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jezebelblues · 9 months ago

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𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞.

𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭, 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ fingering, penetration (p in v), a smidge of spanking, mommy issues, 2016!harry, angst, i guess. all in upper case if that gets u goin. fem!reader, unedited cause i fell asleep writing this. gn. mwah :*

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 17k

❏ burning hill by mitski teehee !! was the main inspo for this

not my gif. if u have the info of the original creator, lmk so i can appropriately credit them.

masterlist

It’s been fifteen months since the group announced their hiatus.

Phone calls became scarce, and so many words were left unspoken, drifting into that space where they might never find their way back. For the first time in years, he felt free—untethered from the rhythm of living intertwined with three other lives. At first, the quiet felt unbearable, like the silence after the crowd fades and the lights go down. But slowly, the loneliness began to feel like home. A strange sort of comfort in the quiet. He found a semblance of privacy—at least a bit more than he had in the band.

Harry felt that, since the hiatus, the fans had grown older with him, their wide-eyed fascination dulled by time and reality. There were fewer frantic moments, fewer desperate hands pulling at him. Now, on a good day, he could stroll through his hometown, maybe get stopped for a polite photo. Occasionally, there were still shadows trailing him—paparazzi or a fan trying to be invisible but failing, always just out of reach. He didn’t like it, not really, but he’d learned to live with it. It’s what came with the territory, a price he thought he’d long accepted.

But it was the writing that kept him grounded. Kept him real. The one thing that still felt like his own. His debut album was close to finished now, though the mixing, the rewrites, the constant tweaking—it never felt like enough. There was this tightness inside him, a knot of anxiety that refused to unravel. Would anyone like Harry styles, the solo artist? Or would they always only care about Harry, the boy in the band?

He wasn’t ungrateful, not for a second. But deep down, he craved something more. He needed the space to finally figure out what he wanted, to break free, to become something else entirely. Something new.

It’s been eight months since he met YN.

It was happenstance, through his manager—though sometimes Harry liked to imagine it was fate. It was one of those coincidences that felt too deliberate to be real, like something out of a half-finished song. She was Jeff’s goddaughter, on the periphery of his world, but until then, she’d been just another name mentioned in passing.

YN started her internship at the recording studio in the beginning of April of this year. She moved to New York with a close friend shortly after her twenty first birthday, saving up for what felt like forever, and Jeffery instantly had the idea of corroborating with the studio about an internship. He knew of her uncertainty about the future. He knew about the interest in music YN had, and he wanted to give her a chance.

Jeff had told her it was a paid internship, though it really wasn’t. He was the one who was paying her through check, under the guise of the studio. She would freak if she found out, turning it all down—Jeff knew that all too well.

Her first month was moreso about passing time. She’d work on any logistics, learning about the soundboard and how it worked hand in hand with the recording aspect, not to mention the process of remastering, mixing, finalizing. Harry was in and out those first three weeks, still finishing up a few interviews and whatnot. YN talked to him a few times when he’d pop in before taking off again, he was sweet. Still, she needed something to do until he was finally able to settle down to focus on one of the last stretches of the album—and giving her busywork was just that.

She wasn’t supposed to be at the office that day in May, but Jeff made her come along before they would continue their constant work at the drawing table, in the booth. It was the day he decided to cut his hair—and there she was, sitting quietly on the edge of the room, trying not to be seen, caught up in the swirl of conversations she didn’t quite belong to yet. There was something about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on. The way she observed everything, but didn’t feel the need to make herself known. A quiet confidence, maybe, or just a complete lack of pretense.

When she offered to help with the cut, everyone laughed, but he said yes. He didn’t know why, maybe because she didn’t treat it like this big, defining moment. The whole world was making such a fuss about his hair, like that was all he was, all he’d ever be. But YN? She just smiled, grabbed the scissors, and got to work. No ceremony, no theatrics—just a few careful snips, and suddenly he was lighter, like he could breathe again.

Afterward, they’d joked about how she should switch careers. But she’d only smiled that same quiet smile and said she was more interested in being on the other side of music. She was learning everything she could. At first, she was just there, hovering at the edge of things. But before long, she was everywhere. Quietly slipping into conversations, offering up ideas that stuck with him long after she’d left the room.

She wasn’t like the people he usually worked with. She wasn’t starry-eyed, wasn’t afraid of him or the idea of him. YN spoke to the brunette like he was just a guy making music, figuring things out. And maybe that’s what drew him in, slowly at first, then all at once. She didn’t see Harry Styles, the soloist. She saw Harry—the restless, uncertain man who wasn’t sure if he was running from his past or trying to carve out a future. He was human, an equal, not an enigma.

He caught himself thinking about her more than he should, replaying their conversations in his head when he was alone in his flat, the silence pressing in around him. She had this way of getting under his skin without even trying, making him wonder if he’d been doing everything wrong up until now. Or maybe, just maybe, she was the first person to make him feel like he didn’t need to have all the answers.

There was something magnetic about her, a pull he couldn’t quite shake. He’d see her in the studio, headphones on, scribbling notes on a track they’d been working on, her brow furrowed in concentration. She cared about the music, really cared, and he respected that more than he could say. In the rare moments she’d look up and catch him watching, she’d smile—soft and unassuming, as if she wasn’t at the center of this storm he was slowly getting lost in.

He’d thought about it, late at night when the studio was empty, and all he had were his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if it was the music that kept him coming back, or if it was something else entirely.

But the truth was, ever since she walked into his life, the world didn’t feel as heavy. It didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

YN had a quiet way of carrying herself, something light and untouchable, like she’d mastered the art of being present without ever fully giving herself away. It was part of what made her so magnetic, Harry thought, but it also kept her at arm’s length—just out of reach. The more time he spent with her, the more he sensed there were pieces of her story she wasn’t ready to share, things she held onto with a grip so tight, it almost hurt to watch.

Her father had been older when she was born, older than Jeff was, at least—a man who had already been through his share of mistakes and regrets by the time he met Jeffery in college. YN’s dad had been trying to start over, to build something solid for himself after years of wandering. They clicked right away—two guys who didn’t have much in common on the surface, but who understood each other in the ways that mattered. Jeff was young, still wide-eyed and ambitious, while YN’s father had lived a little longer, seen more of the mess the world had to offer. They bonded over that, and when YN was born, Jeff had been right there, practically family.

YN’s mother had left when she was just a baby. No warning, no messy custody battle, just gone. Her dad was the moon, always there—faintly during the day when he worked, but always present by night. Her mother was a solar eclipse, popping up in certain areas every now and then, but never staying. Maybe she’d call and wish her a belated happy birthday, or send a card for Christmas that year. She was always fleeting. And YN thought herself the stars, always there, always ever connected to the two despite time and space.

So, her father had raised her on his own, doing his best with what little he had. Jeff had been named godfather not long after her birth, and though he didn’t say much about it, YN knew he’d always carried a quiet kind of guilt. Like maybe if he’d been around more, her life might’ve been different. She never blamed him, of course—she adored Jeff, looked at him like he was some kind of anchor in her life, a second father figure, someone she could always count on. But there was no denying that a part of her had been shaped by absence, by the cold reality of her mother’s abandonment.

She didn’t talk about her mother much. When they’d first started getting to know each other, Harry had asked her once—offhandedly, without thinking—and the way her expression shifted, the way her walls shot up so quickly, he knew not to push. He’d seen it before, in himself, the instinct to hide away when the past felt too close.

Harry didn’t know much about her. They hadn’t talked about personal things, not really. Her past wasn’t something she talked about, not with anyone, and especially not with people like Harry—people who had the world’s attention, people who might think she was just another girl with a tragic backstory. But he knew she was Jeff’s goddaughter, that she was interning at the studio, trying to figure out if music was the career she wanted. He knew her favorite artist and color, knew her favorite subject in school and her best friend’s name—Marisol. He knew she preferred sunsets over sunrises, mountains and forests over beaches. But it felt superficial, barely scraping the surface. He wanted to know more. She seemed talented, driven, but there was something else—something in the way she held herself back.

There were moments when he’d catch her smile, but it was always soft, fleeting. Like she was offering a glimpse of something deeper but never letting him get too close. It intrigued him, the way she could be so kind yet so guarded, as if she’d learned not to give too much away. It was a look he recognized, one he saw in himself sometimes, when the weight of expectations and the uncertainty of his solo career pressed too heavily on his shoulders. But with YN, it felt different. It felt like something that had been there long before she ever stepped into the studio.

Moving to New York had been her way of starting over. She’d wanted to escape the weight of her past, to carve out a life that was her own. Jeff had given her that opportunity, and even though she hadn’t been sure it was what she wanted at first, she found herself falling into the rhythm of it. The work was hard sometimes, but it felt good, like maybe she was finally building something of her own. But even here, in this new city with new faces, YN still felt that familiar pull—the instinct to keep her distance, to protect herself from getting too attached.

He wasn’t sure she’d let him in, anyway. YN was like that—careful, cautious. Maybe she always would be.

In June, a little over two months since YN started working in the studio, she and Harry had formed an easy, steadying friendship. YN wasn’t like most people in his world. She understood his music in a way that felt rare—intimately, deeply, as if she could feel the weight of each word before he even sang it. It touched him more than he could admit.

But as much as he was drawn to her, Harry could sense the distance she kept between them. It wasn’t obvious, not in a way anyone else would notice, but there was a part of YN that stayed hidden. She had a warmth to her—she was kind, smart, and always knew exactly what to say when he asked for her help. But when it came to the deeper parts of herself, the parts Harry desperately wanted to know, she stayed locked away. He saw it in the way she smiled when something hit too close to home, or the way she never let conversations stray too far from the task at hand. It was as though she’d built an invisible wall around herself, and no one—not even him—was allowed through.

But he knew better than to push. For now, their connection revolved around the music.

Sometime in early June, they were hunched over in their usual studio chairs, working on the final track of his debut album. The song had taken weeks to perfect, but they were close now—closer than they had been. From the Dining Table was raw, achingly personal and YN, somehow, had helped him shape it into something even more honest than it had started.

“What if you lean into the third verse more?” She suggested, her pen tapping the page thoughtfully. "The emotion's there, but it's like you're not letting yourself feel it fully. Especially in that second verse–maybe one day you’ll me, and tell me that you’re sorry, too. You're pulling back right when you should lean into it."

Harry stopped playing with the strings on his guitar and looked up at her, brow furrowed. "What do y’mean?"

She hummed, biting her lip as she considered the words, her fingers brushing the edge of the paper. “Maybe drop the keys lower in the last chorus..” She trailed off, lost in her own thought process. She shifted in her chair, leaning forward slightly as she studied the lyrics. "It's heavy, but it could be even more vulnerable. You're singing about something really personal here, about the kind of loneliness that feels like it's eating you alive. But in the melody, it feels..safe. I think you need to make the vocals feel a bit more broken, like you're barely holding it together. Let the silence in the song do some of the work. Think about pulling back on the production, too–keep it more stripped down.” She laughed lightly, a bit sheepish. “If that makes sense.”

Harry nodded slowly, the words hanging in the air between them. She got it. She always got it. The lyrics had been twisting inside him for weeks, and it was YN’s careful guidance that had finally helped him pull them into something real, something tangible. He picked up his guitar, adjusting the chords she mentioned, and played the verse again. The notes hung heavier in the air this time, more space, more quiet.

“There.” YN murmured. “That’s what it needed—the space between the words, the silence. That's where the emotion is."

For the next few hours, they went back and forth, fine-tuning the melody and adjusting the lyrics. YN suggested cutting down the instrumentation, making it feel more intimate, like a conversation Harry was having with himself. And as the song started to take shape, Harry felt a weight lifting. It’s what he wanted for the song, it deserved this rawness, this vulnerability.

Over the next two weeks, they worked tirelessly on the track, tweaking the lyrics, adjusting the production. YN had suggested subtle changes in the arrangement—adding faint background harmonies, letting the piano take the lead in certain sections. It was her idea to introduce a low hum in the final chorus, something atmospheric that made the song feel like it was dissolving into the empty spaces of the room. Harry trusted her instincts completely by now, her intelligence and understanding of the music so sharp that he barely needed to question her advice. She had a way of knowing what the song needed, even when he couldn’t see it himself.

By the time they reached the last day of recording that track, the song had transformed into something that felt like a piece of his soul, laid bare for the world to hear. It was time to play it for the team, to record the final version that would make it onto the album. She didn’t hear it in its entirety yet, only the parts Harry would reveal that he wanted insight on.

The band was ready, gathered behind their instruments, and the rest of the team sat in the control room, waiting to hear what he had spent weeks perfecting. The studio felt heavier than usual, the air thick with anticipation. Harry glanced over at YN, who was standing by the glass that separated the studio from the control room, her arms crossed loosely in front of her. She was watching him, as she always did, but there was something different in her eyes tonight. He couldn’t place it—something softer, more vulnerable than usual.

Harry picked up his guitar, gave the band a nod, and stepped up to the mic. The first notes echoed through the room, soft and haunting. His voice followed, low and steady, each lyric pouring out an isolation he had written into the song, each verse dripping in melancholy. The room around him seemed to blur, and for a moment, it was just him, the music, and the truth of what he was singing.

“Maybe one day you’ll call me, and tell me that you’re sorry, too.”

His voice cracked slightly on the word sorry, just as it had in practice. But this time, it felt different. More real. More final.

As the song continued, Harry’s gaze flickered over to YN. She was still standing by the glass, but something had changed. Her arms had fallen to her sides, and her eyes were fixed on him, wide and shimmering with unshed tears. It was subtle at first—a quick blink, a shift of her expression—but then he saw it. A tear slipped down her cheek, and YN quickly brushed it away, trying to hide the emotion that was overtaking her.

But she couldn’t. Not this time.

By the time the song ended, the room was filled with the soft, fading echoes of the final notes. Harry stood still, the guitar resting against his chest, his breath uneven. He watched as YN slowly stepped forward, closer to the glass, her eyes still glistening. She rested her hand gently on the pane, the only thing separating them, and gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It was all he needed. That nod, that single moment of unspoken approval, meant more than words ever could. She understood—she always had. But seeing her moved by the song, seeing the tears she tried so hard to hide, told Harry more about her than she’d ever let on.

For the first time, Harry felt like he had reached her core, even if just for a second. And as the team buzzed with quiet admiration for the track, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from YN. Because in that small, fragile moment, she had let her walls down. Just enough.

And Harry realized, standing there with the music still humming through his veins, that maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt something more between them. Maybe YN wasn’t as unreachable as he had once thought.

July had seemed to’ve breeze past, almost gone in a daze. It was Friday, and there would only be two more Fridays left till they would have to flip the colander pages to August. The heat of the day still mingled in the air as the studio settled into its usual weekend quiet. The crew had all left for the night, tired but satisfied after wrapping another long day of recording. The album was nearing completion, and the tension that had built up over the past few months was finally starting to lift. Harry could feel it—the sense of relief, of something monumental coming to an end—but there was still so much hanging in the air between him and YN, at least that’s what he felt.

They were alone in the lounge now, the soft glow of the low lights casting faded shadows on the walls. YN sat on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she sipped from a recently topped-off flute of champagne, her eyes tired but content. They had opened the bottle to celebrate finishing another track, Two Ghosts. YN wasn’t there when the production first started for this song, only there for the finalized remastering of it that finished today—and she had insisted he must celebrate, the fizzy sweetness a small reward for everything he’s been pouring into the album.

"Cheers!” Harry had laughed, clinking his glass against hers with a lopsided grin. "One more down."

He didn’t quite remember what glass he was on, but he could feel the familiar buzz of being tipsy, like he could float. Besides the lounge, the rest of the building was dark, only light seeping through was from the city outside. Harry leaned back against the arm of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, the remnants of his drink swirling lazily in his glass. He felt relaxed—more relaxed than he had in weeks. Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was the fact that they were finally nearing the end of the album. But it wasn't just that. It was YN, too.

And god, she looked gorgeous.

She dressed down for the day, knowing it was Friday and she could fall into bed as soon as she got home. A hoodie hung loosely over her frame, the pair of lounge shorts coming a little bit above her mid thigh. The alcohol seemed to give her eyes more of a sparkle, her skin flush—Harry wondered if alcohol could make him look as pretty as she, but he ended up on the conclusion of probably not.

“I know I said this already.” She giggled, taking a sip of the bubbly. Her smile was hazy, eyes clouded over. “But the song sounds great.” She enthusiastically sent him a thumbs up, the bottom of his feet against the bend of her knees as his legs remained sprawled out over the couch. The curly haired boy already asked if he should move to give her more space, but her dismissal was a shouted, pleading whine of no, stay! “You should be famous or something.” She sent him a wink, and he couldn’t stifle the laughter that escaped him from how slow and exaggerated she’d done it.

The lightness in the air was contagious, and they both seemed to be floating, untethered and free from the usual tension. He rested his temple against the back cushion of the sofa, his lazy grin seemingly impossible to wipe off. “Dunno, sounds like a lot of work. Maybe I’ll jus’ start a bakery instead.” He shrugged, taking a swig of what was left in the flute after parting ways between his head and the cushion beside him. “Styles’ Pies, what d’you think?”

YN snorted, nearly spilling her champagne as she pictured it. “You? In a bakery? I don’t even think you can make toast without burning it.”

Harry’s eyes widened in mock offense. “Hey, m’great in the kitchen. You’ve just never seen me in action.”

“Oh really?” YN arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. She set her glass down on the table, waving her hand as if conducting an imaginary cooking show. “Alright, Chef Styles, what’s your signature dish? Burnt toast with a side of undercooked eggs?”

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “I’m never gonna live that down, am I? That was one time!”

“Ah-ha!” She teased, biting her lip to hold back another laugh. “You know, they might not even let you into the bakery with that track record. Health code violations, and all.”

“Oh, come on!” Harry huffed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually a master at making..” He paused, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Pancakes.”

YN burst into laughter again, this time nearly doubling over, gently clasping her fingers around his ankles for support. “Pancakes? Oh god, I bet you’d flip them right onto the floor.”

“Oi, that’s not true!” Harry was laughing now too, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the easy back-and-forth. YN had placed her hands back into her lap after grabbing her glass again, legs still tucked underneath her. “I’ve got skills. Just wait. I’ll cook f’you one day, and you’ll be begging for more. You’ll never want to leave m’kitchen.”

She wiped away a tear from her drunken laughter, a banter that probably would not be as entertaining if she was sober. “We’ll see about that. I��ll be your taste tester—but don’t be mad if I spit it out.”

