#the line that gets me in this song is the one in the sketch and then the one that’s like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jupiterpilgrim · 2 months ago

Text

Hidden Tracks

Park Choa x male reader

word count: 20K

commissioned fic

The city air is thick with humidity, the last remnants of summer clinging stubbornly to the streets as you jog up the steps of the recording studio. It’s your first day working on the album—the first solo project of your career, a clean break from your old group, and the kind of freedom you’ve wanted for years. But freedom comes with pressure. Every decision is yours. Every song, every note, every little thing will be under scrutiny.

And then, there’s her.

Park Choa. A legend, at least to you. You grew up listening to her, admiring the effortless way she played with melodies, the honeyed warmth of her voice. Even now, After all these years out of the industry, she’s still got that same magic, that same effortless charm. It was a surprise—a good surprise—when she agreed to participate in the project. After all: who wouldn’t want to work with someone like her?

Unfortunately, you’re late. Not horribly, just enough to feel guilty about it. A couple of messages had come through in the group chat—nothing mean, just a casual “Where you at?” from the producer and a thumbs-up emoji from Choa herself. Still, first impressions matter, and you really want to make a good one on her.

The hallway leading to the studio is lined with framed records, gold and platinum plaques from some of the biggest names in the industry. You try not to think about how, in a few months, one of these could be yours—if everything goes well.

You push open the door, stepping inside, and the first thing that hits you is the warmth. Not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. It’s cozy, a little dim, the kind of place where music doesn’t just get made—it breathes. The producer, an older guy with graying hair and an easygoing demeanor, glances up from his seat at the massive console. A couple of engineers are fiddling with the settings, and in the middle of it all, sitting on a worn leather couch with a guitar on her lap, is her.

Choa.

Up close, she’s even smaller than you expected. Petite, with delicate features and that unmistakable aura that some idols—or ex-idols—just have, like they belong in front of a camera, in a spotlight, in the center of everything. She’s dressed casually, ripped jeans and a slightly oversized sweater, but she makes it look effortless. Her hair is dark, barely grazing her shoulders. It's a bit messy, like she just ran her fingers through it, but it somehow manages to look stylish, and when she looks up at you, there’s a brief pause, a quick once-over, before she smiles.

“You’re finally here,” she says, her voice smooth, carrying just the faintest hint of amusement.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Got caught up in traffic.” It’s a lame excuse, but at least it’s not a lie.

She waves it off like it’s nothing. “No worries. We just got started setting up.” She nods toward the empty spot next to her. “Come sit. Let’s talk.”

You move across the room, the couch sinking slightly under your weight as you drop down next to her. She smells good—clean, a little sweet, like vanilla. Up close, she’s all soft curves and smooth skin, the kind of woman who doesn’t need to try to be attractive. It just happens.

The producer claps his hands together, drawing attention back to the session. “Alright, since you two haven’t worked together in person before, let’s just go over the basics. We’ve got a solid tracklist sketched out—about half the songs are yours, half are collabs, and a couple will be just Choa. Sound good?”

You nod, glancing at her. She’s watching you, expression relaxed, but there’s something else there—like she’s sizing you up. You wonder what she’s heard about you.

“Fine by me,” you say.

“Good,” the producer continues. “We’ll start with the first duet track, see how your voices blend. Get a feel for each other’s styles.”

Choa plucks at the strings of her guitar absently. “Have you heard the demo?”

“Yeah, a few times. Your voice sounds incredible on it.”

Her lips twitch, just slightly, at the compliment. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

You clear your throat. “So, how do you want to do this? Warm up first?”

She nods. “Yeah. We can run through the harmonies, see where we need to tweak things.”

She shifts on the couch, turning toward you, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you are. The studio isn’t that big, and the couch is even smaller, so when she moves, her knee brushes against yours, warm through the denim. She doesn’t pull away.

The first few runs are technical, focused. She leads, you follow, adjusting where needed, blending where necessary. But then something shifts. The harmonies start to click. Her voice melts into yours, or maybe it’s the other way around, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like just a warm-up anymore. It feels like something else—like a connection forming, something tangible in the air between you.

She notices it too. You can see it in the way her eyes flicker up to yours in the middle of a note, in the way she leans in just slightly when your voices meet. It’s not just good. It’s effortless.

The producer grins. "Damn. That’s nice.”

You exhale, grinning a little. “Yeah. Feels right.”

Choa tilts her head, watching you again. “You’re a natural at this. You must have worked hard to get here.”

There’s no arrogance in her voice, just curiosity.

You nod. “Yeah. I had to. My old group… things didn’t really work out.”

“Creative differences?”

“Something like that.”

She hums thoughtfully, fingers still idly strumming her guitar. “Well, their loss.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but coming from her, it hits differently. Like it means something. Like she sees something in you.

The studio hums with a low, steady energy as you and Choa work through the song. It’s just the two of you now—well, the producer and engineers are still around, but they’ve settled into their usual rhythm, fine-tuning levels, tweaking instrumentals, mostly letting you two figure out your chemistry. And it’s there. Undeniably there.

Your voices complement each other in a way that doesn’t feel forced, doesn’t feel like some industry suit shoved you into a room and told you to make a hit. It just clicks.

After a while, Choa stretches, rolling out her shoulders with a quiet groan. “Alright, I need a break. My throat’s getting a little dry.”

You watch as she gets up, heading over to the mini fridge in the corner. She crouches down, giving you an unintentionally nice view of her curves, before grabbing a couple of water bottles. When she straightens up, she tosses one your way. You catch it, cracking it open with a nod of thanks.

She flops back onto the couch next to you, unscrewing her cap, taking a slow sip before speaking again. “So, I gotta ask.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“Why me?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“This collab. Your first solo album. You could’ve worked with anyone, but you picked me.” She leans back against the couch, tilting her head slightly. “I’m not even an idol anymore. There are plenty of younger, more popular people you could’ve asked.”

You frown slightly, sitting back as well. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She raises a brow. “Come on. Don’t act like you don’t get it. The industry’s obsessed with fresh faces, hot new talent. I’m not some viral rookie with millions of followers. Hell, I barely do music anymore.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” you say, and the words come out more sincere than you expect. “You’re talented. Always have been,” you continue. “I grew up listening to you. Your voice, your style—there’s something about it that just sticks with people. With me.” You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t want to work with just anyone. I wanted to work with someone I actually respect. Someone whose music I believe in. And to me, that’s you.”

She doesn’t smile, not really, but you see it anyway. In the way her shoulders relax just a bit, in the way her fingers toy idly with the cap of her water bottle. The way her gaze lingers on you now—longer than before, softer in a way that makes your pulse pick up just a little.

“You’re full of shit,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

You grin. “I mean it.”

Another pause. She tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“You’re an interesting guy,” she says finally.

You let out a small laugh, trying to shake off the sudden nervous energy in your chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She hums, taking another sip of her water. “Guess we’ll see if you’re still this charming after a few weeks of working together.”

“Are you doubting me already?”

She smirks. “Just keeping my expectations realistic.”

There’s something playful in her tone, but beneath it, you can tell—she’s pleased. Maybe even a little flattered. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You look down at the water bottle in your hands, twisting the plastic slightly. “Well, guess I’ll just have to prove myself, then.”

Choa chuckles, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Enough compliments. Let’s get back to work before the producer starts wondering if we’re actually doing anything in here.”

You nod, clearing your throat, forcing yourself to focus. But as she moves closer again, picking up her guitar, you can still feel the weight of her gaze on you. And now, for some reason, it’s making you a little nervous.

—

The weeks pass In a blur of late nights, endless takes, and an easy rhythm that settles between you and Choa like it was always meant to be there. At first, it was just work—figuring each other out musically, learning how to blend your voices, adjusting to her style while she adapted to yours. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

She complements you, and you complement her. It’s natural. Effortless.

The studio doesn’t feel like a workplace anymore; it feels like a second home. A place where things just click, where the tension of proving yourself fades, replaced by something more instinctual. She gets you in a way that most people don’t—not just as a singer, but as an artist. She never holds back when something isn’t working, calls you out bluntly when you’re overthinking a note or hesitating on a line, but she’s just as quick to push you forward when you get stuck. And it’s not one-sided.

“You’re overcomplicating that run,” you tell her one evening when she’s spent the last ten minutes nitpicking a verse.

She gives you a look, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re thinking too hard. Just sing it how you feel it.”

She huffs but tries again—and when it comes out smoother, more raw, she glances at you out of the corner of her eye, like she doesn’t want to admit you were right.

This is how it’s been. Comfortable. Easy.

So when, after another long day in the studio, Choa suddenly turns to you as you’re packing up and says, “Wanna grab dinner?”—it catches you off guard.

You pause, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Now?”

She shrugs. “Why not? It’s late, we’re both hungry, and I know a good place.”

It’s not like you had other plans. Probably just heading home, eating something mediocre, maybe passing out in front of the TV. This is better.

“Yeah, alright,” you say.

She doesn’t look surprised that you agreed, just nods, pulling her jacket over her shoulders before leading the way out.

—

The restaurant is small, tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t have found on your own. It’s got warm lighting, intimate booths, a quiet murmur of conversation. Not fancy, but not some hole-in-the-wall either. Just… comfortable.

Choa greets the staff like she’s been here a hundred times, and you get the feeling this is one of her regular spots.

“You come here a lot?” you ask once you’re seated.

She nods, picking up the menu. “Used to, at least. Not as much these days.”

You glance around. “Doesn’t seem like a place idols would get mobbed.”

“Exactly.” She smirks. “Back when I was still in AOA, I’d come here to get away from all that. No one ever bothered me.”

There’s something in her tone—not quite regret, but something close to nostalgia. You get it. Even though you left your group on your own terms, you still miss certain things. The camaraderie, the feeling of knowing exactly where you belong.

The conversation stays easy as you order, mostly sticking to music—expectations for the album, what the next few months will look like, the inevitable media buzz when people realize how well you work together. But as the night goes on, as the food arrives and the first glass of wine is poured, something starts to shift.

The way she leans In a little more when she talks. The way her fingers toy absently with the stem of her glass, tracing idle patterns. The way her eyes linger on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

And then, after another sip of wine, she tilts her head slightly, watching you with a small, amused smile. “You’re different than I expected.”

You raise a brow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

She chuckles. “Good, I think.”

“You think?”

She shrugs, swirling the wine in her glass. “When we first started, I wasn’t sure what to expect. You’re younger, you came from a group—it’s easy to assume you’d be… I don’t know. More arrogant, maybe.”

You smirk. “You thought I’d be full of myself?”

“A little.” She lifts a shoulder. “A lot of guys your age are.”

“Fair. But I try not to be an asshole.”

She laughs, and the sound is warm, genuine. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Another sip of wine. Another flicker of something in her gaze, something that makes your stomach tighten just slightly.

“So, what about me?” she asks after a moment.

You blink. “What about you?”

“What did you expect?”

You glance at her, and for the first time tonight, you feel slightly off balance. Because she’s looking at you differently now—like she’s testing something, pushing the conversation into new territory.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess I thought you’d be more… serious?”

She smirks. “Do I not seem serious to you?”

“You do. But you’re also…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “You don’t take yourself too seriously. You’re fun. I like that.”

She hums, tilting her head. “So you like me?”

It’s a simple question, but the way she says it—the slight tilt of her lips, the teasing lilt in her voice—makes your pulse skip.

“I mean—yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “You’re easy to be around. Not a lot of people in this industry are.”

Her smirk lingers. She swirls her wine again, watching the way the liquid clings to the glass before taking another slow sip.

“That’s good,” she murmurs.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of how close you are in the booth, the way her knee brushes against yours beneath the table.

“You know,” she says after a moment, voice lighter now, playful, “the fans are gonna lose their minds when they see us together on tour.”

You huff a laugh, grateful for the change in subject—even if you can still feel the warmth of her gaze. “Yeah. I can already see the headlines.”

She grins. “Should we mess with them?”

You raise a brow. “Mess with them how?”

She leans in slightly, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume. “Hmm, maybe give them something to talk about.”

Your throat goes dry.

She’s joking. Probably. But the way she says it, the way she looks at you, makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“You’d enjoy that, huh?” you say, keeping your voice steady.

She smiles against the rim of her glass. “Maybe.”

And just like that, you realize something.

This isn’t just dinner. This isn’t just two coworkers unwinding after a long day.

Choa is flirting with you.

And judging by the way your heartbeat picks up, by the sudden heat creeping up your spine, you don’t mind it one bit.

The wine keeps flowing, and Choa keeps flirting.

At first, it’s subtle—little things, the way her eyes linger on your mouth when you talk, the way her fingers toy with the rim of her glass, slow and deliberate. But as the night stretches on, the words start getting bolder, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” she says, resting her chin in her palm, elbow propped on the table.

You chuckle. “I’d hope so. Kind of my job.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s not just good, it’s… mmm, how do I put this?” She taps a finger against her lips, pretending to think. “It’s the kind of voice that makes people feel things.”

You tilt your head. “People?”

She smirks. “I meant me, obviously.”

And fuck, she says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like she’s not staring right at you with those dark, knowing eyes, watching the way your throat bobs when you swallow.

The air between you is getting heavy, weighted with something unspoken but understood. It doesn’t help that the wine is making everything feel just a little too warm, your pulse just a little too fast.

And then she leans back, a slow, satisfied look spreading across her face. “You know, I heard a rumor about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She takes another sip, watching you over the rim of her glass. “Something interesting.”

Her tone tells you everything.

You already know what she’s talking about.

There was a day, when you were still part of a k-pop group, early on in the recording process, when you showed up to the studio wearing a pair of pants that were… well, too damn tight. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time—until you noticed the way a few staff members were whispering, glancing at you, their expressions torn between amusement and something else. It didn’t take long before a few pictures surfaced online. Nothing scandalous, but enough to start the whispers. Enough for people to start talking.

And apparently, Choa had heard.

“Interesting, huh?” You take a slow sip of your own drink, matching her energy. “Should I be curious about what exactly you’ve heard?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know. Do you think the rumor’s true?”

You set your glass down with a quiet clink. “Maybe.”

That word lingers between you, crackling like static.

Choa lets out a soft hum, like she’s pleased with that answer. She doesn’t push further—not yet—but the way she looks at you now, the slight curve of her lips, the heat in her eyes? You can tell she’s thinking about it.

And that thought alone is enough to make your skin feel tight, your heartbeat a little erratic.

Eventually, the conversation shifts, but the tension never fully leaves. It simmers beneath the surface, humming with potential, making every glance, every subtle touch of her knee against yours under the table, feel like a spark.

Then, as the night starts winding down, she exhales, stretching slightly. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you say, watching her.

She studies you for a moment, then, as if making a decision, says, “Let's go to my place.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not phrased as a question. Not tentative. Just a statement, casual but firm, like she already knows you’ll say yes. And fuck, she’s right.

You nod. “Okay.”

—

Her apartment is warm, comfortable. Not overly fancy, not the sterile, perfectly curated aesthetic that some celebrities go for. It feels lived-in—cozy, personal, like a place someone actually enjoys being.

Choa steps inside first, toeing off her shoes, taking off the jacket, stretching slightly. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, then glances back at you. “Take off your shoes.”

You do as she says, stepping further inside, taking off your own shoes, your pulse still running a little too fast. The heat from the restaurant hasn’t faded, and now, in this smaller, more intimate space, it feels even stronger.

She walks toward the couch, sinking into it like she’s done this a thousand times, and pats the spot next to her. “Sit.”

It’s not a command, not really. But it feels like one.

You sit.

For a moment, everything is quiet. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but in here, it’s just the two of you. The only sound is your breathing, hers and yours, slightly uneven.

Then she shifts. Just enough that her knee brushes yours again.

You inhale sharply.

She notices.

Her lips twitch. “You okay?”

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah.”

A slow nod. Then she leans in, not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat of her body. “You sure?”

It’s a tease, a test, and god, you’re barely holding on.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh, every nerve in your body screaming at you to close the space between you.

But she’s playing with you. And you’re letting her.

“Choa,” you say, voice lower now, rougher.

She smiles. It’s lazy, knowing. “Hm?”

You swallow. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

Your jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

She hums again, considering. Then, finally, she shifts closer. Just a little. Enough that you can feel her breath against your jaw.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

You nearly lose it right then and there.

Your hand moves on instinct, fingers grazing her thigh, gripping lightly. Not enough to push—just enough to let her know that if she keeps this up, you won’t be able to hold back.

She doesn’t pull away.

If anything, she leans in more.

Her lips are inches from yours, her gaze locked onto you, dark and unreadable. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the tension winding tighter, tighter—

Then, finally, she whispers, “I think you should kiss me.”

The moment your lips crash into Choa’s, she melts against you, but there’s no hesitation—she knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not shy about taking it. She moves fast, climbing onto your lap like it’s where she belongs, straddling your thighs, rolling her hips the second she settles against you. The heat of her body, the teasing friction, the way she breathes into your mouth as she grinds—it all hits you at once, hard and fast, sending a rush of blood straight to your cock.

She feels it immediately.

Choa pauses, just for a second, her breath catching as she shifts, pressing her hips down more firmly. A slow, knowing smirk curls her lips. "Oh," she murmurs, voice dropping to something low and teasing. She rolls her hips again, deliberately dragging herself over the thick length straining against your pants. “I feel that.”

Your hands tighten around her waist. “Keep moving like that, and you’re gonna feel a whole lot more.”

Her smirk deepens. “Good.”

She does it again, rolling her hips in slow, torturous circles, pressing down harder this time. The friction is perfect, her warmth seeping through the layers between you, and fuck, you can already feel how wet she is, how easily she glides over you.

You grab her—hands on her ass, fingers digging in—and lift her clean off your lap. She gasps, legs wrapping instinctively around your waist, but she doesn’t protest. If anything, she likes it, her fingers curling against your shoulders as you stand, carrying her like she weighs nothing.

“You’re so fucking small,” you mutter, gripping her tighter.

“And you’re so fucking big,” she breathes back, shifting against you, pressing herself closer.

You don’t waste any time getting her to the bedroom.

Her back barely hits the bed before you’re both reaching for clothes, stripping down piece by piece, discarding them onto the floor without care. Her sweater, her jeans, the lacy little bra. Then, finally, those tiny panties, slipping down her thighs as she watches you, lips slightly parted, breath already coming faster.

And then it’s your turn.

You shove down your pants, your boxers, and the second your cock is free—thick, hard, aching—Choa lets out a sharp inhale.

For the first time, she actually pauses.

Her dark eyes widen just slightly as she stares, her tongue flicking over her bottom lip. “Fuck,” she breathes, sitting up on her knees.

You stroke it once, lazily, smirking down at her. “That’s what you do to me.”

She exhales shakily, then, with absolutely no hesitation, slides off the bed onto her knees.

The sight of her there—small, perfect, looking up at you with those pretty lips slightly parted—sends a fresh jolt of heat through your body.

Her fingers wrap around the base first, her touch firm, exploratory, like she’s testing the weight of it in her hand. “Mmm,” she hums, satisfied, then drags her thumb over the tip, smearing a bead of precum before flicking her gaze back up to you. “Gotta make it nice and wet for you, huh?”

And then she leans in, dragging her tongue up the entire length, slow and teasing, before finally wrapping those soft lips around you.

And the moment she takes you in, it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of you. Her mouth is perfect—wet, warm, and so tight you can feel every inch of her as she starts to move. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease, just takes you in like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s been thinking about it as much as you have. And fuck, the way she looks up at you, her eyes dark and focused, her lips stretched around your thickness, it’s enough to make your knees buckle.

She starts slow at first, her tongue dragging along the underside of your cock, teasing the sensitive spot just below the head. Her hands grip your thighs for balance, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss. You can feel her breath, hot and uneven, against your skin as she works you, her mouth moving with a rhythm that’s both deliberate and hungry. She’s good at this—really good—and it’s not just the technique, it’s the way she seems to enjoy it, the way she hums around you like she’s savoring the taste.

But then she takes you deeper, and you can feel her struggle. Your cock is thick, too much for her small mouth, and she gags a little as she tries to take more of you. She pulls back, her lips slick with spit, and you can see the faintest hint of tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she seems determined, like she’s not going to let your size intimidate her. She adjusts, tilting her head to take you at a better angle, and then she’s back on you, her mouth working harder, faster.

You can’t help but groan, your hands tangling in her hair as she bobs her head, her lips sliding up and down your shaft. She’s not just sucking you now—she’s devouring you, her tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard. The wet sounds are obscene, filling the room, and you can’t stop watching her, can’t stop thinking about how surreal this is. Choa, the woman you’ve idolized for years, is on her knees for you, her mouth stuffed with your cock, and she’s not holding back.

“Fuck, Choa,” you mutter, your voice rough, your grip tightening in her hair. She hums in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but push her head down, guiding her to take more of you. She doesn’t fight it, just relaxes her throat and lets you slide deeper, her nose pressing against your stomach as she takes you as far as she can. She gags again, but this time she doesn’t pull back—she stays there, her throat working around you, her eyes watering as she looks up at you like she’s daring you to take control.

And you do. You can’t help it. The sight of her like this, the feel of her mouth around you, it’s too much. You start to move, your hips thrusting gently at first, then harder, fucking her mouth with slow, deep strokes. She lets you, her hands gripping your thighs tighter, her nails digging in as she takes every inch you give her. Her throat is so tight, so warm, and the way she looks at you, like she’s enjoying this as much as you are, it drives you wild.

Her small mouth struggles to take all of you, but she doesn’t seem to care—if anything, she’s determined to prove she can handle it. Her tongue swirls around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard, and you can feel the tension building in your gut, your cock throbbing in her mouth. But just when you think you might lose it, she pulls back, your cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop.

She looks up at you, her lips swollen and glistening, her chin slick with spit. She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells you she’s not done. Not even close. She stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then she’s climbing onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate. She gets on all fours, her ass in the air, and fuck, the sight of her like that is enough to make your cock twitch. She glances over her shoulder, a sly smile playing on her lips.

“It’s ready for you,” she says, her voice low and teasing. “But not there.” She reaches back, spreading her cheeks slightly, and your breath catches. “I want you to fuck my ass.”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “You heard me. I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you. That big, thick cock of yours… I want to feel it in my ass.”

You stare at her, your mind racing. This isn’t what you expected—not even close. But the way she’s looking at you, the way she’s presenting herself, it’s impossible to say no. And fuck, you don’t want to. You step closer, your hands resting on her hips, and she lets out a soft sigh, her body relaxing under your touch.

“You sure?” you ask, your voice rough.

She nods, her hair falling over her face as she looks back at you. “I’m sure. But…” She pauses, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re gonna have to get me ready first.”

You drop to your knees behind her, your hands spreading her cheeks, and the sight of her pussy and asshole, glistening and waiting for you, is enough to make your mouth water. You lean in, your tongue dragging along her slit, and she lets out a sharp gasp, her hips pushing back against your face.

“Fuck,” she mutters, her voice trembling. “Your tongue… it’s so long.”

You grin against her, your tongue flicking over her clit before diving back in, lapping at her pussy like you’re starving. She’s already wet, her juices coating your tongue, and the taste of her is intoxicating. you can feel her trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you work her over, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles.

But you’re not done. You pull back slightly, your tongue trailing lower, and she lets out a soft whimper when you press it against her asshole. She’s tight, so fucking tight, but you don’t stop. You lick her slowly, teasingly, your tongue circling her rim before pushing inside. She moans, her hips rocking back against your face, and you can feel her body relaxing, opening up for you.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “Your tongue… it’s so fucking good.”

You hum against her, the vibration making her shudder, and you keep going, your tongue working her asshole until it’s wet and loose, ready for you. She’s moaning now, her hands gripping the sheets, her body trembling with every flick of your tongue. You can feel her clenching around you, her pussy dripping.

You pull back, your lips brushing against her ass as you look up at her. “You ready?” you ask.

She nods, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck me.”

You stand up, your hands gripping her hips, and you can feel the tension in the air, the anticipation building between you. She’s ready—and so are you.

Your breath Is ragged as you grip the base of your cock, watching the way Choa spreads herself open for you, her ass so tight, so fucking inviting, you almost can’t believe she’s offering it up like this. She glances back at you over her shoulder, smirking despite the flush painting her cheeks. “You ever done this before?” she asks, her voice thick with heat, teasing but curious.

You swallow hard, running your free hand over the curve of her ass, feeling the way her skin is soft but firm beneath your palm. “No,” you admit, gripping yourself tighter.

That seems to excite her. Her smirk widens just a little, and she rolls her hips, pressing back against you. “Good,” she murmurs, almost like she’s pleased to be your first.

You spit into your palm and slick it over yourself, watching how the head of your cock shines as you press it against her tight entrance. You can feel the resistance immediately—her body clenching instinctively, hot and unyielding. You grip her hip with your other hand, steadying yourself, pressing forward just a little.

Choa hisses, fingers gripping the sheets. “Shit, you’re big.”

That makes something primal in you twitch. “You sure you can handle this?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Slowly, carefully, you push forward, feeling the tight heat of her stretch around you, inch by inch. She’s tense at first, her breath catching, but she doesn’t stop you—if anything, she pushes back, forcing herself to take more of you.

“Fuck,” she groans, dropping her head onto the mattress. “God, you’re really—” Her words cut off into a sharp inhale as you sink another inch inside.

You grip her hips tighter, watching, transfixed, as your cock disappears into her inch by inch. “You’re so tight,” you growl, barely able to breathe.

“Yeah?” Her voice is strained, but there’s amusement beneath it. “That a problem?”

“Hell no.”

You give her another inch, groaning as you feel her body adjusting, the way she clenches and trembles around you. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, the tightest thing you’ve ever felt.

“Relax,” you murmur, rubbing slow circles into her hips, trying not to lose yourself completely.

She exhales shakily. “I’m trying.”

And then, finally, you bottom out.

Choa shudders beneath you, her breath hitching as she goes still, adjusting to the feeling of being completely filled. You can feel every twitch, every flutter of her body trying to accommodate you.

“Jesus,” you whisper, your hands tightening on her waist.

She lets out a weak laugh. “Now that,” she breathes, shifting slightly, “is a fucking stretch.”

You groan, rolling your hips just a little, testing. Her answering whimper sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your whole body tensing.

“You okay?” you ask, even though the way she clenches around you is making it impossible to think straight.

She nods, biting her lip. “Give me a second.”

You do. You stay still, hands gripping her hips, feeling her breathing slow, her body adjusting to you.

And then, finally, she pushes back.

“Okay,” she whispers, tilting her head slightly. “Move.”

And fuck, you do.

At first, it’s slow—tentative thrusts, shallow, letting her body adjust to the stretch, to the way you fill her completely. But she takes it, every inch, breathing through it, and soon, you can feel her start to relax, to loosen.

