takes you around the city for simple walks.

“Jason, are you uttering your all father’s name religiously or simply as an expression as of the moment?” Your elegant yet soothing, deep voice speaks out a sentence composed of well thought words and syllables, innocent curiosity behind the gentle tone.

Dick takes a mental note that your way of speaking sounded similar to the way humanity used to speak centuries ago, when everything was still old-fashioned and technologies hardly ever existed. It made him feel like you came from the past, as if he was witnessing the existence of a time traveler. Stopping in front of you two, he gives you a charming grin as soon as your eyes catches his. A hint of curiosity and wonder flashed within them behind the dark shades of your sunglasses before they were gone in an instant, replaced by a questioning look instead.

“May I help you?” You simply asked, but Dick doesn’t fail to notice the sudden drop in your previously soft tone and the piercing, calculated gaze holding wariness as well as subtle suspicion.

“Sorry, I’m Dick Grayson. I was curious about the person Jay’s hanging out with, I couldn’t help myself but approach.” He elaborates himself while trying his best to ensure he wasn’t a threat through body language, relaxing his figure. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out a little.”

Recognition flashed in your face, brows raising only barely to show subtle surprise, “Jason’s older brother. The name’s (Y/n) Addams. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” You smiled, and even something just as simple as that looked graceful in Dick’s eyes.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, you were enchanting to look at as everything you do or say was captivating. How Jason managed to pull you was beyond him.

“Nice to meet you too,” He says back with a soft smile.

Even though his little brother hasn’t introduced you yet to their family, at least you seemed to know about them. Hopefully, nothing unpleasant has been said, but Dick doubts Jason would hide his trauma from you, considering how he was leaning to your side now subconsciously, as if being away from you will bring back awful memories.

He was worried about his practically traumatized-for-life little brother living alone, but it appears he didn’t have to worry at all.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” Jason more of grumbled, annoyed that your date has been interrupted. Almost automatically, one of your hands move to settle itself on his thigh to give it a gentle and soothing rub to ease his growing annoyance, while the other held your dark chocolate ice cream that you had begun eating with clean manners. He relaxed in an instant after feeling your touch.

“I think you should introduce (Y/n) to our family, Jay.” Dick suggests with enthusiasm that didn’t match Jason’s, not really answering his question. “They would want to know who you’re going out with. We can all have a dinner together!” There was excitement shining in his eyes as he shrugged his shoulders, trying to remain nonchalant despite his body language practically screaming excited.

Your lover groans, “Why the hell do they have to know who I’m going out with?”

Amusement crosses your face as you smirked, licking off the small bits of ice cream that got on your lips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that. I’m certain my family will be more than happy to meet them.” Jason gives you a look, to which you responded with an innocent smile. “Oh, mon amour. What could go wrong? I have been looking forward to meet your family, but you’ve never considered to bring me there. It’s a little concerning how you seem too hesitant to let them meet me.” You pout, feigning sadness.

Your lover widens his eyes, panic appearing in them as he gripped your hand that was on his thigh after realizing what you were implying. “That’s not what it looks like, babe! I just don’t want you to meet them ‘cause they can be a bit unbearable. Bruce is the worst person you could ever meet,” He scrunched his nose. “It’s not you I don’t want them to meet, it’s them I don’t want you to meet. There’s a difference. You’re never the problem.”

You chuckled at his quick attempt of elaboration.

Jason feels his cheeks redden at how deeply elegant and amazing your laugh sounded; it never fails to make his heart go haywire even after all this time. You manage to effortlessly make him fall in love with you deeper and deeper every day without even meaning to.

“Worry not, darling. I was just teasing you. I’m far from upset.” Reassuring him, your hand gently cups his cheek to rub the skin comfortingly. “Let me meet them once you’ve gotten rid of your doubts completely, my Jason. It isn’t necessary to rush.” You then let go of his face to push some of his hair away from his forehead before leaning back to continue eating the ice cream.

Dick witnessed a starstruck smile spread across Jason’s lips in an instant, the way his expression was so soft when looking at you, how his emerald eyes that usually held pent-up rage towards the world sparks brightly in love and adoration.

Huh. He’s never seen his brother this happy and content.

Maybe you are Jason’s one true love.

“Dick,” Jason calls out after watching you eat your ice cream with a barely hidden happiness. You looked happy to meet one of his family even though you haven’t said anything, and he was willing to throw away his pride if it meant making you happy.

“Hm?” Dick hummed, smiling when Jason glanced at you and looked back at him.

“Tell the others.”

That was all he needed to let out the excitement he was holding in, beaming at you two. “Right away, little bird!” He doesn’t waste a time to pull his phone out of his pocket, “I’m going then. It was nice meeting you, (Y/n). I’ll text you when!” He waved his hand and walked away, already dialling Bruce’s number.

Jason watched him go incredulously. “Did he just come here to convince me to introduce you?”

You chuckle under your breath, “Perhaps. Your brother has sorted out his priorities well.” However, a frown appears on your lips when you turned to Jason. “Do you genuinely feel comfortable letting my family meet them? We could always cancel, mon amour. There are many other fascinating activities we can bother ourselves with.”

Jason felt his heart swell at your gentle tone and concerned eyes, making him feel loved in many different ways. You don’t even realize that you’re slowly healing his troubled heart with simple things like this. He already knows you love him more than the Guillotine itself (which is a really big deal since nothing except him could ever beat your love for it) as you’ve always told him before, but the way you treat him, talk to him, and look at him just adds so much weight on your words. You don’t just tell him you love him — you show it in the most perfect, best, casual ways.

Intertwining his hand with yours, he brought it up to rest on his chest, hiding how overwhelmed he was with the love for you. “Like what, sweetheart?” Faint amusement laced his tone as he already knew the answer.

“Like slicing or shooting criminals, of course.” You winked before bringing your intertwined hands to press a kiss on his knuckles.

Jason laughs, and you admired the way he threw his head back to let the sound escape. “Knew you would say that!” He wheezed, before calming down to kiss your knuckles just like you did to his. “But it’s really fine, (Y/n). I want to introduce you and your family to mine.” His expression then turns apologetic, “ ‘m sorry if it seemed like I was keeping you in the shadows.”

You shake your head and leaned in to capture his lips in a peck, a gesture to let him know you didn’t mind. “If you were keeping me in the shadows, we wouldn’t be having a date out in the open where any of your family can see me. Don’t be apologetic, chéri. I’m nowhere near upset.”

Letting a smile break out, Jason leans in to kiss you more longer this time before pulling away.

Just like that, you both sat on the bench and ate ice creams in comfortable silence, holding each other’s hand.

Dick, Tim, Damian, Barbara, Cassandra and Stephanie all stood in front of the Wayne Manor with barely contained excitement, waiting for the infamous Addams family and Jason to show up.

Dick was mainly looking forward for his family to see the side of Jason no one had ever seen before, Tim was occasionally standing on his tiptoes to see if any car was nearing, and Damian was keeping himself still but his body practically trembled with excitement due to being a fan of your vigilante persona for a long time. Barbara had a smile on her face with a hint of nervousness, while Cassandra and Stephanie talked to each other to calm their nerves.

Even without research, the Addams family was quite the celebrity family in Gotham because of their richness that seemed to tie with Bruce Wayne, but moreover, they were rather infamous for being “weird” and gothic as those experts for minding businesses that aren’t their own paparazzi claimed. The Wayne family didn’t really need to dive into the deepest parts of internet in their computer; one newspaper — with the front cover of five people with gothic outfits standing in front of the big ass almost-castle-house — dedicated entirely to the weird family already helped.

Only thing they needed to research about was you, and surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to find information about your vigilantism — which is how all of them realized not only was Jason dating the person Damian idolizes more than his own father, but also the one who brutally tortured and straight-up dumped Joker into Arkham Asylum. Needless to say, it kinda made sense to them that Jason’s dating you, though Bruce wasn’t pleased.

The gates being opened to a black limousine caught their attention, making Cass and Steph break their conversation to watch the car drive closer before eventually stopping in front of them. A butler, who took them by surprise due to his seemingly inhuman looks similar to the Frankenstein monster, got out to open the door.

A man wearing a black suit with white stripes was the first to come out of the limousine as he smiles cheerfully at them, helping his wife to step out. Cassandra’s jaw dropped at the beautiful woman with black, long and silky hair who gives them an enchanting, almost hypnotizing smile.

Next to step out were a boy wearing black and white striped shirt and a girl who had her hair braided on two sides. The boy gave them an all too adorable friendly smile, but his sister only held a blank face as she observed each of the Wayne members. Finally, Jason got out together with you, all of them noticing your intertwined hands.

Your lover raised his brows, “Why are you all here?”

“Well, Bruce said we didn’t have to, but we wanted to welcome you here.” Dick shrugged, nodding at you. “Good to see you again, (Y/n).”

“Likewise, Dick.” You smile. “Greetings, ladies, gentlemen. The name’s (Y/n). This are my parents Gomez and Morticia,” Your parents greet them with a nod and friendly smile. “And my siblings Wednesday and Pugsley.” Pugsley waves his hand, enthusiastic to meet Jason’s family, while Wednesday crosses her arms above her chest and simply nods without a word.

Dick was grinning at your siblings because of their adorableness, not even the slightest bit bothered by Wednesday’s lack of emotion. Cassandra and Tim were gawking at Gomez and Morticia, how they seem so perfect and gorgeous, not only each on their own but together as well. Stephanie and Barbara beamed at you while Damian observed Wednesday and Pugsley, but there wasn’t any hint of malice or bad intention in his eyes — just curiosity. The Addams family sure are good looking individuals.

“Uh — hi,” Tim was the first to speak out of the Wayne’s, awkwardly waving his hand because of the fact he felt as if the Addams were ethereal beings due to their beauty. “You... You all look beautiful. I’m surprised.”

Wednesday’s brows raised as you tilted your head slightly to the side, looking confused. Morticia and Gomez exchanges a glance from not knowing what to say, while Pugsley smiled nicely at Tim despite the truth of being called beautiful feels like an insult. Yours and your family’s reaction immediately worried the Wayne children; none of you seemed pleased or happy with the compliment Tim gave, in fact, you kind of looked offended.

Seeing his siblings getting worried that they might’ve done something wrong, Jason clears his throat to catch everyone’s attention and successfully did so. “What he means is you all look deadly and loathsome. He wasn’t trying to offend you in any way, he just isn’t used to our ways of compliment.” He elaborated with a genuine look, and his siblings looked taken aback that he seemed really calm and gentle with you and your family. Jason have always had anger issues; his rage was explosive everywhere he goes and the main victims of it were criminals, but sometimes it was directed entirely at Bruce because of their unpleasant history.

He was never known as a calm person even in the family. Always seemed on edge, like a walking bomb that’s ticking every second, unknown by people how to stop it from exploding so suddenly. However, as Jason stands with you holding your hand tightly, his entire demeanor was almost completely different from what his family was used to. He was as calm as a wind that caresses the Mother Nature so softly in fear of disturbing her and as gentle as anyone who holds a little kitten in their hands — there was no ticking time bomb, just a soft man caring and pouring his heart and love out to his awesome lover. Jason looked comfortable around you and your family, extremely to the point that he hadn’t noticed practically calling himself an Addams. It made his siblings’ hearts swell with happiness.

“Oh,” Morticia sighed in relief, and even just that felt and looked so heavenly. “We’re sorry, my dear. We weren’t aware of that. I was afraid you found us tolerable.”

Tim chuckles, not really knowing what to say. He was visibly confused, though from what he was able to pick up on, negative comments seems to be taken as positive ones in your family. While most of them were confused just like Tim, Damian quickly understood how compliments worked within the Addams and smirked fondly.

Dick finally gathers his thoughts to clear his throat, “Well, let’s go in now, shall we?”

As your family nodded in sync, you turn to Jason while fixing your collar with the empty hand. “Love, do I look menacing? I have to look presentable when meeting your father. I despise looking good.” You stated, checking your outfit and trying to fix where you found unpresentable.

