#black and gold velvet curtains

[usagii-bun]

𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑. jing yuan x fem foxian! reader (nsfw).

In which Jing Yuan, a man renowned for his unwavering control and discipline, finds that resolve unraveling in your presence — your every move, every glance, every touch igniting a fire within him he can no longer contain discovering an intoxicating solace in the sensual art of your dance, each sway of your hips pulling him deeper into an obsession he cannot, and will not, resist.

word count : 12k (12k words of edging)

warnings: explicit sexual content includes detailed descriptions of sexual acts (fingering, oral—f receiving, dry humping, thigh riding, implied future penetration), obssesed jing yuan, possessive jing yuan, slight power imbalance implied, erotic dancing/ adult entertainment , sensory overload, marking.

minors are NOT to read this story. If you are uncomfortable with detailed sexual content or themes of dominance and obsession, this is not the story for you. please proceed responsibly and at your own discretion.

DO NOT REUPLOUD OR CLAIM my work as yours. i have taken a lot of time to write this and it would be very disheartening to see someone claim something i took so long to write and craft.

anways, please do enjoy and leave a comment :3 reblogs, likes and follows are high appreciated

— usagii-bun <3

The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the quiet, cobblestone streets of Aurum Alley. It was a place where the night whispered its secrets, and the air, thick with the heavy scent of incense and mystery, carried tales only the privileged knew. Tucked away behind a discreet set of bamboo doors was the establishment—a brothel veiled in silence but brimming with the hum of indulgence. Even a general like Jing Yuan, weighed down by the armour of responsibility, found solace in the allure of its hidden embrace.

His feet moved almost of their own accord as he made his way to the entrance. Tired eyes, burdened by countless battles and endless politics, sought release in the only way he knew how—a brief escape from the turmoil of his mind. The soft click of his boots echoed, barely audible against the gentle wind that danced through the alley. And there, the door opened, not by his hand, but by a woman’s, poised and serene.

The Foxian lady who greeted him stood in the doorway like an ethereal figure, her beauty transcending time. Her skin was porcelain, her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall, framed by the glow of lanterns. Dressed in silk, her robes shimmered in shades of crimson and gold, the fabric clinging to her form in ways both graceful and alluring. She held herself with an air of elegance, her fox ears twitching lightly with every movement, her tail curling behind her in soft, languid strokes. She was an embodiment of allure, wrapped in silk and mysteries, every inch a vision of untold desires.

"Welcome, General Jing Yuan," she said, her voice smooth as velvet, respectful yet laden with something deeper, something more intoxicating. "Please, allow me to show you the wonders within."

With a graceful gesture, she led him inside, and Jing Yuan, caught in the captivating pull of her presence, followed. The atmosphere shifted the moment he stepped over the threshold. The entrance was bathed in the soft glow of lotus lanterns, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of incense—jasmine, sandalwood, and something sweeter—hung thick in the air, enveloping his senses like a warm blanket, clouding his thoughts and easing the tightness in his chest. The walls were adorned with delicate scrolls, ancient calligraphy curling like the wind in a lover’s embrace, telling tales of forgotten empires and lost passion. Red and gold adorned every corner, the hues rich like blood and treasure, a royal reminder of the power that pulsed through these hidden chambers.

The floors beneath him were smooth stone, cool and polished, reflecting the shimmering silk curtains that hung like veils, concealing whatever lay beyond. The gentle swish of the fabric was like a soft caress, a whisper of something forbidden. There were flowers everywhere—tiger lilies, peonies, and chrysanthemums—arranged in intricate vases, their fragrant petals drifting lazily in the air, mixing with the incense to create a heady perfume that seemed to linger in his very breath.

As they moved deeper into the establishment, the general’s eyes took in the sight around him. Men and women, dressed in delicate silk robes of every colour imaginable, wandered freely, mingling with one another. The silk shimmered in the candlelight, revealing glimpses of soft skin and delicate features. Women draped themselves over men, while men held women in their arms with equal parts reverence and longing. The air was thick with the hum of quiet conversation, with laughter and sighs mingling in a sweet symphony that seemed to be playing just for those fortunate enough to be here.

"Come," the Foxian lady said softly, leading him up a staircase adorned with red and gold lanterns. "If you wish, you may enjoy performance privately upstairs."

Her eyes, sparkling like the night stars, hinted at something playful, something dangerous. Jing Yuan, ever the composed general, only nodded, his lips curling slightly at the invitation.

The night stretched out before you, the rhythmic beat of the music setting the pace for the dance that would soon unfold. Your heartbeat in time with the soft melody, the flickering candlelight reflecting off your skin as you prepared to enter the stage. The room below you were full of people—men, women, all draped in delicate silks, moving among each other in whispered conversations and soft laughter. The atmosphere was intoxicating, thick with the scent of incense and roses, the air so rich with desire it nearly hummed.

Tonight, you were not just a dancer; you were a vision, a creature of silk and allure, meant to captivate every gaze that fell upon you. You had practiced this for hours, days, months—the art of seduction through movement. As you slowly ascended onto the stage, the soft rustle of your costume, the shimmer of the golden jewellery adorning your body, set the tone for the entrancing spectacle to come. Your tail swayed behind you, brushing against the floor like a soft whisper, your ears twitching with the anticipation of the performance to come.

The room quieted, the hushed murmurs dying down as you took your first step into the spotlight. The soft glow of lotus lanterns, their flames flickering in the dim room, bathed you in an amber hue. Your body moved, fluid and graceful, as if the music itself was a part of you, guiding your every step. You could feel the eyes of the room on you—every gaze fixated; each breath held in anticipation of your every move.

From the elevated room above, General Jing Yuan watched. The scene below him was nothing new—he had seen these kinds of performances before—but this time, something was different. As you danced, his attention was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. There was something in your movement that was unlike the others. The grace with which you moved, the way your body seemed to flow effortlessly with the music, drew him in. It wasn’t just your physical beauty, though you were undeniably stunning—every curve, every movement was perfection—but something deeper, something intangible. It was the essence you exuded—the confidence, the strength, the raw magnetism that seemed to pull him closer despite the distance between you.

Your movements were slow, deliberate. Your arms flowed through the air, a soft trace of elegance, while your hips swayed in time with the rhythm of the instruments, your skin glowing in the soft light. Each step you took was an invitation, each flick of your wrist a silent promise, each roll of your hips a beckoning. It was erotic without being crude, sensual without losing its grace. You were a goddess in motion, a creature born to captivate and beguile.

As you moved, your eyes flicked upwards, meeting his gaze for just a moment. It was a brief connection—one that he felt more than he could explain. His breath caught in his throat as your gaze locked with his, your eyes filled with an emotion that seemed to pull him in, deeper than he ever expected to go. The flicker of awareness between you made his chest tighten, and his pulse quickened. It was like you knew exactly what effect you were having on him, like you could feel his gaze following every step, every motion.

Your body twisted and arched as you danced, the silk of your costume brushing over your skin like a soft caress. The jewellery you wore—delicate chains, pearls, and golden rings—clinked softly with every movement, drawing attention to the curves of your body. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, intoxicating and heavy, as your tail swished behind you, swaying in perfect rhythm with your every move.

Jing Yuan, sitting in his private alcove, could barely tear his eyes away from you. He felt an inexplicable pull, a hunger that wasn’t just for your physical form, but for the energy you radiated. It was raw and untamed, a force he couldn’t quite explain, yet he felt it in every fibre of his being. His hands clenched at his sides as the tension built in his chest, a wave of heat spreading through him. His body reacted against his will, betraying him as he watched you.

You were no longer just a dancer. You were the embodiment of something else—something deeper, more primal. You were pulling him into a world he hadn’t known he was even willing to enter, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something—something he hadn’t felt in years. The weight of his responsibilities, his title, the endless wars and battles that had marked his life, seemed to fade into the background. They no longer mattered.

The music picked up, becoming more intense, the tempo quickening. Your movements followed suit, each step becoming more deliberate, more daring. The room was alive with the heat of desire, the air crackling with tension. Jing Yuan’s breath caught in his throat, your body undulating in a way that was both art and allure. You were making a show of it—of him—and for the first time in a long time, it was his turn to be caught.

The music slowed, and you took your final step, the dance reaching its end. Your body twisted, swayed, and your movements grew more subtle, teasing. As the final note of the music played, the room fell into a hushed silence. Jing Yuan remained frozen, captivated by your performance. His mind buzzed with a million thoughts, none of them clear, none of them rational. All he knew was that he needed to be closer to you, to taste whatever you were offering.

As the lights dimmed and the room came back to life with murmurs and applause, Jing Yuan finally found his voice. He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving you. “Can I… request her?” His words were barely above a whisper, filled with an urgency that surprised even him.

The Foxian lady, who had been watching with knowing eyes, nodded with a smile. "Of course, General Jing Yuan. She is yours for the evening."

The air inside the private alcove was thick with a sensual tension, the dim light casting soft shadows around the space. Jing Yuan sat back in a velvet-covered chair, his posture commanding yet relaxed. His mind was still reeling from the magnetic performance he'd witnessed, but now, as he sat alone in this private setting, the anticipation built again.

The door slid open, and the woman who had greeted him earlier entered, guiding you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. Jing Yuan could now get a better look of you, the lingerie delicately adorns your body, the jewels that were placed on you still twinkled and shimmered under the dull lighting. Your fox ears were perked, stiff with nerves, and your tail swayed ever so slightly behind you, betraying your inner restlessness.

Your gaze never met his. You kept your head low, your expression unreadable, as if you'd become a different person. This wasn’t the confident, playful woman who’d mesmerized him with her dance. This was someone subdued, cautious, and perhaps even a little fragile. Jing Yuan’s brow furrowed at the sight, and a pang of something unfamiliar stirred within him. There was an undeniable sadness at the change, a realization that you were a contradiction, both in the freedom you’d shown during your dance and the restraint you now carried.

The woman who led you whispered softly to you as she passed by, "Take care of the general." Her voice was gentle but firm, as if entrusting something delicate to your care. She gave Jing Yuan a final look, a knowing smile before exiting the room, leaving the two of you in silence.

You stood in front of him, head lowered, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The air felt heavier now, the sense of being watched almost suffocating, yet you remained still, as though obeying some invisible rule.

Jing Yuan studied you for a moment, trying to piece together the shift in your demeanour. His mind, clouded with the memory of your dance, struggled to reconcile the two versions of you. His large, calloused fingers lifted from his side, brushing gently beneath your chin, his touch soft but insistent as he lifted your face to meet his.

"Why do you not make eye contact?" he asked, his voice low, his words smooth as they hung in the air. His gaze was intense, capturing you as he locked his eyes on yours. You could feel the weight of his stare, the depth of it, and it sent a flicker of something through you—surprise, confusion, maybe even fear.

You blinked rapidly, trying to avoid his gaze, but his touch lingered, a slight pressure against your chin. You quickly averted your eyes, your cheeks flushing at the intensity of his attention.

"It is not allowed," you murmured softly, the words barely escaping your lips. "I am not allowed to look at the customer unless... unless told to."

Jing Yuan’s expression softened, but his curiosity remained, his gaze never leaving you as you stood before him, silent and restrained. His fingers remained on your chin, though no longer pressing, just gently resting there. He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. He couldn't help but be intrigued by the contradiction you presented: the woman who captivated an entire room with her dance now so reserved, so obedient.

"You are allowed to look at me," he said, his voice almost playful, though the undertone of command was still present. "But for now, I will permit your discretion."

There was a quiet pause between you both, as you silently struggled with the unspoken tension that now swirled in the room. Jing Yuan leaned back, his large frame sinking into the chair as he relaxed, his eyes never leaving you. "Come, sit with me," he said, motioning to the empty seat beside him. "Let us share a drink."

His invitation hung in the air like a challenge, but it was delivered with a calm, measured tone. You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of how to act, still feeling the pressure of his gaze as he observed you carefully. Finally, you took a cautious step forward, your body moving with the grace of a fox, and sat at his side, careful not to brush too close against him.

The room was filled with the scent of incense and flowers, but the closeness between the two of you heightened the atmosphere, thickening the air. Jing Yuan poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow, deliberate. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a brief moment, the touch felt more intimate than it should have.

"You have a beautiful presence," he said quietly, taking a sip of his own drink. "But I can see there is more to you than what you show. Tell me, what is it you desire, in a place like this?"

You remained silent, unsure of how to respond, but Jing Yuan didn’t rush you. His gaze held a quiet intensity, as if waiting for you to let down the walls you’d so carefully constructed around yourself. The tension between you both lingered, a palpable force, as your bodies sat close together yet distanced by invisible barriers. Your heartbeat faster, your breath shallow. This was new territory for both of you. And for Jing Yuan, it felt like the beginning of something far deeper than either of you had expected.

You shifted in your seat, thighs brushing together under the soft silk of your gown, the sensation sending a faint shiver through you. The air between you and Jing Yuan was thick, charged with an intensity you could neither name nor escape. His gaze was locked on you, and every question he asked felt like it was unravelling pieces of you.

"Why here?" he murmured, his voice smooth, like the finest silk. "A place like this—it doesn’t seem to match your spirit."

His words hung in the air, and you found yourself twisting the fabric of your gown again, seeking some kind of anchor. "It’s... complicated," you whispered, your eyes darting away from his. But the way he leaned closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him—made it impossible to hide.

"Complicated," he echoed, his tone laced with curiosity, as though he wanted to peel back every layer of meaning behind your answer.

You glanced up at him, and your breath caught in your throat. His amber eyes glimmered in the dim light, soft but piercing, holding you captive in their gaze. And then, he leaned in further, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his presence, overwhelming and intoxicating.

The scent of him—clean and faintly spiced—mixed with the sweetness of the wine he sipped moments before. The aroma seemed to curl around you, tangling with your thoughts. His lips were so close now, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from flicking down to them.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a hushed murmur, and his eyes searched yours, waiting. It wasn’t a command, as you’d expect from a man like him, but a request, gentle yet brimming with restrained desire.

Your throat tightened, and you nodded slowly, words escaping you.

His hand came up, fingers grazing your cheek before curling under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The touch was warm, firm yet tender, sending sparks skittering along your skin. Slowly, achingly, he closed the distance.

When his lips met yours, the world fell away.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips, testing, coaxing. But then, like a flame catching the wind, it deepened. His mouth moved against yours with a slow-burning passion, drawing you in, leaving no room for hesitation. You felt the firm press of his lips, the intoxicating heat of him, and your heart thundered in your chest.

His hand slid from your chin to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking the edge of your cheekbone. It was such a careful gesture, but the kiss was anything but. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you yielded, parting your lips for him.

When his tongue slid against yours, a low hum of pleasure escaped you, your hands clutching at the silken folds of your gown as if it could keep you grounded. He tasted of wine, rich and heady, and the faintest hint of something sweeter, something entirely him.

His other hand moved to your waist, fingers splaying across the delicate fabric that barely covered you. The pressure was light, a silent promise of what could come, and yet it was enough to make your pulse race, your body alight with sensations you couldn’t control.

You couldn’t help but respond, your hands tentatively brushing against his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath his robes. His lips moved with a practiced confidence, but there was something raw in the way he kissed you, like he was holding back a storm, giving you only a glimpse of the tempest that raged beneath.

When he finally pulled back, his lips hovered just a breath away, his forehead resting lightly against yours. Both of you were breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his.

"You’re... mesmerizing," he murmured, his voice rough and low, as though the words had been dragged from somewhere deep within him.

You opened your eyes, and his gaze bore into yours, intense and unyielding. His thumb brushed against your swollen lips, and you could see the faint flush dusting his cheeks, a rare crack in his usual composure.

"I’ve wanted to do that," he admitted, his voice softer now, "since the moment I saw you."

Your heart raced, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the weight of his confession crashing over you like a wave. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns against your skin, and you knew—this was only the beginning.

Jing Yuan’s hands were impossibly large, their warmth seeping through the sheer silk draped over your body as they slid down, slow and deliberate. His touch felt like a whispered promise, each fingertip tracing a path that left fire in its wake. You couldn’t help but shiver when his palms grazed the curve of your hips, his fingers splaying possessively over them as he was now on his knees between your thighs.

The silk clung to your skin like dew, yielding under his touch as his hands lingered, pressing into the plush softness of your thighs. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as though he wanted to savour every second, every inch of you that he claimed. His thumb stroked a languid circle against your skin, teasing the sensitive flesh just below the curve of your hip, and your breath hitched.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a deep, velvety whisper that seemed to echo in the dim, scented air. His words held a teasing lilt, but his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with something far deeper than amusement.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of silk and the faint crackle of a distant candle. His hands moved lower, trailing down the sides of your thighs as if he were sculpting you from memory. He paused, his fingers flexing slightly, almost reverently, before sprawling over the fullness of your legs. The pressure was firm but not harsh, his touch grounding you even as it left you breathless.

Jing Yuan’s head tilted, his silver hair catching the dim light like threads of moonlight spun through shadow. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin, and his hands tightened their hold on you ever so slightly. The contrast of his strength and the tenderness in his touch made you feel both vulnerable and cherished, like a treasure he had no intention of letting slip away.

"You’re exquisite," he murmured, his voice soft yet weighted, as though the words carried a gravity only, he could understand. His thumbs traced upward, following the natural curve of your thighs, his hands mapping you with a deliberate slowness that felt like an exploration, a quiet devotion.

When his eyes flicked back to meet yours, his gaze was molten, heavy with desire yet tempered by something gentler, something that made your heart stutter in your chest. His hands stilled, settling like a question, a challenge, as if to ask how far you would let him go. And in that moment, you were weightless, caught in the intoxicating pull of him, the world beyond fading into nothingness.

Jing Yuan's fingers, warm and deliberate, slid down to the edge of your thigh highs, the lace soft under his touch. He let his fingertips dip beneath the delicate material, brushing against the bare skin beneath, sending shivers coursing through your body. The contrast of silk and skin was electrifying, his movements unhurried as though he had all the time in the world to explore.

Your breath hitched, and you gripped the silk of your gown, desperate for something to anchor yourself. The sensation of his hands so close, his strength tempered by the tender way he handled you, made your mind race. The General of the Luofu, a man revered for his authority and composure, was here, knelt before you, his hands on your thighs as though you were the centre of his universe.

His thumb traced lazy circles against your skin, the pressure both teasing and grounding. "You’re trembling again," he murmured, the teasing lilt of his voice sending a new wave of heat through you. His silver hair gleamed faintly in the soft, golden light, the contrast between his composed expression and the intimacy of his touch almost too much to bear.

Then, without warning, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your thigh. It was a feather-light kiss, soft yet searing, and it stole the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his mouth lingered, a silent claim that left your heart pounding.

Your mind spiralled, the weight of the moment crashing over you like a tidal wave. This was the General—the General—his broad shoulders and imposing presence now knelt before you in an image that burned itself into your memory. The sight of him, his head bent, his lips on your skin, was something you knew you’d never forget.

Your pulse quickened as his hand slid higher, his palm pressing into the softness of your thigh with a deliberate slowness that made your body hum with awareness. He tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes flicking upward to meet yours, his gaze heavy with something that made your heart stutter.

"You’re beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice low and rich, the words wrapping around you like silk. His fingers flexed against your skin, and you swallowed hard, feeling as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you. The scent of incense, the warmth of the dimly lit room, and the weight of his attention made it impossible to think of anything else.

Your breath hitched as his lips lingered against your skin, so close yet unbearably distant. A soft whimper escaped you, unbidden, the sound trembling on your lips. "General..." The word was barely a whisper, carried more by instinct than thought, but it was enough.

Jing Yuan’s golden eyes gleamed at the sound, a primal intensity overtaking his usual calm. That composed facade he wore so effortlessly cracked, revealing something raw and untamed beneath. His lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile, and you felt the heat of his gaze burn against your skin.

He leaned closer, his broad shoulders dipping as his face moved towards your clothed pussy, the faintest warmth of his breath ghosting over the flimsy material of it. The sensation was maddening, a tantalising promise that made your thighs tense under his hold.

Your ears twitched uncontrollably, betraying your spiralling emotions. You tried to steady them, but they betrayed you with every sharp intake of breath. Your tail curled and flicked at the edges of the plush cushions beneath you, the movement erratic, mirroring the storm building in your chest.

Jing Yuan noticed everything—of course, he did. His gaze flicked to your twitching ears, and the corner of his mouth quirked, a dark satisfaction dancing in his eyes. His hands remained steady, sprawling over the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing just enough to ground you while still making your skin tingle.

"You’re so responsive," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "It’s captivating."

The warmth of his breath fanned over the delicate fabric again, sending a shiver racing up your spine. He paused, his lips so close yet maddeningly still, his eyes watching every tremble, every twitch, every unsteady exhale. You felt utterly laid bare beneath his gaze, a mixture of vulnerability and desire tangling in a way that left you breathless.

"Tell me,” he said softly, the words a mere whisper against the heat of your skin. "Do you always react this beautifully... or is it just for me?"

Your entire body felt as though it had been set alight, the heat rushing from your cheeks to the very tips of your ears as Jing Yuan's lips hovered ever so teasingly over your cunt. The blush that painted your skin deepened, spreading like wildfire, your hands clutching the silken material beneath you in an effort to steady yourself.

And then, his lips pressed softly against your pussy—through the delicate fabric that barely served as a barrier. The kiss was unhurried yet deliberate, and the sensation made you gasp, your heart leaping into your throat. Your thighs quivered slightly beneath his strong, steady grip as your body betrayed the flood of emotions overtaking you.

Jing Yuan closed his eyes, the scent of you filling his senses as though nothing else in the world existed. Sweet and heady, with a potency that made his mind spiral, it was unlike anything he had imagined—and oh, had he imagined. His fingers curled slightly against your skin as if grounding himself from the overwhelming allure.

The sweetness of it mingled with something darker, more intoxicating, and utterly unique to you. It was pungent but not overpowering—an earthy, sensual fragrance that clung to the air around you and pulled him deeper into the haze you created.

His breaths grew heavier, his mind clouding as the scent wrapped around him like an invisible tether, binding him to you in a way that felt both maddening and necessary.

"Addictive," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the single word almost swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the room. His lips brushed against you once more, this time lingering a second longer, his tongue darting out briefly to taste the fabric.

A groan rumbled deep in his chest, and his grip on your thighs tightened ever so slightly, his composure slipping as he inhaled deeply again, utterly consumed by the fragrance of you. His golden eyes, now darkened with something primal and insatiable, flickered up to meet yours—a blush still staining your cheeks, your wide-eyed gaze unsure and yet filled with undeniable need.

Jing Yuan's tongue pressed firmly yet gently against the thin fabric, a deliberate movement that sent shockwaves coursing through your body. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt, the warmth and softness of his mouth combining with the teasing pressure to ignite every nerve in your skin. Your toes curled instinctively, the sheer intensity of the moment leaving you breathless, as though the air itself had thickened.

His large hands, splayed across your trembling thighs, gripped you tighter, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh in a way that left you aching for more. The contrast of his strength against your vulnerability only heightened the whirlwind of sensations overtaking you. He groaned softly, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through you, as if he too was succumbing to the weight of his desires.

Jing Yuan’s gaze lifted, drinking in every detail of you. The flush that coloured your cheeks, spreading down your neck and disappearing beneath the thin fabric of your gown. The way strands of your hair had fallen loose, framing your face like a delicate painting. The rise and fall of your chest as your breath quickened, each exhale shaky and unsteady.

He felt an unrelenting need to unravel you, to witness you laid bare, in every sense of the word. His hands moved slightly, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin, grounding you and driving you to the edge all at once.

His tongue pressed against the fabric again, this time with more insistence, and his lips followed with a lingering kiss. The heat of his breath seeped through, and it felt as though he was marking you with each touch, his presence imprinted on your very soul.

“Do you feel it?” he asked softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours as his hands squeezed your thighs again. “The way I want to devour you—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left of this composure we’re pretending to hold on to?”

Jing Yuan's grip on your thigh loosened as he let his hand slip away, only to settle firmly on your shoulder. The weight of his touch grounded you, but the intensity in his golden gaze sent your mind spiralling into chaos. His other hand moved with a deliberate slowness, two fingers brushing against the fabric that separated him from you, as though he were savouring the act of uncovering you.

He pushed the fabric aside, exposing your glistening skin beneath. The air felt cool against the heat of your pussy, and the juxtaposition made you shiver. Your scent—intoxicating, sweet, and unmistakably you—filled the space between you, strong and pungent in a way that made his breath hitch. His eyes could not leave the sight of your cunt, your clit throbbing, clear liquid oozing from between your glistening folds as he glances at your face, lips swollen and eyes teary – a sight that made his cock leak.

His eyes darkened, a glimmer of something primal flickering in their depths as he took you in. You were fluttering, every part of you trembling in anticipation, and it made his lips curl into a faint, knowing smile.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, yet laced with raw hunger.

His hand tightened slightly on thigh, grounding you further, while his gaze remained fixed on you as though you were the most captivating sight he had ever encountered. The vulnerability in the moment only seemed to embolden him, and the way his breath fanned against your exposed skin made your thighs tremble under his hold.

Jing Yuan's tongue pressed against your clit, lapping up the sweetness that spilled from you with a deliberate, unrelenting pace. The warmth of his mouth against such a sensitive part of you was overwhelming, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through your body. His eyes, golden and intense, never strayed from your face, watching every twitch of your expression, every blush that spread across your cheeks, and every soft whimper that escaped your lips.

A low hum of approval resonated from him, vibrating against your core as he worked, his large hands gripping your thighs firmly to hold you in place. Each stroke of his tongue was purposeful, slow at first, then more insistent, as though he were a man on the brink of starvation, and you were the feast he'd been denied for far too long.

Your fingers clawed at the leather couch beneath you, the cool material a stark contrast to the heat building inside you. Your hips bucked slightly against his face, but his strong grip kept you steady, his mouth never faltering.

"General..." you whimpered softly, the word barely audibles through the haze of sensation.

At that, his eyes gleamed with a feral satisfaction, something primal and wild flickering within them. He groaned softly, the sound muffled as he devoured you, his tongue exploring every inch with unyielding hunger. The sight of him—so composed, so regal—reduced to this raw, unrestrained desire sent your mind spinning, leaving you trembling under his touch.

Jing Yuan's tongue dragged deliberately against your slick folds, his pace torturous yet intoxicating. Without a word, two of his thick fingers slid down, pressing against your entrance before sinking into you without warning. The stretch was immediate, a mix of pleasure and intensity that tore a loud whimper from your lips. Your body arched into his touch, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your breath hitched.

"General... General..." The title fell from your lips in a broken chant, each syllable a prayer as your mind spiralled. Nothing else existed beyond the overwhelming sensations he wrought upon your body—his tongue flicking expertly up and down your slick heat, his lips closing around the sensitive bud that made your vision blur.

His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your entire body jolt. He pressed into it mercilessly, dragging a sob from your throat as your thighs quaked against his face. His other hand gripped your thigh tightly, holding you still as he worked with relentless precision.

The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue and fingers filled the air, mingling with your soft cries and whimpers. Your world narrowed to the molten heat pooling low in your belly, each flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.

He sucked on the swollen bundle of nerves, his tongue circling with maddening skill. You sobbed his name again, your thighs trembling, your body barely able to keep up with the intensity of his actions. Through the haze, you felt the curve of his lips against you—a smirk, as though he took pride in unravelling you completely.

Your vision blurred, tears threatening to spill as a tight knot in your stomach coiled and twisted unbearably. Each thrust of Jing Yuan's fingers pressed against that devastating spot inside you, sending shockwaves through your trembling frame. Your eyes rolled back, a broken cry escaping your lips as the tension snapped, pleasure washing over you like a tidal wave.

Your entire body quivered, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as the release tore through you, leaving you gasping and breathless. But Jing Yuan didn't stop. His fingers maintained their relentless rhythm, coaxing you through the aftershocks, prolonging every moment of your bliss.

You felt his warm tongue, soft yet firm, trailing along your folds as he licked up every drop of your release. His eyes, golden and piercing, never left your face. He seemed captivated by the way your lips parted, the flush painting your cheeks, the glazed look in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he murmured softly, his voice thick with reverence and desire, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin as he placed a soft kiss against your fluttering clit. His gaze was heavy with pride and satisfaction, as though committing the sight of you undone to memory. He slowly moves up your body, Jing Yuan’s lips traced a delicate path up your neck, each soft kiss like a whispered secret against your skin. The air between you thickened with warmth, every subtle movement drawing you deeper into the moment. He paused just below your ear, his breath mingling with yours, before he reached out for the bottle of alcohol and took a slow, deliberate swig of the sweet alcohol. He placed the bottle down and he finally met your gaze, something unspoken passed between you.

With a gentle but firm pull, he lifted you, as if in a trance, and brought your lips to his. The kiss was tender at first, like a soft brush of silk, but then it deepened, becoming something slower, more languid. The sweet taste of the alcohol seeped into your mouth, dribbling out of the corner of your lip as you moaned when his tongue brushed against yours, the alcohol, sweet and intoxicating with the taste of your essences mingled between your tongues, each shared taste adding to the heat building between you. He tasted you and you tasted him, the kiss a slow, sensual exchange, each second stretching out as if the world outside ceased to exist.

You could feel the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through your chest as his hands held you close, pulling you deeper into him. The kiss deepened, became more desperate, yet still slow—each movement deliberate, a beautiful rhythm of lips and tongue, a dance that belonged only to the two of you. Time seemed to stretch, the room fading away as you lost yourself in the sweetness of the moment, the alcohol, and the slow burn of his kiss.

Jing Yuan’s lips lingered against yours for a moment longer, his breath warm on your skin, before he slowly pulled away. His tongue tracing the bit of alcohol that dribbled out of your mouth, gaze intense and molten. The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, leaving you suspended in the air between his touch and his gaze. Your heart pounded in your chest as you waited, uncertain of what he might do next, but instead of drawing you back into his embrace, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gentle gesture so tender it made your breath catch in your throat.

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, and in that moment, there was a strange, knowing calm about him. “Thank you for the... meal,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, as though savouring the taste of the drink, you and the moment.

His words hung in the air, unexpected and enigmatic. The meal? You blinked, a flush creeping up your neck, your heart fluttering in confusion. Was that truly all he wanted from you? Was it just a fleeting moment, a passing indulgence?

Your gaze dropped to his chest, your eyes tracing the contours of his form—strong, unwavering. His shirt clung to him in a way that made you acutely aware of the man standing before you. And then, your gaze caught something—he was...

Your breath caught, and your eyes snapped back up to his, meeting his with a quiet intensity that made your pulse quicken. But he only smiled softly, almost like he understood the storm brewing within you, before gently reaching up to pat your head, a small, affectionate gesture that sent a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against your hair, making your fox ears twitch involuntarily. The touch was so casual, yet somehow it deepened the flush that spread across your face, your heart racing at the intimacy of the moment. It was a small, almost teasing action, but it made you feel as though you were suddenly laid bare in front of him.

His smile softened, his eyes warm yet impossibly distant, as though he were saying goodbye without words. “I enjoyed your company,” he said, the weight of his words settling between you like an unspoken promise that felt both comforting and impossible to decipher. “I will be anticipating another dance soon, until than darling.” His voice smooth as honey, your face turning crimson at the word ‘darling’.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, filled with a complexity you couldn't understand, before he turned and left the private area. The soft sound of his footsteps faded, but his presence remained, lingering in the air, as if he had never really left at all.

You stood there, the room suddenly feeling too large, too empty. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ The question echoed in your mind, drowning out the quiet hum of the space. He had seemed so... needy, as though there was something more. And yet, now he was gone, leaving you with nothing but his words and the warmth of his touch.

Why didn’t he want more? You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was left unfinished, the desire you felt mirrored in the air between you. Why had he stopped? Why hadn't he sought what you had both seemed to crave? It was as if your body had been aching for something deeper, and yet he had held back.

As the silence grew heavier, your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. The owner stepped inside; her voice sweet like honey but with an edge that sent a chill down your spine.

“You’re done for the night,” she said, her smile thin but knowing. “You can go home now.” Confusion clouded your thoughts. “But... I thought you only let me go after twelve?”

The owner’s smile grew, as though your question amused her. “I won’t be needing you until I call for you,” she replied, her tone light but filled with something more. A finality? You weren’t sure. The words left you unsettled, uncertain of what she truly meant.

She reached into her pocket and handed you something—a silky pouch. The weight of it felt strange in your hand. “Here’s your pay from the General,” she said, her voice dripping with a sort of satisfaction that you couldn't place. “You sure did make him happy.”

Your mind whirled. Made him happy? The words bounced in your skull, unanswered questions stirring within you like a storm. What had just happened? What had you been to him? The idea of him leaving with only that—just that—felt like a question mark lingering in the air. He had seemed so close, so wanting, and yet he left.

The thought of the lingering kiss, the sweet warmth of the alcohol shared between you both, made your chest ache. He had left with a soft smile, but you couldn't shake the sense of something unfinished, something unspoken. Had you misread the moment? As you looked down at the silky pouch, the weight of it felt more symbolic than ever. The pay was there, yes, but the ache, the unanswered longing in your chest—it was something deeper, something that the money couldn't soothe.

The owner’s grin widened as she stepped back, her eyes gleaming with that same knowing look. You were left with the pouch, your heart full of questions, but no answers.

Jing Yuan hadn’t been himself lately, and he knew it. No matter how many duties he fulfilled or how much paperwork he completed or the many sneaky naps he took, his thoughts consistently drifted back to you. He couldn’t erase the memory of your skin beneath his hands—soft and warm, the kind of touch that lingered even after parting. Nor could he forget the taste of you, intoxicating and sweet, or the way your body moved with such elegance and allure during your dances.

It had been nearly a month since Jing Yuan began seeking you out, yet with each encounter, his fascination deepened into an obsession. He couldn’t get enough of you—the way you moved, the sound of your voice, the way your presence filled the room and consumed his thoughts. After every performance, he would reward you in ways that left you trembling, his mouth devoutly working between your thighs, tongue lapping at every drop of your arousal as his fingers thrust deeply into your slick heat. Yet, he never allowed you to touch him, never let you return the favour. His pleasure came solely from your moans, the way your body responded to his touch, and the sight of your unravelling beneath him. He would grind against his own restraint, rutting against his pants, hard and aching, but never crossing the line. He wanted to wait for the perfect moment, the right time to claim you fully—a moment that would be as unforgettable as you were to him.

It wasn’t just your beauty that consumed him, though it had ensnared him first. It was the quiet calmness you exuded, a soft-spoken grace that contrasted so deeply with the fire of your movements. The way your tail swayed behind you, how your ears twitched in subtle reaction to the world around you—it was as if you were always caught between serenity and mischief. The thought of you was a constant hum in his mind, an ache he could not shake.

He found himself wandering the streets of the city more often now – much to Fu xuan dismissal, hoping to find distractions from you. Yet even his usual escapes held no relief. And today was no exception.

As he strolled through Aurum Alley, the faint clinking of porcelain caught his ear, drawing his attention to a small tea shop tucked into the corner. He stepped inside, the familiar scents of herbs and dried flowers wafting over him, soothing but unremarkable—until his eyes fell on you.

You were standing near the back, your head tilted slightly as you admired the display of teacups arranged on a low wooden shelf. The dim lantern light cast a golden glow over you, highlighting the soft fur of your ears and the elegant sweep of your tail swaying absently behind you. You were dressed in a delicate white dress, its

fabric light and airy, brushing against your knees with every movement. The dress was adorned with tiny floral embroidery, dainty and unassuming, much like the way you carried yourself.

Jing Yuan’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected to see you here, not outside the confines of your world of silk and candlelight. Here, you looked softer, more natural, yet no less captivating. It was a sight that made his chest tighten, as if the universe had conspired to remind him that you were always just out of reach.

You seemed unaware of his presence, your attention wholly captured by a teacup you held delicately in your hands. It was a beautiful piece, adorned with intricate floral designs, vines curling around painted blossoms, the base glimmering faintly with gold. You turned it slowly in your fingers, your tail swishing with a faint, almost wistful rhythm.

The sight of you, so enraptured by something so simple, made his heart clench. And when you set the cup back down with a small, defeated sigh, it took all of his willpower not to close the distance between you immediately.

Instead, he lingered, watching as you hesitated, your fingers brushing against the rim of the cup one last time before you turned away. Jing Yuan didn’t need to guess why you’d left it behind—the soft downturn of your lips told him everything.

He stepped forward then, his presence a shadow that fell over you before his voice, low and smooth, broke the silence.

“Admiring something, are we?”

You startled, your ears twitching at the sound. Turning to face him, your eyes widened briefly before you quickly averted your gaze. “Oh, General,” you murmured, your hands clasping nervously in front of you. “I didn’t see you there.”

He allowed himself a small smile, though his golden eyes remained fixed on you. “It’s a charming shop, isn’t it? Something here seems to have caught your attention.”

You hesitated, glancing toward the shelf where the teacup sat. “It’s nothing,” you said softly, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “Just a pretty cup. I was… just admiring it.”

“Just admiring it?” Jing Yuan repeated, stepping closer, the faint scent of his cologne filling the space between you. “And yet, you look as though you’ve left a piece of your heart behind with it.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you shook your head. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not something I can…” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely, unwilling to say the words aloud.

Jing Yuan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—part amusement, part something darker. “A beauty such as that shouldn’t be left behind,” he said, his voice dropping lower, softer, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “Nor should one such as you.”

Before you could respond, he moved, his hand reaching out to lift the teacup from the shelf. With a smooth motion, he turned toward the shopkeeper, the transaction over before you could protest.

“General—”

“Consider it a gift,” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind as he handed the cup to you. His fingers brushed yours as you took it, the brief contact sending a jolt through you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, clutching the cup to your chest. Your tail swished nervously behind you; your ears flattened slightly as you avoided his gaze.

Jing Yuan watched you with a quiet intensity, his smile never faltering. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, his mind raced. Seeing you here, holding something he’d given you, made something primal stir within him. You were no longer just a fleeting obsession, no longer a memory confined to dimly lit nights. You were here, real and tangible, and he wasn’t sure he could ever let you go.

Jing Yuan couldn’t help himself. The moment you stepped outside the tea shop, clutching the intricately designed cup he had bought for you, he was already glancing back at the shelves. He ended up purchasing an assortment of things—fine tea leaves, a brewing set that complemented your cup, and even a small silk pouch embroidered with a motif. It wasn’t about the items themselves; it was the thought of you using them, of you remembering this moment, that drove his actions.

