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blindmagdalena · 8 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter three)

18+ 3.8k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. fic directory | AO3

Now that he's got you all to himself, it's clear that Homelander has no intention of letting you go. For the sake of your own survival, you have no choice but to adopt his madness and play along with his domestic fantasy.

Homelander is insane.

You don’t know how to reconcile the hero of Vought’s marketing with this man, whose very presence unnerves you. There’s something uncanny about the way he moves, speaks, even the way he smiles at you. It all feels simultaneously practiced, and yet like he’s never actually spoken one on one to another human being.

The sentiment spins in your mind like a record, the melody scratchy and discordant. It’s as though you’ve fallen into some kind of bizzaro dimension where up is down, the sky is green, and Vought’s golden hero is a delusional kidnapping maniac who premeditated your abduction to the point of filling his home with a perfectly curated wardrobe for you. Even the products in the bathroom mirror your own.

You are home.

The conviction with which he said it gives you goosebumps. In the moment you’d been numb, trapped somewhere between reality and dream. That feeling–some mixture of shock and whatever he drugged you with–lingers with you even now, like you’ll wake up from this nightmarish fantasy at any moment.

You smooth your hands down your body, now clad in unfamiliar silk that feels cool and expensive against your skin. The sleep wear fits you like a glove. It’s your favorite color. It could have been pulled straight from your own closet if not for the lack of wear and the undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. All for wearing to bed.

Bed.

Nerves flutter in your gut like caged birds. You give yourself one last lingering look in the mirror. Washed and lotioned with the menagerie of products left for you, you’re unable to stall in the bathroom any longer. You’re as “comfortable” as you’re going to get, and Homelander’s waiting for you.

The thought makes you shiver. You can still feel his hands on your wrists like phantom shackles. From the moment he snapped and grabbed you, shocking you with immeasurable inhuman strength, you knew you were going to have to proceed with extreme caution.

There’s something deeply wrong with him, and you’re terrified of what else he’s capable of.

What if you’re not the first person he’s done this to?

Worse than that thought, what if you’re not the last?

It’s a short walk back to the bedroom, the way lit by the dim spotlights that hang over the portraits that litter the walls. There’s an eeriness to the penthouse that makes you feel as though you’re walking through an empty museum after hours.

The glossy wood flooring is as cold as tile beneath your bare feet, every part of this place hard and manufactured. It feels more like an enclosure than a home.

Even more bizarre than the decor is the layout itself. You haven’t seen the whole place yet–he had insisted a tour was for daylight hours–but rounding the corner from the living room takes you to an open alcove that serves as his bedroom.

You hesitate in the open hall, struck by the sight of yourself reflected a dozen times over in the mirrors that make up his bedroom walls and ceiling, and Homelander himself already tucked into bed, his torso bare.

Your stomach flips. He smiles at you, beckoning you with a nod towards the empty side of the bed. Anxiety crawls up your spine like an insect with every step you take towards the bed, worsened by the open anticipation he watches you with. It goes against your every instinct to move closer to him.

Just as you reach the bed, he flips the blanket down for you. You tense, gaze dipping, but you’re relieved to find that he is not entirely nude.

He’s wearing sleep pants with a thin band that nicely hugs the sharp jut of his hip, following the slight curve of his stomach. He’s leaner than the chiseled exaggeration of his suit implies, but his strength is no illusion. His hand felt like a steel vice around your wrist, his pull like being guided by a freight train.

Homelander clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You realize all at once you’ve been standing there in silence staring for far too long at his half-exposed body. Embarrassment hits in a hot rush and you mumble some kind of half formed apology, busying yourself with slipping into the bed, lingering at the edge.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, watching you settle on your back and tug the blanket over yourself.

“Like what you see?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though he claims he has no intention of eating you, you wouldn’t know it by the look in his eyes. He has all the intensity of a bird of prey watching a rabbit skitter through an open field.

Not knowing how to respond, you stare wordlessly at him. You notice the asymmetry of his mouth for the first time, how it curves on one side.

Christ, why can’t you stop staring at him like this? Every time you try to formulate a response–something, anything–the words get jumbled up in your throat, threatening to choke you.

At a loss, you roll onto your side, putting your back to him and screwing your eyes shut. The bed dips suddenly and an arm slipping around your waist startles you into a jerk, your body going tense.

“Jeeze, so jumpy,” he laughs, breath hot on the nape of your neck. He pulls your body flush against his, your soft curves fitting seamlessly against his wrought iron edges.

His strength is impossible to ignore, inhuman and titanous. You can feel it in every part of him, but nowhere more keenly than in the flex of his arm as it encircles you, pinning you against him.

He sighs into the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ve really been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his words nearly beneath the thunderous racket of your own heart in your ears. Your body is awash in heat, and not just from the flush rolling through you. He’s as hot as a furnace at your back, as if his skin conducts heat just as well as the steel he feels made from.

If there was any doubt before that you had no choice but to yield to him, it’s evaporated now. He could crush you without so much as a second thought if he decides you don’t fit whatever elaborate fantasy he’s created in his mind. He could make you disappear.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging the shell of your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?”

The pressure of a sob swells up in your throat, the reality of your situation folding in on you with the weight of the world, but you choke it back. Hesitantly, you place your hand over his forearm and squeeze, hoping it will be enough of an answer to appease him.

You feel his smile in the way he caresses the sensitive flesh of your neck with his mouth. In turn, he squeezes you against his chest like a child would his new favorite toy, covetous and possessive. It makes you wonder what sort of boy he’d been: was he the sort to be precious with his toys, or was he the sort who wore them threadbare before looking for the next new and shiny thing?

“‘Atta girl.”