It’s rare to see you fidgeting and uneasy, making Jason smile. He knew you lose your composure only when it comes to him and it made him feel so loved, appreciated, and important. “You always look menacing, babe. Could scare off any children that passes by.” He compliments, bringing up your intertwined hands and kissing the back of yours.

The corner of your lips twitched up, squeezing his hand back as amusement and adoration shows themselves on your expression. “That’s very lovely. This is why I loathe you.”

The flirting between you and Jason was so natural that even Damian wasn’t affected by it — he’s mostly disgusted and cringed out when people flirt in front of him, but for some reason, Jason flirting with you didn’t bother him at all. Perhaps, because it isn’t a modern type of flirting where couples show disgusting amount of PDA or say things halfheartedly just to make their partner feel good, but rather, it’s one that uses old-fashioned yet romantic language which truthfully comes from the heart. You and Jason flirt with respect for each other, where neither of you objectify nor sexualize the other.

There was a clear unspoken understanding between you, which was shown in just this little flirtatious moment. The way you show your love for each other might be old-fashioned and out of ordinary in this modern day, but it’s honestly more romantic than any of the modernized ones.

“You two always flirt,” Wednesday spoke as she swiftly turned around to meet yours and Jason’s eyes. “It would’ve been more perfect if you were holding a human heart and giving it to each other.”

Barbara, Cassandra, and Stephanie all widened their eyes at her opinion — is she telling you to kill someone, take their heart out, and give it to each other to show your love? That wouldn’t be a romance anymore; it’ll be a dark romance.

However, you only shrugged your shoulders while Jason chuckled in amusement, as if that comment was as normal as seeing trees and nature everywhere. Neither of you were even concerned with what Wednesday said. “There’s precisely a possibility of that occurring, though it’s not yet now.” You responded calmly, as expressionless as Wednesday but slight amusement littered your tone.

The others tensed at your statement with the exception of Damian, who only smirked in pride, as they all remember the news of Joker getting dumped into Arkham Asylum by a vigilante that isn’t Batman. Like mentioned before, Joker was in a really bad shape when he was quite literally thrown into the Asylum, very visible signs of torture coating his body everywhere.

When Bruce visited, it was worse than how the media portrayed it to be. Tongue cut off, fingers broken and two missing, heavily concussed, several cuts along his face and body, and bruises covering most of his body parts. Worst of it all was that Joker didn’t seem like himself anymore; he does laugh — never had been a time when Joker didn’t laugh — but it wasn’t his typical laughter. All the mockery, self-confidence and cockiness weren’t there. Instead, fear and paranoia filled the laughter Bruce was so used to hearing. It was so uncharacteristic and very unlikely of Joker.

He’s finally put behind bars for good, but how the fuck can a vigilante absolutely destroy the Joker? He was indestructible yet you managed to break him so bad that his insanity got flooded with immense fear rather than the urge to kill everyone and everybody for no reason.

And as they stand in front of you now, none of them can even imagine how such a gentleman like you could’ve broke him completely. You seem so respectful, sweet, gentleman, and lovely that it’s almost impossible to believe you were the one who did it. But everyone should always expect the unexpected, right?

“Dick,” Jason’s voice snaps the oldest boy out of his own thoughts as he nods his head towards the door. “Let’s go in.”

The Grayson only hummed, turning around to open the door and gesture inside with his other hand, bowing a little to show respect. Morticia and Gomez smiled pleasantly and brightly, touched by his manners as they enter. Wednesday followed next with a usual expressionless face, and Pugsley said “thank you” first before entering, then Jason pulled you along with him at last. The door closed behind Damian who was the last to enter.

“Welcome,” Bruce immediately greeted as soon as all of your eyes met his, and your parents doesn’t hesitate to smile respectfully and kindly at him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne.” Gomez steps forward with his hand extended to shake Bruce’s hand before gesturing to his wife standing beside him. “She’s my wife Morticia and these are my children. Perhaps, you already know about (Y/n)?”

Bruce’s unreadable gaze shift from your father to you, attempting to figure out your characteristics by just looking. However, despite the nervousness you’re feeling, you didn’t fail to compose yourself and appeal confident with the usual emotionless expression on your face. Your gaze sparkling darkly under the light made him feel uneasy somehow, as if you knew all of his dirty little secrets and his entire characteristics as well as personality and attitude without analyzing that much.

Truth be told, you heard Bruce’s attitude from Jason when he opened himself up to you. Your Beloved was extremely traumatized by what happened with Joker that it affected the way he saw the world; it should’ve been that way too with Bruce because he’s Jason’s adoptive father — yet what really happened was the complete opposite.

Bruce may not have had an ill intent of dismissing or ignoring what happened to Jason, but to continue living like Joker didn’t kill his second son made him unlikable on your list. You’re a very respectful person as Gomez and Morticia didn’t raise you to be an awful entity, and you would never want to go against your lover’s adoptive father — although, that does not mean you accept his morals.

Hiding the unsettled feeling building up in his stomach, Bruce attempts to smile at you and shake your hand. “So you’re (Y/n). I’ve only ever heard once about you.”

Only the corner of your lips twitched, a barely formed smile appearing as you shake his hand, eyes still piercing through him like a dagger. “And I’ve heard a lot of... things about you, Mr. Wayne.” The calculative tone in your voice set an alarm within Bruce’s head and he would’ve pulled his hand away from your grasp if it wasn’t for his conscious mind forcing himself to calm down. “Be not afraid — You’ll see no judgement here.” You gave him a pointed look.

Jason quickly goes behind you and wraps an arm around your waist, the soft look on him being noticed by everyone present in the room. “Babe, let’s have dinner first. You’ll absolutely love Alfred’s cooking. They’re hella tasty.” He compliments, winking at Alfred who stood at the side. Alfred smiled with gratitude.

Bruce notices the way a small bit of light shine on your dead-like eyes as soon as you looked at Jason. “Well then, may we?” You shift your soft gaze from Jason to Bruce as you tilt your head slightly to the side.

From then on, the peaceful dinner began with mainly your parents and Bruce sharing thoughts about their own children while the others watch with a smile as Damian starts a conversation with you, the one he idolizes the most. It’s surprising to see Damian being really talkative — for the first time ever, he was being an actual child, asking you questions after questions with his eyes sparkling in joy. Not wanting to ruin this seemingly precious moment for Damian, everyone just decided to listen and chime in only once in a while when they feel like it. You were extremely patient with Damian the entire time he was bombarding you with questions, answering all of them without getting annoyed.

Jason felt relieved to witness the dinner going smoothly.

Truth be told, he was secretly worried about it turning into a disaster due to your vigilantism — Jason knew how Bruce felt about you after realizing you were the unnamed vigilante that nearly killed the Joker, and he thought Bruce would bring it up right away soon as dinner started. Luckily, he didn’t. It made Jason sigh in relief and relax on his seat, smiling as he watched you talk with his siblings.

However, perhaps it was too soon.

“(Y/n), how long have you been a vigilante?”

Jason immediately froze at Bruce’s question. The chit-chatting within the dining hall quickly falls into silence as everyone, too, froze — except the Addams family, who were still eating calmly and quietly, unbothered.

You first swallowed the food you were chewing before wiping your mouth elegantly with a napkin and not even hesitating to meet Bruce’s piercing eyes. “Since I was a child, Mr. Wayne.” You answered simply.

Bruce leans on the table, taking it slow. “Why did you become one?”

You felt Jason squeezing your hand under the table, as if to say you don’t have to answer everything. Though, you still did. “One of our ancestors was a vigilante, although he was hanged alongside his wife’s burning body when a rumour spread that she was a witch. He’s quite the legend within our family, you see.” Dick, Stephanie and Barbara’s jaws dropped. “I could say I was inspired by him. Although the sole purpose of my vigilantism is to bring justice to those who were rejected, neglected, and ignored by our unpleasantly ridiculous, worthless justice system.”

Feeling nervousness radiate off of Jason from how he squeezed your hand even more strongly, you gently hold and knead his hand to give him relaxation. After he stopped squeezing and slightly calmed down, you readjusted his hand so your and his fingers would intertwine with each other. You could feel him staring, but you never avoided eye contact with Bruce.

“To bring justice...” The Billionaire trails off meaningfully, as if it was something he wasn’t expecting to hear from you. “Was that your way of bringing justice?” The sharpness in his tone clearly gave everyone an idea of what he’s talking about.

However, despite the tension thickening and Bruce’s eyes narrowing in judgment, you kept your composure with an expressionless face, nerves surprisingly as calm as water flows. There wasn’t anything you were feeling at the moment, just the patience you need to deal with Jason’s shallow-minded father.

“I’m most definitely certain yours and my understanding of justice varies.” You immediately responded without missing a beat. Bruce’s eyes pierced through you, but your (e/c) eyes were much worse. It was reading him thoroughly, looking into his soul, his mind, feeling as if you knew everything.

“Though, I must admit for everyone’s knowledge, just so no one is left unaware — I tortured Joker not to seek justice for my lover, but to feed my vengeance and urge to revenge.” Your dark eyes glinted in amusement under the lights as the confession slips from your mouth with no restraints, like you’re just talking about nonchalant things. That’s not the only thing that made a cold shiver run down everyone’s spine; it was also the way your supposedly expressionless face completely shifted for the first time only to form a dark, prideful, egotistical look, accompanied by a smirk which obviously stated you weren’t regretful.

Now, there’s no way Bruce would take it lightly.

Sensing the events had turned out more worrisome, Jason tries to tug on your intertwined hands. “(Y/n), sweetheart, we should—”

Your cold gaze avert towards him, and it softened only a bit. “Apologies for interrupting you, my love, but leaving our dinner without finishing them would be disrespect to the person who cooked them for us.” You placed a gentle kiss on the back of Jason’s hand to assure him. “Worry not so much. Your father and I are only getting to know one another.”

As soon as your cold and piercing eyes returned to him, Bruce immediately feels an unsettling feeling in his gut as his heartbeat quickens. He could see it’s easy for you to deal with him or this kind of confrontation — the dangerous thing he noticed about you is that you never lose composure and patience regardless if the situation at hand benefits you or not. The only time you’ve probably ever lost your collectedness was with Joker, whom you actually had every right to get absolutely livid at. You love Jason more than words could ever tell, Bruce can easily see that, but your actions not lining up with his morals made it difficult for him to accept you willingly.

While the Addams simply minded their own business by continuing to eat, the others couldn’t find it in themselves to act like there was no tension rising in the air. They knew this confrontation was coming, but witnessing it unfold before their own eyes isn’t easy. Most of them had to swallow the lump that formed in their throat, with Damian being the only one who isn’t nervous in the slightest.

“Mr. Wayne, I have a deep understanding of your morals and the regulations you’ve set in this home... how none of your family is allowed to kill criminals.” You stated with a smile that was barely visible, though respectful nonetheless. However, it instantly vanishes. “But I must remind you one thing — just because you believe your morals are correct does not make it righteous in any way.”

That certainly struck a core in Bruce.

“We, humans, are incapable of finding the correct morals that all of humanity would agree on. You may believe your morals are absolute and there could be a wonderful soul who has developed the same belief as you, but it would never be everyone.” Your hand gracefully gestures to the people in the dining room to emphasize your point before it comes to rest on the table as you intertwine it with your other hand. “You see, humans are not humans without distinctive differences, and pushing your own standards on others likely causes more harm than it should help put them in control.”

The way you’ve said every word with such grace and elegance was nothing but fascinating as everyone found themselves suddenly voiceless. Your every gesture and movement showed an exquisite manner no other human beings were blessed with, alongside your use of sophisticated language that silently told your high level of intelligence. Other than that, Bruce was speechless from how much your words contained truth and wisdom only a philosopher has. He had never seen nor met someone so wise as you.