“Oh, y’ruthless tonight, huh?” He nudged her playfully with his foot, legs still draped along the sofa. “Well, if pancakes don’t win y’over, I’ll just serenade you with some of m’songs. You won’t stand a chance.”

YN’s laughter turned into a snort as she brought the flute to her lips, taking another sip before grinning at him. “Woo me with your guitar? Play a little ditty about burnt toast?”

Harry leaned forward, dramatically mimicking strumming an invisible guitar, his expression serious as he sang, “Maple syrup, coffee, pancakes for two..”

YN feigned a cringe, holding her ands out in front of her as if to block the very sight of him. The tune was cute, but she would never admit that. Harry could barely keep it together as he leaned back against the sofa’s arm, rolling his eyes as she finally lowered her hands. “And I’ll have you know I worked n’a bakery in Holmes Chapel, favorite employee, too.”

“My god, aren’t you a prodigy?” She smiled, tilting her head to the side as if pretending to be bashful. “Singer, songwriter, baker of the month.”

“Y’damn right.”He tipped an imaginary hat on his head, “I contain multitudes.” He winked, a better one that YN had sent earlier, his grin wide and a little bit tipsy.

They sat in the comfortable silence that followed, both of them still chuckling under their breath, the champagne buzzing through their veins like a soft lullaby. Harry glanced over at YN, her face flushed from laughter, her body relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen before. She looked free. Happy. And it did something to his chest, a tug he couldn’t ignore.

“Hey.” he said softly, stretching his ankle ever so slightly to gently nudge her knee with his foot. “Y’having fun?”

She nodded, her smile softening as she glanced at him. “Yeah. I am.” Her voice was quieter now, the playful energy of a moment ago still lingering, but with something else creeping in. Something softer, more intimate.

Harry smiled back, his heart doing that stupid fluttering thing it always did around her. “Good, m’glad.”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her words coming out slower, as if she was trying to steady herself. “You’re..not what I expected.”

Harry tilted his head, a curious smirk tugging at his lips. “What’d y’expect?”

She hummed, “Don’t know.” She said with a shrug, her fingers tracing absentminded circles on the cushion. “Someone a little more, I don’t know–untouchable? Like, y’know, the harry styles,’ the big deal. But you’re just harry styles, my friend.”

He laughed softly, playing with the hem of his bright pink shorts. “Jus’ me, huh? Guess that’s not s’bad.”

“It’s not.” She smiled, her eyes locking with his, and for a moment, something passed between them. Something heavier, like an acknowledgment of everything unspoken.

Harry shifted, suddenly aware of how close they had gotten during her revelation. His hand, which had been resting on her knee, slid a little higher, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her thigh. The playful banter was still there, but it was quieter now, replaced by a tension that neither of them could deny any longer.

“Y’know.”she said, breaking the silence with a small smile. “I still don’t believe you can make pancakes.”

His eyes darkened with a mixture of amusement and something deeper as he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “Maybe I should make you breakfast tomorrow morning then.”

YN’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening at his words, and she opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, Harry’s lips were on hers. She instantly melted into it, as if an instinct. However, after a beat, the palm of her hand pressed against his shoulder. Their lips slowly separated, strings of saliva snapping at the middle from their mutual departure. Her breath rose and fell rapidly, a small smile on her lips. “How are you gonna make pancakes at the st–.”

Harry had cut her off with a groan, but it was humorous, mixed with his giggles. “Y’stopped that t’get technical?”

YN shrugged before pulling him back into the kiss, unwavering, still. It was tentative for a moment, as if he was waiting for her to push away again, but she didn’t. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, lips in sync as she deepened their kiss.

The taste of the fruity champagne lingered between them, intoxicating and heady. It grew hungrier, more desperate as if months of unresolved tension had finally snapped. YN’s tongue found itself swiping a soft stripe against his bottom lip, a heavy sigh emerging from him as his fingers brushed along the hem of her hoodie, slipping his hands underneath, his palm resting on the warm curve of her waist.

“H–” She whispered against his lips, her voice breathy, almost a plea. But it wasn’t a plea to stop—it was a plea for more.

His name on her lips drive him mad. With a low grown, he shifted, pulling her into his lap in one fluid motion. Her legs straddled him, holding herself as close to him as she could, their kisses turning feverish. His large hands pulled her even closer—not a centimeter of space to be left. He parted his lips, a broken breath tumbling from his mouth as she started to roll her hips against his growing cock stuck underneath the hot pink shorts.

His ring clad fingers slip father up her hoodie, the coolness of the medal a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off the both of them. Harry tugged on the fabric, pulling it over her head in a rush, revealing the thin bralette underneath. “Fuck–” He mumbled, breath caressing her skin as his lips skimmed the bone of her jawline, placing a slow, tentative kiss right at her pulse point. “So beautiful.” He was drunk in the moment that was her—figuratively and literally—his voice distant and light, like a voice breaking through a daydream.

She rolled her hips harder against him as his hands slipped under the hem of her shorts, lips sloppily trailing her chest, her nose buried in his curls. A soft moan is drawn from her as Harry’s hands grip her ass, aiding her movements of dry humping his cock. His tongue grazed the fleshy part of her breast that threatened to spill out of her bra, a shuddering exhale brushing from her lips, right into his disheveled locks.

She hastily cups his chin, pulling him from her chest to messily kiss him again. She wanted to taste the faint peach on his tongue from the champagne, to feel the stubble above his lip tickling against her. They both moaned into each other’s mouths, her fingers running down his shirt, tugging at the hem. He smiles, parting from her to pull his shirt off. It was rushed, his chin getting caught in the collar which made laughter sit between them comfortably. YN gently helps him pull the shirt from his head. It was discarded somewhere on the floor, its whereabouts not a priority.

Their cheeks are flush, lips plump and vibrant as they fall into each other’s eyes—their giggles fading out and their heavy breaths replacing it. “I want you.” She whispered, her gaze trailing from his eyes, to his lips, along the markings of his torso, then back up again.

He nodded, pressing his forehead against hers with a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

She hummed, though it sounded similar to a purr—a divinely feminine melody that made him twitch under the fabric that held him from her. “Yeah.”

He gives her a quick peck before tapping her thigh and guiding her off his lap. He looks at her as his thumb slips under the waistband of both his shorts and boxers, his glance expectant of some sort of approval or denial.

Her hands reach back behind her, unclasping the bra and letting the straps fall from her shoulders; to which he took that as his go ahead. Harry bucks his hips from the couch, tugging the clothing down his legs and letting it fall onto the floor. His cock slapped against his abdomen from the sheer force of how quickly he freed himself. It was bigger than she had expected, the head a pretty pink that glistened with precum.

He didn’t give her a chance to react for herself as he pulled along her bare waist, ushering YN back onto him. He planted kisses along her breast, the hem of her shorts sitting right against his chest, his large hands holding her inches above the cock she so desperate to fill herself up with.

His tongue encircled the bud of her nipple, one hand still gripping her ass to keep her pressed against his chest, above his length—while the other fell a tad lower, his index and middle finger slipping underneath the leg of her shorts and panties, brushing along her wet folds.

She could feel his lips spread into a smirk before he began to suck on her nipple. She buried her face into his curls, grasping onto the roots as his digits sat at the entrance of her core, heat radiating from her cunt as her arousal soaked the tips of his fingers. She whimpers, wanting to grind down on them and fill her up until his knuckles sat harshly against her folds, but he held her in place—the grip on the soft part of her ass feeling rougher. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, though her face is hidden in his hair, he still revels in it. “Y’that desperate for it, hm?”

She nods against the top of his head, eyes squeezing shut. “Yes, Harry.” She whined, fingers tightly laced between his locks. “Fuck–please, I need it.”

His mouth finds its way back to her tits as he eases his thick fingers into her cunt, tauntingly slow. Her walls fluttered around him, a soft moan escaping her as he pumped his fingers in and out, the sound of her wetness was hot, filthy—the way it bounced around the room. It only made him harder knowing that no one else will know what happened here besides them.

He curls his digits into a spot that makes her hips buck harder against his chest, a yelp emitting from the top of her throat, which he takes as a moment to smack the fleshy part of her ass, it wasn’t very hard, as if he was testing the waters to try to understand what she needed. Judging from the noises she made, and how her bum seemed to push a slight wiggle into the palm of his hand, he figured she liked it.

He pumps his fingers faster, his knuckles almost pounding against her core as he sneaks the opportunity to spank her again. A string of profanities and whiny pleas fell from her, her hands falling to a grip on his shoulders as he coaxed her to the brink of coming on just his fingers alone.

His lips are sloppy against her chest, more focused on how his digits buried themselves into her pussy. Her words aren’t coherent, a ringing faint in her ears as she tightens around him, her hips erupting into a shudder as she rides out her orgasm. He lightens the grip from her bum, allowing her to roll her hips with his fingers still deep inside her, basking in how she tried to milk herself of every drop she could.

Once her movements still, he slowly pulls out of her, the two making eye contact as he brings the two fingers to his mouth, wrapping his lips around them prettily, licking her arousal from the source.

Her breaths were heavy, eyes darkened as she watched the dirtiest thing play out in front of her. His eyes flutter to a close, a smirk speaking across his lips as if it was the most heavenly thing he’s tasted; she already feels the knot in her tummy tightening again.

She pulls him into a kiss, meeting each other harshly as she tastes herself from his lips. His hands brush along the small of her back, then to her hips, slipping the shorts and panties down her legs and off her ankles with an awkward, momentary shift in position to do so. She lowers herself as much as he’d allow, his lips stilling as he feels her heat against the head of his cock. He pulls away slightly, forehead against hers with a small flicker of disappointment on his features. “I don’t have a condom.” His voice low and raspy, thick with lust as he held her against him once again, unable to fill herself as she desired.

Her chest rose and fell heavily, eyes meeting his. “M’on the pill.” She whispered, voice breathy and light from her previous orgasm.

His eyebrows furrowed, gaze unwavering in hers. This is something he normally would never do, fucking someone unprotected. But the way his cock ached for her was damn near painful, and he trusted her. A friend he’d come to cherish, although in the back of his mind, he wanted her more than a friend. He darted his eyes between hers and the way her tummy fluttered with heavy breath. His glance was expectant again, silently needing approval to even think of continuing.

She wiggled her hips in his grasp once more, her a whiny plea a soft mutter—and it’s all he needed to hear. She sank onto his length, a slow strain befell them from how he had to ease his cock into her pussy, stretching her out with every upward motion of his hips.

The feeling of him filling her was addicting to both, pleasured sighs and moans emitting from each of them as she adjusted around his length, sinking down the shaft completely. Only a beat had past before she started to roll her hips into him, adjusting to the feeling of him. One hand sat sprawled against her back, will the other remained on her ass. Harry’s head leaned along the edge of the couch, watching through half-lidded eyes at the way her tits moved as she began to bounce on his length, having him draw sharp inhale at the feeling. “Jus’ like that.” He groaned, the hand on her back and bum guiding her movements. “Good girl–y’feel so good, jus–” He cuts off his own sentence with a moan, his head falling forward now, just a bit. His forehead grazed along her shoulder—barely—every time she’d bob up the length of his cock. “Like that, bunny–fuck.” His voice was breathy, listening to the pretty moans that escaped her and the way her cunt sounded riding his cock.

His hand slid down her back, both gripping her ass a bit roughy as he guided her movements with more force. Her lips fell agape, a whimper falling out now and then as Harry held her weight as if it was nothing, moving her up and down his thick cock with an ease that made her cry out his name.

He pushed and pulled her onto him greedily, her head falling onto his shoulder as he rested his chin on hers, watching as he pounded her onto the base of his length. The sharp sounds of skin against skin mixed in with their moans, a cacophony of their pleasure filling the lounge.

He loosened his grip from her bum, smacking her ass as his other hand gathered her hair into his fist, jerking her head back to force a semblance of eye contact. The palm of his other hand rested over her thigh, continuing to guide her movements though the momentum from her own hands against his shoulders was enough.

He knew he was close, and the way her noises got louder, how her cunt tightened around him—Harry knew she was close, too. The tiny fraction of him that held an ounce of logic through his drunken pleasure told him to pull out, but it fell to the back of his mind, silenced with the sound of his own moans and the way his length twitched, the knot in his belly rounding tightly. “Look at me.” He forced through a grunt, his toes curling against the carpet and his jaw tightened as he tried to stall his release.

The grip on his shoulders was lethal, though the only thing he could feel was her pussy fluttering around him. Her hair was still balled tightly in his fist, craning her head into a position where their foreheads were only a few inches away—the only thing that would keep her from looking if she closed her eyes. She wouldn’t though.

His hand pushed harder against her thigh, both of their skin flushed a pink from the force of the contact of the way her ass and thighs slapped along his pelvis. “Say my name–” His groan was guttural, as if he was teetering on the edge of losing his composure. With his grip still in her hair, he pressed her forehead into his, both slick with a gleam of sweat. “When you come—say it.” He grunted, eyes meeting hers once again. “Or I won’t let you.”

She felt her legs to tremble, her lips parting as the cries and whimpers of his name escaped her like a mantra. His chest rose and fell unevenly, pressing her forehead into hers further as they met their release simultaneously. Thick ropes of come fill her cunt to the point where it drips out around him. Their breaths are heavy and quick, his hands soft against the skin of her legs as they tremble, pressing his lips atop her shoulders as she sinks into his chest.

The next morning arrived in a hazy blur. The sky was gray as it prepared itself for a summer thunderstorm. The pitter-patter of rain hitting the window caused him to stir first, a wince from feeling the stiffness in his neck before anything else. His back was pressed awkwardly into the couch, his arm draped around something soft and warm. He blinked his eyes open, the dull light from the stormy sky offering not very much of anything as it bled through the blinds. The familiar scent of the studio mixed with something more intoxicating—YN.

He nudged his chin down to glance at the girl curled up on his chest, his shirt from last night adorning her frame as soft snores fell from her mouth. Their legs were tangled together underneath a thin throw blanket with Christmas patterns he didn’t remember grabbing before passing out. The events of last night came in a rushed haze from the smell of the champagne on his own breath. He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, but the movement pulled YN from her slumber. She let out a small groan before nuzzling deeper into his bare chest, not wanting to let go of the warmth.

The smell of Harry’s cologne caused her eyes to peel open, her brow furrowing in confusion as she took in her surroundings.

“Morning.” Harry had rasped out, voice still thick with sleep.

She blinked, and then placed her palms against his chest to push herself up. She glanced around the studio with the turn of her head, then back at Harry with an unreadable expression. Her hair was disheveled, Harry’s discarded shirt hung loosely around her—she could feel the thickness of his come seeping out of her, pooling in her underwear and forming a dampened spot. “Oh my god.”

He winced involuntarily, and this time it wasn’t from the ache in his neck. “Um.” He paused, voice cautious. “Yeah.”

YN bit her lip, sitting up fully as she slipped into a spot between his thighs. The cushion was soft against her bum as she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “Yeah.” She echoed his words, unsure of what to say.

Harry had scoot up slightly, the small of his back against the arm of the sofa. He rubbed his neck, sighing from the crick he developed for sleeping in such an awkward position. “Are you okay?”

She looked at him, her eyes still a bit dazed from the remnants of sleep and the weight of their shared moment. YN offered him a small smile, “Mhm.” She hummed, but an uncertainty glimmered along the edge of her pupil, unsure of what came next. “Not exactly used to waking up like this, I guess–but I’m okay.”

He nodded slowly, though a frown threatened to spread across his lips. He reached out hesitantly, palm resting on her knee as he sighed. “You regret it?” He asked, though it sounded rhetorical.

Her face seemed to soften at his words, sincerity and a hint of hurt evident in his expression. A furrow formed in her forehead as she shook her head, placing a hand on top of the one he sat on her knee. “No, H. ‘Course not.” She paused, shifting in her seat before forcing herself to stand, his hand slipping from her knee back into his own lap. It felt cold, and he knew she was pulling away. She very quickly stripped Harry’s shirt off—to which he averted his eyes to the ground—shrugging back on her own hoodie and shorts.

“YN.” Harry mumbled, his voice shaking as he pulled his shirt back over his head. She seemed distracted, slipping her shoes back on and putting her phone into the hoodie pocket before she trailed back toward Harry, gazing down at where he sat on the couch. He had looked at her the way he always seemed to look at her, eyes full of things that would stay unsaid. “What does this mean?”

She kneeled before him almost immediately, combing her fingers through his hair in a moment of comfort. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.” Her voice was soft, kind, as if that was the thing he wanted to hear. “We’re friends, this won’t make it weird, okay?”

He could feel his heart sink into his stomach as he nodded with slight trepidation, wishing she would just open herself up and allow him to hold her, to show her that he wouldn’t let go. “I don’t regret it, never ever.” She murmured, ducking her head down a bit to meet his gaze that seemed to lower at her words. “I swear it.”

He forced a smile, her hand pulling away from his curls—the curls she previously moaned into, the hair that she tangled her fingers in from an orgasm that crashed over her like a wave. He swallowed dryly as she back stood up, still not looking away from him. A defeat settled over him, an impatient longing as he realized if he was ever going to have a chance with the woman before him, he’d have to wait. He didn’t know what pain she held, the things she guarded so strongly, but he knew she would have to admit to herself first that she was worthy of something good. Harry parted his lips, taking a deep breath to keep his voice steady. “Stay friends?” He asked expectantly, holding out a pinky to her.

She smiled, a sad one, however. She wanted to wrap him into her arms and apologize for making the choice to walk away, but she felt it was best. YN believed she wasn’t what he deserved, and it would be in his best interest to pretend like everything went back to normal. She lowered her hand, intertwining her pinky with his. “Stay friends.”

On August fourth, The studio was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the late afternoon sun filtering through the one window in the control room. Everyone, besides YN and Harry, went out for their lunch break. Harry had asked if she would help her tweak the soon-to-be third track on the album, Carolina.

Since waking up from the sex they had in the lounge, they hadn’t brought it up—though it didn’t disappear. There would be moments where it loomed over them, heavy and unrelenting. It took everything in them not to bridge that specific gap, took everything in Harry not to bend her over the soundboard to feel her again, took everything in him not to fall to his knees before her, hugging her legs while he cried about how he was helplessly falling for her.