Although sleep doesn’t come easily, it does at least come eventually. The room is dark, but not pitch black, and the ambient sounds of high altitude winds spilling in from his open windows are surprisingly soothing, better than the scratchy ocean recordings you usually drift to.

The exhaustion you experience in the aftermath of your abduction overtakes you, pitching you into a deep slumber. You spend the night dreaming a tumultuous mix of reality and nightmare, some aspects exaggerated while others play out perfectly as they were. The truth of your situation is nightmarish enough without any theatrics from your imagination.

Waking up in Homelander’s bed for the second time is no less disorienting than it was the first time.

Last night returns to you in bits and pieces, but nothing grounds you in reality as swiftly as the heavy arm looped around your waist, and the steady warm breaths wafting over the back of your neck, giving you goosebumps. His other arm is stretched out under your pillow, his hand resting palm up by the edge of it.

Is he asleep…?

“G’morning,” Homelander purrs, giving a firm squeeze around your middle.

Not asleep, which leaves you wondering how long he’s been awake, assuming the man actually does sleep. There’s been no lack of speculation towards how human supes really are or aren’t, whether they need to eat or rest the way regular humans do.

Especially those as powerful as Homelander.

The sleepy slur and fray of his voice gives you hope that he does, though. On top of everything else, it would be too unsettling a horror to learn that he doesn’t.

“Morning,” you give back after a beat, hating how meek your voice is. The tension in your body makes everything sound tight and forced. You see his fingers flex just before he curls his arm inward, hand clutching your shoulder to embrace you.

“I don’t know about you,” he says in your ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he speaks. “But that was the best damn night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

That solves that, you suppose.

The silence that follows makes you realize he was prompting you.

“Same.” The lie hitches in your throat like a hiccup.

Another pause, and then Homelander is shifting, uncoiling his arms from around you and lifting up on his side. With a hand on your shoulder he turns you on to your back, bringing you to face him.

You meet his gaze, but something about the look in his eyes turns your gut cold. There’s no softness in the lines of his face, not even thinning tethers of patience. There’s simply… nothing.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he says, his voice set low and strangely hollow. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Except for that. Understand?”

Your throat clicks on a dry swallow. The weight of his stare makes it hard to breathe. You nod.

“Tell me you understand,” he says slowly, each perfectly annunciated word dripping with malice. There’s no pleading in his voice the way there had been last night. He’s composed entirely of cold and hard lines that make you feel caged, the bars shrinking around you.

“I understand,” you choke out.

Just like that, the lines at the corners of his eyes soften, crinkling with his smile. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. The abruptness of the shift is enough to give you whiplash, leaving you dazed. For just a moment, he was another person entirely.

“That’s my girl,” he says, seeming to savor every word on his tongue. Dumbstruck, you watch him climb out of bed, swinging his arms in a slow stretch.

“Uhm,” you start, clearing your voice of the faint tremor in it. “I should, uh… Call someone. Work. They’re going to be worried if–”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts in, lifting his suit from the suit rack next to the bed. Your eyes dart to the crumpled one he shed the night before, still in a pile.

How many of those does he have?

“Everyone you know is under the impression that you had a mild stress-induced nervous breakdown, and are currently on an impromptu vacation in Europe, totally off the grid,” he says with a smile, sliding his hand smoothly through the air.

You pale. Whenever work came to be too much, you’ve joked about disappearing like that, but would anyone actually believe you have? You suddenly regret the plethora of hyperbolic existential posts you’ve made.

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, feeling sick.

Homelander, on the other hand, looks as bright as the morning sun. “So! Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Regardless of whether or not cooking is enjoyable, it’s always a reliable routine. Breakfast perhaps most of all. Eggs, toast, bacon and whatever fruit is in season. You find all these things and more in dizzying variety and proportion in Homelander’s lavish kitchen.

The eggs are large and brown, the bacon wrapped in butcher's paper rather than plastic, and cut in thick strips. The artisanal loaf of bread has a perfectly crisp golden crust, soft on the inside as you slice it. It’s everything you know, but elevated.

The opulence feels weighted. It makes you wonder how you could ever be expected to pay for any of this. How you could be worth any of this. Every ounce of silky butter you swipe over the piece of artisan toast in your hand feels like another smattering of grave soil peppering you from above, burying you deeper than you already are.

You don’t owe him for any of this. You didn’t ask for it. Regardless, you lick an excess smear of jam from your thumb–the color of it as red and vibrant as fresh blood–and all at once you are Persephone taking the pomegranate seeds between her lips. There is a terrible feeling of complicitness in this, despite that you’re only trying to survive.

Homelander lurks behind you while you cook, observing from a slight distance with an idyllic smile, his hands clasped behind his back. While you’re still wearing your pajamas, he’s wearing his hero suit again, the bulk of it returning to him his larger than life silhouette.

The silence he observes you in is unnerving, making everything else too loud in comparison. It would be nice if he’d at least sit. Instead, you’re keenly aware of the oppressive weight of his expectant gaze the entire time you cook.

“Looks delicious,” he says, his voice suddenly so close that you startle, the butterknife slipping from your hand and clattering on the marble countertop. His gloved hands cup your elbows and squeeze, soothing and overly familiar. “Oops-a-daisy,” he laughs, as if you’re just clumsy. His hands stroke slowly up and down your arms.

You snatch the knife up from the countertop and dutifully wipe away the jam splatter with a dishtowel. “I hope you like it,” you say distractedly, heart racing.

“How could I not?” he asks in that same low, pleased tone. He gives your arms an excited little shimmy before releasing them, reaching around either side of you to grab each plate. You feel his chest against your back, where he lingers just a second too long. “You made it just for me, after all.”

He moves away from you, taking the plates with him to the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows. The view from his penthouse is stunning–overlooking the entire city, all the way out to the waterfront–but it’s also dizzying. It unsettles your stomach to sit so close to the window, the size of them making it feel as though there’s nothing between you and a hundred story fall.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks, settling down across from you.