He exited the shop with a bag in hand, catching up to you with ease. The sun cast a warm glow on the cobblestone streets, and your figure seemed to glow in the light. Your white dress fluttered softly with each step, and your tail swayed gently behind you, a detail he couldn’t help but admire.

“You didn’t have to get more,” you said softly, glancing at the bag he carried.

He chuckled, his deep voice warm. “It’s no trouble at all. Tea is best enjoyed with care, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, you deserve nothing but the finest.”

Your cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink, and you glanced away, your ears twitching. “Thank you… General.”

“Jing Yuan,” he corrected smoothly, his golden eyes gleaming. “When it’s just us, there’s no need for formalities.”

You hesitated but nodded. “Thank you, Jing Yuan.”

As you walked together, he took the opportunity to get to know you better. It started with small questions—your favourite teas, if you frequented the shop often—but soon, the conversation deepened. He found out that you were passionate about dance, your eyes lighting up as you spoke about it, despite the soft-spoken nature of your words.

“It’s always been something I loved,” you admitted, your fingers brushing the edge of the teacup you still held. “But… the work I do now, it’s not exactly what I envisioned.”

“Oh?” he prompted, his gaze sharp but gentle, encouraging you to continue.

You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the path ahead. “The dancing I do now… it’s to pay off my father’s debts. It’s… different from the dancing I dreamed of as a child.”

Jing Yuan’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained calm. The thought of you, someone so poised and graceful, burdened by another’s mistakes, ignited a protective streak within him. He didn’t press further, sensing you weren’t ready to elaborate, but the knowledge lingered in his mind like a seed waiting to take root.

When the time came for you to part ways, you stopped at a small intersection, turning to face him. Your hands clutched the teacup tightly, your expression shy but sincere. “Thank you again, Jing Yuan. For everything.”

His smile softened, and for a moment, his golden gaze held yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. You blinked, your cheeks heating up as you realised what he meant. You gave him a small, flustered nod before quickly excusing yourself, your tail swishing nervously as you hurried away.

Jing Yuan watched you go, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. He would see you later, of course, but not just as part of a crowd. No, when you danced tonight, it would be for him, and he would make sure you knew it.

The brothel exuded an even more sinful opulence. Red and gold fabrics draped like cascading rivers of silk from the high, arching ceilings. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of sandalwood incense, mingling with the faint sweetness of lotus blossoms arranged in ornate porcelain vases. The walls were adorned with intricate scrolls of calligraphy, their elegant strokes illuminated by the flickering glow of countless candles. Every corner seemed steeped in temptation, every detail carefully crafted to blur the lines between reality and indulgence.

Jing Yuan sat alone in a private room; a sanctuary veiled by velvet curtains. The plush cushions beneath him did little to ease the tension coiled in his body. A lacquered tray before him held untouched tea and delicate fruit, but his golden gaze never wavered from the stage below. The brothel’s ambiance—a sultry blend of murmurs, soft music, and rustling silks—faded to nothing as you stepped into the spotlight.

Your presence commanded every eye in the room, but his was the only gaze you truly felt. You were a vision of raw, untamed allure. The outfit you wore left little to the imagination, sheer fabrics clinging to your every curve, your skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the dim, golden light. Crimson painted your lips, a bold invitation, while the smoky shadow around your eyes framed them like a weapon. Your tail swayed with each step, teasing, enticing, an extension of the sensual rhythm that seemed to pulse from your very being.

The music began, slow and sultry, and you moved with a deliberate grace, every step a calculated seduction. Your hips swayed in time with the haunting melody, and the way your hands glided over your body had the audience mesmerized. To him, however, it was something more—a torment, a fire that spread through his veins and pooled low in his stomach.

Jing Yuan’s usually serene expression was gone, replaced by a raw intensity that darkened his golden eyes. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders filling the dimly lit alcove as his focus narrowed solely on you. His fingers tightened on the armrest, his chest rising and falling in steady, heavy breaths. The soft sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, the subtle arch of your back, the sway of your hips—it was more than he could bear, yet he couldn’t look away.

The room disappeared for him; the murmured conversations, the soft laughter, the flickering candles—all of it was drowned out by you. Every slow, sensual turn, every flick of your tail, every teasing brush of your fingers across your skin seemed crafted solely for him.

When your eyes lifted and met his, just for a moment, the tension snapped taut. That fleeting connection sent a visceral thrill through him, a silent challenge in the way you quickly looked away. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. The denial—the way you teased and withheld even your gaze—was maddening.

You spun again, your bold crimson lips parting as though whispering secrets to the air, your hands brushing over the curve of your waist. The sheer fabric clinging to your body teased him mercilessly, every contour revealed in the flickering candlelight. His golden gaze roamed over you hungrily, his breaths deep and deliberate as if trying to anchor himself against the storm of desire you had unleashed.

The sweat glistening on your thighs, the way your hair clung to your neck, the confident arch of your body—it was intoxicating. Jing Yuan could feel the heat rising

within him, his control slipping with every second. You were temptation incarnate, and he was utterly, completely ensnared.

Jing Yuan's hand moved to rest against his thigh, but the tension in his body betrayed the calm demeanour he fought to maintain. His fingers flexed, slowly drifting, palm pressing lightly against the growing ache beneath the rich fabric of his robes. The weight of his breath was deliberate, measured, but his chest rose and fell with an intensity that mirrored the fire coursing through him.

His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering, devouring. The way you moved-every sway of your hips, every arch of your back, every tantalizing flick of your tail-was an exquisite torment.

You were more than a dancer; you were an artist, painting desire across the room with your body as the brush and the music as your canvas. The strain in his muscles was palpable, his golden eyes darkening with an unspoken hunger. Yet even amidst his rising heat, there was admiration- appreciation for the elegance and mastery of your movements. The way your body told a story, the way your presence commanded the room, it was more than alluring; it was transcendent.

But the intensity of his desire could not be denied. The hardness beneath his robes grew, a throbbing reminder of the effect you had on him. His jaw tightened as his fingers pressed harder, a fleeting attempt at control. Every step you took, every glance you spared his way, only served to unravel the restraint he so desperately clung to. Jing Yuan's breath hitched, his usually steady composure unravelling. The beauty of your art left him enraptured, the sensuality of your dance leaving his mind clouded, his body heavy with need. You were a siren, and he was helpless against your call, a prisoner to the exquisite torment you inflicted upon him.

As your performance came to its crescendo, the room seemed to hold its breath. The music faded into the background, muffled by the pulse pounding in Jing Yuan’s ears. His hand twitched against his thigh, his entire body taut with unrestrained tension as you stepped down from the platform. Each movement you made was deliberate, a purposeful seduction that left his chest heaving, his golden eyes drinking in every detail of you.

And finally, you were upstairs in the room with him.

The space between you closed, and Jing Yuan felt his pulse quicken, a rare break in his usual calm demeanour. His fingers clenched briefly before releasing, as if bracing himself for the storm that was you. You stopped just shy of his seat, your eyes meeting his, bold and teasing, yet softened by something unreadable. The flick of your tail and the slight quirk of your lips only stoked the fire inside him further.

He didn’t wait.

Rising from his seat in one fluid motion, Jing Yuan closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His large hands found your waist, pulling you to him with a fervour that left no room for hesitation. The moment his lips met yours, it was as though the world fell away. The kiss was urgent, demanding, and possessive. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fire and hunger, consuming and overwhelming.

His lips pressed against yours like a man starved, tasting, exploring, memorizing every inch of you. One hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed firmly across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping across your lower lip before slipping inside to claim more of you.

The taste of you was intoxicating, a heady mix that made his restraint crumble. Every small sound you made—a whimper, a sigh—drove him further into madness. The way your soft hands gripped his robes, clutching at him like he was your anchor, only fuelled his need to devour you whole.

Jing Yuan’s mind raced; his thoughts consumed by you. The way you moved, the way you felt pressed against him, the way you yielded under his touch—it was all too much and yet not enough. His hold tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin, as if trying to etch the memory of this moment into his soul.

He wanted more.

No, he wanted everything.

The desire coursing through him wasn’t just lust—it was something far deeper, more consuming. He wanted to know every part of you, to uncover the layers of your soul as thoroughly as he wanted to explore your body. The thought of you with anyone else sent a possessive heat surging through him, and the idea of keeping you close, of having you as his, was a temptation too powerful to ignore.

He broke the kiss only when breathing became a necessity, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. His breaths were ragged, his chest heaving, but his hands never left you, as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“You’re driving me mad,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. His golden eyes bore into yours, intense and filled with something that bordered on obsession. “Do you know what you do to me? How every moment I spend away from you feels like an eternity?”

You didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, your lips found his again, softer this time but no less heated, as though silently answering his unspoken question.

Jing Yuan’s grip softened, his thumb brushing along your jawline with a tenderness that contrasted the fervent need in his kiss. He pulled back just enough to study your face, his gaze tracing every feature as though committing it to memory.

“You have no idea what you mean to me,” he said, his voice quieter now but still laced with that same raw intensity. “But I’ll show you. One day, I’ll show you.”

The promise lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, as he held you close, the room around you fading into nothingness. For now, in this moment, you were his entire world.

Jing Yuan's gaze darkened as his hands slipped to the hem of your lingerie top, his breath heavy, his movements deliberate. With a fluid motion, he pushed the delicate fabric up and off, revealing the soft curve of your breasts. His eyes lingered, golden and molten, as though the sight of you alone was enough to undo him completely.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with reverence and desire.

Before you could reply, his lips descended, capturing one pert nipple between them, his tongue swirling feverishly. He suckled with an intensity that left no doubt of his hunger, his large hand cupping your other breast, kneading, and teasing. Every soft moan and gasp that escaped your lips only seemed to spur him on, his groans vibrating against your skin as he lavished attention upon you.

His kisses trailed down, wet and open-mouthed, over the curve of your stomach, lingering at your navel before he retraced his path back up. His lips found yours again, searing and demanding, his hands never leaving your body, holding you as if you were a treasure he refused to let go.

Without a word, Jing Yuan sank down into his chair, his strong form commanding even in the act of sitting. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to place you astride his thick thigh.

The moment your clothed pussy settled against him; his sharp inhale betrayed just how much he could feel. The thin fabric separating your body from his was soaked with your arousal, a warm, damp heat that sent a pulse of need through him.

"You’re already so wet for me," he rumbled, his voice a deep, velvety growl. His hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding you to grind against his thigh. "Go on. Show me how much you want this."

The friction was delicious, the firmness of his thigh pressing against your most sensitive spot. Your hands clung to his broad shoulders for balance, your body moving instinctively to his rhythm.

Jing Yuan’s eyes never left you, his intense gaze locked on your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure. His lips quirked into a sinful smirk as he watched you lose yourself, your breath hitching, your movements growing more desperate.

"Good girl," he murmured, his words a heady mix of praise and possession. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you faster, harder, his own breath growing heavier as he watched you unravel. "Let me see everything. Don’t hold back."

You trembled in his lap, your soft, perky nipples pebbled from the cool air and the intensity of his gaze. Jing Yuan’s large hands skimmed down your sides, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His golden eyes flicked lower, settling on the thin scrap of fabric that barely covered your most intimate place.

The sight made his breath hitch—a damp patch spreading across the delicate fabric, clinging to the shape of your pussy lips, leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. The thin barrier split against the firm muscle of his thigh, framing you in a way that sent his thoughts spiralling.

Jing Yuan's jaw tightened, his head tilting back for a moment as he groaned low and deep. The image of your leaking cunt pulled taut around his thick cock flashed unbidden in his mind, the mere thought causing his grip on your plush hips to tighten.

"Not yet," he muttered under his breath, his voice rough, his restraint hanging by a thread. His arousal throbbed painfully beneath his robes, but he refused to let the tension break—refused to give in until he had you entirely, in the only way he could truly claim you.

His hands flexed against your flesh, fingers sinking into the soft curves as he guided you to move against his thigh again. His golden eyes burned with raw want, but there was something deeper there—something possessive, primal, and utterly consuming.

"You’ll have me, but not like this," he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm and heavy. "The only way I’ll give you my seed is when I’m inside you. Completely. Do you understand?"

The words sent a shiver through you, your body trembling even more as his intent settled over you like a tangible weight. You nodded, unable to form words, lost in the way his hands and his voice claimed every part of you.

Tears welled in your eyes as Jing Yuan’s strong hands gripped your hips, roughly guiding you against the firm muscle of his thigh. Each drag of your soaked core over the thick fabric sent shockwaves through your body, your clit throbbing with an ache so overwhelming it made your head spin. You clung to his broad shoulders, gasping for air, your cries a mix of pleasure and desperation.

Jing Yuan’s mouth found the delicate curve of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he sucked hard, determined to leave a mark—a vivid bloom that declared you his. The sting only heightened the sensations coursing through you, and your moans spurred him on, his movements growing fiercer, more relentless.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your skin, his deep voice sending a tremor down your spine. His golden eyes, darkened with unrestrained hunger, never left your face, drinking in every reaction, every sound, every shudder of your body.

Your back arched, a broken cry spilling from your lips as the tension in your core snapped. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as your release soaked through the flimsy fabric barely clinging on you. Jing Yuan’s large hand splayed across your lower back, holding you steady, his grip firm yet comforting as he guided you through your climax.

You collapsed against his chest, your body spent and trembling. Your underwear, a soaking mess as Jing Yuan’s arms enveloped you, his large hands moving gently now, one rubbing soothing circles along your back.

“There we go,” he murmured, his voice low and tender, a stark contrast to the possessive fire that had consumed him moments before. “I’ve got you.”

His lips brushed against your temple, the touch grounding you as you nestled into his embrace, your breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Jing Yuan’s hand glided gently along the soft, velvety fur of your tail; his touch light yet deliberate. A small, breathless whine escaped your parted lips, your cheeks warming as you instinctively nuzzled into the solid warmth of his chest. His scent, calming yet intoxicating, filled your senses, easing the tension in your body while making your heart race.

“M-My tail... it’s sensitive, Jing Yuan,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, shy and muffled against him.

He paused, his golden eyes glinting with curiosity as a faint smirk curved his lips. “I see,” he replied simply, his tone smooth, holding an edge of playfulness. Instead of lingering, his hand shifted to rest on your back, his large palm moving in slow, soothing circles. Though his touch remained comforting, the knowing look in his gaze hinted that he had filed away this discovery for some other time.

All Jing Yuan wanted, with every fibre of his being, was to bury himself deep into the irresistible warmth of your slick, aching pussy, to lose himself entirely in the pleasure you could give him. But he could not—not yet. Not when he knew you deserved more than just raw passion. He wanted to show you his devotion; to prove he was a man worthy of claiming you fully.

His chest rose and fell with effort as he reined in the primal urges clawing at his restraint. The soft tremble of your body against his own pulled him back to the present, grounding him in the tender moment.

Jing Yuan’s large hand moved to thread gently through your hair, his fingers combing through the strands with a soothing rhythm. “You did so well,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting. His other hand continued to rub light circles on your back, coaxing you to relax as your breathing slowly evened out.

When he finally pulled back slightly, his golden eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?” he asked, the question tender, yet filled with an underlying intensity that promised this was not a mere casual invitation.

The warmth of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter. You blinked up at him, dazed and blushing, but managed a shy nod, your voice barely above a whisper as you replied, “I’d like that.”

His smile widened, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Good,” he murmured, already envisioning how he would make the evening one you would never forget.

Author’s Note:

Part 2 ? Dinner turns into a full-on session of raw fucking cause reader got her heat ? :3

reblogs, likes, comments, and follows are highly appreciated <3

also check out my masterlist if u are interested in any of my other works <3

if you want u can check out my ko-fi <3

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 1 ┃ The Wrong Door

Male reader x Giselle

Word Count: 6.5k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing

I didn’t even want to be here.

Concerts aren’t my thing. Screaming fans? Crowds packed shoulder to shoulder, sweating, pulsing to the bass of some pop anthem? No thanks. I like silence. I like my own space. And I sure as hell don’t like being herded like livestock through a stadium entrance just to watch people I’ve never even heard of pretend to sing over backing tracks.

But Jackson insisted. And Dev had already bought the tickets. “It’s not about the music,” they said. “It’s about the experience.”

The experience. Right.

Now here I was, drowning in noise and neon and perfume and sweat, trying to keep my breathing steady while Korean girls I didn't care about danced like their lives depended on it. The crowd—mostly teenage girls and a few dangerously enthusiastic fanboys—screamed every time one of them so much as flipped their hair. Phones were everywhere. Lights blinked like strobes. It was a full-on sensory assault.

And I? I wasn't interested. I was one wrong beat away from walking out.

I got lucky. The screen overhead blinked INTERMISSION — 15:00 and the music stopped. The crowd didn’t exactly calm down, but they started shifting, standing, stretching, running for merch and bathrooms and selfies. I used the opportunity to slip out the side aisle and into the nearest hallway marked RESTROOMS + VIP SUITES.

It was quiet almost immediately. Blessedly so.

The noise of the stadium dropped behind me like a curtain, replaced by sterile lighting and the low thrum of vents overhead. I passed the bathrooms but kept walking. I needed a breather more than anything, a second to think, to feel like myself again. I checked my phone—no signal—and kept walking down the hall.

That’s when I saw it: a door left ajar. Soft light spilled out.

I should’ve turned around. I should’ve thought, Maybe this is someone’s private space. But something about the glow—the hush, the mystery of it—pulled at me. I was curious. And when I get curious, I don’t stop.

So I pushed it open.

It took me a second to realize I wasn’t alone. The room was dim, expensive, quiet. Everything in soft gold tones and warm leather. A mirrored vanity glowed along one wall, surrounded by bulbs. The scent hit me next—perfume, heady and rich, wrapped around the chill of champagne. I was halfway through processing the velvet couch and the untouched strawberries on crystal glassware when I saw HER.

She was standing barefoot in front of the mirror, half-turned, her back to me. Her outfit was more lingerie than clothing—black mesh, sequins, leather straps. Her pink hair was up but imperfectly, pieces falling like silk down her neck. She was in the middle of unclasping something at the back of her neck, unaware of—or ignoring—me.

And then she spoke.

“You’re early.”

Her voice was smooth, low. American accent. A little amused.

I froze.

“I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively. “I think I’m—uh, lost.”

She didn’t turn right away. Just paused with her fingers on the clasp. Then she looked at me over her shoulder—one eye catching the light, sharp as a blade.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think you are.”

I blinked. “I really am. I was looking for the bathroom and I guess I just—”

“You opened a marked door.”

“I didn’t see any signs—”

“There were signs,” she said, finally facing me.

She was beautiful. I’m not saying that in the way people do when they meet a celebrity. I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t recognize her. I wasn’t starstruck. I was just... caught.

She had presence. Poise. Her body was slim but curved in all the places that made it impossible not to look. Her eyes didn’t smile, but they weren’t cold. They were calculating. Like she was building a character around me, testing how I’d react.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mylo.”

Her head tilted slightly. “Is that real?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You don’t look like a Mylo.”

I smirked despite myself. “What do I look like?”

She thought for a bit. “Like someone who doesn’t belong here.”

“Believe me, I don’t. I was just leaving—”

“No,” she said again, softly. “Stay.”

That word—that tone—should’ve sent me walking. But it didn’t. I stayed.

She moved toward me slowly, a kind of predatory grace in her bare feet and parted lips. Her body language was relaxed, but deliberate. Every step said she was in charge. Not of the room. Of me.

And I let her.

I couldn’t explain why, not then. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—not like I was a stranger, but like I was hers. Like she already knew what she wanted to do with me and was just deciding whether I’d be worth the effort.

“You’re not one of the staff,” she said, mostly to herself.

“No.”

“You’re not with the crew. And you didn’t come with security.”

“No.”

She smiled. “Then what are you doing here, Mylo?”

“Wrong door,” I said again, but it sounded less convincing this time.

She took one more step, close enough now for me to feel the heat of her skin. Her eyes traveled down my body, not shy, not rushed. She lingered on my chest, my hips, the tension in my fingers.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked.

“No.” I hesitated. “Should I?”

That amused her. I could see the moment her mask cracked and something real flickered beneath it—surprise, maybe. Or interest. Or something darker.

“No,” she said finally as if she didn't believe me. “That makes this easier.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Just stood there in front of me, arms loose at her sides, one foot slightly forward like she was deciding whether to get closer or make me come to her. She didn’t blink much. She watched me like she was reading, not listening. And somehow, I was the one who felt exposed, even though I still had all my clothes on and she… didn’t, really.

There was a quiet sort of violence in the air. Not danger exactly. More like potential. She hadn’t said what she wanted. But I knew she wanted something.

She turned back to the mirror without another word and picked up a square of folded tissue, wiping under one eye with careful precision. Glitter dusted onto her collarbone like something expensive and accidental. The strap of her outfit was still hanging loose, but she made no move to fix it.

I wasn’t sure if I should speak. So I didn’t.

“You said your name’s Mylo,” she said, her voice low again, casual. “Where are you from?”

“Long Beach.”

“Not local, then.”

“Close enough.”

She nodded, then looked at me in the mirror.

“What are you doing now?”

“Wrong turn.”

“No.” She tilted her head. “Now. In life.”

I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “That’s a hell of a question.”

“I’m serious.”

“Right now I’m… working freelance. Web development. Bit of UX. It’s not exciting.”

She turned. “Then why did you say it like it’s a secret?”

I didn’t have an answer.

She stepped closer, slowly, like she was making sure I didn’t spook. And I didn’t. I stayed exactly where I was.

Her perfume hit me again—soft, floral, expensive. I still didn’t recognize her, but that was starting to feel irrelevant. She could’ve been an actress, a singer, a rich girl playing pretend. None of it would have changed the way she looked at me.

Like she was curious about how far she could push me before I’d say no.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

She smiled. “That’s cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

Her hand brushed the front of her thigh, fingers trailing slowly along her skin, just shy of deliberate. My brain scrambled for something to say, something to anchor me to reality. I was in a stadium. There was a concert happening. There were fifteen thousand people and a very real possibility that someone would walk in and see this.

I didn’t care.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“You’ll find out when you’ve earned it.”

“Is this a game to you?”

“No.” She tilted her head. “But you’re fun to play with.”

Her foot arched slightly against the rug as she took another step forward. Close now. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin, could see the light sheen of sweat at the hollow of her throat. I wanted to touch her. Just one fingertip. Just to know she was real.

“Don’t,” she said softly, like she’d read my mind.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Liar.”

A pause.

She looked down at the front of my shirt, then up again. “You don’t look like the type who follows orders.”

“I’m not.”

Her smile was slow and private. “Good.”

She reached for the strap still hanging loose on her shoulder. Slid it back into place. Not to hide. Just to reset the board.

“Sit,” she said, nodding toward the velvet loveseat.

I hesitated.

“I said sit.”

So I did.

She crossed the room without looking at me again, poured a fresh glass of champagne, dropped a single strawberry in like a garnish. Then she sat on the couch—opposite to me, one leg tucked under the other, facing me directly. Like we were equals. Like this wasn’t her room and I wasn’t the one trespassing.

“You ever break into places, Mylo?”

“No.”

“Shame. You’re good at it.”

I watched her run a finger down the side of her glass. Slow. Rhythmic.

“You think this is a mistake?” I asked.

She looked up. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “Me too.”

Neither of us moved.

She didn’t touch me.

Not at first.

“You’re being quiet,” she said.

“You’re being... a lot.”

Her smile curled slightly. “Too much?”

“No.” I shifted. “Not enough.”

She tilted her head, pleased. Her eyes dropped to my hands. I didn’t realize I’d been clenching them. She noticed everything.

“You like following orders,” she said.

I shook my head. “No. Not usually.”

Her smile didn’t fade. “But you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“I guess I want to see what happens next,” I said.

That seemed to satisfy her. She leaned back into the couch, legs crossed, and looked me over like I was both trespasser and specimen.

“Take off your jacket,” she said.

I didn’t move.

She gave me a look—subtle, expectant.

I took off my jacket.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was intentional. Like she was seeing how comfortable I could get under pressure.

“You ever think about what it would be like,” she said, “to be told what to do?”

“I’ve had bosses before.”

She laughed. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

A pause.

She stood. Walked over to me—slow, barefoot, measured—and knelt in front of the chair I was sitting in. Her knees brushed mine. She didn’t reach for me. Just looked up, eyes steady, close enough that I could see the darker ring around her irises.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I am going to take you apart.”

My breath caught.

“And when I do,” she added, brushing her fingers just barely against the inside of my thigh, “I’ll expect you to say thank you.”

Still, I didn’t move.

Her eyes stayed on me.

She watched the way I exhaled. The way I shifted in my seat. She could feel the tension building, and she didn’t need to do a damn thing to feed it.

“You like restraint,” she said, almost to herself.

“You’ve seen me for ten minutes.”

“I don’t need more.”

I smirked. “And what do you like?”

“Control.”

“That’s obvious.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Not power. Not winning. Just control.”

“Is there a difference?”

“One makes you loud. The other makes you patient.”

She stood again and walked past me toward the mirrored vanity to admire herself. This time, she didn’t check to see if I was watching.

She knew I was.

“I don’t usually let people in here,” she said.

“I don’t usually wander into strangers’ rooms.”

“Yet here we are.”

She turned, walking back—slow, sure, calculated. There was nothing casual about it. Her bare feet made no sound on the rug, but she moved with the intention of heels. Stopping just in front of me, she leaned in and placed both palms on the arms of the chair. She didn’t touch me. Not quite.

But her body was close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her skin. Her breath was just below my mouth. Her perfume wrapped around me like a second atmosphere.

“You want to kiss me right now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Say please.”

I hesitated.

And she smiled—knowing, satisfied.

“Thought so,” she whispered, and pulled back before I could say anything at all.

She sat on the edge of the couch again, back straight, watching me like a tiger lounging just out of reach.

“What do you do,” I asked, voice a little hoarse, “when you get bored?”

Her smile was a slow burn. “Get un-bored.”

She tapped the empty cushion beside her.

“Come here.”

I did.

She turned to face me fully, legs folding under her again, this time closer. Her thigh touched mine. Her hand landed on my knee.

“You’ve been good so far,” she said. “I think I’ll keep going.”

The air in the room tightened.

She moved slowly—her hand trailing up my thigh, featherlight. Her nails grazed the fabric of my pants. Her fingers reached the crease at my hip and paused.

“You can stop me at any time,” she said.

I didn’t stop her.

I didn’t want to.

She leaned in. Her lips were glossy and full and tasted like strawberries and something darker. The kiss was slow. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Commanding.

She kissed me like she was showing me how. Like I’d do it wrong if she didn’t teach me.

Her hand kept moving—along the inside of my thigh, up, then over. She didn’t grip me yet. Just touched. Just explored. The anticipation was maddening.

And then she whispered it, low against my mouth:

“Undo your pants.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It threaded into me like static. I looked at her—half disbelieving, half burning.

She arched one eyebrow, still calm. Still collected. Like we were discussing dinner options, not sex.

My fingers moved before I could overthink it.

Button. Zipper. The sound was deafening in the quiet. Her eyes never left my hands. She watched the reveal like it was a gift she already knew she’d earned.

“Good,” she murmured.

Her hand slid under my waistband, nails grazing skin, and that was the first real contact that made my breath catch. Her fingers were warm, deliberate. She wasn’t shy. She wrapped them around me like she’d done it a thousand times—but wanted to relearn this exact shape.

She exhaled softly, pleased. “You’re hard.”

“Of course I am.”

“Because I told you to be?”

“No.”

She smirked. “Liar.”

Her thumb dragged slowly over the head of my cock. I flinched—too much, too sensitive, too not-in-control—and that just made her smile widen. She leaned in again, kissed me with that same slow, claiming heat, and her hand stroked lazily, like she had all the time in the world and knew exactly how fast not to go.

I kissed her harder.

Tried to take some ground back. Hands moving to her hips, her waist, her lower back. But she broke the kiss and pulled back an inch.

“No hands.”

I froze.

She held my gaze, waiting.

And I let go.

Her smile told me exactly what that gave her.

She leaned in again and bit my bottom lip—just enough to leave a sting.

“You’ll touch me when I say you can.”

And then she dropped to her knees.

My breath left me all at once. I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Her hands slid my pants down further, then my boxers, freeing me completely. Her eyes stayed locked on mine as she lowered her head and pressed the flat of her tongue against the base of my shaft.

Slow.

Upward.

Warm, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt through my whole body.

She didn’t rush. She licked. She tasted. She dragged her mouth along me like she was memorizing the shape of my shaft. Then, with the faintest hum of satisfaction, she took me into her mouth—just the head, just enough to make me want to shove my hips forward, just enough to make me hold still.

She knew.

She was watching for the twitch of my thigh. The clench of my jaw. Her hand stroked in time with her mouth, lazy, devastating, a rhythm designed to drive a man out of his body without ever letting him finish.

And she wasn't letting me finish.

Every time my breath caught, she stopped. Pulled back. Let her tongue flick once, twice, too lightly to give me relief. She kissed the tip like she was thanking me for the privilege. Then started again.

And again.

And again.

Until I was panting, fists clenched at my sides, every part of me straining not to move. Not to grab her. Not to fuck her mouth the way I wanted to.

She pulled back completely.

Wiped her mouth with her thumb.

Then looked up at me with those sharp, unfazed eyes and said, “Good boy.”

She stayed on her knees.

Not because she had to. Because she liked the angle. She liked the view. She liked that I was still sitting there, pants around my thighs, chest rising like I’d just finished a workout—and she wasn't letting me cum.

She dragged the back of her fingers up the length of my thigh, the touch so light it barely existed, like she was testing whether I was ticklish. I wasn’t. But I was sensitive. Every nerve tuned to her. Every inch of me vibrating from her touch.

She looked pleased with herself. No—she looked composed. Like she could’ve done that to anyone and stayed perfectly unaffected.

That bothered me.

Not enough to stop. Not yet.

“Still with me?” she asked, smiling like we were just chatting over coffee.

“Barely.”

“Good.” She stood. Slow again. Unbothered. She stepped out of the loose arc of my pants on the floor, hands smoothing down her sides as she crossed the room.

She didn’t go far. Just to the mirror again. Touched up her lips. Adjusted a strap. Like this was an intermission in her show.

She glanced at me through the mirror. “You’ve got a nice mouth when you’re quiet.”

“Thought you liked control.”

“I do.”

“Don't get used to it.” I said with a slight smile

That earned me a sharper look. But no protest. She let the tension sit.

Then she walked back to me, bent over, and kissed me again—harder this time. Her tongue pushed into my mouth with zero hesitation, and she moaned softly when I kissed her back like I meant it.

She tasted like strawberries.

Her body moved against mine—shoulders, chest, hips—grinding down slow as she pushed me back into the cushions. She swung a leg over and straddled me, her outfit brushing bare skin in all the right ways and none of the convenient ones.

She reached behind her, grabbed both my wrists, and pulled them up over my head.

“Don’t move,” she whispered.

I didn’t.

Her hips rolled against me once, then again. Her breath caught—just slightly—and I caught it, too. Her control wasn’t an act. But it had cracks. Beautiful ones. And I liked finding them.

She leaned down, mouth at my ear.

“You’re going to fuck me.”

I swallowed. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Not yet,” she said. “You’ll wait.”

Her hips shifted again—slow, deep grind, no friction where I needed it, just enough heat to scramble every thought in my skull.

“I’m going to ride you,” she said, like it was a lecture. “Until I’m done with you.”

I met her eyes.

“And what happens after that?”

She smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She reached between us, tugging the crotch of her bodysuit to the side with practiced ease. I heard the slick stretch of fabric, the shift in her breath as her fingers slid down—coating her inner thighs, spreading herself open right above me.

She was wet.

Not fake-moaning wet. Not porn-scene wet.

Dripping.

She held me in place, pressed the head of my cock against her entrance, and then—

She sank down, inch by inch.

No rush. No pause. Just steady descent, her heat swallowing me whole, her breath catching, then stuttering out in a quiet, barely-there gasp. My hands gripped the sides of the chair so hard I thought the frame might crack. Her walls clenched around me like velvet and vice, her thighs tightening at my hips, her nails raking lightly over my chest as she adjusted to the full stretch.

She didn’t move right away. She stayed seated on me, full and still, like the moment itself was enough.

And then she whispered:

“There.”

Her hips began to move—smooth, controlled rolls, grinding down into me like she wanted to leave a bruise. Every time she shifted, I could feel how deep I was inside her. I could see the concentration on her face. This wasn’t for me. Not yet. This was her rhythm, her pressure, her high.

And god, watching her take it was better than any porn I’d ever seen.

Her hair came loose as she moved. Her head tilted back. She bit her bottom lip hard, and I wanted to suck it out from between her teeth. Her body flexed, sweat starting to bead at her chest, and I couldn’t decide where to look—her tits, bouncing just under the thin mesh of her bodysuit, or her face as she came closer and closer to the edge.

I held still. Let her use me.

And then she started talking.

“Harder,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Faster—fuck—just like that.”

Her hands slid up my chest, to my shoulders, and she grabbed tight. Used me for leverage. Started bouncing, not gently now—driven, messy, beautiful. She moaned, cursed, clenched tighter with every bounce, until—

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, over and over. “Don’t fucking stop—”

She was riding me like she owned me.

And in that moment, I let her. I fucking loved it.

Her pussy was unreal—tight, soaked, gripping me like she wanted to wring every drop out of my body. Her thighs slapped down against me with each stroke, and the sound of it—wet, hot, shameless—made it impossible to think. I was deep inside her, over and over, my cock pulsing every time she ground down and stayed there just long enough to clench.

I looked up at her—body arching, lips parted, eyes half-shut—and I swear I could’ve come just watching her move.

She was into it.

Head thrown back. Moaning with every bounce. Fingernails dragging across my chest. Riding like she needed it, like she was getting off on the fact that I wasn’t allowed to move.

And I wasn’t. I didn’t grab her hips. I didn’t flip her. I held still and let her take it.

Because watching her unravel like this?

Fucking addicting.

Her hands found the back of the chair, bracing. She leaned forward and the change in angle made me groan—deeper now, tighter. Her tits bounced right in front of me, barely covered by her bodysuit. I leaned up, took a nipple in my mouth through the mesh, sucked hard.

She gasped. Bucked.

“Fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop,” she begged, riding harder, fucking me like her orgasm was right on the edge and I was the last thing holding it in.

I bit her. Just a little.

She lost it.

“Ahh! O.. Oh!... Aghh! AAAH!”

Her body locked down around me—tight, hot, pulsing as she came. Her moan was sharp, sudden, desperate. She grinded through it, wringing herself out on my cock until she was panting against my neck, shaking.

And then, breathless—still straddling me—she laughed.

Low. Lazy. Satisfied.

“God,” she murmured, “you fuck like you’re broke.”

That word hit different.

I blinked.

“What?”

She looked at me, smiling. Still high off it. “I mean it as a compliment,” she said. “You fuck like you need it.”

The air shifted.

She leaned in, playful, mouth against my ear. “Do you want me to take care of you?”

No answer.

“I could,” she purred. “You wouldn’t have to worry about anything. You could just do this—stay hard, stay pretty—let me keep you. I have a lot of mon-” 

My hand shot up, wrapping around her throat—not hard, not dangerous, just enough to shock her system.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened.

“Ah—!”

I shoved her back, flat on the couch, my grip still snug around her throat, and she gasped again, this time sharper. Her legs twitched around me. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something clever—but no words came.

“You think you can buy me?” I said, voice low, rough.

She shook her head slightly, lips parted.

“I was just teasing—”

“Bullshit.”

“Mylo…” Her voice cracked, breathy and high. “Wait—”

“No,” I growled. “You don’t get to lead anymore.”

Her pupils blew wide. Her chest rose faster.

But she didn’t push me off. Didn’t tell me to stop.

She wanted to know what it felt like when I wasn’t pretending.

I grabbed her wrists, pressed them hard above her head, and crashed my mouth down onto hers—biting, taking, tasting the gloss off her lips like punishment.

She moaned against me.

“Mmnh—fuck—!”

My hips slammed forward. She gasped again, eyes flying wide as I pushed back into her in one deep, hard stroke.

“Oh! Ohhh—f-fuck—!”

Her body jerked. Her legs reflexively wrapped around my waist, but I wasn’t gentle. I slammed into her again, holding her down, making her feel it.

“AHH—ah—Mylo!”

“You wanted this,” I snarled. “So take it.”

She whimpered.

“Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—!”

I gripped her hips and rolled them up, shifting the angle, and slammed in again, deeper this time. Her back arched and she screamed.

“OHHH! GOD—AAAH!”

Her whole body was starting to fall apart. Her voice was shaky, her hands scrambling for anything to hold. Her hair stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her tits bounced wildly beneath me with every thrust.

She bit her lip. Hard.

“Don’t hold back,” I growled. “I want to hear it.”

Her eyes fluttered.

And then she let go.

“…more…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, like it had to claw its way up from deep inside her.

But I heard it.

And I fucking delivered.

I grabbed her by the thighs, yanked her body to the edge of the couch, and stood up just enough to drive into her with my full weight.

“AHHH—!”

Her scream echoed.

She clawed at the cushions, gasping, moaning, totally undone.

Her pussy was soaked—wrecked—from her orgasm, still fluttering around my cock, begging for mercy it wasn’t going to get. I pounded into her, fast and deep, hips snapping against her ass, and the sound of it was obscene—wet and hot and perfect.

“FUCK—! Mylo—ohmygod—ohmygod!”

“You’re still talking?” I growled. “I thought you gave that up.”

“Ah—ahh—! I—I can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“You’re taking every inch,” I said. “Don’t pretend you can’t.”

I pinned her thighs wide with one arm and leaned down, dragging my teeth across her chest before I sucked one of her nipples deep into my mouth. Her body arched.

“OHHH—oh fuck! Fuck—Mylo—yes!”

Her hands flew to my hair, pulling, scratching, grounding herself while I sucked hard, my hips never stopping. I bit down—just enough to make her cry out again—and switched sides, teeth grazing, tongue teasing, wet and relentless.

She was panting. Moaning. Whimpering.

Completely gone.

“Ahh! Oh—ohh fuck—I’m—I’m gonna—again—”

“Good,” I grunted. “Give it to me.”

I reached down, thumb circling her clit, tight and fast, no mercy.

“No—no no no—fuuuck!”

Her thighs clenched around me, hips bucking wildly, and then her whole body snapped. She screamed—

“AHHH—AAAHHH—OH MY FUCKING GOD—!”

Her pussy clamped down on me like a vice, her second orgasm crashing through her like it caught her off guard. She sobbed my name, twisting underneath me, heels pounding the couch, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body convulsed.

I didn’t stop.

I grinned.

“You’re not done.”