Perhaps, that’s why you’re so intimidating — every bit of your intelligence and attitude is your very own power no one else could ever have.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce clears his throat to find his voice and meets your eyes. “Are you implying I should accept how different yours and my morals are?”

“Precisely,” You answered without hesitation, sipping the wine Jason had poured for you when the dinner started. “My morality is concerned with the victims, not the perpetrators nor myself. Your morality is concerned with your inability to control your murderous urges when committed.” Bruce inhales sharply, making your eyes glint since he proved you right.

Gomez and Morticia smile to themselves as they felt proud of how you’re always able to point out things others usually don’t or can’t. Despite your brutal honesty, there is clearly respect within the way you speak to Bruce, which is why neither of them stopped you from defending and proving yourself. Helping you was not in their options; they knew you can handle yourself perfectly fine with the number of times you’ve put people in their place physically or verbally.

“(Y/n), baby... It’s okay,” Jason quietly attempts to stop you, knowing those words were intentionally spoken to strike a nerve in his non-biological father.

He knew how your blood boiled when you found out Bruce didn’t kill the Joker because of his ridiculous morality. He can still remember the way your eyes always darkened at even the slightest mention of Batman or Bruce Wayne. It took two years for you to overcome your wrath on the billionaire before you went after the Joker.

Before you could respond to your lover, Bruce caught your attention again with a simple question — “Why did you do it?”

You look back at him, seeing him staring at you and waiting for an answer. The corner of your lips lifted. “Well, wouldn’t we do anything for love?” Bruce's brows raised at the warm look on your face, not knowing your face was capable of making such expression. “No one hurts my soul and live freely without heavy consequences.” You shrugged, looking heavily smug.

Wednesday scoffed, “You should’ve just put a curse on him. It would have saved you all the trouble and exhaustion.” She looked at you as if what you did was the most incorrect thing in the world.

“No, should’ve electrocuted him!” Said Pugsley with a grin. “It didn’t make me insane when Wednesday did it to me, but it could break his mind.” Everyone’s face shifted into a look of shock at the sudden revelation.

“Now now, children.” Morticia interrupts, “What (Y/n) does to his enemies should be decided by him and him only. You don’t decide for (Y/n).”

“Well, Joker hurt Jason and he’s our brother. Nobody hurts my brothers and lives.” Wednesday responded immediately with empty eyes seeking vengeance, stabbing the steak with a fork and making Dick, Tim and Stephanie flinch.

You threw a knife at her with a single flick of your wrist, just narrowly missing her face, stabbing the wall behind her. She doesn’t flinch and instead gives you a look, which you ignore and reach for another knife to cut your steak with. “Manners, Wednesday. If you wish to stab something, search for someone that would be worthy of it, not a supper.”

“You missed on purpose,” Wednesday complains, annoyed.

You sarcastically smile, “Perhaps, I wouldn’t intentionally miss again if you’re respectful towards a supper.”

She glared, “Miss again and I’ll dump you in a paint full of pastels.”

You just rolled your eyes at her tactics while Jason bursts into laughter, knowing how much you and your family hate pastels. To the Addams, pastels and joyful people are the most insufferable matters in the world. There’s nothing you all hate more than that.

His father and brothers couldn’t believe what happened in front of them. None of the Addams, even Jason, cared that you just threw a knife at Wednesday. In fact, your parents were far from concerned as they only watched with warm smiles on their faces, because truthfully that was just you and Wednesday bickering. It’s nothing serious although others might disagree.

“Apologies for our children, Mr. Wayne.” Morticia says casually after Wednesday had returned to eating her dinner, making Bruce turn to look at her. “They’ve always bickered even when they were just a child. (Y/n) and Wednesday in particular, they liked to attempt burning each other alive ever since hearing the story of one of our ancestors who got burned at the Salem Witch Trials. Children love those stories, you know.” She places a hand on her chest, right above her heart, smiling at her children.

“Wait, hold on— You tried to burn each other alive?” Dick was the one who questioned what everyone couldn’t find their voices to ask about, too shocked and horrified that attempting to kill each other seems so natural and normal within the Addams family.

“Yes, for the record.” You answer without looking up. “Being burned alive is classified as the most painful, agonizing way to die, which is why it had been the perfect punishment for those who were accused of witchcraft in 1692 and 1693. My sister and I were intrigued to see whether this was a fact or just merely false information, so we would always attempt to burn each other in hopes of discovering the truth.”

“Funny thing is, they never did.” Jason cackles as Wednesday shot him an unamused look. “(Y/n) still wishes he could die being burned alive, though.”

The corner of your lips merely twitched in a soft smile as you kissed the back of Jason’s hand affectionately, eyes closed. “Have I ever mentioned I want you to do the honor?” You say with such a loving and adoring tone that Jason felt his heart swell, knowing this is somewhat a proposal that only an Addams would understand.

It was a traditional Addams way of showing they love the person rather than wrapping it up in just three words that rarely comes from the bottom of one’s heart. You would die for him, and only he could bring your ultimate demise, no one else. You were offering him your heart and soul, as well as life, permitting him to hold and treasure it for the rest of your lives. It was an implication that you would dedicate your life to him with nothing in return — you will do everything for him. It’s easy to kill — you’ve nearly done it with the Joker — but it’s not easy to live and die for him, but you will and you would.

Feeling overwhelmed with all the love you endlessly give and show, Jason couldn’t help but hide behind his empty hand in an attempt to hold his tears in, always being emotional whenever he gets the love he doesn’t think he deserves. But he does. You’ve never failed to show him he deserves everything you offer. God, how did he even end up with you? You’re so good to him, so loving and giving, Jason didn’t even expect you’ll be like this back when you two were just strangers building friendship. Jason can’t let you go anymore, and he would never even if you asked him to. He loves you just as much as you love him, although yours seem bigger than his.

The Wayne family witnessed Jason, the usually insufferable Todd who thrives off of violence, cry at the mere love and affection his lover gave. Jason was crying because you reminded him of how significant he was to your life. The big bad wolf, the ruthless Red Hood, the boy who had an immense thirst for vengeance, the boy whose blood is filled with utmost rage towards the world, was crying at the simple showcase of love.

And that’s how Bruce — no, his entire family — knew they failed to love him enough.

But they don’t have to make it up to him anymore. They can’t, because you’re already showering him with love and adoration and appreciation and everything he deserves. You did everything what they were supposed to do — what Bruce was supposed to do.

“Oh, mon amour...” You let go of his hand to gently hold his face with both hands, kissing away the tears that overflowed from his eyes. Jason stayed still, relishing how good you are, how soft you treated him as he gripped your gentle hands. Once you’re done kissing his tears away, he buried his face into your chest while wrapping his arms around you, embracing tightly. You kiss the top of his head, caging him in your arms as you gently run your fingers through his hair.

Jason closes his eyes within your embrace, inhaling your calming scent mixed with a cooling hint of cologne. It’s funny how you’ve always associated yourself with death and darkness, yet for Jason, your mere presence is a light at the end of the tunnel that makes him alive every day. “Thank you, (Y/n)...” He murmurs into your chest, barely audible, but heard by you nonetheless.

You gently scratch his scalp, not caring about your meals and attention solely focused on your lover. “For what exactly, chéri? I have not done anything for you to give me such gratitude, at least not that I remember. I have only been attempting to drown you in my love and affection, haven’t I? Are they worthy of your gratitude?”

He chuckled, “You know damn well they are.”

You tilt your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “Even so, do you truly believe it’s significant for me more than just your presence?” Jason slowly looks up at you, his mesmerizing eyes meeting yours, before shaking his head quietly. A satisfied look crosses your face at that, “There you go. It isn’t difficult to figure out now, is it?” Jason shakes his head, burying his face into your chest once again.

As you continue to comfort Jason, Damian stares at the sight with a weird look. “Todd is extremely quiet when he’s around (Y/n). It’s... weird.”

Dick nudged him, “Hey, let him be. Jay’s probably just very comfortable with him.”

“It’s still weird, though.” Tim insists.

Barbara and Stephanie watched with smiles while you kiss Jason’s forehead, too willing to accept you despite finding your family quite strange. People have different traditions and cultures anyway; they figured yours are just too extraordinary and unusual that don’t fit society’s standards. Being different doesn’t matter when it’s clear that you love Jason too much, in your own special way.

Cassandra glances at Bruce, who seemed to be in deep thought. “I don’t think you have any other choice but to accept him.” Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts, “Look at them. They’re very much in love. More than in love, I’d say. It looks like they were meant to be with each other. Like destiny’s the one who wrote them together.”

Bruce looked at the two of you, who obviously saw nothing but each other in your little world.

“Besides, he basically called bullshit on your morals. And you know all too well he’s beyond right.” Cassandra smirks, “I hope your pride doesn’t get in the way of welcoming a new member, dad.”

Bruce sighed.

Well, it’s inevitable that you’ll be a member one way or another. Cassandra was right about that, and although he didn’t want to admit it, Bruce knew he accepted you the moment you stood up against him. It’s not always there’s someone who is brave enough to speak up against the Bruce Wayne.

Though, he may have to teach you not to strangle literally every single person who mess with Jason.

2K notes · View notes

pajarinwrites · 2 months ago

Text

中秋节 | Wen Junhui x Reader

➳ fem!reader x jun

➳ wc: 6.1k

➳ TAGS: idol!au, established relationship

➳ WARNINGS: omg um, cunnilingus, jun is a SIMP, piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it, my dudes), praise, just general adorable lovey dovey softness, but like medium rough sex? ig, not really rough?, i never know how to write warnings, just like i don't know how to write smut woops sorry

➳ AN: HAPPY MID AUTUMN FESTIVAL BITCHES and 女王们; this is only moderately edited bc i actually meant to publish smt for 中秋节 last year but i didn't finish it in time so here it is now (I’m sure it’s still autumn festival somewhere in the world…)! I LOVE WEN JUNHUI

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE SMUT I HATED THIS AHHHH i don't think i'll ever be able to write any smut in which the man isn't a simpering, whimpering, submissive, cowering, crawling, obsequious little simping piece of trash; it's just how i like my men, but i kinda wanna challenge myself some time, not this time though :P also i'm low-key proud of this smut? i used miraclewoozi as an inspiration bc their smut is literal art...

also, literally three pieces in one week??? WHO AM I??? this is more than in the entire year before combined, i fear lmao. sorry. i'm off to return to hibernate in my bog for another six months now thx bye, RIN OUT *drops mic

masterlist

Jun stepped out of the airport into the sweltering heat, but had to find that merely knowing the weather conditions was quite different from being prepared for them. Luckily, he had left enough space in his carry-on to take off the jacket and sweater that he had needed in chilly Seoul and during the flight – airplane ACs were notoriously unpredictable. Despite this, Hong Kong never seized to amaze him with its constant warmth. At least the eternal sunshine gave him a good excuse to wear a cap and sunglasses at all times.

He flagged down a cross-border cab because, frankly, he didn’t feel like taking the crowded metro all the way home. This way he saved himself from a lot of heat, hassle, and the potential of being recognised, even if it delayed him. As expected, the traffic in the city was a nightmare and he did make it home later than strictly necessary. He paid the fee, dodging the driver’s interested gaze, and mumbling a small “mh gōi” before dashing into his building.

When he was finally standing in front of his apartment door, Jun felt ready to just lock himself in his room for the rest of the night. That was, until the door opened to reveal his parents and little brother. Immediately, his frown softened and he dropped his bags to engulf them in one enormous hug.

“I missed you guys so much,” he exclaimed to groans from his little brother and a soft smile from his mother.

This was most likely going to be the last chance he got to spend more than a day or two with them. With their world tour and his busy filming schedule just around the corner, he wouldn’t have time for months.

Jun had spent years of Zhōngqiūjié apart from them. It wasn’t easy to watch most of his members be able to visit their homes and spend Chuseok with their loved ones. Some years it was only him, Minghao, and Joshua in the dorms. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that. Not when he could finally hold the people he loved the most in his arms. Well, most of them at any rate. He would never get used to having to choose between his biological and his chosen family.