The change Is gradual but undeniable. Where she was tense before, now she’s opening up for you, her body accommodating you, molding around you.

Then, she shifts, pressing back against you with more force. “Harder,” she breathes, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps in you, and you grip her hips tighter, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, harder this time.

Choa gasps, her back arching, but she doesn’t stop you. She meets your thrusts, her breath coming faster, more ragged.

And then you really start to move.

You fuck her deep, your hips snapping against her ass, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. It’s raw, primal, completely consuming. You can barely think, barely breathe, lost in the way she takes you, in the way she feels around you—tight, hot, perfect.

“Holy shit,” you groan, gripping her tighter.

She moans in response, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her whole body shuddering beneath you. “Yes,” she gasps. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

You weren’t planning to.

You move faster, your thrusts growing harder, rougher, dragging her body back against yours with each deep stroke. She’s a mess beneath you, moaning, panting, pushing back to meet every single thrust like she needs this just as badly as you do.

You can’t even believe this is happening. This was supposed to be just music—just an artistic collaboration. And now you’re here, buried balls deep in Choa’s ass, fucking her so hard you can hear the bed creaking beneath you.

You reach forward, fisting a handful of her hair, tugging her head back slightly. “You like that?” you murmur, your voice low and rough against her ear.

Her answering moan is wrecked. “Yes,” she breathes, her body trembling.

You smirk, thrusting harder, making her gasp. “Never would’ve guessed you were into this,” you mutter.

She laughs breathlessly, even as you fuck her so deep she’s struggling to form words. “Never… would’ve guessed you’d be this good at it,” she manages.

That makes something dark and hungry coil in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on her hips, pounding into her harder, deeper, chasing that unbearable pleasure building between you.

You’re already addicted to the way she feels, the way her body clings to you like she never wants to let go. Every time you pull out, she tightens up like she’s trying to keep you inside, and every time you slam back in, she lets out this little broken gasp that’s driving you insane.

And fuck, she’s wet. You can feel the slick heat of her coating your cock, hear the obscene, messy sounds filling the room, mixing with the slap of skin on skin, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall with every deep stroke.

You tighten your grip on her hips, rolling your hips with a slow, deliberate grind that has her toes curling against the sheets. She’s taking it so fucking well, and you can tell she loves it—loves the stretch, loves the way you fill her, loves the way you own her in this moment.

Then, between gasping moans, she admits it:

“I’m an fucking anal whore,” she breathes, voice high and trembling. “God, I love it so much. I fucking need it.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Your hands tighten on her waist, your cock twitching inside her at those words, that filthy little confession.

“You need it, huh?” You thrust deeper, pressing in to the hilt, grinding against her, making sure she feels you. “This tight little ass addicted to getting fucked?”

“Yes,” she moans, pressing her forehead into the mattress, panting. “Yes—fuck, your cock is the biggest I’ve ever felt, baby, I swear.”

Something about the way she says it, the way she moans baby like she means it, makes you snap.

“You’re really asking for it,” you growl, lifting a hand. “A slut like you deserves to get her ass slapped, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” she gasps, glancing over her shoulder at you, her eyes glassy with pleasure. “Do it. Slap my ass. Please, baby.”

You bring your palm down with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the room, and the way she moans at the impact nearly makes you lose your mind.

“Mmm—fuck, yes!” she cries out, pushing her ass up, offering it to you, wiggling her hips like she’s begging for more.

You groan, feeling her clench tight around you. “Shit, you really like that, don’t you?”

“Yes! More—please, baby, more—”

Goddamn. This woman is gonna fucking ruin you.

You spank her again, watching the way her skin reddens under your hand, the way she shudders beneath you. She’s moaning so much now, so fucking loud, her voice breaking, her body trembling.

She’s completely lost in it, completely yours.

“Harder,” she begs, voice breathless, desperate. “Fuck me harder, baby, I’m so close—”

You grip her hips, dig your fingers into her soft skin, and oblige.

Your thrusts become brutal, relentless, fucking into her with deep, powerful strokes that have her screaming. You’re gone, completely lost in the feel of her, in the sound of her moans, in the way she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing she knows.

“You’re so fucking tight,” you growl, leaning over her, pressing your chest against her back, letting her feel your weight. “You love this, don’t you? Love getting your ass fucked like a dirty little slut?”

“Yes!” she sobs, her nails clawing at the sheets, her body shaking. “I love it, baby, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You’re not stopping. Not until you’ve fucked her through it, not until you’ve made her cum on your cock.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” you murmur, gripping her waist tighter, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again.

She sobs out something that’s barely a word, barely a sound, just a high, broken moan that tells you everything.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “I’m so—so fucking close, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

The idea of making a woman cum just from taking your cock in her ass? It’s got you rock fucking hard, making you thrust into her harder, deeper, determined to push her over the edge with nothing but your cock filling her up.

“You gonna cum on my dick?” you growl, slamming into her, watching the way her back arches, the way her whole body shudders.

“Yes, yes—fuck—” Her voice is wrecked, barely holding together, and you can feel it happening, the way she tenses, the way she gasps, freezes—

Her whole body locks up, trembling, her mouth open in a silent, choked-off cry before she shatters. She’s cumming, her body wracked with wave after wave of it, her walls clenching around you in tight, pulsing spasms that make your cock throb inside her.

Her voice is high, almost shocked, like she can’t believe how hard she’s coming, how fucking deep you are, like you’re reaching places inside her no one else ever has.

And then you drive into her one last time, deep, pushing as far as you can go—

And she screams.

Loud. Raw. A desperate, uncontrollable sound that makes your whole body ache with the need to cum, makes your stomach tighten, your balls throb, makes you want to fucking ruin her.

She collapses forward, chest heaving, body twitching in aftershocks, her legs weak, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You stay inside her, still hard, still aching, but you give her a moment, running your hands down her sides, pressing soft kisses against the back of her neck.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “That was—holy shit—”

You smirk against her skin, feeling that hot rush of pride swell in your chest. “First time cumming like that?”

She nods weakly, still catching her breath. “Yeah,” she whispers, almost in awe. “Normally I—I have to, you know, touch myself too. But fuck, baby—you—you made me cum just from that—”

Damn right you did.

You smirk, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Guess I’m just that good.”

She huffs a small, breathless laugh, her body still trembling slightly from the aftermath. “Cocky bastard,” she mutters—but there’s something in her voice, something warm, something satisfied.

And then—before you can react, before you can process, she moves.

One second she’s lying there, breathless and wrecked, and the next she’s pushing up, flipping you onto your back, her small body straddling yours, hands pressing against your chest to pin you down.

“Your turn,” she purrs, and fuck, the way she looks at you—sweaty, flushed, her hair tousled, her lips parted, her smirk—it makes your cock twitch in her hand, already positioning it at her entrance.

You barely have time to breathe before she moves, rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, making you groan as she grinds against you, taking every inch, every thick, aching inch of your cock inside her.

“Jesus, Choa,” you hiss, gripping her hips, your fingers pressing into her warm, sweat-slick skin.

She smirks, placing her hands over yours, sliding them up her stomach, over the taut, toned muscle of her abs.

“You like that?” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “Like how tight I keep this body just for you?”

Your fingers trace the soft sheen of sweat on her stomach, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your palm. “Yeah,” you admit, voice rough, full of heat. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good—”

She hums, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging her nails lightly over your chest as she rides you.

And fuck, the way she moves—

It’s mesmerizing.

The way her small, fit body moves atop yours, the way she lifts herself only to drop back down, taking you to the base, grinding her hips to make sure she feels every inch. She’s so fucking tight, so hot around you, and the sight of her like this—flushed, sweaty, her small frame working you like she’s made for this—has you gritting your teeth, trying not to fucking explode inside her right then and there.

“You like watching me, baby?” she teases, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that have you twitching inside her.

You groan, gripping her waist tighter, your fingers digging into her soft flesh. “Yeah,” you pant, unable to look away. “Fuck, yeah.”

She moans, throwing her head back, her hands sliding up her own stomach, over her perfect tits, her fingers brushing her hard, sensitive nipples.

“God, you feel so good,” she breathes, moving faster now, her hips snapping down onto you, taking you deep, making you groan, making your abs tighten.

Choa has you right where she wants you—flat on your back, sprawled across the bed, her toned, petite body perched on top of you, squeezing you so tight it’s fucking heaven. Her thighs flex as she rides you, every movement controlled, deliberate, her muscles working in perfect rhythm as she grinds down, making sure you feel every single inch of her.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands finding her waist, gripping her hips, trying to ground yourself in something—but she’s already ahead of you, already setting a pace that has you reeling, already taking charge like she owns you.

She smirks down at you, her hair messy and wild, sticking to her sweaty skin. “What’s wrong, baby?” she purrs, rolling her hips in slow, taunting circles, dragging you through her tight, wet heat with devastating precision. “Too much for you?”

“Shit—” Your fingers dig into her waist, but she doesn’t let you control a damn thing. She lifts herself up, her thighs flexing, her muscles tightening as she takes you, and you see it now—how fucking fit she is, how much strength she has, how easily she moves on top of you like she could do this all night.

And fuck, maybe she will.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she murmurs, watching your face as she drops down onto you again, taking you so deep you swear you see stars. “You like that? Like watching me fuck myself on your cock?”

Your breath hitches, your stomach tightening. “Jesus, Choa—”

“Answer me,” she demands, rolling her hips, gripping your chest for leverage, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss.

“Yeah—fuck, yeah, I love it,” you pant, barely able to breathe, barely able to think with the way she’s working you.

She grins, pleased, and then she really starts to show off.

She plants her feet on the bed, her thighs flexing as she lifts herself up completely, keeping just the head of your cock inside her. And then, with perfect control, she slams back down, her ass meeting your thighs with a wet slap that makes you groan.

“Fuuuuuck,” you choke out, your vision going white for a second.

She smirks, does it again, and you damn near lose your mind.

She’s fucking athletic—her movements sharp, precise, powerful. She’s using every ounce of strength in her small frame to milk you, to ride you with the kind of stamina only someone who really knows what they’re doing could have.

“You’re so fucking big,” she breathes, her hands pressing into your chest, keeping you pinned. “God, I can feel you stretching me—fuck, I think I’m getting addicted to this.”

Your cock twitches inside her at those words, and she moans, grinding down, rolling her hips, making you feel every inch of her.

“Shit,” you groan, your fingers tightening on her waist. “You’re fucking insane—”

She grins, tossing her hair back, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, owning you, using your cock exactly how she wants. “Oh, baby,” she purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She shifts, leaning back slightly, her hands sliding down your stomach, using her own core strength to control her balance as she rides you with a speed and intensity that has your head spinning.

“Holy shit—”

She laughs breathlessly, sweat dripping down her chest, her toned stomach tightening with every bounce. “God, you feel so fucking good,” she moans, biting her lip, tossing her hair back. “I can’t believe I haven’t had this before—fuck, baby, how have you been hiding this cock from me?”

You can barely breathe, barely fucking function, not when she’s like this, not when she’s dominating you so effortlessly, so perfectly. You can feel the power in her thighs, the control in her movements, the way she’s making you unravel without breaking a sweat.

“Choa,” you rasp, barely holding on. “Fucking hell—”

“Mmm,” she hums, rolling her hips, watching you come undone beneath her. “You’re so cute when you’re struggling, baby.”

You groan, your body shaking, your hands sliding up to her abs, feeling the heat of her sweat-slick skin, the definition beneath your fingers. “Fuck, you’re strong—”

“Of course I am,” she breathes, leaning down, pressing her lips against yours, swallowing your gasps as she fucks you. “I work hard for this body, baby. Gotta stay tight. Gotta stay fit. And now…” She smirks against your lips, rolling her hips, making you groan. “Now you get to enjoy it.”

She pulls back, her eyes gleaming, her smirk full of pure, smug satisfaction. “Tell me how good I feel,” she commands, rolling her hips with a slow, deep grind that makes you see stars.

“You feel fucking perfect,” you choke out, barely coherent.

She moans, throwing her head back, her pace quickening again, her thighs working hard as she slams herself down on you, taking you to the hilt over and over again.

“You’re so fucking deep,” she gasps, her voice high, desperate. “So fucking thick—I can feel you in my stomach—”

Your hands fly to her waist, gripping her as tightly as you can without bruising her, your cock throbbing inside her at her words.

“Fuck, Choa—”

“Mmm, I love hearing you moan like that, baby,” she teases, leaning down, licking the sweat from your collarbone, her tongue hot against your skin. “You love this, don’t you? Love having me ride you like this?”

“Yes,” you groan, barely holding on. “Fucking yes—”

She smirks against your skin, then sits up again, planting her hands on your chest, her nails digging into your skin as she starts riding you hard with wild, unrestrained energy, her perfect little body working you like she was made for this. Her thighs are flexing, her toned stomach tightening, sweat glistening on her skin as she moves with expert control. And fuck, the way she moves—rolling her hips, grinding deep before slamming down again, her breathy moans growing louder, needier, rawer—has your whole body on edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” she gasps, her hands trailing up her own body, her fingers squeezing her perky tits as she bounces on your cock. “God, I knew it would be like this.”

Your brain barely registers what she just said, too lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat gripping you so fucking perfectly. “Knew?” you manage, your voice ragged. “What do you mean, baby?”

She grins, biting her lip, her eyes dark with lust as she slams herself down onto you again, making you groan. “You think I joined your album for the music?” she teases, tilting her head, her hair falling over her face. “Baby, I had my eye on you from the first day I saw you in the studio.”

Your whole body twitches at that, your stomach tightening, something dark and hungry stirring inside you. “Really?”

Choa moans, tossing her hair back, her hands squeezing her own breasts, rolling her hips in slow, deep circles that have your cock throbbing inside her. “I knew I wanted you the second you walked into that room,” she breathes. “You looked so fucking good—so confident, so talented. And all I could think about was finding a way to get you alone, to see if you were as good in bed as you are in the studio.”

“Jesus fuck,” you growl, your fingers digging into her waist, gripping her tight as she works you over, as she owns you with those words.

She giggles, leaning forward, her lips ghosting over your jaw, her breath hot against your ear. “And now look at you,” she murmurs, grinding down hard, making you shudder. “Flat on your back, letting me use you just the way I wanted to since day one.”

“Fuck, Choa—”

“You like it?” she purrs, her tongue flicking out to tease your earlobe before she sits back up, her hands sliding down her stomach, her fingers tracing the slick heat between her legs before she cups her own tits again, squeezing them, moaning at the sensation. “You like watching me take you like this, baby?”

“Yeah,” you groan, your whole body on fire. “Fuck, I love it. You’re so fucking sexy, Choa—”

She moans, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging you deep, making sure you feel every inch of her. “Mmm, I love hearing you say that,” she purrs, her nails raking lightly over your chest. “Love knowing how much you want me.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp wave of pleasure surging through you, your balls drawing up. “Fuck—”

She feels it instantly. The way your cock twitches inside her, the way your grip tightens on her hips.

“Oh,” she breathes, slowing her pace just slightly, smirking down at you. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby?”

You nod, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck, yeah—”

She grins, and then, without warning—

She stops.

You whine at the sudden loss of movement, your whole body on the brink, teetering on the edge of release, but she just smirks, lifting herself off of you, making your cock throb in desperation.

“Not yet,” she purrs, her voice dripping with something dark and teasing.

“Fuck, Choa—”

She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around your slick, throbbing cock, giving it a slow, teasing stroke, her touch just light enough to make you twitch. And then—

She adjusts, shifting her body, tilting her hips, and presses the head of your cock against her ass.

Your whole body goes tight at the realization, your breath catching as she smirks down at you.

“I want you to cum in my ass,” she whispers, her voice sultry and commanding. “Think you can handle that, baby?”

Choa sinks down onto you again, taking your cock back into her tight, sinful heat, and fuck, you swear she gets even tighter every time. Her round ass presses against your thighs as she settles fully, rolling her hips with slow, controlled precision, her breath coming in short, teasing pants as she watches your reaction.

“Mmm,” she hums, running her hands down her own body, over her toned stomach, down to where you’re joined. “Still feels so fucking good.”

You groan, gripping her waist, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your fingertips as she moves. “Shit, Choa—”

She smirks, lifting herself up again, just enough to tease the head of your cock against her stretched entrance before dropping back down, taking you to the hilt in one smooth motion.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily at the overwhelming sensation.

She moans, pleased, her nails raking lightly down your chest as she starts to move faster, bouncing on your cock with practiced ease, each movement precise, deliberate, devastating.

“You like this?” she purrs, rolling her hips, grinding down hard before slamming herself back down again. “Like watching me take you like this?”

“Yeah,” you groan, barely able to form words, barely able to think with the way she’s squeezing you, milking you.

She giggles breathlessly, tossing her hair back, sweat glistening on her skin as she picks up the pace, bouncing harder, faster, determined to wreck you. “Mmm, I can tell,” she teases, glancing down at where your cock is stretching her open, watching the way you disappear into her over and over again. “You’re throbbing so much inside me, baby. Getting so close, aren’t you?”

“Fuck—” Your fingers dig into her waist, desperate for something to ground you, desperate to keep yourself from completely unraveling right then and there.

She moans, tilting her head, biting her lip. “Good,” she purrs, rolling her hips in deep, slow circles before slamming down again. “Because I am too.”

Your breath catches. "Shit—”

“I’m gonna cum,” she gasps, her pace turning frantic, desperate, her breath coming in quick, ragged moans as she rides you faster, harder, her whole body shaking with the force of it. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

Your whole body tightens, your stomach tensing, your cock throbbing inside her as her moans get louder, higher, rawer. “Choa—”

“Cum for me,” she begs, her voice high and desperate. “Cum for me, baby, please—I need it—”

You groan, barely able to hold on, barely able to do anything but feel as she bounces on you, taking every inch, her body shaking as she gets closer, closer—

“Fuck, baby, your cock is so big—so thick—”

Your head spins, your balls tightening, your orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. “I’m gonna cum—”

“Me too—” she gasps, her hands gripping your chest, her whole body tensing. “Cum with me, baby—please, cum inside me—”

And fuck, you do.

Your whole body locks up, your vision going white as you explode inside her, thick ropes of hot cum flooding her, filling her so deep she screams, her back arching, her eyes rolling back as her own orgasm crashes over her.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Her walls pulse around you, milking you for everything, squeezing you so tight it’s almost unbearable. You groan, your hips jerking up into her as more thick, hot spurts shoot deep inside her, so much that it overflows, spilling out around your cock, dripping down between her thighs.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, collapsing forward, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her whole body trembling as she feels you pulse inside her, releasing the last few weak spurts, filling her up completely.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your harsh breathing, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

Then, finally, she exhales, pressing a slow, satisfied kiss against your neck.

“Mmm,” she hums, nuzzling into you. “You really know how to make a girl feel good, baby.”

“Fuck, I don’t even know what to say, Choa,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her. “You’re… amazing.”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby,” she says, voice relaxed, breathing slowly against your body. “Let’s just stay like this for a while… while I feel your cum leaking out of me."

—

The thing about secrets? They never stay just in the dark.

At first, it’s just the sex. Weekly meetings that start behind closed doors, your bodies tangled in sheets, your mouths locked together in desperate, greedy kisses. The hunger between you is impossible to ignore, the chemistry too raw, too real. But somewhere along the way, between the heat of her skin and the sound of her breathless moans, between the nights spent in her bed and the mornings where she lingers just a little longer before letting you go, something changes.

It stops being just about fucking.

It spills out of the bedroom, slipping into the studio, into the music itself.

It starts small. A lyric here, a melody there. Subtle. Something in the way she sings a line, the way your harmonies blend together just a little too smoothly, like you were made to complement each other. Then, one day, you write a song—about her. Not obvious, not explicit, but anyone who really listens will hear it. The want, the secrecy, the way her body feels against yours, the way you can’t get her out of your head.

Choa notices immediately.

“You wrote this?” she asks, sitting beside you in the studio, listening to the raw demo play through the speakers.

You glance at her, shrugging casually. “Yeah.”

She hums, tapping her fingers against her knee. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

You smirk. “What do you think?”

She shoots you a dry look, but there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“Neither are you,” you counter.

Because you’ve noticed it too.

The way her songs have started changing. The lyrics she’s been writing, the little additions to the album—nothing obvious, nothing that could incriminate either of you, but the clues are there. The new songs don’t just fit the album’s original concept anymore. They’re something else entirely now.

They’re about you and her.

The producers were hesitant at first—changing the tracklist, altering the theme—but once they heard the demos, they didn’t argue. Something was working. The songs were better this way. Realer.

So the album is evolving, taking on a new shape, and no one knows the truth except the two of you.

And that’s when the idea hits you.

It’s reckless. Bold. Something that could backfire spectacularly if you fuck it up.

But it could work.

One night, after a long studio session, when it’s just the two of you left in the dimly lit recording booth, you bring it up.

“I want to record something,” you say, leaning against the console, watching her from across the room.

She stretches her arms over her head, her cropped hoodie riding up just enough to tease a glimpse of smooth skin. “We’ve been recording all day.”

“Not like this.”

She raises a brow. “Then like what?”

You pause for a second, then, keeping your voice casual, say, “I want to record us.”

Her head tilts. “Us?”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice. “Our sounds. While we fuck.”

That makes her pause.

Her expression is unreadable at first, lips slightly parted, dark eyes watching you carefully.

“Are you serious?” she asks after a beat.

“Yeah.”

Choa exhales, running a hand through her hair. “You do realize how risky that is, right?”

“Of course.” You keep your gaze steady. “But I know what I’m doing. I can mix it into the music—make it blend, camouflage it. Just enough that it’s there, but not obvious.”

She bites her lip, considering.

“Think about it,” you say, voice dropping lower. “A song about a secret relationship, with our actual sounds woven into it. A message no one but us will understand.”

Her breath shudders slightly, and you know she’s thinking about it now. About how dangerous it is. About how fucking hot it is.

There’s silence for a few seconds. Then—

“Alright,” she murmurs. “Let’s do it.”

—

The studio is dimly lit, only a few soft LED strips casting a moody glow over the equipment. The microphones are set up, levels adjusted, everything primed for what you’re about to do.

Choa stands in front of you, her petite frame outlined in the low light, her breathing already a little uneven.

“This is insane,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes.

You step closer, hands settling on her hips. “Yeah,” you agree, smirking. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

And then you kiss her. It starts slow—teasing, deliberate—but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The second your hands tighten, the second your tongue sweeps against hers, Choa melts. She presses into you, small hands gripping at your shoulders, her body already moving against yours. Your fingers slide under the hem of her hoodie, skimming over her skin, and she lets out the softest sound against your lips.

Perfect.

The mics are on. Recording. Capturing every breath, every gasp.

You guide her back, pressing her up against the mixing console. She’s so damn small compared to you, so easy to maneuver, her frame fitting against yours like she was made to be there. When your fingers slip past the waistband of her shorts, dipping lower, she exhales sharply, head tilting back.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice a little breathless.

The mics pick it up.

You grin against her skin. “That’s what I want.”

She shivers as your fingers tease lower, her breath hitching when you press against her. Her hips move instinctively, a soft moan slipping out, and fuck, you know how good this is gonna sound in the mix.

It escalates quickly after that.

Clothes come off, hit the floor, forgotten. The heat between you builds, fast and urgent, but not careless—you’re aware of the mics, aware of what you need to capture. Every movement, every breath, every sound—

Choa’s nails dig into your shoulders as she gasps, her back arching off the console. “God, this is so fucking risky—”

“That’s what makes it hot,” you murmur against her throat.

And it is.

Because later, when the track is mixed and mastered, when the producers listen back, all they’ll hear is a smooth, sensual instrumental, layered vocals, a subtle echo of breathy sounds beneath the beat.

But you and Choa?

You’ll hear everything.

And no one else will ever know.

—

With the album finalized and the buzz growing, it was time to shoot the music video for the lead single. The song—smoldering, intimate, dripping with the tension of a secret relationship—demanded visuals that matched its energy. The label wanted something polished, something sexy without being too obvious. You and Choa had other ideas.

The concept meetings were long, filled with back-and-forth discussions about aesthetic, mood, narrative. Some of the early suggestions were generic—a standard “lovers in the city” storyline, slow-motion gazes, dramatic lighting. It was fine, but fine wasn’t enough. You wanted something real, something that matched the slow-burn heat of the track.

After a few brainstorming sessions, the final concept came together:

- The MV would be shot in a blend of film-like vignettes and raw, grainy handheld footage, capturing the feeling of stolen moments—glimpses into a relationship that exists behind closed doors.

- Some shots would be in a dimly lit motel room, curtains drawn, the atmosphere heavy with a hazy, golden glow. Choa would be lounging on the bed, fingers absently tracing lyrics in a notebook, while you, sitting on the floor with your guitar, glance at her in quiet admiration.

- There’d be scenes in a recording studio, mimicking the real-life intimacy of late-night sessions. Close-ups of lingering touches, stolen glances in the booth, the unspoken tension of two people pretending nothing’s happening when the air between them says otherwise.

- Street shots, filmed guerrilla-style—walking down an empty alleyway, brushing past each other but never fully touching, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

- And then, the final sequence: a long take of you and Choa facing each other in the dark, lit only by flickering neon. She’d reach for you, hesitate, and then you’d pull her in. It wouldn’t be a full-on kiss—just the breath of one, lips barely touching, before the screen cut to black.

It was subtle. Implied. But everyone would feel it.

The shoot itself was intense.

Being in front of the camera together, knowing what had been happening off camera—it made every scene feel too real. The tension wasn’t faked, the chemistry wasn’t forced. When the director called “cut,” Choa would look at you with that knowing smirk, as if she could read your thoughts. And she probably could.

By the time the final edit was finished, you knew it was going to cause chaos.

And you were absolutely fine with that.

—

Once the previews of the MV dropped, everything went exactly as expected.

The internet exploded.

Fans dissected every frame, analyzing body language, theorizing about hidden messages in the lyrics. Some of them picked up on the way your hands lingered on Choa’s waist a little too naturally, how her eyes flickered to your lips during one of the longer shots. Some speculated that the entire video was autobiographical—based on real experiences rather than just the fictionalized romance of the song.

You and Choa never addressed it directly.

You let the mystery build.

Meanwhile, the label scheduled a quick promotional tour—press events, live performances, fan meets, a handful of TV and radio interviews. It was part of the rollout, but to you and Choa, it was another challenge: maintaining the façade of just collaborators while the world picked apart every interaction.

The first few Interviews were easy—basic questions about the songwriting process, how the collaboration came about. You both kept it professional, talking about mutual respect, artistic chemistry, how well your voices blended. But as expected, the real questions came soon enough.