She whimpered—shaky, broken, breathless. “M-Mylo—please—!”

I pulled out.

She gasped at the sudden emptiness.

But I didn’t give her time to think. I grabbed her by the hips, flipped her over, and shoved her onto her knees.

Her hair spilled over her shoulders. Her back arched. Her ass was round, high, perfect—and dripping.

I lined up behind her.

“You’re gonna remember this,” I said.

And I slammed back inside her.

“AAAHHH! OH FUCK!”

Her hands clawed at the couch, knuckles white.

I gripped her hips and drove into her like I wanted to split her in half. Her pussy was tighter like this, deeper, hotter—perfect. She was shaking already, moaning like she couldn’t stop.

“F-fuck—yes—yes! HARDER—!”

“Like this?” I growled, slamming in faster.

“AHHH! FUCK YES—!”

Her ass slapped against my hips with every thrust, her breath coming in broken gasps, her cries bouncing off the walls.

“You love being used,” I said.

“YES—!”

“You love when I fuck you like this.”

“YES! YES—fuck—I’m yours—!”

My hand tangled in her hair, yanked her head back. I leaned over, chest against her back, lips at her ear.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped. “Fuck—Mylo—I’m yours!”

And then she broke.

Her whole body tensed, thighs shaking, pussy clenching so tight I nearly lost it.

“Ohhh—oh fuck—I’m gonna—gonna—AAAHHHH!”

She came again, louder than before, her voice hoarse from screaming, tears in her eyes, body jerking against mine like she couldn’t control it anymore.

I wrapped my arms around her and kept thrusting.

Long.

Deep.

Cruel.

She sobbed my name like a prayer. Like she meant it.

“Ahh… Mylo… ohhh—fuck—fuck—”

And I was still inside her.

Still pounding her. Still filling her. Still using her.

But slower now.

Crueler.

Each thrust was long, deep, deliberate. Dragging along every inch of her, making her whimper and gasp as her whole body melted forward against the cushions.

Her thighs were twitching. Her hands limp. She was trying to stay upright, trying to catch her breath—but I didn’t stop.

I wanted her at the edge. I wanted to fuck her into something wordless.

So I grabbed her hips and slammed into her again, harder than before.

“AHHH! Aghh—ohmygod—Mylo!”

She nearly collapsed. Her forehead hit the cushion. Her ass quivered with the shock of it. Her pussy clenched like she was trying to hold me in.

“You hear that?” I growled, pulling almost all the way out—then driving back in, fast, loud, wet.

Slap.

“F-fuck! Ahhh—yes—yes—!”

I kept going. Hard. Brutal.

My balls slapped against her with every thrust, heavy and obscene. Her moans pitched higher and higher—raw now, broken, no rhythm or performance left.

“AHH! AH! I-I can’t—! Mylo—I—”

“You can,” I snapped.

She tried to shake her head but her body betrayed her.

And then she started crying out.

Short, fast, choked cries between gasps.

“Ahh! Oh! O.. Oh! M-Mylo—I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking—AAAHHH!”

I leaned forward, wrapped my arm around her waist, and hauled her up to her knees.

“Not yet.”

She sobbed. Literally sobbed.

“Mylo—I c-can’t—please—I’m gonna—”

I reached down and rubbed her clit. Just once.

That’s all it took.

She exploded.

Her whole body locked. Her mouth dropped open and a noise came out that wasn’t even human.

“AHHH! OHH! AAAHH—MYLO—FUCK—FUCK—FUUUCK!”

Her pussy milked my cock, hard. Over and over. Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning, twisting her body into mine, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. She was panting, trembling, completely wrecked.

I didn’t stop.

I pulled out—slowly, watching her body shake.

Then I flipped her over and dragged her down onto the rug in front of me.

On her knees.

Her face was red, glowing, dazed. Her lips were parted, shining with spit. Her chest rose and fell fast, tits marked from where I’d sucked them raw. Her thighs were trembling uncontrollably.

I grabbed my cock—wet, slick, twitching—and jerked it in front of her.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“I want you to see it,” I said.

She nodded. Barely.

I stroked. Hard. Fast.

She stuck her tongue out. Just a little. Just enough.

I groaned—fuck—I was close.

“Touch yourself,” I ordered.

Her hand slid between her legs instantly.

She moaned.

“Ahh… ah—fuck…”

Her fingers rubbed frantically against her clit, still sensitive, still soaked. She didn’t even try to play it cool anymore. She moaned like a whore—desperate, breathy, begging for it.

“Cum with me,” I said.

And we did.

I growled, jerked hard—and exploded.

Hot ropes splattered her lips, her chin, her tongue. She gasped, eyes closing, moaning as her own orgasm took her again—so raw she didn’t even scream this time, just shook, body twitching as I painted her skin.

She came without a word. Just noise.

“Mmhh… ahh… ahhh…”

She swallowed. Licked her lips. Eyes glazed, face ruined.

I dropped to my knees in front of her.

She leaned into my chest, breath hitching, heartbeat stuttering.

And for the first time that night—

She was quiet.

Curled up against me, silent, skin hot and flushed, her breath still uneven. I could feel her heartbeat through her chest, fast and light, ticking against my ribs like a metronome that hadn’t slowed down yet.

Neither of us spoke.

She didn’t need to.

Her body was saying everything.

The way she clung to me—legs tangled with mine, face tucked into the curve of my shoulder, one arm draped across my stomach like she couldn’t let go even if she wanted to. She felt small like that. Breakable. Even though five minutes ago, she was grinding on top of me like she was trying to kill me.

Now she was soft. Quiet. Bare.

My hand ran lazily up and down her back. Just skin and slow movement. Every few seconds she twitched, her hips jolting just a little—oversensitive, still riding out the shockwaves.

She made a little sound into my chest.

“Mmh…”

“You good?”

She nodded against my skin. “Mhm.”

“You sure?”

She laughed under her breath, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t think my legs work.”

I smiled.

“I can’t feel my face, either,” she added.

I reached up and ran my fingers through her hair, brushing it off her forehead.

“Cute,” I said.

“Shut up,” she mumbled, nudging me with her nose.

But she smiled. I felt it.

We stayed like that for a while. Breathing. Cooling off. The tension between us had gone slack, melted down into something warmer. Calmer. Her body fit against mine like it was supposed to be there.

I looked down and kissed the top of her head.

She shifted, nuzzling against my chest like a sleepy cat.

“Seriously though,” she said after a while, voice scratchy and small. “That was…”

She didn’t finish.

“That was,” I agreed.

She laughed again, then yawned, and her leg slid between mine.

“God,” she said. “You’re kind of dangerous.”

“Kinda?”

“Yeah. You fucked someone you don't even know the name of.”

“I asked. It also didn't seem that important at the time.”

“Still doesn’t?”

I glanced down. “I suppose it does. Your name?”

She looked up at me, half-lidded.

“Giselle.”

We just stared at each other for a second. Neither of us smiling now. Just… seeing each other.

“I liked when you didn’t know,” she whispered.

“I liked it too.”

She rested her cheek on my chest again. Slower now. Breathing deeper.

“Just… don’t get weird about it.”

I blinked. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like…” Her voice softened. “Don’t start acting different now that you know.”

I hesitated. “Know what?”

She lifted her head, squinting slightly. “You know… that I’m… in Aespa?”

I blinked. “What’s Aespa?”

She stared at me. Silent. Waiting for the punchline.

“…Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

She blinked. Twice.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, half-laughing. “You really don't know!”

“Nope.”

“You came to our concert.”

“My friends dragged me.”

“Jesus.” She flopped back down on my chest, stunned. “I think I just came harder.”

We stayed like that for another few minutes. Her body pressed against mine, skin warm, lips still curled in that breathless little smirk. Every so often, she’d hum, or shift slightly, or let out this content, melted sigh like she still hadn’t landed yet.

“You’re insane, you know,” she murmured, tracing a lazy circle on my chest.

“Because I don't know who you were?”

“Because you don't care.”

I smiled, eyes closed. “Still don’t.”

Her fingers stopped moving. For a second I thought I’d said the wrong thing.

But then she whispered, “That’s probably the hottest thing you’ve said all night.”

I cracked one eye open. “That’s saying something.”

“Oh, I know. I was there.”

She leaned up and kissed me, slow and unhurried. I kissed her back, brushing my thumb along her jaw, letting her taste linger. She pulled back just an inch.

“So what happens now?” she asked, voice small.

I paused.

“Whatever you want.”

Her lips pressed together. Not uncertain. Just… thoughtful.

But then—

Knock knock knock.

Her entire body froze.

I lifted my head.

There it was again—three clean knocks, firm and casual.

“Giselle?” a voice called through the door. Female. Confident. “They’re waiting on us for the group shot.”

She swore under her breath and rolled off me, grabbing at the nearest sheet.

“Shit, shit—fuck, that’s Karina.”

“Karina?”

She gave me a wild look. “One of the girls. From the group.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

She scrambled for her phone and grabbed a tissue box off the vanity. I watched her wipe her inner thighs, dab under her eyes, fix her lips in the mirror. She still looked flushed. Hair tangled. But some of the damage was masked.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I can’t walk out there looking like I just got wrecked.”

“You did,” I said.

“Don’t be proud of that.”

She shoved me toward the closet. “Hide. Please.”

I hesitated. She pushed again.

“Unless you want to get recognized and tossed off the balcony.”

That was enough.

I ducked into the small walk-in just as she called out, “Be right there!”

From inside, I heard the door unlock. Hinges creaking. Light footsteps.

“Everything okay?” Karina asked. Closer now. Her voice smooth. A little suspicious.

“Yeah,” Giselle replied, now perfectly calm. “Just needed a minute.”

A pause.

“You look like a mess.”

Giselle laughed, and it was almost too good. “Tried a new lash glue. Bad idea.”

Karina snorted. “It looks like you cried in a club bathroom.”

“I kind of did.”

“You want me to stall them?”

“No. I’m good now.”

Silence.

And then, just as the door started to close—

“You sure you were alone in here?”

My heart stopped.

Giselle didn’t flinch. “Of course I was,” she said, smooth as ever. “Why?”

Karina didn’t answer right away.

Then: “No reason.”

The door shut.

A lock clicked.

A few seconds later, the closet opened.

Giselle stood there—still glowing, still breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she whispered.

I pulled her in for a kiss.

TO BE CONTINUED...

PART 2

[slut4sugu]

⊹ ࣪ ˖౨ৎ softest place to land - (sukuna x black!fem bimbo reader)

Today was not your day.

The ribbon pink kitten heels you wanted had been sold out—even though you knew you reserved them. Your favorite bracelet, the one Sukuna gave you last spring in Santorini, had slipped off somewhere between the nail salon and that underwhelming café your friend begged you to try. And to top it off, your heel broke.

Thank God for the cute white backups you kept in your designated limo (because you were a bimbo, not stupid), but even still… you were done. Over it. Every little thing had felt off, and by the time the elevator opened to the top floor of the penthouse, your energy was threadbare. You just wanted to cry into your satin sheets and maybe scream into a matching pillow.

The first thing you saw when you stepped inside was the soft amber glow of the chandelier, casting gold across the marble of your penthouse. The faint smell of incense—his favorite—was swirling through the air. Sukuna wasn’t on his throne-like armchair that you always called him "my cute king." for sitting in. You didn’t hear his usual, amused “Back so soon, brat?” either.

Instead, you saw him already waiting in your bedroom.

The lights were dimmed low, warm. The blackout curtains had been pulled shut. Your favorite playlist—not the sexy one, the soft one—was playing low through the sound system. Candles flickered gently on the bedside table. And there he was: shirtless in silk lounge pants, lounging against a pile of velvet pillows waiting for his queen to rant about her day.

Instead, you dropped your purse on the floor, lip wobbling.

He didn’t say a word—just sat up opened his arms.

You kicked off your heels leaving them scattered on the wooden floor of the bedroom as you climbed into his lap without hesitation. Your pink frenchies pressing lightly against the inked skin of his chest as you buried your face in his neck.

Your baby hairs tickled his skin, soft and barely-there, but he didn’t pull away. The tears didn’t fall immediately—your throat just tightened, breath catching, and your lashes were already glistening with the threat of it all.

Looking down at your trembling form, Sukuna almost let a smirk tug at his lips. Part of him wanted to tease you—something about “trivial girl drama” or how you cried every other day over shoes, accessories, or broken nails. But the words caught in his throat, swallowed by something quieter. Gentler.

Because even if he didn’t always understand it, he understood you. And today, you didn’t need teasing—you needed him soft.

Again.

You really should thank him for being so good to you.

“Lost your bracelet,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and even, like he already knew every little thing breaking you down. “We’ll find it. Or I’ll have it remade—exactly the same.”

You shook your head slightly, clinging tighter. “My day sucked. Everything was just…off.” His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles into your plush thighs. “Then let it end here.”

He didn’t offer solutions. Or tell you to calm down. Just held you there—his big, warm body grounding you against the ache in your chest—until you melted into him completely.

Eventually, his voice came again, low and rough against your temple. “Don’t cry over shoes, doll. I’ll buy you the damn factory.”

You giggled, cheeks puffy, wet and eyes now tired. “I hate that that actually makes me feel better.”

“I know,” he said, kissing your cheek. “That’s why I said it, brat.”

[sevsbunny]

So something I've been thinking about is how after Sev becomes a Councilor how she probably couldn't, or shouldn't, visit Babette's anymore due to "appearances" (we could say she doesn't give a shit about those, but her "you look weak" to Vander tells me otherwise :) ). I think there would be a more private, fancier brothel in Piltover for 'elites' (maybe not even called a brothel?) And I was wondering how Sevika would navigate that as she gets more pent up with her new status. :) Girls probably act different there too.

Sorry this is anon, my own thoughts embarrassing me. Lmao.

taking it slow

councilwoman!sevika x brothel!reader

not sure with the word count on this one!

18+ ! sensual touching, light teasing, oral / fingering (sevika!) light hair pulling, reader admires the shit out of sevika. sevika is a little shy coming here. just taking care of sevika <3 switch!sevika & reader.

i’m aware that when she’s councilwoman she has her cunt ass bob but for the sake of this fic…she has her old hair. however! there will be other parts to this so…she will have her bob back

EIGHTEEN PLUS. MEN AND MINORS DNI.

sevika was extremely nervous as she walked up to the brothel doors, a few months after the fact that she became councilwoman.

it was hard being as big as she was going out to places like these — it could ruin her status and make the citizens of zaun look weak, like she has other things on her mind. respect her less, even.

she struggled a lot with wondering what she can do that’ll make her happy, without worrying different members of the board. after all, it was her downtime to get a break. she just hated her telling her in the back of her head, ‘don’t fuck this up.’

fortunately though, the higher end brothel piltover offered was of gold status — and it seems like some people who worked as guards in the palace also frequented.

she surveyed the area, the wet air moistening by the minute after a particularly hard rainfall a few hours earlier. she took out a small bag of coins, tossing them to the brothel bodyguard at the front, a head nod from the man after he poked through the pouch and he opened the velvet curtain for her to step through.

she knew there was no way to conceal who she was coming into this place, her stature at 6 foot made her stand out like a sore thumb, along with this deep ruby red cape she wore to conceal her mech arm when it wasn’t in use too much.

she kept her eyes forward, looking through her peripheral vision to see bodies on bodies together. there were suede couches set up against the wall, some arranged in funky places to create a more intimate circle of people. tables littered with cups of alcohol, ashtrays of cigars and joints ashes out or still lit.

skin on skin was everywhere, the sound of moans reverberated over the music and to her ears, making her body shiver. she hadn’t heard anything like this in such a long time, she was worried she’d be overwhelmed with the amount of stimuli until she saw you.

standing there with a hip popped out, you had on a deep purple two piece — a dark purple leather crop vest on your chest that dipped low into your clevage, matched with a dark purple leather skirt that hugged your hips, and if you bent over enough she’d be able to see your clothed pussy. two amethyst stud earrings were in your ears, matched with a black and purple collar that was adorning your neck — the metal loop in the middle in the shape of a heart with a small diamond hanging on the end of the heart.

you wore no makeup, you were gorgeous even under the different colored lights in the brothel. she caught her breath in her throat when you looked over at her, your eyes widening just a smudge before you settled on giving her a short wave

blushing as she averts her gaze, she brushes past people in the crowd as she made her way towards the bar you were standing at. her skin was on fire being this close to you, something she didn’t know she’d ever be able to feel around someone else.

“haven’t seen you before,” the classic pickup line left your sweet lips and ran right through her soul. she perked up after ordering her drink. she nodded, an elbow leaned up against the bar table, her body moving to face you

she had to look down at you, really. you were that short to her.

easy to toss around.

“what brings you in? or i should be asking, who?” you swirl around the drink in your hand she didn’t notice you had, your eyes locked with hers as she struggled to find something to say

what the fuck was wrong with her? she’s never not been able to speak to someone, let alone a gorgeous girl like you.

after a few moments of unspoken silence, you shrug, taking a swig of your drink as the bartender pushes sevika’s drink towards her. “not much of a talker, huh? that’s okay. most people come to suck and fuck before having a drink and conversation.”

it was true, that’s the normal clientele that came through here did, even if they paid good enough they were still assholes. working in piltover did give you a pretty penny, but at what cost?

“just here to look,” sevika finally responded, her voice cracking from lack of usage. she cleared her throat before taking a long swig of her drink, the cool liquid running down her throat and into her system.

she would need a few more with how uptight she was feeling right now.

“look?” you questioned, leaning against the bar as you look up at her. “like you’re shopping for something?” she shakes her head, realizing how she must’ve sounded when she said that

“no! i didn’t mean it like that i…” she huffed, watched you shift from foot to foot waiting for an explanation. “this is just my first time coming as…councilwoman…” she whispers the last part, as if some people didn’t notice her here already.

you hummed at her response, taking it in and going over it in your mind before settling with a solution. “that’s okay, baby. everyone is new somewhere.” you laid a hand on her arm, the arm not covered by her deep ruby red cloak. she feels goose flesh pimple over her skin before she feels her cheeks burn.

you can tell she’s nervous, her shoulders are locked up, you can tell she she hasn’t shaken that, ‘someone is watching me,’ mindset with the way her eyes dart from each exit, looking at everyone in the crowd to remember a face just incase something goes sideways.

you run your thumb on her forearm to soothe her, and at first is kinda throws her off, eyes darting down to where your thumb is rubbing her skin.

“it’s okay, come on. let’s go somewhere quieter.” you say, your tone sweet and gentle as you pull on her arm softly. without her thinking, her feet started moving along with you, following you towards the back. you part open a curtain that looks similar to the one up front, revealing a long hallway of various doors on each side

you don’t say anything as you walk down with sevika’s forearm still in your hold. sort of felt like you were walking your own pet with how big and tall she was. it made your skin shiver with the amount of authority sevika held and how easy it was to get her to calm down and follow you.

“my rooms near the end.” you say, but sevika isn’t really paying too much attention. she grunts in response so you don’t think she ignored you — but she’s more focused on the other rooms with some doors left ajar and wide open.

bodies inside having sex, smoking weed, laying and touching each other. sometimes there were parties of 4+ people, making sevika’s head snap towards the front.

she wasn’t sure why she felt so…awkward when it came to sex now a days. she felt anxious most days, out of place along the seats of piltover people, wearing gold and admonishing their money towards everyone who would listen. she felt out of place, like she wasn’t meant to be here.

she also hadn’t touched another girl in months.

“just down here.” you say again, your hold still gentle on her arm as you pull her up towards your room. a sign on the outside decorated in pretty font with stickers all attatched to the door, she knew it was your room without you telling her.

you unlock the door and turn on the light, pulling her inside. there she looks at your room.

she’s met with the strong scent of rose water and vanilla, some candles look like they had been burned prior to your leaving of your room. she looks around, a four poster bed in the center with baby pink silk sheets, pillows to match and a few stuffed animals on the comforter.

there was a bookshelf that was over flowing with books at this point, she wasn’t sure if the shelves would be able to hold any longer. you didn’t have any things on your walls, explaining that even if you lived here full time — the room still technically wasn’t yours. she commented on the door full of stickers but you laughed and shrugged. “they can take the money from my paycheck.”

in the far corner you had a desk. filled with loose leaf pieces of paper and a few different ink bottles with black quill pens. on the other side of the large desk there was an alter.

candles half burned and old wax running down the sticks. there was a big pink conch shells sitting in the center with pink pearls loosely draped over the shell. around the candle and the conch shells sitting was various items — old pocket change, dried up flowers that looked like carnations and roses, a small glass jar of sand with some other smaller shells, and an over abundance of gold jewelry.

“Aphrodite,” you speak up behind sevika which has her startled, jumping gently in her skin. you come up behind her with a little lighter reaching for one of the pink candlesticks. you held the flame to the wick and watched it burn as you placed it back on the candle holder.

sevika watched the flame flicker slowly at first, before it rose in a straight line and stayed like that for a while. “she’s really nice to work with. especially while here.” you comment, taking a small gold ring from your pinky finger that was adorned with a small ruby, onto the altar right next to one of the old coins

“have you worked with her long?” she asked gently, watching your movements as you nod your head with a soft smile on your face. you walk over to your bed, curling a leg under you as you sit half on and half off the bed. sevika looks around and finds a plush chair with a blanket draped on the back in the corner of your room with a small side table and night lamp on top.

she takes a seat, keeping her arms on the arm rest and relaxing her fingers, and trying to keep her eyes on anywhere except your body. her brain swims back and forth with a long list of bad possibilities of what could happen with her sitting in a place like this.

first of all she could get her title ripped away, not like she wanted it anyways. it was situational. then she wouldn’t be able to protect her people, the ones who meant the most to her. second of all…what if someone busted her? someone called in a anonymous tip to the committee? then she’d surely get fucked.

but the way you were looking at her, your eyes soft and gazing over her figure like you were drinking her in, trying to figure her out — her heart rate slowed. she took in a deep breath, closing her eyes before opening them again, to meet your gaze right back.

you seemed a bit startled, gasping a soft breath as her eyes look towards you and she could see a subtle red blush on her cheeks. you brought your other leg on your bed, before sitting criss cross and your hands in your lap.

“you’re pretty, you know that?” the little laugh that left her lips told you that she didn’t get told that very often. you spread your legs out before moving back against your pillows and smiling. “what?”

sevika hadn’t been called pretty in…well has anyone actually called her pretty like that?

“what makes me pretty, doll?” your breath caught in your throat at the nickname that played on her lips, her eyelids lowering just a smidge, enough for you to notice the gaze in her eyes darkening.

“well…” you get up from your bed, sauntering your way over to her. your feet were bare now in your room, the only sound in the space was the way your foot pressed against the plush carpet with each step towards her, and the soft breathing from the two of you. she swore you could hear her heart hammering in her chest.

you came to her side, your finger trialing along her exposed forearm, her eyes darting up the expanse of the skin up to sevika’s chest, where multiple straps and buttons kept her tightly in her clothes.

your fingers itched to undo them slowly, run your lips down her skin and between her breasts, just to hear how she sounded. you licked your lips before shaking your head to yourself. she wasnt comfortable with that, she didn’t seem comfortable being here in the first place. you knew that wasn’t the case, that sevika had frequented places like this before but only in zaun. but you figured being councilwoman made her tense.

you kept your finger trailing up her arm to her shoulder, before tucking in a stray piece of her hair that fell from her half bun, right behind her ear. “first of all, you smell really good.” she chuckled, looking up at you as she taps her mech fingers slowly on the leather chair. “like sandalwood, smoke,” you whispered gently.

“your eyes…breathtakingly easy to get lost in.” you trailed off as you walked behind her, your hand coming to cup the bottom of her chin as you stood right behind her head. you pulled her head back enough to look down into her eyes, her uneven full lips parted as a soft breaths escapes her throat.

she blinks at you, and you blink back, eyes trailing over the scars and blemishes that decorate her warm, brown skin. your thumb runs over her bottom lip softly, pulling on it enough to make it wobble back into place when you release it. you keep her gaze for a second, your fingers going to undo the clasp that held her cloak together.

she resisted from stopping you, knowing you wouldn’t make a move on her without asking her first. the way you were touching her, softly and gently as you list out the things you find pretty about her. her head swims full with just the feeling of you touching her skin, the sound of your voice light on her ears.

your hands come to pull the cape off entirely, hanging it up quickly on the hook next to the door before coming to her left side with her mech hand. “and this, i mean…” you trail your finger tips down the smooth gold metal of her arm. you watched in real time as the gears ticked back and forth, forever having her arm on the go. “this is beautiful.” you murmur softly, looking up to meet sevika’s anxious gaze.

you pouted your pretty pink lips, making the anxiety go for a moment as she looked at you. “what is it, doll?” she turns her head slightly as she looks at you curiously, her eyes darting between your eyes, to your nose and quickly to your lips before she snaps back to your eyes.

“can i touch you?” you ask softly, a silent permission to say no if she so desired. but the way you were looking at her right now as you moved in between her spread out thighs, your own bare thighs touching hers, she couldn’t help but nod.

you smiled gently as you grab a soft pillow from your bed before sink to your knees, your hands running over the fabric of her thick thighs. “gonna need you to say something, angel.” you asked softly , digging your nails gently into her thighs. she shuddered softly, the authority written all over your face.

“yes, you can touch me baby.” her voice is low, barely above a whisper as your eyes darken. you smile in response, leaning to give her knees two quick kisses before your hands come up the expanse of her thighs and to her pants button

you pop it open with ease, sliding the zipper down and with sevika’s help as she lifts her hips, her pants come off in one swift movement. you discard them next to you, eyeing her clothed cunt. you look up at her and meet her gaze, her eyes lids lowering, pupils widening.

you lean in, your nose bumping against her clothed clit. you inhale deeply, smelling her arousal and mail, your mouth watering to get a taste of her. you lick a soft stripe up her clothed cunt, a shudder leaving her lips as she watches you with a lustful gaze.

“can i taste you?” you ask softly, eyelashes batting up at her as she nods quickly, moving to push her boxers down before your hands rested on hers, sopping her movements. “let me, baby.” you coo, authority dripping form your tone but your gaze is gentle as you speak to her.

she feels her cunt throb at the action.

you leaned forward, taking your fingers and hooking it into the crotch of her underwear, drinking in the feeling of how wet she made the fabric. she lets out a soft gasp as you reveal her wet cunt to you, the cool air hitting her lips and making her shiver.

“another thing that’s pretty is this pussy,” you breathe out, looking up at her momentarily before you take your other hand and thumb her clit slowly, pulling the hood up just a bit to reveal the rest of her swollen clit.

her hips jerked in reaction, a grunt leaving her throat as you sat there and touched her, softly. you didn’t do anything else with your hands, your eyes just fixated on the way her cunt clenches gently in anticipation, under her gaze.

leaning in, your tongue poked out jsut enough to circle around her clit, tasting her on your tongue instantly. you let out a soft groan as you taste her, your eyes rolling shut as you position your hands to keep her thighs spread wide for you.

“fuck…” she breathes out, leaning back in her chair and moving her hips forward to give you better access to her cunt. your tongue makes slow movements, licking down her clit, her folds and to her dripping hole. you circle the tip of your tongue around her entrance, making her flesh hand come to grip the back of your head.

“don’t tease me, babygirl.” she groans as she pushes your face a bit further into her cunt. you obey her command, gripping her thighs as you slip your tongue into her cunt, warm and wet around the muscle. you moan, and you can tell she’s enjoying herself as she starts to needily grind her hips against your face

“just like that, shit…” she tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut as she focuses on the languid motions of your tongue against her folds, lapping up every single drip of slick that falls from her pussy. you could feel her arousal stick to your chin and cheeks, dripping down the chair and onto your skin.

you didn’t care, you loved how messy she was getting, her moans getting louder and deeper with each thrust of your tongue fucking into her hole. you brought one hand from her thigh as you pressed your thumb against her clit, firmly rubbing circles as you continues the assault of your tongue on her cunt

she squeezes your tongue, making a moan rip from your throat against her. she feels the vibrations of your moan rip through her from her cunt, her hips bucking against your face. you took your other hand, her legs staying spread, as you took your tongue from her hole. she whined in protest from the loss of your muscle, but shortly letting out a groan as you slip two of your fingers into her hole.

“there you go, baby. you like that?” you ask gently, peering up at her and watching as her chest rise and falls each each thrust of your fingers, moans slipping form her lips.

she lets out a whimpered, ‘yes,’ her back arching off the chair as she lets go of the armrests of the chair and right to your head, fingers digging into your hair and pushing you closer to her cunt, if that was even possible.

“pretty moans,” you moan against her as you suck her clit harshly, circling your tongue and flicking her clit as she moans out, riding your face and grinding messily into you. “you gonna cum, vika?” she moans in response, her cunt clenched your fingers as she meets your gaze, a fucked our expression across her features.

“fuck, yes, please i’m gonna cum…” he grips your hair as you feel her cunt squeezes your fingers as she cums, tasting her squirt on your tongue which made you moan as the taste, your fingers slipping easily in and out of her puffy cunt.

“that’s it, thank you vika, fuck…” you moan against her, feeling your cunt clenching and clit throbbing at the whole ordeal, how she spread for you like this in your chair, leaving herself vulnerable for you to take.

and you fucking have.

she frowns as she’s wheats you thank her for cumming against your tongue as you slip your fingers slowly from her cunt and into your mouth, sucking the digits while looking up at her

you lower face was covered in her slick, dripping down your chin. she leans forward quickly before you can even blink an eye, gripping g the back of your head with her metal hand and her flesh hand coming to grip your chin.

she pushes her lips against yours, moaning as she tastes herself on your tongue as she pulls you closer, a shim pier leaving your lips. you felt your body melt into the plush floor below you, into her touch and lost in the way her lips felt against yours.

she pulls away after a moment, her lips shiny with spit and her slick, eyes heavy lidded as she stares as you. “my turn to list all the things pretty about you now, doll.”

[pforestsims]

📦 Tuesday CC Dump:

Posh Club Stuff

New meshes, add-ons, recolors and default replacements

Download: SFS | BOX

Round table is also included but please note it's a purely decorative object.

Glowing H&M stair and fence replacements require Extended Standard Material shader by @crispsandkerosene /work without it, but will not look like they do in the preview/.

Floors featured in the pic: VTMR tiles (carpet 5 and 6) converted by @freezerbunny-sims2 , wallpaper is 'Fiery red' by Donnha, wood panelling is from Bon Voyage, I think.

*This is for The Sims 2

So this lot is more of a photoshoot set than actual building and I can't share that mess - but here's most of the CC / defaults I used in there. Also, please note this Reshade preset affected the colors.

Plant in the main pic is Bioshock 2 conversion by Misty-fluff anyone has a link? I've included it - it's actually my mesh edit with pot removed. Original conversion /with the pot/ is here.

Eventually I didn't place any grand staircase in my club - but I was going to. As my internet was down at the time, I made my own mesh edits without the stupid middle raillings. Mesh defaults for 'Sweeping Success Staircase' and deco staircase aka 'A Stair to Remember' (both are from M&G EP) - are included.

Defaults for these already exist - like this one by HL - but please note I edited Sweeping Staircase's railing posts and steps a bit. I also edited UVs, so my replacement does not require texture edits and is compatible with recolors for original.

There's also this default by simblrnova, which includes GMND fix, so the side panels change colors along the main subset (I think they also edited UVs).

You can use my texture replacement for 'Stair to remember' along any mesh default for these stairs. Please note I didn't replace side panel textures.

Matching texture / TXMT replacement for the deco fence 'A Fence to keep in mind' is included in a separate file. Obviously it will clash with other defaults for this fence, like "SN-RailingtoKeepinMind-TXMTFix" by Simblrnova.

/I have no idea if middle stair railing is used for sliding animations - if it is, anims will obviously look awkward. /

I gave Velvet Rope Fence posts a little makeover - you can choose between shape edit, or shape edit plus TXMT edit.

And in case you wonder about the microphone - it's a mesh replacement for "Small superstar microphone" (from Apartment Life, maybe?) with amplifier removed

Microphone dr is not included, I uploaded it HERE (SFS)

Steel support beam requires Apartment Life EP. It looks best in black so I recommend these pipe recolors too.

Round banquet table is a decorative object

It will pull textures from Roundabout table, which could be from Celebrations SP (?) . You can use some invisible 1x1 table to make it somewhat functional /I included invisible table recolor for the 'groovy' square table from UNI EP/.

Decor bits on the table are a part of the mesh, if you don't like it, you can open GMDC in simPe and delete unwanted subsets /FYI those plates are lower than default Eaxis plate/.

I've included small mineral water bottle that didn't make it into my bar decor set as it should.

Crystal chandelier aka Cascades chandelier is a TS2 preorder item, I've included the mesh /with edited texture, black 'circle' removed from the canopy top/. The other one is from M&G /I think?/.

Fancy planter is an add on for 'Off the hook egg" (maybe OFB?), has one placement slot. Recolors (2 in one) included - recolor says red and black, but I changed it to gold last minute.

2-story spotlighter was cloned from an ordinary ceiling lamp, and is not animated - 'light beams' are not recolourable, and are always on. It requires Night Life - I also included recolor for the other NL spotlighter, as I discovered later these are not texture-linked.

2-story curtains are an add-on for 4t2 Wondymoon Cycnus curtains converted by @deatherella - s4 original is here (T$R) - I included the required mesh and my recolors - red and dark purple.

Plumbob sign is based on a symbol from TS2 litigator podium (a career reward).

Stuff I'll share some other time: 2-story light cable extension, table lamps /also, chairs - maybe/.

And if you're up for some DYI, here's the texture I used for the club ceiling. This is based on Adele's sectioned wood floor texture, made dark brown.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Meet Me in the Hallway

where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.

word count: 8.1k

content warnings: drinking, cursing, smut

The city hums outside her window like it’s dreaming. Paris, soft and gold, its light spilling over the edge of the balcony and pooling on the floor like something spilled. But the curtains are half-drawn, and she’s not looking.

She sits on the edge of the hotel bed, one hand resting in her lap, the other fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. The room is too quiet in the way all hotel rooms are—sanitized, still, pretending to be a home. Her heels are abandoned by the door, her feet bare and cold against the carpet. There’s a dull ache behind her eyes from too much noise and not enough sleep.

Her dress is creased from the way she folded herself into a chair backstage for hours. Simple black, nothing flashy. Just enough to not be invisible.

She lets her head fall forward for a moment, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees bursts of color. Her body is tired in a way that has nothing to do with muscles.

Downstairs, the fashion show had been louder than it needed to be. Fast cameras, flowing champagne, conversations that looped around her without ever settling. She smiled when she needed to. Nodded through directions. Focused her lens. The same way she always does.

She doesn’t remember most of it.

Now the room feels too large, too hollow. A small desk, untouched. The television mute. A single wine glass upside down on a paper doily like it’s part of the furniture. Her suitcase is still half-open on the bench, clothes folded in a way that looks more accidental than planned.

She exhales and reaches for her camera bag, dragging it into her lap. The strap is beginning to wear out—her thumb catches on a fray near the buckle. She unzips the front pocket, pulls the camera out with slow, practiced hands.

The images flip by beneath her fingers, backstage flashes, fabric in motion, half-caught expressions. A model laughing, her head thrown back. Someone adjusting an earring. A hand gripping a clutch too tight. Nothing wrong with any of them. Nothing remarkable either.

She scrolls until her eyes blur.

The battery flashes red. She plugs it in and sets it gently on the desk.

And then she just… sits.

She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. Sleep isn’t calling. She’s showered, changed into an old t-shirt, and still her body won’t settle. There’s something under her skin. Not loud. Just there. Like she forgot to do something and can’t remember what.

She glances toward the hallway.

Maybe a walk. Nothing long. Just down to the lobby, maybe out to the courtyard if it’s still open. She slides on her flats, grabs her keycard from the nightstand, and pulls the door shut behind her with a soft click.

The hallway is dim and quiet. She doesn’t check her phone. Doesn’t plan where she’s going.

Just walks.

The elevator hums as it lowers, the overhead lights casting a pale blue tint against the brushed metal walls. She watches the numbers tick down. Eighth. Sixth. Third. The lobby.

She steps out into a hush of polished marble and soft piano music playing somewhere out of sight. There’s no one at the front desk. A concierge scrolls through a tablet behind the counter. No one looks up.

Her feet carry her without thinking. Past the velvet chairs, past the enormous floral arrangement at the center of the room. The bar glows dimly in the corner like it knows something the rest of the hotel doesn’t. It’s half-empty. Just a couple at the far end, speaking in low, wine-softened French. A man in a suit tapping on his phone.

She chooses a stool near the middle. Drops her purse beside her feet. Leans her elbows against the dark wood.

The bartender turns toward her with a smile that looks practiced but not unkind.

“What can I get you?” he asks, his accent light. English, but softened by time in the city.

She glances at the bottles behind him. None of them stand out.

“Something dry,” she says. “Not too sweet.”

He nods, already reaching for a bottle. “Long night?”

She almost lies. Almost says she’s fine.

But something about the way he asks like it’s just conversation, not a demand for anything real makes her shrug and say, “Yeah. Just got back from work.”

He pours the drink, sets it down gently in front of her. “Let me guess. Fashion Week?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got the look,” he says with a faint smile. “Not model, though. Photographer, maybe?”

She blinks at him. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

He chuckles. “Lucky guess. You all come down here eventually. After the shows. Like you need to wash the glitter off.”

She picks up her drink and takes a sip. It burns, but only a little. “It’s not the glitter,” she says quietly.

He leans against the back wall, still drying a glass in his hand. “No?”

She shakes her head, eyes still on the bar. “It’s the pretending. The smiling. The noise.”

The bartender nods like he’s heard it before. “You’d be surprised how many people say that.”

She glances up. “And what do you say?”

He considers her for a moment, then shrugs. “I pour the drinks and let them talk.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Fair.”

A beat of silence passes. The piano music fades into a new song, something older, almost familiar.

The bartender gestures toward her glass. “You here alone?”

She hesitates. Not because it’s a strange question, but because it feels like the answer matters in a way it shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Just me.”

He nods again. “Well. Welcome to the safest place in the hotel for ghosts.”

She glances around. “That comforting?”

“Depends on the ghost,” he says, and moves to serve someone new.

She sips her drink, lets the warmth settle. Lets the quiet stay. There’s no rush.

At least not yet.

The glass is empty before she realizes it. The bartender catches her eye and raises an eyebrow. She nods. Just one more.

The second drink goes down smoother. Or maybe she just stops noticing the taste. The couple at the end of the bar is gone now, and the man in the suit has traded his phone for a scotch and a blank stare.