His mother peeled herself away from him, squeezing his cheek and insisting that he had grown even more handsome over the last few weeks. His step father clapped him on the shoulder and asked him about the flight; his brother asked if he had brought him anything cool. Unable to stop smiling for even a second, Jun assented to both questions. He was led to the living room by his mother to sit and relax after the ‘strenuous journey’, giving him a moment to fish the presents out of his luggage, handing one off to his little brother.

“Thanks, gē!” YangYang exclaimed and bounded off to his room to open it in peace. Their mother called after him, “Don’t forget to do your homework before playing! Dinner will be ready in an hour!” Jun smiled, handing his parents the other one.

“You shouldn’t have! I keep telling you we don’t need anything.”

“But I want to get you guys nice things, mā.”

She looked trapped half-way between smitten and resigned, but accepted the present gracefully. With a kiss on the top of his head she stated, “You can rest a little before I call you boys for dinner. I’m making your favourite.”

He thanked her, foregoing the idea of retiring to his room in favour of joining his mother in the kitchen. Most of the ingredients were already laid out on the counter, but when she bent down to pick up something from the bottom shelf, she gasped, “I can’t believe it! Where did all of our rice noodles go? I don’t think this is enough. And I also forgot to buy bamboo shoots earlier!”

She turned around, apologetically, and murmured about having to go to the market real quick to get some. Jun held out his hand to stop her in her tracks.

“Don’t worry, mā. I’ll go get the missing ingredients, and you can get started on the other dishes.”

“No let me go, Jun. You’ve just had a taxing flight and—“ His step-father tried to intervene.

“It’s absolutely no problem!” Jun insisted, not paying his parents’ protests any mind. He grabbed his sunglasses from the side table by the entrance and was out the door before either of them could stop him.

Jun had missed their shèqū, its homely atmosphere, the bustling of the people on the street, and hence didn’t mind the opportunity for a late-night stroll. The closest super market was just down the short road at the main square, and he stopped by quickly before continuing on his way to the live market.

There was a certain nostalgia in going to the market like this, just the way he used to with his mother when he was younger. The stalls didn’t even seem to have changed at all. There was the same group of old ladies dancing in the small park to the side, and a little further down the road, a small group of children was taking turns, performing on a gǔzhēng. Jun watched the windows of his old piano school pass by, still partially lit as students practiced inside. At the corner of the next street was the second-hand book store they had often visited, next to the pharmacy in which he used to sit on the kiddie rides for ages, singing along to jiātíng chēnghu or liǎng zhī lǎohǔ.

Still lost in nostalgia, he stopped by one of the vegetable vendors to acquire the bamboo shoots. Jun enjoyed strolling the aisles leisurely, taking a look at all the things that were being sold. As he rounded one of the displays, someone else was cutting the corner in the opposite direction. Jun barely managed to dance out of the trajectory of them, murmuring an immediate, “Sorry, are you okay?”

He pulled down his sunglasses and looked at the person in front of him in worry. They looked up, locked eyes with him and whisper-screamed, “Oh my god! Wen Junhui?”

Jun was taken aback for only a split second, which he spent worrying he had been recognised, before he could place your face. He hadn’t seen you properly in years, just another name on the long list of people he had to leave behind. The last time you had run into each other had been during Rock With You promotions, when Minghao and he had taken time for their own schedules in China. His eyes crinkled in the corners but he still didn’t dare to take off his mask.

“It’s been so long!” He said instead. You had pulled him into your arms within a second, just a quick squeeze before remembering where you were. You pulled away, pouting, “You didn’t tell me you’d be back.”

“Sorry, it slipped my mind. I also didn’t think I’d have enough time to meet you. Not properly…”

You wiggled your eyebrows, “What does that mean?” Jun blushed, making you laugh. “I’m kidding, A-Jun. But I’m glad we ran into each other. I mean, what are the odds!”

“I didn’t even know whether you still lived here,” he admitted, sheepishly. But Jun wished profoundly that you could feel how earnest he was being. You didn’t actually seem to mind his failure to alert you of his arrival, despite your history. Instead, you continued in your usual chirpy manner, “Yeah, I managed to find work close by so I could stay here. But I’m here here just for the holiday. Staying at my parents, you know.” Jun nodded, accompanying you to the register under more animated chatter.

“Do you have to get anything else?” You asked after you had stepped out the open market. He negated, returning the question.

“Me neither,” you replied, hesitating shortly before continuing, “I guess that means we’ll have to part ways again…”

The way your voice trailed off and your eyebrows knitted together made Jun reply before thinking better of it, “Actually, I think my mā can wait for these bamboo shoots a little longer…” You face lit up with such intensity and immediacy that Jun had to chuckle.

“In that case let’s take a stroll through the park. I’ve been keeping up with Seventeen obviously, but I want to hear from you, personally, how you’ve been doing.”

Falling into step beside you felt so easy. Together, you walked the same paths you did when you were teenagers, talking about everything and anything – back before he had to leave for Korea. He talked a lot about the shoots, dorm fights and misunderstandings, and how much he had missed his mother’s cooking. You winked, asking whether he hadn’t missed you at all, and he couldn’t string together a coherent sentence in reply. Instead he sputtered for a few seconds before you let him off the hook.

“It’s fine. I was joking, Jun. Oh, look!” Jun was glad for the distraction as he watched you hurry of to the pavilion down the path. If you hadn’t changed the subject he might’ve said something stupid. But when you spun around to face him under the colourful roof, with the small pond and the bamboo in the background, he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t say something stupid yet.

He was sitting next to you, listening to you rant about your catty co-workers, absent boss, and the general annoyances of adulthood, unable to stop himself from grinning like an idiot at the familiarity, the ease of the whole situation. At some point he shot his mom a text to let her know that he ran into you and to eat without him. She simply replied that he should take his time, but he felt like she was secretly glad to have the two of you reconnect. Your conversations veered from family to old memories together until eventually, when the sun had set almost completely, you got up abruptly.

“I should get back. My mom wasn’t expecting me back immediately but at this point she’s probably wondering if I’ve gotten lost.” Jun nodded, getting up with you and stepping out of the pavilion. You threw one look back over your shoulder before smiling down at your shoes.

“I don’t know if you remember but… this is where you said goodbye…” Jun blinked slowly before the memory registered. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t immediately thought of the day he went to Korea, the last day he spent with you, the day he missed his chance to say so many things he had wanted to say.

“Oh,” he breathes softly, “yeah, I remember. But it’s not a very fun memory.”

Jun decides to look anywhere but you, at the trees lining the road home to his apartment building, the birds flying overhead, the children playing across the street.

“I have to agree. But I’m glad to have you back now. Even if it’s just for an afternoon.”

“Actually, you should visit tomorrow! If you want, of course. I don’t think my family would mind seeing you again after such a long time, and…”

He stops in his tracks. The two of you have reached the intersection at which your ways part. Jun turned to face you. The words were still stuck in his throat, just like all those years ago, just like every time he’s seen you since. But this time, with your hopeful eyes looking up at him, he takes a deep breath. This time will be different. He takes the leap.

“… and I’d also love to spend more time with you.”

You smile in reply, and agree to visit tomorrow. To say goodbye, you hug him again, and he feels like he’s floating all the way home. Maybe tomorrow he’ll gain the courage to tell you everything that he’s been keeping in his heart.

Their dorms were quiet, the shared living areas swallowed in darkness as Jun excited his room. He had been talking to his family via video call for the past hour or two, catching up and trying their best to celebrate Zhōngqiūjié together, even when they were physically apart. You had initially planned on joining the call, but there had been last minute plans that had kept you from it. Even though Jun understood, he had been able to help feeling a little crestfallen when you had told him about it. The two of you had made it work since he confessed to you a year ago, talking almost weekly on the phone because both his and your commitments kept you from visiting all too often. And since this year he couldn’t visit home because of the impeding comeback, he would’ve at least enjoyed talking to you on the holiday proper, instead of just during one of your regularly scheduled calls. Especially with how long it had been since he’d last seen you in person in June. To him, an eternity.

Vernon, Dokyeom, and Chan had returned to their families for the evening to celebrate Chuseok together, leaving the dorm deserted, save Jun himself. They’d all met up for lunch as a celebration before most left to go home. It was an effort by the Korean members to ease the homesickness of those that wouldn’t be able to see their families over the holiday. Seungkwan had ended up accompanying Vernon, while Joshua and Minghao decided to simply celebrate with each other, even though they hadn’t been lacking in invitations either. Jun had made the same decision. They had let him know they’d be out until the night but that he could join them at their apartment later.

Especially Dokyeom had had a hard time simply leaving Jun behind, but the older man had insisted that he was going to be fine, and that it would give him a chance to call his family in China. But coming out of his room and being greeted with a cold, dark apartment, made Jun question his decision. He sighed, contemplating for a second whether he should simply return to his room instead of feeling the hollow emptiness of their shared dorm. But before he could make a decision, the doorbell rang.

He wasn’t expecting anyone, so the sudden shrill of the bell surprised him. Maybe it was one of the members, back early. Maybe Minghao and Joshua had decided to surprise him at the apartment. But when he looked at the screen of the camera system, he was greeted with a sight wholly unexpected. His breath hitched as he looked at you, your eyes staring straight at the camera, a warm smile on your face. Jun buzzed you in, jittery with nerves as he worried you might disappear or he might wake up. You had been talking about your crazy workload and extra assignments for the past few weeks, how on earth were you here?

This has to be a dream, he thought, standing in the open door and waiting for the tell-tale ping of the elevator. When he heard it, he couldn’t even wait for you to round the corner. In slippers, he sprinted down the hallway to the lift, coming face to face with you as you were trying to heave your luggage out. Jun cast it aside, picking you up and spinning you around. He buried his face in the side of your neck, breathing in the scent of your perfume and your skin.

“How are you here?” He whispered after a good few seconds of spinning and listening to your tinkling laugh.

“Well, you know, I bought a plane ticket, went to the airport in Hong Kong, I got on a plane—“ Jun interrupted you by picking you up again, proclaiming his happiness while you insisted that he finally put you down. If he had been a better man, he might’ve listened immediately. As it stood, it took the two of you several minutes to make it the short way from the elevator to his apartment door, Jun stopping every few seconds to give you another spin or a kiss.

Once you had finally made it safely inside, he brought your luggage to his room, before returning to the shared space and staring at you in fascination. There you were, right in front of him, leaning onto the counters of his dorm’s kitchen as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“How did you know I’d be home?” He asked and you giggled, presumably at his flabbergasted expression.

“I kind of asked the members for help…”

“What? Who?”

In hindsight, he thought he should’ve expected this. There had been a curious lack of invitations extended to him this year. Especially considering that Joshua and Minghao were still invited everywhere. And, thinking about it now, the fact that the two of them had insisted on spending the evening ‘outside’ without Jun had also been more than a little suspicious.

“Almost all of them helped coordinate it, actually. They all had to be in on it to some extent.”

“When did you start planning this?” He asked, making his way over to you. One last time, he picked you up, setting you down softly on the counter. This time you let him do as he pleased without protest, choosing to answer his question instead, “Like a month ago or so. When it started becoming clear that you’d have no chance to make it home this year.” Jun hummed in response, stepping closer to stand between your legs. His arms found their place around your waist.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he murmured, resting his head on your shoulder and sighing deeply when he felt you wrap your arms around him. He wished you could stay like this forever, or at least for a very, very long time. You turned your head, whispering that you had brought yuèbǐng from Shenzhen with you and he nodded automatically. Mentally, he was still focused only on your presence, the fact that he got to hold you in his arms and use his thumbs to draw absentminded circles on your waist. If he hadn’t been so focused on your body, he would’ve missed the small hitch of your breath as he exhaled against the column of your throat. He smirked lightly, murmuring something along the lines of ‘we can eat them later’ before attaching his lips to the place where your shoulder and neck met. You gasped, more audibly this time as he sucked on the sensitive skin, following the line of your collarbone. You tugged at his t-shirt, whispering that you should move to his bedroom but Jun smirked against your skin, slowly pushing up your shirt. As he tossed it over your head, he whispered, “Don’t worry, we’ve got the apartment to ourselves all night.”