You were sitting side by side at one of the bigger televised interviews, microphones clipped to your shirts, the host smiling knowingly as he leaned in.

“So, I have to ask,” he said, flipping through his notes. “One thing fans keep pointing out is your, uh, undeniable chemistry. How did you two manage to bring that into the music so naturally?”

Choa let out a small laugh, tilting her head slightly. “I think it’s just that we work well together. It’s easy when you have someone who gets what you’re trying to do.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I think from the start, we had the same vision for the album. So the chemistry you hear—it’s real, but it’s more about how we complement each other artistically.”

The Interviewer didn’t look convinced. “So you’re saying it’s all professional?”

Choa smirked slightly, shifting in her seat. “I’m saying the music speaks for itself.”

It was the perfect non-answer, leaving room for speculation without confirming anything.

The real moment, though, came a few interviews later.

A different host, a different show. You and Choa were more relaxed this time, the back-and-forth between you easier, more natural. And then—

“Now, I have to bring this up,” the interviewer said, grinning. “The age difference. You’re 20, and Choa, you’re 34. That’s a big gap, at least in industry terms. Did that affect your creative process?”

You and Choa glanced at each other.

The pause was barely noticeable, but the moment your eyes met, something passed between you—an unspoken understanding, a flicker of amusement.

Then, Choa tilted her head slightly, considering. “Honestly?” she said. “I think it helped.”

The interviewer raised his brows. “Helped how?”

You jumped in. “I mean, obviously, we have different experiences, different perspectives, but I think that’s why it worked so well. Choa’s got this incredible depth to her artistry because she’s been doing this longer—she knows how to tell a story in a song in a way that just hits.”

Choa smirked at you. “And you bring that reckless, young energy that makes everything fresh.”

You huffed a laugh. “Basically, yeah.”

The interviewer nodded, intrigued. “So no weird mentor-student vibes?”

Choa rolled her eyes. “God, no. He’s his own artist. I wouldn’t work with him if he wasn’t.”

The interviewer grinned. “Sounds like you two push each other.”

You smirked. “You could say that.”

But the truth?

The age difference wasn’t a barrier. If anything, it made things more interesting.

And as the tour continued, as the performances got hotter, the interviews got bolder, and the lines between work and whatever was really going on between you and Choa blurred even further, one thing was becoming increasingly clear—

This wasn’t just an album rollout.

This was something else entirely.

The press tour rolls on, and with every interview, every talk show, every single moment you and Choa spend in front of the cameras, the tension gets thicker.

It’s Inevitable.

Every night on this tour, every hotel you’ve checked into, every time she came to your room in the middle of the night. The moment the door locks behind you, her hands are on you, her mouth is on yours, and you’re stripping each other down like you can’t wait to feel skin on skin again. The sex is raw, desperate, like you’re making up for every hour you have to spend pretending none of this is happening.

And then, the next morning, you step out in front of the press, looking too well-rested, too at ease with each other, sitting too close on every talk show couch, finding excuses to touch—a casual hand on a thigh, a knee brushing against a knee, a playful tug on a sleeve. It’s subtle enough to be deniable, but not subtle enough to go unnoticed.

One of the first big ones is a late-night talk show, the kind where the host is a little too comfortable getting into personal business.

You and Choa sit side by side on the couch, the studio lights bright, the audience hanging on every word. The host leans in, smirking like he already knows he’s about to start something.

“So,” he says, flipping through his cue cards dramatically, “you two have been spending a lot of time together, huh?”

You and Choa exchange a glance.

She smirks. “I mean, yeah. It’s a collaboration. That’s how albums work.”

The audience chuckles, and you shake your head with an amused huff. “What, were we supposed to record it separately over Zoom or something?”

The host laughs. “Alright, alright. But be honest—there’s gotta be some moments where you get sick of each other.”

Another glance between you.

Choa leans into the mic, voice smooth. “Not really.”

The host raises an eyebrow. “Really? Not even a little?”

You shift slightly, your knee bumping against hers. “I think we get along too well, actually.”

Choa nods, her smirk deepening. “Yeah, it’s a problem.”

The host grins, picking up on the tone. “Oh yeah? And how exactly is that a problem?”

There’s a beat of silence—just long enough for the audience to get it, for a few scattered whistles to break out. You can feel Choa looking at you, her body warm next to yours.

You smirk. “Let’s just say… we have a very productive working relationship.”

The audience loses it.

Choa laughs, tilting her head, shooting you a look like she’s debating whether she should kick you under the table or encourage this.

The host raises his hands. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything, but—”

“Sure you’re not,” Choa deadpans.

He grins. “I just think it’s interesting that the album turned out so good. Like, there’s something extra in there, y’know?”

You chuckle, leaning back slightly, drumming your fingers against your thigh. “Passion.”

Choa nods, still smirking. “Exactly. We care about the music.”

Neither of you say anything explicit. You don’t have to.

But the host just sits back, shaking his head. “Man, you two are dangerous.”

The audience cheers again, and you and Choa just sit there, smug as hell, loving every second of it.

A few days later, another show, another set of questions.

This time, the age gap comes up again.

“So, Choa, you’re 34. And you,”—the interviewer turns to you—“are 20. Does that affect the way you guys work together?”

You already know the internet is going to eat up whatever you say next, so you pause, glancing at Choa first.

She quirks an eyebrow, waiting for you to answer.

You grin. “If anything, I think it helps.”

The interviewer leans in. “How so?”

You shrug. “I mean, she’s got experience.”

Choa stares at you for a second. You know what you meant. She knows what you meant. But fuck, the way the audience reacts—

Loud whoops, scattered applause, laughter—

Choa sighs dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He means musically.”

You smirk. “Of course. What else would I mean?”

She shakes her head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

The interviewer, barely holding back a grin, says, “So, you like working with someone older?”

You nod. “Yeah. She knows what she’s doing.”

Another wave of cheers, this time mixed with laughter.

Choa leans forward, pointing at you. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You just grin wider. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And that’s how another round of fan theories is born.

Every single clip from these interviews goes viral.

- "The way they LOOKED at each other when the host asked if they ever get tired of each other… we lost, guys. They’re definitely fucking.”

- "The age gap question was a TRAP and he walked right into it and somehow made it worse. I love him.”

- "‘She’s got experience’—HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING.”

- "This is a controlled burn. They WANT us to go crazy.”

- "At this point, just announce the wedding, idk.”

And as the tour keeps going, as more interviews stack up, as you and Choa keep teasing the hell out of the press without ever confirming anything, the tension only builds.

Because every night, after playing it cool in front of the cameras, you’re back in another hotel room with her.

And there? There’s no need to hold back.

—

The tour is finally over.

It’s been a whirlwind—city after city, stage after stage, interview after interview. The music is a success, the controversy even more so. You and Choa had played the game too well, pushing just enough buttons to make people talk, to keep the rumors alive. The way you touched each other during performances, the loaded glances in interviews, the teasing, the non-answers. It was deliberate. And it worked.

Now, it’s time to celebrate.

You and Choa end up in a small, dimly lit bar, tucked away from the usual industry spots, just the two of you in a booth with a bottle of something strong between you. The music is low, the atmosphere warm, and the alcohol flows easily.

She’s sitting across from you, swirling the liquor in her glass, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. The dress she’s wearing is dangerous—black, sleek, hugging every curve, cut just high enough on her thighs that your eyes keep drifting lower.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in slightly, “the last few months have been fucking incredible with you.”

She raises a brow, lips quirking. “Yeah?”

You nod, tilting your glass toward her. “Yeah.”

She hums, taking a slow sip before setting the glass down. “I feel the same way.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes dark and lidded. “You’re an amazing boy.”

Your grip on your drink tightens slightly. “Boy, huh?”

Her smirk deepens. “Mmm. Well, you are younger than me.”

You scoff. “You never seem to mind when we’re in bed.”

That gets you a soft laugh, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Touché.”

The drinking continues, and so does the flirting. Her foot brushes against yours under the table, lingering. Her gaze flickers down to your mouth when you speak. Your hand finds her knee at one point, testing, pressing lightly against her thigh—and when she doesn’t pull away, when she shifts slightly, pressing back, you know exactly where this night is going.

By the time you leave the bar, both of you are warm from the alcohol, the tension practically humming between you.

You take her back to your hotel room.

The moment the door closes behind you, you let your eyes rake over her properly, your gaze dragging over the curve of her body, the way the dress clings to her like a second skin.

“Fuck, you look so fucking hot in that,” you murmur, voice rougher now, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Choa exhales slowly, clearly pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She steps closer, just enough that her fingers brush against your chest. Then she leans in, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “You wanna see what’s underneath?”

Your jaw tightens. "Yes."

And just like that, she starts stripping.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She keeps her eyes on you as she slides one strap of her dress down her shoulder, then the other, letting the fabric slip down her arms, down her torso, pooling at her feet. The lingerie underneath is delicate—lace, barely there, her body taut and perfect beneath it.

Your cock twitches in your pants, already hard, already aching, and she notices.

She smirks. “That didn’t take long.”

You exhale sharply, tugging at your own shirt, yanking it off before shoving down your pants, leaving you in just your underwear.

Her eyes drop to the obvious bulge straining against the fabric, and she bites her lip.

But you don’t let her comment.

Because the second her panties hit the floor, the second her bra slips from her shoulders, you step forward, grip her waist, and drop to your knees in front of her.

You press a slow, heated kiss to her stomach, just below her ribs.

Then another.

Then lower.

Your hands slide up her thighs, fingertips pressing into soft skin as your lips trail down—toward her heat, toward the place that’s already warm, already waiting for you.

And when you glance up at her, when you see the way she’s looking down at you—lips parted, chest rising and falling a little faster—

You know she wants this just as badly as you do.

The second your tongue touches her, Choa shudders.

You can feel it in the way her thighs twitch, in the way her breath stutters in her throat, the soft gasp that slips past her lips as she fists a hand in your hair. She’s already warm, already wet, already so fucking ready for you.

You start slow, dragging your tongue up her slit, tasting her, savoring the slick heat of her. Your hands grip her ass, squeezing, pulling her closer as you press deeper, licking into her with long, slow strokes.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her hips shifting instinctively toward your mouth. “God—your tongue is so fucking long.”

You smirk against her, flicking your tongue over her clit in teasing little circles, feeling the way her body reacts—the way her thighs clench, the way she tries to hold still but can’t, already too sensitive, too worked up.

“You love this,” you murmur against her, voice muffled by the heat of her.

She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening in your hair. “Obviously,” she says, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

Like you ever would.

You press your tongue flat against her, dragging slow, deliberate patterns over her clit, alternating between sucking lightly and teasing her with gentle flicks. Every time you change the pressure, she reacts—her breath hitching, her grip on you tightening, her thighs trembling around your head.

You love this.

Love the way she tastes, love the way she sounds, love the way her body melts under your tongue.

But then she whimpers—high and desperate—and fuck, that does something to you.

You need to take this further.

You grip her ass tighter, your fingers digging into soft flesh as you lift her.

“Oh my God—”

She barely has time to process it before she’s off the ground, her legs wrapping around your shoulders on instinct. “Are you serious—”

You are.

You’ve got Choa hoisted up, her petite frame nothing in your grip, legs dangling over your shoulders as you bury your face in her pussy. She’s light as fuck, and you’re flexing hard, showing off, holding her like she’s weightless. Her scent’s all over you, hot and slick, and you’re devouring her—tongue lashing wild against her clit, lips smacking messy and loud.

“Holy—fuck—”

She clutches your head, her fingers tight in your hair, her thighs squeezing around you as you devour her.

And fuck—she’s so wet, so hot, so perfect against your mouth.

Her thighs tremble against your ears, slick and hot, muscles flexing each time your tongue flicks against that perfect spot. She’s weightless in your grasp, hoisted up like she belongs nowhere else but in your arms, your hands gripping her ass to keep her steady. Choa’s head falls back, hair spilling, her lips parted on a breathless moan that turns into something closer to a whimper when you suck harder, pulling her clit into your mouth and swirling your tongue around it.

“F-fuck—oh my god—” Her nails scrape at your shoulders, uselessly trying to hold onto something, anything, but there’s nothing she can do except take it. Her legs twitch around your head, heels digging into your back, but she’s not trying to get away—hell no, she’s pushing herself closer, rocking her hips forward like she wants to drown you in the mess she’s making.

“You’re so fucking strong,” she chokes out, voice ragged, barely holding together. Her hands claw up to her tits, grabbing them hard, fingers sinking into the soft flesh like she’s gonna lose it if she doesn’t hold on. “Shit—nobody’s ever—fuck—done this to me!”

Her words hit you like a shot of adrenaline, and you growl into her, the sound buzzing against her swollen clit. She yelps, sharp and desperate, as you flick your tongue faster—sloppy, ruthless—then clamp your lips around that sensitive little bud and suck. Hard. Deep. Like you’re trying to rip the climax straight out of her soul.

Her moans turn Into screams, high and jagged, her tiny body locking up in your hands. You feel it—her thighs clamping around your skull, trembling so bad you know she’s teetering right on the edge. Your fingers dig into her ass, bruising the soft curves, yanking her tighter against your face. She’s got nowhere to go—pinned, helpless, and she fucking loves it.

“You’re gonna—oh fuck, baby—!”

That baby cracks something feral in you. You snarl into her dripping heat, tongue plunging deep inside her, twisting just right, then dragging back to her clit. You suck again—merciless, starving—like you’re gonna eat her alive.

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes, thighs crushing your head so tight her screams get muffled in your ears. Her back bows, nails rake bloody trails down your shoulders, and she’s cumming—hips bucking wild, uncontrollable, like she’s possessed. She’s loud as hell, a raw, shattered mess of sound, too far gone to give a shit who hears.

You don’t let up. You won’t. You keep sucking, keep lapping at her, dragging that orgasm out ‘til she’s drowning in it. She’s thrashing now, gasping, legs quaking, hands shoving at your head—but it’s weak, sloppy, like her body’s too wrecked to fight.

“Too much—fuck, I can’t—!”

Bullshit. She can. You know she can take it, knows she’s never been pushed this far, never had someone wring her dry ‘til she’s just a shuddering, pleasure-soaked shell. Still, you ease off—just a little—slowing your tongue to lazy, heavy strokes, letting her crash back down in shaky, panting sobs.

When you finally pull your face away, your lips and chin are drenched, glistening with her. She’s a goddamn wreck—skin flushed red, chest heaving, mouth slack with these soft, broken whimpers as she stares at the ceiling, dazed, like her brain’s still catching up.

You shift your grip, lowering her slow to the bed. Her legs are useless, jelly, twitching with little aftershocks as she sprawls out. You press one last kiss to her inner thigh—slow, deliberate—and she jolts, a hoarse little cry slipping out.

“You okay?” you ask.

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting her head to look at you through half-lidded eyes. “Okay?” she echoes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this okay.”

You chuckle, brushing your lips over her stomach, trailing upwards, slow and lazy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Choa hums, reaching up to card her fingers through your hair. “You did,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, warmer. “And I think I might be obsessed.”

You smirk against her skin, then press a lingering kiss between her breasts before finally settling between her legs, taking your time, letting the moment stretch, letting the anticipation coil tight between you. Choa is sprawled out on the bed, her hair a mess against the pillow, her skin flushed and glowing. She’s still catching her breath from what you just did to her, but there’s hunger in her eyes, a need that hasn’t been satisfied yet. And you plan to satisfy it.

Your hands trail up the length of her body, slow and deliberate, tracing over her soft, smooth skin. You start at her thighs, feeling the heat still radiating from her, then move up, over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, until you reach her stomach.

Your fingers spread wide over her toned abs, pressing lightly, feeling the firmness beneath your palm. “Fuck, you’re hot,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything, your thumb sweeping slow circles just above her navel.

Choa bites her lip, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Yeah?” she breathes, arching slightly into your touch.

You grin, leaning down to brush your lips against her skin, your breath hot against her stomach. “Yeah,” you say, voice thick with heat. “This body drives me crazy.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers twitching against the sheets, and then she smirks—lazy, teasing, but her voice is nothing but warmth when she whispers, “It’s all yours.”

Something about the way she says it, so simple, so fucking confident, makes your blood burn hotter. Your cock twitches, already achingly hard, already pressing against her inner thigh. You shift slightly, angling your hips just right, and let the thick head of your cock slide against her entrance—just enough to tease, to coat yourself in the wetness that’s already dripping down her thighs.

Choa’s breath stutters. She twitches beneath you, her hands gripping the sheets, her thighs pressing tighter around your hips. “Fuck,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Don’t tease me—”

But you do tease.

You roll your hips, dragging the length of your cock against her, sliding up and down, letting her feel every inch but not giving her what she really wants. You watch her face closely—the way her lips part, the way her brows knit together in frustration, the way her body reacts to the way you touch her.

“Tell me,” you murmur, pressing the tip against her, just barely pushing inside before pulling back again. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Choa groans, her head falling back against the pillow, her fingers digging into the sheets. “So bad,” she gasps, rocking her hips up, trying to get more friction. “Baby, please—”

You chuckle, enjoying the sight of her like this—needy, desperate, fucking begging for it.

“Not sure I believe you,” you taunt, teasing her entrance again, watching the way her whole body tenses at the sensation. “You gotta beg a little more, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, you’re evil,” she whines, her thighs trembling around your waist. “Please, I need you—need you to fill me up, stretch me out—”

That makes your cock throb.

Her hands fly to your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as she pulls you down, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice barely breathless, desperate, wrecked.

“Baby, please,” she moans. “I need your cock so bad, I—fuck, I can’t wait anymore, just fuck me—”

Gripping her waist, you tilt her hips up slightly, line yourself up, and in one slow, smooth thrust, you push inside.

Her mouth drops open.

“Oh my god—”

Her walls stretch around you, tight, so fucking tight it makes your vision blur for a second. You groan, low and rough, your fingers digging into her hips as you bottom out, feeling the way she clenches around you, pulsing, squeezing you like she’s never taken something this deep before.

Choa gasps, eyes wide, lips parted as she stares up at you in shock.

“Shit,” she breathes, her hands flying to your arms, gripping tight. “You’re so fucking big—”

And then she looks down.

She sees it.

Right there, in the middle of her stomach, a faint bulge pressing against her lower abdomen every time you move.

Her breath catches. “Oh my god, baby, I can see you inside me—”

Something about the way she moans those words makes you lose your goddamn mind.

“You like that?” you grunt, rolling your hips, watching the way that bulge moves, the way it presses against her skin with every deep thrust. “Fuck, Choa, you’re so fucking tight—”

She whimpers, nails raking down your back, her legs wrapping around you tighter. “Yes, I love it, I love feeling you this deep—baby, fuck—”

Your rhythm picks up, faster, harder, your hips snapping against her as you fuck her into the mattress. Each stroke is deep, each thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, making her writhe, making her cry out, making her completely lose herself under you.

The alcohol makes everything sharper, more intense. Every touch, every sound, every sensation is amplified, and neither of you can hold back. She’s moaning uncontrollably, her voice breathy and wrecked, and you’re growling against her neck, whispering filthy things in her ear, telling her how fucking good she feels, how perfect she is around you.

And then—

“Look at yourself,” you murmur, grabbing her hand, pressing it against her lower stomach. “Feel it.”

Her breath hitches. She spreads her fingers over the bulge, gasping as she presses down lightly, feeling exactly where you’re filling her.

“Holy fuck,” she whimpers, her body shuddering. “You’re so deep, I—I can feel you in my stomach—”

That sends a shockwave of pleasure through you, makes your thrusts grow erratic, desperate. Your hips snap harder, your pace ruthless, and she takes it, moaning, gasping, begging for more.

“Don’t stop,” she pants, legs locking around you, her heels digging into your lower back. “Please, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” you growl, voice strained. “Never stopping.”

She’s trembling beneath you, her body arching, her nails digging into your skin like she’s trying to anchor herself.

You’re fucking her deep, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through both of you, the heat between your bodies unbearable. Choa’s legs still locked around your waist, her nails raking over your back, leaving streaks of red in their wake. She’s moaning, breathless and wrecked, but still—still—she finds the strength to demand more.

“Harder, baby,” she gasps, her voice breaking around the words. “Don’t hold back—fuck, make me cum.”

And fuck, how are you supposed to deny her when she sounds like that?

You grip her hips, pulling her down onto you as you thrust harder, your pace going from deep and steady to ruthless. The headboard slams against the wall with every snap of your hips, the mattress creaking under the force of it, but neither of you care. The only thing that matters is the way she feels around you—so fucking tight, so perfect, like she was made to take you.

“Shit,” you growl, leaning down, your mouth hot against her ear. “You love getting fucked like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, her breath hitching. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close—”

That’s all you need to hear. You’re done playing. No more slow rolls, no more teasing drags. Your hands clamp around her narrow waist, fingers digging in so hard you know you’re leaving marks—red, angry imprints she’ll feel tomorrow. You pound into her, relentless, your cock slamming against every tender spot inside her, stretching her open, owning her. Each thrust shakes her whole frame, her petite body jolting under you like she’s made for this, made to break.

“Oh my fucking god—!” Choa’s scream rips out, high and wild, her back bowing off the bed. Her nails claw into your forearms, scraping bloody trails down your skin, sharp enough to sting, deep enough to mark you back. “Yes—fuck, yes—just like that, don’t you fucking stop—!”

Her desperation lights you up, a guttural growl tearing from your throat. You don’t stop—you can’t. You go harder, faster, hips snapping with brutal precision, the wet smack of skin on skin filling the air, loud and filthy. Your fingers slide down, finding where you’re joined, her pussy soaked and pulsing around you. You press your thumb to her clit—swollen, slick, begging for it—and start rubbing, quick and rough, tight circles that make her sob.

She’s unraveling, fast. Her thighs quake, her breath catches in sharp, frantic gasps. “Baby—” she chokes out, voice breaking, body trembling like it’s about to snap. “I’m—oh fuck, I’m so fucking close—!”

“You gonna cum for me again?” Your voice is a low, ragged snarl, barely holding it together yourself. You can feel it—the heat coiling tight in your gut, your cock throbbing inside her, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. But this isn’t about you yet. It’s about her. About wrecking her.

“Yes—fuck, yes—!” Her words dissolve into a whine, high and needy, her eyes squeezing shut as her head thrashes against the pillow, hair sticking to her sweat-drenched face.

You don’t let up. You keep that punishing rhythm, fucking her straight through the buildup, your thumb pressing harder against her clit, grinding it now, ruthless, fast, until her whole body locks up.

She shatters.

Choa’s scream is raw, guttural—a sound that tears from her chest as her body arches off the bed, spine curving so hard you think she might break. Her walls clamp down around you, tight and pulsing, milking your cock in waves so intense it nearly pulls you over with her. You feel it all—her heat, her slickness, the way her pussy grips you like a vice, like she’s trying to drag you deeper even as she falls apart. Her legs shake violently, toes curling, heels digging into the mattress as she rides it out, hips jerking against you in frantic, uneven thrusts.

Her nails rake down your back now, leaving fire in their wake, and her breath comes in short, broken sobs—half pleasure, half overwhelm. “Baby—!” she gasps again, voice wrecked, barely audible over the blood roaring in your ears.

You don’t stop moving. You grind into her, slow and deep, dragging out every shudder, every twitch, watching her lose herself completely. Her abs flex tighter, the bulge of your cock still visible, shifting under her skin with every roll of your hips. Her chest heaves, perky tits bouncing with each ragged breath, nipples hard and dark against her flushed skin. Sweat beads on her collarbone, catching the dim light, and her lips part, swollen and red from biting them raw.

She’s a fucking mess—beautiful, ruined, trembling through the aftershocks. Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles jumping under her skin as she collapses back against the bed, spent, boneless. Her hands fall limp to her sides, fingers twitching like she’s still reaching for something, anything, to ground her.

You slow down, just enough to let her breathe, but you’re still buried balls-deep, still rock-hard, aching inside her. The heat of her, the way she’s clenching around you even now—it’s torture, the best kind. Your hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tries to pull air back into her lungs.

Her eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with pleasure. She looks up at you, dazed, lips curling into a slow, crooked smirk that’s equal parts exhausted and cocky. “Still hard for me, huh?” Her voice is hoarse, scratched raw from screaming, but there’s a spark in it, a challenge.

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, your grip tightening on her hips. You drag her against you—slow, deliberate—letting her feel every inch of you still throbbing inside her, the slick friction making her whimper despite herself. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice rough as gravel, thick with need. “Still hard. Still not fucking done with you.”

Her smirk falters, eyes widening just a fraction as you shift your weight, pinning her harder against the bed. You pull back, almost all the way out, the tip of your cock barely inside her, and she whines—a soft, broken sound that tells you she’s not ready for it to end either. Then you slam back in, deep and sudden, and her head snaps back, a fresh cry tearing from her throat.

You lean down, mouth crashing against hers, swallowing her gasps as your tongue dives in, tasting the salt of her sweat, the heat of her desperation. Her hands find your shoulders again, nails biting into your skin, pulling you closer even as her body trembles beneath you.

Choa moans sweetly, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw before pushing lightly against your chest. “Stand up.”

You blink, still dazed, still lost in the feel of her. “What?”

She smirks, licking her lips, and there’s something dangerous in her eyes as she moves to sit up. “I said, stand up, baby.”

Your pulse spikes.

You do as she says, straightening, your breath uneven, your cock still slick and throbbing. Choa slides off the bed, moving slowly, deliberately, until she’s kneeling in front of you, her hands trailing up your thighs.

She looks up at you through dark lashes, her lips still swollen, still glistening. “Let me clean you up,” she murmurs.

You barely have time to react before she leans in, her tongue flicking out, warm and wet as it drags up the length of your cock. Your jaw clenches, your hands fisting at your sides, struggling to keep it together as she takes her time, licking you clean, savoring the taste of herself on your skin.

“Mmm,” she hums, her tongue circling the head, teasing, tasting, before she finally wraps her lips around you, sinking down—

Your breath shudders out of you. It’s supposed to be clean-up, just her licking you clean, tasting herself on your skin, but fuck—Choa doesn’t do just anything. She’s got her mouth stretched around you, sucking slow, deep, like she’s savoring it, letting her tongue flick over the sensitive spots she already knows drive you crazy.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands twitching at your sides, resisting the urge to just grab her hair and guide her exactly how you want. But she’s taking her time, teasing you, her tongue swirling around the head before sliding down the length, making a mess of you, her spit mixing with the slickness already there.

You’re getting wet, and it’s only making you harder.

Choa hums around you, her throat vibrating, and fuck—she’s enjoying this, really enjoying this. Her hands stay light on your thighs, steadying herself as she bobs her head, taking you deeper each time.