It was the hottest day of the year, and though the air conditioner was humming in a low buzz, the air was thick with warmth. The kind of still, lingering heat that made everything feel slow and hazy, like time itself had paused for a moment. Harry picked up his guitar, fingers brushing over the strings, testing the familiar weight of it in his hands. The sound of the first strum seemed to melt into the air, easy, relaxed, as if the room itself was humming along to the rhythm.

She kneeled down, across from the spot Harry sat on the floor, guitar in lap. She pressed on certain strings on specific parts of the neck, eyes flickering between Harry and the instrument expectantly. They both knew the notes and the chords, the tone it could give. “Try those notes.”She murmured, moving Harry’s Hand from where it sat on the neck to where she wanted his fingers to be. Her touch was delicate, and if Harry didn’t reground himself he would’ve forgot what was happening all together. “Lean into the groove more?” Her words were laced with a light chuckle as she stood up, looking back down at the brunette on the floor. “Loosen up a bassline, could add some layered harmonies, something subtle, but it'll give the track more depth."

Harry's eyes lit up, a spark of excitement that always seemed to come alive when YN shared her thoughts. She had this uncanny way of making the most complex ideas sound simple. He nodded eagerly, strumming a few playful chords, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty studio. "Yeah, that's it.” He whispered to himself excitedly, already hearing the song in his head. He began playing, the cords, melody bright and carefree, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings.

The atmosphere shifted almost instantly—no longer weighed down by deadlines or pressure, but filled with something light. Harry stood up without a word, the grin never leaving his face as he strummed the revisioned tune, the guitar hanging casually from his shoulder as he waltzed across the room, his voice bouncing with the light-hearted lyrics. The brunette’s footsteps were lazy, carefree, his long legs carrying him in wide, exaggerated circles as he moved with the rhythm, his laughter spilling out between the lyrics. It was easy—so easy—that the line between the song and the moment blurred.

“She’s a good girl.”

his voice bright and full of mischief as he twirled past her, catching her eye. He wiggled his eyebrows, a playful challenge, daring her to join in.

YN couldn’t help herself, he was infectious . She laughed, the sound so genuine and pure it filled the air. She pushed away from the soundboard, and before she could even think of hesitation, she was dancing and hopping around in time to the music, letting herself get lost along with him.

“Such a good girl”

She really was, like when he buried himself between her legs a few weeks ago.

The hem of her dainty sundress swept around her shins in a slow, lazy twirl. Her laughter mixed with the sound of the guitar, light and unguarded, like the weight of the world had lifted, just for this one moment.

Harry’s voice followed her as he floated around, his fingers never missing a beat. The melody was effortless, the chords bright and warm like the fading summer light that filled the room. His gaze flicked toward her every few seconds, catching the way she moved, her arms outstretched as she spun in gentle circles, her hair catching the golden light in soft waves.

The whole scene felt like something out of time, like they had stepped into an old, grainy film reel—faded sun, carefree laughter, and the kind of simplicity that made everything else fade into the background. There was no rush, no pressure, just the music and the way they moved through it together.

Harry kept playing, his voice growing louder, more animated, as he circled back to her, his laughter echoing in the small space. He swayed, leaning into the guitar as he strummed, almost tripping over a cable but catching himself at the last second with a dramatic flourish. YN continued her movements, her arms floating through the air, soft and unhurried, like she was dancing with the music itself.

And then, in one smooth motion, Harry waltzed closer, standing just a few feet away from her as he played the final chorus. His smile was wide, eyes bright with the joy of the moment, and YN met his gaze with the same carefree energy, spinning one last time before she collapsed against the stool, breathless from her giggles.

The last chord hung in the air for a moment longer, lingering like the final rays of sunlight spilling through the window. The room was still humming with the energy they’d created, the echoes of their laughter and the bright notes of the guitar lingering in the walls. Harry let the guitar slide gently to his side, leaning against the stool as he caught his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with YN’s, her face flushed and glowing. He was grinning, the kind of grin that reached his eyes and made his dimples crater.

For a second, everything felt perfect, untouched by the noise of the outside world. It was just the two of them, the fading summer light, and the echo of a song that hadn’t yet been recorded but already felt like it was carved into their shared memory.

All he wanted to do was kiss her again.

She was perched on her chair now, her legs crossed, still smiling from their little impromptu dance. She glowed with the warmth of the sun filtering in through the window. The carefree, playful energy between them began to settle, but the air didn’t lose its charge. Instead, something softer slipped into the space between them, a kind of comfortable quiet as they both let the last traces of laughter fade away.

Harry wiped a hand across his forehead, pushing back a few stray curls as he looked over at her, the easy grin still tugging at his lips. The guitar rested against his knee as he sat down, but he didn’t play, didn’t move. He was just watching her now, the way her fingers traced absentminded circles on the edge of the stool, the way her gaze was still bright with that unguarded laughter. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, fully present—and Harry found himself caught in the moment, not wanting it to end.

Just as that night in July, when we pulled her into her chest to sleep for the night—when it felt like he could call her his as he wrapped his arms around her, basking in their afterglow.

YN let out a soft sigh, the last of her breathless laughter leaving her, and when she looked at him, her expression shifted. Something quieter, more serious. The playful glint in her eyes softened into something almost reverent, like she was seeing him—really seeing him.

“You know, Harry.” She smiled, her voice gentle but firm, like she was about to say something important. “This album–” There was a pause as she exhaled through her nose, but it was light from her enthused realization. “It’s going to go down as a classic. It’s real. You’re real. Your talent, the rawness of it—it’s something people won’t forget.”

The words landed between them like a weight, soft but undeniable. Harry felt his heart skip, his smile faltering just slightly as her words settled in. He’d heard compliments before—so many, often thrown around casually—but this… this was different. The sincerity in her voice, the way her eyes held his, unflinching, unwavering, as if she wasn’t just saying something kind, but something true.

For a moment, the room seemed to shift around him. It was like the air grew thicker, the light softer, the world quieter. He felt exposed, in a way he hadn’t expected, like her words had peeled back a layer he’d been hiding under, a layer he hadn’t even realized was there. The compliment wasn’t just about the music, wasn’t just about the work they’d been doing. It felt personal, like she saw him—not the version of him the world saw, not Harry, the soloist, but him, Harry. The guy trying to figure it all out, pouring every piece of himself into this album, hoping that it would matter.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, and for a second, he wasn’t sure what to say.

He thought about telling her thank you.

He thought about remaining speechless.

No one had told him something like that in a long time—not like this, not with this kind of weight. He could feel his chest tightening, his pulse thrumming a little too fast, the gravity of her words sinking deeper than he thought they would.

He thought about her words.

He thought about her.

“YN, I—” He started to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time, he wondered if maybe she understood him more than he’d ever realized. Maybe that was why her words felt so heavy, why they struck him in a way nothing else had. Because they came from her.

He thought about how much he wanted to say he was starting to fall in love with her.

But before he could say anything else, the door to the studio swung open with a loud creak, breaking the moment like a pebble dropped into still water. The team was back, their voices filling the room as they filed in, the soft hum of conversation and the shuffle of papers cutting through the silence that had wrapped around him and YN.

“Alright, alright, back to it.” Jeff chuckled, ever the dad friend, clapping his hands as he made his way toward the control board. The mood shifted, the studio returning to its usual buzz of activity, the easy rhythm of work settling back into place.

Harry blinked, the spell of the moment breaking as he straightened up, shaking off the sudden heaviness in his chest. YN gave him a small, knowing smile, her eyes still holding a trace of the warmth from before, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She’d already said what mattered.

She knew the look in Harry’s eye.

She had thought about how much she missed him.

She thought about how much that scared her.

With a soft sigh, Harry adjusted the guitar on his lap, nodding as the team gathered around, discussing admin details, technical tweaks, and publicity strategies for the album’s release. The room was buzzing again, the easy laughter and lightness of earlier replaced with the steady hum of work. But Harry’s mind was still lingering on what YN had said, the quiet sincerity of her words looping in the back of his mind.

As the evening stretched on, the work became more mechanical—emails, calls, planning—but Harry’s thoughts kept drifting back to her. He couldn’t shake the way she drifted around the room earlier, like a dandelion wisp dancing in the wind. How her laugh sounded so pretty he wanted to put it in a song. How real it had felt when she’d looked at him and told him what his music would become. It was a compliment, sure, but it was more than that. It was a belief. And for the first time in a long while, Harry felt like someone saw him exactly as he was, and believed in him all the same.

That day at the studio soon began to draw to a close, the golden light from earlier now softening into deep ambers and long shadows. The room, once buzzing with activity, had fallen into a more relaxed rhythm as the team packed up their things, saying their goodbyes with tired but satisfied smiles. The project was moving, inching closer to the finish line.

Harry leaned back, watching from the corner of the room as the last of the crew made their way to the door. The sounds of zippers closing and bags being slung over shoulders filled the space, each member of the team calling out their see-you-laters, their voices fading as they spilled out into the hallway. One by one, they disappeared, until the door swung shut with a final, quiet click, leaving just Harry and YN behind.

The silence settled in slowly, wrapping itself around the room like a warm, familiar blanket. It was the kind of silence that felt more like a presence than an absence, thick and heavy with something unspoken. Harry ran his fingers over the neck of his guitar one last time before placing it back on its stand, the metal strings catching the fading light. His movements were slow, almost deliberate, like he was trying to hold on to the quiet a little longer.

He glanced over his shoulder, noticing that YN was still at the small table near the edge of the room, shuffling her things about. She was moving slower than usual, her hands hovering over her notebook, lingering on the scattered papers like she wasn’t quite ready to leave. Harry chuckled softly, the sound breaking the stillness.

“Need help with all that?” he asked, his voice airy, teasing in a way that felt natural between them.

But YN didn’t respond right away. She kept her eyes down, focused on her things, but her movements were stiffer now, less fluid. There was something different in the way she stood there, something quiet but undeniably present—an undercurrent of tension Harry couldn’t quite place. He felt the air shift, that familiar warmth between them suddenly giving way to something more solemn, more guarded.

“YN?” Harry asked, his voice softer now, his smile fading as he stepped toward her. “Everything alright?”

She looked up then, her eyes catching his for the briefest moment before she quickly glanced away again, like she couldn’t hold the gaze for too long. Her expression was calm, but there was a tightness in her jaw, something held back, something she wasn’t sure how to say. She let out a soft sigh, the weight of whatever was on her mind finally beginning to show.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She started, her voice low and measured, like she was carefully choosing each word. “August thirty-first.” She bit the inside of her lip momentarily. “It’ll be my last day here. My internship—it’s ending.”

The words landed between them like a quiet echo, reverberating in the space left behind by the day’s fading energy. Harry felt the weight of them settle in his chest, heavier than he had expected. He knew the internship wouldn’t last forever—of course, he’d known that—but hearing it out loud, hearing it from her, made it feel real in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her, trying to make sense of the sudden tightness in his throat. It felt like the air had been knocked out of him, but he didn’t quite understand why. She was still there, right in front of him, but the idea of her leaving, of this chapter ending, hit him harder than he thought it would.

“Your last day.” He repeated quietly, more to himself than to her, his brows knitting together slightly.

YN nodded, but she didn’t look at him. She busied herself with the papers in her hands, though it was clear she wasn’t really doing anything—just moving things around to avoid the heaviness of the conversation. The atmosphere had changed, charged with an unsaid emotion. It reminded Harry of the way people talk about those long, hot August nights, the kind where the sky is still bright at 9pm, but you can feel autumn creeping in around the edges, making the warmth feel both infinite and fleeting.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet breath as he leaned against the control board. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Part of him wondered if it was because of the sex. A part of him wanted to ask her to stay, to find some reason to keep her there, keep things as they were. But he knew he couldn’t. That wasn’t the way the world worked, no matter how much you wanted to freeze a moment in time.

“How come?” He finally asked, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that mirrored the dimming light of the room.

YN shrugged slightly, her shoulders barely moving. “I’ve known for a bit. It’s temporary, only a summer internship.”

Harry nodded, understanding, though the weight in his chest hadn’t eased. It was hard for him, realizing that after all the late nights, the music, the moments shared, things would change. And YN—who had always kept that quiet distance, who never let anyone too close—wasn’t just leaving the studio. She was leaving him, even if she didn’t mean it that way.

The room felt smaller now, the silence between them growing heavier with every passing second. Harry looked down at his hands, tracing the worn edges of the soundboard with his thumb, searching for something to say that wouldn’t feel like an end.

“I’ll miss you.” He admitted solemnly, the words simple, but honest. They hung in the air like a truth too big for him to admit, they hung in the air like three words she wouldn’t have believed if he said it.

YN smiled then, a small, bittersweet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She still looked guarded, her walls firmly in place, but there was something soft in the way she glanced up at him, like maybe she felt it too—the finality of the moment they were both trying to avoid.

“I’ll miss you, too.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

And for a brief, fragile second, it was just them again, standing in the soft glow of the studio lights, the world outside forgotten. The weight of time, of change, of things left unsaid—all of it hung between them, heavy but delicate, like a glass teetering on the edge of a table.

Harry opened his mouth, wanting to say more, to ask her something, anything to keep her there a little longer. But before he could find the words, the moment slipped away, the weight of reality settling back in as YN turned away, gathering the last of her things.

The light from the hallway spilled into the room as she reached for the door, casting a long shadow across the studio floor. Harry watched as she stepped toward it, his heart heavy with the knowledge that everything was about to change, whether he was ready for it or not.

YN hesitated in the hallway, every nerve in her body begging her to leave. Her heart sat heavy in her chest, tongue in cheek as she turned back around, opening the door back up with trembling fingers. She stood in the doorway, cracked enough for her frame to linger. A stripe of the nauseating white light of the hallway waned over him and he remained in the same place she had left him moments ago. “Harry.” She muttered, her voice low, almost weary. There was something in the way she said his name, something different—like maybe she wanted to say more but didn’t know how to.

He perked up, his tummy doing flips. The pearly glow behind her made her seem ethereal—angelic. “Yeah?” His tone gentle but searching, like he was trying to pull something unspoken out of the quiet between them.

She looked at him then, fully, her eyes catching the last remnants of the dim light in the studio. For a moment, the guardedness slipped, just a fraction, and Harry could see something underneath—something vulnerable, something that felt a little like goodbye.

“I’m really glad I got to work with you.” YN’s voice was delicate, her words carrying a weight that made it threaten to crack. “This–this has been more than I ever could’ve asked for.”

She was referring to more than just the music and the internship.

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know how to tell her that she wasn’t just some random, throwaway intern to him, that these past few months had meant more than just music and late-night studio sessions. She had become a part of his world in a way he hadn’t anticipated, and now that she was leaving, it felt like something vital was being pulled away, leaving him standing on unsteady ground.

“Me too.” He confessed, though he could’ve said more. Harry’s voice was quieter than he intended, his hand running over his face from a feeling he couldn’t admit.

The words hung in the air, soft but honest. YN had seen parts of him that few people did—had understood his music, his vulnerabilities, in a way that made him feel seen. And now, the thought of her not being there—of her walking out that door and leaving all of this behind—made him feel strangely untethered.

YN’s lips curved into a small, almost wistful smile. She looked down at her shoes for a moment, the tip of her sneaker nudging a stray cable on the floor. “I didn’t mean to stay so late.” A weak attempt at lightening the moment. But her eyes betrayed her, the flicker of something deeper still lingering behind her words.

Harry took a step closer, closing the distance between them just slightly. “You know.”Harry mumbled, his tone lighter now, though the heaviness between them still lingered. “This feels a lot like a goodbye when y’have a few weeks still.”

YN glanced up at him, her smile fading into something more thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess we do.” She let out a breathy chuckle, though her voice sounded distant, like she was already somewhere else in her mind.

Silence settled between them again, thicker this time, like the room itself was holding its breath. Harry wanted to say more—wanted to ask her what came next for her, wanted to tell her that maybe things didn’t have to end here—tell her to stay. But he didn’t. The words caught in his throat, tangled up with all the emotions he wasn’t sure how to name.

After a moment, YN shifted her bag on her shoulder and let out a soft breath. “I should get going.” She sighed, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s late.”

Harry nodded, but his chest felt heavy, like he didn’t want her to leave just yet. “Yeah. Right. Let me know you got home okay.”

YN’s smile was small, almost bittersweet. She began to turn in the doorway, her movements slow, like the action of leaving pained her. He sent her a small wave as she gave him one last glance, the door softly clicking shut behind her.

The summer had begun to slip away quietly, the August sun sitting lower in the sky at earlier hours. The air was different that day—thicker, heavier with the weight of something ending. There was a finality to the way the light filtered through the studio’s window, soft and hazy, like the last days of vacation in an old photograph. Everything felt suspended, as though the world was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Harry had known this day was coming. He’d tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the album, on the music, on the thousand little tasks that came with putting it all together. But today was different. No matter how much he had tried to push it out of his mind, the date had circled back around, staring him in the face.

August thirty-first.

YN’s last day.

He arrived at the studio earlier than usual, the streets outside still quiet, the early morning light pale and soft against the burning. The usual buzz of excitement—the thrill of working on his debut album—was muted, overshadowed by the knowledge that by the end of the day, YN would be gone.

As he set his guitar in the corner of the room, he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. She was already there, sitting at her usual spot by the control board, her notebook open in front of her, a pen poised between her fingers. She was focused, scribbling something down, but her movements were slower, more deliberate today. Harry could tell. She knew it too.

The room was quieter than usual, the hum of the equipment the only sound as he walked over to her. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either. It felt like there were a hundred things left unsaid, hanging in the air between them, waiting to be acknowledged. But neither of them said anything. Not yet.

“Morning.” Harry said softly, settling down into his chair across from her. He didn’t dare to greet her with good morning, because it really wasn’t. Not today. He didn’t know when it would be again.

“Morning.” She murmured, voice almost resigned, not looking up from her notebook. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Harry felt his chest tighten.

They spent the morning working in the usual rhythm, going over the last details of the album. It should have been a day like any other, but there was a tension under the surface, something neither of them could quite shake. Every moment felt like it was leading up to something, like the end was creeping closer with each passing minute.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, the studio had filled with the usual buzz of people—producers, assistants, technicians—all busy, all focused. But Harry’s mind was somewhere else. He kept glancing over at YN, watching the way she moved around the studio, the way she interacted with everyone, like it was just another day. But he could see it in the way she lingered on certain tasks, the way her eyes scanned the room as if she was memorizing it.