He smoothed his hands under your thighs, grabbing onto your plush flesh and cursing the layer of your pants for stopping him from feeling your skin. Jun pulled you closer, to the edge of the counter, so that he could finally feel you pressed to him again, making his hands wander back up. He placed them on your waist, gingerly at first, as if you were going to vanish into thin air if he didn’t handle you with enough care. He still wasn’t sure you weren’t a figment of his imagination how you were sitting in front of him, hair and clothes messy from your flight, but your eyes shining so brightly he thought you were the most ethereal being on this planet. But when you bucked your hips forward against his, all that restrain flew out the window. He slid his hands lower from your waist, relishing in every inch of skin he got to touch along the way, before he settled them on your ass, encouraging your motions even further. Your arms tightened around him, one hand finding its way into his hair, the other toying with the collar of his t-shirt before slipping downwards and below the fabric to caress his back. He groaned, moving one hand - albeit reluctantly – away from your hips to tilt your head to the side. He was overwhelmed with your nearness, the swell of your breasts pressed against him, the smell of your skin filling his senses, spreading through him, expanding into every corner of his consciousness until all he could perceive was your presence, your breath, your skin on his.

You kissed him with so much vigour that he felt light-headed, the sparkle of your eyes encapsulated him, as if he was floating in space, surrounded by innumerable stars, twinkling around him. In his weightlessness, your hands were caressing him, still. You dropped them to the hem of his t-shirt, tracing along the exposed skin there as the rhythm of your hips never faltered.

You broke away, Jun following your lips with a whine. He wasn’t yet ready to leave your cosmos, but you pressed a soft hand against his chest, tugging his shirt off. Jun, personally, would have preferred to resume kissing you breathless right away, but you had other plans. Your hands returned to his chest, covering the expanse of his pectorals, gliding over the ridge of his shoulder, caressing every centimetre of skin while tracing the muscles across his torso. Every touch left a tingling feeling, pulling him deeper and deeper into your gravitation. His head was thrown back in pleasure, his eyes screwed shut while he tried (and failed) to even out his breathing under your attentive ministrations. When your hands returned to his chest and you flicked against his nipples tentatively, his head dropped forward in defeat, colliding with your shoulder.

He was breathing more heavily than he’d like to admit, as if he really was slowly rising through the atmosphere, the air becoming thinner and thinner. His cock was painfully hard, you grinding against it deliciously with every roll of your hips. Separated by way too many layers, Jun thought dimly before tapping against your ass, signalling for you to lift your hips off the counter.

You complied easily, leaning back in a way that allowed him to strip you of your comfy leggings. He watched you shudder at the feeling of cool marble under your skin, goosebumps forming at the sensation. Reverently, he let his hands glide up and down your legs, watching you shiver again, just from his touch. He hadn’t even realised that he had lowered himself down until one of your hands grabbed for his hair and tilted his head back.

Ripped out of his reverie, Jun stared up at you, towering over him, backlit by the kitchen lights. If it hadn’t meant leaving your reach, Jun would have fallen to his knees right this second. In this light, you looked like a higher being, come to cast divine judgement on him, a final reckoning. Jun found he would have taken any verdict, as long as it meant preserving your attention. He would have obliged any command, taken any punishment with equanimity. He would have taken Prometheus’ place, if it meant he could bask in your presence for another moment. He would suffer any acrimony, any scorn, any tribulation, if it meant your gaze would continue to rest on him like this – zeroed in on his face, your expression soft with adoration. He didn’t have to fear any judgment. The only thing written on your face was love. It was mirroring his own, he was sure, from where he was pleading for you attention from between your legs. You wouldn’t let him out of your sight, your fingers tugging at his hair with purpose. He angled his head, a miniscule movement, just enough to allow him to breathe a kiss against the inside of your thigh, a fluttering promise of continuation. If you let him. You loosened your grip, and Jun took it as the invitation that it was. His path mapped over the fat of your thigh, spilling over his kitchen counters, up one leg, down the other. All the while, he didn’t break eye contact, watching your expression crackle and slip, pleasure and frustration mixing in even measures as you breathed a plea, “Qīn'ài de, you’re teasing.”

His breathing became uneven, for just a second, at the term of endearment. You didn’t need to spell out your request. He could see it in the rise and fall of your chest, the sounds sneaking their way past your lips, the shifting of your hips – almost involuntary. The vision of you before him blurred as he tried to hear the rest of your declaration over the rushing in his ears. Your legs twitched under his hands; he didn’t remember when he had moved them there. But now they were here, holding your legs apart, leaving imprints in your flesh where they pressed against you. Jun searched your face for any sign of hesitance, any doubt, but he found none. All he could find was a sense of desperation clawing its way up your throat, leaving a blooming blush in its wake.

He still continued holding your gaze when he pressed his mouth to your core, pushing his tongue against the wet spot on your underwear. You gasped a little, hands twisting in his hair, the slight pain grounding him in this moment. His hands continued kneading your flesh, wandering, in feverish haste, across every expanse of skin they could cover. Above him, you writhed and moaned, his name leaving your lips as if you were now the one praying. Your head had tilted back slightly, breaking eye contact. But Jun’s gaze never left your face, drinking in every expression as he pushed your panties to the side to gain proper access to your sopping core.

“OhmygodJun,” you breathed, head lolling to the side when his tongue swirled around your most sensitive spot. One hand moved from your ass to your core, probing at your entrance just to feel you clench around him, hear the sharp intake of your breath. You tipped backwards, resting on your elbows as his name continued to tumble off your lips into the still air of the apartment. Jun’s other hand moved upwards, taking no care in pushing your sports bra out the way to grab at your breasts, pinching your nipples intermittently. He watched your chest heave as he slipped two fingers past your entrance at once, his tongue lapping between them, desperate to taste as much of you as possible. Your hands kept pushing him closer and closer, until his every sense was filled with you. Your taste on his tongue, your panting breath in his ears, the plush feeling of your thighs around his head. He moaned against your core.

Jun felt your high approach, maybe knew it was coming before you yourself even did, the way he could read your body in this moment, with how every fibre of his being was honed in on you and your pleasure.

“Jun, bǎobèi, I’m…”

His hand slid down to your waist, squeezing reassuringly. Jun felt you constrict around his digits, your moans growing louder and more desperate. He kept pressing his fingers into that spot that had you squeeze around him, kept his mouth sucking on your clit, humming at the flavour of you, until you peaked. You came with a cry of his name that made his chest swell with pride. Your thighs shut around his head like a vice, your hand evidently torn between wanting to pull him away and push him closer. Jun remained pressed to your core, lazily lapping at your release until your legs relaxed and he gained enough freedom of movement to lean back and search for your gaze.

Even though he had spent minutes staring at the ethereal picture of you earlier, he was still taken aback by your beauty: your hair even messier, your face blushed, your eyes glazed over in the hazy afterglow. He pressed another kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

It took you a few moments to answer him, calming your breath. A moment of which he took advantage to return to his full height, leaving kisses up your body on his way there. Once he was face to face with you, he brushed your hair out of your face, looking at you with devotion. You smiled back, softly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and immediately causing a warm shiver to run down the length of his body. There you were, in his arms, gazing at him with love, bestowing him with whatever divine favour slumbered in your presence.

You leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost over his skin for a second before whispering, “I need you.”

Jun was sure he was about to malfunction. The way his body reacted instantly, unbidden, must have been proof of your power. He couldn’t suppress the groan that rose to the surface, betraying his helplessness in the face of you. But you only smiled, sliding off the counter, tossing your bra to the side, and leaning into him.

“I know you need me too, baby,” you susurrated against the shell of his ear, your hand falling to his crotch, smoothing over the outline of his cock against his sweatpants. Jun gasped when you gave his balls a squeeze, trailing your fingers back up, pressing them into his slit, already oozing with precum and staining his pants. He felt like melting, like he was Icarus and you were the sun, with the notable exception that your radiance was warm and welcoming. It didn’t burn him, it only made him feel soft, welcome, malleable. He melted at your touch, moulded himself to the shape of you.

Although Jun felt it was very much stating the obvious, he conceded, “I want you so bad.”

You smiled, discarding your panties in a swift motion, before turning around and bending over the surface.

“Then come get me.”

He only stared, transfixed by the way your muscles moved under your skin, how the warm kitchen light of his home cascaded over you, the way your eyes sparkled with mischief when you turned around to smirk at him. Jun’s mind was still fighting with the fact that you were real, you were here, and you were his. You cocked an eyebrow, watching him like a cat watched its supper. When he still continued to stare, your eyes darkened, beckoning him with intensity. You wiggled your ass at him, pushing it back so it grazed his throbbing dick. As you threatened to pull away again, Jun’s hands flew to your hips. You yelped at the sudden strength with which he gripped you, pulling you back against him once more, grinding down against your ass with such verve that your head dropped forward. A long groan escaped you as Jun crowded you against the counter, pushing you down and leaning over your back.

“You need me, huh?”

You nodded your head enthusiastically while meeting his thrusts, moaning his name again and again, and growing more breathless by the second. Jun wanted to tease you, he really did. He wanted to ask you how bad you needed him. He wanted to force you to be more specific, to hear you say how you needed to feel his cock inside you, hitting that spot over and over again. He wanted to make your pretty lips form all those filthy words, say his name, beg for him. But it had been months since he had seen you in person, it felt like an eternity had passed since his skin was last allowed to touch yours, a lifetime since he heard you whimper and moan and pant for him like this. So, he forewent any more teasing. Instead, Jun simply shoved his sweatpants and underwear down his legs, freeing his cock.

You whined at the sound of it hitting his abs, wiggling your ass again and breathing out his name in that way he would never grow tired of. He grinned, sliding his dick through your slick, nipping its tip against your clit, once, twice, three times. So many times that you whimpered, an indistinguishable string of supplications, whines of baby, please please please leaving your lips. Your forehead was pressed against the counter now, as if the cold, hard surface helped ground you in reality while Jun had his way with you.

When, finally, he slipped into you, both of you sighed. You voices mixing in the air of the kitchen that seemed to have been growing thinner by the second. Jun’s breathing was growing ragged, and he could tell you weren’t faring much better than him. He started moving, slowly at first, testing the waters and, yes, possibly also to rile you up a little more. But when you clenched around him, any self-control was thrown out the window. His hands on your lower back were shoving you down against the ice-cold surface, making you hiss. His hips snapping against your ass as he searched for that spot that would make you drool over the marble countertops.

“Fuck… yes! Baby, right there,” you groaned when he found it.

Jun leaned back down over you, his front pressed against your back, his hot breath by your ear, whispered prayers of your name escaping him. He drove into that spot relentlessly, repeatedly until you lost all function of speech, reduced only to swears and his name. Jun mirrored your vocabulary, one hand sneaking around your body to find your clit again and rub punishing circles. With the added stimulation of his hand, the pressure of his weight, and the way his cock was hitting that spongy part inside you again and again, you felt your pleasure crest alarmingly fast.

“Junjunjunjunjun,” you breathed, but, again, he somehow had known before you what was coming. His groans surrounded you, your perception narrowed to just the feeling and sound of him.

“Hold on a little longer, baby,” he breathed, and you barely registered it. Just nodding for the sake of nodding, praying his own release would find him fast.

“Doing so well, baby. So good for me,” he continued, almost to himself, baiting your release even more.

A few agonising, timeless moments passed until, “That’s it, let go. Come for me, baby. Come with me.”