You look from the window to him. He wastes no time splaying a cloth napkin in his lap and picking up his utensils, though he never takes his eyes off of you. You’re not sure he ever does. “Uh…Not particularly. I just don’t think I’ve ever been up so high,” you say, draping your own napkin similarly in your lap. Never has breakfast felt like such a formal affair.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says confidently, jabbing his knife into the yolk of his egg to spread over his buttered toast. “I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around,” he chuckles, flipping a piece of bacon on top as well.

Your gut tightens, toast paused halfway to your parted lips. You gawk at him. It’s difficult to comprehend how someone can be so beyond reproach, so intensely cavalier about something like drugging you into unconsciousness and kidnapping you.

I saved you. That his voice already lives in your mind–correcting you–is sickening in and of itself. Your already tenuous appetite vanishes, but you take a bite of the toast out of spite. The jam’s farm fresh sweetness is tart, though it’s offset perfectly by the savory sea salt richness of the butter.

It’s as exquisite as it is repulsive.

A crisp snap brings your attention abruptly back to Homelander, whose hand is still poised in the air, his thumb and middle finger pressed together. His hand falls away once he has your attention, his smile returning. “That good, huh? Looked like you went a million miles away.”

If only, you seethe, taking another bite of the toast. You use the moment to chew, swallowing the anger over being snapped at alongside your mouthful of food.

“It’s delicious,” you say, curating your words carefully. Don’t ever lie to me, his words echo again, helping you to shape a mental survival guide. Feeling his eyes on you, you meet them. His smile widens a touch, though you don’t think it quite reaches his eyes. He’s appraising you like one might an exhibit at a museum.

Glancing down at his plate, you notice he hasn’t really eaten his breakfast so much as he’s toyed with it. It’s all just cut apart, yellow egg yolk oozing slowly across the pristine white plate. “Is there something wrong with yours?” you ask with a lurch of anxiety. He’s drugged you once already.

“Not at all,” he beams with clean white teeth, hands resting in loose fists on either side of his plate. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The strange earnestness of the compliment stuns you. “Thank you,” you say uneasily, still not convinced there wasn’t something in the jam, or maybe the butter.

His smile broadens and this time it reaches all the way up, crinkling his eyes at their outer corners. There’s a sort of pride in his expression that makes you feel like a dog that’s finally learned the trick he’s been trying to teach you.

“Whelp,” he sighs, clapping his hands together as he stands. “As much as I hate to go, duty calls,” he says, sliding his chair back beneath the table. Rounding it, he holds his hand out to you. “Walk me out?” he asks, his smile gleaming with predator charm. You only hesitate briefly before slipping your hand into his, reminding yourself to choose your battles wisely.

He lifts you to your feet with such ease it makes your stomach flip, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn’t let go of your hand, choosing to keep it snug within his grasp as he walks you through the decorated halls of his penthouse. There’s scarcely a space untouched by decor, making even these spacious corridors feel claustrophobic, dozens of carved and painted eyes leering at you as you pass.

The tour of the penthouse had been brief, awkward. He hadn’t especially known what to say about each room, giving you more facts about the artwork than anything. The lack of personal effects only make the place feel even more like a museum than it had before.

The only pictures of him were Vought promotional material. Not a single photo of him outside of his suit. No trace of family or childhood. Just The Homelander.

He holds your hand all the way up to a set of double doors made from dark wood, where he stops and turns to face you. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says with a picture perfect pearly white smile. Not a speck of food to be found. Uncomfortable with how fixated you’ve become on the condition of his teeth, you force your attention back on his eyes and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

He leans closer, and you have to fight the urge to lean back.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?”

You blink, the question striking you in the same way his compliment had, but for a different reason. In the wake of asking, his smile has lost that razor sharp edge it usually carries. Like his eyes, it’s softer now. More boyish. There’s a level of nervous apprehension in it that’s a stark contrast from his usual smugness. Yet again it hardly feels like you’re even looking at the same person.

Swallowing dryly, you bring your hand to the underside of his strong jaw. His skin is warm under your fingers, and he leans readily into your touch. You can feel the tension in the muscle beneath his cleanly shaven face as you turn it away, simultaneously moving in to press your lips to his cheek.

When you pull away, he’s staring sidelong at you, his face still turned away, his thin lips parted. For a beat, you think he’s going to be upset, but you realize quickly that the heat you see rushing to his cheeks isn’t anger. It’s a blush. Of all the ways you expected him to react, bashful was not among them.

“Okie-dokie,” he says, suddenly sheepish, and the tension in your shoulders drains as he relinquishes your other hand, busying himself with slipping off one of his gloves. “Should be home around 4:00, but I might be able to squeeze out closer to 3:00,” he says, tossing you a conspiratory little wink. As if you should be as excited as he is at the thought.

You watch him reach for a black plate next to the door handle, which he slides up to reveal a sleek number pad with a glowing blue circle, which he presses his thumb to. The circle turns green, and you hear a mechanism unlatch. Your stomach drops. All at once you understand why he brought you all the way to the door. He wanted you to see this.

“Pretty nifty, huh?” he asks, sliding his glove back on. “State of the art,” he says with a grin, pulling the door open. Over his shoulder, you see nothing but a long, long hall and a distant elevator at the end of it. You consider screaming down it to see if anyone might hear you, but the noise gets stuck in your throat. Even if they heard you, no one would reach you in time.

Homelander steps through the threshold, lingering in the doorway, leaning partially inside. “Don’t you worry,” he says, taking in the stricken expression you wear. He looks pleased with himself. “You’ll be perfectly safe. No way anyone’s getting in or out–aside from me, that is.”