It was nearing the end of the day when the rest of the team began wrapping up, gathering their things, making plans for the next session. The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting the room in that soft, golden light that made everything feel both beautiful and bittersweet. Harry watched as the others said their goodbyes to YN, one by one, thanking her for her work, telling her to stay in touch. She smiled, gracious as ever, but there was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were already one foot out the door.

And then, it was just the two of them.

The door clicked shut behind the last person, and suddenly the room felt much bigger, the space between them much quieter. Harry stood by the window, his hands in his pockets, watching the light fade as the day slipped into evening. YN was still by the control board, slowly packing up her things—her notebook, her pens, the little scraps of paper she’d scribbled ideas on over the past few months. Her movements were slow, deliberate, holding onto to the moment just a little longer.

Harry turned to face her, his pulse thrumming a little too fast. He wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t prepared for this moment, not really. He had spent the last few weeks trying to avoid thinking about it, but now, standing there in the dimming light, he realized he still didn’t want her to leave.

“Are you all set?” He asked quietly, his voice sounding too casual for how much dread he felt inside.

YN glanced up, her eyes meeting his for the first time all day. There was a flicker of something there—something that matched the weight in his chest—but she quickly looked away, zipping up her bag with a small nod.

“I guess so.” She forced a smile, standing up from her chair. “I think that’s everything.”

The silence that followed felt as if nails scratched an old chalkboard, stretching out between them like a line drawn in the sand. Harry took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, trying to find the words he hadn’t been able to say all day. He watched as she slung her bag over her shoulder, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the soundboard one last time, like she was saying goodbye to something bigger than just the room.

Harry wanted to ask her to stay, wanted to tell her that things didn’t have to end here—that maybe, just maybe, there was more for them beyond this room, beyond this summer. But he couldn’t. He knew her too well by now, knew that she had already made up her mind.

“I guess this is goodbye then.” She frowned, eyes glasses over.

His stomach lurched. She had his number, of course, but Harry didn’t know if she would keep in contact. He didn’t know she would erase the summer from her mind to ease her heart. Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat causing him to wince. “Goodbye, YN.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was bathed in the last traces of sunshine, everything feeling suspended in time. And then, slowly, YN stepped toward the door, her fingers brushing the handle. She paused, glancing back at him one last time, her expression unreadable.

And he caught himself. The all too familiar lump in his throat at a dull ache, the tip of his nose tickling as he felt tears well up. His feet moved faster than he could think, just a blink of time, and his hand was wrapped around her forearm, pulling YN away from the door. “That’s it?” He asked, his cheeks flushing red and his voice cracked. “That’s all?”

She frowned, her nostrils flaring as she willed away her tears. She adjusted the tote on her shoulder, averting her gaze from Harry to the wall behind him.

“Stay.” He pleaded, she only shook her head.

Stray tears fell from his eyes, heartbroken. “I can have them extend your internship, or something—please.”

Her eyes met his again, stomach twisting at his tears. “Harry that’s a hand out.” She muttered, sighing with a sadness she tried to push away. “I have to move forward.”

He sniffled, lighting placing his hand on her cheek as he brought her into a kiss. His tears made his lips wet, nose too stuffy to breathe through it—but he didn’t care. He figured this was goodbye, for a while.

Her lips were stilled against his until she melted into it, but it was fleeting. She placed her hand upon the one he had on her cheek, removing it as she pulled her face away. She intertwined her fingers with his, placing a few soft kisses to his knuckles.

He only stood there, lips quivering with tears that were unable to stop. As she began to loosen the grip on his hand, putting his arm back to his side, an audible cry left his mouth. It wasn’t loud, barely above a whisper, but it was there. “Y’pinky promised me.” He shook his head, “That we would stay friends.” He took a deep breath, wiping away some of his tears. “But I know you’re gonna disappear on me.”

This time she let her tears fall, taking a step away—the guilt was allconsiming. “Take care of yourself, H.”

And just like that, she was gone as quick as she came.

But that was two months ago, and Harry was right—she barely kept in contact with him. He tried not to take it personally for a while, seeing as she didn’t update her socials as much either. She disappeared just like a snuffed out flickered flame of a candle.

She would respond occasionally, curious to know if he was okay, how the album was going. It was always fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

But he wasn’t fine, it wasn’t fine. He missed her, Harry felt that she broke their promise. And he wanted to be angry, to block her from his mind, but he couldn’t.

He was planning to fly to LA to finish the rest of the album in late September, but couldn’t do it. He remained in New York, not ready to let go of the many things created in that studio.

It was two in the morning as he stared at the bright glare of his phone, the recently sent attachment of the final cut of Carolina staying the dismal state of delivered.

He knew she had her read receipts on, which is why he didn’t swipe away from their messages—heart thudding against his chest as he waited to see if status would ever change to read.

Of course, undeniably so, the song was about another girl. But now it felt like a contradictory, because the only thing he thought about when listening to it was YN.

He knew now that he loved her, that he was in love with her the minute she sent her nod of approval for the From the Dining Table recording.

He was a walking joke to the saying of, she fell first, he fell harder—because he fell first, and then fell even harder.

Harry groaned, shutting his phone off and letting it slip into his lap as he leaned back onto the bed. The heel of his palm sat against his eyes, the pressure allowing for the kaleidoscope of colors and patterns to play on the inside of his eyelids.

He wondered if slamming his head against the wall would feel better than the ache of heartbreak.

However, he didn’t want to test that theory out. He’ll let it remain as a hypothesis for now.

His hands brushed down to his sides, his vision fading back to normal as he stared at the ceiling. He wanted to see if he could go to sleep, maybe even watch a movie—but his phone vibrated against his thigh and he swore the world stopped spinning on its axis for a beat.

He hesitated to look, if it was another weather notification he would probably lose his mind.

But he sat up anyway, grimacing as he clicked the power button, dreading the possible sight of the familiar blue icon.

Yn: everything i imagined it to be and more

Yn: forever proud of you harry styles

His shoulders faltered, a frown settling upon his lips.

h: I miss you.

YN stared at the message, lips parted. She still sat on the bathroom counter where she had been for the last ten minutes, smooshed close to the mirror in attempt to shape her eyebrows.

But as soon as she saw the song attachment pop up three minutes ago, the tweezers remained in its clattered state in the sink.

When the song emitted from her phone she couldn’t help but smile, she swear she could’ve floated. And then she cried.

h: I have 2 more songs to finalize before we send it through to be released next year.

h: Miss picking your brain.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a pause in her breath. She wasn’t sure what to say. Part of her wanted to respond right away, to fill the silence with words, to close the gap between them that had grown wider with every passing day since she left. But the other part of her—the part that had been protecting her heart all these months—wanted to stay distant, to keep things as they were, safely tucked away in the past.

YN sighed, running a hand through her hair as she glanced at herself in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her. The one who had walked out of the studio with a heavy heart and the quiet resolve to move forward, to start anew. But that resolve was wavering now, and Harry’s words were making it impossible to ignore the ache she’d been trying to avoid.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

h: Still time to come back, you know. We could finish the album together.

Her heart clenched at the invitation. She could picture him, sitting in the dim light of his apartment, maybe lying in bed, the soft glow of his phone the only thing lighting up his face. She imagined the look in his eyes as he typed the words, that same softness she had seen in him so many times before—when they worked late into the night, when he caught her staring too long, when he let his guard down just enough for her to see the vulnerability underneath.

But she had walked away for a reason. She knew what it would do to her—how easy it would be to fall back into the rhythm of working with Harry, of getting lost in his music, in him. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. She wasn’t sure if she could handle the intensity of what lingered between them, the unspoken connection that had grown stronger with every conversation, every glance, every laugh shared.

She didn’t know if she wanted to take the risk to be left again.

h: Please. Just think about it.

Her fingers trembled as she typed, mouth ran dry. She didn’t know what to say, but she knew she couldn’t leave him hanging.

Yn: i’ll think about it

It was short, maybe too short, but it was all she could offer in that moment. She stared at the message for a long time before hitting send, her stomach twisting with the uncertainty of what came next.

On the other end, Harry stared at his phone, his heart sinking as he read her reply. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. It was something in between, something that left him in limbo, waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure would ever come.

He sat there in the silence of his apartment, the city outside moving on as it always did. He wanted to see her again, wanted to finish what they’d started, not just with the music, but with whatever had been building between them all those months. But he knew he couldn’t push her. YN was careful, guarded, and he had learned that the hard way. She had her reasons for keeping her distance, reasons she had never fully shared with him.

But still, he hoped. Hoped that maybe, just maybe, she’d come back. That maybe, for once, she’d take a chance.

And so he waited, the phone resting in his lap, the weight of the unsaid words heavy in the room around him.

The days passed slowly after that, each one blending into the next as Harry focused on finishing the album. He threw himself into the work, pouring all of his energy into the final tracks, refining the sound, changing some lyrics, adding new elements.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. The songs were good—great, even—but without YN’s input, without her presence in the studio, it all felt a little hollow. He missed her—missed her laugh, missed the way she’d furrow her brow when she was deep in thought, missed the way she made him feel like he didn’t have to be Harry Styles all the time. With her, he was just Harry. And that was enough.

He loved her.

He hadn’t heard from her since that night. No messages, no calls. It was like she had disappeared all over again, slipping out of his life as quietly as she had entered it.

It was November sixteenth when his phone buzzed again, a message lighting up the screen. The sky was dull, a harsh breeze whipping around the branches of trees—gearing up for a downpour. His heart raced as he saw her name, his fingers fumbling to unlock the phone.

Yn: you’re in ny still?

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again, not after weeks of silence.

h: Still here. Why?

There was a long pause before her next message came through.

Yn: i’ve been thinking about you

It was as if the system his body needed to stay alive had paused, his mind racing with possibilities. He couldn’t believe it—after all this time, she was finally considering it.

h: If you ever feel ready, I’m right where you left me.

Another pause.

Yn: it was ever just about the album h

Her message hit him like a punch to the chest, the weight of it settling in slowly. He had known—of course, he had known—but seeing it there, written out in front of him, made it all the more real.

Harry stared at the message for a long time, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he tried to find the right words. But what could he say? He felt the same way, had felt it for months, but he hadn’t known how to tell her.

He attempted to, the day she left, cried even. But she walked away before he had the chance to continue.

h: I know.

It was simple, but it was true. He did know. He had known all along.

Yn: are you still recording at the same studio?

Harry’s heart leapt at her words, a surge of hope flooding through him.

h: Yeah, actually here right now. Brainstorming by myself for a bit.

Yn: buzz me in. i’m outside

Harry blinked, rereading the message a few times, the tips of his fingers all pins and needles

Outside.

She was there—outside, in the cold, waiting. Without thinking, he shot out of his chair, the legs scraping the studio floor with a harsh screech. His phone almost slipped from his hand as he fumbled to send her a quick reply. His movements were so frantic he had forgotten to press send.

He grabbed his jacket, threw it over his shoulders, and bolted for the door, his mind racing. She was here.

He wondered if he should slow down, would it be weird to greet her breathless at the door?

He rolled his eyes at himself. stop overthinking.

The hallway lights flickered slightly as he made his way down the corridor, his steps fast. He wasn’t sure what he would say, wasn’t sure what she would say, but none of that mattered. All he knew was that she was here, and that was enough for him right now.

When he finally reached the front entrance, he paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the buzzer. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rush of emotions bubbling inside him. There was a weight to this moment—something bigger than just a simple reunion. He could feel it, like the air had thickened with all the unsaid words between them.

He pressed the button.

A soft buzz echoed through the small space, followed by the familiar click of the door unlocking. Harry pulled it open, stepping out into the crisp November air. The wind whipped around him, biting at his skin, but it didn’t matter because there she was.

YN stood a few feet away, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her hair tousled by the wind. Her face was partially shadowed in the dingy light from the streetlamps, but he could still see her eyes—those same eyes that had watched him in the studio all those months ago, the ones that saw more than most people ever did.

The eyes of a girl he fell so pathetically in love with.

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other in the cold, neither of them moving. It was like time had paused again, just as it had so many times before when they were alone in the studio, surrounded by music but drowning in something deeper. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, unsure how to break the silence.

Finally, YN spoke, her voice quiet but steady, cheeks flushed from both her deepening blush and the cold. “Hi, Harry.”

The sound of her voice hit him like a wave, familiar and comforting, and all the tension he’d been holding onto seemed to unravel at once. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and smiled, though his heart was still racing. “Hi.”

It was such a simple exchange, but it felt like everything. For weeks, Harry had been caught in this strange limbo, not knowing if he’d see her again, not knowing if the distance between them was permanent. But here she was, standing right in front of him, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like things were finally shifting.

“It’s cold.” His voice is light, jutting his chin ever so slightly to the outside that existed around them. “Come in, please.”He felt unsure of how much to say, how much to push.

YN hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering toward the door behind him. She shifted on her feet, the wind catching the ends of her coat and lifting it slightly. For a second, Harry thought she might say no, that maybe she was having second thoughts. But then, she gave him a small nod, a barely-there smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Harry held the door open as she walked past him, the familiar warmth of the studio wrapping around them both as they stepped inside. It was quiet—just the two of them now, the usual noise of the team gone for the night. He led her down the hallway toward the control room, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, thoughts spinning with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t quite figure out how to.

When they reached the room, Harry gestured toward the seat she’d always occupied—the one by the soundboard where she’d spent so many hours offering ideas, tweaking lyrics, helping him make a few songs what they were. YN paused for a second before sitting down, her hands resting in her lap as she glanced around the room.

“It feels the same.” Her laugh was breathy, a sadness to it. Her eyes lingered on the equipment, the scattered notes, the half-empty coffee cups that still littered the space. “Like nothing’s changed.”

Harry sat down across from her, his fingers brushing absently against the neck of the guitar that leaned against the chair. “Not much has.” He admitted, his voice quiet. “Except for you not being here.”

She looked at him then, searching his face, and Harry felt that familiar pull—the one that had always drawn him to her, even when she’d kept herself at arm’s length. There was something in her gaze, something heavy with unsaid words, and he wondered if she could feel it too.

A beat had passed. “I missed this, she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you, H.

His cheeks felt hot, the words landing between them like a confession. He swallowed, his chest tightening with the weight of everything he wanted to say in return.

“I missed you too.”Harry murmured, the truth of it echoing in every syllable. And for the first time in months, the silence between them didn’t feel so heavy. It felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to fall back into place. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.

She shifted on her feet, eyes falling to the floor. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was sincere, dripping with the guilt she’s battled for months. “I’m sorry for leaving you. I needed to take some time, figure things out.”

He nodded, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. He would’ve tried to look better if he knew he’d be seeing her today. “It hurt.”

She pulled her lips between her teeth, eyes glossed over as she nodded. She had to look away, not able to face him. She knew she had done to him the same thing she was so afraid of—she just left. It gutted her for a while, wanting to reach out and apologize. She had this anxious feeling he wouldn’t forgive her. Rightfully so.

But it’s Harry.

He ran his hand down his face, a swirl of emotions becoming a cyclone within him. He frowned, seeing how spaced she was—as if she wasn’t here. “You need to tell me what’s on your mind.”

His tone was a bit more straightforward than he originally intended, but it was the truth. She showed up asking to be buzzed in, he felt as if he shouldn’t be the one digging.

She shook her head, trying to blink away some of her tears. “Guilt, sorrow, you.”

He nodded, looking at her expectantly to finish. He wished she could say her feelings as fast as she could walk away from them, but she was trying at least, and it felt like a start.

She inhaled shakily, running her fingers through her hair as her lip continued to tremble. “Guilt for leaving you the same what I feared being left.” Her voice had a tremor, her breaths a bit quicker. “Guilt for not saying sorry sooner. The pain of missing you—.” She whimpered, the same as Harry did the day she left.

“The guilt and sorrow will fade.” Harry murmured, his heart aching at the sight of her tears. “Y’just to work through it, don’t ignore it.”

YN wiped her cheeks, fingers shaking as she tried to regulate her breathing.. “And you?” Her voice was small, fragile, afraid of the answer.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Me?”

“Have I lost you?”

He frowned, the words caught in his throat. The question felt like it knocked the air from his lungs, and for a moment he didn’t know how to respond. The silence stretched between them, unbearable. He let his shoulders falter, “I love you, YN.”

The words hung between them, raw and unfiltered. It was stripped of all pretense, just the truth he carried with him for months. He watched her for any sort of reaction, and she just kind of stood there. He wondered for a moment if he even said anything, if it was just loud in his head but he actually had just left her hanging. “I love you.” He repeated, just in case.

"I–” She tried to speak, but her voice cracked.

She swallowed hard, tears still clinging to her lashes as she searched his face. The pain, the guilt, the regret—it was all still there, but beneath it, there was something else, something softer. Something she had kept hidden for so long, she wasn't sure how to let it out. “You do?”

He nodded, remaining vulnerable. He had no clue if she would reciprocate, or if she’d just walk away if met with the familiar fear. “Think I always have.”

For the first time, it didn't feel like there was a barrier. It felt like something was breaking, something that had been keeping them apart for far too long.

Without thinking, she reached for him, her fingers brushing against his arm, tentative at first, but then firmer as she closed the distance between them. He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close. She melted into him, her face pressed against his chest as the tears flowed freely now, the weight of months of separation, guilt, and pain finally slipping away.

Harry held her tightly, his chin resting on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his. This was what he had been missing—this. Not just the music, not just the friendship. It was her. All of her.

"I love you," he whispered again, the words soft and full of promise. "I’m here."

It was them, just them—like she’d never left.

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illum1z · 4 days ago

Text

Merlot Canvases

paint instructor! seonghwa x f!reader

summary: You feel like you're lacking that artistic flair in your life. Everyone you've met who dabbles in the arts just has this twinge of light in their eyes that you feel like you're missing. So, taking a paint class might ignite that light in you, or maybe it'll ignite something else.

tracklist: hello?, overstimulated, professional,

tags: strangers to lovers, reader is overworked, seonghwa is whipped, reader is also whipped, unprotected sex(you know the drill), oral (f!recieving), fingering, tension tension TENSION, on a desk, mentions of voyeurism, petnames (baby, princess, honey, etc), soft/mean mdom, fsub, seonghwa needs you to breathe, not proofread

wc: 10.1k

notes: wrote this in one session. jeez, sorry guys. i have not read this through, its 11pm. i have work in the morning. there will be spelling mistakes. fuck it we ball

When you ask someone what motivates them, you get a wide array of answers. Some say their job, or their family. Others say their hobbies or their pets. And some people say nothing in particular, they just have a strong drive for life.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you’re depressed. It's not like you hate life and you want it to come to an end. But you could say you feel like you’re watching it fly by like a movie reel. You stand on the sidewalk as you watch yourself walk into your mundane office job 5 days out of the week. Sit in a cubicle for 8 hours before leaving, walking back home, having dinner, and going to bed.