And then—

She goes for it.

One smooth, practiced motion, and she takes you down.

Your cock sinks into her throat, inch by inch, until her lips are flush against your base, her nose pressing against your lower stomach. The heat, the tightness, the way her throat constricts around you—it’s perfect, fucking perfect, and you let out a ragged growl, your fingers twitching with the need to move.

She holds herself there, breathing through her nose, her throat working around you, adjusting. Then she pulls back, just enough to take a breath, spit connecting her lips to your cock, before she does it again.

Deep. Deeper.

“Shit, Choa—”

You can’t not react to that. Your hand moves on instinct, tangling in her hair, holding her there just a second longer, letting her throat squeeze around you before guiding her back. She gasps through her nose but takes it, eyes fluttering shut, her jaw slack, her throat stretched around your size.

The control slips before you realize it’s happening.

You move her.

At first, it’s just your grip in her hair, guiding her down, pulling her back, letting her take the rhythm you want. But then—fuck, it’s too much, too good, the way her lips stretch around you, the obscene wet sounds she’s making, the way drool is already dripping down her chin. You start moving faster, your hips joining the motion, pushing deeper, fucking into her mouth in slow, deliberate thrusts.

And she lets you.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back—if anything, she welcomes it, her hands gripping your thighs, steadying herself, letting you take control.

Her throat is so fucking tight, so wet, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, her lipstick smeared, her mascara smudging just slightly from the effort.

“You’re taking it so well,” you groan, tightening your grip, guiding her down again, deeper this time. “Fuck, Choa—”

Her moan vibrates around you, wrecked and eager.

Then something snaps.

You don’t think. You don’t hold back, fingers twisting hard into the strands, yanking her head still as you fuck her face. No hesitation, no gentleness—just raw, greedy thrusts, shoving your cock deep into her throat, chasing that tight, slick heat that’s driving you insane. Her gag reflex kicks in, a wet choke vibrating around you, but she doesn’t pull away—she leans into it, letting you use her, letting you ruin her.

Her eyes flick up, glassy and wild, pupils blown wide, tears prickling at the corners—not from pain, but from the sheer fucking intensity of it. She’s a mess—spit spills from her lips, glistening trails dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor between her knees. Her cheeks hollow out with every thrust, her throat squeezing you so tight it’s almost too much, and it’s perfect.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” you rasp, voice scraping out of you, thick with lust. You can’t stop staring—her flushed skin, sweat beading on her forehead, the way her jaw works to take you, the obscene bulge of your cock sliding down her throat. Her mascara’s smudging, black streaks smearing under her eyes, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

She blinks up at you, dazed but burning, that spark in her gaze cutting through the haze. She’s not just taking it—she’s loving it, reveling in the way you’re unraveling her, the way you’re losing yourself in her mouth. Her nails dig into your thighs, sharp little crescents biting into your skin, leaving red welts you’ll feel later. Her whole body shudders with each thrust, her tits bouncing slightly, nipples incredibly hard.

“You love this, don’t you?” you growl, slowing just a fraction, dragging your cock back across her tongue, letting her taste every inch of you. The heat of her mouth is unreal—wet, sloppy, coating you in her spit—and you feel her hum, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you. Her hands grip tighter, nails scraping now, dragging slow, deliberate lines down your thighs like she’s marking you back.

Then—fuck—she nods. With your cock still buried in her throat, her head bobs just enough to answer, lips stretched wide, spit bubbling at the corners. That little move—her saying yes without pulling off—snaps the last thread of your control. Your breath shudders out, ragged and loud, chest heaving as you thrust one more time, slow and deep, letting her throat clench around you, soaking you in her slick mess.

You pull back, abrupt and rough, your cock slipping free with a wet pop. A thick strand of spit stretches between her lips and the tip, glistening in the dim light, snapping when she gasps for air. Her chest heaves, breaths coming in short, wrecked bursts, her mouth red and swollen, lips shiny with spit and pre-cum. She’s trembling, knees shifting on the floor, thighs pressed together like she’s aching down there too.

Her tongue darts out, slow and deliberate, licking the mess from her lips—swiping across the bottom one first, then the top, savoring it. Her eyes lock on yours, dark and heavy, and she smirks, a crooked, satisfied little curve that says she knows exactly what she’s done to you. “Mmm,” she hums, voice hoarse, scratched raw from your cock. “Now that’s a thorough cleaning.”

You groan, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth, trying to breathe, trying to think.

But then she shifts on her knees, tilting her head, her smirk deepening.

“You still haven’t cum yet, baby,” she purrs, running a teasing hand over her own stomach, down to her thighs. “Guess I’ll just have to let you fuck my ass instead.”

Your entire body tenses.

Your cock throbs.

The hunger in her eyes, the teasing curve of her lips, the way she says it—like it’s nothing, like she’s been waiting for this, like she wants it as much as you do—

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I was missing your ass.”

Choa just giggles, licking her lips again, dragging her nails down your thighs before moving to bed, shifting onto all fours, tilting her hips up, arching her back—presenting herself like an invitation you’d be a goddamn fool to refuse.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes dark, sultry, teasing.

“Come on, babe boy,” she murmurs, wiggling her hips just slightly. “What are you waiting for?”

Your jaw clenches. Your breath catches. And then—you move.

You position yourself behind her, hands gripping her hips, your cock already throbbing at the sight of her—Choa, on all fours, back arched just right, ass raised, offering herself up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And by now, it is natural. You’ve fucked her like this so many times during the tour—stolen moments in hotel rooms, backstage dressing areas, nights where she was too impatient to wait until after a show.

And yet—fuck—it never gets old.

She wiggles her hips slightly, teasing you, and you can’t resist reaching out, grabbing a handful of her ass, squeezing it tight before giving it a little shake.

Choa giggles, glancing over her shoulder, her hair falling into her face. “You’re obsessed,” she teases, voice warm, playful.

You smirk, running your hands over the soft, round curves. “Damn right I am. Look at this ass—so fucking juicy.”

She hums, pleased, shifting her weight slightly. “I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmmhmm. I see you staring when I wear tight shit,” she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re not exactly subtle, baby.”

You huff a laugh, kneading her ass with both hands, spreading her just slightly. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all,” she purrs, pressing back against your touch. “You can look all you want, baby. It’s yours.”

And fuck, if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat straight down your spine.

Before you do anything else, you have to taste her.

You lean in, slow, deliberate, letting her feel your breath first—hot and heavy against her bare cheek. She shifts, a tiny twitch, and you drag your long tongue over the curve of her ass, slowly, teasing, tasting the salt of her skin. It’s smooth, soft, warm under your lips, and you take your time, tracing the shape of her before dipping lower. Her breath hitches, a sharp little sound that cuts through the air, and you smirk against her, pressing your lips harder, kissing the sensitive spot just above where she really wants you.

“Oh—fuck,” she whispers, voice thin and shaky, her back arching hard, pushing her ass higher like she’s begging for it.

You don’t give it to her right away. You tease instead, flicking your tongue just around her tight little entrance, circling slow, letting the heat build. She’s so fucking responsive—every twitch, every tremble ripples through her, her thighs quivering like she’s already on the edge. You can hear the sheets rustle as her hands claw into them, knuckles white, her breath coming faster now, ragged and uneven.

Then you go in. Your tongue presses flat against her, wet and slick, lapping at the tight ring of muscle with slow, deliberate strokes. She jolts, a choked moan spilling from her lips, and you growl into her, circling faster, teasing the edges before pushing the tip of your tongue just inside. She’s so goddamn tight, clenching instinctively, but you keep working her—long, deep licks, then quick flicks, tasting her, opening her up.

“Baby—!” Her voice cracks, high and desperate, her whole body shuddering under you. “Oh my fucking god—!”

The way she says it—half plea, half curse—lights you up. You hum against her, low and rough, the vibration sinking into her, and she whines, her hips rocking back, chasing more. Her ass presses harder against your face, cheeks soft and warm around you, and you can feel her relax, giving in, letting you take her apart. Your tongue dives deeper now, long and thick, pushing past that tight resistance, fucking into her slow and steady. She’s dripping—sweat, spit, her own arousal slicking down her thighs—and you love it, love how messy she’s getting, how raw this is.

You pull back just a fraction, enough to see her—ass glistening, pink and puckered, trembling under your touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” you mutter, voice gravelly, thick with want. Then you spit—a fat, warm glob landing right on her hole, dripping slow between her cheeks, mixing with the mess you’ve already made. It’s filthy, obscene, and her whole body jerks when it hits, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.

“Shit—!” she cries, her hands fisting the sheets tighter, dragging them into wrinkled clumps. Her legs shake harder now, knees sliding wider on the bed, opening herself up even more. You dive back in, tongue lashing over her again, spreading the slickness, working it into her. She’s loosening up, bit by bit, her tight little hole softening under your mouth, and you can feel it—the way she’s starting to crave what’s coming next.

Your hands grip her cheeks, spreading her wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave red marks. She whimpers, a broken little sound, and you press your face deeper, nose brushing her skin, tongue fucking into her with wet, sloppy thrusts. The taste of her—raw, sweaty, mixed with your spit—floods your senses, and you groan into her, the sound muffled by her heat.

“Please—” she gasps, barely coherent, her voice wrecked and needy. “Baby, fuck, I can’t—!”

You know what she wants. She’s not saying it yet, but her body’s screaming—hips grinding back, thighs trembling, ass clenching around your tongue like she’s already imagining your cock. You pull back again, slow, letting a thick string of spit trail from your lips to her hole, watching it glisten in the low light. Her back’s arched so hard her spine’s a perfect curve, sweat pooling in the dip above her ass, and her breathing’s a mess—short, shallow pants like she’s drowning in it.

“You ready for me?” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your chin slick and shiny with her. Your cock’s throbbing, hard as steel, pre-cum beading at the tip, and you stroke yourself once, slow and firm, just to take the edge off.

She nods, frantic, head turning so you catch the side of her face—lips parted, cheeks flushed red, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Yes—fuck, please,” she breathes, voice hoarse, desperate.

You smirk, leaning back in to give her one last swipe—a long, slow lick from her hole up the curve of her ass, savoring her shudder. She’s prepped, wet, open, and fucking begging for it. You’re not done tasting her—but now, it’s time to claim her.

You stroke yourself again, once, twice, spreading her with one hand as you line up, pressing the head of your cock against her entrance.

“You sure, baby?” you murmur, teasing her just a little, dragging the tip up and down.

“Yes,” she says immediately, her voice breathless, impatient. “Give it to me.”

And fuck, you do.

You press forward, slow at first, letting her stretch around you inch by inch, feeling every tight, perfect inch sink into her.

“Jesus,” you groan, gripping her waist, steadying yourself. “Still so fucking tight—”

“Mmmm—” Choa’s fingers dig into the sheets, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “F-fuck, baby—”

You push in deeper, your cock throbbing at the way she clenches around you, the heat of her body pulling you in. “You’d think after all the times I’ve fucked this ass, it’d be looser,” you rasp, dragging a hand up her back, gripping the nape of her neck. “But you’re still so fucking tight, baby.”

“Because it’s yours,” she gasps, rocking her hips back, trying to take more of you. “Made for you—only want you, baby—”

Fuck.

She knows exactly what to say.

You groan, gripping her tighter, then start to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in, letting her feel every thick inch stretch her open.

“Oh my god—” she chokes out, her body trembling. “Baby, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah?” you grunt, squeezing her ass with both hands, watching the way your cock disappears into her. “You still addicted to it?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, pressing back against you, desperate for more. “So addicted—I need it, baby, need you to fill me up—”

That makes your cock twitch.

You start moving faster, picking up the pace, gripping her hips as you drive into her, each thrust deeper, harder.

“Fuck, baby—” she gasps, her voice high, shaky. “Harder—please, baby, I can take it—”

And you give it to her.

Your rhythm turns ruthless, your hips snapping against her, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room. You grip her waist, holding her steady, watching the way she takes every inch of you like she was made for this.

“Holy shit, baby—” she moans, her body rocking forward with every deep thrust. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” you growl, tightening your grip. “You love getting your ass fucked like this?”

“Yes—yes, baby—fuck, I love it, love it so much—”

Your hand moves to her lower back, pressing down just slightly, forcing her into a deeper arch. “You’re so fucking filthy,” you groan, watching the way your cock stretches her open, the way she clenches around you every time you push in. “Taking me so well, baby—”

“All yours, baby,” she gasps. “Fuck me—harder—please, I want to feel it tomorrow—”

And fuck, that does it.

Your grip tightens on her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her in place as you drive into her, deeper, harder. The way her body responds—the way she trembles, the way she clenches around you, the way she gasps like she can barely take it but still needs more—only fuels you.

“F-fuck, baby—” Choa’s voice is a wrecked, breathy mess, her face buried in the sheets, her back arching beautifully beneath you. “So deep—so fucking deep—”

“Yeah?” you murmur, voice low and rough, leaning over her, pressing a hand flat between her shoulder blades to keep her locked down. Her back arches under the pressure, ass tilting higher, begging for more. “You love this shit, don’t you? Love having your tight little ass wrecked by my big fucking cock?”

“Yes,” she moans, voice high and needy, cracking around the edges like she’s already losing it. “Fuck, I love it—love being so fucking full of you—” Her words spill out fast, desperate, her breath hitching every time you shift inside her. She’s an anal whore through and through, a size queen who lives for this—lives for the stretch, the burn, the way you split her open.

That’s it. Your restraint’s gone, shredded to nothing. You grab her hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and yank her back onto you, slamming your cock into her ass so deep the bedframe groans under the force. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes—sharp, wet, filthy—mixing with her breathy whimpers that turn into full-on moans, loud and uncontrollable. The headboard bangs against the wall, a steady thud-thud-thud that matches your rhythm, and you don’t give a fuck if the neighbors hear.

“Oh—oh my fucking god—” she gasps, her fingers clawing at the sheets, twisting them into knots as she tries to hold on. “Baby—fuck—it’s so good, so fucking good—” Her voice is a mess, breaking apart, barely holding together as you pound into her. She’s gone, lost in the stretch, in the way you’re railing her ass like it’s yours to ruin.

You smirk, loving how she can’t even string a sentence together, how she’s just a whining, moaning puddle under you. Her thighs tremble, knees sliding wider on the mattress, opening herself up more, letting you hit even deeper. You can feel her clenching around you, tight and hot, her body begging for it, screaming for you to push her over the edge.

And then—fuck—she loses it completely. “Make me cum!” she screams, voice raw, splitting open with need. “Baby, fucking make me cum—I need it so bad—please—”

That snaps you.

You growl, low and feral, grabbing both her wrists and wrenching them behind her back, pinning them in one hand. Her shoulders lift, chest hovering off the bed, and you’ve got her locked—helpless, totally under your control. You slam into her ass, deep and brutal, burying yourself to the hilt with every thrust. The angle’s perfect, your cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, stretching her so wide she’s shaking.

“Oh—fuck—” she sobs, head tipping back, hair sticking to her sweaty face, mouth gaping as she gasps for air. “Yes—yes, baby—oh my god—yes—” Her moans break into jagged whimpers, her whole body quaking every time you bottom out. You can see her ass ripple with each thrust, cheeks bouncing, skin turning pink from the impact. Sweat drips down her spine, pooling in the small of her back, and her thighs are slick, trembling so hard she’s barely holding herself up.

“You wanted it?” you snarl, voice rough, strained from how fucking good she feels—tight, hot, gripping you like she never wants to let go. “You fucking demanded it?”

“Yes—baby—yes—” Her words are a chant, frantic, spilling out between sobs and gasps.

“Then fucking take it.”

You go harder, ruthless, hips snapping with punishing force, your grip on her wrists tightening until you feel her bones shift under your fingers. She’s completely at your mercy, body jerking with every thrust, ass swallowing your cock like it’s made for this. She’s an anal slut, drooling for the size, for the way you’re tearing her apart, and you can hear it in her voice—raw, wrecked, loving it.

“Oh my god—oh my god—oh my fucking god—” she chants, her voice climbing higher, breaking apart as her body starts to shake harder. “I—baby—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

That’s all you need. You fuck her straight through it, driving deep, relentless, feeling her ass clench tighter, her whole body seizing up. She’s cumming—hard—her scream ripping through the room, loud and jagged, her back arching so far her spine looks ready to snap. Her toes curl, heels digging into the bed, and her walls clamp down around you, pulsing, milking your cock as her orgasm tears through her.

“Fuck, baby—” she sobs, voice shattering, “I’m cumming—I’m fucking cumming—”

You don’t stop. You keep pounding, rolling your hips hard, dragging it out, making her ride every wave until she’s a trembling, whimpering mess. Her thighs give out, knees slipping, but you hold her up by her wrists, keeping her impaled on you. She’s gone—eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, drool leaking onto the sheets as she gasps and shakes, her ass still twitching around you.

“Shit—shit—oh my god, baby—” Her voice is hoarse, barely there, breaking into soft, pathetic little cries as the aftershocks hit. You slow just a fraction, keeping your cock buried deep, letting her feel it—letting her feel how you’re still hard, still throbbing inside her wrecked ass.

You’re close now, teetering on the edge, her tight heat pushing you there. “Fuck, Choa—” you growl, letting go of her wrists. Her arms flop down, useless, and she collapses forward, chest heaving, ass still up, still stuffed with you.

You stay there, buried in her, catching your breath as your cock twitches inside her ass. She’s panting, skin flushed dark, muscles jumping with little tremors. You pull out slow, watching the way her hole gapes for a second before clenching shut.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes, voice shot to hell, dazed and slurry. She shifts, wincing slightly, then laughs—a soft, breathless sound, pure satisfaction. “That was—shit, my throat hurts from screaming so much…”

But you’re not done with her. It’s like a goddamn animal’s taken over, this clawing, desperate hunger gnawing at your gut, screaming for more of Choa’s tight little body. She’s already a wreck—sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, thighs slick and shiny from everything you’ve done to her, trembling like she’s barely holding it together. But fuck, she’s still so hot, those wide, hazy eyes locked on you, lips parted, chest heaving, but still with breath for more. You grab her wrist, yanking her up from the bed with a growl that’s all need, no patience. “Come here,” you rasp, voice thick and rough, dragging her into you like she’s yours to command. She stumbles, legs shaky, but she’s grinning—breathless, giddy, totally into it.

Before she can catch her breath, you scoop her up, hoisting her into the air like she’s nothing. She squeals, a sharp, startled “Holy shit—” cutting through the room, but her legs snap around your waist on instinct, locking tight. Her hands clutch your shoulders, nails biting into your skin, and she’s laughing, panting, “You love showing off, huh? Fucking hell, I love it when you’re like this.” Her hips roll forward, teasing, brushing her soaked pussy against you, and it’s like a jolt of electricity straight to your cock—still hard, still throbbing, ready to ruin her all over again. She’s light as fuck in your arms, petite and perfect, and you can feel the heat radiating off her, smell the mix of sweat and sex clinging to her skin.

You don’t waste a second. Gripping her thighs—fingers sinking into the soft, slick flesh—you line her up and sink her down onto your cock, slow at first, letting her feel every goddamn inch as her pussy swallows you whole. She’s dripping wet, a hot, slick mess that takes you so easy it’s obscene, and you groan deep in your chest, the sound vibrating through you both. Choa throws her head back, moaning loud and shameless, the noise bouncing off the walls—“Fuck, fuck—yes—” Her voice is wrecked, high and needy, breaking apart as you fill her up. Her nails dig harder into your shoulders, leaving red crescent marks, and her breath stutters, hot and fast against your neck as you start moving. You’re fucking her right there in the air, holding her up like it’s nothing, bouncing her on your cock with every thrust, and she’s completely at your mercy—clinging to you, gasping, moaning your name like it’s her lifeline.

“You like this?” you rasp, voice gravelly, rolling your hips up harder, slamming into her deep enough to make her cry out—a sharp, jagged “Yes—fuck, yes—” that’s half-scream, half-sob. She’s nodding like crazy, fingers twisting into your hair, yanking at the roots as her body arches into you, tits pressing against your chest. Her pussy’s burning up around you, clenching tight, slickness dripping down your thighs, soaking you both. Every bounce makes her tits jiggle, makes her ass slap against your hips, and you can feel her losing it—walls fluttering, breath hitching, so fucking close to falling apart again. She’s a mess of sounds now—whimpers, moans, little gasps that spill out every time you drive into her, and it’s driving you wild, pushing you closer to the edge.

“I’m so close,” you groan, your grip on her thighs tightening, fingers bruising her soft skin as you pound into her harder, your whole body screaming for release. You’re drenched in sweat, muscles burning from holding her up, but it’s worth it—worth the way she’s trembling, the way her pussy’s gripping you like a vice. Choa catches your words, feels the tension in you, and she knows exactly how to break you. Her lips brush your ear, hot and shaky, voice dripping with lust as she whispers, “Cum inside me, baby. I want it all. Give it to me.” Her walls squeeze you tight, a deliberate little clench that makes your vision blur, and fuck—that’s it. That’s the match to the gasoline.

Your control snaps like a cheap fucking string. You growl, low and primal, and start slamming into her with everything you’ve got—no holding back, no mercy, just pure, desperate need, fucking her into oblivion, hips snapping so hard the sound of skin on skin is deafening—wet, sloppy, obscene. Her moans turn into screams— “Yes, yes, yes—fuck—just like that!”—sharp and broken, her nails raking down your back, leaving fire in their wake. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—fill me up, baby, I wanna feel it all!” she cries, her voice raw, begging, and it’s like a drug, sending you spiraling. You grip her tighter, hands sliding to her ass, spreading her cheeks as you drive deeper, harder, faster—every thrust shaking her whole body, making her tits bounce, her hair swing wild.

She’s meeting you now, rolling her hips down onto you, desperate and greedy, taking everything you’re giving her. Her thighs quake around your waist, her breath’s a mess of gasps and sobs, and you can feel it—her pussy’s pulsing, her whole body’s trembling, she’s right there with you. “Gonna cum,” you rasp, voice shredded, your body coiling tight, every muscle locked and ready to blow. “Do it,” she begs, her voice a wrecked whisper, “Cum inside me. Give me everything.” Her words hit like a punch, and that’s the breaking point—your whole world narrows to her, to the heat, to the need.

You bury yourself deep—one last, brutal thrust—and explode. A guttural groan rips from your chest as you cum, hard and unrelenting, thick ropes of it pumping into her, filling her pussy to the brim. It’s intense, overwhelming—pulse after pulse, wave after fucking wave. You’re shaking, hips jerking with every spurt, and Choa gasps, her walls milking you, squeezing every drop as she shudders in your arms. “Oh my god—fuck—” she whimpers, her head dropping onto your shoulder, her body going limp as she feels you flood her.

But it doesn’t stop. Your cock keeps twitching, another hot load spilling deep inside her, and she moans again, softer, wrecked— “So much, fuck, you’re still going—” Her fingers dig into your shoulders, clinging to you as you keep cumming, stuffing her so full it’s leaking out around you, dripping down her thighs, smearing between you both. You grunt, shoving her back against the wall, pinning her there as you roll your hips slow, working every last bit into her. “I’m gonna make sure you’re fucking full,” you growl, panting against her neck, still riding the high, still lost in the primal rush of claiming her.

When it finally fades, when you’re finally spent, you ease up, pulling back just enough to look at her. She’s a goddamn sight—pinned against the wall, chest heaving, skin flushed red, sweat dripping down her collarbone, hair a tangled mess. Your cum’s leaking out of her, thick and white, trickling down her inner thighs, pooling on the floor, and it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen—proof of how hard you just wrecked her. You slide out slow, watching her pussy clench one last time, trying to keep you in, and more spills out, a sticky mess that makes her shiver.

You set her down gentle, back on the bed, and she collapses, boneless, legs splayed wide, still trembling from the aftershocks. She’s panting hard, blinking up at you with those dazed, satisfied eyes, a slow, lazy grin spreading across her swollen lips. “Holy shit,” she breathes, voice hoarse and slurry, “Best tour ending ever.” Her hand flops to her stomach, then lower, brushing the mess between her legs, and she giggles—soft, fucked-out, totally blissed.

“Shit,” she murmurs before spreading her legs slightly, her fingers dipping lower, then pulling back. A thin string of cum stretches between them, glistening under the dim bedroom light. “Look at this. You really did fill me up.”

Your cock twitches at the sight. You’re still sensitive, still recovering, but fuck, the way she’s playing with herself, teasing, showing you exactly how much you’ve given her—it’s enough to stir that deep, primal hunger all over again.

You reach out, catching her wrist before she can smear it away. “Let me see,” you say, voice rough, still laced with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Choa hums, letting you take control, her eyes dark and hazy as she watches you. Slowly, you slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, pressing inside just enough to feel how warm and soaked she is. She gasps, her body twitching at the sudden intrusion, still sensitive from everything you’ve done to her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, biting her lip. “Still so full…”

You smirk, dragging your fingers back out, coated in thick, pearly white. Holding them up between you, you watch her reaction, teasing her, seeing just how far she’ll go.

Choa’s eyes flick from your fingers to your face, then back again. And then, with deliberate slowness, she leans forward, lips parting.

She takes them into her mouth.

The sight alone is enough to make your stomach clench, your body screaming to go again despite the exhaustion settling into your muscles. She moans softly, swirling her tongue around your fingers, her lips hollowing as she sucks, tasting every drop of what you’ve given her.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, mesmerized by how fucking sensual she is, how naturally she takes it, how much she seems to enjoy it.

She pulls back with a soft pop, licking her lips, her eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Mmm,” she hums, tilting her head. “Tastes like you.”

Your jaw tightens. Fuck. You reach down again, pressing your fingers against her entrance, gathering more, watching the way she shudders at the overstimulation. She’s so sensitive, so raw, but she doesn’t stop you.

You bring them up again, and this time, she grabs your wrist, guiding them into her mouth herself. She takes her time, tongue flicking between your fingers, sucking slowly, teasing. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Jesus,” you mutter, your body tensing, already feeling that deep, slow burn of arousal creeping back in.

Choa grins, finally releasing your fingers with one last, deliberate suck. “Like watching me clean up after you?” she teases.

You shake your head with a chuckle, running your thumb over her swollen lips. “You’re gonna kill me,” you murmur.

She laughs, stretching her sore limbs, her body still trembling slightly from how hard you wrecked her. “You can handle it.”

You exhale, letting the moment settle, letting the intensity fade into something quieter, something softer. You collapse onto the bed beside her, muscles aching but satisfied. She shifts closer, draping herself against your chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over your skin.

For a while, neither of you speak. Just slow breaths, the distant hum of the city outside, the warmth of tangled limbs and shared exhaustion.