Immediately, you released a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper, you head falling forward again as your whole body tensed up. Jun followed your example, his head dropping against your shoulder as he drove his cock into you, prolonging both of your releases as much as possible, until the sensitivity forced him to pull out. He remained folded over you, so close that he could feel his cum drip out of you, landing on the kitchen floor with a small splat. The air felt too thin for any movement, so he remained draped over you, his thumb drew circles on your lower back until you returned to him, mumbling his name.

“Are you alright, qīn'ài de?”

You nodded almost imperceptibly, your hair sticking to the nape of your neck. Jun brushed it to the side, leaving a small peck where it had been.

“Nooo,” you whined, “I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” he replied, matter-of-factly, smoothing his hand down your back one last time before peeling himself off you to get some tissue. His heart tore a little at the weak whine you let out in response to his absence.

“Don’t worry, I’m just trying to take care of you.”

You only whined more when he wiped the rest of your combined release from between your legs before also cleaning the floor. He caught your eyes from over your shoulder, smiling softly, and leaving another kiss on your back. After getting rid of the tissue, he pulled you off the counter, wrapping you up in his arms.

“You were amazing. I love you.”

He could hear the smile in your voice when you replied, “So were you, bǎobèi.”

“I can’t believe you’re really here…”

“I missed you something fierce,” you said by way of explanation.

“Me too. I miss you every day. Every hour.”

To his confusion, you smiled warmly at his pout, one hand caressing along the side of his face until it came to rest on his collarbone. You leaned in, lips ghosting against his in a silent promise, “Then let’s make the most of right now.”

Jun grinned, bending down to pick you up, laughing at the surprised yelp you let out.

“What on earth are you doing, Wen Junhui!”

“I think it’s time for a bath.”

“That is not what I was trying to insinuate!”

He wiggled his eyebrows, feeling his heart sore at your scandalised expression. Resting his forehead against yours, his eyes searched for yours, holding their stare for a few moments. With a smile on his lips and in his voice he murmured, “I don’t care what exactly we do in the bath, as long as we do it together.”

#seventeen x reader #seventeen fan fiction #jun x reader #wen junhui x reader #junhui x reader #junhui smut #jun smut #seventeen smut

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bingwriterxo · 1 year ago

Text

the shakespeare exhibit - part 4

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which you take tara on a surprise date

warnings: none

word count: 1700+

author's note: i'm gonna throw up from the fluff

previous part | next part

“So, where are we going this time?” Please not Shakespeare in the park. Please not Shakespeare in the park, Tara thought as she stared up at you, waiting for your response.

You grinned at her. “I can’t tell you! That ruins the whole point of a surprise date!”

Tara frowned. “Fine. Be like that,” she huffed, faking annoyance. She leaned back in her seat, glancing around the subway car at the other riders. There were a few men in business suits, a couple of other teenagers, and…a mime? What the fuck? Otherwise, it was surprisingly empty for a New York City subway on a Saturday afternoon.

She glanced at you, tracing your side profile with her eyes as your own eyes flitted around the car, your leg bouncing up and down. Before she could ask why you seemed anxious, you leaned over.

“I’m still not used to the city transportation,” you confessed. “I usually just walk to the university, or I drive if I have to go somewhere farther away.”

Tara placed a hand on your knee to help your fidgeting. “Hey, it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be fine, alright?” She smiled at you. “I’ve become a bit of a pro at the subway in the past few months, if I do say so myself, so I’ve got you.”

You chuckled. “Oh yeah? Gonna protect me from any bad guys?”

“Oh, definitely.” If I can beat motherfucking Ghostface, I can beat anyone. “You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of.” You tilted your head at her, confused. That’s a story for a later date. “You’re safe with me.” You nodded, and an idea popped into Tara’s head. “Would music make you feel better? That usually calms you down.”

You shrugged half-heartedly. “Yeah, but I didn’t bring my headphones.”

She pulled her airpods from her pocket and waved them around. “Good thing I never leave the apartment without mine.” She popped them out of her case, handing one to you while she shoved the other in her own ear. Once they were connected to her phone, she scrolled through her Spotify for a song.

‘Saturn’ by Sleeping At Last started playing, and Tara watched as you visibly relaxed, allowing your shoulders to slump, before you turned to her, your eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t like this kind of music,” you said.

She shrugged. “No, but you do.”

Your eyes widened. “You remembered?”

Why wouldn’t I? “Of course I did.” I made a whole playlist full of songs you like, nerd.

You smiled shyly and wrinkled your nose, a blush tinting your skin. “You’re such a simp, Tar.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m changing the song.” Before you could get another word out, ‘Not Strong Enough’ by Boygenius was blasting through the headphones instead. You bit back a smile as the first few cords filled your ears, and Tara stuck her tongue out teasingly at you.

“Jokes on you,” you said. “I like this song, too.”

Oh, I know, she thought. It’s on the playlist.

* * *

“This feels like a kidnapping,” Tara stated as she walked around, her vision blocked out by your hands. Her own arms were waving around in front of her so that she wouldn’t walk into anything or anyone, and her feet were stumbling along as you led her to an unknown location.

“Tara, if I was gonna kidnap you, I wouldn’t have told Mindy where we were going,” you said, your voice close to Tara’s ear, and she shivered.

Wait. What? “Mindy knows? Why does Mindy know?” Why is that bitch always in the middle of my shit? Nosy fucker.

“Because she asked and I told her.” You shrugged. “Plus, I don’t have Sam’s number yet, and I didn’t want her to think I was kidnapping you, so I had Mindy tell her where we were going.”

Okay. That’s fucking adorable of her. “Well, are we almost there? I don’t love not being able to see.”

You hummed. “Two more steps.” One. Two. Tara planted her feet on the ground. “I didn’t literally mean two more,” you huffed. “But I guess this works.” You uncovered her eyes, and Tara blinked at the sudden brightness.

She looked up at the large, white building you had stopped in front of, her eyes widening and jaw dropping. “No way! This is--”

“The Museum of Moving Image,” you said, grinning at her. “I thought you might like it--”

You weren’t able to finish as Tara grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a kiss, her lips pressed against yours as she tried to express all of the gratitude and joy she had in her body. That’s it, she thought. Case closed. She’s the one.

She pulled away, smiling so hard that her dimples were showing and the corners of her eyes were crinkled. “Well, come on!” she exclaimed, tugging you toward the front door. You were still stuck in a daze, your eyes half-lidded and mouth agape. “Let’s go!”

Tara giggled as you staggered behind her through the entrance until finally regaining your footing. You tossed your arm over her shoulders and led her to the ticket booth.

“Two tickets, please,” you said to the guy working at the counter, and he smiled.

“Sure, sure.” He rang you up quickly, sliding the tickets toward you, and when you reached out to grab them, he asked, “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

You shook your head. “Nope. It’s our first time.”

He nodded, and Tara watched as his eyes flitted down, stopping at your chest for a second before glancing back up at you. “I can tell. I’m sure I’d remember a face like yours.” He winked, and she felt like throwing up.

Does he not see her arm around my shoulders? Fucking idiot. She pushed herself further into your side, scowling at him. He paid her no mind as he winked slyly, and you hummed.

“Do you have a photographic memory or something?” Your eyes widened. “That’d be so cool! I wish I had a photographic memory. It would make learning plays and poems so much easier.”

The guy looked taken aback, his eyebrows furrowing. “What? No, I’m just saying you’re gorgeous is all.”

“Oh.” You frowned. “That’s less cool.”

And this is why you date the oblivious ones, Tara thought, internally laughing at the fact that you hadn’t realized the ticket boy was flirting with you.

“We’ll be going now,” she stated, inserting herself into the conversation and taking the tickets. She didn’t spare him a second glance as she turned the two of you around.

“Well, if you need any help or anything, you know where to find me!” the guy called, and Tara scoffed.

“No thanks!”

“That was weird, I think,” you said once you were out of earshot. “I don’t really know what just happened.”

She’s such a fool. Tara glanced up at you with a smile, and you returned it easily. A cute, adorable, chivalrous fool, but a fool nonetheless.

She patted you on the back before slipping her arm around your waist. “That’s okay, babe. Don’t worry about it.” You blushed from the nickname and Tara handed your tickets to an employee, who waved the two of you in.

“So, where to first?” you asked.

* * *

For hours, Tara pulled you from exhibit to exhibit, happily answering any questions you had (there were a lot of them--your extensive knowledge didn’t stretch far beyond literature) and you listened closely, smiling whenever she ended up rambling about something.

The last exhibit was the one Tara was most excited for, and she lit up as she ventured into it, eyes jumping around the room as she scanned different artifacts from filming history. There were microphones, cameras, costumes, projectors--basically everything a film major would love.

“Oh my god,” she breathed out, tugging you toward the closest item. “This is the first ever boom microphone.”

“It’s very…big,” you said. “I thought boom microphones were smaller.”

She nodded, never taking her eyes off of the object. “They are, but they didn’t have much to work with back in the ‘20s.” She pulled away from you slightly so that she could get as close as possible. “Dorothy Arzner decided to put the microphone on a fishing rod during the filming of The Wild Party because there was too much movement on set, so any mics hidden in clothes didn’t work.”

She turned to you, grinning from ear to ear, and chuckled as you furrowed your eyebrows, tilting your head at her. “And Dorothy Arzner is…?”

“She was a filmmaker back in the ‘20s and ‘30s. Plus, she was one of America’s first lesbian filmmakers.”

You hummed, stepping forward and wrapping your arms over Tara’s shoulders, pulling her back into your front. “I see. And is that why you’re so knowledgeable about Arzner’s work?”

“Somewhat.” She shrugged. “She just did so many things for film, it’s hard not to know about her.”

You giggled, and Tara felt it against her spine, her heart hammering at the sound. “I feel how you must feel whenever I talk about literature,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

I could stay like this forever, she thought. Right here, in her arms, looking at this damn microphone. “We’re both nerds, aren’t we?” she asked.

“You’re only just realizing this now?”

She pushed against you. “Shut up.” She turned in your arms, looking up at you. “You’re nerdier. You know that, right?”

You narrowed your eyes, a teasing smile on your face. “If it helps you sleep at night, then I’ll say yes.”

Tara rolled her eyes. “I’ve got something else you should say yes to instead.”

“And that is?”

Don’t stutter. Just…say it. She inhaled deeply and asked, “Be my girlfriend?”

“Wait.” You frowned, furrowing your eyebrows a little. “Are we not already girlfriends?”

“Huh?”

“You told Mindy I was your girlfriend.”

Tara blushed, remembering her slip up from the other night. “I got ahead of myself when I said that.”

You grinned. “Too excited over me? You little simp.”

“If you keep calling me a simp, I’m gonna take my question back.” No I won’t. I would never.

“Sure you would, Tar.” She knows me too well. You giggled and pressed your forehead against hers. “I would love to be your girlfriend,” you said before kissing her. “‘For her own person, it beggar’d all description: she did lie--’”

“Are you quoting Shakespeare to me right now? Right now?”

You blushed. “...Yes.”

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #tara x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna x reader #scream 5 #scream 6 #museum tara

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seeingivy · 1 year ago

Text

fall concert

roommate eren x f!reader

eren surprises you with a night out.

**find the mini-series masterlist here

content: mentions of drinking, annie and jean are horny drunks, eren being a simp, touching ur thighs? idk, scars again, reader tries on clothes and gets frustrated so like that kinda, stranger things joke

an: ok I delayed letting things crash and burn so my moots who have finals can be happy for a few more days. ok enjoy bitches there’s more jealous eren where we’re coming from

previous part linked here

“Eren. Why are you…twitching?”

You had been watching Eren for a better part of the last five minutes. The two of you were studying, your papers sprawled around the table as you finished up the last of your assignments. He seemed flighty, more than usual, like he was going to fall off of his chair any second.

“I’m not twitching.”

“Yes, you are. The entire table is shaking. Do you need to take a break or something?”

You look up from your laptop again, Eren’s glasses perched at the top of his nose. You never known he wore them until a few days ago, when the two of you started studying together at home.

“Can I try them on?”

“What? Why?”