Since graduating from high school, friends have been hard to come by. Making friends as an adult without being a college student or frequenting bars and clubs proves to be a challenge. You wouldn’t say you’re lonely either. You like your quiet life, but it just feels like something is missing. Like you could be doing more besides the repetitive schedule you’ve been following for the past 3 years.

You sat on your couch, a few candles lit here and there as the rain pattered against your window. Your townhouse was dark, no sign of life other than you, and the flicker of candlelight on the dark brown walls. You leaned your head back on the couch, eyes closed, as you listened to the rain beat down like TV static. Cars whirred past the window of your home, rushing to or from work. To or from events. Busy, with things to keep them occupied.

You let out a deep breath, directing your attention to the flyer on your coffee table. Surrounded by unread books and worn-down pencils, a piece of paper you picked up from a pole plastered down the street on your way home from work a few days ago.

A flyer for a painter’s class.

You hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in your whole life. At least not since grade school. You don’t think you’re the most artistic either. Yes, you have ideas and you have inspirations, but you could never put pen to paper. It's always come out janky, or just simply not how you envisioned it. The small town you lived in didn’t have many excursions to do.

You lived on a bustling street, lined with townhouses and little shops. Speakeasy-style bars littered here and there with live music and whatnot, but going out for a drink with the slim chance of getting drunk enough to hook up with some random who will leave you high and dry by morning was less than appealing to you.

You had been in every shop, every library, every single place this shit town had to offer, or so you thought.

Art Workshop

Every Sunday, 7 pm to 9 pm

Supplies provided for newcomers, the instructor will offer a list after the first session, given that you would like to return

Ages 18 and up

We look forward to seeing you there!

With an address printed on the bottom and some cute little drawings strewn about the paper, you couldn’t help but snatch it up in the moment. You weren’t really thinking about it, but at the moment, it seemed plausible. You had just gotten off a pretty rough shift, and a glimmer of possibility that you might do something other than grocery shopping or sitting at home on your weekend was tempting.

But here you are, Sunday, 6 pm, debating if you really should follow through and attend the class. You were reserved, not exactly shy. You spoke when needed to, and you didn't let anyone walk all over you, but you weren't one to randomly engage in conversations at work or on the street. You simply had no need. Like you said, you aren't lonely, just lacking a sort of passion. An urge to create, or the need to have an outlet.

You were so hesitant to go because you truly didn't know what you would make of it. What if it was a waste of time? Or what if it was not what you were looking for? There goes that hope, because this was your last option. That hope that you might finally find something.

So, ultimately, you decided to just go for it, because spending the rest of your life wondering surely won’t do you any good. And that's how you found yourself standing in an alleyway a few blocks away from home, umbrella shielding you from the onslaught of rain.

The streets were dark by now, and the entrance to the class was less than promising. Between two townhomes, illuminated only by a lampost, a staircase led down to a door. It was only a few steps, but the fact that it was somewhat underground raised some questions. You double, no triple, checked the flyer to make sure you were at the right place and the address was indeed correct.

You descended the staircase, the number on the door matching the one on the flyer. You checked your phone. 6:50. You closed your umbrella and shook it out, reaching out a hand and opening the door.

You stepped inside, closing it behind you. It was warm inside, and it smelled like citrus and sandalwood. There was an umbrella basket sitting by the door, with a couple of other umbrellas sitting inside. You set yours in the basket, looking up to take in your surroundings. It was just a hallway, with four doors. Two on one side, one on the other, and a door at the very end, straight across from the entrance.

It was quiet, like nobody was in the building, a yellow light flickered on the ceiling of the cramped hall, giving off a quite eerie glow. The two doors on the left had bathroom markings, one for men and one for women. The lone door on the right did not indicate what was behind; you safely assumed it was storage or for janitorial purposes.

The door at the end of the hall had a sign that simply said, “atelier.” You stepped further into the space, your footsteps quiet as you walked to the door at the end.

You stopped and listened to see if you could hear anything inside. Faint chatter, a couple laughs here and there. When you were sure you did in fact have the right day, you twisted the handle and stepped inside.

Immediately, all eyes were on you. There were about 6 other people in the room, with high ceilings supported by black metal pillars. There were a few large windows that opened to a perfect view of the cobblestone streets, like you could watch the shoes of passersby as they made their daily rounds. The floor was red varnished wood, and the walls matched. There were 10 stools in the room, scattered about randomly, and a canvas sat in front of each one, blank and ready to be painted on. At the front of the room, there was a desk, littered with papers and paint supplies, and a little bit of everything, quite messy.

A larger blank canvas sat in front of the desk, an empty stool beside it where you assumed the instructor would be perched later when class started.

Everyone sat and watched as you walked in, and took a seat farthest from the front, setting your bag on the floor. You directed your attention to the canvas in front of you, and like you never even showed up, everyone continued their conversation. You were just another addition to the class. Nothing special. Nothing notable. They’d forget you were there in 5 minutes.

The conversations around you droned on for another 10 minutes. The instructor was late, but nobody seemed to care. They continued to talk, slowly taking out supplies and setting them around their canvas.

Luckily, the seat you chose was right next to a table of supplies, and you stood and gathered paint palettes of all colors, a wide variety of paintbrushes, a cup of water, and a few pencils. When you had your area set up, you glanced at your phone again. 7:20. You were about to muster up the courage to ask a person nearby about the tardiness of your teacher when the door opened.

The conversations lowered to murmurs before completely dying out as everyone directed their attention to who came in. You looked up from your phone to see who it was, and it was then and there you decided there was no way you could come back to this class.

Sporting a ruffled collared white button-up shirt, black wide-leg slacks, and the most luscious head of hair you had ever seen, you immediately knew this was your instructor. He walked to the desk in front, his back turned, as he set down a bag on the desk. He grabbed a marker from a cup near the corner, uncapped it with a loud pop, and started writing on the whiteboard. Today’s date. And then the words “Impressionism and Perspective.” Neat handwriting, each ending letter had a slight curve akin to once knowing cursive. He capped the marker, threw it on his desk, and turned to face the class.

His face was unreal. Symmetrical, soft skin, plush lips, dark eyes, muse worthy. He was tall, radiant, exuding a calm energy, yet still, his presence had an impact. His eyes moved across the classroom, taking in the faces, bored almost. His eyes landed on you, sitting in the back. Quiet, keeping to yourself, staying out of the way.

He lingered on you for a second longer before looking away again. He smiled, a warm, welcoming smile, and moved to sit on the stool next to his canvas.

“Welcome back to class.” He was soft spoken, with a musical tone to his words. Gentle, he approached, speaking like the words could crack if he enunciated too harshly. A lullaby-worthy voice. His smile was just as smooth; it pulled you in. Your attention was 100% on him.

And he liked it that way.

“Impressionism.” He stated, he leaned forward on the stool, his foot resting on a bar near the bottom of it, an elbow on his knee, with his hands idly playing with each other as he looked out upon the room as he spoke to the class in its entirety.

“Think Monet, Degas. A French style derived from the 19th century that ties into our second topic of the day, perspective. What can you tell me about it?”

Now you were no artist yourself, but that doesn’t mean you don't like to admire. You frequented museums in the area so often that the employees knew you by name. You had seen every piece, old and new, that they had to offer. Sometimes you’d sit on the benches in front of the displays for 30 minutes to an hour, analyzing brush strokes, memorizing colors, taking the full picture in.

And frankly, nothing could compare to him. You could stare at him for hours.

A student raised their hand. They said something about abstractness. You weren’t really listening. Another response from someone else, mentioning the lacking note of finality in impressionist pieces.

A few more answers here and there, all good ones, you assume, but your focus was completely narrowed in on your instructor.

Their answers fell on deaf ears as they prattled on about the art form.

“And what about you?” Snapping from your trance, you realize he is staring directly at you. Eyes boring into yours, unrelenting. A question on his brow, the smile missing from his face, his hand stopped fiddling, and they now pointed in your direction, to your secluded island in the back of the studio. You hoped you wouldn’t draw attention, but you suppose your lack of engagement was more noticeable in a class with only 6 other people.

Feeling put on the spot, your back straightened as you locked eyes with the instructor, your knee began to bounce as the other students turned to look in your direction. You did your best to ignore their prying eyes as you cleared your throat.

“Well, like the name suggests, it's an impression. It's loose and undefined, but your mind is well enough off to piece it together. Not quite abstract, because the picture is clear. But it's the bare bones, just enough to create something beautiful…. I think…” You trailed off, nervousness overtaking you. You noticed the student who mentioned abstractness narrowed their eyes at you like you dismissed their answer as bullshit, which wasn’t your intention.

This was the last thing you wanted: all eyes on you, the center of attention. He didn't speak for a second, eyes staying glued on you. You averted your gaze, feeling so seen was not your favorite thing on earth, and his stare was far more than intense. It was exposing, like he could see every part of you.

“Seonghwa, doesn’t it also center around the way the light is painted as well as open composition?” A student chimed in. He didn't look at them; his eyes stayed on you for a few more seconds before ripping away and looking at the student who spoke. His smile returned, and he nodded.

“Everyone has great points. Visible brush strokes and light colors. Most artists completely avoided the color black as well. It was less of artists trying to capture images of real life, but closer to an idea, an impression of a scene.” You could breathe again, attention was drawn from you, and back on your instructor, whose name you just learned was Seonghwa.

He continued to talk, connected different styles and drew correlations, using his paints to demonstrate examples of brushstrokes and things of the sort. Everyone listened carefully. He was so easy to listen to with that soft voice and soothing demeanor.

He would look out at the class every time he made a new point to gauge reactions, and his eyes always fell on you at the end, before continuing the lecture. You were this close to walking out because every time his eyes locked with yours, he raised one eyebrow and almost smirked as if to ask you silently. “Are you listening?”

After a well-informed lesson, Seonghwa decided it was time for some practice.

“Alright, if you will, as simply as you can, don’t make it difficult yourself, paint your own impressionist piece. Paint something that means something to you. Whether that's a scenic spot you keep in your memories, whether it's a person, or an object. Paint it, but paint it like the image is pictured in your mind, but you spilled water over it. It's blurry and smudged; it's a silhouette. Barely there. Put pen to paper for the next hour. Go.”

Everyone immediately began getting to work, dipping brushes and collecting colors. You sat at your canvas, watching as everyone started. Seonghwa moved to sit behind his desk, looking at a stack of papers and organizing paint palettes.

His eyes locked on you again, catching you staring. His eyebrows raised, and he did smile this time, before mouthing the words. ‘Get to work.’

Obeying, you directed your gaze to your empty canvas, and you thought to yourself. Something, or someplace, that means something to you. This was proving to be difficult because that was the entire reason you attended this class in the first place. To find something that meant something to you.

You tapped the end of your paintbrush to your lips, lost in thought about what you should paint. Your job meant nothing, your place was homey but it was just a roof over your head. You didn’t really talk to your family, and you didn’t have any special places.

So, without a plan in mind, you started to paint. Some strokes of green here, smudges of blue there, pluffs of white and shades of red. You just started painting. What were you painting? You had no clue, not yet at least.

The world drowned out the light chatter from classmates as you painted, like you were on autopilot, your hand simply moved on its own.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly you blinked, and actually looked at your canvas.

There were shapes, forms, something was there, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint it. You tilted your head, moved from side to side to try and get an angle where you could decipher what you just made, but it was useless.

You frowned and went to set your brush down when a large, slender hand gently covered yours, gripping your hand softly and guiding your hand back up. A firm chest pressed against your back, and locks of hair tickled your neck.

“Here, like this.” The soft voice against your ear nearly made you shiver as you let Seonghwa control the way you paint. He lifted your wrist to wash the brush in the cup of water, then dipped it into a dark green on the palette.

He guided your hand to sweep the paintbrush across the canvas, adding bits of depth and shadow to the strokes, a few here, some there. The carefulness of his hand holding yours made your heart flutter. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel his steady breaths, smell him, sense him hovering over you.

He continued to paint while holding your hand, and you let him, feeling the warmth of his fingertips, the calluses of his skin.

Before long, he moved to have you set the paintbrush down and then let go of your wrist, his fingers gently caressing, a ghost of a touch as he pulled away.

“Now look at it.” He mumbled, only to you, like the rest of the class didn’t exist.

You squinted your eyes, tilted your head, and there it was.

Strokes of green that formed into a field. A silhouette of clouds against a powder blue sky. A form of a child, which strangely resembled you. The field was vast, and the sky was open. But far from the child was another form. A body, older. Standing under a tree, the leaves fell over her like a canopy. An adult, who once again, oddly resembled you. The child was staring at the sky, back turned toward the canvas, while the other stared directly out at the artist, watching.

In the far upper corner of the canvas, the blue sky faded into grey storms, angry and waiting far off in the distance. The child watched the clouds as the inevitable storm rumbled in from the east, while the older one simply stood in the distance, safe from the clouds but unable to scoop up the child and bring her underneath the canopy.

The paint smudged, and the forms barely even took place. But you could see them with your own eyes. Decipher your work.

Your breath hitched, and you turned to look at your instructor, who now stood off next to another student, helping them with their piece, back turned fully to you. You opened your mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly. Turning back to your canvas, you stared at it. Not daring to ruin what you had made, you set down the brush and patiently waited for the rest of your classmates to finish.

Your chest bloomed, but your heart withered. How did your brain conjure this up? Sure, it wasn't professional and not even display worthy, but it made you feel something. Something familiar.

You must have zoned out, a loud clap snapping you from the trance as you looked up at the source. Seonghwa stood near the front of the class again, gathering his students’ attention once more.

“Our time is almost up, as always. Great work today. Even if it was just a stickman, your creations will always be beautiful. You can leave your pieces where they are, and when we come back, we can varnish them, and then you’re welcome to explain your piece if you’d like. Until then, have a great night, be safe. See you next week.” Seonghwa smiled that charming, warm smile again, before beginning to clean his desk.

Everyone gathered their supplies and packed their bags, one by one heading out the door as they talked idly with one another.

You stayed in your seat, eyes glued to your piece. It was time to leave.

When you finally stood to gather your things and clean your area, there were only two other people in the room, standing in front of Seonghwa’s desk and talking to him. Asking questions you assumed. You ignored them, and just as you gathered the rest of your stuff, they filed out the door. Now it was just you and him.

The air was still and the rain pattered softly on the windows.

“Will I see you next week?” His voice cut through the silence, almost startling you. Soft, yet firm. Expecting. You turned his direction, realizing you hadn’t even thought about whether you were going to return or not. He wasn't looking up, busy jotting down something in a notebook.

“I don’t know.” You answered simply. “Guess we’ll have to see.” You smiled nervously, and then you realized how rude that must have sounded. You scrambled to defend yourself.

“You’re an amazing teacher, and you really helped me understand what I was doing… I think. It just depends on how the week treats me, I guess.” He lifted his eyes finally, pressing the tip of his pen against his soft bottom lip. His eyes trailed up, then down, before landing back on your face.

“I look forward to seeing you next week, Ms…?” Dumbfounded to say the least at his confidence in the idea you’d come back. You were caught off guard, stuttering out your name in response.

“(Name)..” he stated quietly, like he was taste testing the syllables. He smiled again and set his pen down on his mess of a desk, folding his hands and resting his chin on them.

He nodded his head down at his desk, urging you to come forward. “Your list of supplies is on my desk. Come pick them up before you go, please.”

You hesitated, feet glued to your spot. Before you forced your legs to move and carry you to his desk. He watches you with every step, eyes never leaving you once.

You stopped in front of him, picked up the paper, and glanced down at it. Necessities, with recommended brands, ranging from the most expensive to budget-friendly. Locations of nearby art stores and QR codes to videos in case you’d like to practice on your own time. Thorough. His full name was scrawled at the bottom. Park Seonghwa.

When you looked back up, he was standing behind the desk, eye level with you, as his hands rested on the surface, palms flat, hunched over the papers.

A strange heat flushed your neck as his stare pinned you down, his fingers tapping against the desk in a slow rhythm like he was pacing himself.

Then he straightened, sat back down, and looked back down at the notebook. “That's all.”

What.

You turned stiffly and hurried out the door before anything else weird could happen. You forgot your umbrella and walked out into the street, the rain soaking your clothes as you began walking back home hurriedly.

What the fuck.

There was no way you could go back.

A few days had passed, and work came and went. Draining as always. And even though you weren't even sure if you’d go back to the paint class, it was all you could think about. But was it the painting… or the painter that drew you in?

You found yourself standing in front of a crafts shop, the paper he gave you in your hand as you stared through the glass windows into the store. Were you really going to buy this stuff? Does this solidify your return? Guess you’ll find out.

Stepping into the store, you were met with silence. Like nobody was there/ Maybe one person browsing the paint section, one or two at customer service, other than that it was a ghost town. You looked down at your list and nodded to yourself, stepping further into the store to find the supplies you needed.

Some basic paint palette, an array of brushes, canvases, small and large. The store was homey, stone floors and wood walls, soft music played from the intercom as you meandered about the building, browsing different sections.

You were near the back of the store, in front of a canvas display. They had black canvases, white ones, canvases so large they could probably cover your bedroom floor. You grabbed a couple of 9x12s in case you wanted to practice at home.

You turned to go see what paints they had when you saw him.

Your instructor was across the aisle, looking at stencils and rulers. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and as quickly as you could, you walked the opposite direction, further towards the back of the store.

You could not handle him right now, the intense stares, the strange tension between you two. You pretended to look at the scissors on the wall, taking great interest in the different colors and sizes.

You waited there a few minutes in hopes that he had moved on.

“Need help choosing a pair of scissors? Contrary to popular belief, they are not all the same thing.”

Fuck.

You craned your head up to see the man of the hour standing behind you, a smile on his face and a shopping basket in his hand. Wearing a plain black V-neck that hugged his chest just a little too tightly, and some wide-leg blue jeans. You let your eyes wander for just a second before answering him.

“I’m okay, thank you, though.” He nodded in acknowledgment before raising an eyebrow in question.