She taps her fingers against the side of the glass. Pulls her phone from her purse.

The lock screen lights up. No new messages.

She opens it anyway. Scrolls through photos she doesn’t remember taking. Snaps of velvet curtains, blurry silhouettes backstage, a shot of a cigarette still burning in an ashtray outside the venue.

She sighs. Sets the phone down. Picks it up again.

To Marcia

Why is it always around midnight that I start feeling pathetic?

Three dots. Then nothing.

She sets the phone down again. Pushes the glass away from her slightly, like putting distance between herself and the part of her that’s unraveling. The part that only gets loud when she’s alone. When the city outside keeps spinning but she feels stuck.

The bartender walks past and nods at the untouched third of her drink. She waves a hand; she’s fine.

The phone buzzes.

Marcia

Because that’s when the world gets quiet enough to hear your own brain being mean to you.

Another message follows a second later.

Want me to FaceTime you and aggressively compliment you until you go to bed?

A small laugh escapes her lips before she can stop it. She tucks a hand under her chin and replies.

To Marcia

Tempting. But I’m at the bar downstairs pretending I’m mysterious and French.

Marcia

You’re mysterious and hot. The French are jealous.

She smiles. But it doesn’t quite reach.

To Marcia

I just feel off. Can’t explain it. Something about tonight… I don’t know. Feels heavy.

She stares at the message. Debates deleting it. Sends it anyway.

The bar quiets further. A new song plays, this one is slower, sadder. Piano and something that sounds like rain.

The phone buzzes again.

Marcia

You need sleep. And carbs. And maybe a really good fuck. In that order.

To Marcia

If only.

She locks the phone. Leaves it face down on the bar. Stares into the last of her drink like it might tell her what she’s missing.

Outside, the city lights shift. Something flickers behind her ribs.

She nurses the last of her drink, letting it warm her mouth and chest like it’s trying to convince her she’s okay. The bar is nearly empty now. The man in the suit is gone. Even the music has faded into something slower, as if the speakers know it’s almost time to stop.

The bartender returns, wiping his hands on a folded cloth, a soft rhythm to his movements.

“Still holding strong,” he says, glancing at her glass.

She looks down at it, then back up at him with a faint smile. “Didn’t realize I was being watched.”

“Only a little,” he replies. “I get bored.”

She chuckles quietly. “Well. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not very exciting.”

“Maybe not tonight,” he says, resting his arms on the counter. “But you’ve got a story in you. I can tell.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You get that from two drinks and a bad mood?”

“I get that from the way you keep looking at the door. Like you’re not sure if someone’s coming or if you hope they never do.”

That soft smile falls from her face, just for a second. She picks up the glass and takes the last sip, letting it sit heavy on her tongue before swallowing.

“Maybe both,” she says.

He nods like he understands. Like he’s heard it before.

“Want me to put it on your room tab?” he asks, gently steering the moment somewhere lighter.

“Yeah. Room 1210.”

“Got it,” he says, scribbling something down. “Should I expect you again tomorrow night?”

She shrugs, standing slowly, her movements fluid but tired. “We’ll see if the pretending gets to me again.”

The bartender smiles. Not pitying, just warm. “Well. If it does—I’ll be here. Mysterious, and slightly overqualified.”

She gives him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime,” he says, then watches as she slides her purse over her shoulder and steps away from the bar.

Her feet are heavier now. Or maybe the night is. The elevator takes its time again, humming low as it carries her back to the twelfth floor.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the doors open. She exhales.

The hallway is empty.

Of course it is.

She’s halfway to her door before she realizes her keycard is missing.

She stops, frowning, and pats down her coat pocket. Nothing. Checks her purse, front pouch first, then the main compartment: lip balm, receipts, her phone. No key.

A sigh slips through her lips. It’s not frustration, not yet. Just another thing. Another small, invisible weight added to the pile.

She turns around slowly, eyes scanning the hallway. Maybe she dropped it in the elevator. Maybe at the bar. Maybe it’s tucked between the chair cushions and she’s just—

And then she hears it.

A voice.

Low, warm, crackling faintly with a smile. A laugh, quick and under-breathed, like it’s not meant for anyone nearby. Like it’s caught in the space between sentences.

She freezes.

It’s not close—somewhere down the hall, around the corner maybe—but it’s familiar in a way that makes her throat tighten. Not from recognition at first. Just… instinct. The way her body responds before her mind catches up.

She listens.

There’s a pause. A shuffle of feet. Then the voice again, clearer this time.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong,” he says, and her heart jolts.

Harry.

She doesn’t mean to move. Doesn’t even decide to. But her body shifts slightly toward the sound, her eyes narrowing down the hall like they might find him without permission.

It’s not possible. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one said anything. No texts. No whispers. Nothing.

Another laugh. Softer this time. It feels like it’s wrapped in memory.

She steps back from her door, slowly, silently, the breath caught high in her chest.

She still hasn’t found her key.

But suddenly, she’s not thinking about the room at all.

She stays frozen.

Not by fear. Not even surprise, really. It’s something else—an ache that tightens her ribs and stills her hands. Her breath catches somewhere between her throat and her chest, and she doesn’t know what she’s hoping for. Only that it’s too late to pretend she wasn’t standing there, listening.

His voice draws closer, low and lazy, almost amused. She hears him before she sees him.

And then—

He rounds the corner.

Harry.

He’s wearing a fitted black coat over a dark button-down, the collar slightly undone, just enough to show the curve of his throat. The sleeves are pushed to his forearms, revealing his tattoos in that casual way that never feels accidental. Slim trousers. Polished boots. A glint of a silver ring when he adjusts the phone against his cheek.

His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night, still damp near the ends. There’s a faint flush in his face from whatever wine or warmth came before. He looks—God, he looks good.

He’s smiling at whoever’s on the other end of the line, voice low and easy.

And then he sees her.

He stops, like someone hit pause.

The smile fades, not with coldness, but with weight. Like everything around him just dropped into silence.

His eyes lock with hers, and she feels the ground tilt.

“Hey—” he says into the phone, eyes never leaving her. His voice is softer now. “I’ve gotta go.”

A beat. A murmur from the other line.

“Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He lowers the phone slowly. Slips it into his coat pocket.

Neither of them move.

The air stretches thick between them, all quiet tension and history that doesn’t know where to go. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her purse. She doesn’t know what she looks like to him. Tired? Lost? The girl he knew or someone else entirely?

But he’s looking at her like nothing’s changed. Like too much has.

And still neither of them says a word.

The silence stretches too long.

She doesn’t know what she expects him to do. Say her name? Pretend this isn’t strange? Smile like they’re old friends instead of old wounds?

But he just watches her—like he’s waiting for something she can’t give.

So she clears her throat, eyes flicking toward her door. She straightens her bag on her shoulder, tries to summon the version of herself that knows how to talk to strangers.

“I, uh… I lost my room key,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the door behind her. Her voice sounds thinner than she means it to—too casual, too rehearsed. “I think I must’ve dropped it downstairs. Or… maybe at the bar. So.”

She takes a step sideways. “Anyway. Sorry—don’t mean to block the hall or anything.”

It’s pathetic, really. The way she tries to slide past him like she’s someone else. Like he didn’t used to know every version of her in the dark.

She’s almost to the edge of his shoulder when he speaks.

“You’re really gonna pretend I don’t know who you are?”

His voice is quiet, but not soft. Like he’s peeling back something gently, but deliberately. Like he’s giving her the chance to stop lying before it hurts more.

She stops.

Her pulse stutters.

And then slowly—like it costs her something—she turns to face him again.

He looks the same. He doesn’t.

And the way he’s looking at her now… it’s not angry. It’s not even surprised.

It’s something else entirely.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to. He already sees it—the way her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to respond but the words don’t form. The way her body stays turned toward him even though her eyes keep drifting toward the door, like she’s trying to find an exit that doesn’t exist.

He takes one slow step forward.

And then he reaches out—gently, like he’s afraid she might pull away—and places his hand on her shoulder.

His palm is warm through the fabric of her sweater, steady in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. The kind of steady that once kept her upright in hotel rooms like this one. In cities where the only thing familiar was him.

His eyes search hers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

The words land between them like something sacred. Not angry. Not bitter. Just true.

She swallows, but her throat’s too tight.

His hand stays where it is. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.

“I thought I imagined you once or twice,” he says, quieter now. “Crowded places. A laugh that sounded like yours. The back of someone’s head. I always told myself I was wrong.”

He pauses. Something in his voice dips lower.

“But this time, I’m not, am I?”

She looks up at him fully now. The air feels thinner. Her heart loud in her ears.

“No,” she says, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re not.”

His hand slips away from her shoulder, slow, like he doesn’t want to startle her. She still feels the shape of it there, the weight of memory pressed into skin.

“Come on,” he says, stepping back just enough to give her room to breathe. “Let me help you find your key.”

She hesitates, already halfway to no. “It’s fine. I’ll just go to the front desk—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, a soft smile tugging at his mouth, “but that’s boring.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he tilts his head slightly, eyes warm, insistent.

“And we both look too good tonight to go straight to bed.”

That gets her. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.

“I’m not exactly dressed for anything.”

He gives her a slow once-over—not lingering, not leering, just a quiet kind of noticing. “Still. You wore that sweater like you were hoping someone would see you in it.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You always this confident?”

“Only when I mean it.”

She doesn’t say yes. But she doesn’t say no.

They ride the elevator down together in silence. The same soft blue lights. The same hum. But everything feels different now—charged and quiet, the air between them thick with what’s been left unsaid.

When they walk into the bar, the bartender looks up from polishing a glass and pauses. Then he grins.

“You again,” he says to her. Then to Harry, with a mock-serious nod, “And you brought a friend. Must be your lucky night.”

She flushes slightly, sliding onto the same stool she left earlier.

Harry sits beside her, body angled toward hers without crowding.

“We’re on a mission,” he says, tapping the bar lightly. “Lost key. Emotional damage. Maybe one more drink.”

The bartender snorts. “All the usuals, then.”

Harry glances at her. “You good with that?”

She hesitates. Then nods once.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “One more.”

The bartender turns away to pour.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel entirely alone in the quiet.

It’s not just one drink.

One turns into two. Then three. She loses count somewhere in the middle of a story he’s telling about a broken amp in Berlin and a show that nearly didn’t happen. Her laughter is quieter than it used to be, but it still curls the same way at the edges. And he watches her with something like disbelief, like he can’t believe she’s real and sitting beside him again.

The bar is nearly empty now. Chairs stacked in the far corner, the bartender wiping down the counter slower and slower like he’s giving them space.

Her cheeks are flushed, not just from the wine. It’s the warmth of being seen. Really seen. And not by strangers in passing, or by clients through a camera lens—but by someone who used to know the shape of her moods by the way she stirred her coffee.

“You still talk with your hands,” he says at one point, smiling into his glass.

She blinks, looking down at her fingers mid-story.

“You noticed that?”

“Always did.”

She smiles. Not because it’s a compliment, but because it feels like being remembered.

They talk about everything and nothing—work, mutual friends they’ve lost track of, cities they’ve both passed through but never at the same time. He tells her his sister got engaged. She tells him her favorite diner back home closed during the pandemic and she hasn’t quite forgiven the universe for it.

The conversation flows like it never stopped. Like it’s just picked up from a long pause.

At one point, she leans her cheek into her hand and watches him as he talks. Not just his words, but the way his mouth moves around them. The way his eyes flick between hers and the table and back again. Like he’s afraid if he looks too long, it’ll break the spell.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there, quiet under her breath:

God, I missed you.

He finishes his drink and gently nudges her knee under the bar.

“What?” she asks, smiling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… haven’t seen you laugh like that in a long time.”

Her smile falters. Not in a bad way—just a flicker of something real behind her eyes.

“Me either.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Comfortable. Familiar.

Outside, the city is fast asleep. But inside, it’s like time doesn’t matter. Like this is the night they were always going to find each other again.

They don’t move.

The glasses on the bar sit nearly empty, but neither of them reaches for another. The drinks were just an excuse anyway—something to hold, something to do with their hands while the rest of them tried to catch up to this.

The bartender is gone now, slipping into the back room with a nod, the lights a little dimmer than before. There’s only the hum of the city outside the windows and the occasional creak of the old building settling into the quiet.

Her hand rests near his on the bar. Not touching. Just close enough that she could, if she wanted to.

Harry leans back slightly in his stool, head tilted toward her, eyes soft and half-lidded like he’s memorizing her in pieces.

“You still carry that notebook?” he asks, voice low and warm.

She laughs, surprised. “God. No one remembers that.”

“I do,” he says. “You used to write in it when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I was writing about you.”

“I know.”

Her eyes flick to his, sharp and playful for just a second, then soften again. The weight between them isn’t heavy anymore. It’s quiet. Gentle. Like they’re sitting in the space where a question used to live, and neither of them is in a rush to answer it.

He watches her as she tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers slow, like she doesn’t want to break the moment either.

“You’re different,” he says eventually.

“So are you.”

“Better?”

She shrugs, then nods once. “Maybe. Sadder, too.”

Harry leans forward, elbows resting on the bar again. “Still beautiful.”

Her breath catches just slightly, but she recovers quickly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a little drunk.”

“Maybe,” he admits, lips twitching. “But I’d say it sober.”

The pause that follows is long—but not uncomfortable.

He looks down at her hand, still resting near his, and then back up.

“I don’t want this night to end.”

She swallows. Feels it in her chest. That familiar ache, blooming again.

“I don’t either.”

But neither of them moves.

Because sometimes, the best part of the night is the not-knowing. The lingering. The possibility that whatever happens next might be something they can’t undo.

They stumble out of the elevator in a quiet hush of laughter, her hand brushing his arm as she tries to keep from tripping over absolutely nothing.

“God,” she says, pressing a palm to her forehead, “I can’t feel my teeth.”

Harry laughs, deep and surprised. “Is that a medical emergency, or…?”

“I don’t know,” she says, swaying slightly. “You ever been drunk enough that your mouth just disappears?”

“Can’t say I have,” he says, biting back another grin. “But I’m honored to be here for the milestone.”

They reach her door. She stops in front of it, staring like it might open if she wills it hard enough. Then she looks over at him.

“We… never got my key.”

A beat. Then they both burst into laughter, muffled and ridiculous in the stillness of the hallway.

“I was so focused on impressing the bartender with my tragic mystery girl routine,” she says, leaning back against the wall, “I completely forgot.”

Harry leans beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “He was impressed.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. You had the whole ‘haunted but hot’ thing going. Very French.”

She laughs again, eyes crinkling. “God, what now? I can’t call the front desk like this. I’ll end up booking a flight to Switzerland by accident.”

Harry turns to face her fully. There’s something soft in the way he’s looking at her now—less amused, more… steady.

“Stay with me.”

She blinks. “What?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My room’s right down the hall. You’re already up here. I’ve got a toothbrush still in the plastic. You won’t die.”

She searches his face. “You sure?”

He nods once. “Yeah. I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Something in the way he says it makes her throat tighten. Not in a bad way. Just honest. Undeniable.

She hesitates for only a second. Then nods.

“Okay.”

He reaches out and gently takes her hand, warm and easy. “Come on, mystery girl. Let’s go ruin my minibar.”

His room is warm, dim, the city stretching out through tall windows in streaks of gold and navy. The curtains are half-drawn, the bed still made, though the pillows are a little messy—like he laid down earlier and got back up.

She toes off her shoes near the door and drops her bag on the armchair.

“You can sit wherever,” he says, pulling open the minibar. “Or collapse. That’s also allowed.”

She flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed. “I choose collapse.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Excellent choice.”

He crouches in front of the fridge and starts pulling out those tiny, overpriced bottles. Vodka. Rum. Some weird-looking liqueur neither of them will touch. He glances back.

“You like whiskey?”

“Do I look like I like whiskey?”

“You look like you’d lie about liking whiskey to impress someone, then drink it like a champ.”

She snorts. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

He hands her a bottle anyway and sits beside her on the bed. Their shoulders brush. Neither moves away.

She twists open the cap and holds up her drink. “To bad decisions and pretending we don’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Cheers to that,” he says, clinking his bottle lightly against hers.

They drink. It burns less than it should.

She leans back on her elbows, eyes on the ceiling. “I’m gonna hate myself in the morning.”

“You’re gonna hate yourself around 4 a.m. when the room starts spinning and your mouth feels like cotton.”

She groans dramatically. “Why are you so good at this?”

“Because I am the mistake people make when they’re drunk in hotels,” he says, very seriously.

She laughs, head tipping toward him. “Yeah, well. I don’t have rockstar money like you. This is gonna cost me half my paycheck.”

He leans back beside her, legs stretched out, still holding his tiny bottle. “I’ll write it off as emotional reparations.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Is that what this is?”

He glances over. “Isn’t it?”

For a second, it goes quiet again—not awkward, just full. Her fingers tap against the rim of her bottle. His knee presses lightly into hers.

“I forgot how easy this is,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“This. You and me. Talking like this.”

His voice softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

She takes another sip of whiskey, then winces and sets the bottle down on the nightstand like it personally offended her.

“Okay,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Let’s not get sappy.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, grinning. “I wasn’t the one getting sappy.”

“You absolutely were. With your emotional reparations and your sad little rockstar eyes.”

He gasps. “You wound me.”

She grins. “Good.”

A beat passes, and then she says, “We need a game. Something stupid. Something to distract us from the fact that we’re definitely too drunk and definitely shouldn’t be making good decisions right now.”

“I like the sound of that,” he says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “What are we thinking? Truth or dare? Twenty questions? Drunk Spotify shuffle and we cry to Bon Iver?”

She makes a face. “God, no. I’m too emotionally fragile for Bon Iver.”

“Fair.”

He scrolls for a second, then looks up, eyes glinting. “Okay. I have something. There’s this app—stupid little game called Who’s Most Likely To.”

She gives him a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you’re honest.”

“I’m always honest.”

“You used to lie about liking whiskey.”

She throws a pillow at him. “Play the game, Styles.”

He opens the app. The first question pops up, and he reads it with a mischievous smirk.

“Who’s most likely to text their ex at 2 a.m.?”

They both freeze for a beat, then burst out laughing.

“Okay, rude,” she says, snatching the phone to look. “What kind of emotionally manipulative setup—”

“It’s the algorithm,” he says, holding up his hands. “I swear.”

She hands the phone back. “Fine. You. You’d do it.”

“I am the ex,” he says, mock offended. “What am I supposed to do, text myself?”

“You probably have.”

“I plead the fifth.”

The next question rolls in.

“Who’s most likely to fall in love on vacation?”

They pause again. But this time the silence is softer.

He looks at her, eyes dipping just a little lower.

“You,” he says quietly. “You fall hard.”

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Doesn’t mean I stay.”

He hums. Doesn’t push.

The next question appears.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

She raises her eyebrows, eyes locked on his.

Neither of them answers.

Not right away.

The question hangs in the air.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

Her eyes stay on the screen, like maybe if she keeps looking there, it won’t mean anything. Like maybe the weight of the moment won’t settle between them the way it already has.

But then—

“Me.”

His voice is low. Certain.

She turns her head toward him, and before she can respond—before she can even think—he leans in.

His hand finds her cheek, warm and steady, his fingers slipping into the hair just behind her ear. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. Just moves like it’s inevitable.

And then he kisses her.

It’s not tentative. Not searching.

It’s full. Familiar. A little messy from the whiskey. A little desperate from all the time lost.

He kisses her like he remembers exactly how she tastes, exactly how she fits against him, exactly how this always went—like there was never any space between now and the last time.

She exhales into it, her body catching up a half-second later, hand gripping the front of his shirt like she needs something to hold onto.

He deepens it with a low sound in his throat, thumb stroking across her jaw, and she feels herself fold toward him, her knees brushing his, their chests lined up like gravity decided for them.

It’s been years.

It doesn’t feel like it.

When he finally pulls back, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests lightly against hers. His voice is soft. Breathless.

“I missed that.”

She swallows, lips still parted, her pulse loud in her ears.

“So did I.”

His hand doesn’t leave her face.

It slides down, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She leans into it instinctively, her breath catching again as his thumb brushes just beneath her collarbone.

He kisses her a second time—deeper, needier, like he’s been holding back all night and doesn’t want to anymore. She shifts in closer, straddling one of his legs without even thinking, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thigh.

His hands find her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she feels the heat bloom between them—no hesitation now, just years of wanting compressed into this one moment, like they’re trying to make up for every second they wasted apart.

She tugs at his shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists, and he laughs into her mouth, breathless.

“Still impatient,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Still too slow,” she replies, her hands already working the hem of his shirt up and over his head.

It lands somewhere behind them, forgotten.

Her palms flatten against his chest—warm, solid, familiar in ways that make her chest ache. His skin hums beneath her touch, his eyes heavy-lidded, fixed on hers like she’s the only thing in the room that matters.

He leans forward, mouths at the base of her neck, and her head tips back, a soft noise slipping out before she can stop it. His hands move beneath her sweater, slow, teasing thumbs brushing along her ribs, dragging the fabric upward inch by inch.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, breath ghosting across her skin.

She looks down at him, eyes dark, heart thudding.

“If you stop now,” she says, “I’ll kill you.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses her again, rougher this time, and everything else blurs—clothes hit the floor, the air between them burns, and for the first time in what feels like forever, nothing else matters.

Not the years.

Not the distance.

Not the way things ended.

Just this.

His hands.

Her mouth.

The weight of him pressing her back into the mattress like maybe, just maybe, this time they’ll get it right.

The moment her sweater hits the floor, his hands are on her—broad, possessive palms sliding up the bare skin of her back, fingers splayed like he can’t stand to miss a single inch. He pulls her in tight, chest to chest, his breath warm against her neck as he mouths at her throat. Her bra unclasps with a flick of practiced fingers, and she lets it fall, unthinking, uncaring—already dizzy with the way he’s touching her like she’s something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He leans back just enough to look at her. And the way his eyes drag down her body makes her feel like she’s standing in the center of a storm. His mouth parts, his voice thick with something between reverence and disbelief. “You’re still…”

He doesn’t finish. Just breathes out, “God,” like it’s a prayer.

She doesn’t give him the chance to say more. Her mouth finds his, hungry and hot, and the kiss deepens in a heartbeat. Her fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him closer, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low in his throat. It’s instinct—the way their bodies fit, the way their hands map each other like they never forgot. But this time, it’s raw. Charged. Sharpened by absence and aching.

She pushes him down onto the mattress, straddling him with purpose. Her thighs lock tight around his hips, grounding herself in the pressure of him beneath her. His hands slide up her sides, slow and reverent, brushing under her breasts before cupping them fully, thumbs teasing across her nipples until she gasps and arches into him.

He leans up, lips finding the soft skin above her heart. “I dreamt of this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

She bites her lip, rolling her hips against him, already feeling how hard he is through the fabric between them. Her voice is a whisper, thick with heat. “Is this how it went in the dream?”

He groans, his hands gripping her tighter. “Not even fucking close.”

She kisses along his jaw, down his throat, tongue flicking against his pulse as her hands move lower. She reaches for his belt, undoing it slowly, teasing him with the drag of her fingers along the waistband of his pants. He watches her, eyes heavy, jaw tight. His breath catches when she frees him, cock hard and flushed and already leaking.

Clothes disappear in a rush of desperate hands—her jeans, his shirt, underwear peeled away and tossed aside until nothing remains but heat and skin and everything they still haven’t said.

He flips her beneath him in one fluid motion, bracing himself above her with trembling arms. He pauses, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, eyes searching hers.

She nods without hesitation. “Yes. Please.”

His kiss is soft this time, but the moment he lines up and pushes in, slow and steady, everything else vanishes. Her back arches, a shattered gasp slipping from her lips as he fills her—thick, deep, unrelenting. He curses under his breath, burying his face in her neck, anchoring himself with one hand gripping her hip and the other fisted in her hair.

They move like they’re trying to say everything with their bodies—no words, just heat and tension and need. She clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. He fucks her slow at first, long strokes that make her tremble, dragging out every flicker of pleasure until her breath stutters and her nails dig into his back.

“Fuck, you feel—” he groans into her ear, “so fucking good. Missed this. Missed you.”

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, voice breaking on the edges of pleasure.

And he doesn’t.

He fucks her harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. Her moans spill freely, breathless and raw, and he catches them with his mouth, lips crushed to hers, tongues tangling. His hand slides between them, thumb circling her clit in tight, expert motions, until her whole body coils tight beneath him.

“Harry—” she gasps, teetering.

He slows just enough to draw it out, voice soft but wrecked. “I’ve got you, love. Come for me.”

She shatters—hips jerking, body clenching around him, her cry sharp and helpless. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning her name like it’s been trapped in his throat for years, hips trembling as he comes hard, every muscle tight with release.

They stay wrapped around each other, bodies slick with sweat, breath mingling in the stillness. The silence afterward is thick—sated and heavy—with the weight of everything they thought they’d lost.

He finally shifts, brushing her damp hair back from her face, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The sheets are warm and tangled around their legs, the air in the room thick with the scent of sweat and something sweeter—familiarity, maybe. Skin still slick in places. Her head rests against his chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breath. One of his hands is in her hair, fingers absently combing through the strands like he doesn’t want to stop touching her.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s full. Like a held breath. Like a moment that knows it shouldn’t be broken too soon.

She closes her eyes, fingers tracing lazy patterns across the tattoo on his ribs. She feels the way his chest moves under her palm when he laughs softly at nothing.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Are you still drunk?”

His chest rises, then falls.

“No.”

She’s quiet again. For a beat. Then—

“Will you regret it in the morning?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts a little, tilting his head so his mouth brushes the top of her head.

“No.”

His voice is steady. Sure.

Then he looks down at her, brushing a piece of hair off her cheek. “Will you?”

She meets his gaze—really meets it this time. There’s something unspoken in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

“No.”

It’s the truth. No hesitation.

She lays her head back down. His arms tighten around her just slightly, like he needed to hear it more than he realized.

They don’t say anything else for a long while.

And when they both finally start to drift, the last thing she feels is the press of his lips against her temple and the quiet way he exhales like maybe, just maybe, this time he can sleep.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows in quiet gold, painting soft shapes across the tangled sheets. The room smells like skin and sleep, the air heavy with warmth and the faintest scent of sex still clinging to the pillows.

She wakes slowly, eyes blinking open to a pale, quiet morning.

The space beside her is empty, but still warm. His pillow smells like him—like bergamot and something just a little darker underneath. Familiar. Grounding. Her hand brushes the sheets where his body had been, and for a moment she just breathes him in.

Then she hears it—the soft rush of water, muffled and steady.

The shower.

She pushes the sheets off her body and stretches, limbs sore in the best way. Her bare feet touch the floor, and she follows the sound, quiet and easy, like she’s done this before. Like her body knows the path.

The bathroom door is cracked open, steam curling out into the air like an invitation.

She slips inside.

The mirror is fogged, the tiles warm under her feet. She pauses just a moment, looking toward the glass shower door. His shape is hazy through the steam, broad shoulders, strong back, his head tilted slightly down as the water runs over him.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t call his name.

Just moves.

She pulls the shirt off over her head, lets it fall to the floor. Her underwear follows. And then she steps forward, fingers curling around the edge of the glass door, easing it open.

He turns at the sound, water streaking down his chest, his hair wet and pushed back from his forehead. His eyes widen slightly when he sees her—but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

She steps in and lets the water hit her skin—hot, soothing. Her hands find his chest first, splaying across the familiar planes of it, slick and warm beneath her fingers.

“You’re up early,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and surprise.

“Not really,” she says, eyes on his lips.

She presses closer.

The steam swirls around them, water pounding against the tile, and when she tilts her face up and kisses him, it’s slower this time. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just deep, deliberate, like she’s tasting him in pieces. Like she has time now.

His hands come to her waist, then slide down, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left. Their bodies press flush, heat meeting heat, skin slick between them. He groans into her mouth when her hand drags along the back of his neck, her fingers slipping into his wet curls.

The kiss deepens—messy, open, teeth clashing slightly as it grows more frantic. His hands grip tighter, guiding her backward until her spine meets the cool tile wall. She gasps at the contrast, and he takes the sound into his mouth, swallowing it like a secret.

His lips leave hers only to travel down her jaw, to the spot beneath her ear that always made her knees weak. He remembers. Of course he does.

Her hands roam his shoulders, his chest, down his stomach, slow and teasing. He shudders when her fingers graze his hipbones.

“You’re dangerous,” he mutters against her skin, kissing lower, over the slope of her collarbone, the curve of her breast.

She lets her head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. “You invited me in.”

“You weren’t supposed to actually come,” he says, voice low, strained.

“Liar.”

His mouth crashes back to hers, and this time there’s no space between kisses—just heat, just hands, just the rhythm of their bodies pressed together under the water like nothing else exists.

The steam wraps around them. Their movements are slow, hungry, but unhurried—like they’ve stopped pretending anything is casual. Like every kiss is an answer to a question they were both too scared to ask the night before.

And when he finally pulls back, just an inch, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers, he whispers

“Stay today.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Okay.”

The water has stopped, the towels hang loose around their bodies, and the steam has begun to fade. The room is warm, filled with the low rustle of fabric and breath. Sunlight streams in through the curtains like it’s trying not to interrupt.

She sits on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up slightly, damp hair falling over one shoulder. He’s behind her, towel-drying his curls with lazy hands, still a little breathless, a little flushed from the shower.

She glances down at her hands resting in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of the towel. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks.

“Harry?”

He pauses. Lowers the towel from his head, eyes moving to her.

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t look at him. Not yet.

“I’m sorry.”

That gets him. The air shifts. He sits down beside her slowly, close but not crowding. Waiting.

“For what?” he asks gently.

She pulls in a breath. “For how I left. For walking away like I did. No warning. No reason.”

He’s quiet, but his gaze doesn’t waver. She feels the weight of it, even without looking up.

“I was going through something,” she says, the words slow and careful, like they’ve taken years to form. “And instead of… letting anyone in, I just shut everything out. Even you. Especially you.”

A long pause.

“It was easier,” she adds, barely audible. “I made it easier for me by making it harder for you.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just watches her. She can feel the heat of him beside her, solid and steady, not pulling away.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks eventually, and his voice isn’t angry just soft. Tired. “Why not let me help?”

She finally turns to look at him.

“Because if I let you help, I’d have to admit I needed it. And I was tired of needing things. I wanted to be okay on my own. I thought if I could just get through it without anyone… I’d come out stronger.”

“And did you?”

She swallows. “No. I just came out lonelier.”

His jaw flexes slightly, and he nods like he understands. And maybe he does. Maybe too well.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, not accusing—just curious.

Her eyes meet his, steady and sure this time.

“Every day.”

His hand finds hers between them, warm and careful.

He squeezes it once.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then let’s start from here.”

He holds her hand like he’s anchoring both of them. Thumb brushing slow circles across the back of hers, his gaze never drifting. The room feels still again. Not frozen—just calm. Like the storm has passed, but everything is still tender in its wake.

“I missed you,” Harry says, voice thick and low. “Every day.”

Her breath stumbles.

“You weren’t just someone I loved,” he continues. “You were my best friend. The one person I always wanted to tell things to. Stupid shit. Big stuff. All of it.”

She looks at him, eyes soft, throat tight.

“I kept thinking it would go away eventually,” he says. “That I’d stop checking places for you. Stop hearing a song and thinking about how you’d hum the guitar part like a weirdo.”

She smiles faintly, blinking quickly. “I still do that.”

“Good,” he says. “Someone has to.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment. It’s not heavy, just honest.

“If this is going to work,” he says gently, “we can’t go back to what we were. We’re not those people anymore.”

She nods slowly, feeling the truth of that settle deep in her chest.

“No more shutting each other out,” he says. “No more disappearing when it gets hard. We have to be honest. All the way through.”

Her voice is quiet, but firm. “Okay.”

He squeezes her hand again.

“And we take it slow,” he adds. “No pressure. No expectations. Just see where this goes.”

She smiles, this time with more light behind it. “Like two people starting over.”

“Like two people who already know how the other takes their coffee,” he says, tilting his head, “but are still willing to ask again.”

Her eyes sting a little. But she laughs. “I take it black now.”

He grins. “You liar.”

They both laugh, and for a second it feels light again—simple, even. Like maybe this could be something good. Something real.

He tugs her into him gently, and she leans her head on his shoulder.

They sit like that for a long while—quiet, close, steady.

Starting again.

[ghostedgwen]

don't blame me | j.potter [part four]

note : I did not expect this series to go so well wotdaheal - you guys are sooo amazing and I am very very grateful, so happy to know I can provide an escape to people who need it through my writing, ily

warnings : more jelly jelly, james potter's mood swings, everything that's been simmering is now boiling over the pot, snogging?, oliver klove insert again idc I love my ravenclaw oc

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 4.6k

The engagement party is everything you feared it would be - grand, ostentatious, and so very Potter. The Potters' ballroom is dressed to the nines, glittering under a ceiling enchanted to mimic a night sky full of swirling constellations. Chandeliers float in the air like stars, casting golden light on marble floors polished to a mirror finish.

Gold-trimmed curtains frame the tall windows, and a quartet of musicians plays a delicate waltz in the corner, the notes fluttering through the space like butterflies.

Guests arrive in waves, draped in velvet and silk, their laughter echoing as they sip on champagne and air kisses. You try to smile through it all, letting the opulence blur at the edges, until you hear the familiar sound of a bark-like laugh.

The Marauders have arrived.

Sirius Black walks in first, confidence personified, dressed in all black save for the silver embroidered waistcoat beneath his robe. He winks at a group of giggling girls before offering a shallow, mocking bow to a grumbling member of his family across the room.

Remus Lupin follows behind, a bit more subdued but no less striking in forest green robes, eyes scanning the room like he’s calculating how long he’ll be able to endure small talk before sneaking off for a book.

Peter Pettigrew trails after them, slightly flushed, slightly overwhelmed, but with a determined look on his face like he belongs here - even if he’s not quite sure how.

And then there’s James.

He arrives last, golden and grinning, one hand shoved into the pocket of his formal dress robes, the other smoothing a hand through his windswept hair. His eyes immediately seek you out in the crowd.

The Potters welcome everyone with warm smiles and practiced ease. Euphemia stands with Fleamont at the foot of the grand staircase, champagne flutes in hand as they call for attention.

“Thank you all for joining us tonight,” Euphemia announces. “It is our absolute joy to welcome you to our home to celebrate something very dear to us - the engagement of our beloved son, James, to someone we’ve loved as family for many years.”

You and James are ushered into the centre of the ballroom by polite applause. He grins as he raises your joined hands for everyone to see.

“She said yes,” he declares cheekily, lifting your hand higher. “Which is mad, really, because I’m me. But I like to think the ring helped.”

He flashes the antique ring on your finger, then holds up his own - a matching heirloom band that once belonged to his great-great-grandfather.

Yours, a delicate twin, belonged to his great-great-grandmother. The symbolism isn’t lost on anyone.

“Also a very happy birthday - to my soon-to-be Wife, she turned of age yesterday!”

The applause grows louder with some people shouting greetings and congratulations alike, and the champagne flows.

The party slips into a rhythm of laughter and music. Guests swirl around you in waves, offering congratulations and late birthday greetings.

James plays the role of perfect fiancé with surprising grace, his hand always at the small of your back, his smiles never faltering.

But your cheeks hurt from smiling - you haven't smiled for this long, your head spinning from the noise.

So you slip away, just far enough to lean against a marble pillar and breathe.

That’s when you see them - the Marauders, finally settled in one spot near the punch bowl.

“Care for a dance?” you ask, tone light, teasing.

Sirius raises a brow. “I’m flattered, sweetheart, truly. But I think my mother would spontaneously combust if she saw me waltzing at your engagement party. With you, no less.”

You snort. “So dramatic.”

“Always.” he gives a flip of his hair.

Remus, ever the gentleman, offers his hand. “I’d be honoured.”

You let him lead you onto the dance floor. It’s an easy, familiar kind of rhythm with him, your hands fitting comfortably together. He’s warm and steady, his touch respectful but friendly, and you find yourself smiling for real for the first time that evening.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, actually checking in on you.

“Trying to,” you reply with a tired smile. “This whole evening feels like I’m playing dress-up.”

He chuckles softly. “You wear it well, you look great.”

You return the compliment, calling him a handsome leprechaun. He laughed. He even managed to greet you a quick late birthday greeting, you thanked him of course.

You don’t need to look to know James is watching. You feel it, like a weight on the back of your neck. When the song ends, you curtsy and thank Remus. You barely get a breath in before James appears at your side, his smile a little too wide.

“Thought we weren’t dancing till the wedding,” he says, offering his hand.

“Changed my mind,” you reply simply, a smile tugging at your lips.

He pulls you onto the floor without waiting for more. This dance is faster, more playful, and you hate how easily you fall into sync with him. How your heart hammers when he spins you, how his laughter makes you forget how fake this is supposed to be.

At that moment, it wasn't fake - it was very real to you and some small part of you desperately wished that it was real to him too.

“Show-off,” you murmur after a particularly dramatic twirl.

“I live to impress,” he quips, grinning.

You’re still laughing as he leads you back to the edge of the floor, breathless. You both catch your breath while the other guests clamber on to the dance floor.

Sirius is waiting with a smug smile and two goblets. “Something to cool you both off.”

You accept one, not thinking twice, too thirsty to care. It’s strong - shockingly so but you didn't mind as you were gulping it down from thirst.

“Pads,” James coughs. “What the hell did you put in this?”

“Firewhiskey. Just a splash,” Sirius says innocently, managing a wink, “you’re welcome.”

Your ears failed to catch that. The boys watch in amusement - James' horror - as you downed the whole goblet in one go.

One goblet later, your face is flushed and your inhibitions dangerously low.

“So,” Sirius says, sidling up to you, “once you’re officially a Potter, does that mean I can start calling you Lady Prongs?”

You raise a brow, swaying slightly. “Sure but you get a new title too, Wet Dog.”

James chokes on his drink, you were very drunk and it was obvious with how you slurred your words - pointing at Sirius with a haze.

“That’s our cue,” he says, quickly stepping in, “we’re heading out. Tell Mum and Dad she’s off to bed early.”

Sirius salutes him with a grin. “Gladly.”

James wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobble as he guides you through the crowd.

“You’re such a lightweight,” he mutters with amusement. The comment is directed more to himself as he doubted you were sober to understand.

“M’not,” you insist. “I’m just emotionally fragile.”

He laughs, guiding you up the staircase and into the quiet halls. The distant music fades behind you, coulds till be heard though.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmurs.

You beam up at him., he lightly struggled to keep you in his arms. “I’m your cute wife.”