He offers a few parting words, but they distort into unintelligible static. The door closes. That green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism echoes in your ears like the slam of a prison gate. Turning around, you stare down the lengthy corridor you came from, your ears buzzing with the eerie quietness of the penthouse.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

#this chapter ran a bit long but yay! reader pov!#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #homelander #my writing #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere boyfriend

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kyunghwannie · 14 days ago

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❝ 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.

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…?

#twice #nayeon #jeongyeon #momo #sana #jihyo #mina #dahyun #chaeyoung #tzuyu #son chaeyoung #chaeyoung smut #twice smut #twice chaeyoung #twice x male reader #twice x reader

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ladsheadcanoncorner · 3 months ago

Note

sfw first kiss headcannons please? 🍎

aww first kisses! this was so much fun to write! thank you for the ask, dear <3 i saw the apple emoji, but wrote for all five boys, so i hope that is still okay.

rating: sfw cw: kissing ✉︎♡: ask box open, tumblr users + anons

Xavier: -It sort of happens…accidentally? -Xavier has been ignoring your text messages, and you sent him some funny videos that you knew he would love -Since he just lives upstairs, you decide to take it upon yourself to make sure he is doing okay -When you knock on the door, it takes him a while to answer it. When he finally does, his hair and clothes are rumpled and he is rubbing his eyes -“Is everything okay? I guess I fell asleep early.” -His voice is that scratchy sort of sleepy and you feel your cheeks flush at how adorable he is -You: “Everything is fine, you just weren’t texting me back so I got worried.” -He smiles, eyes softening, and then invites you in -You’re sitting on the couch together and while you watch the videos you sent, he is starting to doze off again -You: “Xavier are you still tired?” Xavier: “Mmm, a little. Nap with me?” -When you agree, you both reach for the blanket that fell off the couch, and collide into each other, bumping heads -Giggling, you move to pull away, but Xavier tilts your chin up and kisses you -“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Xavier murmurs in between kisses. “I’ll always be by your side.”

Zayne: -This man has been stressed trying to plan the perfect time to finally kiss you -He’s thought about it since you were children, but never actually worked up the courage to do it until now -First, he plans to do it right when he picks you up to get the nerves out of the way, but when you answer the door you look so cute he feels tongue tied. He tries again at dinner, but a bunch of waiters come out singing ‘happy birthday’ to another table. Then he plans to do it at the coffee shop, but you point out that he has whipped cream on his upper lip, so he chickens out again -He resigns that it won’t happen today, but then you decide to take a different turn on the way home from your date, out across the bridge that overlooks Linkon City -He’s holding your hand as the two of you stare out at the water and twinkling city lights -He thinks: Now, just do it now. Don’t lose your nerve -You: “Zayne…I…” Zayne: “Yes?” -He is completely caught off guard when you stand on your tiptoes to give him a swift peck on the lips -When you pull away, both of you are furiously blushing and you stutter out some sort of apologetic excuse -Zayne takes this moment to cup your face in his hands and kiss you more tenderly, more gently, trying to infuse each moment with how much he has wanted this to happen for so long -You: “I was worried you would take it badly.” Zayne, chuckling softly and brushing your cheek with his thumb: “And I was worried I’d never actually get the chance."

Rafayel: -Rafayel is lamenting his lack of inspiration when you visit one day -Dramatic fishie moping around the house, wondering if he lost his talent, until he gets a lightbulb moment with that familiar mischievous grin -Rafayel: “You could always pose for me, cutie.” You: “Me? Why?” Rafayel: “If you don’t, these artist hands that bring magic and joy to the world will go unused forever.” -Cue eye roll, but you agree -You feel awkward, having never posed for a portrait before -Raf is looking from his canvas, to you, and then frowns. Holding out a thumb and squinting with one eye, he says, “You’re a little lifeless.” -You tell him it’s because you’ve never done anything like this and he laughs, hands in his pockets as he walks over to you -Rafayel: “You just need a little more color in your cheeks.” -He leans forward and silences the question you are about to ask with his lips. You’re stunned for a moment, but then you kiss him back, letting your arms loop around his neck and pull him closer -He pulls away, cheeks equally as flushed as you feel, and then says, “There we go, but I don’t know if my painting could possibly do you justice now.”

Sylus: -On your way to work one morning, you see a flyer about a local Night Market, and you text the details to Sylus -Sylus responds with: “Trying Linkon cuisine with a local? Hmm, alright sweetie. I’ll be back in town tomorrow. Be ready by 6:00.” -The next evening you arrive at the market, but angry gray clouds are starting to appear overhead. You brush it off, ready to enjoy your time with him -You meander all the way down to the end of the stalls (he orders one of everything that you say sounds good), talking about everything and nothing, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds in your chest whenever he catches you staring at him -You: “Want dessert? They have a cotton candy stall here that shapes it like different animals.” Sylus: “Sure, then I’ll have two cute kittens to look at.” -When the kitten shaped cotton candy is ready, Sylus holds it out for you to take a bite together -At this moment, the sky takes the perfectly inopportune time to open up, and it begins to rain -Sylus lifts his jacket to shield you from the rain as you run towards a nearby tree for cover. By the time you get there, the cotton candy has all but completely dissolved -Disappointed, you look down at the stick Sylus is holding and say, “I’m sorry about the kitten.” -Sylus, drenched from the rain, laughs in a way you’ve never heard before. A jovial sounding chuckle, that is loud and sincere and real -He tilts your chin up to look at him, brushing strands of wet hair out of your face as he leans in and says, "My favorite one is still right here in front of me.” -He brushes his lips against yours, tentative at first until you kiss him back, and then he lifts you off of your feet to kiss you more fully. -As droplets cascade from the sky, you wonder if anything will ever be as romantic as a first kiss in the rain