“Coulda swore I saw you come in earlier, but I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” So you were screwed from the beginning he had seen you walk into the store. He nodded down at the list in your hand, his smile widening as his gaze fell over the almost full shopping basket in your hand.

“I see you’re stocking up for upcoming classes. I’m happy to see that.” He stepped closer into your space. You needed to leave before you jumped his bones.

What no. Why would you think that? What's wrong with you?

“Well, I’m still deciding, y’know, I'm so busy with work and whatnot, I have to make sure I have time..” You smiled nervously, trying to sound as believable as possible. Seonghwa cocked his head to the side in confusion, his tongue poking out to swipe across his bottom lip. He bobbed his head, and a small laugh slipped from him, like he was in disbelief.

“That's funny. From what I could tell, you really enjoyed my class. You came in all tense and closed up, but by the end, though you seemed like you really let yourself enjoy something.” Now you were somewhat offended. You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“And what do you think you know about me? I was trying something for the hell of it. I wasn’t searching for something.” Lying through your teeth. And he seemed to sense that.

His smile only widened at your response, his hand coming up and raking through his long hair.

“Anyone with eyes could look at you and tell there's more to you than you’re letting on, and that's okay. We’re strangers, I don't need to know everything about you. But if you don’t like my assumptions about you, you can fix it by telling me about yourself.”

This asshat.

“I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself, Mr. Park.” You sneered, turning to walk towards the cash register, so you could check out and leave. “But I know what I want, and right now I want to go home. It was nice seeing you, but you are slowly losing me. Sunday might be reserved for nights at home again if this attitude of yours is something I’ll have to deal with every week.”

They pulled a deep laugh from him, one that stopped you in your tracks. “Well, you’re still buying the supplies, baby, so I’m assuming that you’ll be seeing my face sooner than you’d like to let on.”

The stupid pet name made your stomach flip and your cheeks heat. Unfortunately, it was more teasing than in an endearing way, which made you want to put him in his place even more. But before you could retort, Seonghwa took a peek into your basket before looking back up at you.

“Looks like you’re missing just a few more things. Here, c'mon." He placed his palm against the small of your back, urging you to walk with him. You followed without much objection, mumbling curses quietly to yourself as he guided your body to walk to the other side of the store.

You stopped in front of a display of gloss varnish and some easels. Along with a couple gold gold-framed mirrors on the top shelf. He leaned over your shoulder, his lips close to your ear again. “See here.” He whispered, “Some varnish if you’d like to preserve the paintings. And an easel so you can paint without hunching the whole time. I promise you it’ll do your back wonders.”

While he spoke, one hand reached forward and grabbed a bottle of varnish, dropping it into your basket, while the other traced a feather-light trail down your spine. You shivered at the touch, his smile widening at your reaction.

For a moment, it was just you two again. Your eyes met in one of the mirrors. Seonghwa’s gaze was low, calm, but there was a twinge of something else in it. Like a barely controlled sense of need. Want. His eyes were half lidded as he watched your brows furrow at the feeling of his touch along your back. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth. He hummed against your ear quietly, his hand twitched, like he wanted to hold more of your body. Like he wanted to touch you like you were his.

Or maybe you were crazy, lack of sleep. You barely knew him. Maybe you needed to get laid.

He pulled away and grabbed a couple of bottles of varnish for himself, dropping them in his basket.

“Looks like you got it all, sweetheart,” he smiled, and you turned, ripping your eyes from the mirror and directing your attention up at him. His hand reached forward and held a lock of your hair between his fingers, letting the strands dance between his knuckles.

Seonghwa’s eyes roved all over your face, taking you in, like he was trying to memorize everything about you. “I’d love to paint you someday, beautiful. Would you let me?” It took everything in your power not to let your mouth fall open in shock at his words.

“Me..?” you swallowed, fingers fiddling nervously as your gaze fell to your feet.

“You.” He stated simply, like he was talking about the least intimate thing in the world. His finger pinched your chin gently and tilted your head up to look at him. He tilted your head to the right, then to the left, up, and then down, like he was mapping your face. Trying to figure out what colors would work, what shading to use, and what brushes would perfectly encapsulate the acne scars and the texture of your skin. What brush would perfectly capture the slope of your nose, and what colors would mix for that beautiful shade of your iris.

“Think about it.” He said, leaving no room for argument, before letting go of your chin and turning to walk away.

‘‘See you next Sunday, love.” And he was gone. The fucking audacity. And guess what.

Sunday came faster than you would have liked. And you were in your mirror, touching up your hair. A tote bag filled with art supplies, as you prepared to head to your second class.

The fucker had you. Had you wrapped around his finger. He was alluring, annoying, beautiful, and you didn’t want to give him credit for it. But he was right. You enjoyed the class, and you liked that he was able to pull that creativity out of you. And you liked looking at him. And hearing his voice.

It was raining again today. You decided that being early wasn’t important today. So you left your house at 6:50, showing up at 7:15. Make him think you weren’t coming, but unfortunately, your punctual nature wouldn’t allow you to be any later than that. You did your best.

You walked into the building, stood in front of the door for a second, gathering your bearings. You twisted the knob and walked inside, more confidence in your walk than your first day.

Once again, heads turned to look at you, the same 6 students in their respective spots. However, your seat in the back was gone. And the only empty chair was the one closest to Seonghwa’s desk. He was sitting on his stool, a finished painting on the easel, a wide paintbrush in hand as he demonstrated varnishing the artwork.

His eyes locked with yours, only for a second before looking back at his task. “Nice of you to join us (Name.) Have a seat, we’re just varnishing.” Slowly, you made your way to the empty seat by his desk, sitting down and setting your supplies out.

“While most artists didn’t varnish impressionism pieces, we are for the sake of preservation. They preferred the matte, rough look. But they lived in Europe, where the sun didn’t shine. Your art kind of needs the varnish now more than ever. We're using a satin varnish that keeps the natural look, but offers a bit of protection. So don’t worry, they won’t be ruined.”

He clapped his hands and set down the brush, standing from his stool. “You can come up and grab your pieces from the drying rack and begin varnishing. I’ll walk around, and just let me know if you have any questions.” Everyone stood to grab their pieces, you following suit.

Seonghwa stood by the rack, watching as each individual picked up their pieces. You were last, his eyes following your every move. Pretending you didn’t see him, you grabbed your piece and walked back to your seat.

If he wants to play games, you simply won’t give him the satisfaction. You pulled the varnish that you bought from your bag and a large brush, setting your canvas on your easel. You gave the painting a once-over, still somewhat astounded that you could create something so pretty.

You opened the bottle and poured it into a cup, dipping the brush and beginning. The rain fell steadily as the students' idle chatter once again faded into background noise as you focused on your task.

Carefully as you could, you spread the varnish about your work, admiring as the soft sheen coated the colors and made them more vibrant. Stroke by stroke, you were evening out the gloss, and soon enough, the whole canvas was covered.

You were so lost in your work that you hadn’t noticed that Seonghwa was not in fact walking around the room, but standing at the back of the studio. Back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted lazily to the side. His eyes were trained directly on the back of your neck.

His gaze followed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, how your shoulder blades poked only slightly through your shirt, down and aligning your waist, admiring your attentiveness. Oh, how he’d love to capture every part of your body and hang it on his wall proudly. He didn’t know what it was about you.

You were nothing special, another young girl finding her way through life, discovering her passions. But there was just something. He couldn't place his finger on it. But he wanted to find out as soon as possible.

He walked back towards the front, striding towards your seat. But just as he was about to speak, some varnish dribbled down the brush onto your hands. Immediately, Seonghwa was at your side, grabbing your wrist, making you drop the brush.

Surprised, you yelled quietly at the contact. “What the hell, what did I do?” Not giving you time to object, he lifted you by your arm, urging you to follow him. However, in his frantic movement, his face and voice remained calm as he walked you both to the door.

“Varnish can irritate if it gets on the skin.” He spoke as he led you into the hall. The other students paid you no mind as he led you to the bathroom.

“It's best to rinse the area for about 15 minutes, because it could cause a burn.” He turned on the light and switched on the faucet, dragging your wrist under the cold faucet water.

“I can do it myself.” You groaned. The bathroom was cramped, his chest pressed against your back as you looked into the mirror. He let go of your wrist, a little too slowly, as you left your hand under the running water. He physically couldn’t step back in the confined space.

He remained behind you, watching you in the mirror. Your gaze stayed on your hand as you twisted your wrist to get the water all over your hand. The bathroom was silent, despite the rush of water and the hum of the air vent.

The air. Stagnant. The tension. Thick.

“Do you need to hover?” You asked, your voice smaller than you had liked. “I’m not 5, I don't need adult supervision, Sir.” You hissed around the last word, but Seonghwa’s breath caught in his chest so quickly you hadn’t caught it.

He was so close, and refused to admit it was driving you mad. You could smell him, and you wouldn’t dare look in the mirror, because if you met his gaze, you just might snap. He was too much. He dripped sex appeal. Control. Authority. But it was gentle. Suggestive, like he would never do anything unless you got on your knees and begged for him. Like if your body cried for him.

You turned off the faucet when you were sure the area was clean, and you were about to turn and walk out of the bathroom.

A hand, slender, large, and firm. With the softness of a mother’s touch, it slipped around the front of your throat, grounding you. His chest pressed harder against your back, almost pushing you against the sink. Your hands gripped the bowl of the sink, holding your upper body up as you felt him against you.

Seonghwa leaned his head down, pressing his lips against your ear. His breath tickled the shell, and your breath quickened.

“What is it about you?” He murmured against your ear. His breathing was heavier, his chest rising and falling against your back. “It's irking me so fucking bad.” His nose dipped into that soft spot between your neck and shoulder, inhaling softly.

Whimpering was your first mistake. His whole body shivered as he placed the softest of kisses on the nape of your neck. “Tell me no.” He whispered. His free hand came up and gripped your jaw lightly, directing your gaze to the mirror.

You locked eyes with him in the reflective glass, your knees going weak at the primal look he was giving you. “Look at me and tell me you don’t want this.”

Your lips remained glued shut. Your eyelids fluttered, and Seonghwa's hand rested on your jaw, his thumb rubbing your cheek coaxingly. You leaned back into his touch, a question in your eyes.”

“Ask.” He demanded, already sensing you had something to say.

“Are you playing with me?” You mumbled, your lips slightly slurred with the hold he had on your jaw.

“No playing. No games, darling. I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can.” There was a false promise in his tone, and he could barely hide the smile that tried to creep onto his lips.

The hand on your throat tilted your head up, craning your neck as his neck tilted down, his nose brushing yours, and his breath fanning against your lips. You were hesitant. But only because you were afraid that if you let him, you might become addicted. Then you’ll come crawling back by the end of it.

But that filthy, shameful dark corner in your mind couldn’t resist him. Your stomach clenched, and your heart battered in your ribcage. Suddenly, the bathroom was too hot, and the tension was so thick you couldn’t breathe. You needed to breathe. You needed Seonghwa to give you air.

So with the last bit of oxygen in your lungs, you parted your lips and whimpered out the softest, most pliant, “Please.” And that was all he needed.

Like he was savoring it, he brushed the skin of his lips against yours, back and forth, before opening his mouth and swallowing your lips. The slowest, most sensual rhythm of lips against lips. And you could breathe again.

You sighed into his mouth, and the sound only spurred him further. His lips moved away, but only for a second, before he turned you around and pressed your back against the sink. His hand around your throat again as he pressed his body into yours, melding with you like he belonged there. His mouth moved against you like you were the most flavorful thing he had ever had the pleasure of tasting, his thumb rubbing the side of your throat, his other hand gripping your hip, pulling you closer to him as he devoured you. Your hands lifted and gripped his hair at the scalp, dragging a groan from his throat, his lips smiling against yours at the feeling of your hands.

“So soft..” he moaned into your mouth, barely giving you time to think as your head spun at the pure intensity of the kiss. “So fucking sweet.”

Your eyes were shut, but his were open, watching himself in the mirror as the hand on your throat moved to grip the back of your neck. He watched his flex tendons flex as he held your neck possessively, like he owned you. The way your back arched and your body trembled.

“Seonghwa…” You whined into his mouth. He almost growled, pushing his tongue into your mouth and drinking the pretty sounds you made.

“Again.” He groaned like it hurt, his eyebrows furrowed, and the grip on your waist tightened. “Say it again.”

You obeyed. “Seonghwa…” His kisses were rougher, claiming and violent. Like he wanted to eat you alive. You were lost in him, his roaming hands, and the way his body kept trying to push itself into you as if you both could even possibly physically be any closer.

“Fucking beautiful.” He pulled from your lips, littering kisses along your neck, both hands sliding up your shirt and tickling the sides of your waist. “Making the most lovely sounds. I’d pick you up and fuck you against this wall if I you’d let me. Would you let me, huh, pretty girl?”

You nodded frantically, thighs clenching at the mere thought.

And suddenly you remember this was your instructor. There were students in the other room. They were bound to wonder where you two were soon.

“W-we have to go back…” You whispered, his large hands kneading the flesh of your waist, like the thought of letting you go might just kill him. He groaned, pressing one last, claiming kiss on your shoulder. He pulled back and let his hands fall from your body, and suddenly you were cold.

Seonghwa took a deep breath, calming himself. He looked at you, pupils dilated and lips flushed. “Stay here. Leave in 10 minutes. Class is almost over. Once everyone leaves, come back to the studio.”

Leaving no room for debate, he opened the door and left. Your back still against the sink, hair disheveled, and lips kiss-swollen. Did that really just happen? Silence enveloped you as you leaned against the wall, waiting.

What must have been the longest ten minutes of your fucking life, the anticipation swirling in your gut. You had never been so soaked.

Seonghwa left so quickly. If he had stayed any longer, he for sure would have had his way with you regardless of whether anyone was in the other room. He’d make you scream just so they could hear. But he had manners, ones that he was slowly forgetting more and more each time he laid eyes on you. He sat in the front of the class behind his desk, eyes void as he tried his best not to think of how pretty you looked, arched over the sink. Hair a hot mess, body trembling, taking what he gave you like a good girl.

His foot tapped against the ground impatiently, and finally. 9 pm. The students gathered their things, waved their goodbyes, and slowly filed out of the studio. The lights were turned off, and the rain beat against the windows harder.

You were sure it had been 10 minutes. Slowly, you opened the door and peeked into the hall. Silence. Shutting the bathroom door, you turned the corner and began walking to the studio entrance. You hesitated, just a moment. Preparing yourself.

You placed your hand on the knob, twisted it, and pushed it open. You got one foot through the door when Seonghwa grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, shutting the door and shoving you against it. Like an animal, he gave you no time to react, burying his hands in your hair and slotting his lips with yours.

“Finally..” he moaned, pressing his body against yours, rendering you helpless against the wall. You kissed back with just as much fervor, free to be as loud as you want.

“Not enough,” he snarled, hands holding your waist as he picked you up, your legs wrapping around him as he carried you to his desk. Carelessly swiping the papers and such off as he set on the surface, his lips not once parting from yours. His hand slipped between our bodies, tracing down your stomach and landing on the button of your pants.

“Want these off, honey?” He whispered into your mouth, laughing softly at your frantic nods.

“Please, yes please…” His fingers danced along the hem, unbuttoning them slowly, slipping them down and off your legs. His kisses moved lower, mapping a trail down your body until he had sunk onto his knees, dragging his lips along the insides of your thighs.

You looked down at him, his eyes never leaving yours and he placed a soft kiss against your clit through the thin lace of your panties. Your thighs shook, and his big hands spread them open for him, keeping them open with a strong grip.

“Hwa… please…. No more teasing.” He smiled and placed a rougher kiss against your clothed cunt.

“I’ll tease you all I want, sweetheart, if you keep giving me such cute reactions.” His tongue fell out of his mouth, flattening against you as he dragged a long, stripe up your cunt, smiling when your whole body shivered at his touch.

“Such a responsive baby. I knew you’d be so good for me. Want these off too? Want to feel my tongue against that pretty pussy huh?” You were so fogged in the head, shame way past, with the only feeling you had was needed. Pure and unbridled need for him to fuck you stupid.

“Yes, fuck Seonghwa please!” His thumb hooked along the waistband, dragging your underwear down your legs and stuffing them in his pocket. The cold hit your cunt, soaked and throbbing for him.

“Uh huh.” His own voice shook with need, unable to pull his eyes away from you. “Don’t worry, I got you. I’ll take care of you.” Seonghwa’s hands curled around your thighs, keeping them steady as he kissed your clit, so softly, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

Immediately, your body pulled taught and your brain felt like it had been shocked, a deep, guttural moan escaping. His hands dug into your thighs like he was holding himself back, losing himself in your taste, drowning between your thighs.

“Fuck baby.” His tongue drew impossible patterns around your clit, one hand moving from your thighs to trace a finger up your soaked slit, gathering your wetness and teasing.

“I’ll fuck you open on my fingers and you’ll take it like a perfect slut right? You’re gonna take it for me?” You nodded, words fleeting and hard to grasp as you focused on the way he touched you. Like he’s known your body for eternity, knowing what buttons to press and what words to say to get your stomach fluttering.

With ease that should have been embarrassing, he slipped his fingers inside your warm cunt, immediately curling them to press against that spot that made your vision go white and your breath catch, all the while his mouth was relentless on your clit.

“Don’t talk, honey, just feel. Moan nice and loud, let me know I’m doing a good job, okay?” He hummed around your clit, sending pleasure ridden vibrations though you that made your back arch and your fists clench. Your hands flew forward and gripped his hair, grinding themselves against his mouth as his fingers dragged in and out of you so delicately, slowly, applying just enough pressure to have you tumbling towards your orgasm fast.

Your head fell back, biting your bottom lip as you continued to grind against his face. “Fuck, cummng Seonghwa…” His tongue only licked faster, his fingers pressing harder inside of you.

Suddenly, his fingers slowed and he pulled off of your clit, a depraved groan slipping from him. You whined in disappointment, so close to falling off the edge.

“Why…?” You whined, desperation lining your voice. He only smiled and placed gentle kisses on your inner thighs.

“Beg,” Seonghwa stated simply, his voice breathless. “If you want it so fucking bad then beg for it princess.” Suddenly, the humiliation was setting in, but not enough for you to not beg.

He rested his cheek against your thighs lazily, looking up at you like you were the most stunning thing he had ever laid eyes on. “Nice and loud. Let me hear you. Beg like if I don’t let you cum you’ll die. Let me know how badly you need it.”