James falters.

“Merlin.”

You reach up and cup his cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath his eye, swiping behind his round glasses and he felt so warm under your touch - you take note of how you could probably count his freckles if you were dedicated enough.

“My darling husband.”

He nearly drops you.

“You’re - this is - bloody hell.”

You giggle, nuzzling into his chest as he steadies you again, you felt so much warmer in his arms.

James tries to keep it light. “We should get you some water. Or maybe ten gallons of it.”

“Nooo,” you whine, still managing to slur a single word “you’re warm. Let's stay like thish!”

He glances down at you, flushed and soft and barely standing. His chest tightens, he drank in your drunk appearance.

Your eyes glossed from intoxication, cheeks puffed from feigned defiance at his words and he - he almost chokes. You were so cute.

“Okay,” he murmurs, giving in. “Just for a minute.”

You end up leaning against him in the hallway outside your rooms, your head resting on his shoulder. It’s quiet, just the two of you and the faint echoes of music below.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He tenses slightly, anticipating just what your confession might be. “Of what?”

“Of wanting this too much.”

James doesn’t say anything for a long moment, you can both pretend you didn't say it - if he wanted, you can both pretend those words never escaped you.

Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he says quietly.

You hum, not putting much of your mind into your respone - like it was an instinct, “you will anyway.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Eventually, he coaxes you to your door and waits as you fumble with the handle.

“Sleep well, darling wife,” he says with a crooked smile.

“Goodnight, husband dearest,” you reply, and slip inside before your heart can betray you.

Behind the closed door, you lean against it, hand pressed over your heart. Even drunk - he still shook you to the core.

And James, still standing outside, runs a hand through his hair and whispers to the empty hallway, “I think I'm in love, Merlin - fuck. I know - shit.”

The engagement party was the kind of spectacle that lingered in the air like perfume - thick, sweet, and impossible to ignore. But after the haze of Firewhiskey, too-tight smiles, and pretending not to notice James Potter’s eyes on you all night, the rest of the holiday slipped into a blur.

Your days were spent apart again, the Potters whisking James off to wedding meetings and more fitting appointments while you were handled by stylists and tailors and family members asking about table arrangements like your opinion mattered.

You barely saw him, and you did not know it at the time but it was probably for your own well-being, after that Firewhiskey thing.

A nod across the breakfast table. A silent pass in the hallway. Not even a whispered word when your rooms shared a wall.

And then, suddenly, it was January again.

King’s Cross was brimming with students and parents bidding their farewells, owls flapping overhead and trunks being levitated into compartments by frazzled prefects. The cold nipped at your ears as you hugged Euphemia goodbye, her lipstick leaving a smudge on your temple, and gave Fleamont a brief, polite hug.

"Be safe, sweetheart," Euphemia said warmly. "Write to us. And James, do help her carry her bag - "

But James was already beside you, fingers curling around your wrist, eager to jump on the train like he was gonna explode any moment.

"We’ll find a compartment," he muttered, not looking at his mother as he tugged you toward the train - you bid them and your parents a rushed farewell as he whisked you away.

You barely had time to protest before he pulled you into an empty carriage and shut the door behind him, drawing the blinds on the windows as well.

"Okay," you said, catching your breath, your trunk settled beside you. "Dramatic much?"

He didn’t laugh, he looks like hell.

Instead, he watched you with that unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest like he was bracing himself -

"So," he said. "You remember anything from that night?"

Your brows furrowed. "The engagement party?"

He gave you a look, one you didn't know how to take. "You were drunk."

You blinked at him, confused. "I mean. . . yeah, but not that drunk. I remember dancing. With Remus. With you. Sirius and the Firewhiskey. Sort of," you scrunch you nose in distaste. "Why? Did I say something embarrassing?"

James exhaled slowly, as if he had been defeated and you frown at the action. He then shook his head. "No. Doesn’t matter. Forget it."

You frowned. "James,"

"Drop it," he said, a little more sharply than he intended -

And then the moment was gone. He slouched into his seat after putting both your trunks away, and stared out the window, and you sat across from him, feeling the silence stretch and twist between you.

Before you could try again - it was odd to have him behave this way, the compartment door slid open.

"Oi! We were wondering where you two buggered off to," Sirius announced, barging in with Remus and Peter at his heels. Remus gave a nod of greeting. Peter stumbled in, arms full of sweets.

Sirius took one look at the seating arrangement and flopped beside James, slinging an arm across the back of the seat. "So. Did you finally kill each other or just get tired of pretending to be in love?"

"You’re so charming," you said dryly, Sirius Black sends a wink your way.

"It’s a gift."

A sudden stampede of feet passed by the door - first-years giggling as they bolted down the corridor.

Then -

"You lot better not be setting things on fire again!"

The voice made you sit up straighter. Lily Evans appeared at the door, her Headgirl badge gleaming, her red hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid.

Her eyes scanned the compartment, pausing briefly on you and James sitting opposite each other. Then she looked at the boys.

"Just checking in. You haven’t hexed anyone yet, have you?"

Sirius put a hand on his heart. "We solemnly swear that we are up to no good."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. To a smile? or annoyance? you couldn't really tell.

"Hi, Evans," you said. Being the first one to address her properly.

"Hey," she replied, offering you a small smile. Her eyes flicked once more toward James, who remained studiously focused on the window. Odd.

Lily’s gaze lingered, curious but unreadable - her emerald eyes looked somewhat brighter when angry, like they're been set ablaze.

Then she turned to you again. "Hope you had a nice holiday, ____."

"You too," you said, replying quickly - she was almost intimidating.

She nodded to Remus. "See you at the meeting."

And then she was gone, disappearing down the corridor in pursuit of the wayward first-years.

Peter gave a low whistle, nudging James potter with a kick of his feet. "You didn’t say a word to her, Prongs"

James shrugged. "What’s there to say?"

Sirius grinned. "Oh, it’s the dawn of a new era, isn’t it? No more pining over Evans. Out with the unrequited, in with the loyal husband."

You stared at your lap, willing your heart to slow down.

James didn’t deny it.

You didn’t look up.

Because if you did, you’d find his eyes on you again, and you couldn’t afford to read too much into it.

Not now.

Not ever.

The welcoming feast was a blur of candlelight, floating pumpkins still leftover from the extended Yule décor, and a hundred conversations overlapping in the Great Hall. But your ears only caught one whisper:

“Did you hear? James Potter’s engaged.”

“It was in The Prophet!"

“Apparently she’s a Ravenclaw.”

"____? No way!"

You kept your head down, focusing on your plate as your housemates swarmed you with questions. You should have known it would be like this.

"What’s he like?"

"Did he propose on one knee?"

"Are you going to get married after graduation? Can I get an invite?"

You gave them nothing but polite smiles and vague answers. Mostly, you just wanted to eat your dinner in peace but that was too much to ask in the ever so noisy halls of Hogwarts.

Across the hall, James Potter was throwing you glances that could melt steel - Merlin, he's been moody since the train, what's got his wand on a twist?

"Okay, he’s been staring at you since the bread rolls," your roommate whispered.

"No, he hasn’t."

"He has. Look - now."

You refused, despite Macmillan's egging and nudging.

You stabbed your roast potato instead. Because if you looked at him, you’d remember how he looked, illuminated by a single birthday candle - leaning in closer and closer and -

You were going bloody mad.

Just as dessert plates were vanishing and sleepy students began to stretch and yawn, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat, addressing the crowd.

He clapped his hands once, and the room fell silent. He opened by greeting everyone a happy new year, and hoped the holiday break has been exciting.

“Before you all scurry off to your dormitories,” he said, “one small note. After reviewing inter-house interactions, and noting that our usual pairings have resulted in several minor. . .explosions, we’ve decided to shift things a bit.”

The students muttered among themselves - you weren't liking the taste of this as you eye the old man.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“Starting this term, Ravenclaw will now be paired with Gryffindor for Potions, Herbology, and Astronomy.”

Your stomach dropped.

You would now share three classes with James.

You groaned into your hand, while the students erupted into loud chatter over the announcement.

A fiftfh-year beside you whispered, "Ooh, you get to see your fiancé more! Lucky."

Lucky.

Sure.

You flicked a glance toward the Gryffindor table and caught James looking smug.

Smug.

Arrogant.

Golden.

He winked - and he was back.

You wanted to throw your goblet at his head.

And maybe kiss him afterward.

Which was the problem, because every act of violence towards him warranted a snog - a bloody snog!

You can only dread your fate, because now, there would be no escaping James Potter. You had hoped you could still your hammering heart during classes.

But all that was thrown out the window of the highest tower in Hogwarts. Poof.

This term was going to be hell.

In Potions, Slughorn paired you and James together because "What better way to ensure inter-house unity than with our most promising pair?" He said it with such cheer you couldn’t even groan properly. James sat beside you, all long limbs and casual confidence, swinging his legs under the table like he owned the place.

"Alright, partner," he whispered as he opened your shared textbook. "Let’s brew this Love Potion with the care and precision of a well-adjusted couple."

You nearly knocked the cauldron over, almost choking in your spit from the absolute tosser that he was being again. Long gone is his moody mood swings.

"Stop calling it that."

He just smiled, you pretend like it didn't tug at your heart.

"Would you prefer the good ol' 'Wife', then?"

You stirred the mixture aggressively, already following the instructions on the book - dumping the appropriate ingredients in.

"Try 'lab partner who will drown me inside this cauldron if I don't shut the bloody hell up.'"

He laughed, low and fond, and leaned closer. "See, this is why our upcoming marriage would be full of spice."

You refused to let the heat on your face be visible, you kept your head lowered as you pretended to focus on the potion brewing.

He was actually a decent partner despite the teasing - he was a competent potioneer, following the instructions smoothly and you worked well alongside him.

Ignoring his remarks about how well you two suited each other, a perfect couple, he joked.

"Ah! A perfect Amortentia! Splendid work, you two. A true match." Slughorn cut into the two of you, having just finished your potion.

The whole class turned to look, intrigued. You wanted to sink into the floor.

The scent curled from the cauldron in delicate spirals - iridescent, shimmering steam wafting upward. Amortentia, the most powerful love potion known to wizardkind, distinctive for its spiraling smoke and the unique scent it exuded for each individual: the smell of what most attracted them.

You leaned forward, just slightly.

The smell of old parchment hit you first - familiar, comforting. Then cinnamon, warm and sharp. And something else. Pine and the scent of storm-kissed air, like the moment before rain. It wrapped around your senses. It smelled like James.

You jolted back. You already knew the answer was him, but it was still air knocked off your lungs to confirm further.

James, beside you, had gone unusually quiet.

"What did you smell?" you asked, too curious to stop yourself.

He looked at you for a long moment, then tilted his head with a teasing grin. "You tell me first."

You gave him a look. "Absolutely not."

He smirked. "Fine. Fresh ink. That book smell. The scent of the stands on Quidditch day." He paused, then added, softer, "And something like honey and citrus. Weird, right?"

Your breath caught. You tried not to let it show though.

That was your shampoo.

You stirred the potion a bit too vigorously, and it nearly frothed over.

"Definitely weird," you mumbled, mind flying off - barely remembering his reaction when you replied with your own answer.

He nudged your foot under the table, and the air between you buzzed - you ignored the gesture.

That evening in the common room, you caught yourself sniffing your own hair. Desperately so, wondering if he knew it was your scent - or maybe, Evans uses the same brand -

Astronomy was the final blow - or not, just the dramatics.

The class had been reassigned to night sessions on Wednesdays. The sky above the Astronomy Tower stretched wide and dark, spangled with stars.

As you were top of your year in theory (right behind Evans), you found yourself explaining planetary alignment to James as he balanced a telescope and a Chocolate Frog simultaneously.

"You know," he said, voice soft in the dark, "I never really liked this subject. Too slow. Too cold. But it’s not so bad now."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t - too scared of what you would confess under the stars this time.

Because the moonlight caught in his hair, the wind was gentle, and his voice had a kind of warmth that sank right under your skin - you keep repalying that night, on your 17th in your head.

James Potter was slowly, relentlessly, becoming impossible to ignore - not that you ever not minding him.

And you were falling.

Hard.

You excused yourself before the class ended, blaming the cold. But your heart knew better.

You were in trouble.

The rest of the week unfolded in dizzying episodes that left your head spinning.

On Tuesday, James charmed your quill to draw little snitches every time you wrote his name. You only found out after realizing your entire essay for Arithmancy was covered in golden-winged doodles. He just smiled, cheek resting on his hand as you smacked him with the scroll - ignoring the implications.

Wednesday, he conjured a bouquet of enchanted bluebells to hop into your satchel after Charms. "For the Ravenclaw in bloom," he said. You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly stuck, but you kept the flowers anyway - they're well-preserved, in your dorm.

Thursday, you dropped your Astronomy notes and James helped gather them, fingers brushing, lingering. You’d both looked up, breathless. And then promptly looked away.

By Friday, it was unbearable.

You lied to one of your housemates, claiming you had something urgent on the other side of the castle, and traded patrol rounds. That way, instead of James, you were paired with Oliver Klove—a tall, charming, and mild-mannered seventh-year Ravenclaw with a relaxed gait and glacier-blue eyes.

You never saw the appeal in him but if it wasn't the Black brothers making girls squeal, it was one Oliver Klove. Tall, dark and handsome - those blue eyes were just a bonus.

His parents must've been very beautiful people to come up with him. You were besotted with James Potter, but you also had eyes and they are liking Oliver Klove very much.

He was easy company, and you found yourself actually relaxing for once during patrols - I guess that's another, he's unline Sirius who flirted in all the ways, and not Regulus who was weird and mysterious.

You were at peace until James found you.

He stood frozen in the corridor, eyes sharp behind his glasses as he processed the scene: you and Oliver walking side-by-side, laughing about something he hadn’t been there to hear.

"Where's your partner?" Oliver asked him politely, trying to strike conversation - pretending like he doesn't read the fury in the lion.

"I could ask the same," James replied, cold.

You winced at his tone and how awkward this will get. "I swapped shifts - because I had errands to run."

Oliver caught on to the lie but neglected to throw you under the bus, he only raises his hands in surrender at Potter, making a comment about not trying anything with a girl promised to another.

James didn’t reply. He turned on his heel and stalked off. But instead of disappearing, he grabbed your arm and tugged you along.

"Hey! James - "

"You're with me tonight."

You threw a look over your shoulder at Oliver, who gave you a bewildered little wave before vanishing down the corridor, deciding he wasn't gonna ask - he'll just continue his patrols and pretend he saw nothing.

James dragged you all the way to the Astronomy Tower.

You yanked your arm back, throwing him a harsh glare. "What the hell was that?"

He turned on you, furious and flustered. "I show up for patrol and find you laughing with - Klove of all people - like nothing's weird about it?"

"It isn’t weird. He’s nice. I needed a break from your constant flirting." and leading me on, but you neglect to say the last part.

"Flirting?! You think this is -" He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, the action was laced with frustration. You watch him, on edge. "I’ve been trying to tell you - "

"Tell me what? That I’m just another conquest until you get bored again? That Evans doesn't do it anymore so you decide I'm next on your list because I'm conveniently your bloody fucking fiancé?"

His eyes snapped to yours, those hazel pairs set ablaze. "Don’t. You know it’s not that."

The silence pulsed. Your heart beat painfully in your throat, the tension was rising and somehow - it felt awfully hot in the Astronomy Tower. This might actually be the day you throw someone off here - you.

"Then what is it?" you whispered.

He stepped closer. "You. It's always been you. And if I have to spell it out - I’m in love with you."

The air vanished from your lungs. He doesn't stop talking as he closes the distance between you two, grabbing to hold your hand - "You have me, completely and utterly besotted with you."

You barely managed to breathe before you surged forward, and your lips met his in a kiss that stole everything else away. It was hot and desperate, his hands in your hair, yours tangled in his robes, mouths slanting, pressing -

Hands slipped beneath fabric. A gasp. Your back against the cold stone wall.

Then, through the haze, you said it:

"What about Lily?"

James froze - that caught him off-guard, the last thing he expected you to say, mid snog.

You looked at him, breathless and trembling - anticipating.

He cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Evans - Evans was. . . the past. I liked her, Merlin - I won't deny that and pretend it wasn't a thing, " you could hear and see the sincerity pour out of him with every word. "But I love you. Not Evans - and Godric knows she'll never give me the time of day."

You allow those words to sink in.

"She's not the one who's matching rings with me, she's not the girl who'll slowly walk towards me down the aisle - it's you, it has always been you."

James lets out an exaspherated sigh. "I was just too bloody stupid to know that."

And somehow, impossibly, that was enough.

to be continued . . .

part five | masterlist

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

I love your writing so much is it okay for me to request yandere emperor like in 1800 or 1900 with ballerina reader?

Yandere Emperor x Reader

The gas lamps lining the cobbled streets cast pale halos in the mist, a golden haze spilling over the frostbitten city. Somewhere beyond the ivory walls of the Imperial Palace, violin strings hummed through the winter air like ghosts—sweet, aching, and low. And you? You were center stage, wrapped in satin ribbons and dreams stitched tight into your bodice. The audience held its breath as you moved, every step on pointe a story of heartbreak and hope, every pirouette a prayer in motion. But one pair of eyes—dark, hungry, unblinking—watched with more than admiration.

He was there every night. Emperor Adrien IV, sovereign of half the continent, draped in velvet and military medals, never missed a single performance. You had never spoken to him. Not directly. But his gaze followed you like a tether, unseen and warm against the nape of your neck even when the curtains fell.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Until the letters came.

Elegant parchment, edges gilded, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the imperial crest. The first one was simple—compliments on your performance, praise for your artistry. Polite. Harmless. But then came another. And another. They grew longer. More personal. He wrote of how your movement stilled the ache of war in his bones. How he dreamed of your silhouette long after sleep had left him. He quoted poems that no one else remembered and ended his letters with a single plea:

‘Dance for me alone.’

You tried not to tremble as you read them by candlelight, the flicker catching the edge of each obsessive flourish in his calligraphy. You never responded. What could you say to a man like him? A man who could summon armies, raze cities, extinguish lives with a nod?

Still, he persisted.

Then came the night the theater went dark.

You arrived at the company only to find your dressing room gone. Your director vanished. Dancers scattered like birds, whispering of patronage too powerful to defy. That evening, a carriage awaited you—sleek, black, and silent. The driver held no invitation. He simply opened the door and gestured.

You stepped in.

The palace was colder than you imagined—opulent but hollow. Marble floors so polished you could see your reflection tremble. Servants avoided your eyes. No one spoke. They led you to a grand chamber gilded in gold leaf and shadow, where a single man sat at the throne’s edge, his crown resting on a side table like an afterthought. Adrien.

Up close, he was even more terrible. Beautiful, yes. Impossibly so. Black curls like ink. Eyes the color of polished obsidian, glittering with something not quite sane. But it wasn’t his beauty that held you still. It was the intensity—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

He stood, closing the distance between you in slow, deliberate steps.

“You’re here,” he murmured, as if the thought alone was enough to keep the stars turning. “At last.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He circled you like a man inspecting the edge of a dream, hand brushing the folds of your coat, the exposed line of your collarbone. “You should never have danced for them. They didn’t deserve it. They watched with filthy eyes, unworthy of even your shadow.”

He took your hand. It was ice against fire.

“You’re mine now.”

And just like that, you realized what he had done.

The letters. The shuttered theater. The silenced staff. He hadn’t courted you—he’d hunted you. Slowly. Patiently. Piece by piece, he had torn the world away until only he remained.

You pulled back. “I want to go home.”

A shadow flickered across his face. It passed quickly, but not fast enough. When he smiled again, it was softer—almost sorrowful.

“There is no ‘home’ outside these walls. That world forgot you the moment I decided to make you mine.”

You stumbled away, skirts brushing the edge of the throne room’s vast emptiness. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he said, voice like silk and steel. “And I will.”

A hand clapped. The doors swung open. And before you could scream or run, music began. Live, echoing, played by a hidden quartet. Your song. The one you danced to on your final night.

His voice dipped to a whisper behind you. “Dance for me.”

You stood frozen.

And then—because you feared what he might do if you didn’t—you danced.

Each step felt like surrender. Each turn like a chain pulled tighter. Adrien didn’t speak again. He simply watched, silent and rapt, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

And when the music ended, when you dropped into your final bow, he rose.

“You’ll dance every night,” he promised, reaching out to cradle your cheek. “For me. Only me. Forever.”

You could see now the depths of it—his madness, his devotion. This wasn’t love. It was worship. And you were no longer a ballerina.

You were an idol.

A prisoner.

A queen.

Forever.

Masterlist

[fixated-cookies]

Milk, Flame, and the Witch's Pit

A powerful witch, once thought lost to time, returns to Earthbread-her body disguised, her magic not. She does not seduce. She does not beg. She commands. And those who cross her path-Burning Spice Cookie, full of fury, and Shadow Milk Cookie, her only loyal sin- will find themselves drawn into her pit of worship and ruin.

COMISSION

Minors do not interact

The wind changed before she arrived.

It slipped between stalks of caramel grass and dragged its breath across molasses stones, humming with a charge no Cookie could name. Flowers folded in her wake. Clouds parted above her with reverence or fear—it was difficult to tell the difference. She walked slowly, barefoot and regal, the color of her dough unknown beneath layers of velvet shadow. The bells at her hip did not ring. The sound had been devoured by the heat.

The Land of Spice trembled around her.

She had no name anymore. Names were for stories, and she had outlived every one whispered about her. What she carried was heavier than sugar, older than the ovens that birthed the Ancients. Her magic whispered at the edges of the world, soft as breath, sticky as sin.

And it did not go unnoticed.

A heat slammed into her path like a living wall.

“Hmm, what do we have here?” came a voice, cracked like scorched stone. “You don’t belong here.”

He stood half-wreathed in fire, chest bare and pulsing with the beat of battle, gold teeth bared in something between a snarl and a smile. Tattoos shimmered over his massive arms, and the antennae blazing from his skull lashed the air like twin serpents of flame.

Burning Spice Cookie.

She tilted her head, eyes calm. She said nothing.

He scoffed. “What? No words to be said? A worthy opponent?"

Still, she was silent. One finger raised—slowly, deliberately. A flick.

The fire at his feet dimmed. His snarl stuttered. Something like a shiver licked down his spine.

“You—” he started.

But her gaze had already gone through him. Past his teeth, past his fury. Into the place where his flame softened, where rage and lust touched hands like old friends.

One word slid from her lips.

“Bend.”

He tried to bark a laugh—but his breath caught in his throat. His knees hit the ground with a cruel crack. Heat surged from the base of his spine, uncoiling, throbbing. He gritted his teeth, growled—but his cock betrayed him. The tension twisted into pleasure, shame blooming in his gut like a scarlet lotus.

She turned. Walked on.

Behind her, Burning Spice Cookie stayed kneeling, panting in the ash, unable to understand why it felt so good.

She kept going, kept walking. As the desert became more filled with plants, forest appearing. Darkness.

The road behind her smoldered, and still she walked.

Beast Yeast welcomed no travelers—but it yielded to her. Vines parted like curtains, slick with dew and breath. Trees blinked when she passed, their bark pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as her slow, steady pulse. The air grew damp, cloying, laced with old sugar and something wilder. The shadows here were alive.

And they were watching.

She did not call his name. She didn’t need to. She merely stepped between two warped trunks, and the forest sighed.

“Even now,” came a voice, smooth and sly, “you enter like the last act of a forgotten play.”

Shadow Milk Cookie emerged from nothing—woven from gloom and glitter. His dual-toned hair curled like ink in water, strands shifting between jester’s blue and pitch-black oil. One of his hidden eyes opened within the shadow of his bangs, blinking slow. His smile was crooked, familiar, unbearable.

“You smell the same,” he whispered, drifting close. “Like broken vows and sugar-laced venom. Hah… I’d almost convinced myself you weren’t real.”

She said nothing.

He tilted his head, studying her like an art piece returned from ruin. His staff tapped once against the ground—a signal, or a habit. “You always did know how to time an entrance. Tell me… is this another illusion? Or have you truly come to finish what we started?”

Still, she gave no answer. She only looked at him.

That was enough.

The smile faltered. His breath caught—just once. Her eyes had not changed. Still that bottomless, terrible calm. He stepped closer, cautious, as if the very act of nearing her was dangerous.

“I missed you,” he confessed, low. “There. Does that please you? The Master of Deceit, saying something real for once.”

She raised her hand.

He didn’t flinch—but he swayed, like his body had remembered this moment from another lifetime. Her fingers touched his jaw, light as mist, and he shuddered.

“I tried to forget,” he rasped, leaning into her palm, “but I don’t lie to myself as well as I used to.”

His knees buckled. He sank into the moss and fog like he belonged there. Her presence curled around him, magic without movement. He gazed up at her with parted lips and eyes gone half-lidded—devotion without demand.

Shadow Milk knelt beneath her, chest rising with shallow breaths. His fingers hovered at the hem of her veil but never touched. He wouldn’t dare. Not yet.

“You didn’t come,” he said, voice almost childlike. “When I fell. When they shattered my name, trapped me. I waited.”

Silence again.

Then—

“I was afraid,” she murmured.

It was so quiet it barely counted as speech. But the forest flinched. Even the wind stopped.

His gaze snapped up.

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were turned inward, to some echo he couldn’t reach.

“I saw what they did to you. I saw the fire they lit in your absence. I told myself I couldn’t help. That it was too late. That if I moved, I’d fall with you.”

He laughed, but it cracked. “Fall? My dear. I needed you to fall. I was already at the bottom.”

“I know.”

She finally looked at him. The stillness between them turned sharp.

“I hated myself,” she whispered. “For staying behind. For surviving it clean. For watching your ruin like it was a play I'd written. I wanted to believe you didn’t need me.”

“I didn’t,” he said, breathless. “Not then.”

She leaned in.

“I need you now.”

The kiss was featherlight. Barely a press of mouth to mouth. But it burned. A memory drawn in blood. His whole body jolted—like magic, like mourning. His hands curled in the moss. He didn’t reach for her. He let it happen.

Another kiss. Slower.

Her lips dragged against his like she was trying to recall the shape of them. His eyes fluttered, a soft groan slipping loose. Her magic lingered on her tongue, bitter and sweet.

“I dreamed of this,” he gasped. “A hundred times. A thousand. I dreamed of you coming back.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. His jaw. Then his throat.

“I didn’t dream at all,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

His hand rose, shakily, and touched her wrist. Just once. As if afraid it would break the spell.

“Then let me dream for both of us.”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers slid into his hair. The tentacles beneath them stirred with recognition, sensing the shift. The ritual hadn’t begun—but it was coming.

And the air behind them shimmered—hot, jagged, furious.

The hunter had arrived.

The air shattered behind them.

A wave of raw heat swept through the glade, curling moss to ash and coaxing hissed warnings from the roots. Trees bent low as if in supplication. The fire had arrived.

Burning Spice Cookie stepped forward, flame-etched and radiant, his crimson eyes glowing coldly under the weight of fury. Sweat licked the curve of his throat, his dhoti clinging to the lines of his body. But his composure was unbroken.

“Is this what you’ve become, Deceit?” he said, voice smooth, low, deliberate. “On your knees for a woman who slithered in silence through our lands?”

Shadow Milk only grinned. “You say that like you’re above it.”

“I am above nothing. I descended long ago. But I did not rot.”

His gaze flicked to her—unflinching, dissecting.

“You… I remember your kind,” he murmured. “Temptresses spun from half-truths and perfumes. Witches who speak not in spells, but in silence. You are not new.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“You tread on sacred ground with your eyes half-lidded,” he continued. “You violate the body as if it were a scroll meant to be rewritten. And you leave your victims wanting.”

A flicker of tension beneath his jaw betrayed him. His control was fraying.

Shadow Milk tilted his head. “So you’ve felt it too.”

“I have felt… a corruption. Slithering beneath my skin like oil.” His voice darkened. “I do not know whether to burn it out or bend to it.”

Her voice was soft. “You came anyway.”

“I came,” he said, “because your magic reeks of something unfinished. And I do not abide loose ends.”

She raised her hand.

The earth opened.

Tentacles bloomed from the velvet pit below like petals of sin, dripping with soft luminescence. Runes pulsed in the air. The scent of aphrodisia filled their lungs. The sky flickered pink.

Shadow Milk had already sunk into the silk with a sigh. “Let go,��� he whispered. “You’ll break more gracefully that way.”

“I do not break,” Burning Spice answered, a flash of gold behind his teeth. “I yield only to worthy flame.”

One of the tentacles brushed his thigh—gentle, exploratory.

He flinched.

His eyes narrowed.

“…You’ll have to prove yourself.”

The pit had become a chamber of sin—slick silk beneath them, velvet runes flickering in the air like warning lights, tentacles curling with silent anticipation. And at the center of it all, she sat untouched, radiant, her expression unreadable.

Then she moved.

She reached up—slowly—and undid the clasp at her collarbone. Her robe slipped down just enough to reveal the curve of her chest, pale and glowing, as if kissed by moonlight and marked by magic itself.

Her hands came to her breasts—round, heavy, soft in a way that defied the laws of dough and doughmakers. She pressed them together, the valley between them pulsing with a subtle enchantment—warm, wet, trembling like a mouth.

“You may use this,” she said simply.

Both Cookies froze.

Shadow Milk let out a whimpering laugh, rolling onto his elbows. “You’re… really letting us?”

“You will take turns.”

That was not a kindness. It was a command.

Burning Spice Cookie’s jaw ticked. His pride flickered in his eyes, but it was drowned beneath the ache that throbbed between his legs.

She shifted her knees apart, still seated, breasts lifted by her arms, gaze impassive.

“Come.”

Shadow Milk was first.

Of course he was.

He crawled to her, trembling. A tentacle gently guided his cock into place. He pressed forward—slow, reverent—and let out a shattered moan as his length sank between her breasts.

They were impossibly soft, slick with enchantment, tight like the space was made for him. She held them still—did not squirm, did not breathe hard. She watched.

He began to thrust—shallow, pretty movements, his breath stuttering with every pass. “Ah—so warm, it’s… ngh—"

A tentacle wrapped around his throat gently. Just a warning.

“Don’t finish,” she said.

“I—I won’t, I swear—”

His hips jerked anyway.

When he was close—too close—she pulled him back with a mere twitch of her finger. He let out a broken sob, cock twitching uselessly in open air, denied.

“Next.”

Burning Spice moved forward, slow as a soldier facing his executioner. His cock leaked with want—he was harder than he’d ever been, pulse thrumming in his ears.

She adjusted slightly. A little more lift. A tighter hold.

He gritted his teeth and pressed in—and immediately bit back a groan. “Tch—too much—too… gods—”

His hips bucked. Unlike Shadow Milk, his rhythm was rough, desperate. His face stayed hard, but his body betrayed him.

“You act controlled,” she murmured, “but I feel your tremble.”

He growled—but the sound caught, warbled, and fell apart in a groan. His cock throbbed against the plush heat of her chest, but he couldn’t cum.

The spell wouldn’t allow it.

His knees buckled.

He pulled out before he begged.

Shadow Milk whimpered beside him, face buried in his hands. A tentacle stroked his back in mock sympathy.

She wiped her chest clean with a flick of her magic.

“You are permitted to rut,” she said. “Not to release. Your seed is not earned.”

They both stared at her—trembling, ruined, cocks twitching, lips bitten raw.

And she just looked back.

Unmoved.

.....

They lay collapsed in the pit’s silk—Shadow Milk’s limbs tangled in a dozen tentacles, his voice gone hoarse from moaning, begging, breaking. Burning Spice sat upright still, if only by sheer force of will, sweat glistening along his temple, his cock still twitching from denial that bordered on cruelty.

Their breathing filled the silence.

Wet. Shaky. Ruined.

The tentacles eased—for now.

From her throne above, the Witch exhaled softly, lowering her arms. Her body, untouched. Her robes, barely ruffled. Her eyes, still glowing low like a hearth you could never warm yourself by.

“You performed as expected,” she said.

Shadow Milk laughed—quiet, delirious. “Then… then why does it still hurt…”

Burning Spice didn’t speak. He merely turned his face away, jaw tight, humiliation thick on his tongue.

The pit pulsed again—deeper this time. A rhythm like a heartbeat. Like something awakening.

She stood.

Both Cookies stirred at once—half out of instinct, half in dread.

She stepped down into the silk, barefoot. The ground did not touch her. The tentacles curled back in reverence.

“Rest while you can,” she murmured.

Her hand hovered briefly above their heads—not quite touching, but close enough for them to ache for it.

“This was only an opening. A taste.”

She looked down at them—two once-proud titans of power and war, now trembling at her feet.

“You will come again.”

And then she was gone—vanishing like steam from hot skin, leaving behind nothing but scent and ruin.

The pit quieted.

And deep below, something else… shifted.

A presence. Watching. Waiting.

Shadow Milk shuddered.

Burning Spice clenched his fists.

Neither spoke.

The ritual wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

---

This took forever to make, I typed it on laptop but then had to edit it on phone lol

[kyunghwannie]

❝ Canvas Confidential ❞

Son Chaeyoung x M!Reader

➤ Tags: Paint Play/Body Art Kink (using paint as foreplay — on skin), Hair Pulling, Against the Wall Sex (Contain's throat hold), Face-Sitting, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk (Minimal), Creampie, Marking, Overstimulation, Anal Sex, Spit Play, Orgasm Denial, Rough Grinding, Soft-Dom!Chaeyoung (not full dom/sub, but she’s the one driving the fire tonight), Nipple Play, Sex on the Canvas.

➤ Setting: A secret underground art exhibit in Seoul — invite-only, showcasing anonymous artists who express “hidden desires” through experimental art. ➤ Note: Hehe, This is just a 2 am random thought i had while fantasizing Chaengie. So have it. It's nothing too major special? (Spoiler: And if anyone tease me about the name "Teddy Noir", iam gonna cry)

You (Y/N) are a renowned but anonymous visual artist known for raw, sensual portraits—faces never shown, but the emotions always screaming through paint. Your pieces are featured under the name "Teddy Noir" (a nod to your soft-yet-dark duality).

You receive a mysterious handwritten invitation for a private session in one of the exhibit’s "collaboration booths" — where two artists (anonymous, face-hidden) must co-create a piece over 3 hours, communicating only through art and body language, no speaking allowed.

You walk in… and across from you, the other artist? She’s wearing a paint-stained apron, low cap, and a smirk: Chaeyoung. You don’t recognize each other at first — just two anonymous creatives. But her brushstrokes are fiery, teasing, and intimate. Her energy flirts with yours through every color she lays on the canvas.

---

The elevator rattled as it descended deep beneath Seoul’s glitzy streets — past the subway lines, past the forgotten storage levels. No floor numbers, just the hum of old machinery and red neon leaking through the cracks of the steel doors.

You clutched the black envelope tighter in your hand — matte paper, wax-sealed with a single initial: C.

Inside it, just five words in scratchy gold ink: “Create. Feel. Reveal. No Names.”

You’d heard whispers of this place. The Veritas Gallery. An invite-only exhibit hidden in the veins of the city, where artists abandoned rules, reputations, and reason. The elevator dinged. The doors creaked open into dim light and velvet black walls. An attendant in a fox mask handed you a thin earpiece and whispered, “Booth Seven. No speech. Just soul.”

You walked past the main floor — already surrounded by surreal sculptures, cryptic murals, and shadowy figures sipping champagne like sinners in a cathedral. Booth Seven waited behind a curtain. Inside: low lights, a canvas six feet tall, brushes, paints, chalk, charcoal. One chair. One mirror.

And across from it — already standing there, sleeves rolled, cap low, smirking with her eyes only — was her.

A petite woman with ink-stained fingers, a nose ring, and an aura like wildfire. She didn’t say a word. She dipped her fingers into crimson paint, dragged them slowly across the canvas, and glanced at you with challenge and mischief.

You felt it instantly: this wasn’t going to be about art. It was going to be about exposure.

Chapter 1: Crimson Strokes

There was no music. No voices. Just the faint crackle of a vintage filament bulb overhead and the sound of wet paint being spread across canvas.

Chaeyoung hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to.

Her brush moved like it had a heartbeat, every stroke deliberate — curved, bold, unpredictable. She wasn’t painting a picture. She was teasing a presence into existence.

You leaned against the side table, eyes following her hands instead of her face. There was something reckless about the way she smeared the crimson paint with her palm, like she didn’t care about the rules of composition — only the feeling.

She glanced at you once, smirking under her cap.

You smirked back and picked up a charcoal stick.

The two of you painted in silence. Separate at first.

You sketched an outline — shoulders, a spine, not quite male, not quite female. She layered thick smears of color, none of them staying inside your lines. Her red bled into your black. You countered with strokes of gray. She answered with gold.

It was less collaboration, more collision.

She tilted her head as she worked, her lips slightly parted. The kind of face someone makes when they’re either in deep concentration… or deliberately putting on a show.

Your eyes wandered to the ink on her wrist. Tiny tattoos — waves, a flower, maybe a word too smudged to read. Her apron was speckled with past work, but underneath, her shirt clung to her in the heat. The neckline hung low.

She caught you staring.

She raised a brow, then dipped her brush into a darker red — wine, almost blood — and flicked it toward your side of the canvas. Tiny splatters kissed your hand.

You laughed silently. She smiled, but didn’t break rhythm.

At some point, the two of you found the same tempo. Your charcoal circled around her colors. Her brush glided between your lines. You weren’t just painting anymore. You were dancing. Communicating.

Teasing.

One hour in, she stepped back, breathing a little heavier. The piece was half-done — a chaotic portrait of motion, of skin without faces, of passion without clarity.

You put your charcoal down and looked at her.

She didn’t look away.

Her cap shadowed most of her face, but you could see the edge of her lip rise — almost like a challenge.

Then, breaking every rule, you spoke.

“Is it you that’s painting me…” you said, voice low, “or am I the one painting you?”

A pause.

Chaeyoung stepped closer, dipped two fingers into gold, and smeared them across your wrist.

Then she whispered — voice soft but electric:

“What if we’re both unfinished?”

You stared at her fingers on your wrist — gold smudged against your skin like a claim.

There was something about her that haunted you now. The way she moved, the confidence in her silence, the way she treated art like a secret being exhaled. It wasn’t just talent. It was recognition.

You knew that hand. That posture. That energy.

Your mind raced through memories like torn pages — interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, live stages — and then it hit you.

The tattoos.

The flower. The script on her forearm.

You hadn’t seen them in person before, but millions had. Broadcasted, admired, printed on photo cards. You’d studied them before for an old commission project — one JYP never ended up releasing.