But as time goes by, you notice something changing. You can feel it—like there’s something on her mind she’s not saying. You glance down at her, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

She hesitates, biting her lip, and you know right away that whatever it is, it’s serious.

Finally, she sighs. “I was just thinking… about us.”

"Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She traces a slow circle on your chest, eyes still focused on where your skin meets hers. “You know this whole… secret thing? It’s kinda exhausting.”

You let out a low hum. “You’re telling me.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her expression thoughtful, almost hesitant. “What if… we didn’t hide it anymore?”

You blink, surprised. “You serious?”

She shrugs, like she’s trying to play it off, but there’s a tightness in her jaw that tells you she’s worried about your reaction. “I mean… it’s not like people haven’t already guessed. We basically fueled half the rumors ourselves.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. We’re pretty bad at being subtle.”

Her lips quirk into a smile. “You’re the worst. Always touching me during interviews. Looking at me like you’re gonna rip my clothes off the second the cameras are off.”

“Can you blame me?” You grin. “You’re the one who kept putting her hand on my thigh every time someone asked about our chemistry.” She snorts. “You loved it.”

“Damn right I did.” You squeeze her hip lightly, pulling her closer. “But for real… you wanna go public?”

She hesitates again, but then nods. “Yeah. I’m tired of pretending. And honestly? I like being with you. More than I thought I would.”

That makes your chest tighten in the best way possible. You tilt her chin up, making her look at you, and the softness in her eyes just about floors you.

“I like being with you too,” you admit, voice low. “A lot.”

She smiles, and it’s that genuine, unguarded kind of smile that she only shows when it’s just the two of you. “You know it’s gonna be fucking insane if we do this, right? The fans, the media… they’re gonna lose their minds.”

You shrug, smirking. “Let ’em. They were gonna find out eventually. Might as well give ’em something real to scream about.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah. Just really fucking into you.”

Choa leans up and kisses you, slow and sweet, her hands framing your face. When she pulls back, she’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of nerves there too.

“You’re not scared?” she asks softly.

“Terrified,” you admit with a grin. “But I’d rather deal with that than keep pretending I’m not yours.”

Her cheeks flush at that, and she huffs out a breath. “God, you’re gonna get me in so much trouble.”

You just smirk, pulling her on top of you and wrapping your arms around her waist. “Trouble’s kinda our thing, don’t you think?”

She laughs, leaning down to kiss you again, deeper this time, and you can feel her relaxing against you. Whatever’s coming next—whatever chaos this is gonna cause—you’ll deal with it together.

#Park Choa #Choa smut #Park choa smut #AOA choa #AOA smut #kpop smut #kpop gg #kpop #kpop male reader #kpop m!reader #male reader #aoa #Choa aoa

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vampsol · 3 months ago

Text

A TEAR IN SPACE | 최한솔

⟢ PAIRING: hansol vernon chwe x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 5.9K ⟢ GENRE: comedy, fluff, smut ⟢ TAGS: tattooartist!vernon, spit play, semi-dom!vernon, degradation kink, pet names (princess, etc), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, backshots, creampie ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Your first tattoo shouldn't be left in the hands of a stranger. But what scares you the most about the entire experience may just be how hard you're already falling for the tattoo artist. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Finally posting the damn birthday fic I planned weeks ago. Better late than never! Beta'ed by my usual sweethearts, @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubakeries, and to all of the friends who read it early and hyped me up, I love you so much. Also song title inspiration from a song by Glass Animals!

If your family and friends had known you were going in with no game plan for your upcoming tattoo, including what you wanted or where you would put it, they would have a heart attack. The only thing you’re certain of is the parlor itself, the place having tons of room for walk-ins since it opened barely a month ago. Despite its infancy, though, the business was getting rave reviews.

Better yet, it was only a ten-minute walk from your apartment. It had to be a sign to get one of your own, now or never.

Your heart rests in your mouth when you push the door of the business open, the blue neon sign for Cheol + Chwe Ink Company flashing in the corner of your eye. Only one customer sits in the tattoo parlor. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth as the tattoo artist repeatedly shades the same lines.

“First timer,” the artist says as he moves his hand and the ink gun from the reddened space on the guy's arm. He looks away from the canvas and to you for a moment, and your heart feels heavier with his eyes on you. His brown eyes captivate you, even as you look over the rest of his face and outfit. Shaved head, white t-shirt, and both arms covered from biceps to the backs of both of his hands in ink. “Told him not to get a dragon.”

“Fuck you, Vernon,” The guy spits, turning his head away and huffing out bated breath. His bangs fall into his eyes, and he has to use the arm not being tattooed to swipe them from his face.

“All I’m saying is, I told you to go for the roman numerals. Roman numerals are easier and faster than animals.”

You laugh to yourself and turn your head away, looking over the station around and behind Vernon’s head. Sketches litter the wall, some impressionistic, others dark shades of white and black. You recognize a couple of the art styles from your copious research on tattoos: neo-traditional, fine line, and so on. Some sketches remain unfinished; he’s tacked others, fully colored, to the wall. The guy clearly knows his stuff.

“Welcome to Cheol and Chwe! I’m the Cheol, Seungcheol that is. What can I do for ya?” The muscular guy behind the counter had to have materialized in front of you without you noticing. He’s got a warm smile that eases some of your nerves. And he has even more tattoos than Vernon, some covering his neck area.

“I was wondering if you could take a walk-in today for a free canvas.”

You see Vernon’s jaw tick and his ears perk up. It may not be an everyday occurrence for someone to come into a parlor with no expectations for what they get, especially for someone as capable as Vernon clearly is.

“Completely free? Alright, we can do that.” Seungcheol pulls out a clipboard with paperwork for you to sign. “Tattoo minimum is a hundred. That work for you?”

You nod. “Not a problem.”

You both go over the paperwork together, and by the time that you have your cash and ID out, Vernon walks over to Seungcheol with the cordless ink gun still in his hand. “Can you take over the rest of Mingyu’s tattoo? Just the shading needs to be finished.”

“What the fuck man!” Mingyu throws his free arm in the air, and Vernon smirks at him.

“Rather do the free canvas than another dragon, man. Sorry.” Vernon slides his focus back on you with a smile. “I’ll try to keep the design to the standard minimum. Unless you want something worth more than that.”

You contemplate and pull a few more bills from your wallet. “All I got is two hundred on me. Is that enough for a masterpiece?”

He chuckles and brushes his fingers against yours for the extra bills. The contact makes you shiver, but he’s cool and collected the entire time you touch. “I think I can work with that.”

With the way Vernon talked about the other guy’s first-time experience, you weren’t about to let him know you were also a first timer. Then again, you wouldn’t take the pain like a baby. You’d handle it like a pro, for sure.

“You’re in excellent hands,” Seungcheol pipes up, breaking the sudden tension in the air that still simmers between your fingertips.

The second you sit in Vernon’s chair and Vernon has a blue Sharpie in his hand, ready to freelance the design on your skin, your eyes once again shift across the space. It’s all black brick with industrial lighting, meant to give off the art as the focus. Where Seungcheol’s side is a lot cleaner, only a handful of his prints and designs on the mirror overlooking his chair, Vernon is scatterbrained. But he has to have some kind of system in place, flitting across drawers and supply boxes without issue.

You can tell he has you pegged already with his small smile and inquisitive eyes. From the way you fidget in your seat to the antsy movements of your eyes, it has to be obvious you’re a newbie to all of this. But Vernon is ever the gentleman, not pointing any of your behavior out when he asks, “Do you have any specific style in mind for the tattoo?”

You shake your head. “Free canvas, remember?”

He chuckles and takes the cap off of his marker with his teeth. “Just checking,” he remarks before the first touch of permanent marker goes over the skin of your forearm.

Vernon creates broad strokes with the marker, his hands steady as he works with the free space. He follows those lines up with more precise details a few moments later, going in with cross-hatching and shading that looks absurd at first glance. Only he can see the greater picture of the design in his head. It may be a mixture of techniques and methods to anyone else, but ‌you trust the process the longer he continues.

Moments later, you look over the art on your forearm, stunned to see the biomechanical shapes and lines forming a pair of angel wings.

“If you hate it, we can start over.” He looks incredibly vulnerable as the words leave his lips, eyes sparkling with inspiration as he shares his stare with you and the drawing on your arm. He may say he’ll be okay with you detesting the idea, but you know better; it’s written all over him.

And you don’t detest it, not at all. It’s a beautiful design of contrast and light that isn’t too bold, yet in no way simplistic. The artwork sits so perfectly on your arm, you can only imagine how happy you’ll be with the ultimate piece.

When you tell him you love it, you know he knows you mean it, and he’s just as excited to start as you are. Sure, residual nerves relating to the pain of the entire process still linger, but with a smile as bright as Vernon’s guiding you through the fear, how can you think this is the wrong decision?

Before the ink gun’s tip can hit the first layer of skin, Vernon tries to explain the process to you, all while you keep your hard gaze on the contraption at his side. “The layer underneath the epidermis is where the ink goes, and it stays on that layer, which is what makes it permanent,” he says. “That’s why it stings so much at first, but once we go for a little while and your nerves go away, you’ll barely notice.”

“Who said I was nervous?” You quirk your eyebrow, trying to play it cool once more, but by this point, why lie? The feelings you thought were merely residual spring back up, your fear at war with your enthusiasm. You sigh as Vernon gets out a razor to shave the hairs on your forearm. Unsure of how to say what you want, no words come out while he slides the blade across your skin.

He looks up from your arm with a pout. “What happened to the girl who kept looking at her soon-to-be tattoo in the mirror? Bring her back, I miss her right now.”

You huff out a laugh, crossing your arms. “I’m still excited! I’m just nervous about how long it’s gonna hurt.” You cover your face with your hands, your cheeks turning a deeper shade than a moment before. “And now I’ve ruined my cover because you probably think I’m a big wimp like your friend over there.”

You both turn to see Mingyu biting down on his fist hard at another portion of the shading, so lost in his own misery he didn’t notice you just shit-talked him. Seungcheol keeps his thoughts to himself as he inks, but he looks like he’d rather deal with a thousand pages of paperwork than the guy in his chair.

Vernon chuckles quietly and continues preparing the cups of ink and his work station for the tattoo. “Wanna know a secret? Everyone is kinda nervous about their first tattoo, to varying degrees obviously.”

“Really?”

“Really really.” He winks and takes one of your crossed arms in his hand to lie on the small resting place of the chair. “Think you’re a bit more comfortable now?”

You nod your head, bottom lip caught in your teeth. The gun sits a ways away in the corner of your eye, but it’s just the process. And accepting it makes it less scary.

Besides, you’re in excellent hands, as you’ve been told.

When the first puncture happens, you try not to suck in a breath or jolt as much as you can without disturbing the beginning of the process. You just take it for what it is and focus on the guy in the chair willing to create something beautiful for you and you alone to have on your body.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Vernon looks up from your sternum, his design partially completed under him. “Look at you now. Who would’ve thought we’d be here?”

“Just shut up and keep inking, Tattoo Boy. It’s a bitch to hold my chest like this.”

Vernon smirks and does as he’s told, running over another piece of empty skin with his usual cross-hatching technique. It reddens from the needle, but the feeling doesn’t phase you now. You just keep your breasts in your hands so as not to disturb Vernon working on the newest ink on your body.

It’s your newest one. Half of a dozen tattoos already litter your body in random places, all done by the master himself. Cheol tried once to give you a small butterfly behind your ear a month ago, but Vernon was quick to shut the idea and the artwork down. “If she’s gonna get any design, it’s gonna be made by yours truly, Cheol.”

So there you were, toeing the line between becoming a full on tattoo fiend and keeping what’s left of your skin unmarred by Vernon’s ink gun.

You have told yourself countless times it’s because the final artwork is always top-notch, and no piece comes at an unreasonable price. Yet all of your friends look on with knowing eyes and judgemental expressions.

“Is it about the art, or is it the artist you really like?” One of your close friends asked over lunch two weekends ago with a glint in her expression. You couldn’t answer then. A million excuses came to mind that didn’t adequately explain what it was about overall. Your lack of a response seemed to be the only answer needed to confirm their suspicions and confuse you further.

Maybe you were lying to yourself. Maybe it truly was about the designs you loved so much. Either way, it was all the reason you needed to see the guy behind the ink gun, and you wouldn’t stop now.

Seungcheol walks in from the backroom and puts on his jacket. “Alright, man. I’m leaving for the night. Lock up for me?”

“No problem.” Vernon retracts his gun to run his wet cloth over your skin to soothe the redness. “Give Yeri my love.”

Seungcheol waves at you on his way out, and you tip your head in acknowledgement on account of your occupied hands. The bell dings above the door to signal his exit. “Who’s Yeri?” you ask.

“New girlfriend. Probably won’t last another month, but the old fart’s a lover, not a planner.”

You giggle, but the sound’s stunted once the needle presses down and into you again. “And which one are you, Chwe?”

Vernon chuckles, his breath tickling the skin just under your breast, making it harder for you to stay still. “Why don’t you tell me?” His hand holds you in place as he goes over another line. The sterile glove concealing his hand probably can’t detect how warm your skin has become, and you bite back the whimper in your throat as his thumb rubs circles into you. It’s the only thing that could make you relax the first time, the two of you came to realize. He’s committed the act of touching you in that way with every tattoo since to try easing your nerves, despite your protests that you’re not the same girl from all those months ago.

One thing that hasn’t changed is his ability to upend the feelings in your stomach like a professional. A couple of butterflies seem to knock around in there every time he says or does things no other artist would do to you and for you.

How is Vernon so calm every time you sit in his chair, composed as ever, while you’re in shambles? In all the encounters between you two, despite all of his implicit and explicit behaviors, he’s been stoic. He’s a still river amid your frenetic energy swooping in and out of the tattoo parlor.

Maybe he isn’t giving anything away because he doesn’t feel how you do. He’s not hiding anything, if that’s the case. He just isn’t interested in you, save for giving you countless tattoos that he’s hand drawn or you've requested and making a good buck out of it.

The thoughts sober you into a supine position, your voice quiet and any budding warmth chilled as he finishes the rest of his work. Vernon runs his rag over the last lines, pleased with the ultimate design. “Perfect art, perfect canvas,” he mumbles with a hint of a smile. “What more could I ask for?”

When he’s done, you try to rise from the chair and walk away, but he puts the gun to his side quickly to grab your naked waist. “Hey, what’s wrong?” His face scrunches up in confusion, his pout almost doing you in. “I gotta bandage you up, goof.”

You shake your head, trying to move back toward your shirt. “I’m going home, okay? Nothing crazy. I already have all the aftercare stuff in my—”

“Why are you running from me? Did I hurt you?”

You turn your back quickly to yank your shirt over your head without Vernon seeing your full chest, but you know he’s probably turned his head by now as well. Gentlemanly, as always. “You didn’t, not at all,” you say, partially believing the half-truth on your lips. “I just know what this is.”

“And what’s that?” His face turns serious, jaw locked and eyes trained on yours. You want to be blunt and out in the open with the thoughts on your mind. It’s too raw and real for you to expose yourself so blatantly right now, however, when you were shirtless two minutes ago. It’s much easier to be naked in one way rather than the other, unfortunately.

“Transactional,” you say. “I pay you for something, and you do it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Is that what you think?” He tries to step closer when he catches the undercurrents of your statement, but you back away.

You don’t let him get close enough to shatter you further.

“You can send me the invoice.” He doesn’t say another word after that. Vernon lets you pack up your things and walk out of the parlor without asking you to slow down, to stay, to do anything except go. The chime of the entrance and exit bell rings through your ears as you walk home, your heart distraught and face tear-stained by the time you make it to your apartment, unsure of what to do next to mend the shattered parts of your heart.

“You were in here four days ago, kid. Maybe let the paint dry before you come in for another one?” Seungcheol asks with an air of concern that you want to smack him square in the face for. You don’t need another person in your life, close or not, complaining about your “new habit,” as they’ve called it. Is it so wrong to want to do things on your own and with your money that bring you joy, even if it’s excessive?

“Cheol, just gimme the damn butterfly, okay? It’s not rocket science.” You move past him at the counter to sit in his chair, back turned away from him and the door. “I want one piece that isn’t done by He Who Shall Not Be Named, alright?”

Seungcheol makes a sound of defense and walks over to you, his black boots stomping against the concrete floor in a way that rattles inside of your ears. “Alright, lemme print the stencil.”

You don’t want to talk, to think, to breathe the very concept of the frustrating tattoo artist you’ve grown to know over these past few months. He is not anything to you, and vice versa, as it was so clearly stated yesterday. Why are you wasting your time focusing on him so much when the relationship you’ve built has only existed in the walls of your mind?

When you turn your head to the bell above the door chiming, you expect to see anyone but him in a sleeveless tie-dyed shirt and ripped jeans. You silently curse your thoughts for conjuring him up, like a bad memory that paints the insides of your eyelids. He walks in with his Avengers backpack slung over one shoulder, the contents of it you’ve seen him take out and put back in thousands of times. Sketchbook, iPad, a case of nondescript pencils and pens for him to draw with.

Before Vernon can say a word to you, his eyes sparkling with an intention that you have yet to understand, Seungcheol walks out of the backroom with prints of the butterfly tacked to sticky paper. "Oh," Seungcheol exclaims. "Thought it was your day off."

Vernon instantly loses the hopeful expression in his eyes, the lines of his face glazing over into indifference and something else entirely that you cannot place. "I needed to clear my head. Didn't expect you to be here either." It feels like he's saying the words to you directly, the venom in them not going without notice.

"Was just doing the books when this one came in." He tips his head at you, and you blush hard.

"I mean—I can go if it's a problem," you whisper, turning your head in Seungcheol's direction but feeling the heat of Vernon's gaze on you like a wildfire, brushing across your skin without rhyme or reason.

"No." Both of the men’s responses almost overlap, but Seungcheol doesn't have the same strength in his tone that Vernon does. You feel anchored to the chair by the force of it, too scared to confront Vernon right now but too stuck to run away, trapped in every sense of the word.

Seungcheol's ringtone pierces the air, the sound high-pitched and girly to signify a specific person on the other end of the line. "It's Mina. I should take this." He sets the papers down near the chair you’re sitting in and runs outside. Hearing his new slice of the week’s voice is better than the impending argument between his coworker and his client, you think.

Only, you’re not Vernon’s, truthfully. Not in the way you want to be.

The first minute between you alone is pregnant with silence, both of you unsure where to start after leaving it on such a brutal note four days prior.

You huff out a breath before asking Vernon, "How are you?" The bags under his eyes tell you he hasn’t slept. His clothes look haphazardly put on, his belt practically flinging open from the rush he must have been in this morning. You feel guilty for being in any way involved in his flurry of negative feelings, but that saps out of you the minute you remember why you’re mad at him.

You immediately stand up and let a laugh escape, feeling idiotic for the question you just let leave your lips. "Actually, I don't want to know how you are right now. I shouldn't even be here."

"One, that hurts." He has the nerve to pout at you, his bottom lip jutting out like a little kid who dropped their ice-cream cone. "Two, I have to agree. Can’t focus when you’re around, to be honest." He moves from his spot in front of the door in case you want to run now, but you refuse to leave. Not when everything inside of you is bubbling up so perfectly for an explosion.

"Still waiting on that invoice from last night, by the way," you sneer with a close-lipped smile. You cross your arms, waiting for him to give you something besides a sarcastic comment.

"Ripping into me was enough payment, I think." Vernon sighs in between his smile and pinches the bridge of his nose. He steps closer to his workstation, and even closer to you, before letting his backpack fall onto the floor with a thud.

"Still trying to break your iPad?" you ask.

"I can buy a new one at this point. The point is that I've been a jerk.” His following gaze is vulnerable, his brown eyes remorseful. “You're right."

You roll your eyes. "Was that so hard to admit?"

"You haven't been exactly forthcoming either, princess. It's not like I'm an idiot, I see how you look at me."

You clench your fists at your sides and swallow your disappointment. "No, that role’s been reserved for me since the day we met." You're grateful the guy can be honest in this one arena at the very least, but it doesn’t make the rejection hurt any less. "So, I guess I'll see you around. Tell Cheol I'll send him a twenty or something for the wasted paper."

Before you can walk out of the parlor, Vernon clasps your forearm in his hand, his touch soft but charged with force. You can feel it in the way the pads of his fingers press into your skin, not too deep but in no way gentle. “Where are you going?” he asks in the quietest whisper you’ve ever heard.

His voice melts all the ice in your heart, pure warmth flooding your senses from the way he grazes his fingers from your forearm to your wrist and ultimately to your hand, intertwining your fingers.

“I don’t think you should touch a client like this, Tattoo Boy,” you murmur, unwilling to separate from him at this point.

“I think you know by now I don’t just see you as any other client.” He presses the hand not intertwined with yours to your cheek, thumb crazing the highest point. “I’m just sorry it took so long for me to admit it to myself. I’m not the best at…all of this.”

“Didn’t ask you to be,” you respond. “I just wanted honesty, and I appreciate it.”

He nods and steps closer, his lips barely a few inches from yours and breath fanning across your face when he asks, “What do you want now?”

“Now…” You pretend to contemplate before dragging your lips into a cheshire-like smile. “I want a lot of things from you, but I think a kiss will suffice for now.”

He obliges your request, pressing his lips to yours in a featherlight fashion. Only when both of you sink in the feeling of each other’s mouths does it go deeper, his tongue pressing against the meeting of your lips to sink into your mouth.

And sink he does, as do you. You fall deeper into him as he holds you tighter, running his fingers along your neck and down to your waist, squeezing the shirt and shorts you’re wearing to emphasize his newfound need.

“Oh, shit!”

You and Vernon separate quickly, the sound of Seungcheol’s voice reminding you that you’re still in a public place and should have some respect for their business. Then again, Vernon was making out with you just as strongly as you were with him, so the blame isn’t entirely on you.

“Sorry, um—Mina needs me to pick her up anyway, so…I’m gonna go! I’ll reschedule with you if you want me to, kid.” Seungcheol can’t look either of you in the eye as he walks past to grab his stuff, the tips of his ears red as he makes his way to the entrance.

In a flash, Seungcheol’s gone, and you release a squeal of embarrassment as Vernon laughs into your neck. “It’s not funny! I didn’t expect your boss to see all of that.”

“Hey,” Vernon interjects, “co-owner.” You stick your tongue out at him in response, but he just brushes a free strand of hair from your face. “We don’t have to be ashamed.” His eyes darken as he pushes his fingers into your neck. A small whimper escapes you, as much as you try to fight it. “Don’t tell me you’ll actually call him back for a tattoo.”

You roll your eyes again at him, the boy oblivious to the most logical answer. “What do you think?”

Vernon pecks your lips one more time in relief before walking towards the windows at the front of the parlor, the open space outside visible from the ceiling to the floor. Before you can ask, he says with a smirk as he brings the curtains down, “Don’t want anyone else getting a show, right?”

Vernon’s tongue touches the roof of your mouth as his hands roam underneath your t-shirt. You lie splayed out on his tattoo chair, with half of Vernon's body covering you. He pinches the skin that peeks out of your bra as his tongue works circles against your own. His fingers ghost so close to the curve of your breast that you may fall apart untouched at this rate. You can only imagine what you’ll do when he explores the places you want him to the most.

“You’re okay with this, right?” He asks with sudden vulnerability, his lips swollen and kiss-stained as he parts from you. A string of saliva peeks out in the corner of his mouth, and you find it utterly adorable how lust-blown his irises look already. “I get it if you’d prefer for this happen somewhere more private, I just—”

You press his mouth against yours. The method of shutting him up works wonders, Vernon groaning into your mouth as you palm him above his jeans and let the actions of your body do what the words can only do for so long.

Weeks of waiting, months of wondering, just for him to bring the pleasure of heaven down onto you like this. Inked arms caressing your body, sounds signaling his pleasure, mouth burning kisses into your skin like your own Vernon-shaped badges of honor.

Like a tattoo, every touch marks you as his.

“Open your mouth,” he commands as he wraps his hand around your jaw and chin, and you do it without a second thought. Before you can register the action, he spits his saliva onto the center of your tongue. It’s filthy, pure sin. From the sound that leaves his lips to the way he looks at you, expectant and waiting, any normal girl would probably retract and think it odd for a make-out session to come to this point.

But, because you’re you, eager for any and all of him, you swallow it. He emits a hum of approval, roaming the expanse of your face like a man who’s been without a real meal for too long, ready to devour anything that’s in front of him.

Vernon scoots you both closer to the edge of the tattoo chair, dragging his hands up to the top of your jean shorts as he slides further down until his knees hit the concrete floor. “I want these off. Lift your hips.”

He takes the clothing off as soon as you lift your lower half up for him to discard the fabric. Your body jolts from the cool air, the chillier temperature in the space hitting your core and the wet patch on your underwear.

“Shit,” Vernon says as he parts your legs, his hands splaying out on the insides of your thighs. “This wet for me, already? I have a lot to live up to.”

“Don’t tease me,” you say with a pout in his direction. You wiggle your hips closer to his body, needing more than he is giving in the moment. He stills you with one hand on the outside of your thigh, and the other pulling your panties to the side, the air completely brushing against your exposed cunt.

He kisses both of your kneecaps before he inches closer, each second a drag into the ultimate oblivion you want to fall into. If only he would quit making you wait for it.

The second you think to chastise him for moving so slowly is the second he attaches his mouth to your clit. He licks a stripe from your perineum to the swollen bud, his open mouth latching onto your pussy like it’s all he wants to consume for the rest of his life.

You latch your fingers between the strands of his hair, moaning into the open air above you as he works your body for all it’s capable of. He’s only seen you naked for a minute yet he seems to know exactly how to make it stop, start, speed up, and slow down just from his ministrations.

Stars paint the back of your eyelids as he continues to run his lips and tongue across your center. Your hole flutters at the entrance of his tongue between your walls. His nose pokes your clit as he does so, and you think this may be the best sexual experience you’ve ever had, despite the abnormal setting in which it’s taking place.

You’ll never look at another tattoo chair the same, that’s for sure.

Your release comes at the rapid movements of his tongue against your clit, the figure eights too fast for your mind and body to keep up with. Unfiltered moans and curses leave your lips as you fall back down to earth, Vernon not letting up until your body stops shaking and turns to mush against the chair.

His wet mouth lingers on your thighs, lips sticky with your essence. “Think you can get on all fours for me, princess?”

You don’t know how to sit up when you feel so limbless, all the energy sapped from you from your orgasm, but you’re willing to do what he wants if it means he gives you another.

Anything for more of the pleasure he’s made you feel in such a short span of time.