And you did. “Please Seonghwa, please I need you to fucking ruin me. Please, I’ll do anything. Please make me feel so good that I die, please.” So pathetic. So whiny and so desperate, exactly how Seonghwa liked it. Before you could continue he buried his face inbwtewen your thighs again, this time slipping his surprisingly longue tongue inside of you, fucking you eith his tongue. His fingers pinched your clit, rubbing it between his fingers and making noises so sinful, the sound of his voice was almost enough to make you shatter into a million pieces.

“You beg so beautifully for me, baby, cmon. Fall apart. Cum for me. You’ve earned it.” Your whole body shook as your orgasm overtook you, the grip on his hair impossibly tight. He groaned into your cunt from the pain in his scalp, which only spurred him on further. He wasn't stopping until he was done.

He continued to eat you like a man starved, even as overstimulation throbbed in your cunt.

“Fuck Hwa, let up, too much!” he laughed at your pleas, kissing your clit one last time before standing, his tongue coming out to clean you off his lips. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue delving between and licking your slick off himself. Dragging his tongue from the bottom of his wrist and up to his fingertips, eyes boring into yours.

Pulling off his fingers with a loud pop, he ripped his shirt off his body, his pants following right behind. His chest was beautifully toned, a honey gold that was good enough to eat. The dips and shadows in his abs that were so smooth you had the urge to sit on his stomach and grind against it.

But he didn’t give you time, before he grabbed your thighs pulling you to the edge of the desk, slotting himself between your legs and pulling his cock from his boxers, letting them fall to the floor and kicking them off his legs.

Teasingly, he slipped your shirt off your body, hands squeezing your waist, swallowing your lips in slow, deep kisses.

He slid his cock through your soaked cunt, slicking the length of it up with your wetness. “Oh baby can’t wait to have you go dumb on my dick. Want me inside?’

Your arms circled around his back, nails dragging angry red stripes along his shoulder blades.

“Yes Seonghwa, I’m all yours fuck me stupid, please you’re all I can think about…” Of course this only stirred his ego up more, his cock jumping in response to the pure need in your tone.

“Alright, baby, you’ll get what you want. Relax, loosen up for me and just feel…”

He pulled his hips back, pressing his tip against your entrance. “Nice and slow, baby…” He pressed inside, and inch by inch, sinking into your cunt. He groaned, savoiring the feeling, wanting to drag it out for as long as possible before he lost himself and fucked you like he’d never fuck again.

Full was an understatement. You could feel every vein, the heat was burning inside of you, igniting a fire in your stomach that made your hips move on their own, rolling forward to take him deeper. He moans, unfiltered and dripping with want.

“That's it, love, that's it right there. Feeling full?” You moan into his mouth, he sucking your bottom lips into his mouth and savoring your warmth. When he bottomed out, he didn’t move, just feeling you clench and pulse around him.

“Such a creature of wonder you are, gorgeous.” He whispered, words waxing poetic, your head swimming at his praise. “I love the way you shake, the way you cry…” He pulled his hips back slowly, the slick sound vile…

And with a deep thrust, he knocked the wind from your lungs. Your back arched, and your nails bit into his skin harder. “Like it when I take you slow honey? Like it sensual, deep, all-consuming, huh?”

You moaned in response as he found a rhythm, rolling his hips into you, dragging perfectly against your G-spot in a way that could have you passing out at any moment.

“Oh.. fuck Hwa….” your brows furrowed feeling so full each time he slipped out of you and thrusted right back in like he couldn’t stand being anywhere except inside of you.

“You…fuck..” He groaned, feeling himself losing it. “You minx. Look what you do to me.” A thrust so hard it shook the desk, you yelped, throwing your head back. Seonghwa took this opportunity to attach his lips to your exposed throat, no doubt littering you with dark, possessive marks,

“Mine, mine mine all fucking mine. R-right? You all mine, baby?” Seonghwa's hips rolled into you deeper, like a second too long away from you would kill him.

“Yes Seonghwa yours, fuck, yours..” His hands enveloped your waist, so big and so rough, feeling your stretch marks, his tongue tracing your collar bone, his thick cock sliding in and out so smoothly.

“Wet little slut, all for me. Can’t get enough. Lean back, cmon.” You leaned back on the desk, elbows propped so you could keep your eyes on him. His hands holding your waist, his thumbs pressing into your abdomen as he rolled his hips in that delicious way again that made your thighs tremble.

“Gonna fuck you like I hate you mkay?” He whined, rubbing your stomach softly. “Take it.” And with a tough snap of his hips, he kept true to his words,

Seonghwa bullied his cock into your guts like he wanted to hurt you. Rough, sloppy, deep. And you took it.

“Look at you, take what I give you like it's all you deserve. Fucking beautiful.” He let his head fall back as he fucked you, your moans sweet music to his ears. Your broken sounds alternate between gasps for breath and whines of his name.

Relentless, feral, mean. He fucked you like your moans were a drug, hs greatest addiction.

“Fuck Seonghwa, gonna cum.” He laughed, your pathetic whines spurring him on to push you off that cliff, ruin you for any other man. He wants you crawling back to him. Begging him to mold you, to put you on your knees and show you just what it means to belong to someone. Belong to him.

“Dumb baby, gonna cum for me again?” Seonghwa pouted faxuly. You nod, mouth open, only staggering breaths and quiet whines coming out. Your eyelids fluttered and your stomach clenched as you approached that inevitable edge. He pulled you back up by your throat, crashing his lips into yours, nipping at your tongue, and moaning into your mouth. When he pulled from your lips, he pressed them against your ear, blowing air on the shell and nipping at the lobe.

“Then fucking cum (Name.).” Seonghwa moaned, the words traveling straight to your cunt. “Cum on my cock and scream like I’m God.”

Your legs twitched, your eyes tunneled, and you came hard. Seonghwa did not let up, in fact he fucked you harder, dragging you through your orgasm like it didn’t just nearly knock you out.

“Fuck!” you squealed, legs going limp as he held you against his body, still fucking you without abandon.

“Good job baby, good fucking girl.” He praised you, soft like his cock wasn’t turning you inside out. “Gonna cum inside of this pretty cunt. Take it, take it like you’ve been taking me so good all night.”

His hips stuttered and with a final, deep thrust, he groaned, kissing you like you might disappear, as he slowly fucking his cum deep inside of you, being sure not a single drop went to waste.

You both stayed like that for a long while, savoring each other's pleasure and letting your breaths mingle in tandem, existing in each other’s presence. His hands gently caressed your waist, soothing your body and just feeling your skin.

“Still with me?” He mumbled, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and massaging your body like you might break in his hold.

“Yeah..” You croaked, voice strained and body exhausted. He smiled against your neck and breathed you in.

“Could you go for one more?” Seonghwa teased.

“Are you insane? I think you broke me.” He laughed, kissing your lips slowly, smiling against you, and caressing your neck gently, rubbing the tension out of it.

Reluctantly, he slipped out of you, groaning and the loss of your warmth. “Cmon, let's get you dressed and I’ll take you home.” His voice soft and alluring, he helped you stand and cleaned you up, kissing up your legs as he wiped you clean and, like the gentleman he was, slipping your clothes back on and pampering you like you deserved.

“You’re dangerous,” Seonghwa whispered as he walked you down the sidewalk back to your townhome, hand interlaced with yours while the other held an umbrella over both of you.

The streets were quiet, well into the night, as he walked you home, his thumb rubbing your hand soothingly.

“You too.” You teased me. “But trust, I'll be in class next Sunday.” His smile widened at your words, stopping in front of your home and turning to face you.

“I do hope I’ll see you sooner, though. Dinner sometime, maybe?” Your cheeks flushed, and suddenly you were shyer than you had been all night.

“How could I say no to such a face?” You embraced, sharing one last kiss, before he walked you to your door.

“Catch you later, teach.” You stood in your doorway, heart fluttering as he looked at you with pure adoration.

“See you soon, (Name),” Seonghwa replied, eyes soft, placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, before turning and descending the steps back out into the rain. And your door shut, signifying the beginning to that passion you’ve been craving oh so badly.

#ateez smut #ateez #ateez x you #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa #park seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #park seonghwa smut #ateez imagines

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luludeluluramblings · 9 months ago

Note

One thing I always wonder in Neglected! Reader scenarios that I haven’t seen anyone explore is Married/Single Mom! Reader. It’s drama and angst potential.

Like Reader having a boyfriend and getting pregnant while still living in the Wayne manor, and everyone just takes a little too long to figure out. Maybe they do find out early with the morning sickness and whatnot but the thought of Bruce looking at Reader like 6 months pregnant and being like “Wait a minute… 🤨” and Reader wasn’t even trying to hide it that much.

And same scenario except Reader moved out either while pregnant or got pregnant after, Batfam forgets all about them and when fate does bring them together (like the Bruce/Selina wedding concept) she is literally about to pop or has a whole baby with her. Cue Bruce (and later everyone else) losing his shit because omg??? 😧 that’s his first grandchild and he had no idea!!

… And then if the Reader is married in this scenario, makes it all the more complicated (she didn’t invite anyone to her wedding? what do you mean Alfred attended when we had no idea?). Everyone is straight up hostile towards her spouse (Damian, Bruce and Jason are insufferable) and safe to say he won’t be around for long. Single mom Reader though, the amount of emotional manipulation about kids needing a family and father figures and you should move back in so everyone can help with the baby… Yeah.

Platonic!Yandere!Batfam x SugarBaby!Reader x Older!Husband

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N:OOOOO, I have something I was working on that I was having fun with that you might like!

A/N:Neglected!Reader with Older!Husband. (It's husband because it's based of that meme Your daughter calls me daddy, too. And, Reader is Female, because we're making a baby in here.)

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You, sweet thing, do the typical thing and run off from home, once you turn the legal age. Checking in with Alfred on occasion, but just living your best life. Only, in typical fashion, all those years of neglect lead to severe daddy issues. And, a minor itty bitty attraction to older men.

You get lucky though because you manage to find a fine one that loves to spoil his baby girl with vacations and spa days. All the best for his baby. He loves taking you places and showing you a good time. So, it's no wonder he plans a Babymoon for you when you're expecting your first child. Anything for you.

Unfortunately, Daddy gets called into work right before the vacation. And, despite you insisting you stay, he makes you go and promises to join you as soon as possible.

(No, the man isn't cheating. He just gotta make the money for his baby.)

You have a good time, pregnant on the beach. Getting massages and spa treatments. Video calling your husband every time the baby kicks and flutters.

Unfortunetly, even though you haven't used the Wayne name since you've been married, some drug lords recognize you and decide to ransom you. Dragging you back to Gotham in your little sundress the just so hides your baby bump.

Gotham media runs with the story. Lost Wayne heiress held hostage. No one is ignoring that.

The bat's pull off a daring rescue, but you being stubborn, try to escape on your own. Fearing for your baby's life if they just happen to chose not to come. They never came when you were little, why would they come now.

You happen to injure yourself while escaping. But, manage to make it to an on scene ambulance while the Bats take care of the thugs. You happen to faint on the way to the hospital, leaving the doctor's discover you pregnancy.

Already the media is surrounding the hospital for the most drama filled story of the year. Thankfully, the paramedics have some compassion in hide the bump when rolling you into the ER.

With the media's attention, your husband flies into Gotham and makes it to the hospital just in time to ask the nurse where you are in front of Bruce.

Bruce, of course, bristles when a man his age burst in the hospital demanding to see you, but is using the wrong last name. The nurse saying only family can see you.

"That's my daughter," Bruce will say. Assuming this man is trying to claim you as his. But, he already did.

Making Bruce, the family, the nurses, the patients, and the reporter who managed to sneak in freeze when he says, "That's my wife."

Imagine the doctor that just finished checking on you and your baby walking in right after announcing that you were both okay. The look on Bruce's face when he realizes that this man, his age, not only married you, but had the audacity to put a baby in you.

Even better, the smug way your husband looks at Bruce when he brushes past him to follow the nurse to your room because husband beats father and you demanded to see him.

The drama that follows is going to be legendary.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I had this idea jotted down and fluffed it up just for this. I'm not sure you wanna know who I had in mind for Reader's husband. (Dude is from another franchise.) But, the thought of him interacting with Bruce as the guy who married Bruce's daughter and knocked her up, delights me in such a visceral way.

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #platonic batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #anon ask #answered asks #sugar baby!reader

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batsandbirdbrains · 2 months ago

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So I do actually have ideas for settings outside of the young Justice cartoon but as per usual I will be fucking around with the ages and timelines and whatnot

The one where the Teen Titans realize Robin just barely meets the ‘Teen’ requirement

Look I know beast boy is supposed to be the youngest in the teen titans cartoon but hear me out!!

Imagine a twelve year old Dick Grayson who was recently shot by the Joker and thus fired by Bruce, and they get into a huge blow out fight, literally spitting insults at each other, some bruises given, and Dick leaves the manor that night with more than just a bullet wound. His lip is split, his cheek is swollen, he has several other bruises and bumps. He’s a mess.

He runs away to Jump City, totally distraught and not thinking straight. And he somehow puts together a superhero team. And they all for some reason think he’s sixteen at the youngest. He says nothing to refute their misconception. Hes afraid they’d dump him if they found out, that they’d kick him out of his own team and his new home. He can’t get be in his own again. He’s scared.

And then he gets blackmailed by Deathstroke and turned into his apprentice. And let’s say the titans don’t figure out what’s going on for a long time, and it takes Dick longer to think of a workaround to escape while still keeping his friends safe.

He’s Slade’s apprentice for five months, almost six. He turns thirteen while he’s with Slade.

Slade actually celebrates Dick’s birthday. They’re out on a job when the day actually comes, but Slade gets him a cake and candles and has him make a wish.

He wishes that Bruce will come and save him. It never comes true.

Not long after he turns thirteen, he manages to escape from Slade in the same way that he does on the show, so the team knows he’s really on their side. They feel awful that they’ve gone this whole time thinking Robin betrayed them.

And while they’re gathering evidence and other shit from Slade’s hideout after Slade has fled, maybe they find some weird photo album Slade kept. Pictures of Robin while he was training, progression pictures of how he performed the different forms and movements Slade was training him on. Pictures from when they were on jobs, posing as father and son so they could blend in with the crowd. Taking pictures together at tourist locations, which Dick always hated.

And someone stumbles upon the birthday picture. Of a bare faced Robin sitting with a little chocolate cake in front of him, two candles that show 13, and Robin just barely smiling for the camera. He looks sad, they can tell.

But then it hits them that the candles read 13. Robin just turned 13. There’s a date in Slade’s handwriting showing just the month before.

Their leader is the youngest. And they let him be blackmailed and tortured by a mercenary for the last 5 months. And nearly the entire time, they blamed him for it.

He’s just a kid.

And when they turn to look at him, to ask him what’s going on, Robin just looks so freaked out. He looks like he’s panicking.

Cyborg tries to reach out to him, to let him know that they’re not mad at him, they’re just worried. But Robin flinches from Cyborg’s hand, and he mutters something about taking evidence back to the tower, and he bolts.

And none of them know what to do about it.

#dick grayson #teen titans #I just like when dick is the youngest team member I think it’s a fun set up #fic ideas

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sttoru · 1 year ago

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·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. coming home from university has both stressed and tired you out — causing you to forget about satoru’s birthday. maybe your boyfriend could help you remember.

word count. 4.7k-ish

note. was supposed to come out on his (our) bday but writer’s block was ruthless :p hope you enjoy anyway x

tags. older bf!gojo satoru x sub!female reader. p.orn with plot. fluff to smut. age gap (reader 20 - early 20’s, satoru’s in his early 30’s). p in v -> unprotected, size difference, missionary, creampie, breast play, dirty talk, body worship, hickeys, praise, you f.uck in the kitchen, aftercare-ish, reader gets called ‘princess, sweetheart, baby, pretty.’ i present to you soft dom&older bf!gojo satoru. he’s absolutely smitten with you btw.

“lookin’ tired, sweetheart.” satoru comments with a subtle grin as he welcomes you home. home being his apartment that you had basically moved into. why? because it was close to the university you attend.

and maybe because your lover had coaxed you into it.

you sigh, eyes half closed and glazed over. the stress of exams, assignments and whatnot has been too much for your brain, “yeah, i’m sorry. i probably look like absolute shi—”

a pair of lips were quick to shut your negative remark up. satoru pulls you closer to him by the small of your back. his fluffy bangs brush over his closed eyes, the hairs lightly grazing your forehead as well. he smells and tastes sweet. like those strawberry flavoured candies he always carries with him in his pockets.

a faint string of saliva hanging between your two mouths was all that’s left after the intense kiss. it snaps, causing the small bit of liquid to cling onto your bottom lip.

“what’d i say about apologising when you did absolutely nothing wrong?” satoru asks in a gentle and hushed tone. his thumb presses down on your bottom lip to get rid of the transparent trail of saliva. his gaze is soft and loving — like it always is when he looks at you.

that man had once again rendered you speechless. it’s the small things that make you fall for him over and over, “that—uhm—i shouldn’t apologise for something i don’t have any control over.”

satoru’s dimples show as he looks down at you fondly. a large hand settles on the top of your head, messing up your hair whilst his lips lock yours in for another kiss.

“exactly,” your lover nods in approval before grabbing your bag and placing it aside. he also helps you take off your coat and even bends down to undo your shoes for you.

you wonder how you’ve even managed to land such a man.

satoru’s long fingers work quick to undo the laces on your shoes. your tired eyes can’t help but steal a glance at the veins that run down his slender hands — up his forearms and. . .

“somethin’ on your mind, princess?” his voice calls out as he massages your feet for a split second to ease the accumulated tension from all the walking. you simply shake your head ‘no’, though satoru knows you better than you know yourself.

with a light-hearted chuckle, he raises to his full length and leads you through the hallway. his footsteps were light whilst yours were the exact opposite: heavy and exhausted.

maybe a shower or bath would help you refresh and relax. thus, that’s exactly what the sorcerer recommends;

“why don’t you go take a nice shower whilst i prepare you a hot meal, hm?” satoru comments and stops in his tracks right before the door to the bathroom. his gaze lingers on your pretty face—his hands never leaving your skin.

the idea of taking a shower did seem like the ideal solution to your problems at the moment, “okay i will, but err. . .”

your voice trails off as you look up at satoru. his knuckles run over your cheeks lovingly and his warm gaze tells you that he’s smitten with you. totally. utterly. he makes you so nervous without even realising it in the slightest.