“I just wanted to see if I look as cute as you do when you wear them.”

You watch his cheeks turn a bright pink, as he very begrudgingly hands them over to you. You place them on the bridge of your nose, securing your hair behind your ears, and giving him a big smile.

“Do I look cute?”

“Yes. Very cute. Now give them back.”

You twist them off your face, placing them back in Eren’s hands.

“I’m lucky you don’t wear them all the time. I’ve got a whole thing for glasses, going on.”

You try to ignore the fact that Eren has been wearing them ever since you said that.

He stops twitching and reaches in his bag while responding.

“Ah. I just…have something for you.”

You get up from your chair across from him, sliding into the one directly at his side. You hold out your hands in front of him, shaking your fingers at him to give it to you.

“Okay. Hand it over, Yeager.”

He places a small, white envelope with your name scribbled over the top into your palm. You give him a reassuring smile before sliding your fingers under the envelope, ripping it open. It’s a piece of paper with a green sticky note pressed on top. You run your hands over the sticky note, recognizing Eren’s handwriting immediately.

y/n. since you give me my own personal concert every morning when you take a shower, i figured id repay the favor and take you to a real one.

You rip off the sticky note to find a concert ticket for the Monsoons, one of your favorite bands mind you, at the stadium in the city. You scan your eyes over the ticket, realizing Eren had bagged you floor seats for the concert, which was on Saturday.

You look up at Eren, who was still nervously twitching in the seat next to you. You spring over the chairs, knocking both of you to the ground as you wrap your arms around him. You’re basically screaming at him - thanking him for getting you floor tickets, asking how much they were, that you needed to get an outfit.

He sits up on the floor - where the two of you are still sitting after you knocked him down - and takes your hands into his.

“Do you always knock people over when you’re excited or is it just me?”

“Just you.”

He rolls his eyes, prodding his fingers into your forehead, murmuring something about how ridiculous you are under his breath.

“Plus. No one ever does stuff for me like this.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I think it’s the first time someone has ever surprised me with a gift or something I wanted.”

“Well, that’s stupid. You can expect it from now on.”

You press yourself into Eren’s chest, wrapping your arms around his again. You can feel your cheeks starting to hurt from smiling so hard and your head pounding a little, the excitement of the moment finally catching up with you.

You groan in frustration, hanging the last dress you had picked out back on the rail as you swipe your shirt back over head.

You had been trying on dresses for a better part of the last hour - trying to find a perfect one for the concert, which was tomorrow. You had no luck - the color was unflattering, showed off too much skin, didn’t fit right.

You feel Eren rap his knuckles against the door, asking if you were done yet. You open the door, groaning at him.

“That one was somehow the worst one.”

“You didn’t even show me any of them. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

You shake your head. That would be embarrassing. Not that you care much about that type of stuff - Eren has literally watched you parade around in your pajamas before but this was somehow different. You tried to avoid this situation altogether - Eren taking you dress shopping - but he was the only one who was free to give you a ride.

Armin’s parents were in town, so Armin and Annie were immediately out of the picture. They’d still be joining you at the concert tomorrow, since Eren had bought them and Jean tickets as well. Jean had lacrosse practice so he couldn’t take you either. Not that Jean or Armin were better options, but they were better than Eren. It felt too vulnerable and personal to tell him any of this and you didn’t really want him to pity you either. But here he was, watching you drown in your frustrations.

“This is so stupid. This is why I hate shopping, nothing ever looks right on me and I just end up irritated at the end of it.”

Eren can see the frustration building up - by the way your shoulders are tensed up and your eyes are all pinched together. He can’t figure out how to fix it - he can’t really tell you that you’re his favorite thing to look at, that sometimes he can’t keep his eyes off you no matter how hard he tries, can he?

“Can I pick one for you?”

“What?”

“A dress. Let me pick one out for you, it’ll take like five minutes.”

“You can try. I’m sure it’ll still look stupid anyways though so don’t waste too much time.”

He watches you slump onto the seat in the changing room before running out into the store, scattering the aisles to find the perfect dress for you. He’d done this hundreds of times - helped his mom, Mikasa, his brother, Armin - find the perfect clothes to wear. Some part of him found it relaxing, picking out the fabrics and looking at all the different colors.

His mom looked best in neutrals - dark browns and creams. He thought it made her eyes look the best, her brown eyes sparkling gold in the sun. Mikasa was best in red, maroon specifically, and Armin always looked best in blue (which was a no-go, he does have blue eyes and all).

But you? You’d look good in any color, in anything. He’s trying his best not to dismiss the way you’re feeling, after discarding all the dresses you had already tried on, but he’s positive you’d look great in any of them. He’d be able to say it too if you actually let him see you try them on.

He settles for a light green slip dress, the neckline surrounded by embroidered lace work. He tries to ignore the thought of you slipping it on and rushes back to the dressing room to hand it to you.

You’re still sitting on the bench where he left you, folding all of the other clothes you had tried on. He grabs your arms to pull you up, handing you the dress he had picked out.

“Don’t be offended if I don’t end up getting it, okay? That’s more about me looking bad in it and less about what you picked.”

“You’re not going to look bad in it. At least let me see when you try it on, okay?”

“You know most guys hate this type of stuff.”

“That’s not true. Armin does this with Annie all the time.”

“Armin’s whipped for Annie though. He’d probably willingly run over coals, happily mind you, if she asked him to.”

Eren watches you close the door to try the dress on and nearly panics. Oh god. You know. You have to know that he likes you. Why else would you make that comment about Armin and Annie, who are dating?

“Um.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, Ren. I just…can’t really get the zipper up.”

“I can help you…if you want. If that’s okay. Or I can grab a girl to do it for you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I don’t mind if you do it.”

You slide the door open, signaling Eren to join you in the doorway. You turn around, swinging your hair over your shoulder, for Eren to zip up the dress.

It’s in this moment that Eren silently thanks the gods for inventing zippers and putting them back at the back of dresses where people can’t reach them. He’s going to explode, right here and right now.

He reaches down, slowly zipping it up while observing every little thing on your back - the freckles sprinkled all around, your soft skin against his knuckles, and your smell wafting in the air. Stupid fucking peach smell. This has to be some type of psychological Pavlov classical conditioning shit the way his heart pounds every time he smells it.

“Do you like it, Y/N?”

You turn around, smoothing down the fabric of the dress and turn towards Eren. He’s watching you through the mirror, your eyes fixed on your frame as you look at the dress.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank god. I was actually going to have to strangle you if you disagreed with me on this one.”

You reach forward, pulling him into your arms.

“Thank you, Eren. You’re really sweet. I’m sorry for taking so long and getting so frustrated. I just hate this kind of stuff.”

It’s Eren’s turn to feel his cheeks burn, using his hands to rub small circles into your back.

“It’s okay. I know it’s not everyone’s thing. Mikasa and my mom are way worse, trust me. Don’t even get me started on how picky Jean is.”

He feels the tangling in his chest settle at the sound of your laugh, your eyes beaming into his.

“I used to like it at one point. Like picking out new clothes, making new outfits. But, I don’t know. Floch thought it was dumb sometimes so I kind of stopped.”

“Floch?”

“Oh, right. He’s the ex-boyfriend I told you about.”

He reaches for your hand, running his fingers over the scar between your knuckles again. He had to fight the urge to not kiss your hand or kiss you every time he saw it, the anger rising in him at the thought of you being hurt like that.

He settled for just running his fingers across it, every time it caught his eye - when you were watching a movie, handing him his keys before he left, saying goodnight. He’s not sure what he was trying to accomplish, if it even did anything, but you always smiled or squeezed his hand in return, so he never stopped.

You immediately pull your hand back, holding it in your other one against your chest. Too much. This is too much. Eren picked out a dress for you, you told him about Floch, again, and you’re standing so close.

“You okay? Did I do something?”

“Yeah. No, you just make me nervous sometimes.”

“Uh huh. And what is it that you think you do to me?”

“Annoy you?”

You watch his features press in frustration as he gets up off the wall, leaving your dressing room.

“You’re impossible, kitty.”

“Stop calling me kitty.”

Eren’s hands are shaking again, pulling back the zip of the dress. You have to be doing this on purpose.

You look pretty. So, so pretty. Your hair is out of its usual loose bun, light waves pressed through your hair. The front pieces are braided back and he can’t help himself. He reaches forward, twisting the end of the braid in his fingers.

“Does it look fine?”

“It’s pretty. I like it.”

He can’t breathe. He’s going to take you to a hundred concerts if it means doing this every time. He wants to run his fingers through your hair, watch your nimble fingers braid through them. And he wants to hug you, just so he can smell in that sweet, flowery perfume you sprayed on, in earnest. And your stupid freckles on your back- he wants to draw out constellations on them, see which part of the sky you’re walking around with everyday.

“Ren. You good?”

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

“By?”

You swing around, your eyes peering into his. He’s not sure what you did, maybe the black around your eyes, but your eyes are prettier. Bigger. They’re glimmering. He can’t even look at you without panicking.

“You have freckles. On your back.”

He watches you twirl around, craning your neck to see them in the mirror.

“It’s not a bad thing, Y/N. I like them.”

He watches the smile spread across your face, as you reach into your drawers to finish off your makeup. He can’t help but watch you, mesmerized by different colors you were putting on your face.

“Is this your first time watching someone do makeup?”

“No. I’ve seen my mom do it a few times.”

He sees you nod, turning back to press a light green glitter to your eyelids and then spreading some across the length of your collarbones.

“You're almost done?”

“Yeah, just two more things and then we can go meet them.”

You pour out a small amount of concealer onto your hand, spreading it across your shoulder where your scar from falling off the bike was.

You feel Eren reach for your fingers, stopping you before you can fully cover it up.

“What are you doing?”

“Just covering it up. It’ll just take a few seconds.”

“No. I gathered that. I’m asking why.”

He lets go of your hand, leaning over the counter as you sit there and think. Why do you cover it up?

“Um. I’m not really sure. I guess I’ve just always done it.”

“Well, don’t.”

You stare at him, his face scrunched up in frustration. You watch his expression change, immediately back-tracking from what he just said.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, you don’t have to. If you think people won’t like it. It’s normal, you know. We all have scars. And yours is nice. I mean, it’s not nice that you got it but I like it-“

You put your hands on his shoulders, squeezing twice which stops his talking all together. He sticks his forehead on your shoulder, resting against your frame. You can’t help but laugh.

“Eren. Why are you…word vomiting today?”

“You make me nervous.”

Ah.

“And what is it you think you do to me?”

“Shut up. You’re not funny.”

He lifts his head up, looking back at your eyes. You’re quite literally beaming at him and in this moment he swears you could be the sun.

“I’m already having fun. I appreciate you doing this for me. And I won’t cover up my scar, if you like it that much.”

He nods, watching you rub your fingers into the leftover product on your hand. You both walk out of the bathroom, grabbing the last few things left on your counter.

“Wait. I got you something.”

He watches you hop into your room, coming back out with a nicely packaged green box. You hand it over to him, balancing on the balls of your feet as you watch him open the package.

You watch his eyes widen as he pulls the silver chain out, twisting it in his fingertips.

“You always wear your key necklace. I just thought it would be nice to get you another one. Since you got me very expensive concert tickets and all.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know that. I wanted to.”

He smiles, holding open his arms to hug you. You happily oblige, pressing yourself against him. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, before letting you go and holding out the chain for you. You can feel your brain malfunctioning - full on 404 error, rainbow pinwheel, nothing.

“Can you help me put it on?”

You nod. You can feel your fingers shaking, understanding why Eren was so distracted when he helped you with your dress. Well, you didn’t kiss him before so you’re at some unfair advantage.

Some part of this feels too intimate, helping each other get ready, him watching you do your makeup, putting on his necklace - like you were a pair of lovers or something.

You hook the latch, lightly tapping on his shoulder to signal you were done. The two of you lock up your apartment, walking down the hall to meet Armin, Jean, and Annie.