He removes your underwear completely and then unbuckles his belt as you stretch your hands and knees out on the small tattoo chair, bending it all the way down to accommodate your body on top of it. You feel the head of his cock rub against your pussy, and a garbled whimper escapes at the friction. Moving backwards into him is no use, him sensing your eagerness in a second and pulling away.

“Don’t be a brat,” he chastises.

“I wouldn’t have to be if you gave me what I want,” you talk back, turning your head to look him in the eye.

In that moment, he decides to sheath himself fully inside of you, and you shut your eyes tight at the overwhelming stretch of his cock filling you completely. “‘S even better than I imagined,” he groans as he picks up his pace. The tattoo chair squeaks underneath you as he thrusts. His hips are unrelenting as his pelvis meets yours with every slap of skin against skin.

“You look so good on my chair like this,” he grunts, hand reaching in front of you to snake down to your clit. He rubs circles against the nub, your pussy tightening around his cock from the touch of his fingers. “Perfect canvas, and my perfect slut.”

“Yes, Vernon. All yours,” you whimper, clamping down on him harder to bring yourself closer to your second release. It crawls down your spine, inching closer to the center of your thighs and waiting for the perfect moment to hit you all at once.

“Hansol,” he says, breathless. “My real name. Want to hear it come from that pretty mouth.” He snaps his hips harder into you, his tip kissing your cervix with perfect force.

“Yes—fuck! Hansol! I’m gonna come!”

“I’m right there with you, princess.” Vernon moves faster, presses his fingers against your clit in tighter circles, does anything and everything so you both fall apart at the same time. He wants it as bad as you do, his huffs of pleasure mixing with your whines of ecstasy.

Soon enough, your body shatters around his cock, your release gushing out of you and onto his fingers as he slams himself deeper inside of you. You quake underneath him, holding the chair with a death grip as you ride out the high that turns you into nothing but a mess of pleasure.

He stills after a few more thrusts, warmth filling your insides as he leans forward to groan into your ear at the feelings overwhelming his senses. He runs his fingers across the tattoos of his making once he’s completely still, mesmerized by both his own artwork on your skin and the euphoria he’s just experienced.

Droplets of his cum leak out of you when you both separate, and he finds a random rag in a desk drawer to clean you up with. When you shudder from the sensitivity still coating your nerves, he kisses your cheek and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. You grab your clothes from the floor to put back on, but all you can focus on as you readjust the buttons of your shorts is how cute Vernon’s face looks all flushed and glistening with sweat.

“You know I can tattoo that ridiculous butterfly on you if you really want it.” His eyebrows quirk into mischievous lines, ones that make you giggle.

“I don’t. But maybe you’ll design something worth my while.”

He pulls you in by the hips, reattaching his lips to your with the taste of you on his tongue. It’s perfect, too perfect to believe it’s your reality. Yet, he’s the realest thing in your life now, save for the ink that adorns your skin. He pecks your lips once again before saying, “You know I always do.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @jjunberry @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @g0r3wh0rre

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊: @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @pirateeznet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

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shouyuus · 7 months ago

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popular host club host!keigo who's constantly the top 1 or 2 in his host club, so he's got a long roster of regulars, but one of them happens to be a good friend of yours who brings you in one day bc you're a bit naive and she thought it was about time you got out there in the world

host!keigo who is no stranger to shy little birdies, but still has a job to do, so he does his usual thing with your friend, asks about her part time job, compliments her new hairstyle, asks if she's gotten that one toner he recommended, before turning to you and offering you a smile and a wink, and is more charmed than a man in his profession should be at the way you turn red and refuse to meet his eyes

host!keigo who keeps it casual, wears relaxed, but chic street-style clothing and keeps his roots bleached well, but almost nothing else, except for the two slits of black he inks into his inner corners; says that they keep his eyes sharp so he can see all his favorite little birds at the club, of course. and suddenly, you can kinda see why your friend likes coming here so much -- the conversation is nice and he's never too pushy, but it's effortless, the way he talks about himself and gets everyone to talk about themselves as well.

host!keigo who's earnest when he asks you about your interest and feels himself smiling when you light up and talk about the things you love -- reading, painting, photography -- your friend cuts in that it's a shame you're too shy to ask him to be a model for one of your projects bc he does photograph really well, to which you blush even harder and keigo wonders briefly if there's something in the air or in the drinks today bc wow is he feeling just a tad lightheaded and from the looks of it so are you.

host!keigo who, when your friends goes to the bathroom, leans across the booth to hand you his card, just a black card with two bright red wings embossed onto the hard cardstock, runs a finger along the line of your cheek, tilts your chin up and says, "if you ever wanna come see me too... i'll make time for you, dove. all you gotta do is ask." but when u tell him, a little too honestly, that you can't afford him, he just looks at you with a little smirk and says "like i said, dove, i'll make time for you." and leaves it at that

host!keigo who texts you good morning and goodnight, who asks you if you've eaten, who, you're pretty sure, on his days off, pings you and asks you what you're doing. so you tell him that you don't have plans and he immediately calls to ask if you want to hang out -- he picks you up at the train station, wearing just a fitted black tee and some loose-fitted jeans, but even then, people are turning around, doing double takes, but he doesn't seem to notice, only grinning and jogging up to meet you, asking if there's anywhere you'd like to go

host!keigo who takes u to the aquarium and then to the park, where you do a few doodles in your notepad. he leans over to watch and even though your first instinct is to hide your work, you let him see it anyway -- something about him makes you want to trust him, and for once, you want to lean into that. he tells you that your art is beautiful, and you ask, before you can stop yourself, if you can draw him, "it'd be my honor, little bird."

host!keigo who makes you laugh by doing the most dramatic poses before leaning up against a tree and closing his eyes and you sketch him out, feeling your heart in your throat, but when you show him, he goes still and quiet, before asking if he can keep it. you nod and hand the sketch over, blushing bc he holds it like it's lost treasure, something he's spent his whole life looking for --

host!keigo who takes you to dollar karaoke, claps and laughs as you try to sing the current idol song, who is, unsurprisingly, fantastic at singing and tells you to pick your favorite song for him to serenade to you, who pays for all the drinks and never asks you to shell out a time; when you try to get the last round, he gently pushes your hand away and says "not today, little bird, i wanna do this so... let me."

host!keigo who, when you ask him if he does this with all his clients, bends down and flicks a bit of hair from your face before his eyes flicker down to your lips, says, "no... only the ones i really, really like."

host!keigo who offers to walk you back to the station but when you get there, he seems hesitant to say something -- when you gently ask about it, he lets out a tiny little laugh, shakes his head and says, "y'know it's weird -- all these years of being a host... i've never felt like this before but... you just -- god, how embarrassing, right? my whole job is to be good at talking to people and here i am, at a loss for words --" he pauses, runs a hand through his hair before turning back towards you with an earnest smile, "guess what im trying to say is... i spend all day tryna make people feel like they're special, like they're the only person in the entire world but... with you... it's the first time someone's made me feel like that and... i kinda wanna be selfish, be greedy and take you somewhere and keep you all to myself but..."

host!keigo who thinks he might be losing his mind when you smile up at him with that brilliant blush of yours and tell him that "if that's what you wanted... i wouldn't mind... if it were you."

#⛈ monsoon season #hero host club #takami keigo x reader #x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #keigo fluff #takami keigo fluff #bnha fluff #mha fluff #hawks fluff #THIS HOST CLUB AU WILL BE THE END OF ME I SWEAR

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earlysunshines · 8 months ago

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fall is for falling (for you)

newjeans (unnie line) x fem!reader ; fluff!!!!!

synopsis: separate autumn themed oneshots with newjeans unnie line bc i saw a pile of leaves the other day ; 2k special!!

warnings: puuuurre fluff ; making out kinda ; nothing else that i can think of ; anything i didn't mention ; sorry to the readers that don’t have fall / experience a diff season atm it’s basically autumn for me :-P or maybe i’m getting ahead of myself it’s still like 20+ degrees

a/n: THANKYOU FOR 2K WHATTTTTT THE HELL!!! idk how to structure this and it's different from the usual looong fics LOL idk smth different for this crazy milestone THANK YOU!!! i can't believe this is real... i can’t express my gratitude enough… two gazilliontrillionbillion subscribers... in just over a year... i can't believe this... THANK YOU! enjoy :-D

ALSO new user whatsUP! :-p

kim minji - pumpkin carving

minji hears the door creak open but doesn't bother to look up; she already knows it's you. she braces herself, expecting you to burst in dramatically like always: groaning loudly, tossing your bag onto the rug, and collapsing onto the couch next to her with a tired sigh. but instead of the usual commotion, she notices the absence of a familiar thump on the couch, no tired exhale signaling your arrival.

she peeks up, only to find you grinning with a large pumpkin cradled in your arms, your eyes bright with excitement.

“what’s this?” minji asks, eyebrows furrowing as she pulls off her headphones, glancing away from her laptop.

“it’s a sweet potato, what do you think?” you tease, your tone playful as you reach over and close her laptop without hesitation, sliding it to the side. “c’mon, it’s friday. pleeease help me carve it?”

she pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as she meets your gaze. you tug gently on her wrist, the warmth of your hand lingering on her skin, and she can feel the heat rising to her cheeks. her resolve wavers, and she sighs, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek.

“fine.”

minji doesn't regret agreeing, not when your face lights up like that. the way you smile makes her chest feel warm, a flutter she wishes she could escape.

you both set up at the kitchen counter, and she watches as you rummage around, grabbing all three knives you both own.

(there used to be just one—a medium-sized knife—but you insisted on buying more. what if there were small things to cut? or bigger things? the two of you have argued over countless trivial things you own, but somehow, she always ends up letting you have your way. maybe it’s because she secretly adores you, not as subtly as she thinks.)

you put on a playlist that jumps all over the place; first, it’s sza, and you hum along, lost in the melody. then a city pop track comes on, the abrupt change making minji raise her brows. your taste in music is unpredictable, like a rollercoaster, every song a surprise. but minji never complains. she loves how you sway to the music, singing softly as you sketch a face on the pumpkin with intense concentration.

and for a moment, she forgets about the essay she has to write, the deadline, the weekend. all she sees is you, the soft light catching the curve of your smile, and it's enough.

–

an hour passes, but it feels like only seconds.

you and minji have been carving away, scooping out the pumpkin’s insides as she grins at the way you squirm with every handful. when she slips out a soft “cute,” your face heats up instantly, but neither of you says anything more. you assume she’s talking about the face you’ve drawn on the pumpkin, but all of you hopes it’s you she’s referring to.

you sneak glances at her from time to time, drawn to the way her hair falls loose from its tie, her glasses slipping down her nose, and her tongue peeking out in concentration. you reach over to push her glasses back up, and her hand slips—almost cutting herself. you laugh, but your heart is racing inside your chest.

the kitchen table is a mess. pumpkin guts and seeds are scattered everywhere, a few strands of orange pulp hanging off the edge. you’re both standing side by side, spoons in hand, breathless from laughter.

“this is the worst pumpkin carving attempt i’ve ever seen,” minji declares, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, unknowingly smearing pumpkin across her skin.

“you mean the best,” you counter with a grin, scooping out another stringy handful. “it’s a masterpiece in the making.”

she rolls her eyes, but you catch the smile she tries to hide. “if by ‘masterpiece,’ you mean ‘disaster,’ then yeah, sure.”

you nudge her shoulder, still laughing. “hey, it’s not that bad! we just need to… appreciate its unique aspects.”

minji laughs like a dork, you love it—bright and loud—making your chest warm. “fine, but if this pumpkin ends up looking like a troll, i’m blaming you.”

“i’ll take full responsibility,” you joke. “besides, it’s already got your eyebrows.”

she gasps in mock offense. “excuse me? my eyebrows are perfect, thank you very much.”

you snicker and turn back to the pumpkin, but your eyes keep drifting to her. she’s leaning in close, focus intent, tongue poking out slightly as she carves a crooked smile.

it’s hard to concentrate with her so close. something about this feels different—more intimate, more charged.

(and it doesn’t help that you’ve found her attractive ever since you barged into the apartment while she was moving boxes, almost knocking over her stuff.

it also doesn’t help that your crush on her has only grown. english nerds were always a little dorky and cute to you.

or maybe it’s just minji. minji, who you used to bicker with about her loud music or her sudden screams in the middle of the night over some game.

it definitely doesn’t help that you like minji a lot.)

she catches you looking at her, and for a moment, the room goes still. her eyes soften, and your cheeks heat up again. she quirks an eyebrow. “what are you staring at?”

you shrug with a grin. “nothing, sorry. you just look stupid, that’s all.”

she rolls her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks deepens, and your heart skips a beat.

minji finishes the smile on the pumpkin and steps back, hands on her hips, looking at it with a satisfied grin. “done! would you look at that…”

the pumpkin is… well, it has a crooked smile, one eye bigger than the other, and a nose that could pass for a potato. it’s perfect.

“it’s amazing,” you say, and you mean it. not because of the pumpkin, but because of how proud she looks, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed from laughing.

she turns to you, and for a moment, you’re just smiling at each other. then, almost without thinking, you reach up and brush a stray pumpkin seed from her hair.

she blinks, startled, her breath catching. “uh… thanks,” she mumbles, her cheeks darkening to a deeper pink.

“of course,” you say softly, your hand lingering in her hair a moment too long.

the air thickens, something unsaid hanging between you. you’re about to speak, but then minji’s hand is on your jawline, and her lips are on yours.

it’s short, barely a few seconds, but in the last half-second, you start to process it and try to kiss back. but before you can properly reciprocate, minji pulls away, her hand flying back like you’re something hot to the touch.

“i’m so sorry,” she stammers, looking mortified. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. it’s just you looked really good, and i couldn’t help myself, and i’m so sorry, i should’ve—”

you lean in again, cutting her off, capturing the rest of her mumbled apology with your lips. she relaxes into the kiss, her head angling slightly to make it more comfortable, her hand resting on your waist. she pushes you gently against the counter, her body close to yours.

when the need for air becomes too strong, you both pull away, breathless. you look at her—her eyes still half-lidded, cheeks flushed deep red, and you can’t help but giggle, hiding your face in your shoulder to mask how flustered you are.

you just kissed your roommate, and she kissed you back, pulled you closer by the waist, tasted like orange flavored lip balm, smelled like lavender and something floral.

“holy shit,” you mumble, half-laughing. “we just kissed.”

“y-yeah.” minji’s voice is small, almost disbelieving. “did you like it?”

“minji, you’re so cute.” you pull back to look at her, smiling as you smooth her hair. her glasses slide down again, so you take them off and set them on the counter beside you. you twirl a strand of her hair around your finger, teasing her, and she looks like she might melt on the spot.

her hand slides to the back of your neck, making you shiver, and she leans back just enough to murmur, “i’m assuming you did.”

“good observation,” you say, rolling your eyes.

she laughs, her fingers pressing slightly into your skin, and your knees feel a little weak. “so, do we keep carving pumpkins or…?”

you grin, pulling her closer. “we could… make out a little more on the couch instead? if our lips go numb, then… movie?”

minji’s smile is bright, her eyes soft. “i like that idea.”

hanni pham - a hoodie for the seasons changing

hanni walks along the inside of the sidewalk because you decided when you were eleven that it was better for her to be farther from the street, less at risk. even now, a few weeks into your last year of high school, you still keep her on the safe side. it's just one of those things you do without thinking. it’s an unspoken rule between the two of you, so hanni hadn’t thought twice about the way you pulled her by the arm to push her on her designated side.

(she did think twice about how firm your grip was, and how you had your hand on her. your bigger, stronger, nicer hands.)

with the weekend ahead, you both agree there’s no better plan than crashing at your place after school on a friday. your hands brush against each other as you walk, but neither of you say anything. you never do; never have, not about the little things, like the shared smiles, the secret glances, the quiet laughter. instead, you let yourselves enjoy the moments, bask in the warmth that fills your chest each time.

you make it to your house, then up the stairs until you two are in your room. you immediately find hanni's sweatpants in your closet — the ones she left behind last time because she’s at your house more than half the week. you'd washed them with your clothes on laundry day, because it would’ve been rude not to. you toss them to her along with one of your t-shirts. “go change,” you say, nudging her toward the bathroom with a grin.

"hey!" hanni groans, swatting your hand away as you poke her side, making her jump. “you’re so—”

“just hurry up and change so we can relax on my bed. you know how i feel about outside clothes…”

she rolls her eyes but can't help the smile that tugs at her lips, watching the little crease form between your brows from the annoyance. it’s cute, she thinks, even if she’d never admit it. she closes the bathroom door, locks it, and starts changing. her sweatpants fit the same — they’re hers, after all — but your t-shirt hangs loose and oversized on her. it’s soft against her skin, and smells like your detergent and jasmine and peaches, like you. her heart races a little.

she catches her reflection in the mirror and notices how the shirt falls around a fingers length past her waistline. it’s not like she’s drowning in the shirt, but it’s definitely a size or two larger; you’re taller and more muscular, which happens to be her type — a fact she’s noticed a little too much for her liking. she feels a flutter in her chest, a mix of nerves and something she doesn’t want to name, then quickly shakes it off, rolling her shoulders like she can physically push the feeling away.

she takes a breath, tugs at the hem of the shirt once more, and steps out of the bathroom, trying not to think about how much she likes wearing something that belongs to you.

when she steps out a few minutes later, she finds you on your bed with your legs spread out and hands up to hold your phone. you’re in plaid pajama joggers and your dad’s old university hoodie, you look comfy and snug, you look adorable.

she jumps on your bed, landing beside you with a bounce. the mattress shifts, and your phone slips from your grip, smacking you square in the cheek. hanni laughs at the sight.

“hey!” you groan, shooting her a playful glare.

“loser.” she mutters, reaching over to mess up your hair. “scoot over, you’re hogging the whole bed.”

“whatever.” you roll over, patting the space beside you. hanni shuffles closer, pulling the blanket over both of you. your arm naturally slips under her neck, and she nestles in, the top of her head resting against your chest.

“comfy?” she can hear the smirk in your voice.

“yeah.” she replies softly, though her heart races.

neither of you ever comments on the way you always end up like this, close and tangled up in each other. the term is ‘cuddling,’ but if either of you were to call it that, you’d probably cringe, cheeks flushing with an embarrassed heat neither of you could ignore.

hanni grabs her phone, opening instagram. she scrolls, her breathing evening out as she likes every animal video and taps through every story. you watch her through half-closed eyes, feeling a calm settle over you. your other arm drapes over her waist, your breathing slowing, growing heavier.

she doesn’t notice at first, too engrossed in her phone. but when she switches to the camera, she catches a glimpse of your nose nuzzled in her hair, your eyes fully closed. she zooms in to confirm the soft snores she hears, then grins, quietly snapping a picture. she shifts, turning the camera on herself to capture both of you together.

for a while, she stays like that, tucked in your arms, watching an episode of a crime show she’s gotten hooked on. her head tilts at an odd angle, but she doesn’t mind. you’re asleep and warm beside her, and that’s all that matters.

three episodes later, she checks the time and realizes over an hour and a half has passed. somewhere in that time, you’ve pulled her closer in your sleep, murmuring something she can’t quite make out. her heart stutters each time your hand shifts against her waist, your fingers brushing against the fabric, the only layer away from her skin.

her stomach growls softly, breaking the quiet, and she decides it’s time to wake you up. turning over, your faces are inches apart, and she stops, taking a moment to just look at you. then, she leans back slightly and snaps another picture before reaching to poke your cheek. when you don’t stir, she pinches instead, shaking your shoulder lightly.

you groan, turning away from her. “five minutes… please.”

“c’mon, sleeping beauty, i’m hungry…” she sighs, her tone teasing.

“five minutes.” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “just five more…”

hanni sighs dramatically, then tries a new tactic. “i’ll pay if you get up right now. anything you want from the convenience store.”

you crack one eye open, barely, squinting at her. you roll over, sprawling into a starfish position. “fine… but five minutes, okay?” you plead, clinging to her leg.

hanni laughs softly at the warmth radiating from you, her resolve weakening. she runs her fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp gently until five minutes turns into ten, then fifteen. finally, she nudges you awake, and the two of you head out, still in your cozy clothes.

as you walk to the convenience store, staying close, hanni steps on a leaf that crunches underfoot. “wow, it’s already fall,” she murmurs.

“well, obviously.” you tease, only to get a kick to the back of your knee. you nearly stumble, catching yourself with a laugh. “what the hell?”

“you suck.” she grumbles, bumping her shoulder against yours.

“you suck more,” you retort, nudging her back.

“whatever.”

you smile at her, and she catches it from the corner of her eye. she nudges you away again, but you keep staring, unable to help yourself. “you’ve gotten really pretty, you know?”

“are you saying i used to be ugly?” she laughs lightheartedly, expecting a playful response, but instead, you surprise her.

“you’ve never been ugly.” your voice is softer, more sincere. “you’ve always been pretty.” then your voice gets quieter, “gorgeous.”

there’s a pause, both of you walking in silence for a moment. you kick a small rock forward, and it lands by hanni’s feet. she kicks it ahead, breaking the quiet. “thanks.” she says, feeling your eyes on her but not daring to meet your gaze. “you’ve always been cute too, ever since we met in fifth grade.”

“oh.” you whisper, looking up just in time to see the store ahead — a small savior from the tension that’s thickened the air between you. you clear your throat, trying to shift the mood. “i can’t wait for my free dinner.”

hanni pushes you playfully, and you pout, making her wish she could capture the expression and keep it forever.

you two head inside, and hanni visibly relaxes as the warm air greets you. she hadn’t mentioned how chilly it was outside, even though she could’ve easily put on her jacket. part of her had hoped, maybe, you’d notice and offer her your hoodie instead.

both of you wander around the store for about ten minutes, emerging with a pork bun and a sweet tea in your hands, while hanni clutches a sweet pastry and a can of soda. instead of turning back towards your house, you keep moving forward, hanni trailing just behind you.

the route is familiar. it’s the path down to the little stream where you and hanni have shared countless secrets, talking until the sun dips below the horizon. tonight feels like one of those nights, perfect for sitting on the favorite bench you two have claimed as your own, watching the sunset as it starts a little earlier than usual.

you kick a small rock into the stream, watching the ripples spread out, and catch hanni shivering slightly in the corner of your eye as she takes a small bite of the sweet potato-filled bun.

“can you hold my stuff?” you ask, extending your hands. hanni hums in confusion but takes your things without hesitation.

she watches as you stand up, pulling off your hoodie. her eyes linger on the way your long-sleeve shirt lifts slightly, revealing a hint of your torso, the lean muscle just barely visible in the fading light. she catches herself staring and quickly looks away, cheeks warming. you fix your hair casually before draping the hoodie over her lap.

she furrows her brows, looking up at you. “what?”

you glance down at the hoodie, then back at her. “put it on.”

“why?”

“because you’re cold.” you shrug, sitting back down beside her and taking the food and drinks out of her hands to set them down. you grab the hoodie again and pull it over her shoulders, tugging it down until her head pops through and the hood falls over her eyes. “better?”

she mumbles, “you didn’t have to.”

“it’s getting colder. i’m fine like this.” you reply, pinching the fabric of your shirt before reaching out to adjust the hood over her forehead, smoothing down her hair. a small smirk tugs at your lips as you add quietly, “besides, i know you wanted my hoodie anyway.”

she nearly chokes on air, her cheeks burning. “i– i didn’t! you’re so–”

“you look better in it anyway,” you chuckle, turning back to face the stream. you sneak a bite of her pastry, the playful smile on your lips growing.

hanni huffs but doesn't protest, her fingers curling into the sleeves of your hoodie, a smile sneaking onto her face despite herself.

she looks at you fondly, biting the inside of her cheek, before crossing her arms and turning her gaze to match yours. your hoodie is thick with your scent, and hanni feels like she could drown in it. without realizing it, she scoots closer, and you instinctively wrap an arm around her.

hanni can’t hold back anymore.

“y/n.”

“yes?”

“the fall dance is really early this year.”

“yeah, it’s next week. i feel like i’ll breathe and it’ll already time to get ready for it.”

“do you have a date?”

you scoff, shaking your head with a small laugh. “you know i’ve never managed to get a date for that. we always end up going with yunjin’s group anyway. are you teasing me for not having one?”

hanni chuckles, leaning even closer against your side. “maybe a little.”

“do you have a date?” you ask, glancing down at her.

“no.”

“you know, i overheard jay’s friends talking. sounds like he might ask you out.”

hanni cringes at the thought of jay, the guy from her statistics class who never stops staring at her. his crush on her is painfully obvious, and he always finds an excuse to talk to her or get her attention.

but the truth is, hanni's always wished you’d be the one to ask her to the fall dance, but you’re oblivious, always a little clueless.

“y/n,” she tries again, voice soft.

“yes?”

“we should go to the fall dance together.”

“yeah, i was thinking that too. should we go with yunjin’s friend group again? jimin also asked if we wanted to–”

“no,” hanni interrupts, pulling away from your arm, and looks at you seriously. you tilt your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. she meets your gaze, but quickly looks away, suddenly feeling too exposed. “i was wondering if… well— ugh.” she pinches the bridge of her nose, then takes a deep breath and blurts out, “we should go together, alone, just us. we don't have to actually go to the dance, I know we just went out in the city last time and crashed at yunjins place and we can just do whatever you want to! i don't really care i just want to be with you becauseilikeyoualotand--"

hanni pauses before finally getting to her point. "i want you to be my date, y/n."

your lips curl into a sly smile, and then you laugh.

hanni's face is a mix of confusion and anxiety, her mind racing with uncertainty at your reaction.

“took you long enough,” you say, grinning wider now. “i was going to ask you out, but i wanted to see if you had the guts to do it first.”

“asshole!” hanni groans, shoving you away. she turns her face to hide the deep flush coloring her cheeks. “i take it back.”

“no, you don’t.” your arm tightens around her, pulling her closer again, and you use your free hand to gently tilt her face towards you, fingers brushing her chin. “i’m not going to let you.”

her breath catches when your eyes flicker down to her lips, then back up to her eyes.

“w-was that a yes?” hanni asks, voice small, almost uncertain.

your fingers drop from her chin, and you lean back slightly against the bench. both of you are moving closer, almost unconsciously, drawn together by the tension. she feels her eyelids flutter, and you tilt your head, leaning in just a bit more.

“if i kiss you, would you take that as a yes?” you whisper, eyes focused on her lips.

hanni’s voice is barely audible as she murmurs, “mhm,” giving you the green light. you lean in and press a soft, quick kiss to her lips. she melts into it, feeling every nerve ending come alive in those few seconds. you pull back just enough to take in her flushed cheeks, the warmth of the autumn sun casting a soft glow over her face.