“you don’t have to cook me something. i know work has been hard on you too.” you finish your sentence with an apologetic little smile. one that makes satoru want to squeeze your cheeks together.

you had always been a bit selfless and it’s an admirable trait, but your boyfriend also has this gnawing urge to take care of you in any way he can. maybe it’s because he’s a few years older than you and knows from experience how tough things could get at your age.

satoru smirks and pokes your sides playfully, “don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout that. now let’s get you in that shower.”

a little yelp leaves your throat as you feel yourself get hoisted over his shoulder. the white-haired sorcerer opens the door with one hand, the other protectively placed on your waist to keep you from falling.

he settles you back on your feet in the middle of the room—eyes now filled with a playful glint. you could probably already guess the next words that leave his mouth.

“need help undressing? i’ll gladly do it for you,” satoru laughs. you roll your eyes and teasingly shove him towards the door. he puts his hands in the air to show his surrender, though doesn’t miss the opportunity to look you over one last time.

you’re like the embodiment of beauty even when your eyes have lost their usual spark. even if you barely have any energy left to do anything. he loves every side of you, no matter what.

resisting the urge to pull you into his arms for the nth time, your boyfriend eventually leaves you be and closes the door as he steps out. his mind, however, was still overly full with thoughts of you.

“ah, what a woman.” satoru mutters in pure amazement under his breath after departing from the bathroom. there’s a visible spring in his step as he walks to the kitchen—happy to take care of his girl.

. . .

you finish your much needed bath after about half an hour. you look in the bathroom mirror whilst wrapping a simple white towel around your torso. the bath sure did help to clear your mind, though there’s still one thing bothering you. something you’ve forgotten.

you can’t really put your finger on it, but it must have been something important. there’s an iffy feeling in your chest as you walk out of the bathroom — instantly heading towards the kitchen. surely, satoru could help you remember it.

“toru,” you call out before stepping into the kitchen. your lover is standing at the counter, his back towards you and his hands working fast to chop up some vegetables. the many pans and stoves scattered around the area only further prove his determination to prepare you a nice hot meal.

“yeah, princ— oh.” satoru eventually turns his head, looking over his shoulder to see you standing a few steps behind him. he couldn’t believe his luck; to have his gorgeous, gorgeous girlfriend in his apartment was one thing—but having his girlfriend in front of him with only a towel on was another thing. the remaining waterdroplets running down your skin made you all the more attractive.

he grins as he puts the knife down and quickly dries his hands. he couldn’t wait to put his hands on your body, “c’mere, pretty.”

you grunt the moment satoru envelopes you into a tight hug with your face squished into his chest. he nuzzles his cheek against the top of your head—over dramatically acting as if he hasn’t seen you for days.

his hands teasingly find their way under the material of the towel. the tips of his fingers are cold in comparison to your warm and damp skin. he drags the pad of his thumb up and down the curve of your ass; sighing in content as he feels the plush flesh.

“perv.” you mutter under your breath, though can’t deny that the light touch makes you putty in his hands. satoru responds with his usual ‘only when it comes to you’ comment before pulling away to take in your embarrassed expression. he lives for those physical reactions you have to his advances.

you slightly turn your head to the right, purposely avoiding his gaze. you face the door of the fridge that you stood in front of. your eyes fall onto the sticky notes. there’s one standing out from all the others.

you had placed it on there a few weeks ago so you wouldn’t accidentally forget that oh-so-important date.

turns out you did just that.

your face drops and you instantly go into panic mode. how could you fail to recall that today is satoru’s birthday? you don’t even know how to explain yourself. no amount of excuses would ever make this right. or so you thought.

satoru is an attentive lover; he is aware of almost everything that’s going on in your head. perhaps he is good at reading minds. or perhaps it’s just that your body language and facial expressions disclose everything he needs to know about your current mood.

“hey, i’m not upset.” satoru breathes out, eyes closed as he slides ticklish kisses down your neck. it is a sign of reassurance; he doesn’t want you to conclude that he’s angry with you for forgetting such a thing. besides, he understands that being an university student is a struggle by itself, “having you here with me at the end of the day ‘s all that matters to me, okay?”

you sigh, both in frustration and content. you’re frustrated with yourself for being too caught up with your studies, though you’re also appreciative for satoru’s empathy and lenience. he is so kind and mature; always optimistic about everything. your mindset is the opposite of his. your age gap sure did explain those cognitive differences.

despite satoru’s consolation, you still feel like you owe him something. you tilt your head back so you’re able to look him in the eyes. you give him the cutest pout ever and that man is—once again—feeling light-headed. satoru can’t decide whether to continue consoling you or to tease you about forgetting his birthday.

you are adorable when you sulk.

“i’m still.. well, sorry.” you sniffle, cuddling up to your lover to show your genuine remorse, “i know that you wouldn’t ever forget about my birthday - no matter how busy you might. . . .”

blahblahblah. you are babbling on and on about how inappropriate it is of you to forget his birthday, but satoru is hearing none of that.

his coherent thoughts shut down the moment he felt your tits press up against his chest. it is meant as an innocent hug on your part, however apparently couldn’t be interpreted as one.

your visible cleavage and the way the towel is doing a bad job at hiding the volume of your breasts increases the lewd thoughts gathering in his mind. there is no way that he can survive any more physical contact between you two without taking some action.

“..so, i was thinking that i could make it up to you somehow.” you conclude at one point in the conversation. satoru’s body subtly jolts as he snaps out of his dazed state.

he gives you a sheepish smile and tries to play it off by continuing the conversation, “make it up to me, huh?”

you nod in response and give him your best puppy eyes. your lover sighs in defeat; satoru couldn’t keep his emotions and carnal desires in check anymore. his hands are twitching, aching and longing to touch you all over.

the rational part of his mind told him to continue comforting you. to tell you that there was no need to compensate for failing to remember his birthday. the lust-driven part of him craves to take you up on the offer and give a different and more sexual twist to it.

satoru takes a deep breath and puts some distance between you two. not because he is annoyed or irritated by your behaviour, but because he might lose control of himself.

you can’t guess the intentions behind your lover’s actions, thus confusion follows; “satoru? you okay?”

maybe he actually is displeased by your lack of remembrance—deep, deep inside. you bite your lip anxiously, reaching your hand out to hold satoru’s in attempt to try and get him to look at you. his vision is obstructed by his own bangs, a dark shadow casted over his eyes, one that prevents you from gauging his mood.

you feel a light electric shock go through your body the instant your fingers curled around his hand. your boyfriend’s body stiffens and it’s like time stilled.

“fuck, i tried.” satoru mutters under his breath.

then, before you knew what was happening, you’re pinned to the door of the fridge. there are efforts made to articulate proper words, but the shock has overtaken all your senses. it isn’t like you could speak either—your lips are sealed shut by your lover’s.

his hands didn’t waste a single second now that they have free rein. they fondle you everywhere; from cupping your cheeks, to sliding down your neck and lower. his fingers rub up against the area where your nipples would be, sensually stroking them through the towel. his feverish kisses combined with his constant touches make you shiver in exhilaration.

you’re trying to keep up with his sudden burst of lust and that’s adorable to the white-haired sorcerer. he can feel you struggling to keep yourself balanced on your toes, your arms wrap tightly around his neck so you’d be inseparable. you feel him grin against your lips for a split second—the gesture alerting you of what might be coming.

“mmh,” satoru grunts once he frees your bare body from its confines. he finally breaks the kiss—the sole reason being to admire the sight of you.

it feels like he just unveiled a heavenly painting. his eyes don’t know what to focus on. if he is to properly and completely appreciate your nude body, it’d take him days or even weeks, “god, have i ever told you how lucky i am to be yours?”

your heart stutters in your chest as all attention is on you. the gentle yet hungry touch of your lover, his hands caressing everywhere they can reach and his half-lidded eyes that are focused on your most intimate parts—you don’t know how much more you can take.

satoru’s breathing becomes even heavier than it was moments ago. he leans his head down to your level, lips hovering above the space between your neck and shoulder. his mouth latches onto your skin after taking a moment to try and keep himself from rushing into things. but alas, he is a simple man.

his lips work precisely and diligently to leave hickeys on every inch. his teeth gently sink into your flesh here and there, his warm saliva coating the faint markings left. your body is his canvas for tonight and the many other nights that are yet to come — for as long as you give him permission to.

“ngh— t.. toru,” you stammer, almost squealing. the sloppy kisses left on your sensitive skin resulted in you whining for more. satoru feels a rush of satisfaction like no other; the frequency of his touches only increasing with each sound erupting from your throat. his tongue slides over your plump breasts, his fingers flicking the nipple he isn’t sucking on.

he eventually detaches from your tits, leaving them both covered in his saliva. he hums in delight at the erotic view and gives both your breasts a last kiss. satoru looks up into your eyes again—a sense of want in them, “you look like you have somethin’ to say, baby.”

you do, but, don’t know how to bring the message across. it is embarrassing to say all of your thoughts out loud; all that you actually want him to do that you. you know satoru would love it if you do, however you do not have the guts to.

your body does all the talking anyway. there is a pool of slick forming between your thighs, your bodily fluids showing just how aroused you are. you aren’t the only one in that state; satoru has had a raging hard-on the entire time.

“i want you,” there it goes.

you avert your eyes, though not for long. gentle fingers hold your chin up, forcing you to stare at your lover. his face is intensely close and your heart is in your throat. satoru grins at your shy behaviour, finding it all the more endearing.

“awh, my little princess wants me?” he pouts, almost mockingly if you didn’t know better. his gaze flickers downwards, “where d’ya want me? show me, baby.”

if you aren’t embarrassed already, you’d sure be now. satoru’s teasing words and the sultry tone of voice he uses eventually urges you to comply. your shaky fingers wrap around his wrist, bringing his hand down towards your tingling cunt, “here.”

the older man hisses at the direct contact his hand makes with your pussy. it is so wet and ready — he wanted nothing more than to bury his fat cock between your folds and feel your sweet little cunt cling onto it.

he cups your cunt delicately, grazing his thumb against your clit. he traces faint circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves to make you squirm and whimper in pleasure. his other fingers spread your folds apart so he can collect your wetness on them.

“how naughty,” satoru sighs. his index finger prods at your entrance, but your thighs clamp down around his hand before he’s able to push it in.

he snickers in amusement and retracts his hand. he licks your juices off of his long fingers in a painfully slow manner, “well.. who am i to deny you? what the princess says, goes.”

satoru lifts your body up in his arms, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist. he kisses you passionately again—his tongue swirling around yours. you exchange soft moans as your hands lift his shirt up and over his head.

you cut the kiss short to appreciate the sight of your lover’s well-built upper body. that drives him utterly insane. that look you give him.

satoru curses under his breath and pulls you down onto the carpet below. he carefully places you on your back and—once you are settled—instantly rushes to undo his grey sweatpants.

his eyes are darting from his clothes to your naked body under him. god, he wants to fuck you so bad. the view of you spread out and patiently waiting for him to take you had him weak in the knees. it’s a sinful scene, yet the pleading and almost innocent-like look in your eyes is a complete contrast.

“don’t worry, i’ll give it to you in a second, baby.” satoru grins once he pulls his boxers down to his knees—revealing his hardened cock. he strokes it slowly and the pre-cum drips down the shaft, his thumb smearing the droplets all over his pink tip.

after getting a couple strokes in, he grabs the base of his dick and guides it to your wet cunt. satoru rubs his tip up and down your slit. what he didn’t expect is for his cockhead to slide into you so easily. he didn’t even have to put in the slightest of effort.

your back arches due to the feeling and your nails dig into the carpet below you. the mixture of your slick and his pre-cum is all the lubricant you need.

“shit. seems like she doesn’t wanna let go any time soon.” satoru addresses your cunt with a groan whilst he slips his fat cock deeper into you. his eyes roll back as he feels the warmth of your pussy engulfing him, “. . .not like i was planning to leave her empty anyway.”

you moan and shiver at both satoru’s dirty words and his dick that’s currently stuffing your insides full. your mouth hangs open, your eyes remain shut and your brain takes in all the granted sensations. adjusting to his lengthy size takes you a few seconds and when you gave your boyfriend permission to continue— that’s exactly what he does.

his hips thrust in an almost hypnotising rhythm: back and forth, back and forth. every interval between the firm movements is the exact same. the thing that differs and makes the experience all the better, is the difference in strength behind each thrust.

one moment he’s carefully sliding in and out of your sopping cunt and in the next he’s forcefully slamming his cock all the way in and out. satoru stifles his moans by attaching his lips to yours—capturing them in a sloppy, rough kiss.

“satoru—satoru, ah, please.. right there,” you mewl into his mouth. his tongue finds yours and your salivas mix.

your lover answers your pleas by holding onto your hand, your fingers interlocking with his thumb soothingly rubbing your skin. satoru never fails to make you feel loved during intimate acts like these. no matter how filthy, nasty and rough he’s fucking you.

you arch your back and your chest presses against satoru’s, causing him to groan against your lips. a cocky grin appears on his face after he moves his head to the crook of your neck. he leaves a couple hickeys along the area of your throat—his hips not giving you a break. even as you continuously whimper and look like you’re about to lose your mind from pleasure.

that’s what satoru wants; to have you come undone beneath him. it’s the most beautiful thing in the world to him. others may call it perverted, but the older man always aims to make you reach as many orgasms as you can in one night. it fuels his carnal desires to see you convulse and shake after every intense climax.

his baby feeling good is all he wants to achieve.

“mhm, i know, princess. i know.” satoru breathes out and returns his lips to yours. he can’t go on long without tasting you. you’re like a drug he’s addicted to. every reaction—small or big—gets him going, “take it easy—fuck, you can do that f’me."

you reply with incoherent noises of agreement. there’s not a thought going on behind those watery eyes of yours. that much is obvious to your boyfriend.

your legs lock his cock inside of you by wrapping around his hips. your eyes are glazed over; a cockdrunk look. one that would make any man cum on spot.

“princess, wait,” satoru whines. he can’t stop himself, yet he’s telling you to wait. his body refuses to come to a halt as it strives towards a satisfying orgasm. he can feel it, his balls tightening and ready to spill everything they have, “if you continue looking at me like that, ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum.”

he isn’t lying. you’re nearly driving him over the edge with everything you do. your legs that tighten their grip around his hips in fear of him pulling out is his favorite thing to experience. it’s like you’re desperate to continue.

your hands play with his sweaty body, fingers caressing his hard chest to feel his heartbeat. you’re drooling. your head is spinning as you think of your lover claiming you. fucking his precious cum into you, “inside—want it inside. all of it.”

satoru chokes on his spit. you don’t know what you do to him. muttering such erotic words causes the older man to malfunction every time. without fail. his hips are painfully ramming against yours.

“you sure? ah, shit.” satoru curses. his brows are furrowed, his hands holding you by your jaw. the view of you with your head tilted back and your teary eyes looking straight into his is pure perfection, “can’t deny you when you look so hot begging me to cum inside your greedy little pussy.”

the room is spinning. your nails claw into satoru’s back, leaving faint red marks on his pale skin. you shudder the instant he slides out of you until all that’s left is his pink tip prodding at your entrance.

it’s like he gets off on it. to see you whimper, quiver and struggle to contain your pleas for permission to cum. your boyfriend drags his tip up and down your slit, tapping it against your clit repeatedly.

“cum f’me, baby.” satoru coos. he knows you’re right on the edge. before you can reply, he shoves his cock back inside your spasming cunt—ruthlessly pounding you until you scream his name.

your eyes roll back and all you can do is hold your breath the moment the intense orgasm washes over you. your hips buck, your legs tremble and your pussy gushes all over his cock.

spurts of clear liquid cover satoru’s thighs. you squirting isn’t something he had expected to see, but it is a pleasant surprise regardless. it all gets too much for your lover and it drives him to his own climax as well.

satoru hugs you tightly to him. your chests press together with one of his arms holding your upper body up—his nose buried into your hair. a muffled grunt escapes his mouth and that’s when you know that he's reaching his finish.

“please—take it, take it, take it,” satoru stutters and stammers. he can’t form any proper words the moment his cock twitches and releases a huge load of sperm into your womb. it’s an overwhelming amount; globs of transculent white liquid ooze out from between your folds.

his sticky cum slides down to your asshole and onto the carpet, staining it. satoru bites his bottom lip whilst his body is still recovering, cock going soft once he pulls it out. he doesn’t know what to do or where to look, yet somehow his gaze always darts back to your dripping cunt.

“fuck. . . that’s hot.” the older man takes in a deep breath. it’s too soon to get hard again, he figures. the way you’re still trembling and struggling to catch your breath tells him enough. you need a break. and a well-deserved one it is.

your weak taps against satoru’s shoulder snaps him out of his dazed state. he takes your hand in his and gently squeezes before helping you into a sitting position. his blue eyes flash with worry,

“hey, hey, baby—you okay?” satoru asks. his voice is raspy, though obviously filled with concern. he rubs your back and encourages you to take deep breaths. small kisses to your temples help calm you down too.

your breathing eventually returns to normal. you chuckle tiredly and lean your head against his shoulder. your attentive lover wipes the saliva from the corners of your lips and does the same with the tears around your eyes. you sniff, “y-yeah. just felt amazing, hehe.”

satoru sighs in relief. he was scared that he hurt you somehow. your confession makes him laugh and squeeze your body against his. he cups your face and kisses you twice out of pure adoration.

you’re always ten times more adorable to him after you’ve had sex.

“aw, glad it did.” satoru smiles, his dimples showing. your eyes glisten and you smile back out of reflex. you pucker your lips and your lover takes the hint. he presses his mouth against yours once more; this time playfully swiping his tongue over your bottom lip.

you pull back and teasingly swat his bicep. satoru tickles your side as a response. and that’s how you once again end on the floor, with a heavy weight pressing onto your front.

satoru nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and breathes in your scent. you’re the best thing to have happened to him. you, the love of his life.

“the best present i could have ever gotten.” the white-haired sorcerer mumbles to no one in particular. though, you heard it. faintly.

you rub his back. you’re sure you made it up to him. he’s clinging onto you, nearly suffocating you by laying on top of your smaller body, but you don’t mind. you play with his hair and your fingernails graze against his undercut to which satoru reacts with a low purr.

you’re happy. he’s happy. that’s all that matters;

“happy birthday, my love.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk smut #jjk x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #jjk x you #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #female reader

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