Caleb: -Let’s be honest, the two of you shared at least one kiss when you were younger -But Caleb wants a redo because no way that time you dared him to kiss you in the attic actually counts -He’s helping you clean out your closet, because you told him that he owes you a favor but also because he wants to spend time with you. He stumbles upon a big box labeled “Memories,” dusty and shoved up on the top shelf -When you come back into the room with lemonade for both of you, you’re mortified as he rifles through the box filled with your most precious memories -You: “What are you doing?” Caleb: “What, are you embarrassed about what I might find?" -He holds up an envelope with your ten year old handwriting scrawled “super secret future plan, DO NOT OPEN!” on the front. -You lunge towards him, needing to get the envelope away from him before he opens it and sees that your super secret future plan was a drawing of a house and two kids with him -In your determination, you haven’t noticed that you’ve fully straddled him until your chin bumps the top of his head -The fear of him discovering your secret dissipates, and it is replaced with a tension in the air that you can both feel -“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” Caleb says, nuzzling his nose against yours -Caught up in the moment of it all, you lean in and kiss him -Just enough to catch him off guard and just enough to snatch the envelope away -“Ha!” you say triumphantly, but the telltale blush on your cheeks tells Caleb all he needs to know about how you really felt -Still though…guess he’s going to need another do over

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charmed-quill · 3 months ago

Text

The Bet// F.W x Reader Part 2

authors note at end

Summary: Fred Weasley and y/n make a bet: whoever gets a date to the Yule Ball first wins. But what starts as harmless competition devolves into full-blown war.

Word count: 4.7k

Previous Part

Look, Fred Weasley wasn’t the worst person in the world to go to the Yule Ball with.

Not y/n’s first choice, not by a long shot, but also not the worst.

Still, standing in her dorm, adjusting her dress for what felt like the millionth time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.

It wasn’t like Fred had never seen her in a dress before. They’d been friends for six years, of course he had.

But this?

This was different. The whole "dressing up" thing was throwing her for a loop.

The last time she wore something this fancy was her cousin’s wedding when she was ten, and even then, she had hated every second of it. She still remembered the way the lace had itched against her skin, how uncomfortable the frilly socks had been inside her too-tight shoes.

But this dress it wasn’t stiff or scratchy, wasn’t something her mum had picked out last minute.

It was hers.

And it looked…good.

Angelina had swept her hair into an elegant bun, leaving just a few soft curls framing her face, while Alicia had carefully applied her makeup, just enough to highlight her features without making her feel like she was wearing a mask.

Y/n barely recognized herself.

It was uncanny, looking in the mirror and seeing someone who actually—Merlin forbid—looked pretty.

She swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of her dress.

It was just one night. Just Fred. Nothing had to change.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the thought of heading downstairs.

—

Fred stood by the fireplace, hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The common room buzzed with energy, students heading off to the Great Hall in clusters, adjusting dress robes and exchanging last-minute compliments.

George, Lee, Angelina, and Alicia had left just moments ago, after much teasing and knowing smirks thrown his way. She’ll be down in a moment, they had assured him before disappearing through the portrait hole.

But it had been more than a moment.

Fred huffed, glancing up the dormitory stairs. Had she changed her mind? He wouldn’t blame her. Their whole arrangement, or whatever you’d call it, was far from ideal. A last-minute truce , born out of mutual stubbornness and sabotage. He knew y/n hadn’t exactly been thrilled about going with him.

Still… part of him didn’t want to be left standing alone in the common room like some abandoned fool.

With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and took a step toward the stairs. If she wasn’t coming down, he’d bloody well—

The door opened.

Fred froze.

His words, his thoughts, everything slammed to a stop as y/n stepped into the warm glow of the common room.

She looked…

Merlin.

Fred wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, he’d seen her in dresses before, plenty of times.

But this? This was something else entirely.

The firelight cast a golden hue over her, catching on the delicate fabric of her dress as it moved with her. Her hair, swept up with effortless elegance, framed her face in soft tendrils, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the brightness of her eyes. Her makeup was subtle, just enough to make every little detail stand out, her lips, her cheekbones, the way her lashes fluttered slightly as she scanned the room.

She was beautiful.

And Fred?

Fred was stunned.

He barely managed to school his expression before she looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Got tired of waiting?" she teased, stepping forward, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress.

Fred cleared his throat, forcing himself to breathe properly. "Thought you’d done a runner," he said, managing a smirk. "Was ready to heroically charge up the stairs and rescue you."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to break into the girls' dormitory."

Fred chuckled, but it came out almost nervous, and since when was he, nervous around her?

His eyes flicked over her once more, like his brain was still trying to process that this was actually y/n standing in front of him.

"You clean up alright, y/l/n," he said, voice lighter, teasing, though there was something else beneath it—something even he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, tilting her chin slightly. "Just alright?"

Fred grinned, stepping closer, offering her his arm. "Don’t get a big head about it."

She huffed, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes, something challenging, something thrilling.

As she looped her arm through his, Fred couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn’t as terrible as he had thought.

—-

Fred and y/n stepped through the entrance to the Great Hall, and for the first time that night, neither of them had anything to say.

The entire space had been transformed.

The usual long house tables were gone, replaced by elegant round ones draped in shimmering fabric, flickering candlelight bouncing off crystal goblets and golden plates. The ceiling was enchanted to reflect a breathtaking winter sky, soft flakes of snow drifting lazily down before vanishing just above their heads. Ice sculptures lined the edges of the hall, carved into delicate figures that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. The chandeliers overhead twinkled like a thousand tiny stars.

It was… stunning.

Fred let out a low whistle, eyes sweeping over the scene. "Blimey," he muttered. "They really went all out, huh?"

Y/n didn’t answer right away.