“i’d love to be your date, hanni,” you say softly, smiling as her face breaks into a relieved grin.

danielle marsh - apple picking

danielle stands beside you, her eyes bright with excitement as she takes in the familiar sight. she's wearing a pair of denim overalls over an old, oversized sweater that you know belongs to her dad, her wavy brown hair clipped up to keep loose strands from framing her face.

the apple orchard stretches out before you, rows of trees dotted with red and green apples glistening under the golden afternoon sun. you and danielle have been coming here every fall since you were kids, but this is the first time you've managed to make it back since starting college. the sunlight feels warm against your skin, but it definitely makes her shine brighter, even in the cool crispness of fall.

she grabs your hand, slipping her fingers into yours without a second thought, and pulls you down the path toward the orchard's entrance. you grin at how eager she is; being here together again fills you with a deep, comforting warmth. being around danielle always does that to you, really.

a friendly man greets you at the entrance, handing you a basket and asking if you have any questions. you both shake your heads, and he gives you a cheerful smile, wishing you good luck.

it’s peak apple-picking season, so naturally the orchard is filled with families, couples, and groups of friends, all scouring the trees for the best apples. there’s a little worry in the back of your mind that the good ones might already be gone.

“so many people,” danielle breathes, a little awestruck. “i wonder if we’re too late.”

“we’ll be fine,” you assure her, squeezing her hand lightly. “when have we ever gotten a bad apple? even the green ones end up sweet.”

“maybe that's because you always pick them~” she teases, giving you that playful smile that always makes your stomach twist and turn. you hate it a little, but you love it more—especially the way it makes your cheeks heat up.

“you're so— ugh.” you look away, trying to hide the way she flusters you, but you tug her hand, pulling her along.

you wander a bit farther down the path, away from the crowd. danielle’s eyes light up when she spots a tree heavy with apples. she lets go of your hand, darting forward, studying the branches.

“this one’s perfect,” she says, reaching up on tiptoe, fingers just brushing a particularly shiny apple.

you watch her struggle for a moment, biting back a laugh. “need some help?”

she glances back, trying to look serious but failing. instead, she gives you her signature pout, the one that makes you melt everytime you see it. “i guess i could use a little help,” she admits.

you move closer, setting the basket down. “hop on,” you offer, patting your back.

she giggles before jumping onto your back, her laughter bright in your ear as you steady her by holding her legs. she reaches up, plucking the apple from the branch with a satisfied hum. "got it!"

“nice catch,” you say, lowering her back to the ground.

she turns to you, cheeks flushed from the thrill of the simple task, still holding the apple. “i’ve got my own personal apple-picking assistant,” she teases, nudging you.

“not free of charge,” you joke, smiling at her.

her happiness is contagious, and you're more than willing to let it take over the afternoon.

(and really, your whole life—but maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself.)

“but always happy to help, miss marsh.”

you and danielle spend the next couple of hours wandering through the orchard, picking apples, laughing, and reminiscing about the times you’d done this as kids. you remember danielle’s dad lifting you up on his shoulders when you were too small to reach, and the time she accidentally knocked one of your teeth out with a misplaced apple throw. her laughter fills the space between you, and more than once, she climbs onto your back again, her hands on your shoulders, her face so close you can feel her breath on your neck. it’s nerve-racking, but much more heart warming.

as the sun starts to dip, the air cools, and you catch danielle stifling a yawn. “getting sleepy?” you ask, watching her rub her eyes the same way she used to when you were younger.

"maybe a little," she admits, yawning again, trying to blink away the sleepiness settling in her eyes. "but i don't want to leave yet. this is too much fun."

really, she doesn’t want the day to end at all. spending time with you like this feels like the good old days, back when things were simple and easy, and danielle would do just about anything to stretch it out a little longer. she's always been whipped for anything involving you, for every shared laugh, for every time your shoulder accidentally brushes hers. she knows she would spend every minute she has left doing nothing but this, being with you, if she could. it's been harder lately—with college and schedules pulling you both in different directions, with classes, work, and life taking up so much of the time she used to have with you. the thought makes her chest ache a little, makes her cling to this moment even more tightly, like she could hold on to it forever.

“it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she adds softly, her voice barely above a whisper, almost like she’s talking to herself more than you. “since we just got to be like this.”

“yeah,” you agree, a touch of something bittersweet in your smile. “way too long.”

her fingers brush yours, almost like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she doesn't hold on, her hand still warm from holding yours all afternoon. “i wish we could do this every day,” she sighs, her tone playful and smile warm, but it makes her heart ache a bit.

you feel your heart squeeze at that, at the honesty in her voice, and you reach out, squeezing her hand in return. “me too,”

for a moment, you both stand there, just holding hands, feeling the weight of all the missed moments and the sweetness of the one you’re in now. the orchard is quieter now, the sun sinking lower, casting everything in a soft, golden light. you think it makes her look even more beautiful, like she belongs in a place like this, caught between the sunset and the apples and the way her smile seems to light up her whole face.

“anyway,” you clear your throat, breaking yourself from your trance. “we’ve been here for hours, dani,” you chuckle. “it’s okay if you’re tired.”

“okay, maybe i am tired,” she says, shoulders slumping. “fine, let's head back.”

“it’s an hour drive anyway, maybe longer with traffic,” you point out, pinching her cheek just because. “you can sleep in the car.”

after paying for your apples and accepting a free mini apple pie from the cashier, you head back to the car. you hold her hand with one hand and carry the bag of apples with the other, feeling content as you walk through the fading light.

at the car, danielle settles into the passenger seat, her eyes fluttering shut as soon as you start driving. you glance over at her, peaceful and serene in sleep, her lips slightly parted. she looks so pretty under the soft glow of the streetlights that you can’t resist taking a quick picture when you reach the nearest stop sign.

you drive quietly, letting the soft sounds of her breathing fill the car. when you arrive at her house, you unbuckle her seatbelt carefully, brushing your fingers over her skin in the process. she murmurs something in her sleep, but doesn’t wake. you gently lift her out of the car, cradling her against your chest. she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, holding on like she doesn’t want to let go.

getting inside is a bit of a challenge; you end up going through the gate to the backyard. once you’re inside, you lay her down gently on the couch, intending to pull away, but she tightens her grip around you. “no, y/n… stay,” she mumbles.

your arm moves around her, instinctively pulling her closer, and you can feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing against you, her body fitting perfectly into the curve of yours. she smells like apples and cinnamon and the orchard and what it feels like to be a child and filled with adoration. it fills your senses, making you feel like you’re wrapped up in everything that feels good and familiar.

your fingers continue to gently massage her scalp, and before long, your eyes grow heavy, and you drift off with her beside you, feeling completely at peace.

—

you aren’t sure how long you’d been asleep when the creak of the front door makes you stir. your eyes flutter open to a blurry room, the dim light barely catching on the edges of furniture. you blink, trying to sit up, but danielle’s weight is still against you, her face tucked into the curve of your neck, her breaths soft and steady.

a quiet voice breaks the sleepy haze. “well, look at that.”

you blink harder, clearing your vision to see danielle’s parents standing in the doorway, looking amused. their expressions are soft, eyes twinkling with the kind of knowing that makes your cheeks flush. you shift slightly, attempting to move, but danielle’s hold tightens, her face burrowing deeper into your neck, refusing to let go even in her sleep.

“hi,” you manage, voice thick with sleep, feeling the warmth creep up your face. “we were just… she fell asleep in the car, and i didn’t want to wake her.”

danielle’s mom smiles gently, eyes creasing at the corners. “you two look comfortable. did you have fun at the orchard?”

“yeah…” you murmur, still a little groggy, the day’s warmth lingering in your chest.

danielle’s dad chuckles, his gaze softening. “she’s hanging on like a little bear,” he says with a grin. “reminds me of when you two were kids, falling asleep in the backseat. she’d twist herself into the strangest positions, and you always seemed to make room for her.”

of course you did, you always made room for her, whether that was in the backseat of her parents’ car, your mind, or your heart.

you feel your cheeks get hotter, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. you glance down at danielle, her face still nestled into you, and it strikes you how natural it feels, like this was always how it was supposed to be.

as her parents quietly make their way upstairs, you lean back into the cushions, fingers absentmindedly brushing through danielle’s hair, the strands soft against your skin.

“y/n?” her voice is a soft mumble, barely more than a whisper. “are my parents home?”

“yeah,” you say softly, feeling her shift slightly.

“mhm... can we stay like this?” her voice is slurred, on the edge of falling back into sleep.

“whatever you want, dani.”

“okay,” she breathes, then after a pause, “hey, y/n?”

“yeah?”

“thanks for today,” she sighs, her words sleepy and warm against your neck. “i love you.”

the words make your heart swell, and maybe it’s the sleepiness or the quiet of the room, but you find the courage to press a soft kiss to her forehead, even if it means twisting awkwardly. you close your eyes, letting yourself relax into the moment, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

“i love you too danielle.”

479 notes · View notes

abigailovesz · 15 days ago

Text

EVEN IN THE DARK

summary: a quiet girl battling anxiety and depression, caused by bullying crosses paths with jj maybank - the golden boy with a wild smile and deep wounds no one sees. what begins as a cautious friendship grows into a love that is raw, patient, and life-changing. together, they learn to navigate mental illness, grief, and the scars of their pasts, building a life defined not by perfection, but by presence. through marriage, parenthood, and healing, they choose each other again and again - proving that true love isn’t about saving someone, but standing beside them when the world goes quiet.

inspo: sailor song - gigi perez

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety and depression as well as panic attacks, a miscarriage, mentions of jjs past so abuse, self worth/insecurity, happy ending, and pregnancy.

a/n: im sorry this is so fucking long, but i took me a whole month so hope ya like it i also got part of this idea from a writing project i had done a few years ago & i somehow found it again in my room so its inspired by that ! (a few of the lines are from the paper thats why its so fuckin poetic lmao) basically the life jj deserved ayye

you had always lived in the quieter spaces of life. A soft-spoken girl with sad eyes that held more stories than you could ever say aloud. on the outside, you were just another senior trying to make it through the school year. but inside, every day felt like dragging your feet through wet sand.

anxiety and depression had become a constant hum in your mind. they crept in quietly during childhood after days of getting tormented, made fun of and rooted themselves firmly by the time you turned sixteen. mornings were battles, and nights were battlegrounds. your thoughts raced, heart often pounded without reason, and sometimes you felt like you were drowning in a sea only you could see.

no one really noticed. except for jj maybank.

to everyone else, jj was the golden boy of the outer Banks. Loud, wild, always the center of attention. the sun seemed to shine differently around him - like it couldn’t help but follow his charm. but that charm? It was a mask. one he wore every day and every hour. beneath the jokes and the laughter was a boy who had learned too young how to hide his pain. a boy with his own fears, his own scars.

jj first noticed you in the library. you sat in the farthest corner, headphones on, curled up in a way that said “do not disturb.” But something about your stillness intrigued him. not in a romantic way at first — more like recognition. He saw something familiar in her silence. He saw himself.

you both didn't talk for weeks. just quiet glances, stolen between book stacks and hallways. until one rainy afternoon, your anxiety had reached a boiling point. you'd fled class, overwhelmed and breathless, and locked yourself in the art room. you hadn’t expected anyone else to be there - but jj was.

he didn’t say anything right away. he just sat on the floor a few feet away and picked up a pencil. he started sketching - he surprisingly, was pretty good at it but never showed anyone. Silence filled the room, comfortable and understanding. When your breath slowed, you asked without looking at him, “why are you here?”

jj hesitated, then answered truthfully. “sometimes I come here when I can’t breathe.”

That was the beginning.

you both began to find each other in hidden places. the dock behind the marina at sunset. The rooftop of the old motel. your porch swing on sleepless nights. he didn’t ask your to be happy. you didn’t ask him to be strong. you both just existed - painfully, beautifully, honestly.

one night, under a sky of stars, jj had confessed the words he was always afraid to say, “I feel broken.”

you looked at him with eyes full of quiet understanding. “then we’re two pieces of the same mirror,” you said. “cracked. but still reflecting somethin' real.”

the world didn’t stop hurting. your anxiety didn’t vanish, and his demons didn’t magically disappear. but together, you both built a space where pain didn’t have to be hidden. you aughed in the darkness. cried without shame. found genuine happiness in small things - like late beach walks, or sharing a milkshake without speaking.

jj became your own anchor when the waves got too high. you became his lighthouse when the storms closed in.

love didn’t cure you both. but it gave the two of you strength. It reminded you and him that you weren’t alone - you had eachother. that being vulnerable wasn’t weakness, but bravery. And that sometimes, the most broken hearts are the ones most capable of deep love.

HIGH SCHOOL ENDED with a blur of bittersweet emotions. jj didn’t walk at graduation — not because he didn’t want to, but because he was afraid. afraid of what came next. you, however, sat in the crowd with trembling hands, hearing your name echo across the stadium speakers.

you walked that stage not because you felt strong - but because jj was in the stands, silently cheering you on.

you both stayed in the outer banks for one more summer. long, golden days filled with sunsets. jj worked at the boatyard, fixing things with his hands, while you took photographs of the coastline and wrote in your journal — pieces of poems she never showed anyone but him.

but as summer ended, change rolled in.

you had been accepted into a university a few hours away to study psychology - you wanted to understand your own mind and help others like you. jj, on the other hand, had no clear path. no college plans. just a restless heart and a fear of becoming his father.

you both fought the night before you left.

“I don’t belong in that world, baby” jj said, pacing your tiny bedroom.

“you belong anywhere you choose to be,” you argued, tears threatening. “you’re not broken, jj. you’re scared. like I was. like I still am.”

he didn’t come to you the next morning. but he left a note tucked into your bag.

“I don’t know how to be in the world without you in it but I want to learn how to be worthy of standing next to you in it.”

you both spent the first few months apart aching in different ways. you struggled with new routines, panic attacks in lecture halls, and the isolation of pretending to be okay. jj picked up extra shifts, and started visiting john b more and more.

you both wrote letters. real ones. Ink on paper. because some things felt too special to say out loud. jj’s handwriting was messy, rushed, but his words were always honest.

and you always wrote back.

the next summer, he showed up at your apartment, sunburned and smiling. “there ya are," he let out a long breath. "missed you - everyday baby." you threw your arms around him, eyes shutting in relief.

years passed. slowly, you both grew - not into new people, but into fuller versions of yourselves. both had setbacks. panic attacks, sleepless nights, old fears rising easily. but they never faced them alone again.

eventually, jj applied to a mechanics program in the same city away from outer banks and near your college. he fell in love with working on boats, but also with the quiet way your eyes still lit up when he walked into the room.

you graduated with honors. at your ceremony, you read a speech about healing in imperfect ways. you thanked your professors. your therapist. and one “unexpected person who reminded me I didn’t have to be okay to be loved. I just had to be real.”

jj proposed on that same rooftop you both used to sneak onto back in high school. no audience. no flash. just a small ring, shaky hands, and these words -

“you once told me we were pieces of the same mirror. I think we’ve built something.. new now, y'know?”

And you, smiling through tears, whispered - “yes. always yes.”

YEARS LATER, your house sat at the edge of a coastal town, far enough from the chaos but close enough to the sea that jj could still smell the salt in the morning. the house was small — two bedrooms, sun-drenched windows, and walls lined with your photographs. It wasn’t perfect. but it was theirs.

jj now ran his own repair shop by the docks. he never called himself a business owner - that felt too fancy to him - but he was proud of what he’d built. he still had bad days. the kind where the weight in his chest made it hard to move, where old memories were louder than he’d like. but he knew, he had you.

you both didn’t have children - not yet, maybe not ever. It was something you'd talked about gently, honestly, without pressure. you both had been through too much to rush anything.

love did not have to look like everyone else's.

but then, it happened.

you were ten weeks pregnant. you both hadn’t told many people. just the close circle of jj's second family: john b, Pope, everyone through a phone call. a cautious kind of joy had filled the house since the first test. jj had kissed your belly every night like a quiet promise, and you had finally started to believe you could do this - that your body was safe enough for life.

but that afternoon, something shifted. a dull ache turned into sharp pain. then came the blood.

at first, you panicked. “maybe it’s normal,” you whispered, standing in the bathroom, knuckles white as you gripped the sink. “spotting happens… sometimes.”

jj found you there, pale and trembling, your hands shaking as you tried to google symptoms. he didn’t say anything at first - just knelt and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.

“we’re goin' to the doctor,” he said, calm. but his grip tightened slightly. “right now.”

you both sat in the sterile ultrasound room, you stared at the ceiling, jj clutching her hand like a lifeline. the silence from the tech stretched longer than it should have. then came the words you'd feared: “I’m so sorry… there’s no heartbeat.”

you didn’t cry right away. just nodded, numb, like someone who’d forgotten how to speak. jj looked stunned - like someone had yanked the air from his lungs - but he kept his eyes on her. Always on her.

When you both got home, you went straight to the bedroom and curled up on your side of the bed, hand resting instinctively where life had once been. “I shouldn’t have gotten attached,” you whispered.

jj sat beside her, silent for a long time. then he said, voice low and trembling, “fuck, I was already in love with someone I never got to meet.”

that’s when the tears came. for both of you.

but you knew you were still loved and okay with jj. you could try again.

IT STARTED WITH a test left on the bathroom counter. you sat on the tile floor, knees tucked to your chest, staring at the result with wide, disbelieving eyes. jj came home from the shop covered in grease, and when he found her there, silent and pale, he knelt beside her.

when you showed him the test, he didn’t speak at first. just layed his head against your shoulder. after a long, quiet breath, he whispered, “we'll be okay, it won't happen again baby.”

pregnancy - again - wasn’t perfect. your anxiety sharpened with each passing month. the questions, the what-ifs, the nights lying awake wondering if you’d be enough, if it would happen again.

When your daughter, lena maybank, was born, you cried harder than you ever had — not just from pain, but from awe. lena had her mother’s deep, thoughtful eyes and her father’s blond curls.

jj held her for the first time with hands that used to shake at the thought of being a father. but as he looked down at the tiny child, something in him stilled. “hello, girly,” he whispered. “you look just like me.”

parenthood didn’t erase your's and jj's mental struggles. In fact, it brought some of them to the surface. sleepless nights triggered jj’s old anger - not at anyone, but at the helplessness he sometimes felt. your depression came like a fog you hadn’t expected, even after all your experience.

but now they had language. and tools. and each other.

one evening, after putting lena to bed, jj and you sat on the porch, hands entwined like they always had been. “I never thought we’d make it here,” he whispered.

you kissed the side of his neck. “I did. because I knew we’d keep showing up. that’s what love is. and now we’re teaching her how to do the same.”

you then rested your head on his shoulder, the sound of the ocean in the distance, lena sleeping peacefully inside.

and jj knew, he would never ever be alone again.

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sun-snatcher · 3 months ago

Note

could you write "i know i'm a monster, but you treat me like a man." from your prompts with shay cormac/f! reader? I discovered your profile recently and been loving your writing🫶🏻

( all credits to @bankaizen for this delicious gifset! )

✠ | of monsters & men ; shay cormac

summ. Your secret is revealed. The Captain of the Morrigan doesn't seem to mind. w.count. 2k. a/n. f!reader , but reader is pretending to be a man , james kidd who? , slow-burn , mutual pining , friends-to-lovers , just reader & Shay being love-struck idiots . (I also understand that traditional sloop-of-war’s much like the Morrigan wouldn’t’ve had a crow’s nest due to her size, but for the sake of the fic, allow me to wave a magic wand over canon!)

ST. ANTHONY’S RECEIVES the Morrigan with loving arms.

With the ship lain to, and half the crew offboard, the Northern squalls billowing downwind into the dank, creaky port does little to stifle the riots of songs livening taverns and inns. All this, yet—

“Birdie!” calls a voice, floating high somewhere by where the topsails have been furled secure. “Haven’t frozen y’toes off there, have you, lad? Be a shame if I lost the finest Navigator the seas have yet to offer.”

Sitting slouched in the crow’s nest, you let out a snort. “Aye, lost ‘em all to scurvy just yesterday, I fear,” you lament, voice timbre. "Go away!"

Shay’s delighted laugh fills the air—

And you quickly tamp down that flutter you feel in your chest before it could get too treacherous.

“Also,” you note, once he hauls himself from the mainmast and lands with a perfect perch at the nest’s guardrails, “I’m the finest Navigator the seas will ever offer you, Captain, thank you very much.”

“Aye, that y’are. Dare I say the finest Mariner there is—”

“Oh-ho?”

“—right after me, ofcourse—”

“Little Irish bastard,” you scowl, failing miserably at hiding your grin, and swatting childishly at him when he scoots to settle into a comfortable seat next to you. “So. St. Anthony’s women not t’your fancy? What’re you doing all the way up here, Captain?”

“Funny that. Was going to ask y’the same thing after I saw y'run off. An’ Christ, call me Shay. I’m beginning to forget my name after all these months sailin’.”

“Well, I was drawing, Captain,” you deflect, easily. Better than confessing you don’t want to be stuck in a stuffy room brushing shoulders with rowdy drunkards, and feeling your own heart bleed out watching pretty ladies bat their lashes and sidle up freely next to Shay.

Your answer is hardly a lie, anyway. The only reason the crew had taken to calling you Birdie in the first place is because you bide your time up in the nest scratching away in your papers (or dozing off one too many times, as Gist so likes to point out). That, and the fact it proves easier with your slightly build to pull your weight in the lines or riggings up above.

“Rum?” he offers, and sets it by you. It feels alot like a peace offering, even if it's unintentional.

Shay’s gaze falls on your tattered, leatherbound journal. A curious trinket; he’s never seen you an arm’s length from it, nor the pencil you keep tucked on your ear. He’s seen you sketching away into its water-logged pages more oft than not, cheeks stained with graphite and a furrow between your brows. “S’that your woman, birdie?” he says, glimpsing the unfinished markings of a face. “Now I see why you're not tasting the local cuisine. She’s a beauty.”

You can't help but break into a knowing, private smile. “Aye… Something like that.”

"How mysterious."

"She's my sister," you lie, if only to chase him off your scent.

"Oh? Well, does she have a man?"

"Fuck off," you bite, though without heat. The chance compliment settles nicely in your cheeks. "She’ll only be a trouble t’you. She's not your type, anyway, Shay.“

"Isn't she?" he hums cannily, but doesn’t broach the topic further. He’d never dared to ask to look in the book— isn’t exactly his business, after all— but you shrug and trade it for his drink. “Y’sure, birdie? I don't pry.”

“Go on, then, 'fore I change my mind.” There isn’t anything damning written about you in there; You know better than to risk that.

“So?” you take a swig, just as Shay begins parsing hrough the pages. "What is it? Surely you didn't climb up here t'keep warm. Come t'bother me?"

“Is it a crime for a Captain to want to spend time alone with his good friend?” he muses, distracted by the drawings— nay, Masterpieces, these are masterpieces, birdie. Y’ve a future in this, y’know?— of intricate horizons, coasts, constellations and isles on the weathered pages.

Shay recognises them all: Asian archipelagos and spits of the lesser Antilles or the Caribbean reefs you’ve both voyaged to, dated and signed; alongside notes of headings and longitudes penciled under stipplings of navigational celestials like the North Star, the Dipper.

“If the Captain is you, Shay,” you answer, “Then any man with sense.”

“Oh, I mean the Morrigan, birdie,” he teases, only to earn a sharp smack at his knee.

“Ha-ha. I reckon all your good friends are women, aye?”

“So it seems,” he agrees absent-mindedly, and you wonder if the sideways glance at you had been your imagination.

Shay turns to the still-lifes. Breaching humpback whales and dolphin pods arcing over whitecaps; a bird’s-eye-perspective of the crew on a sunny day aboard the Morrigan, and countless, bustling ports across the world you’ve visited. There are portraits of the crew too: of deckhands, gunners, or of Gist, and even a stern profile of Haytham Kenway looking portside in the distance.

And in-between it all—

Him. Captain Shay Cormac. Immortalised in blink-and-you-miss-it moments: manning the steer while holding conversation, or perched at the bow afore the setting sun, or peering through his spyglass from the sail riggings. “I ought to commission’ you. These are bloody incredible.” He traces a finger over one of the more detailed portraits of him, looking serene despite the menacing scar splitting his face. “Y’ve done me a justice, lass.”

You choke on the rum.

“—Aye,” you cough, willfully ignoring his mistake. Or had you misheard? “Perhaps, ah, one day.”

(Regardless. He couldn’t possibly know, surely. You’ve been careful for this long.)

You clear your throat. Shake your head. “You haven’t properly answered my question, Captain.”

“Right,” he relents, and closed the journal before handing it back to you. “I was just curious—”

You steel yourself for the worst.

“—why’ve y’stuck around for so long?”

Oh. “You mean, aboard the Morrigan? With you?”

“Aye,” he nods, levelling your curious, critical look. “I’m sure y’ve heard rumors an’ chatter about me, birdie. Isn’t hard t’miss. Master Kenway, Gist, an’ I’s line’a work, that is. I’m here to confess it isn’t all hearsay, that what I do isn’t a pretty thing.”

“Didn’t fancy you the type t'care about what other people think, Shay.” No one needs to earwig that to know it’s true. It’s quite known that Captain Cormac is an unflappable creature who’s earned his place in the world both on and off-land, to toe the thin line between confidence and arrogance wherever he goes. Though you suppose he’s just a man, at the end of the day, if he’s this consumed over a little mud-slinging to his reputation.

“I don’t,” he agrees, truthfully. “But I do care what you think.”

Something soft curls in your heart. Damn you, Shay Cormac, you curse. You handsome, quick-witted—

“I know it isn’t pretty. And fortunately for you, I’m no priest, and we’re not in a confessional, so,” you sniff. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

He huffs out a polite laugh. “Well said.”

“Listen,” you sigh, more serious now. “Other men may have come and gone with the tide, but I’ve voyaged with you the longest because I wanted t'stay, Captain.”

“Exactly. You’ve seen what I can do. I know I’m a monster, birdie, but y’treat me like a man, an’ noble men don’t— do what I do.”

Ah. So there’s the root to all of this banter, then. A crisis in faith, somewhere. “Shay,” you narrow. “I’ve never met someone who’s a stout heart as you; Kept every word like bond, and never traded honour for prestige. Now, most monsters are men, and it’s all the same to the likes of me—”

(To the likes of me, Shay catches the slip.)

“—but I think you need to ask yourself: do you kill without cause?”

“No,” he says, affronted. “I fight for the people.”

“Then you’re twice the noblest man any could ever dream to be.”

A beat.

Shay drops his head back to the mast with a glittering look in his eyes you can only describe as fond. (Perhaps, if you dared to indulge, affectionate—) “You’re a bloody gem, birdie, y’know that?”