Your eyes lifted, slowly, past her wrist, past the apron. You took in her jawline, the soft piercings, the slight dimple that only appeared when she was trying not to smile.

No cap could hide her now.

“...You’re Chaeyoung,” you said quietly.

She froze, but only for a second. Then her smile curved fully this time — no longer teasing, but knowing.

“And here I thought the anonymity was mutual,” she said, not denying a thing.

You took a step back, not out of discomfort, but awe. “Why would you even come here? You don’t need this gallery.”

“I didn’t come for the gallery.” Her voice was soft. “I came for the artist.”

That made your heart stutter.

She walked past the canvas, slowly, until you stood shoulder to shoulder. She smelled faintly of turpentine and lavender — rawness and warmth in one breath.

“I’ve been watching your pieces since last winter,” she admitted, fingers trailing along the edge of the canvas. “Teddy Noir, right? Your art... feels like confession. Every brushstroke says something you’d never dare speak out loud.”

You swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t made a single piece under that name without bleeding into it.

“I needed to know if it was real,” she added, looking up at you. “If the person behind all that chaos... could look me in the eye.”

And then she did. Fully.

No cap. No shadow.

Just Son Chaeyoung, one of the most iconic idols in the world, standing in an underground booth, baring her artistic soul to yours.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

So instead, you picked up your charcoal and slowly extended it to her — not as an offering, but as a continuation.

She took it.

And without another word, you both returned to the canvas.

But the air had changed.

This was no longer two strangers painting in the dark.

This was Chaeyoung.

And somehow… she already saw you more clearly than anyone ever had.

You had never heard silence so loud.

The booth was still — just the soft clicks of brushes being set down, the low hum of warm gallery lights, and your heartbeat in your throat.

Chaeyoung hadn’t touched the canvas again.

Instead, she leaned against the far wall now, arms crossed, still in her apron, gaze pinned on you like you were the final piece she hadn’t figured out yet.

“You didn’t ask me why I wanted to paint with you,” she said.

You turned, meeting her eyes. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to speak.”

She tilted her head with a sly grin. “That rule broke the second you called me by name.”

You smiled, but there was something behind her tone — a raw edge. A kind of truth she was dancing around but hadn’t voiced yet.

So you asked.

“…Why did you want to paint with me?”

She exhaled, her smirk slipping into something more vulnerable.

“Because,” she said, stepping forward slowly, “every time I see one of your pieces, I feel like I’m being looked at. Not as an idol. Not as Chaeyoung-from-TWICE. But as… me. The real me. The messy, impulsive, selfish, restless me.”

You didn’t move. You just listened.

She kept coming closer, voice softer now.

“And I wanted to know if you could still paint like that… if the person was right in front of you. If your hands would tremble. If your lines would blur.”

She stopped just inches away.

“Because mine did.”

You didn’t even notice you’d been holding your breath until you finally exhaled — shaky, unsteady.

Chaeyoung reached up, fingers brushing a smear of charcoal off your cheek. She didn’t look away. Her hand lingered, then fell slowly to your chest.

“Does it scare you?” she asked. “Being seen like this?”

Your voice dropped. “Only when I want to be touched, too.”

There was no kiss yet. No rush.

Just the electric distance between two people who had already stripped each other bare through art… and now stood fully clothed, yet completely exposed.

You glanced toward the canvas.

The painting was chaotic. Sensual. Raw. A mirror of every word you hadn’t said and every emotion she couldn’t perform on stage.

Her fingers slid from your chest to your wrist again, gently tracing that same gold-stained line she’d made before.

“…We can leave it unfinished,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Or we can make it the one piece we never show anyone.”

You met her gaze. The decision was already made.

You reached behind her and flipped the “Occupied” sign on the booth door.

Then you turned off the lights — leaving only the soft glow of the canvas behind you.

The lights were off.

But neither of you moved.

Only the canvas glowed behind you — a beacon of truth, passion, and secrets neither of you had intended to reveal.

You felt Chaeyoung’s fingers tighten slightly around your wrist.

“You know,” she said, “I saw it before I ever met you. That piece in the gallery last year. The one of the girl sitting alone in the empty green room. Her eyes were tired. Her posture was strong. But she looked like she wanted someone to wait for her.”

You blinked. You knew the one. “Unvoiced No. 7.”

It wasn’t meant to be anyone specific. But the moment she spoke, you realized it was her.

Your version of her. Or at least, the version you imagined — tired from the idol life, brave but craving something quiet, something real.

“I stared at it for ten minutes,” she admitted. “No plaque, no name. Just that feeling. I thought—whoever painted this knows what it feels like to be seen but not known.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“And then I realized... it looked like me.”

Your heart twisted. That piece had been born from fragments — fan cams, behind-the-scenes clips, rare candid smiles. You hadn’t painted Chaeyoung, the idol. You’d painted the girl behind her. The one who seemed like she carried words in her eyes that never made it to her lips.

“There was another one,” she continued, stepping closer, “a soft one. A girl on a rooftop, looking up — not posing. Just… hoping. That one looked like Dahyun.”

You swallowed. Unvoiced No. 4.

You’d created those portraits as a silent admirer — not a hardcore fan, but someone who listened between the noise. The expressions weren’t copied. They were imagined. Interpretations of what TWICE members might dream of when the cameras were off.

Your voice finally returned. “I never expected anyone from TWICE to see those.”

“I didn’t just see them,” she said, stepping closer again. “I felt them. You painted the lives we can’t post. The feelings we can’t express. And you did it without ever touching us.”

She looked up at you.

“So now I need to know, Y/N… if you can paint me like that… what happens when you actually have me?”

The room turned silent again — but not empty.

Your hand lifted, brushing a stray paint smear from her cheek.

“I wasn’t trying to expose you,” you said, voice low. “I was trying to protect you. Even if you never knew.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching at the rawness in your voice.

“Then don’t protect me now,” she whispered. “Not here. Not when I want to be known.”

The moment snapped.

Your fingers cupped her jaw, guiding her in. And when her lips met yours, it wasn’t desperate. It was reverent. Like an answer to the questions your art had been asking for years.

Your bodies leaned into each other like brush to canvas — soft at first, tentative, but hungry for more.

The kiss deepened slowly.

And as the paint-stained apron fell to the floor…

…the real portrait finally began.

The moment her lips met yours, the world outside the dimly lit studio ceased to exist. The only light came from the glow of the half-finished canvas behind you—a chaotic blend of your colors, your strokes, your hunger—casting long shadows that danced across Chaeyoung’s face as she pulled back just enough to smirk at you.

"Mmh… so this is what you taste like," she murmured, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing a streak of crimson paint she’d stolen from the palette. "Kinda sweet. Kinda… needy."

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as her fingers trailed down your throat, leaving a cool, wet trail of paint in their wake.

"Chaeyoung—"

"Ah, ah." She pressed a finger to your lips, her eyes darkening. "You broke the rules first, artist. Now you play by mine."

Her free hand dipped into the palette beside you, fingers swirling in the deep indigo before she dragged them down your chest, slow and deliberate, marking you like her own personal canvas. The paint was cool against your skin, but the way her nails grazed your abs sent heat pooling low in your gut.

"Fuck…" you hissed, arching into her touch.

Chaeyoung’s laugh was a low, breathy thing as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. "You paint me like some fragile thing, Y/N. But look at you—shaking just 'cause I touch you." Her teeth nipped at your earlobe, and you groaned, your cock already straining against your jeans.

She noticed. Of course she did.

"Oh? This is what you wanna hide?" Her palm pressed flat against your bulge, rubbing slowly, her smirk widening as you choked on a gasp. "Mmm… big."

Your hips jerked involuntarily, but she pulled back, tutting. "Uh-uh. No rushing."

She reached for a clean brush, dipping it into a pot of gold paint before dragging the bristles along your collarbone. The sensation was maddening—soft, ticklish, teasing—and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Hahh… Chaeyoung, please—"

"Please what?" She flicked the brush lower, tracing the outline of your abs. "You wanna fuck me? Right here? Against the canvas you just finished?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Or do you wanna be good and let me ruin you first?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts as she dropped to her knees, her fingers hooking into your belt loops. The look she gave you was pure sin—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, paint smudged across her cheek like war paint.

"I know you’re scared," she murmured, undoing your belt with agonizing slowness. "Scared I’ll regret this. Scared you will." Her fingers popped the button of your jeans. "But tell me, Y/N…"

She yanked your pants down just enough to free your cock, her breath hot against the tip.

"Does this feel like regret?"

Her tongue swiped a slow, wet stripe up your length, and you saw stars.

Chaeyoung’s tongue was sin incarnate.

The moment her lips wrapped around the head of your cock, a ragged groan tore from your throat, your fingers instinctively tangling in her hair. She hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine as she sank deeper, her painted fingers digging into your thighs.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

She pulled off with a filthy pop, her smirk smeared with spit and gold paint. "Mmm… sensitive," she teased, her breath hot against your leaking tip. "You pull when you like something, huh?"

Before you could answer, her fingers tightened around the base of your shaft, her other hand fisting in her own hair—guiding your grip harder.

"Do it," she breathed, her eyes locked onto yours. "Pull."

You obeyed.

A sharp tug—her scalp yielding under your fingers—and Chaeyoung moaned around your cock, her lips stretching wide as she took you down her throat in one slick, sloppy slide.

"Hhhngh—!"

The sound she made was obscene, half-choked, half-delighted, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she hollowed her cheeks. Spit dripped down your length, pooling where her fingers stroked in tight, twisting motions, matching the filthy rhythm of her mouth.

"S-shit—fuck—" Your hips jerked, but she pinned you down with a firm hand, her nails biting into your skin as she controlled the pace.

Slurp. Schlick. Gag.

Every sound was louder than the last, every bob of her head more desperate than before. Her free hand wandered up, gripping your wrist—forcing your hold on her hair tighter, harder, until her whimpers vibrated against your cock.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She loved it.

The way her throat fluttered around you, the way her lashes fluttered with tears—not from discomfort, but from the sheer high of being used. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

"Chaeyoung—ahh—gonna—"

She yanked back at the last second, a string of spit connecting her lips to your throbbing tip.

"Not yet," she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk dripping with mischief. "We’re not done."

And then she dove back in, faster this time, her nails scraping down your thighs as she took you to the hilt—

Chaeyoung’s mouth was a masterpiece of sin.

The moment she swallowed you back down, her throat convulsed around your cock in a slick, greedy rhythm, her lips stretched obscenely wide. Spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping in thick strands down your shaft, her tongue flattening against your veins as she sucked hard enough to make your vision blur.

"Hhah—fuck—Chaeyoung—!"

Your fingers tightened in her hair, not yanking—just holding, guiding—but she whined around you, her hips grinding down into nothing as her own arousal soaked through her panties. The scent of her—sweet, musky, desperate—mixed with the metallic tang of paint and the salt of her sweat.

Schlllck. Gllrk. Hhhnngh~!

Every sound was filthier than the last. Every bob of her head sent spit splattering against your thighs, her nose buried in your pelvis as she forced��herself deeper, her throat fluttering in ragged spasms.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She pulled back just enough to gasp, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. "T-taste so good," she slurred, her tongue lapping at your tip, catching the bitter-salt of your pre-cum. "Wanna—hah—wanna swallow all of you—"

Then she dove again, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked like a woman starved, her fingers digging into your hips to keep you right there, at the brink of her throat.

You could feel her dripping—her thighs trembling, her panties clinging to her soaked folds—but she didn’t touch herself. No, she was too lost in the act, too obsessed with the way your cock stretched her lips, the way your groans filled the air.

"C-close—" you warned, your voice ragged.

Chaeyoung’s eyes lit up.

She pulled off just enough to let your tip rest on her tongue, her breath coming in hot, wet pants. "Do it," she begged, her voice wrecked. "Fill me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, your hips jerked—once, twice—before you pulsed into her mouth, thick ropes of cum painting her tongue, her throat working desperately to swallow every drop.

"Mmmh~!" Her moan was delighted, her lips sealing tight as she milked you through it, her tongue swirling to catch every last drop of your release.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were sticky with it, her breath sweet with the taste of you.

"Delicious," she whispered, licking her lips clean.

And then, with a smirk, she leaned in to kiss you—sharing the proof of your pleasure.

The moment your lips met hers, Chaeyoung moaned into your mouth—a low, throaty sound that sent heat pooling straight to your cock. She tasted like salt, spit, and you, her tongue sliding against yours in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss as she ground her hips down against your thigh.

"Fuck—still hard for me?" she panted, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back to smirk. Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs before she dug in, leaving angry red marks in their wake. "Guess I didn’t quite ruin you yet."

You groaned, your hands sliding under her crop top to palm the soft swell of her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples—hard and pebbled under the thin fabric of her bralette.

"Ngh—!" Her back arched, pressing her chest into your touch. "Y-yeah, there—"

You smirked, pinching one nipple between your fingers, rolling it just hard enough to make her gasp. "Like that, princess?"

"Fuck you," she hissed, but her hips stuttered against you, her thighs squeezing around yours as she rutted down, seeking friction. "Think you’re so clever—ahh!—w-with your fucking hands—"

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You love my hands."

She shivered, her breath hitching as you dragged your mouth down her neck, sucking dark bruises into her skin. "Hah—yes—" Her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so she could crash her lips against yours again, biting at your tongue. "Mmmf—mark me harder, coward."

You growled, flipping her onto her back, your knee slotting between her thighs as you loomed over her. "Brat," you muttered before sinking your teeth into the curve of her shoulder.

"Ah! Fuck—!" Her back arched off the bed, her nails raking down your spine as you laved your tongue over the bite, soothing the sting before moving lower, trailing kisses down her chest.

You tugged her crop top up, exposing her bralette—damp with sweat and the faintest hint of her arousal—before dragging the fabric down with your teeth, freeing her tits.

"Finally," she gasped, her chest heaving as you latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while your fingers pinched and twisted the other.

"Hhah—! Ngh~!" Her thighs clenched around your hips, her hips rolling desperately against your thigh as she chased her own pleasure. "Y-you—shit—you gonna tease me all night or—ahh—or actually fuck me?"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her. "Who said I was done teasing?"

Her eyes darkened, her hand fisting in your hair as she yanked you back down. "Bastard." And then she kissed you—hard—her teeth clashing against yours as she ground her soaked panties against your thigh, her moans swallowed by your mouth.

Your thumbs brushed over Chaeyoung’s nipples again, this time slower—softer—watching the way her breath hitched, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts.

"Ngh—! S-stop staring," she muttered, her cheeks flushing pink as she tried to squirm away, but your hands held her firm, your fingers tracing the delicate curves of her small, pert breasts.

"Why?" you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of her left tit, your lips lingering just below her nipple. "You’re beautiful."

"Tch—bullshit," she huffed, but her voice wavered when your tongue flicked over her stiffened peak, her back arching off the bed. "Hah—! Y-you’re just—ahh—just saying that 'cause they’re cute or whatever—"

You pulled back slightly, meeting her gaze. "Who said anything about cute?"

Her brows furrowed, her lips parting in a silent oh as your fingers gently squeezed her tits, your thumbs rolling her nipples in slow, deliberate circles.

"F-fuck—" Her breath stuttered, her hips twitching against nothing. "D-don’t—don’t tease—"

"I’m not," you said simply, your voice low and warm as you ducked your head again, this time taking her right nipple between your lips, sucking gently before flicking your tongue over the peak.

"Hhah~!" Her hands flew to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she pulled, but there was no force behind it—just a shaky, desperate grip. "Y-you—nngh—you like them, don’t you?"

You hummed against her skin, your teeth grazing her nipple just enough to make her jolt. "Yeah," you admitted, your breath hot against her damp skin. "I love them."

"L-liar," she whined, but her thighs squeezed together, her hips rolling in tiny, aborted motions. "They’re—ahh—they’re small—"

"Perfect," you corrected, your hands sliding up to cup her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples again—softer this time, almost reverent. "Just like you."

She whimpered, her pride crumbling under your touch, under your words, her body melting as you lavished attention on her chest, your mouth and hands working in tandem to worship every inch of her.

"Hhah… more…" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers tightening in your hair.

And you obeyed.

The air in the private studio was thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat as Chaeyoung arched beneath you, her back pressing into the scattered sketch papers on the floor. Your teeth grazed her left nipple one last time before pulling back, admiring the way her chest heaved—her small, perfect tits glistening with spit, her skin flushed pink under the dim track lighting.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her fingers clawing at your shoulders as you dragged your hands down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her skirt. "Y-you—ahh—you better not rip this, it’s designer—"

You chuckled, sliding the fabric down her hips in one slow motion, letting it pool around her thighs before tossing it aside. "Too late."

"Asshole," she hissed, but the insult lost its bite when your palm pressed between her legs, feeling the soaked heat of her panties through the thin lace.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked into your touch, her thighs trembling as you rubbed slow, firm circles over her clothed cunt. "Ngh—stop teasing—"

"Make me," you murmured, nipping at her collarbone as your fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties, finally—finally—feeling the slick warmth of her bare skin.

Chaeyoung whined, her nails digging into your back as you stroked her folds, your thumb brushing over her clit in lazy, maddening circles. "Y-you—fuck—you know I can’t—ahh!—can’t think when you—hnngh—"

Her words dissolved into a moan as you pushed two fingers inside her, your palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. The wet squelch of her arousal filled the studio, mixing with the sound of her ragged breaths and the rustle of paper beneath her.

"S-so fucking mean," she panted, her legs wrapping around your waist as she rolled her hips, fucking herself on your fingers. "Gonna—hah—gonna make me come like this? On the floor?"

You smirked, curling your fingers just so, relishing the way her walls clenched around you. "Yeah," you breathed against her lips. "Gonna make you drip all over these sketches."

Her head fell back with a thud, her back arching as pleasure coiled tight in her gut—

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as she glared down at you—her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from biting them. "Lucky fan," she hissed, her voice dripping with something between amusement and frustration. "You really think this is just luck? That I let just anyone finger me in a fucking art studio?"

Your fingers were still buried inside her, curling lazily as her walls fluttered around you. "Seems like it," you mused, your thumb pressing firm circles against her clit just to watch her thighs jerk. "Since you’re the one who sought me out."

"Tch—!" Her grip tightened, her nails scraping your scalp. "I hate you," she breathed, but the way her hips rolled against your hand betrayed her. "Hah—fuck—I hate how you—nngh—how you talk—"

You smirked, slowing your fingers to a torturous pace. "Then shut me up."

For a second, she just stared at you—chest heaving, lips parted—before her expression shifted into something dangerous.

"Fine."

In one fluid motion, she shoved you back onto the plush studio carpet, her knees straddling your shoulders before you could react. Her panties—soaked through—were peeled off and tossed somewhere near the half-finished canvas, her glistening cunt now hovering inches from your face.

"Eat," she ordered, her voice trembling only slightly. "And don’t stop until I say so."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your tongue dragged up her slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the tangy-sweet taste of her arousal. Chaeyoung jolted, her thighs clamping around your head as a broken moan tore from her throat.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—!"

You hummed against her, your lips sealing around her clit as you sucked, your fingers finding her entrance again to push back inside.

"Ngh—! D-deeper—" she gasped, her hips grinding down against your mouth, her juices smearing across your chin. "Y-you—ahh—you knew—knew I’d do this, didn’t you? Knew I’d—hah—break for you—"

You pulled back just enough to speak, your breath hot against her dripping folds. "No," you murmured. "But I hoped."

Her laugh was breathless, shaky, as her fingers fisted in your hair again. "Bastard," she whined—before slamming your face back into her cunt.

The studio air was thick with the scent of her—musky, sweet, addicting—as Chaeyoung ground her dripping cunt against your tongue, her thighs trembling on either side of your head. Your nose pressed into her curls, your lips sealed tight around her clit as you sucked, slow and filthy, relishing the way her breath hitched above you.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her fingers yanked at your hair, her hips stuttering as your tongue flicked over her swollen bud. "Y-you—nngh—you eat pussy like you paint—" she gasped, her voice cracking. "Like you’re starving for it—"

You hummed against her, the vibration wrenching a broken moan from her throat as your fingers curled inside her, scissoring just enough to make her walls clench.

"Ahh~!" Her back arched, her head falling back as a breathless giggle slipped out. "S-shit—hah—we’re supposed to be anonymous—" Her hips rolled harder, her slick smearing across your chin. "A-and quiet—nngh—but look at us—"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, your lips glistening with her arousal. "You’re the one laughing," you pointed out, your breath hot against her soaked folds.

"Tch—you—!" She shoved your face back into her cunt, her thighs squeezing around your ears as your tongue delved deeper, lapping at her entrance before swirling around her clit again. "Hhah~! M-more—"

The squelch of her juices, the ragged hitch of her breath, the occasional giggle she couldn’t suppress—it was better than any art you’d ever made.

And then—

"I’m—ahh—close—" Her voice was a wreck, her nails biting into your scalp as her thighs shook. "G-gonna—fuck—gonna come—"

You doubled down, sucking her clit hard as your fingers pumped, relentless—

"HHAHH~!"

Her orgasm hit like a storm—her back bowing, her cunt pulsing around your fingers as she drenched your mouth, her juices spilling over your lips in hot, sticky waves.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—fuck—" She collapsed forward, her hands braced on the carpet as she rode out the aftershocks against your tongue, her thighs quivering.

When she finally pulled away, her face was flushed, her lips parted in a dazed smile.

"...So much for anonymous," she breathed.

Chaeyoung was still catching her breath, her thighs sticky with sweat and you, when she suddenly snorted—a tiny, undignified sound that made her clap a hand over her mouth.

You blinked up at her from the carpet, your chin glistening. "What?"

She pointed at the half-finished canvas nearby—the one you’d been collaborating on before things got… distracted. "Look," she giggled, her voice still wrecked. "We splattered."

Sure enough, a few stray drops of her had landed on the edge of the painting, mixing with the gold and crimson strokes.

"Abstract expressionism," you deadpanned.

"Ew," she cackled, swatting your shoulder before flopping onto her back beside you. "That’s nasty." A pause. Then, with a smirk: "...We should sign it."

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face—which, mistake, because now you just smeared her taste across your cheek. "Chaeyoung."

"What?" She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand while the other traced idle circles on your chest. "It’s authentic." Her grin turned filthy. "Like your tongue."

You huffed, but she was already leaning in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that tasted like her and victory.

"Mmh~... Round two?" she whispered.

Chaeyoung’s thighs quivered as she straddled your hips, her damp heat hovering just above your cock—taunting you.

"Look at you," she breathed, her fingers trailing down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs. "All hard and desperate for me." Her smirk was devilish as she ground her soaked cunt against your length, her slick smearing across your shaft. "Think you can handle me, Teddy Noir?"

You groaned, your hands gripping her hips—so small in your grasp—as she lifted herself slightly, lining you up with her entrance.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

"Uh-uh," she tutted, her voice dripping with mischief. "No begging."

And then she sank down—slow, agonizing—her tight walls clenching around you like a vice.

"Hhah~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she took you inch by inch, her petite body stretching to accommodate your girth. "S-shit—fuck—you’re big—"

You hissed, your fingers digging into her hips as she bottomed out, her ass pressing flush against your thighs.

"Tight," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint.

She giggled, breathless, her hands braced on your chest as she rolled her hips—testing, teasing. "Mmmh~... Told you I don’t do this with just anyone," she purred, her walls fluttering around you.

Then she moved.

"Ngh~! Ahh—!" Her hips rose and fell in a leisurely rhythm, her cunt squeezing you with every bounce. "F-feels good? Filling me up like this—hah—like I’m made for you—"

You growled, thrusting up to meet her, driving deeper—

"HHAHH~!" Her nails dug into your skin, her thighs shaking as she chased her pleasure. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her pace turned frantic, her petite body slamming down onto you, her gasps and moans echoing off the studio walls.

Chaeyoung’s thighs burned as she bounced on your cock, her small frame struggling to keep up with the brutal pace she’d set. But she refused to slow down—not when every snap of her hips sent fire shooting up her spine, not when the slap of skin on skin filled the studio, not when your hands on her waist anchored her, keeping her right where she wanted to be.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her breath came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into your chest as she chased the pleasure coiling tight in her gut. "Y-you feel that? H-how deep you are—ahh—like you’re everywhere—"

You groaned, your grip tightening as she slammed down again, her tight cunt milking you with every movement.

"Chaeyoung—"

"No," she panted, her voice strained with effort. "N-not—hah—not yet."

Her rhythm stuttered, her legs shaking as she forced herself to keep going, her walls fluttering around you in a silent plea.

"M-more—" she whimpered, her hips rolling instead of bouncing now, grinding slow and deep to savor every inch. "W-wanna feel you—ahh—forever—"

You hissed, your fingers bruising her hips as you thrust up to meet her, driving into her with a force that had her screeching.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her tits bouncing as she clung to you, her cunt clenching tight around you. "Y-yes—yes—just like that—" Her pace turned frantic again, her body desperate for more, for everything.

Chaeyoung’s thighs were shaking, her breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as she forced herself to slow down—just as the tension in her gut coiled too tight, just as her cunt clenched around you in desperate little pulses.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—" Her nails scratched down your chest, her hips stuttering as she fought the urge to chase her release. "Y-you—hah—you’re mean—"

You smirked, your hands tightening on her waist to still her movements completely. "You asked for this," you reminded her, your voice rough with restraint.

"I hate you," she whined, but the way her walls fluttered around you betrayed her.

You chuckled, your thumbs brushing over her hip bones as you guided her into a slow, agonizing grind.

"Ahh~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she tried to resist the pleasure building inside her. "T-too much—"

"No," you murmured, your fingers digging into her skin as you pulled her down harder. "Not yet."

She sobbed, her thighs trembling as she rode you with shallow, desperate bounces, her cunt dripping onto your thighs.

"P-please—"

You ignored her, your grip unyielding as you denied her what she craved most.

The moment your hands gripped Chaeyoung’s waist and spun her toward the nearest wall, her breath hitched—half in surprise, half in anticipation. The studio’s concrete was cool against her bare back, a sharp contrast to the heat of your body pressing into hers. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your hips, her arms looping over your shoulders for balance as you aligned yourself with her dripping entrance.

"No more teasing," she panted, her voice already wrecked, her nails digging into the fabric of your shirt. "Just—fuck me already."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

With one smooth thrust, you buried yourself inside her to the hilt, the tight, wet heat of her making your vision blur for a second. Chaeyoung’s head thudded back against the wall, her mouth falling open in a silent cry before her voice finally caught up.

"Ah—! Fuck, fuck—" Her thighs trembled where they locked around you, her body struggling to adjust to the sudden stretch. "You—you feel huge like this—"

You didn’t give her time to recover. One hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other gripping her hip as you pulled out almost completely before slamming back in. The sound of skin against skin, the slick noise of her arousal, the way her breath stuttered every time you bottomed out—it was maddening.

Chaeyoung’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her nails scraping against your shoulders as she tried to hold on. "Harder—" she gasped, her voice breaking. "I can—ah!—take it—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning rougher, deeper, each one driving a punched-out moan from her lips. The angle had her seeing stars, every snap of your hips hitting that sweet spot inside her with terrifying precision.

"You—ahh—you planned this," she accused between gasps, her legs tightening around you. "Knew I’d—fuck—knew I’d let you do anything—"

You didn’t deny it.

Her back arched off the wall as you pistoned into her, her moans growing louder, more desperate. The studio was too quiet, too empty—every sound they made echoed, from the wet slap of skin to the way Chaeyoung’s breath hitched every time you thrust just right.

"Close—" she whimpered, her fingers tangling in your hair. "I’m so—ahh—so close—"

You didn’t slow down.

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as she panted against your lips. "You’re being too nice," she murmured, her voice already wrecked from the relentless pace of your thrusts. "I can take more."

You slowed just enough to brush your nose against hers, your breath mingling. "I know you can," you said softly. "But I like seeing you like this—falling apart because I’m taking my time with you."

She huffed, but the way her cunt clenched around you betrayed how much she loved it. "Cheesy," she muttered, before tilting her head and spitting directly into your open mouth.

You choked—not in disgust, but in surprise—and she giggled, her hips grinding down to keep you buried deep inside her. "What? You said you liked me messy."

"I do," you admitted, swallowing before capturing her lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, sharing the taste of her spit between you. "But you’re gonna pay for that."

Her breath hitched as you shifted your grip, one hand sliding under her thigh to hike her leg higher against your hip, the other cupping her jaw to keep her close. The new angle made her whine, her walls fluttering as you pressed even deeper.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her nails digging into your shoulders. "That’s—ahh—that’s not fair—"

You nipped at her bottom lip, your thrusts turning slower but harder, each one dragging a broken sound from her throat. "You started it," you reminded her, your voice rough but still gentle, still hers.

You nipped at her bottom lip, your thrusts turning slower but harder, each one dragging a broken sound from her throat. "You started it," you reminded her, your voice rough but still gentle, still hers.

She groaned, her head thudding back against the wall. "I hate you," she whined, but the way she rolled her hips to meet yours said otherwise.

"No, you don’t," you murmured, leaning in to lick a stripe up her neck, savoring the salt of her sweat.

"Ngh—prove it," she challenged, her fingers tightening in your hair as she spat into her own palm before smearing it over your lips.

You laughed, low and warm, before kissing her again—deep, messy, perfect.

"Gladly."

The studio walls were cool against Chaeyoung’s back, a stark contrast to the heat of your body pressed against hers. Her legs were locked around your waist, her fingers gripping your shoulders as you moved inside her with slow, deliberate thrusts. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips parted as she watched you through half-lidded eyes.

"You’re holding back," she murmured, her voice already wrecked. "I can tell."

You slowed your hips, brushing your nose against hers. "Am I?"

She huffed, her nails digging into your skin. "Don’t play dumb. You’re being too careful with me."

You smirked, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "You want me to stop being careful?"

"Yes," she breathed, her eyes darkening. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Your grip shifted, your fingers wrapping gently around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding her who was in control. Her pulse jumped under your touch, her breath hitching as you pressed deeper, your thrusts turning sharper, harder.

"Like this?" you asked, your voice low.

She moaned, her head tipping back against the wall. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her words dissolved into a whimper as you angled your hips just right, hitting that spot inside her that made her toes curl.

"You feel so good," she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So deep—"

You hummed, your hand still resting lightly on her throat, your other arm tightening around her waist to keep her pinned against the wall. "Tell me what you want."

She shuddered, her hips rolling to meet yours. "Harder," she pleaded. "I want—ahh—I want to feel it tomorrow—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning punishing, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet studio.

"F-fuck—yes—" Her voice was breaking, her body trembling as she clung to you. "Don’t stop—please—"

You didn’t.

The air between you was thick with sweat and shared breath, Chaeyoung’s back pressed flush against the studio wall as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust dragged a new sound from her lips—broken moans, gasped pleas, the occasional breathless laugh when your rhythm stuttered just right.

Her thighs trembled where they locked around your waist, her calves digging into the small of your back as she tried to pull you deeper. "F-fuck—right there—" Her voice cracked as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that sweet spot inside her with every snap forward.

You could feel her unraveling—the way her walls fluttered around you, growing tighter with each passing second. Her nails raked down your shoulders, leaving angry red trails in their wake as she clung to you, her body arching off the wall to meet you thrust for thrust.

"Look at me," you murmured, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her spit-slick bottom lip.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark and hazy with pleasure, her pupils blown wide. "Mmn—harder—" she begged, her hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel you everywhere—"

You obliged, your grip tightening on her hip as you pistoned into her, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out her whimpers. The angle was brutal—each movement dragging her clit against your pelvis, the friction wringing choked sobs from her throat. "C-close—" she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So fucking close—"

Chaeyoung’s body was a live wire under your hands, every muscle pulled taut as she teetered on the edge. Her thighs trembled violently where they locked around your waist, her nails biting into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks.

"I—ahh—I’m gonna—" Her voice shattered into a gasp as the first wave hit her, her cunt clamping down on your cock like a vice. A choked scream tore from her throat as she squirted, hot liquid gushing between your bodies, soaking your stomach and thighs.

You groaned, your thrusts stuttering for just a second at the sheer intensity of it—but Chaeyoung’s hands flew to your wrists, her grip iron-tight.

"Don’t you dare stop," she panted, her voice raw, her eyes wild. "I’m not—fuck—I’m not done—"

You didn’t argue.

Your hands slid under her thighs, hiking her higher against the wall as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the studio walls. Her oversensitive walls fluttered around you, her body jerking with every thrust as she whined, her head thrashing back against the concrete.

"T-too much—ahh—too much—" she sobbed, her hips rolling helplessly to meet yours even as her body rebelled, her thighs shaking, her toes curling.

"You said not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough but gentle, your fingers brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

She whimpered, her nails digging into your biceps as another wave of pleasure ripped through her, her cunt pulsing around you as she squirted again, her back arching off the wall.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was gone, her lips parted in a silent scream as her body convulsed, her legs locking around you like she was afraid you’d pull away.

Chaeyoung’s body was a trembling mess against the studio wall, her thighs slick with sweat and arousal as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through her oversensitive nerves, her cunt fluttering around your cock in desperate, rhythmic clenches.

"F-fuck—ahh—you’re still going—" Her voice was hoarse, her nails digging into your shoulders as she clung to you, her legs locked around your waist like a vice.

You groaned, your grip tightening on her hips as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the concrete. "You told me not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough with exertion.

She whined, her back arching off the wall as you hit that spot again, her walls squeezing around you like she was trying to milk you dry. "I—hah—I know—" Her breath hitched, her hips rolling to meet yours. "J-just—fuck—fill me already—"

You hissed, your thrusts growing erratic, your control slipping as the pressure in your gut coiled too tight.

"C-close—" you gritted out, your fingers bruising her hips.

Chaeyoung’s eyes darkened, her lips parting in a dazed smirk. "Do it," she breathed, her voice wrecked. "Cum inside me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, you pulsed into her, your cock twitching as you emptied yourself deep inside her, your release spilling into her dripping cunt.

Chaeyoung moaned, her body convulsing around you as she milked you through it, her walls fluttering in time with your spasms.

"F-fuck—" she panted, her head lolling back against the wall. "Y-you—ahh—you ruined me—"

You chuckled, your hands gentling on her hips as you kissed her, slow and deep.

"You asked for it."

The studio was quiet now, save for the sound of your shared breathing and the occasional drip of sweat onto the carpet. You leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, while Chaeyoung—ever the restless artist—refused to stay still.

She straddled your lap with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, her bare ass pressing against your thighs. And god, what an ass it was. Narrow, but not bony. Soft where it needed to be, with just enough curve to make your fingers itch to grab, to knead, to leave marks. Milky skin, smooth as fresh canvas, barely hiding the faint pink flush from where she’d been grinding against you earlier. The kind of ass that made you want to sink your teeth into it—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hear her yelp. The kind that looked like it belonged in one of those glossy manhwas, all exaggerated bounce and bratty defiance. Spankable. Biteable. A fucking masterpiece.

You smirked, your hands settling on her waist. "Comfy?"

She huffed, wiggling just to feel you twitch under her. "You’re warm," she muttered, as if that explained everything.

Then she reached over, her fingers digging into the small pouch she’d tossed aside earlier. When she pulled back, she was holding a tiny, cute pink bottle—the kind with a little strawberry on the label.

You raised an eyebrow. "…Is that edible lube?"

Chaeyoung grinned, shaking the bottle teasingly. The liquid inside sloshed, thick and glossy. "Maybe."

"You planned this," you accused, but your hands were already sliding down to grip her hips.

She giggled, leaning in until her lips brushed your ear. "And you," she whispered, "are gonna fuck me on the canvas."

The studio lights cast long shadows across the scattered sketches and half-finished paintings as Chaeyoung crawled onto the large canvas in the center of the room. Her movements were deliberate—hips swaying, back arching, fingers pressing into the stretched fabric like she was testing its give.

"Comfortable?" you asked, leaning back against the studio couch, your fingers laced behind your head.

She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Mmh~... Not yet."

Then she wiggled—just enough to make the muscles in her thighs flex, just enough to make the curve of her ass jiggle under the dim track lighting. Milky skin, still flushed pink from earlier, still marked faintly where your fingers had dug in too hard.

"You’re staring," she sing-songed, her voice dripping with faux innocence.

You smirked. "Hard not to."

She huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you didn’t immediately move gave her away. "Thought you were tired," she teased, rocking back onto her knees just enough to show off.

"I am," you admitted, stretching your legs out. "Doesn’t mean I can’t look."

Chaeyoung giggled, low and throaty, before shifting her weight onto one arm, the other reaching back to spread herself for you. "What if I want more than looking?"

The invitation was obscene—the pink, clenched furl of her rim, still glistening faintly from earlier orgasm dripping lower, the way her thighs trembled just from the anticipation.

You groaned, palming yourself through your pants. "Fuck, Chaeyoung—"

She grinned, wiggling again. "Exactly."

The studio smelled faintly of oil paint and strawberries—the latter courtesy of the pink bottle Chaeyoung had uncapped with a pop. She knelt on the canvas, her back arched, her weight balanced on her forearms as she peered over her shoulder at you.

"You gonna stare all day," she teased, "or are you gonna taste?"

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

[Ass Worship: A Study in Patience]

Your hands settled on the swell of her cheeks, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh to part her. Her skin was warm under your palms, the muscles beneath twitching as you leaned in, your breath ghosting over her exposed rim.

Chaeyoung shivered, her fingers curling into the canvas. "F-fuck—"

You licked—a slow, flat stripe from her perineum up to the tight pucker of her asshole. She jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as your tongue circled the rim, teasing, tasting. The strawberry lube was sweet, almost syrupy, but beneath it was the salt of her skin, the musk of her.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked back, seeking more, but you held her still, your grip firm. "Ngh—mean—"

You chuckled, your breath hot against her. "Relax," you murmured, before dipping your tongue inside, just enough to make her squeak.

The lube was cool against your fingers as you coated them, the viscous liquid dripping onto her rim before you spread it with your thumb, working the tight muscle in slow circles.

Chaeyoung whined, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "S’cold—"

"It’ll warm up," you promised, your other hand rubbing soothing circles into her lower back.

Your index finger pressed in—just the tip—and her body clenched, her breath hitching.

"Breathe," you reminded her, your voice low.

She exhaled, her muscles easing as you sank deeper, the lube making the glide smooth, effortless.

[Fingering: The Art of Relaxation]

You crooked your finger, searching, and Chaeyoung jolted, a broken moan spilling from her lips.

"Ahh~! W-what was—hah—that—?"

You grinned, your thumb brushing over her rim as you pumped your finger slowly. "Just prepping you," you said, as if you hadn’t just found the spot that made her see stars.