She was still taking it all in, her gaze moving from the enchanted icicles hanging from the balconies to the grand staircase leading to the raised dance floor. She had never seen the castle look like this before, so ethereal, so dreamlike.

It almost felt unreal, like stepping into some sort of fairytale.

Fred glanced at her, catching the way her eyes shone under the candlelight, the soft parting of her lips as she stared in quiet wonder.

Something shifted in his chest.

"You alright there, y/l/n?" His voice was teasing, but noticeably softer than usual.

Y/n blinked, snapping out of whatever spell the Great Hall had cast over her. "Yeah," she said, glancing up at him. "It’s just… I dunno. I wasn’t expecting it to be so—"

"Romantic?" Fred finished, raising an eyebrow, his smirk playful but his voice lighter.

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "I was gonna say impressive, but sure, Weasley. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Fred chuckled, but he didn’t tease her back. Instead, he let his gaze linger for just a second longer than necessary.

The music swelled in the background, students filing in around them, laughter and chatter filling the air. The entire evening stretched before them, full of possibilities neither of them had really considered until now.

Fred shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on her arm before tilting his head down toward her. "Guess we better get on with it, then," he murmured.

Y/n met his gaze, something flickering between them that neither of them wanted to name just yet.

With a quiet breath, she nodded.

Y/n stood beside Fred, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched the champions and their dates take to the center of the dance floor. The music started soft and elegant, a slow waltz drifting through the air, filling the Great Hall with something delicate, almost fragile. The enchanted ceiling reflected the winter sky, stars glittering overhead like they had been placed there just for this moment. Snowflakes spiraled lazily down before vanishing into shimmering wisps of light.

It was beautiful.

She had never seen Hogwarts like this before. Had never felt this kind of stillness, this quiet anticipation that wrapped around her like a whisper. The usual laughter and chaos of the Great Hall had been replaced by something softer, something weighty in its beauty.

She stole a glance at Fred.

He was watching the dancers, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he was amused by the whole thing, but there was something else there, too. A quietness she wasn’t used to seeing in him.

And that was when it hit her

Something felt different tonight.

They had been friends for years, partners in crime, rivals in pranks, always pushing and pulling, always toeing the line between bickering and camaraderie. But this, standing here beside him in a ballroom full of flickering candlelight, the warmth of his arm just inches from hers, the way he had looked at her when she had walked down those dormitory steps,

It didn’t feel the same.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. But it was new. Like she had stepped into something she hadn’t expected, something unfamiliar but thrilling all the same.

The music swelled, couples twirling across the dance floor in graceful, sweeping movements, and suddenly, she was hyper-aware of Fred beside her. Of the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, like he was debating something.

She swallowed.

"Getting bored already?" she asked, keeping her voice light, teasing, as if nothing in the world had changed.

Fred turned his head, his gaze flickering to hers. He smirked, but not in his usual way, not in the way that made her roll her eyes or shove his shoulder. This was something softer, something amused and knowing all at once.

"Nah," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Just waiting to see if you trip over your own feet when we dance."

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "Bold of you to assume I’ll dance with you at all."

Fred chuckled, looking back at the floor. "We’ll see about that, y/l/n."

And something about the way he said it sent warmth curling through her chest.

She exhaled slowly, turning her attention back to the dancers, pretending she wasn’t thinking about the way his voice had dipped just slightly, or the way her stomach had flipped at the sound of it.

Y/n barely had time to protest before Fred was tugging her toward the dance floor, his grip firm but light as he grinned down at her, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Come on, y/l/n," he teased, his voice low enough that it sent a strange, warm shiver down her spine. "Let’s show them how it’s done."

She rolled her eyes but let him lead her anyway, her fingers curling against the fabric of his robes as they moved into the sea of swirling couples. The candlelight flickered overhead, casting soft golden glows against the ice sculptures, the music swelling around them in a gentle rhythm.

Fred slid a hand to her waist, his touch lighter than expected, and lifted their joined hands. "Try not to step on my toes, yeah?"

Y/n huffed, settling her free hand on his shoulder. "I’d worry more about your own coordination, Weasley. We both know you’re all limbs and recklessness."

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a second, she forgot they were in the middle of a crowded ballroom, surrounded by students, teachers, and swirling magic.

"You know," he mused as they moved to the beat, "I don’t think we ever settled our bet."

Y/n raised a brow, amused. "Oh? And what exactly needs settling? I’d say it was a draw at best."

Fred scoffed, spinning her suddenly, pulling her effortlessly back into his arms before she even had time to process it. "A draw?" he echoed, shaking his head. "No, no, no. I clearly won. You were the one who asked me, remember?"

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. "That is not how I remember it."

Fred grinned. "Sounds like selective memory to me, love."

She huffed. "Fine. Even if I asked you first, which I didn’t, you were already on your way to ask me."

"Exactly!" Fred said triumphantly. "Which means I still would’ve won in the end."

Y/n rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

Because the truth was, she wasn’t even thinking about the bet anymore.

She wasn’t thinking about the competition or the weeks of sabotage.

She was thinking about the way Fred’s hand rested so easily at her waist, how effortless it felt to fall into step with him, how his grin softened when he looked at her now—like maybe this wasn’t just about winning anymore.

And that realization sent her stomach flipping in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

She exhaled slowly, focusing on keeping her voice steady. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Fred smirked, tugging her just a little closer as they turned with the music. "And yet, here you are, dancing with me anyway."

Y/n swallowed, feeling that damn warmth creep into her chest again, curling beneath her ribs, making it increasingly difficult to remind herself that this was just Fred.

Just Fred Weasley.

Her best friend.

Her rival.

Her date.

And, Merlin help her, something about that last word felt different now.

Dancing with Fred Weasley was dangerously easy.