The cuff of his sleeves brush against your pinky, and you can feel the toe of his boot against your own. You try not to focus on either of it, try not to focus on the proximity. “Aye, most women call me a diamond in the rough.”

He doesn’t laugh and take the bait this time, much to your surprise. “My Da once told me, birdie: It’s not enough to give people what they need to survive, you need to give them what they need to live.”

“Aye,” you nod, after a subdued moment. “I’ve stayed because you’ve given me that, Shay: purpose. Sailing the seas on the Morrigan is the freest I’ve ever been.”

“Y’ought to sail with your true self, birdie.”

You seize. Feel your blood run ice cold. “My… truest self is by your side.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” you bristle, and you are cutting now, Shay can see, because you’re frightened. “Captain, how much have you had to drink—?”

“I’d make a poor Irishman if half a bottle’a rum is all it takes to end me. Now take it easy, lass—”

You scowl, and move to sit up. “I’m not a—”

“It isn’t a fret to me at all, birdie,” he says, firmly, the back of his hand nudging your shoulders to lean back. “At ease. I’ve known you’re a woman for ages, now.”

This time you can’t school the look on your face.

“How long’ve you known?” you swallow, after you gathered your wits.

Shay cocks his head in thought. The confirmation now only pieces together what he’d always had a sneaking suspicion of, sensed even beyond his own second sight. Your gear, your mild stature, your peculiar mannerisms; nimble-handed at the riggings, fleet-footed in every brawl. But, if he’s to put a time on it—

“Singapore. When y’knocked that Portuguese sap’s teeth right out his head an’ put the heart crossways in him after he fretted the poor barmaid. Looked right personal t’you. I gathered then.”

A pause. Careful calculation. You’re trying to piece your reality back now that it's been shattered: the moonlit hush, the whistle of the winds, the lap of the tide against the Morrigan. Finally:

“Pretty sure he was Peranakan,” you correct, uselessly. Your hackles aren’t raised anymore. Shay would’ve acknowledged the look of defeat in your eyes had he not been so captivated by hearing your voice— real voice— for the first time.

(It’s gentle. Beautiful. If he’d been any more loose-lipped he might’ve pleaded you sing for him.)

“Captain, Singapore was… a long time ago.” It’s a loaded sentence, and had he not known you well enough he might’ve missed it: Why didn't you say anything?

“Aye. Like y’said earlier,” he waves, dismissively, “Doesn’t change a damn thing. Only, what’s your real name, lass?”

You tell him. It’s been unspoken for so long, that for a moment it sounds near foreign to your own ears when he rolls the syllables back to you in his accented tongue. “Lovely name. I’m guessin’ the woman in your journal is you, aye?”

“To be a dame in a boatful of men is a death sentence, Shay,” you laugh, distant. It isn’t pleasant. “Ill omen to have a woman onboard, you know? Or so they say.”

He knows what you really mean.

“An’ yet here we are, after all these years, alive an’ well,” he challenges, raising his and your shared rum to the pale moon. “Besides, y’know I make my own luck, lass. So don’t think of leavin’ the Morrigan now, aye? Would be a right shame if I lost a sailor fierce as you.”

Another stumble in your heart. You bite your tongue. Shay’s trying to get a laugh out of you, you realise. To lift your spirit.

“Your secret’s safe with me, birdie. The Morrigan doesn’t discriminate, an’ you’ve earned your place on this ship a long time ago. Tell y’what, if anyone lays a hand on my finest Navigator, y’have my word to unman them yourself.”

That does it. Now you do laugh. Bell-like. Bright and sunny and warm—

And it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

Aye, you'll be trouble indeed, birdie.

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hannamoon143 · 5 months ago

Text

Die with a Smile

Nobody‘s promised tomorrow

So imma love you every night like it‘s the last night

Cause i wanna hold you just for a while, and die with a smile

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆

Words: 5,2k

Genre: angst, fluff, comfort(…?), christmas

Hyunjin x fem. Reader

Warnings: Cancer!!!! So sickness, food, crying, sickingly sweet fluff, fears, , all i want for christmas by mariah carey (yes that needs a warning),death,non-sexual nudity (they r just bathing), cinnamon (sorry but- warning needed),

A/n: hi! I had so much fun writing this, and it‘s also for the StayblrHolidayEvent . I hope yall enjoy this also since it‘s my first christmas fic. Also as u can see it’s a bit inspired from die with a smile (bruno mars & lady gaga). Basically It’s just those lines i wrote over there kinda inspired me how to write the emotions and thoughts and stuff. So now, take ur hot chocolate, a fuzzy blanket and read! Merry christmas and happy holidays to yall🎄💕✨

You were laying down next to hyunjin, watching the other guys in front of you, while he was sketching most probably them or the decorated livingroom, or just the whole scene in front of him. Felix, Chan and Minho had come over, and now they were laughing as they decorated your tree, the rest of the livingroom, and singing christmas songs. The christmas joy had definitely taken over them, also if you couldn‘t really feel anything of it.„Don‘t you wanna get up and help them?“ Hyunjin mumbled quietly to you, not looking up from his sketch. He did that so often lately. He sketched simple scenes or things he saw, shutting almost everything else out. As if he wanted to remember everything to the smallest detail. „No, i‘m good here with you.“ You responded, laying your head on his shoulder. He sighed quietly, and kept drawing in silence for a while, the only noise was the guys bantering and christmas songs playing in the background. Then he spoke up again, quietly. „Y/nnie, you don‘t have to always sit around me and baby me alright? Don‘t think i don‘t know why you are doing this, and don‘t think i didn‘t hear you crying in the bathroom. I‘m well aware of the situation, but why can‘t we just make the best out of it? I feel like all this is getting to you more than to me, when it‘s literally me who is going to die.“ You froze at his words.

Last christmas, hyunjin had been diagnosed with cancer, and the worst was it was a type that could never be healed. They had told you that he had about one more year to live. That time you broke down entirely, and already there it was you who seemed to be more affected than him. But over a bit time you started acting normal again, not constantly being around him and doing everything for him. But now the year was coming to an end, and christmas was standing on the frontdoor. With that everything came back. You suddenly were all over him, not once leaving his side, and everytime he wanted to get up or something you pressed him down and did whatever he wanted to do for him.

The worst was you could feel it. Somewhere inside you had always hoped that the doctors were just wrong and hyunjin wouldn’t die in the next sixty years. But you saw that they were right. The way he slowly began to always eat a bit less than before, the way the circles under his eyes got darker, and his cheekbones more visible. You hated it. You didn’t hate him of course, you could never, but you hated this stupid cancer and what it was doing to your hyunjin. It was taking him painfully slow out of this world. With him getting worse you were too. You wanted to be strong for him, and for him to have the happiest last christmas ever but you couldn’t help it, the weight of the fact that soon he wouldn’t be there anymore was dragging you down too much, when you knew that it only hurt him more to see you like this, altough you always tried to hide it.

So there you were now. You stiffened and took your head off his shoulder, to look him in the eye. „Don‘t say it like that hyun-“

„No, i will in fact say it like that, cause i‘m not gonna lie to any of us for longer.I know that i‘m going to die, and you know it too okay? So why can‘t we enjoy the time left, and just do everything like we used to, instead of you constantly acting like i‘m some kind of fragile doll that could break at any moment? You acting like a overprotective mom isn‘t gonna change a single thing, as much as it hurts to hear that. Think about it y/n. Because i don‘t want to sit on this couch or in my bed the rest of my life. I‘m not doing this y/n.“ His voice was thick with emotion, and he had kicked his sketchbook away. He stood up, in fact needing a bit time to get up, and to lean onto the wall, but he went into your room, shutting the door. You stared at the closed door, with an empty hollow gaze. The other guys now excused themself and left. But before he left, chan said to you with a guilty smile: „Not everything he said is true, but you should think about some parts. Bye y/nnie.“

Now you were left alone in the silence. Hyunjin’s sketchbook was laying open on the floor, and the pages were a bit scaped now. He was going to be mad at himself for that later. You picked it up, wanting to close it, but then you saw his sketch from today. It wasn’t the scene in front of him, it was you, looking a bit sad. Under the drawing he wrote

My sad girl, 2024

When is she gonna be my happy girl again?

A tear ran down your cheek. He was always very empathetic and he hated when you felt down. Why hadn‘t you thought of the fact that you being like this only weighed him more down?

You cuddled up under the blanket that was still warm from hyunjin, tears slowly falling down. You knew he was right. Of course he wanted to enjoy his life, as long as he was still able to. Because no matter what you were going to do, it wasn‘t gonna change anything anyways, so why not enjoy instead of being sad and regretful when he was still with you, still breathing, still being able to smile at you?

After a while you could finally get yourself to go to him again. You braced yourself and got up, knocking on the door of your shared room. He just faintly sniffled. You opened the door slowly, seeing him huddled up under a blanket. He was crying, and it broke your heart. Hyunjin was a sensitive guy, and he hated arguing with loved ones more than anything, so you should have known that this would get to him, also if he was acting careless and tough. You kept being quiet, just sitting down on your side of the bed. You started stroking his hair, at wich he only started crying more. After a while of being like this in silence, the only sounds his quiet crying and the air cnditioner in the background, he lowered the blanket and looked at you with red eyes. „I don‘t want to die either y/n. I just… i‘m trying to be strong cause you are hurting so much,and i‘m so sorry for leaving you alone my love-“ His voice broke, and more tears spilled over onto his red cheeks. You opened your arms for him, and he didn‘t hesitate. He immediately moved a bit so his head was laying on your chest now. Quickly you wrapped your arms around him, kissing his head, while a few tears trailed down your cheeks too. Of course you knew. „I know, i know hyunnie. But you don‘t need to be strong all the time. I can‘t cure the cancer, but we are in this together. You can tell me how you feel, and i will give you space when you need it, but be by your side whenever you want it too. And i also promise to not act like a overprotective mom anymore.“ He chuckled a bit through his tears at that, wich made you do so too. „See, everything‘s okay. You are not alone, and as long as we can spend time together, i’ll be with you, trying to make your time left the best you ever had. How about tomorrow we make a christmas day? Like we go to the christmas market, bake gingerbread in the afternoon and sing christmas songs, all while we have ugly christmas sweaters on?“ you both started laughing, the tears finally stopping. He nodded,his face squished against your hoodie now, and his breathing was evening out. Maybe you really shouldn‘t take everything that serious. Because now it wasn‘t that point where you would have to say goodbye. You had no idea how much, but you had some time left to spend together, and you would try to make the best out of it. You would love him till the very end, and even after that, you‘d still do so. And as long as he was next to you would also tell him that, and make sure that when he had to go, he would do so in peace. So you closed your eyes, and in this little moment, everything that mattered was hyunjin, entirely squished against you, and you, holding him, as long as you could. The stars could have looked down at you two that night, and altough hyunjin was sick, and paths of the tears that you both cried earlier still lingered on your cheeks, they would have seen you two shine brighter than ever, the light not leaving, as long as you were together.

The next morning you woke up, a white comforter draped over you, and you almost had a heart attack when hyunjin was nowhere near. But then you saw him, walking in with a big grin, and one of the matching ugly christmas sweaters you had bought together sometime on.You started laughing, still half asleep and in a groggy voice. „You look…. Interesting.“ hyunjin laughed and threw something at you. It was your christmas sweater. You sighed, and you did your best to put a serious face on. His smile dropped. „Oh no- no- don‘t say you changed your mind.“ You broke out in a laugh and jumped up, putting the sweater over your pajama shirt. „God you are going to make me die even sooner with the heart attacks you give me.“ Hyunjin dramatically exhaled, gripping his chest. You just rolled your eyes at that. You were glad he was his usual dramatic self, the weight in the room that you both somehow created the past weeks, seemingly gone, replaced by a lighthearted joyful mood.

So you dressed the rest of yourself, grabbed your things and left the apartment with hyunjin. He had insisted to eat waffles at his favorite coz cafe around the corner, and not have one of your healthy breakfasts at home. You had given in, so now you were walking there, both wrapped up in coats, and fuzzy scarfs. It was cold outside, and the wind blew. There were faint smells of gingerbread and cinnamon in the air, telling you it was really getting christmas now. Well christmas was already tomorrow so how could it be different? You went into the cafe and hyunjin picked a spot at the window. On the pastell green walls there were everywhere pretty pictures, and the chairs were all different, each one looking vintage and really comfy. You ordered two waffles and two hot chocolates. As you sat there in the cozy fluffy chair, you looked at him. He looked the same as yesterday, and the days before but something was different. It wasn‘t the pink shade on his nose from the cold, or neither the Christmas sweater. No, it was that his eyes sparkled. They sparkled like they didn‘t in a long time. Maybe he was right? Maybe this was what he needed, not your experimental healthy food (that didn’t even taste good, eugh) and constant sitting around at home. Hyunjin shook you out of your thoughts. „Why are you staring?“

You shook your head with a little smile. „You‘re pretty today.“

He just laughed, assuming you were joking because of the sweater.

Your waffles and hot chocolate were served and hyunjin got excited like a kid, and immediately started munching them. You giggled, and secretly took a picture with your phone. Then you started eating too. The waffles tasted like christmas and happiness. You had never eaten such good waffles before. Maybe it was also just the feeling to sit here and eat them with hyunjin, entirely lighthearted and happy for the first time in weeks. As you were highly concentrated on your food, hyunjin suddenly spoke up. „I love you, you know that? And i always will, even when you can‘t see me anymore. But don‘t worry, i‘ll look at you getting older, achieving your dreams, and doing everything you want to, because i know you’ll do so well, even without me. And i‘ll protect you, from wherever i will be going. You‘ll always be my muse y/n.“ He sounded sincere, not sarcastic like when he was being dramatic, though he kept on eating his waffles, like he didn‘t just say something that almost made you cry and want to hold him for the rest of your life. You looked at him, tears building up a bit behind your eyes. „Hyunnie… I love you too, and always will. I don‘t know if i ever can fully move on though,… because i will always think of you when i look at the moon shining bright on the dark night sky, or when i look at the town around christmastime, everything tinted in a soft glow and everything smelling like gingerbread.“ You said, but you weren‘t as desperate and almost seeming like you would break down at any moment, like it was just a few days ago when he started talking about his death. No, you were calm, and a little, sad smile played on your lips. He was done with his waffles now, and leaned over the table to cup your cheek in his warm hand. „It‘s okay y/nnie. Grieving i a natural and healthy part of when someone you love is dying. And it‘s okay to cry, scream or vent to someone. But please don‘t do all that alone hm? I talked to the boys a few days ago, and they have all grown so close to you too over the years, they will support you, and you can grieve together. Know that you are not alone y/n, never. And i‘ll always be somewhere in there.“ He pointed at where your heart was. „And you are the strongest, bravest woman i know, so i know that you will be able to somewhat move on someday. Oh but i have one little request. Please never forget me, no matter what you choose to do in the future. I like the idea of you being reminded of me when looking at the moon or while the christmas season. I hope you are being reminded of me in a good way though, and not like a haunting nightmare way.“ He chuckled at the last part a bit. And you smiled too.

„I would never forget you love, and don’t worry about it, you‘ll always be my dream, never my nightmare.“

„Oh but one more thing. Don’t be afraid of me dying, while i’m still here. Everything is gonna be okay.“ He smiled. You both looked into each other‘s eyes for a moment there, and it felt like nothing else was existing right now. No other people, no sadness, and no cancer. Just hyunjin‘s mesmerizing dark eyes looking into yours.

You two were walking out the cafe, hand in hand, now going to the little christmas market hyunjin adored since you took him there for the first time. Since then he didn‘t spend a singly christmas season without going there.

Your breaths were coming out in little white clouds, and you put your head on hyunjin‘s shoulder. He took his hand out of yours,and instead lovingly wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close, and pressing a kiss to your head. You loved when he did that. If only you could stop time now, and walk in the joyful town forever with your boyfriend.

But soon you heard happy children‘s laughter, and smelled cinammon. No doubt that there was the christmas market. Hyunjin started smiling like crazy. He loved the fact that he got to see this for the last time with you. No, he wouldn’t be sad that it was the last time today, and regret things. No, he would just be so, so glad to spend this day here, forgetting the cancer that usually weighed him down, for a while. It seemed like a gift that he got this day, being with his favorite person in probably his favorite place.

Soon enough he saw a stand, with cute handmade christmas decorations. He immediately went over there, and made a adorable noise.

„Looooook y/n, it‘s a ferret with a scarf, and it looks like my scarf! We need to adopt him and hang him on our tree. I feel our bond, so no arguing on this one.“ He said dead serious. You laughed, looking at the ferret. You almost forgot how excited hyunjin always got at the christmas market, and how you had to convince him to not buy literally everything he saw. But you nodded on this one, the little deco really looking a bit like hyunjin right now, with his cute red nose and the adorable smile on his face. He went to the man who was selling it, and even gave him more money than the ferret costed. The guy happily wished him merry christmas and waved. Hyunjin just loved to make people happy, and why not do that especially now? He took your hand in his again, walking by the other stands, the shimmer of the fairylights hanging on all the stands mirroring the one in his eyes. As you were slowly walking, you, literally trying to convince hyunjin to not buy a gigantic wolf statue from the eighteenth century for chan(He was so silly, he had to gift everyone the most random things for christmas with the simple explanation: I saw that and thought of you), you suddenly felt something cold on your face. Hyunjin seemed to feel it too, because he looked up and immediately his whole face lit up even more if that was possible. „Omg Y/n it‘s snowing! This is just a perfect day, even the weather with it‘s beautiful snow is on our side.“ He talked, not really paying attention to what he was saying, just mesmerized by the white crystals.

Sometimes you took a bit time, just to admire the way he got excited over little things, in a way you would usually see it only with kids. Those moments, when joy was literally radiating from him you felt so much love and admiration for him that you could combust. You just wanted to snap a hundred pictures with that adorable smile and the shine in his eyes, and keep them forever in your heart. You brushed his hair out of his face, and your hand lingered on his cheek for a bit longer. „You‘re right hyun, this is the perfect day.“ You whispered. He just continued smiling, then lowered down to kiss you. You didn‘t feel the cold snow on your skin anymore, only your boyfriends soft lips, that tasted like cinammon and warmness, pressed to yours. As you pulled away, your foreheads were resting against each other, and you felt his warm breath on your face. „Let‘s go home now, then we can bake gingerbread and show mini Jinnie his new home.“ you giggled at his words, and nodded, your eyes not leaving his.

You walked through your apartment door, both of you giggling like lovesick fools. You took your shoes and coat off, but suddenly your feet got sweeped off the floor, and you were being carried by hyunjin. „Yah, stop it!! The doctor said no heavy lifting!“ You slapped his arm in an attempt to make him let you down but you couldn‘t even hold in your own laugh. He shook his head and dramatically said: „If not now, then when should i carry you bridal style, my lady?“ You playfully slapped his arm again and threw your head back in laughter. He just fondly smiled, lowering his head down to kiss you on the cheek, and then he carried you into the kitchen. The other guys seemed to also have decorated the kitchen because beautiful fairy lights were hung over the stoves, and some more decoration, including a mistletoe, was placed perfect. When hyunjin stopped under the mistletoe you started shaking your head. „No jinnie don‘t. Please, that‘s so cheesy,don‘t do it.“ You whined, knowing exactly he would in fact do it.He grinned and asked „May i?“ He didn‘t wait for an answer, he just softly laid his lips on yours, the kiss so tender like always. Both of you closed your eyes, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. After a while you slowly pulled away, and he murmured a soft „love you my muse“. You hid your face in the crook of his neck, smiling. „Love you too hyunnie“ your words were muffled against his sweater, but he didn‘t mind. He wouldn‘t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

You went into the kitchen, and hyunjin let you down. You started preparing everything for gingerbread, and soon christmas songs were filling the air. With the fairy lights on, everything was tinted in a soft, cozy glow.

As you were just done with the dough and had placed it to rest somewhere ‘all i want for christmas‘ started playing. „Oh my favorite christmas song.“ He chimed, preparing a spoon as a microphone. You looked at him in shock. „Sorry what?? Don‘t tell me we are together for literally six years, and i had no idea that your favorite christmas song is all i want for christmas. How can you have these muscles, and act all flirty but suddenly be like a lovesick teeny girl?“

A endearing pout played on his lips. „It‘s a classical, don‘t judge me!“ You sighed but started giggling. As the refrain of the song came, hyunjin threw his hair back (Nuh uh seriously, who was this diva?) and he began to loudly sing into the spoon. You laughed, but couldn‘t resist him. You grabbed a spoon toom, and put it up to your mouth, singing along with him. He then wrapped his one arm around your waist, and with the other one he held his ‘microphone‘ , singing „All i want for christmasss is youuuuu“ And then pointing at you. You started dancing around together too. In a little clumsy pirouette move, where you would never think this man was a professional dancer, Hyunjin accidentally threw a bag of flour off the stove. In only a few seconds you both and the whole floor were coated in a thick layer of flour. For a moment you were both flabbergasted, but soon you bursted out laughing, and hyunjin just kept singing like it was nothing. This whole moment felt so heartwarming and silly, you just knew this was one of those moments you would still think of in twenty years. Hyunjin ended his little concert with one more time singing the refrain line and then he picked you up and swirled you around, the flour flying around in the air. You squealed, not expecting it, wich only made him chuckle. As he let you down again, he pulled you close again, pressing a kiss to your forehead, not caring that now flour was on his lips.„I love you so much.“

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him, so now you were both wrapped up tightly in each others embrace, not caring about the fact that you were just distributing the flour even more.

„You said that so often today.“

„Yes because i never ever want you to forget it, alright love?“ he held you jut a bit tighter, and you felt his nose nuzzling against your neck.

„alright.“

„Good. Let‘s just stay like this for a little while longer? You look cute in flour.“

„As long as you want to.“ you smiled softly and laid your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

After a while the flour got a bit itchy though, you both had to admit. So you went into your room, getting some clothes for you and hyunjin, while he went into the bathroom to run a bath. You took your matching christmas pajamas, the fluffy one with gingerbread men on it. As you came into the bathroom, hyunjin was turning on the water, putting some of your favorite cinammon-bath salt in it. He had also lit some candles, and turned off the big light, so the whole bathroom was tinted in golden light. You both undressed, and you stepped into the tub first, sitting down at the end of it. Hyunjin waited and raised a brow. „Don‘t you want me to sit behind you like usual? You always like when i massage your scalp, or your tense shoulders“ You gently smiled up to him. „Today i‘m gonna do all that for you. It was so wonderful to just forget everything today, and with the christmas market and the snow, everything was just perfect. But you‘re still my sick baby. So sit down, today it‘s me who is gonna massage your scalp.“ Hyunjin‘s eyes filled with tears, and a fond smile crept up to his lips. He got into the bathtub too, sitting down between your legs, like you usually did with him. You soon gently started to run your fingers through his hair, and he closed his eyes, cherishing the feeling. After a while you felt his muscles completely relax, and his breathing get slow and steady, almost like his body was melting into yours. You held him tight, one hand still in his hair, and from time to time you kissed his shoulder, like he always did to you.

After a while when you almost thought he had fallen asleep he murmured: „The water‘s getting cold.“

You hummed. „Let‘s get out, and get you to sleep jinnie.“

„But the gingerbread.“ He mumbled, but his eyes were already closed. You smiled and he whined as you got up and out of the tub. „We can still make the little gingerbread men, and ferrets and whatever you want, tomorrow.“ You took a fluffy towel, and wrapped it around yourself. Then you got another one, and tried dragging hyunjin out of the water.

„But then it‘s already christmas day. That‘s against the rules my lady.“ You chuckled at his sleepy confused mumbling. „We are making our own rules.“ You took the towel and slowy dried him off. Then you softly pushed him down to sit on the bathtub edge and put him on his pajamas. „You are taking care of me so well love… Never gonna stop loving you, i‘ll protect my muse at all costs, even when i‘m not physically with you anymore.“ He mumbled, so incoherent and sleep drunken you almost didn‘t understand it. „I know jinnie, i know. Now let‘s get you to bed, hm?“ He whined, and after you quickly put on your own pajamas too, you helped him get up and you both went to bed. As he laid down, you pulled the comforter up to his chin, lovingly stroking his hair. Then you got into bed too, closing your eyes. When you were already at the edge of sleep you suddenly heard hyunjin speak up again. „Y/n?“

„Hmm?“ „Please say it back“

„What are you talking bout.“

„That you love me. I‘m so tired already, but somehow i feel like i won‘t fall asleep if you don‘t say it.“

If you would have thought about that, maybe you could have somewhere already thought that it was coming. Hyunjin‘s pure soul was bracing itself for something, as if he knew.

„I love you. Forever and ever.“

And then you both drifted off.

When you woke up, you didn‘t immediately open your eyes. But you knew. You felt it. You could never describe this feeling, or how you would know, but you had no doubt your hyunjin was somewhere else now. Somewhere far away. And when you finally did open your eyes you took a second to breathe in. You slowly sat up and braced yourself. Then you looked to your side. There he was, looking like he was sleeping peacefully. You didn‘t know if you were imagining that or if it was real but it seemed like even a small smile was laying on his lips. You were oddly calm, as you stood up, and walked around to hyunjin‘s side.

You crouched down next to the bed, and with a slight tremble you took his hand in yours. It was still a bit warm. You pressed a kiss to it, as a silent tear rolled down your cheek. „Hey hyunnie. I don‘t know if you can hear me, but i just want to tell you that i love you okay? Don‘t forget that. And i hope you weren‘t in pain when it happened. Just know that you can peacefully go wherever you are supposed to go now. It‘s okay for me. I will continue living, also if the pain of your absence will daily remind me of the fact that you aren‘t with me anymore. But that‘s okay. I thought that this pain is the worst, but it makes me remember you, and that‘s what i want to do for the rest of my life, so actually i will be okay with it. That day yesterday was really a perfect day, as you said. I guess somehow our souls knew that soon they would have to say goodbye to each other. It helped me realize that when you die i won‘t have to act all strong, and feel like suffocating when i‘m alone. Oh by the way, i‘ll call the guys soon, and tell them. Then i‘ll bake our gingerbreadmen okay? And i‘ll be taking good care of mini jinnie, so you don‘t have to worry about him and his little scarf.“ You smiled through the tears running down your cheeks, that were silently landing on the bed next to hyunjin.

„So hyunnie, i bet you are wating for me to finish my dramatic boring speech so you can finally go in peace, hm? I wish you merry christmas my one and only love.“ You kissed his hand tenderly for the last time, a single little tear dripping down onto it.

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@stayblrofficial hello this is my submission for the stayblrholiday event! For some reason I can’t send y’all the link but yeah I hope tagging is okay too!<3

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