Her laugh was breathless, wrecked. "L-liar—"

You added a second finger, stretching her with careful precision, your other hand kneading the tension from her thighs.

Chaeyoung melted, her body yielding to yours, her moans filling the studio.

The studio was quiet except for Chaeyoung’s shaky breaths and the slick sound of your fingers working her open. She was sprawled across the canvas, her cheek pressed against the fabric, her back arched in a perfect curve. Her fingers clutched at the edges, knuckles white, as you took your time—too much time, if her whines were anything to go by.

"You’re still not done?" she grumbled, her voice muffled against the canvas.

You chuckled, your thumb circling her rim, already stretched around two fingers but still clenching every time you moved. "Rushing ruins the art, Chaeyoung," you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the small of her back.

She shivered, her hips twitching. "I’m not a painting," she huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you crooked your fingers betrayed her.

"No," you agreed, your free hand smoothing up her spine. "You’re better."

She groaned, half exasperated, half desperate, her thighs trembling where they bracketed your hips. "If you don’t fuck me soon—"

You scissored your fingers, slow, and her threat dissolved into a gasp, her back bowing off the canvas.

"Ahh~!" Her nails scratched at the fabric, her voice breaking. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed, your lips brushing her shoulder blade. "Please what?"

She whined, her hips rocking back against your hand. "You know what—"

You did. But you loved hearing her say it.

The strawberry lube was slick between your fingers as you stroked it over your cock, the sweet scent mixing with the musk of sweat and sex already thick in the studio air. Chaeyoung watched over her shoulder, her dark eyes tracking every movement—her breath hitching when your thumb smeared a thick droplet over the head.

"Ready?" you murmured, your other hand smoothing up the dip of her waist, feeling the way her ribs expanded with each shaky inhale.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pushed her hips back, her ass jutting out in blatant invitation, the pink furl of her rim already glistening from your earlier prep. The motion was whorish, desperate—and so utterly Chaeyoung that you had to bite back a groan.

"Fuck," you muttered, your grip tightening on her hip. "You’re made for this."

She huffed, but the way her thighs trembled betrayed her. "J-just do it already—"

You didn’t need to be told twice.

The head of your cock pressed against her entrance, and for a second, neither of you breathed—then you pushed, slow, and her body yielded, her rim stretching around you with a filthy, slick sound.

Chaeyoung choked, her fingers clawing at the canvas beneath her. "Hhah~! S-shit—"

You froze, your thumbs rubbing circles into her hips. "Okay?"

She nodded, frantic, her back arching. "Y-yeah—fuck—just… big—"

You chuckled, leaning over her to brush your lips against her shoulder blade. "You’ve done this before," you mused, your voice low.

She whined, her walls fluttering around you as you sank deeper. "T-toys," she admitted, her voice wrecked. "N-not—ahh—not this big—"

You groaned, your hips rolling forward to seat yourself fully inside her, your pelvis pressed flush against her ass.

"Lucky me," you murmured.

The moment you bottomed out inside her, Chaeyoung arched—her back bowing, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the canvas beneath her. A broken, punched-out sound tore from her throat as her body struggled to adjust, her rim fluttering around the thick stretch of your cock.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was raw, her thighs quivering where they bracketed your hips. "S’too much—"

You groaned, your hands tightening on her waist as you pulled back—slow, torturous—just to watch her rim cling to you, the tight ring of muscle resisting before finally releasing with a slick pop.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "Ahh~! D-don’t stop—"

You didn’t.

Your next thrust was harder, deeper, your hips snapping forward to bury yourself in her again, the slap of skin echoing off the studio walls.

"Look at you," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint. "Taking me so fucking well—"

She moaned, her ass jiggling with every pound of your hips, her rim stretching wider each time you pulled back, the pink flesh gaping for a second before you slammed home again.

"Hhah~! M-more—" Her voice was wrecked, her nails scratching at the fabric beneath her. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel it tomorrow—" You obliged, your thrusts turning brutal, precise, each one dragging a fresh sob from her throat. The studio air was thick with the scent of strawberries and sweat, the only sounds being the wet slide of skin and Chaeyoung’s breathless whimpers. You moved inside her with a slow, reverent rhythm—each thrust a deliberate act of worship, each withdrawal a tease that left her trembling.

Her body was a symphony of reactions—every inch of her singing under your touch. The way her back arched, her spine curving like a bowstring pulled taut. The flutter of her lashes when you brushed your lips against her shoulder, the hitch in her breath when your fingers traced the dip of her waist. She was alive beneath you, around you, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight through stained glass.

And her ass—god, her ass. The way her rim clung to you, tight and desperate, as if afraid you’d leave. The way it stretched around your girth, pink and glistening with lube, each thrust coaxing a fresh, broken sound from her lips. The faint tremors in her thighs, the way her toes curled against the canvas—every detail a testament to the pleasure coursing through her.

You didn’t need to dominate. You didn’t need to dirty talk. The way she melted for you, the way her body begged without words—it was enough. More than enough.

You leaned over her, your chest pressing against her back as you rolled your hips, deep, slow, savoring the way her walls fluttered around you.

"Good?" you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She nodded, her voice a wrecked whisper. "Y-yes—ahh—please—"

You smiled, your hands sliding up to intertwine with hers, pinning them gently against the canvas as you started to love her, cherish her in the sweetest way possible.

The studio smelled of drying acrylics and sweat, the overhead lights casting long shadows across Chaeyoung’s arched back as she braced herself on the half-painted canvas. Her ice-blonde hair—streaked with that rebellious black stripe you loved—was damp at the roots, clinging to her neck as she trembled beneath you.

You paused, your cock buried to the hilt inside her, just to feel the way her body pulsed around you—the involuntary clench of her rim, the hitch in her breath when you flexed your hips just so.

"Look at you," you murmured, your fingers threading through her hair, gently fisting the strands—not to pull, not yet, just to hold. To anchor her.

She whined, her ass pushing back against you, demanding. "D-don’t stop—"

You smiled, your thumb brushing the nape of her neck before you moved again.

Your thrusts were deep, measured, each one dragging a fresh moan from her throat. The canvas beneath her creaked, the wet slap of skin mingling with the squelch of lube and the drip of her arousal onto the half-finished painting below.

Chaeyoung’s fingers clawed at the fabric, her gasps turning shrill as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her hair tugging in your grip as she fought the pleasure, fought the inevitable. "I—I’m close—"

You tightened your hold on her hair, just enough to make her jolt, her walls fluttering around you like a heartbeat.

"Let go," you breathed, your voice rough with want.

And she did.

Chaeyoung shattered with a scream, her body convulsing around you as her orgasm ripped through her—violent, unrelenting. Her release gushed onto the canvas beneath her, mixing with the still-wet paint in swirls of color, distorting the art into something new, something obscene.

You groaned, your hips stuttering as her clenching ass milked you mercilessly, your own release building, building—

"Inside," she begged, her voice broken, her body limp beneath you. "P-please—"

You obliged, pounding into her once, twice more before burying yourself to the hilt, your cum filling her in thick, pulsing waves.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her rim fluttering around your spent cock as you collapsed over her, your forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

The studio was silent save for your ragged breaths and the drip of paint—and other things—onto the floor.

You kissed the sweat-damp curve of her spine, your fingers uncurling from her hair to soothe the reddened skin of her scalp.

"Okay?" you murmured.

Chaeyoung huffed, her voice wrecked but smug. "I painted better than you today."

You laughed, your arms wrapping around her waist as you rolled onto your back, pulling her with you.

The canvas beneath you was ruined.

It was perfect.

The studio was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of fabric as you settled back against the carpet, your legs stretched out in front of you. The adrenaline of the last hour had faded, leaving behind a pleasant exhaustion—the kind that made your limbs heavy and your thoughts slow.

Chaeyoung, however, had other plans.

You barely had time to catch your breath before she was crawling toward you, her movements deliberately slow, her hips swaying with every shift of her knees. Her ice-blonde hair—still mussed from your earlier grip—fell in messy waves around her shoulders, the black streak a stark contrast against her flushed skin.

"Comfy?" she asked, her voice laced with faux innocence as she settled herself between your legs, her hands resting on your thighs.

You raised an eyebrow. "I was."

She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in that exaggerated way she knew you couldn’t resist. "You’re supposed to say yes and then cuddle me."

You snorted, but your hands were already moving, one tangling in her hair, the other sliding around her waist to pull her closer. "Since when do you follow scripts?"

She giggled, her nose brushing against yours before she ducked her head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Since now," she murmured, her breath warm against your skin.

Her fingers traced idle patterns on your chest, her touch light, teasing. "You really like my ass, huh?"

You groaned, tipping your head back against the wall. "We’re really doing this now?"

She grinned, her teeth nipping at your collarbone. "Yep."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, but your grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against you.

She hummed, her lips curving into a smug little smile as she wiggled in your lap, just to feel you twitch beneath her. "But you love me."

You sighed, your fingers tangling in her hair again—gentle this time, just to hold her still. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice soft. "I do."

She beamed, her nose scrunching in that way that made your chest ache, before burying her face in your neck with a contented sigh.

The studio was wrecked.

The two of you were perfect.

Chapter 2: The Space Between Colors Doesn't Mean It's Empty

Chaeyoung’s breath tickled against your neck, slow and steady now—like her body had finally caught up to her heart.

Your fingers stroked lazy circles along the small of her back, the quiet rhythm grounding you both.

She didn’t speak for a while.

And then…

“You didn’t even ask.”

You blinked. “Ask what?”

“Why I really came here tonight.”

You pulled back slightly to look at her. Her cheeks were still flushed, but now there was something more in her eyes. Nervousness. Hope.

“Wasn’t it the… artist crush thing?” you said carefully. “The portraits?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head slowly. “That was part of it. But not all.”

You stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“Do you know how many people paint us?” she asked, her tone suddenly heavy. “How many draw our faces? Sketch our bodies? Try to guess our thoughts like we’re characters in some fantasy?”

You nodded faintly. You weren’t blind to fan culture. You had even wrestled with guilt about painting them at all.

Chaeyoung sat up, straddling your thighs now, her hands bracing on your shoulders. “But you didn’t do that.” Her voice had a slight tremble. “You painted needs. Longing. Emotions no one asks about. You gave me—us—a space to just… exist, without filters. Without expectations.”

She touched your chest lightly, just over your heart.

“That’s why I came here.” Her eyes locked with yours. “Not to sleep with an artist. But to feel like a person.”

You exhaled slowly. She wasn’t here for lust. She was here because your brushstrokes had seen something in her—something she hadn’t realized she was desperate for someone to acknowledge.

“Then why now?” you asked gently. “Why tonight?”

Her lips twitched.

“Because I wanted to see if you’d still look at me the same after touching me.” A beat passed. “You do.”

That silence afterward wasn’t empty. It was full of quiet understanding.

You reached up and tucked her messy hair behind her ear. “You’ve always been more than what people expect you to be.”

She gave a tiny smile at that.

And then—

“Also…” Her voice lowered into that playful whisper again. “Your sketchbook is criminal. You made my thighs look like art.”

You laughed, fully now, arms pulling her back into your chest.

“They are art.”

“Then paint me again,” she murmured, brushing her lips against your jaw. “With your hands this time.”

Your heart pounded.

The soft hum of the air conditioner faded into the background again as the moment thickened between you.

The studio wasn’t just wrecked.

It was alive.

A gallery of stolen moments, messy passion, and truth laid bare in oil, graphite, and touch.

And right now, your favorite subject was climbing back into your lap, ready to blur every boundary between inspiration and intimacy.

The warmth between you had settled into something quieter now—less fire, more ember. The kind that stayed long after the room emptied.

Chaeyoung stirred first, lifting her head from your chest as her phone buzzed across the floor.

She sighed.

"It’s Mina." Her voice was soft, threaded with reluctance. "Schedule moved up. They want me at the shoot in an hour."

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into your palm.

"Duty calls," you murmured.

She didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, blinking at nothing, like the walls around her weren’t real.

Then she reached for your phone.

You raised an eyebrow, watching her lift it, tilt it toward your face. The lock clicked open.

"Hey—"

"Shh."

Her fingers danced across the screen—calm, certain. She typed, saved, and handed it back with a wry smile.

“Now you can find me without guessing.”

Her thumb tapped your bottom lip once, tender.

Then she whispered—half to you, half to the unfinished painting behind you:

"Muse or mistake… you’re already inside the frame now."

You blinked, confused, but before you could ask what that meant, she was already rising—pulling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion, sliding her jeans back on.

She moved like poetry. Quick strokes. Confident. Free.

At the door, she paused.

“Don’t erase anything. Especially the smudges.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The studio fell silent again.

Only the hum of the air and the soft vibration of your heart remained.

You looked down at your phone. One new contact.

Son Chaeyoung – only if you mean it

No emojis. No hearts.

But somehow, it felt more intimate than anything.

You stared at the name, the number… and below it, a photo file.

One of your portraits.

The one with her silhouette in the middle of a burning garden, face turned toward the sun.

You never shared that painting with anyone.

And yet, she’d titled it:

“Where I’ll wait.”

END…?

[jjjjisun]

JAV superstar Mina filming her 10 year anniversary special: gangbang with masked superfans who have supported her since debut. During filming Mina finds out that her father and older brother support her more than just family.

I think it can be pretty interesting with her father and brother having to watch other men grope and fuck Mina in front of them, getting their turn and Mina recognizing them when it's a bit too late - one insider her ass, the other in her pussy, while her mouth full of fan's cock. Will she enjoy it, be reluctant but too late to stop or both?

Plus it's different from most of your previous works where female idols are younger, so it creates a different experience where she is a younger sis and daddy's girl but already 28years old adult.

Masked Desires

Twice Mina X 2 Male OC | 2177 words

TW: Incest

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Buy me a Ko-Fi.

Book commissions here.

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Author's note: I'm sick now and cannot do the Sooyoung and Jiwoo requests I've selected. I will post them instead sometime next week.

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A secret world hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain was in the heart of Tokyo, nestled in a secluded, unassuming building. Mina, a renowned JAV star, had chosen this abandoned JAV filming studio as the setting for her grandest, most intimate performance yet. The air was thick with anticipation, and the moody lighting cast long, dancing shadows across the open studio floor.

Mina, resplendent in a black latex corset and matching panties, stood at the center of the stage, her heels clicking against the polished wood. Her mask, a delicate confection of black and gold feathers, hid her identity from the eager crowd, but her eyes sparkled with a familiar lust. She had invited her most devoted fans, the men who had followed her career with rabid intensity, who knew her body as well as their own. And she had decided to give them a night they would never forget.

Backstage, two figures donned their masks, their hearts pounding in sync. Mina's father, a man of quiet dignity, and her brother had followed her career with a mix of pride and objectifying lust. They knew they should not be here, knew they should not be feeling this way about their flesh and blood. But the allure of Mina, their Mina, was too strong to resist. They had come to Tokyo incognito, their masks a dual barrier against recognition and their libidinous desires.

The crowd murmured as Mina began to strip. She undid the laces of her corset with a languid grace, revealing her breasts to the hungry gazes. Her nipples hardened under their twin attention, and she moaned, a soft, inviting sound that sent a shiver through the room. On the other side of the velvet curtain, Mina's father and brother watched, their breaths hitching.

Mina knelt, her eyes shifting to the first man to come forward. He was young, his body rippling with muscle, his mask a sleek, form-fitting black latex. She unbuckled his belt, her fingers lingering against his abdomen, tracing the ridges of his stomach. He was already hard, his cock straining against his briefs. Mina freed him with a practiced ease, her tongue flicking out to tease the head of his cock.

In the shadows, Mina's brother gripped his cock, a soft groan escaping him. He could see the profile of Mina's ass, could see the wetness glistening between her legs. He wanted to bury himself in her heat, tried to feel her tight around him. Beside him, his father watched, his hand mirroring his son's, his gaze locked on Mina's mouth, stretched around the stranger's cock.

Mina took the man deep, his length pressing against the back of her throat. She set a steady rhythm, her eyes closed, her hand working in tandem with her mouth. The man was gripping her hair, his hips thrusting in time with her movements. Behind them, the line of eager men grew, their impatience palpable.

When Mina pulled back, the man was panting, his legs trembling. She smiled, a wicked curve of her lips, and stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stepped back, leaving him to dispose of the condom and make room for the next. She gestured to the man at the front of the line, a bear of a man with a mask of gleaming, crimson feathers.

He was naked, his cock already sheathed in a condom, a bottle of lube clutched in his hand. Mina turned, presenting her ass to him, her hands gripping the edge of the stage. The audience groaned, their eyes locked on the sight of Mina's pussy, glistening and open, ready to be filled.

Mina's father and brother watched, their eyes wide, their cocks aching. They couldn't look away, couldn't stop the terrible, wonderful awakening of their lust. As the man behind Mina started to stretch her, to prepare her for his entrance, Mina's father leaned into his son, his voice a whisper, "We shouldn't be here, but God help me, I can't leave."

His son nodded, his jaw clenched, his cock throbbing. "We'll stay for this scene," he said, his voice ragged, "and then we'll leave. Before it's too late."

But as Mina moaned, taking the man's cock into her ass, their resolve faltered. They stayed, their eyes locked on their daughter, their sister, their desire growing with each thrust, each cry of pleasure. They stayed, their masks a flimsy barrier against the storm of their lust, their love. And as the first man filled Mina's ass, another stepping forward to claim her pussy, they knew they were not merely watching a gangbang. They participated in it in the most intimate, perverse way possible.

As the night wore on, the tempo in the abandoned JAV studio intensified, each act surpassing the previous in its raw, passionate abandon. Mina, slick with sweat and desire, had lost count of her partners. Her ass and pussy throbbed deliciously, her nipples were perpetually hard, and her mouth was swollen from endless sucking. She was in her element, a goddess of carnal indulgence, ruling over her realm of flesh and pleasure.

The man before her suddenly pulled off his mask, revealing a stranger's flushed face. Mina blinked, momentarily shocked. It was the first time someone had revealed their identity, and she felt a thrill of danger mixed with her lust. She laughed, a sultry sound, and took him in her mouth, deeper than before, punishing him for his transgression.

Meanwhile, Mina's father and brother, their bodies rigid with tension, couldn't tear their eyes away from the increasingly debauched scene. Their identities were teetering on the edge of exposure, their masks a thin veneer of protection. They had promised to leave after the last scene, but their feet were rooted to the spot, their cocks hard, their judgment clouded by desire.

It was Mina's brother's turn next. He hesitated at the edge of the stage, his gaze locked on his sister, his mouth dry. He knew he should stop this and save her from herself and them. But the sight of her, naked, spent, and yet hungry for more, was his undoing. He stepped forward, his mask firmly in place, his cock already sheathed.

Mina's eyes widened as she recognized her brother's build and stance. Shock coursed through her, followed by a wave of intense, taboo desire. She had always known her brother was attracted to her, but she had never imagined this. She moaned around the cock in her mouth, her eyes never leaving her brother's.

Her father, unable to hold back any longer, stepped onto the stage, his mask glinting in the dim light. Mina's heart pounded as she saw him, his eyes filled with a shameful, desperate lust. She wanted to cry out, beg them to stop, and continue. Her body reacted independently, her pussy clenching, her hips tilting in invitation.

Her father approached her, his hands trembling as he grabbed her hips, pulling her towards him. "Mina," he groaned, his voice laced with pain and desire, "oh, my sweet Mina." And then he pushed into her, his cock filling her aching pussy, his fingers digging into her flesh.

Mina cried out, a sound muffled by the cock in her mouth. She felt her brother's hands on her ass, spreading her, preparing her. She closed her eyes, her mind spinning, as he pushed into her ass, his thickness stretching her, filling her. She was pulled taut, sandwiched between her father and brother, their cocks thrusting into her synchronously.

The room was filled with the sound of their moans, their flesh slapping against flesh, their cries of "my sweet daughter," "Little sis," echoing, a twisted symphony of lust and taboo. Mina's body responded, her orgasm building, her senses overwhelmed. She could feel their love, their lust, their shame, all swirling together in a storm of collectivism.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the haze, "You're too fucking noisy, bitch." Mina was startled, her eyes flying open. A man, his mask pushed up on his forehead, his cock in his hand, was standing before her, his cock brushing against her lips. "I want a turn," he growled, pushing into her mouth, stretching it wide.

Mina gagged, her eyes watering, but her body responded, her orgasm crashing over her. She bucked, her body convulsing between her father and brother. They groaned, their releases filling her, mingling inside her. The man in her mouth held her head steady, his cock pulsing, spilling his load into her waiting throat.

In the aftermath, Mina lay panting, her body drained, her mind a whirlwind of confusion, revulsion, and pleasure. She looked up at the man before her, his mask now back in place, and felt a surge of anger. She sat up, her body aching, and spat out, "You have no idea who you just fucked."

His eyes widened in surprise, and then he smirked, "Maybe I don't, but I know exactly who I fucked, little sis." Mina gasped, her eyes flying to her brother, who was watching her, his mask askew, his gaze filled with shame and vulnerability. At that moment, Mina realized that tonight's secret was not hers to keep. It belonged to the three of them now.

Mina lay there, her body a canvas of sweat and cum, her senses still reeling from the night's debauchery. The room was thick with the scent of sex and latex, the air heavy with the echoes of their moans and cries. She shook her head, her mask discarded, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. She felt used, yes, but also strangely empowered.

She looked out at the crowd, at the men who had taken their fill of her, their masks discarded, their chests heaving. She saw her brother and father among them, their eyes wide with shock, shame, and a lingering hunger. And she felt a surge of triumph. She had done this. She had brought them to their knees.

"More," she whispered, her voice raspy, her body still craving. "I want more."

A murmur ran through the room, a wave of surprise and excitement. Mina stood, her body dripping, and climbed back onto the stage. Her eyes challenged the men, a seductive glint in their depths. "I want you all to come in me," she said, her voice clear, her words shocking in their simplicity. "I want you to cover me, to mark me."

The men, her fans, and her family hesitated momentarily, caught between propriety and desire. But Mina's eyes flamed, her body beckoned, and they came, their lust stronger than their morality. They swarmed her, hands grasping, cocks hard and ready.

Mina surrendered, fully and completely. She let them touch her, use her, fill her. She felt cocks in her mouth, her pussy, her ass, all at once, all taking their pleasure from her. She was a vessel, a toy, a goddess to be worshipped and defiled. She was everything and nothing, all at once.

As they filled her, one by one, their hot cum covering her body, spanning her stomach, her breasts, her face, she felt pleasure she had never before experienced. It was primal, animalistic, a reflection of her surrender, of their desire. She was marked, claimed, and she reveled in it.

Finally, when the last man had emptied himself into her, she sank to the stage, her body covered in their releases, her limbs trembling. She was exhausted, used up, but alive, vibrant in a way she had never been before. She lay there, a tableau of carnal indulgence, her body throbbing, her heart pounding.

Suddenly, she felt hands on her, ones she recognized and had felt inside her all night. Her brother and father. They lifted her and carried her to a nearby bed, their bodies still hard, their eyes still hungry. Mina looked at them, their masks finally off, their faces naked with shame and need. And she smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips.

"This isn't over," she whispered, her voice provocatively inviting. And they groaned, their bodies responding, their minds surrendering to the taboo.

They ravaged her, their touch rough, their need urgent. They bred her, filling her with their cum, their bodies slamming into hers, their hands claiming every inch of her flesh. They marked her again, their cum mingling with that of the others, evident on her body.

Mina took it all, her body yielding, her heart open. She was theirs, fully and completely, and she didn't care. She was floating on a wave of sensation, of pleasure and pain, of love and lust. She was everything, she was nothing, she was theirs.

As they finally collapsed beside her, their bodies spent, their eyes heavy with sleep, Mina looked up at the ceiling, her body aching, her heart full. She had surrendered to the taboo, had given herself completely, and she had never felt more alive. She closed her eyes, a smile on her lips, and drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the scent of sex and latex, the warmth of her family, and the echoes of their lust.

[riddlesrizzler]

Cardigan

summary: "And when I felt like I was an old cardigan, under someone's bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite." characters: mattheo riddle. draco malfoy. reader warnings: slight mentions of cheating? unsure word count: 1.4k

The autumn breeze wrapped itself around me like a whisper made of ghosts, slipping through the cracks in the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts. It carried with it the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves, wrapping its fingers through my hair and tugging like it knew something I didn’t. Outside, the world had turned gold and crimson-an endless sea of fire-tipped trees swaying beneath a grey sky. But inside the castle, the cold was bone-deep. The kind of chill that lived in your chest. The kind that no cloak could fix.

And in that stillness, my heart learned how to echo. Because I had no one left to fill the silence.

The new term had begun, but it felt like a dream gone wrong. Everything was sharp edges and whispered secrets. The war loomed close now, pulsing just beneath the surface of everyday things-between classes, in the corners of the library, behind every look cast over a shoulder. And still, the thing that haunted me most wasn’t the shadow of what was coming.

It was them. Draco Malfoy. Mattheo Riddle.

They say the heart remembers things the mind tries to forget. I used to think that was poetry-something you’d find scribbled in the margins of a well-loved book. But then there was Draco.

Before the war, before Mattheo, before the castle felt like it was sighing under the weight of what was coming-there was just him and me. Quiet glances across Potions class, fingertips brushing under the library table, late-night confessions whispered behind green velvet curtains in the Astronomy Tower. He used to hold my hand like he was afraid I’d disappear.

Draco had once been the boy I trusted without thinking. A boy who had laughed with me in hidden courtyards, thrown stones into the Black Lake just to see the ripples. His hands had been warm back then. His smile softer. When we were younger, he would sneak me into the Room of Requirement during storms and light candles just so I wouldn’t be afraid. He used to look at me like I was magic.

But the years carved him hollow.

Now, when I saw him, he was all sharp suits and colder stares-like he had been dipped in frost and never thawed. The weight of his name had settled on his shoulders, pulling him down into something I didn’t recognize. Something that still somehow made my chest ache. Because I remembered what was underneath it all. I remembered the boy who traced idle stars into my skin and told me he hated tea but loved the way I drank it.

We were soft then. Not innocent, not really-but untouched by the weight of expectation. He was a boy made of fire and frost, constantly warring with himself, and I was the calm he didn’t know he needed. Or maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he held on so tightly.

There was a night-we don’t talk about it anymore-when he pulled me close beneath a canopy of stars and said, “If things were different… I’d never let you go.”

And I had smiled, touched his cheek, and whispered, “We can still have that, Draco.”

Still, the memory of him clung to me like an old cardigan, tucked beneath someone’s bed-forgotten, perhaps, but never truly lost. That kind of love doesn’t leave clean.

And then… there was Mattheo.

He slipped into my life like a secret. Quiet at first. Observing from the shadows, all stormy eyes and leather-bound mystery. I don’t know when it happened-when he became inevitable. When his presence stopped being something I noticed and became something I felt. Like gravity. Like the pull of something dangerous and beautiful, all at once.

It started that summer.

While the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart, he and I found something unspoken in each other-a fragile peace amidst the chaos. We exchanged letters at first, scrawled in messy ink late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. Then, we met in secret, away from the scrutiny of family names and dark expectations. Warm summer nights spent lying on the grass beneath star-scattered skies, fingers brushing as we talked about everything and nothing. His laughter was softer then. Real.

“You make it quieter,” he told me once, eyes on the moon. “In my head. You make it all quieter.”

And I believed him. Because when he looked at me, it was like I was the center of some universe he didn’t think he deserved.

It started with parchment-confessions written in midnight ink, edges frayed like our nerves. Then came the late-night apparitions. He’d appear at the edge of my garden with a crooked smile and secrets blooming behind his eyes.

He never asked for anything more than my time. But somehow, I gave him everything else, too.

“Come with me,” he’d whisper. “Just for a little while.”

And I always did.

We’d run through the summer fog, barefoot and breathless, chasing freedom down empty roads until the sky turned lavender. It felt like something out of a dream-one I never wanted to wake from.

Later, under a streetlamp that flickered like it might go out at any moment, he kissed me. His lips were soft and sure and a little too hungry. I kissed him back because it was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering. Because in that moment, it was easier to pretend he was the one I wanted.

But even then-even with Mattheo’s hands wrapped around my waist and his breath against my cheek-when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see him.

I saw Draco.

The night I kissed Mattheo beneath the flickering lamplight in the middle of town was the same night Draco was waiting for me.

I had snuck back home, cheeks flushed with laughter, lips tingling with the taste of someone else-and I felt it before I saw him. That stillness. That kind of silence that comes right before the storm.

Draco stood on my porch, the glow of the lantern casting a halo around him that made him look otherworldly. His hair was tousled, eyes darker than the night behind him. He didn’t move when I approached. Just watched. Unblinking. Like he was trying to memorize the version of me walking toward him-windblown, guilty, alive.

“Where were you?” he asked, voice low and too calm.

I froze halfway up the steps. “Out.”

“With him?” The words snapped out of him like a whip. His jaw was tight, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them, but beneath the fury, there was something else-something fractured.

I didn’t answer.

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “Of course. He takes you to dance under street lamps and steal kisses while I’m here-waiting.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Do you even think about what we were?”

I stared at the floor. “He sees me.”

His breath hitched.

“He looks at me like I’m more than just a name. Like I matter.”

Draco’s silence was louder than any scream. He stepped forward, and I felt the air shift. Charged. Electric.

“I never said you were just a name,” he said, voice tight. “You were… You are-” He faltered, eyes flickering away like they were afraid to meet mine. “But I guess I waited too long.”

“You never waited at all,” I whispered.

His throat worked around a reply that never came. He looked at me like I was breaking him open just by standing there.

“Do you still think of me?” he asked finally, voice rough like splinters.

“Every damn day,” I said, and I hated how easily the truth fell out of me.

He reached for me then, and his fingers barely brushed mine, but the touch was enough to set my skin on fire. For a moment, we stood in a silence that felt like the end of the world.

And then Mattheo’s laughter rang through my mind, my lips still tingling with the taste of him.

I pulled back like I’d been burned.

“I have to go,” I whispered, but I didn’t move.

Draco’s voice cracked open behind me.

“You were always my favorite.”

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.

Now I walk the halls of Hogwarts with two ghosts at my back-one wrapped in velvet words and dangerous devotion, the other in memories I can’t let go of. Mattheo offers me heat, passion, and rebellion. But Draco…

Draco was the cardigan I left behind, still smelling like the past. Still holding every part of me I thought I’d buried.

And maybe I can’t choose. Because the truth is, I never wanted a war. I just wanted to be loved.

But now, I’m the battlefield. And my heart is the price.

tag list: @accio-rogers @juliet-017 @thaliashifts @shyamanuensis @draco-malfoys-lovergirl

[murkysirenblue]

I'm tired of this searching, would you let me let go? 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧

You can also read this on ao3

Words: 3.1k

rewrite of a previous fic :p rewrote it in one evening no beta reader- you can probably tell so apologies for the writing my fishies!

You awoke to a painful, pulsating throb in your head, in a bedroom that isn't yours after another failed escape attempt. When will Malleus just let you go?

Content warning: HEAVILY implied non-con, non-consensual kissing, yandere malleus, minors dni please 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You awoke to a painful, pulsating throb in your head. A groan escaped your lips as you opened your eyes- finding the world spinning before you. You rubbed your bleary eyes, hoping to clear your vision as you sat up.

As your sight returned and the pulsating in your head turned to a dull throb, you looked around, quickly realising that this wasn’t your room. Nor was it the room you were put in when you were taken to Blackscale Castle. When Malleus took your freedom.

The room itself had an air of elegance and regality so stifling you felt embarrassed merely laying down here. As though such a grand room was beyond allowing someone such as yourself to sleep here. Much of the room was black, with dark grey cobblestone floors and thorny gold embellishments littering the corners of furniture and along the edges of the chairs. Even the curtains looked to be some of the fanciest pieces of fabric you had ever seen. 

The bed also had by far put the one you had been sleeping in in the guest room to shame- dark green silken sheets like a soothing balm underneath your aching legs. There was little light in the room, the curtains drawn closed and the chandelier in the middle of the room remaining unlit; had you not been so on edge, you would have been able to slump over and fall back asleep like a fairy tale princess. The room even had a fireplace at the opposite end, its dim green glow slightly blocked by the black and green couch suite in front. 

The almost seven feet tall horned fae so close to you he was practically sitting atop of you also gave a hint that this wasn’t your usual room.

His hand moved towards your sullen face, gently caressing your cheeks as his face turned to yours. As his eyes scanned you over, slowly making their way to meet yours. The way he held you, it was gentle yet with a possessive longing laying inches beneath the surface, barely contained behind hungry green eyes. As though you’d disappear if he looked away for even a second.

“My dear, you’ve finally awoken,” he spoke softly, his velvet voice cool and composed.

You flinched beneath his touch, knowing there was no point fighting back, “What am I doing here, Malleus?” you sighed, your tired voice dour and anxious. 

He tilted his head slightly, before letting out a lighthearted chuckle, “You truly do not remember?” his eyes sharpened for a moment, “Perhaps that blow to your head hit harder than Lilia and I suspected,”

Whatever darker thoughts lay in his mind, he quickly shook away, “Anyhow, it was a mere error in your judgement that led to it, make not attempt to think too hard on it- it would be wise to avoid anything that could cause your headache to worsen,” He said as his hand moved to push stray strands of hair off your face.

He then pulled you into his lap, busying his face into the crook of your neck, stroking your head and breathing in your scent. In his spare time and away from the prying eye of the senate he often held you like this. Perhaps before all of… this, back in your NRC days you probably would have let him, maybe you would have enjoyed it even. Yet here, with all these riches and comfort you never had before, it was an expectation.

Everything you did was for him. Something could only happen if he willed it. Most of it benefiting you was only because he wasn’t a complete sadist. Comfortable beds, beautiful clothing, all of it was to be repaid with something you could never give him- your love.

As he hugged you, you continued to think, and memories of the nights before slowly came back.

You had a silly idea, to tie all the dresses and sheets in your room together to make a rope and try to escape the towered room in which you were held. In theory, it could be argued that it was your most desperate- and most idiotic- plan yet, thought of during one of your many sleepless nights. However, you had made it surprisingly far before you were knocked out by a guard. 

Even now you remembered how the grassy expanse of outside felt on your bare feet, the cool night air blowing against your face. That grin plastered on your tired face. That taste of freedom, a feeling no sweeter than how the sun would have felt so close against Icarus’ face. So warm, so fleeting. 

“When can I go outside again, Malleus,” you muttered sleepily.

“Well, after that stunt, I would have had you locked here for the next few months,” you looked back at him quizzically, “But I have chosen to forgive your transgressions- just this once,” he said, a soft smile gracing his features.

Now you were surprised. Typically your punishments for escaping had a habit of…worsening. You had only just a week ago regained the ability to leave your room unguarded after a three month ban, and even that had been softened from the original complete ban of leaving your room. 

“I was talking with Lilia earlier today while you were still asleep,” oh no, “He believes that I may have been too harsh on you since you’ve arrived. That perhaps I should prove my love for you rather than punish you for refusing to believe it,”

“Maybe you should try prove you're not sick in the head first,” you thought to yourself, remaining limp as he continued to coddle you like a child's favourite toy.

He often told you such things, that he would prove his love to you even more, leading him to cling harder to you. You usually couldn’t help but glimpse outside, looking down unto the strangers who had more freedoms than you could ever hope to. Expensive gifts of jewellery and dresses, flowers and showers of praise and poetry, all words and physical objects he thought could fill the void he tore into you.

Punishment was what you usually faced for not complying with his endless need for love, for trying to regain your lost freedoms. You’d long grown tired of Lilias cruel smirk as you cried.

“Malleus,” you said firmly, sitting up so that you were no longer pressed against him- his hands remained on your hips, though that couldn’t be helped with him.

He looked at you, a quirked eyebrow was your permission to continue speaking.

“All of this, this isn’t love, it’s obsession- it’s sickness. You’ll only make a fool of yourself if you continue down this path,” you said,the scrunching of your eyebrows being the most emotion you’d shown since your brisk affair with freedom.

His clawed hands tightened their grip on you, poking uncomfortably into you. His viridescent eyes widened in shock as he spoke, “Not love?” his tone sounded unsteady- perhaps you had spoken against him too soon, “What else could I be feeling for you if not love,” you watched his jaw clench up, then relax rapidly. You found he often did that when attempting to hold himself back.

You could almost feel bad for him, with the way it looked like you had shattered his whole world. You had said similar things to him before, in those first few weeks with him. With how he was able to merely wave your words off at the start, you felt shocked with how he acted now. Part of you wanted to stop where you were, to apologise and suck up to him like how you usually would when you did something wrong. To kiss his face and not get hurt. 

But you couldn’t stop yourself from speaking.

“We were good friends, Malleus. I could have- I would have come to love you naturally. Without you having to kidnap me. I trusted you, but you ruined that trust,” frustration gave way to a bottled up anger, your voice cracking as you spoke and tears beginning to spill from the rims of your glaring eyes.

His eyes sharpened to a glower at your words, his own shaky voice raising an octave, “If you know you would have come to love me, why won’t you accept your fate?”

You merely gawked in return trying to pull away from his hands to face him completely, “Why should I? You’ve forced this life onto me! Like I’m just some doll you can play around with”

Malleus scoffed, actually scoffed at your words, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum.

“You need to take me seriou-” you yelped as you were cut off by him suddenly wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as he rested his pointed chin on top of your head, “Yuu, you may not understand everything right now, but soon you will. I’m doing this for your future, for our future,”.

It was now your turn to scoff at him, “So by taking my freedom and my right to choose my own future, you’re ‘helping me’,” you said, trying to push against him.

He sighed, constraining your struggling arms in a single hand as he held you into a more sinistar bridal position.

“Freedom would have meant nothing for you considering your background. You have no birth certificate, no legal documents, nothing. Had we never crossed paths- had I never came to help you… what would have happened to you? I doubt the headmaster would have offered much support once you graduated, and who’s to say those two fools from Heartslabyul could have helped you. You have no chance out there on your own. You have no chance without me,” the worst part of this was his unwavering eye contact. He never looked away from you as he spoke with that infuriating soft tone, as though he were lecturing a child. 

And the hardest part for you to accept, was what if he was right?

“No, I refuse to believe that!” you snivelled, more tears spilling down your cheeks as your voice descended into an inconsolable whimper.

He must have loosened his grip, as you were able to push away the hand gripping yours, moving to bury your face into your palms. He allowed you to sit there in his lap, sobbing as he delicately traced patterns into your sides. You hated how comforting it felt. You hated him.