Y/n had expected him to be all awkward footwork and dramatic spins meant to throw her off balance, but instead, he led her through the steps effortlessly, his grip firm but light, his movements confident without being cocky.

The warmth of his palm at her waist sent a slow heat curling in her stomach, something she tried desperately to ignore.

Because it was just Fred.

Fred, who she had spent the last several weeks sabotaging. Fred, who had annoyed her beyond reason since they were twelve. Fred, who, despite all of that, made her laugh more than anyone else ever had.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because something had been shifting between them, something she had been too stubborn to see before tonight.

The music changed to something slower, couples swaying close, and Fred leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.

"Alright, y/l/n," he murmured, his tone far too smug. "Who do you reckon is shagging who by the end of the night?"

Y/n snorted, instantly snapping out of whatever ridiculous romantic haze had been creeping up on her.

"Subtle, Weasley," she said dryly, shooting a glance around the ballroom.

Her eyes landed on Jack Carmichael and his date, who had definitely been sneaking off toward a shadowy alcove near the back of the hall. She nodded toward them.

"That one’s a given," she said. "He’s been trying to get her out of here for the last half-hour."

Fred followed her gaze, chuckling. "Bet you ten Sickles he barely makes it up the stairs before she tells him to piss off."

Y/n grinned. "You’re on."

Fred twirled her unexpectedly, pulling her back in a little closer than before, and she hated the way her breath caught.

Get it together, she scolded herself.

Fred’s eyes flicked toward the table where a few sixth-years were gathered, drinking out of goblets that definitely weren’t filled with pumpkin juice.

"Alright, new bet," he said. "Who snuck in the booze?"

Y/n scanned the room, eyes narrowing. "I’d say Nathaniel Burke, but he’s an idiot and would’ve gotten caught already."

Fred smirked. "True. So?"

She exhaled through her nose, thinking, then grinned. "My money’s on Lillian Moore. She looks too innocent. It’s always the innocent ones."

Fred laughed, his grip at her waist tightening briefly. "You know, y/l/n, you might be onto something."

Y/n opened her mouth to throw another sarcastic remark his way, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly when he smiled at her.

Something warm, something alarming, something that had been creeping in for weeks without her permission.

Because suddenly she was remembering every little moment leading up to this

The way he had looked at her when she first stepped into the common room tonight. The way he had teased her but never once insulted her. The way he had waited for her reaction before taking her hand, before leading her into this dance.

And, Merlin help her, she realized all at once that this hadn’t just started tonight.

It had been building for weeks.

Every time he had grinned at her, every time they had gone back and forth with playful insults, every time their arguments had felt more like flirting than fighting

She had been falling for Fred Weasley.

And she hadn’t even noticed until now.

The thought was so overwhelming that she nearly stepped on his foot.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "That hesitation, was that you losing the bet already?"

Y/n blinked, snapping herself out of it. "Absolutely not."

Fred chuckled, shaking his head, completely unaware of the internal crisis she was currently having.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the banter, on the laughter, on anything except the fact that she was looking at him differently now.

Because the second she acknowledged it?

She knew there would be no going back.

—-

Fred leaned back against the wall, his butterbeer warm in his hands, the golden glow of the Great Hall flickering over y/n’s face as she took a sip of her own.

She was grinning, her lips still curled in amusement from whatever ridiculous bet they had just made, her eyes bright despite the dim lighting. She was leaning slightly toward him, like it was natural, like it had always been that way.

And maybe it had.

Fred took a slow sip of his drink, pretending he wasn’t completely distracted by her.

By the way she looked tonight. By the way she always looked, if he was being honest.

And suddenly, it hit him.

This wasn’t new.

This feeling, this warmth curling in his chest, the way he kept catching himself looking at her longer than necessary, this hadn’t come out of nowhere. It had been building, sneaking up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it.

It was there in the little moments, moments he could suddenly recall with sharp, stupid clarity.

Like the time she had shoved a stolen Chocolate Frog into his pocket during first year, grinning as she whispered, “Take the fall for me, Weasley.”

Or the time she had patched him up in second year when one of his own pranks had backfired, muttering the whole time about “how much of an idiot he was”, but her hands had been so gentle as she wiped the blood off his chin.

Or the way she always seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t say anything.

The way she could read his moods better than anyone else could, the way she knew when he needed a joke and when he needed quiet.

The way she never treated him like a joke, even when he made himself one.

Fred swallowed, staring at his butterbeer like it held all the answers.

He hadn’t meant to feel like this.

Hadn’t meant to notice how pretty she looked when she was focused on something, or how her nose scrunched when she was thinking, or how her eyes lit up when she was about to start an argument with him.

But here he was.

And for the first time, he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

"Oi, Weasley," y/n nudged him with her elbow, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Y’know, y/l/n, if you wanted to get close to me, you could’ve just asked."

She scoffed. "Please, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out. You looked a little dazed there."

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. "Just thinking."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous habit for you."

Fred snorted, taking another sip of his drink.

Yeah.

Dangerous indeed.

The Great Hall had gotten too much.

Too crowded, too warm, too many couples tucked into corners, whispering to each other like the entire world had disappeared around them. Everywhere Fred turned, there was some overly romantic display, some sickeningly sweet gesture, and Merlin help him, he needed fresh air.

So, naturally, he grabbed y/n’s hand.

"Come on," he muttered, already tugging her toward the doors before she could argue.

Y/n let him, though he could feel her curious gaze on him as they slipped out of the hall, the sound of music and chatter fading behind them.

"Where exactly are we going, Weasley?" she asked as they stepped into the cool night air.

Fred inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. "Anywhere but in there. Too many people snogging like their lives depend on it."

Y/n snorted. "Jealous?"

Fred rolled his eyes, nudging her with his shoulder. "Oh, absolutely. Watching Kevin Whitby nearly eat his date’s face off was thrilling."