“You kiss all your friends?”

“Yeah. Armin loves my soft little pecks.”

“You come around here often?”

“Shut up, Jean.”

You can’t help but laugh at Annie and Eren’s quick retort. Some part of you thinks they practice it when you’re not around by the way it's so perfectly in sync.

“You two can stop pouting. I made the same joke about Armin earlier. I wouldn’t dream of bothering your precious Y/N or your sweet Armin, Annie.”

Jean swings his arms around you and Armin, teasing Eren and Annie on. The five of you pile into the venue, scanning in all your tickets, and are immediately thrown off by how many people are there. You swore you were only there for five seconds but when you turn your head, the four of them are gone.

You back out of the crowd, making your way to the benches to text them.

to “jean stfu”

you: why did you guys leave me behind,,,, ur so mean :(

armin: where did you go? we thought you were right behind us

annie: were you holding on to anyone?

you: no,,

jean: eren, start holding on to your girl or we’ll start doing it for you

eren removed jean from the group chat

annie: add him back tomorrow. he’s doing too much.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. Eren.

“Were you planning on just standing there or following us?”

“You guys just moved so fast! I literally turned my head and you were gone.”

“Right. You’re almost literally in the same spot.”

“Well, I was just looking for you guys.”

He rolls his eyes, locking his fingers as he walks through the crowd with you this time. He’s holding you right against his frame, leading you in front of him so he can keep his eyes on you. He successfully gets you to where the three of them are standing. You gravitate towards Annie, taking the spot next to hers.

“Find your girl?”

“Yeah. She was where we left her, at the entrance.”

You shift in your spot, craning your neck to see if you heard what you think you heard. Probably not. Right. Because why would Jean call you Eren’s girl? Again? And why would he not correct him?

The five of you stand there for a few hours, screaming through the opener, and waiting for the show to start. You and Jean talk about how Eren used to be as a kid, you play rock paper scissors with Armin, and braid Annie’s hair while you wait.

“Hey. Can we get drinks before it starts?”

Armin nods. You go up to Eren, tapping on his shoulder and breaking him out of the very intense conversation he was having with Jean about something you couldn’t quite hear.

“Hey. Can I have my wallet? Armin and I are going to get drinks.”

“Sure you’ll make it to the back without getting trampled? Do I need to carry you on my back?”

“Oh, shut up Ren. Wallet please.”

He smiles, placing the wallet in your hand. You link hands with Armin, walking towards the back where the vendors were standing. The two of you break apart, Armin going to the vendor on the right and you heading to the one on the left.

As you stand in the line, you look down and realize that Eren handed you his wallet and not yours. Asshole. You pull the cards out of his wallet, trying to shuffle for his credit card to buy the water. As you swipe through the cards, you find two polaroids tucked in the back pocket, pulling them out.

The first one is a picture of a group of Eren and his friends. You can recognize Armin, Jean, and Mikasa, his childhood best friend that he had mentioned before. You wrack your mind, trying to remember if Eren or Armin ever mentioned that they grew up with Jean too.

You focus on the other two people in the picture, the ones you can't recognize. One is a girl, with short brown hair tied up into a ponytail at the top of her head. She has her arm swung around another guy, with short buzzed hair. You can identify Armin’s neat handwriting at the bottom, “the scouts” inscribed onto the polaroid.

You tuck the photo back into the pocket, twisting the other one in your fingers to get a look at it. You drop it the second you flip it over, immediately crouching on the ground to find it.

The polaroid is of you. You and Eren. You have your arms swung around his neck and you’re kissing his cheek. You run your fingers over the picture - trying to smudge the ink, flip it over for any words, find any explanation to when this picture was taken. You can’t even remember it.

The girl in line behind you taps on your shoulder, signaling that it was my turn to go in the line. You tuck the picture back into the wallet, buying the waters and turning back to Annie. As the two of you link arms again, making your way back to the vendor, you can’t help but feel your head running at a million miles per hour.

When did you guys take that picture? Why did you kiss his cheek? Why did he keep the picture in his wallet? Or not tell you?

You loop your arm with Armin’s again, the two of you bustling your way through the crowd back where you were standing. You hand the water bottles to Eren, Annie, and Jean, the latter of which mentions “he could kiss you two for this” which just pisses Eren and Annie even more.

You make your way over to Eren, taking the spot next to him. He leans down, moving closer to you so you can hear him.

“Hey. Having fun?”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

“No really, I am.”

He squints his eyes at you, before turning back to the stage.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Before you can ask, the music starts blaring over you, the two of you thrown out of your thoughts as the music starts. That’s fine. You can settle for asking him later.

The crowd gets closer around you, nearly shoving as you push to the stage. Before you can move out of the way, you feel Eren wrap his arms around you, stopping you from getting lost again. You look up, his head right next to yours.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Towards the middle of the concert, a very tall group of people stands right in front of you. You shake Annie, who you had been holding hands with for a good part of the concert, the two of you rolling your eyes at them.

Armin taps on her shoulder, lifting her up by swinging her legs around her shoulders. You look up, watching her laugh as she sticks her hands in Armin’s hair.

You feel Jean reach for your shoulder, leaning his head near yours.

“I can do that for you. If you want.”

“I’m going to hurt you, Jean.”

“I’m just kidding, Eren! You’re just so easy to mess with.”

You turn to Eren, who's still standing behind you.

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Get on.”

He bends down and you swing your legs over his shoulder, placing your hands in his air, as he lifts you up. You try to avoid the burning sensation of his hands resting on your thighs, thinking back to the time he touched them while the two of you were sitting on his bed, and focus on the music. You reach over and link hands with Annie in the air, the two of you singing to the music together.

Eren avoids the burning sensation he’s feeling in his entire body from holding you like this. The ends of your dress are piled up near the top of your legs, which leaves just his hands touching just your thighs. He looks up, to find you entirely distracted, screaming the song with Annie. Probably fine then.

The second the concert ends, Eren slowly sets you down, steadying you as your feet hit the ground.

“You good?”

“Yeah, thanks Ren.”

Annie and Jean find their way next to the two of you, devious smiles pressed on their faces. They’re drunk. Not that you aren't either, but they’re definitely worse than you.

“Are you good, my sweet precious little Y/N?”

“Yeah, thank you Eren.”

You laugh at their high pitched voices, the two of them mimicking you, as the five of you trudge out the crowd.

“Shut up. You’re not funny. I’m going to hurt you, Annie.”

“Shut up, Eren. That’s basically what you said to her. And is that your only threat? You can do so much better than that.”

“That wasn’t even close!”

Jean swings his hand around your shoulder, leaning a majority of his weight on you as you leave the venue.

“You can do way better.”

“Way better for what?”

“Then Eren! You know him - he’s all annoying and egotistical and shit.”

“Not all the time! I feel like that was just at the beginning.”

“If you were my roommate, we’d be dating already. Scratch that, married.”

Eren’s going to kill Jean. Like actually. He’s been trailing behind the two of you, helping Armin drag Annie back to the car. He’s not even sure when Annie and Jean found time to drink during the concert, but here they are. Wasted.

Does Jean think he doesn’t want to date you? Eren wants to date you. He wants to date you so bad. Press soft kisses to your hair when you wake up in the morning, sleep in your bed, watch you steal his clothes. He wants to date you.

The second the five of you reach the car, you prop Jean and Annie against the car, wobbling in your stance. You grab onto Eren, as Armin starts attempts to shove Annie in the back of the car.

Jean gets up off the car, placing his hands on your shoulders.

“Nice scar.”

You pale, forgetting that you had forgotten to cover it up since Eren asked you to. You grab the loose ends of your hair, brushing it over your shoulder. Eren catches you doing it and now he’s actually going to kill Jean.

“Hey. Can you grab water from the people at the end there? Annie will probably vomit the second we start driving.”

The second you walk away, it’s Eren’s turn to shove Jean in the car.

“You’re pissing me off, Jean. Get in the fucking car and shut up.”

“Mad your little girlfriend likes me?”

“She doesn’t like you.”

Annie sticks her head out the window, grabbing Eren’s face with her hands.

“You’re an idiot. How do you know she doesn’t like Jean?”

“Annie, my sweet. Get back in the car, yeah?”

How does he know that you don’t like Jean? Like he manifested you just by thinking about you, Eren feels you next to him again, leaning against his arm. The two of you are standing outside of the car, watching Annie fight with Jean over Armin.

“Oh my god. They’re such horny drunks. Let’s leave while we still can.”

You stick your head into the window of the car, wishing luck to Armin as Jean reaching up to lock his fingers with yours.

“Marry me, Y/N?”

“Okay, Jean. Sure.”

You and Eren walk away from the car, Jean still moping in the front seat as you walk away.

You and Eren make your way back to the apartment - your feet, ears, head aching. The two of you are sluggish, basically drinking any water in the nearby proximity and hopping to the nearest chair. The two of you sit there, your heads leaning against the back of the couch as your exhaustion seeps in.

“Hey.”

“Tired, kitty?”

“Ew. Yeah. Had a ton of fun though.”

Eren’s reeling. See, he had a plan. He was going to take you to the concert, bring you home, and kiss you.

The truth is, he can’t really wait any longer. Every single thing you did was driving him crazy - every time he woke up next to you when he accidentally fell asleep in your bed, watching you come to all his games, buying him the necklace. He likes you. Too much. He has to do something about it.

But now he’s not sure. Do you like Jean? Did he misread you and him all together? He knows that the two of you were friends - but he thought he was just like Armin to you. He feels your head plop on his shoulder, you settling your head on his frame.

“You okay? I feel like I can see the steam coming off your head from thinking so hard.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Do you like Jean?”

You’re quiet. Too quiet. Oh god, you like Jean. Eren’s going to kill him. Or Armin, for introducing you. Or you, for liking him.

“Would it bother you if I did?”

“Maybe, a little bit.”

“Just a little?”

“Okay, a lot.”

You laugh, nuzzling your cheek into his. Idiot.

“It would bother me too.”

“What would?”

“If you liked Jean.”

The two of you laugh before sitting there in silence, pressed against each other, pondering over each other’s words. He doesn’t want you to like Jean. You don’t want him to like someone else. The two of you can settle for that, for tonight at least.

“Do you have my wallet? You never gave it back.”

The wallet. The picture. This is your chance to ask.

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his biceps.

“Eren.”

“Kitty.”

“Stop that.”

He laughs, turning his head to the side as he does.

“You’d tell me if I forgot something right? Like, if I did something weird while I was drunk, you would remind me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

You pull the polaroid out, handing it to him.

“Papa. You lie.”

He laughs at your joke, twisting the polaroid in his fingers.

“Okay, Eleven. That’s enough. I totally forgot this was in my wallet when I handed it to you. Are you mad?”

“No. I’m kind of sad, actually. I don’t even remember the first time I kissed you.”

He leans over, his lips a few feet away from yours. His green eyes are glimmering, a look you can’t place in them.

“Then do it again.”

“What?”

“If you can’t remember, then just do it again.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, his eyes still staring into yours. He can’t be serious, can he? He does look serious. He’s still sitting across from you, leaning on the couch like he’s waiting for it. Like he’s waiting for you to kiss him.

You lean over, pressing yourself against his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. You lean forward, shakily mind you, and press a kiss to his cheek.

The two of you stay like that, you in his lap and Eren smiling at you, for a few seconds. You can’t stand to look at his eyes, the thought of him looking at you embarrassing you. You dig your face into the crook of his neck, trying to hide your flushed cheeks.

“All quiet now?”

“What else do you want me to say? I just kissed your cheek. It’s your move, Eren.”

You feel his fingers around the side of your face, lifting it up so he can get a good look at you. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, smiling at you.

“I want to kiss you. I want to kiss your sweet, perfect lips so badly you don’t even understand. But I have to do it the right way, okay? Think you can wait till tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“Just wait and see, silly girl.”

You come to find out that tomorrow is not what you were hoping for. Not in the slightest.

next part linked here

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