“My love, I apologise but reality is far too often harsh,”.

He pried the arms hiding your face away, moving to wipe away your tears as you tried to look away from him, “Please, do stop crying. You know how much it hurts for me to see you so upset,” He whispered as a hand clutched your waist, the other moving to stroke your head.

You hated how gently he treated you, how he never laid a finger on you. Part of you wished he would hurt you, or even lock you away in the darkest dungeon he could so you could feel rational in your hate for him. You felt trapped in Malleus’ suffocating embrace, his arms wrapping around you like briar thorns, digging into your skin.  Your hatred felt sticky inside the layers of your flesh, yet also like a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow or cough up. 

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate-

Everything was burning inside you, your tears, your feelings, a painful fire you couldn’t put out or weaken. Malleus merely fueled this fire, not enough to make it blow up but enough to keep it alive. A steady stream of oxygen it couldn’t help but swallow up, the weakened flame slowly consuming you.

Your eyes finally met his after looking away for so long. That stupid, sweet concerning look on his face caused yours to twist in bitter resentment.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

Malleus’ eyes widened, a look of shock staining his typically unreadable face. To watch his ears twitch in disbelief as he tried to comprehend what you could have said was the sweetest sight you could have ever wished to have seen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling closer to the castle as rain pitter pattered against the stained glass windows.

“You- hate…?” his voice was barely above a whisper, as though if he said it any louder it would be true.

After what was minutes- thought felt more like hours- passed, he finally spoke again.

“No. No, you don’t. You're still confused from your injury. Perhaps it’s in your best interest to go back to sleep and heal,” His eyes drifted shut as he spoke firmly, readjusting the place of his nails against your clothed flesh.

“It’s not up to you to decide how I feel!” you retorted.

An audible tsk left his lips as he pulled you from his lap, pushing you against the bed as he roughly pulled the covers against you, “Lilia was correct, you are very confused after such a harsh hit against your head. Sleep. Now,” 

It wasn’t at all like him to order you around so harshly, yet blinded by your anger you continued to dig your own grave, “You can’t tell me what to do either!” you struggled against the blankets he tried to wrap around you, the sounds of rain harshening against the window the only sign of his anger.

“As your future husband-”

Something about that felt like the last straw to you. The last delusional statement you could even stand to hear from him. Before you yourself even realised, your hand slipped out of the silk sheets, cutting him off as you harshly slapped him, the sound reverberating through the room.

He paused, you paused- though the thunder outside only got worse. Lilia would likely be appearing soon now. 

He let out a loud huff, no longer able to tell himself you were just confused at that moment. 

Your hand that was awkwardly half hanging in the air found itself now pressed against the pillow next to your head by an infuriated Malleus. The anger on your face bled into fear, quickly regretting your actions.

“Child of man, I suggest thinking before acting in the future,”

“Ma-Malleus, I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have-” your stuttering was quickly halted by the look he gave you, his pupils thin as a needle.

“I don’t want to do this to you, dearest, but perhaps it's time I begin to show the extent that I love you,” He spoke through gritted fangs, the barely contained rage evident on his face. 

He grabbed your chin, lifting your lips to his for a messy one-sided kiss. 

You yelped as you attempted to pull away from him, resistance not yet gone.

As soon as your hands went from merely pushing at his shoulders to desperate hits, he quickly seized you by the wrists, holding them in the air to the point that you had to lean up to have any chance at comfort.

His split tongue slipped into your mouth as he kissed you harder to make up for your lack of passion, swirling against yours and making you shriek in disgust. 

You managed to lift your head up, one side of your face freed as you yelled out, “Someone! Anyone, please heLP-”

Malleus grabbed you again, forcing your mouth back against his, as he pushed you back into the mattress by the shoulders. Thankfully, he didn’t put his whole body weight on you.

Just as he was about to do… whatever it was he was planning on doing to you, a loud knock at the door stopped him in his tracks. 

“Malleus, is everything ok in here?” it was Lilias muffled voice from the other side, and you internally rolled your eyes. 

He wouldn’t help you, you knew that by now. He’d likely see your position on the bed and do that annoying little smirk as he hopped away gleefully, as though he wasn’t looking at a crime scene. As though anything Malleus was doing was normal.

The horned fae in question let out a small, irritated huff, covering your mouth with a hand as he flicked his other wrist, lifting whatever sound blocking spell was on the room.

“You need not worry, Lilia. And I request no one bother me for the rest of the evening,” 

You could only imagine the surprised little grin spread on that red eyed faes face. That causal simper leaving his lips as he stared down at the door.

“My oh my, Malleus, such scandal- I shall ensure that no one comes by,” he chuckled.

Somehow the situation you were in felt as though it were being rubbed in your face. Although he was behind the door, you couldn’t help but feel his ruby eyed gaze on you, judging you, laughing at you.

The black haired fae atop of you made no attempt at a reply, resealing the sound barrier on the room, Lilias footsteps on the cold cobblestone floors growing more distant- and only with a mere flick of his wrist.

As though that interaction reset him somehow, there was no longer as much anger and coldness present on his face. His hand left its place on your face, hanging awkwardly next to his torso.

“Yuu, nobody aside from myself can hear you now. Please, please just accept this, I don’t want to have to tie your hands, but I will if I must,” his tone had done a complete 180, all that anger likely bottled somewhere else. Tucked away so that obsession could consume him once more.

You begrudgingly ceased your struggling as he leaned further on you, tightening his grip on your hips as he tried to make out with you- basically just forcing his serpentine tongue halfway down your throat. There was no point in struggling when he got like this. You shut your eyes as you let him begin unbuttoning your nightclothes. If anything, it was better to suck up to him so that he’d forget you slapped him, or that you said you hated him.

Where would you go this time, while you pretended you were somewhere else.

“I promise my love, I’ll be as gentle as possible. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever experienced,” he whispered against your face, hands travelling upwards over your torso, groping wherever they could.

You tried to drone out his deep voice- maybe you were at the park on a sunny day. And Grim was pulling at your sleeves, begging you to help him open a can of his favourite tuna. The one he would always sneak in the picnic basket. You would be giggling as you peeled back the lid, watching the joy in his eyes.

Maybe Ace and Deuce were also there, bickering over something stupid…Maybe they would be playing makeshift together…Maybe Grim would join in too.

It had been so long since you’d seen the sun.

[honeyedmiller]

Birthday Girl | Joel Miller

pairing: fiancé!joel miller x fiancée!f!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact

warnings: lots of fluff, sweet fiancé joel, no outbreak, smut (birthday sex heh— f oral receiving, unprotected piv, fingering), joel talks you through it, praise, pet names (baby, darlin’, my love, princess), no use of y/n.

word count: 2.1k

author’s note: so today’s my 25th birthday and this is extremely self-indulgent. i’d love for someone to do this for me on a birthday in the future 🥹 also sorry for any mistakes, it was written rather quickly. this wasn’t revised. hope y’all enjoy <3

synopsis: Joel gives you a sweet surprise on your birthday.

divider by @saradika-graphics 🤍

“Baby. Baby, wake up.” The deep vibrato of Joel’s soft voice woke you, eyebrows pinched together as you slowly blinked open your eyes to wake up. 

You mumbled something incoherent and Joel chuckled, knowing you didn’t like to be woken on days you got to sleep in. 

“Get up, birthday girl, I have a surprise for you.” Joel kissed your forehead, then your nose, followed by one that lingered on your lips. You smiled against his lips and stretched your arms above your head, stiff joints popping in the process. 

“What time is it?” 

“It’s nine. I know you like to sleep in a little later, but I have something for you downstairs.” 

You blinked your eyes fully awake as they adjusted to the ample rays of sun shining through the curtains in your shared bedroom. Your gaze shifted to Joel and it immediately softened. The man you love more than anything stood before you with a crooked smile on his face and messy bed hair; body adorned with those delicious gray sweats you loved on him so much and a green t-shirt you always thought he looked good in. 

Just the sight of him nearly made your mouth water, but you checked yourself to behave as you’d just woken up. He held his hand out for you to take, and your soft digits slotted in his as he helped you up gently from bed. He tugged your hand to follow him downstairs, and you complied easily. 

As soon as you got downstairs, you saw rose petals atop the coffee table with two gift bags and a bottle of your favorite wine. 

“Joel, baby,” You grin, looking at him. “All for me?” 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. “‘F course, my love. But let’s eat breakfast first.” He pulls you into the kitchen, and a sweet aroma fills your nose. You look down at the island, seeing all of your favorite breakfast foods. Joel even made a plate of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream on top in the form of a smiley face. 

You get teary-eyed at his sweet gesture, not ever getting used to the idea of someone caring so much for you on your special day. To him it could’ve just meant making breakfast and buying a couple of gifts, but to you, it meant the whole world. 

“Thank you so much, Joel. This is so thoughtful.” You wrap your arms around his torso, giving him a chaste kiss. 

“I love you, darlin’.” 

“I love you too handsome.” You grin up at him, enjoying the intimate moment of being wrapped in his embrace. He moves his hands down to your ass and taps it softly, slightly separating his body from yours. 

“Let’s eat breakfast.” 

-

After breakfast, Joel insisted that you opened your presents with a promise that you’d be able to drink your wine in the evening with dinner. You tucked your legs under yourself as you leaned back against the couch, Joel handing you the first gift bag. You smile up at him and thank him, opening it carefully. 

You removed the black velvet box tucked inside, opening it to reveal a pretty gold watch with an emerald green face that you’d been wanting for awhile. You gasped in awe, admiring the beautiful piece as you rotated it in your hand. 

“It’s so beautiful, Joel. Thank you.” You kiss his cheek, carefully placing the watch back into the box. He hands you the next one and plants a heavy, warm hand on your bare thigh, rubbing circles into your soft skin. You open it up to find a gorgeous lavender lingerie set. The soft lace slides over your fingertips as your eyes spark with something darker, full of desire as you look back up at Joel. 

“I love it. Thank you, Joel.” You sit up on your knees to face him, taking his face in both hands as you bring him in for a kiss. 

He immediately reciprocates, wrapping his arms around your waist as he coaxes you to lay onto the plush carpet beneath you. You untuck your legs and open them for him so he can easily slot his broad body between them. He deepens the kiss as he cradles the back of your head, his other hand moving underneath his oversized t-shirt you were wearing. 

“Y’should wear the set on our honeymoon.” He breathes against you, breaking your lips for a few seconds before reattaching his lips to yours. You didn’t have time to respond so you moved your hands up to his thick curls, giving them a small tug. 

His calloused hands travel up until they reach the soft, pillowy flesh of your breasts, squeezing generously as he toys with one nipple between his index finger and thumb. You moan into his mouth, bucking your hips up to feel that he’s already rock hard in his gray sweats. 

Arousal was already thick in your panties, and you were dying to be touched by Joel. 

“Joel, please.” You whimper, needing his fingers, tongue, cock, anything to ease the ache in your core. 

“What the birthday princess wants, she gets.” He teases, nipping your collarbone before sliding his hands up your body to remove his shirt from you. He moves one hand down your sternum, skating his fingertips over your skin. Goosebumps rise at his touch, and he looks down at you with a knowing smirk. 

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, pleading with your eyes as best as you can. Joel’s gaze softens as he moves down to kiss you, moving his lips down your body. He makes sure to stop at each of your breasts, swirling his hot tongue around the pert buds before sucking lightly. You moan louder this time, the sensation shooting straight to your core. 

“Fuck, Joel.” You’re breathless and soaking, canting your hips up. Joel finally moves down, nipping as he goes, kissing your tummy a few times before moving down to your clothed core. He groans at the dark wet patch he can see through your panties. He runs his knuckle over the soaked fabric, causing your body to jolt slightly at the contact. 

Joel chuckles and moves down to kiss your clothed core, sticking his tongue out to lick the lace material. He was driving you crazy with his teasing, eliciting a whimper from your throat. He taps your hips twice, hinting to lift them up for him. You oblige instantly, and he easily slides the material off of your legs before spreading them again, tossing them over his shoulders. 

Your glistening heat was met with his gaze, and he looked up at you. You card your fingers through his hair, stopping at the crown of his head. He smiles at you and wastes no more time, moving to give your exposed heat a kiss. You softly moan at the contact, continuing to run your hands through his soft hair. 

He pokes his tongue out to lick your folds slowly, teasingly, lovingly. He was taking his time with you, lapping up your arousal at a languid pace. His tongue prodded into your entrance, fucking you slowly with the muscle. The curve of his nose was rubbing against your already sensitive clit as he did so, causing you to tumble toward your climax much faster than you’d anticipated.

Then again, you’d never met any man who could get you off as fast as Joel can. His skillful tongue knew exactly what it took to make you shake with pleasure, mouth constantly willing to praise your body over and over.

You were looking forward to it for the rest of your life. 

You gripped his dark curls to signal you were close, still being shy about talking too much during intimate moments like these with him. Joel always tried to coax you, but he knew you and your body so well by now that he could tell you were on your way to an orgasm before you could even make a gesture. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, there you go.” Joel coos, replacing his tongue with his fingers as they prodded your entrance. His fingers curled up to hit that sweet spot that drove you absolutely insane. 

“J-Joel, god, fuck—”

“I know baby, I know. Feels good doesn’t it?” 

Your brain couldn’t even conjure up a coherent sentence, so all you could do was nod desperately. The white hot coil brewing in your core was about to snap, waiting impatiently to take over your whole body with pleasure. 

Joel brought his mouth down to your clit and sucked it a few times, finally sending you over the edge. Your legs shook as your cunt spasmed, head fuzzy with euphoria. 

“There you go. That’s a good girl, let it all out. I’ve got ya.” Joel smeared his slick lips against your inner thigh, nipping your skin softly. The drag of his scruff had your skin on fire, sensitive to the touch. 

It took you a minute to come down from your high, finally catching your breath as you stared at your fiancé with glossy eyes and a fucked-out gaze. 

“Want more, baby? Need my cock too?” Joel smirked, that same smug look seeming to be permanent on his face. 

“Please,” You croaked out. “Need it so bad. Need you so bad, baby.” 

“Usin’ your manners n’ all. I’m all yours, darlin’.” Joel tossed his t-shirt over his head, stripping himself of his sweatpants and boxers as well. He was painfully hard, pre cum seeping from the weeping head of his cock. 

Your gaze shifted back up to his as he hovered above you, a soft look in his eyes that made you fall even more in love with him. He placed one hand by your head to steady his arm as he took his other one to stroke himself before lining up with your slick entrance. His eyes flicked back up to yours, and you gave him the smallest of smiles to let him know it was okay. 

He slowly slid into you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, legs mirroring your arms as they wrapped around his torso. 

He leaned down to kiss you and you both sighed into each other as he reached the hilt, starting off by slowly rocking his hips. He kept whispering sweet praises in your ear— takin’ me so well, you’re so beautiful, love you so much, can’t wait for you to be my wife. 

Your wedding was only a few months away, and the thought of spending forever with your best friend in the whole world meant everything and more to you. 

Joel’s head dropped to your shoulder as his pace picked up, breathing ragged as his hips snapped into yours. 

“God, you feel so good Joel. No one ever compares to you, my love. Can’t wait to—” You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel your second orgasm slowly start to build. “—Can’t wait to be your wife. Spend the rest of my life with you.” You cry, hands moving to his back as you slide your fingers down to the plush of his ass. 

His hips rocked violently into yours at this point, groaning at your words. 

“My wife.” He grunts, and the slide of his heavy cock in and out of you at an unforgiving pace had you seeing stars. 

“M-husband.” Your words were slurred, absolutely cock drunk on the man pounding into you. That same coil wound up tightly, and Joel could feel you squeezing him. He moved a hand down to your clit, giving you that extra push you needed before you were diving over the edge, orgasm crashing down like waves kissing the shore. 

You chanted Joel’s name over and over, clenching around him to bring him to his end. His hips started to stutter, and he leaned down to nip your collarbone with kisses before burying his head in your neck as he reached his high. 

His thrusts were sporadic, filling you up with everything he had to offer. He slumped down, cradling your body as if you were a fragile flower in a field of thorns. 

Joel always made sure to let you know how much he loved you, even if it wasn’t through words. His actions said more than enough, loving you like you’ve never been loved before. 

He kissed the crown of your head as he slipped out of you, catching his breath. 

“Happy birthday, my love. I’ll be sure to make this year the most special you’ve had yet.” He squeezed you in his arms as reassurance following his sweet words.

And you, of course, knew that Joel Miller would lay down the whole world at your feet if he could. You had your best friend and lover all in one by your side, and that’s all you could wish for this year, and the many more to come.  

tags: @party-hearses ; @ilovepedro ; @bastardmandennis ; @nostalxgic ; @tinygarbage

[himasgod]

Sharing Valentine's Day with NRC

POMEFIORE VER.

HEARSTLABYUL VER SAVANACLAW VER OCTAVINELLE VER SCARABIA VER IGNIHYDE VER DIASOMNIA VER

SCENARIO: The morning sun shone down on Night Raven College as students prepared for Valentine’s Day. Classes had ended earlier than usual, and the hallways were filled with rumors of chocolates, a few confessions, and secret dates. Despite the general excitement for that day of remembering and sharing, you hadn’t planned anything special for that day. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

But he had been acting oddly suspicious since the night before. You’d noticed his furtive glances and failed attempts at hiding smiles whenever you came near. You knew he was up to something.

With Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt and Epel Felmier

Vil Schoenheit

Valentine's Day in Pomefiore was an event in itself. From dawn, the rooms were decorated with purple and white roses, the mirrors reflected soft lights, and the air smelled of expensive perfume. Everything had been planned down to the last detail, and the person responsible could be none other than Vil Schoenheit.

You had received an invitation from Vil for a private dinner that evening. He hadn't given you many details, only insisting that you should arrive on time and dressed for the occasion.

When you reached the entrance of Pomefiore, the moon shone brightly over the castle. The golden doors opened to reveal a path lit by chandeliers. At the back, Vil was waiting for you, impeccable as always. He was dressed in a black suit with gold details, his hair pulled back in a polished braid, and his lips painted with a light touch of color.

"You're just in time," he said with a satisfied smile. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."

He offered you his arm, and together you walked to a private terrace adorned with silk curtains and a table beautifully decorated with candles and fresh flowers.

“This is all amazing, Vil,” you said, admiring the effort he had put into every detail.

“Nothing less than perfection for this special night.”

Dinner was spent in a warm and relaxed atmosphere. Vil, always refined, personally served you each dish, explaining the ingredients and their origin. You had shared many moments before, but tonight there was something different in the air. A softness in his eyes, a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“You know I am someone who always seeks to improve, to be stronger, more beautiful, more successful,” he said, setting his glass of wine down on the table. “But with you… I feel like I don't need to change anything.”

Your eyes met, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to stop.

"Vil…"

“Tonight is not just about celebrating Valentine’s Day. I want to thank you for being by my side, even when I'm unbearable."

Vil pulled out a small velvet box and handed it to you.

“This is for you.”

Inside was a gold star-shaped brooch, encrusted with tiny diamonds that sparkled under the moonlight.

“I want you to wear it as a reminder that you always shine with your own light. You don’t need to be perfect to be special.”

You felt a lump in your throat as he helped you pin it onto your clothes.

“Thank you, Vil. It means a lot to me.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

Rook Hunt

Valentine’s Day in Pomefiore was always shrouded in an almost theatrical atmosphere, and no one lived it with as much passion as Rook Hunt. His romantic spirit and devotion to the beauty of life made him the perfect ally for the occasion.

That morning, you found a note written in elegant calligraphy and a drawing of an arrow crossing a heart.

“Ma chère, the beauty of this day deserves to be explored together. Meet me at the Lounge at dusk.”

You knew it could only be Rook, with his dramatic flair and ability to transform any moment into something special.

When you arrived at the Lounge, Rook was waiting for you in a sofa decorated with vines and fresh flowers.

“Ah, my muse has arrived,” he said, smiling with genuine enthusiasm. “I was looking forward to sharing this day with you.”

Rook led you through the outside, stopping to show you every detail he found fascinating: a flower blooming in winter, the way the light filtered through the leaves, and even a tiny ladybug that had landed on his finger.

“True beauty is in the details, in the things others don’t always see,” he said passionately. “But you, ma chèrie, are the embodiment of all that is beautiful.”

His words were intense, but sincere. With Rook, every moment felt like a work of art in itself.

Finally, he led you to a clearing in the garden, where he had laid out a small picnic with pastries, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of homemade lemonade. He invited you to sit down, and once you were settled, he pulled out a small box wrapped in gold ribbon.

“This is for you. A little memento of this special day.”

Inside was a necklace with an arrow-shaped pendant.

“May you always remember that my heart is pointed towards you, always guided by the beauty I see in you.”

You were deeply touched by his gift and his sincerity.

“Thank you, Rook. This day has been perfect.”

Rook took your hand and looked into your eyes with an intensity that only he could have.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, ma chèrie. May every day together be a new adventure in search of beauty.”

Epel Felmier

Valentine's Day at Night Raven College was always a mix of chaos and surprises, but for Epel Felmier, the day brought a different kind of anxiety. At Pomefiore, expectations of perfection and elegance were high, something that clashed with him honest and forthright nature.

You were in your room in Ramshackle when you heard a tap on the window. A small stone crashed into the glass without breaking it. Opening it, you saw Epel standing in the garden, hands in his pockets and a nervous expression on his face.

“Hey, can you come down for a moment?” he called out to you.

Curious, you went downstairs and found him waiting with a bouquet of wildflowers. The flowers were a little messy, but they were full of life, just like Epel.

“I'm not good with this fancy stuff, but… do you want to spend the day with me? I don't promise perfection, but I do promise something real.”

Epel led you into the woods near, where the trees still held some winter frost. The crisp air was filled with the promise of spring. You walked together, talking about anything and everything at once.

“Valentine’s Day always feels like a performance at Pomefiore,” he admitted, kicking a rock along the way. “But with you, I want to just be me.”

You stopped by a large, moss-covered tree, and Epel turned to you, his expression more open and vulnerable than ever.

“I like how you accept me just the way I am. I don’t have to prove anything when I’m with you.”

His words were so honest that they filled you with warmth.

“I feel that way with you, too, Epel. Thank you for always being yourself.”

Epel had prepared a small picnic on an old blanket he had spread out under the tree. He had brought a bottle of homemade apple cider and an apple pie baked by his grandmother in Harveston.

“It’s nothing fancy, but it’s the best I have.”

The pie was delicious, filled with the love and dedication of his family. As you ate together, the sun began to descend, and the sky was filled with golden and orange hues.

As night fell, you lay on the blanket, looking up at the stars. Epel took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Thank you for spending this day with me. I don’t need anything more than this.”

You felt a deep calm and sincere happiness at that moment. You knew that, with Epel, everything would always be authentic.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Epel.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day."

[creatchie8]

The First Daughter

Summary: Hopelessly in love with the agent assigned to protect you, you devise a plan to reveal his true feelings

Pairing: Secret Service!Robert Floyd/First Daughter!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI! Oral (F receiving), alcohol consumption

A/N: I got obsessed watching the 2004 film, First Daughter, and took lots of inspo from that movie. I'd love to have him sworn to protect me ;) (Not proofread, I wrote this speedy fast)

Word Count: 3,500ish

The two of you had been playing eye tag the whole night. 

And with every sip of the red wine you took, the more bold you became. Your cheeks felt warm as the alcohol slowly made your body buzz with excitement, ankles wobbling just a bit on the dancefloor in your red-bottomed heels. The orchestra that was hired played absolutely magnificently, the music changing between jazz and waltz, filling the (already full) large ballroom. 

Marvelous gold chandeliers basked everything in a soft, warm glow. The regality of it all took you back in time, you imagine this is what it would look like if you were a princess in the 1920s. The paintings of your forefathers adorned the walls along with rich brown velvet curtains, a perfect contrast to the light walls and columns. 

It was the second New Years with your mother as President, the first with Agent Robert Floyd by your side. 

Robert was younger- mid thirties, some modest Navy man looking to change his career path when he got assigned to you after completing his training at the JJRTC in South Laurel, Maryland. He was incredibly unassuming, following you around quietly as you went about your day at Harvard or home. 

How you ended up here at your mother’s party in DC trying to get a reaction out of the man, you don’t know. Maybe you were delusional, somehow you had convinced yourself that he felt something for you (love or lust, you didn’t know). It was the man’s job for god sakes, to follow you around and make you feel safe. You were not special to him in any way. 

Within the last five months though, it felt like one of those steamy romance slow burn books you are always hearing about on social media. Lately, his gaze lingered longer than it should have when the two of you were in private. He opened up more, responding in detail when you would ask him questions about his life instead of the short one word answers he used to give before analyzing your surroundings again. 

His voice was soft when he spoke to you, his hand finding your lower back like it was his own personal polar star when the crowd around you thickened. It was like the longer he was assigned to you the more his shell melted. Robert of course had time away from you, even as your agent he must eat and sleep. But when he would return and replace whoever was watching you before, he would ask to be caught up on when he was away. 

No agent had ever had interest in you like that before. 

You were probably just incredibly horny, being the President’s daughter doesn't get you much action, or at least not the kind you want. And you knew it was bad to want Robert Floyd, but somehow that made you desire him even more. 

The dress you were wearing tonight may or may not have been picked out with your agent in mind. Floor length and velvety black, the soft fabric smooth against your middle. A neckline that was perfectly flattering of your chest, a simple necklace sitting on top of your collarbones delicately but also working to help draw eyes to your cleavage. Surely modest enough for the gathering but eye catching for sure. 

He was stationed near a pair of opened doors, pressed against the wall in a neat black and white tuxedo, a metal american flag pinned neatly on his left lapel. It was standard dress for every agent that was there, but to you Robert stood out as by far the most handsome one. Light brown hair combed perfectly to the side. His blue eyes scanned the crowd in a zig-zag motion, stuttering and stopping on you when you were in view, his unique glasses glinting in the light. 

The whole night you had been inching closer, using the excuse of mingling to hop from table to table (intermittently being taken to the dance floor by your father or some diplomat's son) and closer to his door. At one point you looked up from where you were leaning on a table, catching his eyes. 

A few times tonight that had already happened only for him to look away swiftly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he straightened his shoulders. But this time he held your gaze, almost defensively as his brows furrowed the tiniest bit. He probably assumed you would take one for the team and back down first this time. But that second glass of wine you were halfway done with was leaving you valiant, his determination causing the side of your mouth to tick up the tiniest bit. 

The muscles in his jaw twitched as he admitted a silent defeat, flicking his eyes elsewhere. 

Never a rude host, you turned your attention back to the guest you were chatting with, letting her finish her story before politely excusing yourself elsewhere. With your clutch in hand and your wine abandoned at the table, you set off to the open door. With this newfound confidence you strut (albeit somewhat off balance) like you had every intention in the world to just leave for the bathroom and come back with no ulterior motive. 

But you like to think Robert knew you like the back of his hand, watching him bring his right arm up, speaking into the microphone in his sleeve. An agent still had not relieved him as you passed by, eyes forward even though in your peripheral you noticed his head turn to you. 

It wasn't until your heels hit the magnificent marble staircase that you heard his footsteps following you, echoing through the hall. Your left hand grabbed the front of the dress, hiking it well above your ankles as you climbed the stairs. Shockingly, there was no one loitering in this part of the building. Passing by a grandfather clock on the opposite wall you squint to make out the thin arms, concluding that it was in fact, almost midnight. The smell of pine lingered outside the ballroom, drifting into almost nothing the further you got. 

You had already passed by two bathrooms as you led Robert on a wild goose chase through the building, trying to find the perfect spot. He was beyond patient with you, finally caught up and only a few short steps behind. 

When you finally found what room you were looking for, you stopped short, letting his muscular body bump into yours before spinning around. Robert looked mortified, already stuttering beginnings of apologies as you grabbed the lapels of his jacket, thumb accidentally turning the pin askew before pulling him into the empty room (with remarkable force you might add). 

In a whirlwind of moving bodies you suddenly found yourself back against the closed door, that same mortified look on his face as he stood there trapped in the room. In the shuffle you had dropped your clutch near your feet, the beaded satchel slumped against the dark mahogany floor. 

The room was simple, a pool table in the center and a few chairs nestled close to the unlit fireplace. There was a bookcase somewhere in the room, hidden by the veil of darkness. The moonlight showed through two good sized windows on the wall facing you, his back illuminated by the light. 

“I thought you needed to go to the bathroom.” He stated, clearly confused as his brows furrow. You could barely see his face and it might've been the alcohol but you were falling hard. 

“I changed my mind.” You crossed your arms, body heavy against the great door. 

“You wanted to play…” He turned towards the pool table then back to you, “pool?” His eyes continue to search the room, mapping out his surroundings like he always does. 

Huffing at his lack of interest in you, you get straight to the point, “Robert, do you think I’m attractive?” It comes out brattier than you intend and you close your mouth with an audible click.

“What?” His attention is back to you in an instant, eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“I asked, do you think I’m attractive?” Repeating yourself, biting your bottom lip hard at your own boldness. It takes a few seconds for him to respond to you, opening and closing his mouth a few times while he processes your question. 

“Y-You're incapacitated, please let me help you back downstairs.” He says calmly, but you can see right through it. The mask he is putting on causes you to roll your eyes dramatically. Robert steps forward, hands outstretched to presumably grab your shoulders so it's easier to guide you back to your parents. The action makes your stomach light up in excitement, your first reaction is pushing yourself off the door and away from his reach, further into the room. 

“I am anything but ‘incapacitated’. I’m tipsy.” You declare matter of factly, cheeks burning in the warm room. Now your back was to the window, your positions switched. 

“That still falls under the definition of incapacitated.” 

“I think you're attractive.” Your voice was suddenly much quieter, now toe to toe with a man visibly sweating bullets. “I've thought about it since I met you-” The sober part of you shuts your mouth, a nonsense love confession pushing against your teeth. He refused to respond, still as a statue sans his blue eyes tracing your face.

“Why were we playing eye tag from the moment the party started?” You press, determined to not back down until your question was answered. 

“My job is to look after you.” A very real explanation to your question. The opposite of what you want. 

“Is it your job to clench your teeth when I dance with other guys?” Just the mere mention of it has his upper lip twitching, and you know you've got your answer. You look up at him through mascaraed eyelashes, sweaty hands reaching up (surprisingly more shaky than you thought) to clutch at his black lapels. 

You would've thought he’d stop you, it would be easy in your impaired state to grab your wrists and haul you down to the party in a cloud of shame. But he watched as you focused on his pin, pinching it between your forefinger and thumb to adjust it.  

You don't process that he’s moved his hand up until he is brushing the hair out of your face that escaped your modest updo. His fingertips are gentle, and you begin to worry that this is the end before it has even begun, that he’s about to open his mouth and let you down easy. Pressing your hands firmly against his warm chest you weakly try to push back, the fear of rejection drenching your whole body.

He caught you unexpectedly by the shoulders, fingers wrapping around your bare upper biceps. Holding you close firmly, you gave up pushing away and dropped your arms to your side. Robert was searching your eyes before letting a long sigh out his nose. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-” You close your eyes and tilt your head back to the ceiling, “I guess I am a little incapacitated.”  Placing emphasis on the word to lighten the mood, not wanting to look at him to save yourself from embarrassment. 

You were aware of everything on your body with your eyes closed. The tickle of your hair on your neck, the way your dress hugged your body, you could even feel the way your heels teetered on the hardwood. Worst of all, you felt his warm, calloused hands smoothing down your naked arms. 

Then you felt one of his hands leave your arm, trailing up and up to your neck and cradling the back of your skull. Robert pulled your head up but still you kept your eyes closed. 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking." A quiet waltz played from the floor below, accompanying his words that stung like rubbing alcohol in a cut. Your eyes snap open in an instant, rapidly blinking to clear them from the blurriness. You could barely think coherent thoughts between his hand still on the back of your neck and his painful words. 

“I do know what I’m asking-” You exclaimed defiantly, “and I’m not stupid-”

“I never said you were stupid.” He cut you off abruptly, his warm breath fanned across your face in short puffs. You clenched your fists by your sides, your body itchy with annoyance.

“Robert. I swear to god if you interrupt me aga-” 

And then he kissed you. And all you could do was rip yourself away from him in vexation, opening your mouth to hiss something at him about fucking interupting you again. 

As you stumbled back you realized something. He was looking back at you like you had sprouted a third ear, and the disbelief in his eyes made you want to go search for a mirror to see if you actually did. 

“Oh.” You touched your lips, desire starting a low buzz beneath your skin. He had kissed you. And it felt good. 

“Yeah.” Robert said, almost sheepishly. 

“Ohh-” Was all you could get out before he was on you again, his hands connecting with your waist while yours cupped his cheeks and jaw, pulling him closer. 

It was frantic and messy, you felt light headed by the lack of oxygen. Your lipgloss had smeared all over your lips and his, the soft vanilla flavor all you could taste when you licked into his open mouth. Warmth blossomed in your chest as his hands sank lower to cup your ass through your dress, his lips migrating from yours to your jaw, leaving a light trail of saliva in their path. 

Hands trailing up to rest against the nape of his neck, the short hair tickling your palms as you bit your bottom lip, stifling whines as his lips worked against the sensitive parts of your neck. It was too much yet not enough as his hands roamed over your body and yet managed to miss everywhere you needed him the most. 

“S-Stop teasing me.” You managed to pant out, a gasp leaving your kiss-swollen lips as Robert’s cold glasses pressed into your neck. You grab his hand from where it was resting under your breast, walking backwards blindly in search of the pool table. Your other arm was outstretched behind you, acting as a buffer in case you trip and fall. 

Robert stumbled along like an obedient dog, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to yank the earpiece from his ear so it just dangled from his button up collar. When your bum hit the pool table he lifted you up and set you upon the edge with no hesitation, making butterflies kick up in your stomach. You were still in awe over his strength that you didn't even realize he had delicately slipped your straps from your shoulders and his hands were behind your back, pinching your zipper.

“May I?” He asked softly, awaiting your response. He was absolutely gorgeous, the moonlight illuminated only one side of his face. His hair was tousled and his lips were red from the kisses. Fine lines carefully etched into his features, the only sign of his age. 

Your stomach flipped as you nodded, inhaling a deep breath through your nose as he invaded your space, slotting himself between your thighs. Robert looked over your shoulder and pressed a few soft kisses there as he carefully unzipped your dress. Your hands drifted up and grasped at his belt, the silver metal burning your fingertips with cold as you clumsily fought with it. 

His lips returned to your mouth as he slowly pulled the dress down over your breasts, urging your hands away from his now unzipped slacks and through the arm holes of your dress. Although the air was warm to your cheeks and back, it made goosebumps rise along your chest, nipples perking up as the top fell to your lap. 

You hardly noticed his lips leaving yours until you felt him push on your left shoulder, guiding you back so you were propped up on your elbows on the deep green baize. A protest died in your throat as his lips wrapped around a nipple, his warm tongue lapping at the stiff peak. A startled cry left your mouth as you felt his hand tweak your other nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

You let your head drop back as his mouth switched to your other nipple, his fingers pinching the other. The black dress still was around your legs, thighs straining the fabric as you silently begged for him to touch your now aching core. You lifted up a heeled foot, pressing one of his thighs closer to your center.

Robert takes the hint, much to your relief and slips his hands down your body. You can feel every callous, every fingernail as he presses them into your soft skin and eventually grips his fists into the dress gathered near your knees. 

 You try to focus on the ceiling, which looked like it stretched miles above the both of you, crown molding decorating the edges and hand painted vines adorned the flat space between. 

Slowly, just as Robert lifts your knees up and over his shoulders and sinks to the ground, you lower yourself flat against the green, arms outstretched above your head.  

Your lower half was bare, save for the midnight black dress pooling around your waist. Robert’s breath huffed against your clothed core, drawing your attention back to him. 

“Fuck…” You hear him whisper hoarsely. And only then can you feel his fingers drawing your panties to the side, a sharp gust of cold air drifting over your dripping pussy. The praise heats your cheeks, a swell of shyness bubbles within your chest. The panties are placed over your core and Robert presses his face against the silky black fabric, startling you. 

You start to sit up on your elbows again, a moan caught in your throat as you watch him bury his nose and mouth in the damp silk, taking a deep inhale with his eyes closed. Savoring your smell as he mouths against you. It was tortuous, his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of your thighs. His cheeks are red, his groans vibrating against you as his glasses begin to fog. 

“Please, Robert. I can’t-” Is all you can get out before he is ripping your panties to the side and licking you whole. With that one motion your thighs are already quivering on either side of his head. His flush trails down to his neck, hiding under the tight collar of his button up. 

Your stomach tightens as the tip of his tongue circles your clit, sucking it into his mouth and savoring it like a piece of hard candy. With your mouth open, all you can do is stare with blurry eyes. Robert was consuming you like a man starved, his ministrations relaxing your muscles and turning you into jello before him. 

“Robert, I-” You begin, outstretching your arm to grasp at his hair.

“Hmmm?” He hums, his mouth still working against you, jaw clenching as you attempt to push him back. Robert looked up at you through long eyelashes, eyes glazed over as if he was the one getting the most pleasure out of it. 

“Please more- oh god do not stop.” You were not above begging. And thank god because that was all it took to convince him. At once he returned to your needy pussy, his right hand slipping from the top of your thigh to your juncture. His middle finger prodded at your entrance, slipping in with little resistance. 

Back arching, you drop down to rest fully on the soft baize. Gasping as he managed to press another finger in. They were big, stretching you. The sensation bites but is quickly soothed as he curls them, beckoning an orgasm out of your body. 

Your chest heaves as your body tightens, moaning nonsense as you get closer and closer. The man between your legs doubling his efforts as if you had told him you were almost there. 

And then your body snaps. It’s like submerging yourself in a warm bath, you cannot breathe, in fear you might drown in the water. But weightless nonetheless. 

He rises to his feet, and you are still boneless on the table. Pussy pulsing, only to be covered up again by your wet panties. The feeling is terribly uncomfortable, drawing a whine from your chest. 

Even more shockingly, you do not even get a moment to revel in the afterglow before he is pulling you up by your elbow.

“Hey! What are you doing?” You huff in half hearted annoyance as he is already pulling your straps up and attempting to zip your dress.

“It is almost midnight-” He finishes zipping up your dress, “I suggest we go celebrate it with your guests.” 

You blink and look up at him, reaching up and fixing his hair as a soft smile graces his features. Your cheeks heat as you remember the party downstairs, how only the two of you know that his face was between your legs just moments ago. 

“Y-Yes.” You clear your throat and adjust your straps, offering him your hand, “I suppose we should.”