Y/n gagged. "Disgusting. Alright, lead the way."

And so they walked.

The path leading away from the castle was quiet, save for the faint sounds of the ball still drifting from the open windows. The stars above were bright, the sky clear, and the lake stretched before them like a dark, endless mirror. The wind was cold but pleasant, ruffling the edges of their dress robes as they followed the stone path toward the water.

It was… nice.

Comfortable.

Like they had done this a hundred times before.

And maybe they had, maybe not in fancy dress robes, maybe not with the weight of something unspoken pressing against Fred’s ribs, but it was still them.

Still easy.

They fell into natural conversation, talking about nothing and everything—making fun of McLaggen’s tragic dance moves, placing one final bet on whether or not Olivia Davies had smuggled an entire bottle of firewhiskey under her cloak.

But beneath it all, Fred could feel it.

That… thing.

That stupid, frustrating thing that had settled in his chest hours ago and refused to leave.

Because every time y/n laughed, something in him twisted.

Because every time she nudged him, teasing and light, it sent something warm rushing through him.

Because every time she looked at him, really looked at him, he felt like she was about to figure him out.

And that, that scared him more than anything else.

He had spent so long not noticing. Had spent years thinking of her as just y/n—his best friend, his competition, the one person who could match him beat for beat.

But now?

Now, all he could think about was the way she looked under the stars, how the silver light caught in her hair, how her lips curled when she was about to say something smug.

Now, he was noticing everything.

And he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Y/n nudged him again. "You’re quiet."

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Unusual, isn’t it?"

"Extremely." She shot him a suspicious glance. "You sure you’re not getting emotional over all the romance in the air?"

Fred snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Oh yeah, I’m the emotional one. Not the girl who gasped at the ballroom decorations like she walked into a bloody fairytale."

Y/n gasped again, but this time out of offense. "I did not—"

"Did too."

"Fred—"

"You even twirled, y/l/n," he teased, his smirk widening. "Don’t try to deny it, I saw it with my own two eyes."

She groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "I hate you."

Fred grinned. "No, you don’t."

Y/n turned to shove him, but he caught her wrist before she could, laughing as he held it up between them.

And suddenly

The laughter faded.

Not completely, not abruptly, but just enough.

Because suddenly Fred was staring at her, and she was staring back, and something about the night felt too still.

Her wrist was small in his grip, her pulse just barely thrumming beneath his fingertips.

For a second, just a second, he almost didn’t let go.

But then

He did.

And whatever had settled between them slipped away before it could take root.

Fred cleared his throat, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Anyway. Should probably head back before George accuses me of running off and eloping."

Y/n snorted. "I dunno, Weasley. I think we’d make a pretty tragic love story."

Fred smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Tragic."

And as they made their way back up toward the castle, Fred ignored the fact that something about that word didn’t sit right with him at all.

They were just steps away from the castle doors when Fred couldn’t hold it in any longer.

It had been building all night, all week, really, if he was honest. Maybe even longer than that.

Every glance, every laugh, every stupid little moment that had felt so normal before had suddenly taken on a different meaning.

And now, standing beneath the stars, the castle glowing softly in the distance, it hit him all at once.

He loved her.

Maybe he always had.

Maybe he had just been too thick to realize it until now.

But now, now it was all he could think about.

Y/n was walking just ahead of him, her dress shifting with the breeze, hair slightly undone from the night, still looking as effortlessly beautiful as she had when she first stepped down the dormitory stairs.

And Fred, heart pounding in his chest, suddenly realized he couldn’t go inside without saying it.

Without doing something about it.

"Y/n."

His voice was quieter than usual, but she stopped immediately, turning to face him with a curious tilt of her head.

She hadn’t expected him to stop. Hadn’t expected his voice to sound so… careful.

Fred took a breath. Now or never.

"I—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the words when really, there was only one way to say it.

"I like you."

Silence.

Fred barely noticed the cold anymore, heat rushing through his chest as he watched her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Maybe he should’ve eased into it. Maybe he should’ve said it differently. But hell, there was no stopping now.

He took a step closer.

"I like you, y/n," he repeated, voice steadier this time. "And I—I don’t mean in the way we joke about, or the way everyone always thinks we do. I mean, really. And I think I have for a while, I just…" He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "I was too much of an idiot to see it."

Her lips parted like she was going to say something, but nothing came out.

She just… stared at him.

Fred’s heart dropped.

Oh, hell.

Maybe he’d messed this up. Maybe he’d just ruined everything

But then

Y/n moved forward so fast he barely had time to react.

Her hands curled into the front of his dress robes, pulling him down as she kissed him.

Fred’s mind blanked.

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t do anything except feel.

Because Merlin’s bloody beard, he hadn’t expected that.

But then, instinct took over, and his hands were at her waist, tugging her closer, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it.

It was slow, softer than he ever thought a first kiss between them would be. No teasing, no sarcasm, just… her.

Just them.

The night was silent around them, the only sound between them the faint hitch of breath, the quiet shift of fabric, the snowflakes drifting through the air like the universe had planned this all along.

When they finally pulled away, Fred’s forehead rested against hers, his grin so wide it was almost ridiculous.

"So, uh…" He exhaled, still catching his breath, his hands still resting firmly on her waist. "Can I take that as a yes?"

Y/n laughed, arms still wrapped around his neck, eyes shining with something he had never seen before but desperately wanted to see again.

"Fred Weasley," she murmured, shaking her head fondly. "You are such a bloody idiot."

Fred smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah, but I’m your idiot now, yeah?"

Y/n grinned, tugging him down into another kiss.

And Fred?

Fred was completely okay with that.

A/n: so I wasn't planning on writing a part 2 for this but so many people asked so I hope you enjoy this!!!

#fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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