#wet paint booth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kyunghwannie · 3 days ago

Text

❝ Canvas Confidential ❞

Son Chaeyoung x M!Reader

➤ Tags: Paint Play/Body Art Kink (using paint as foreplay — on skin), Hair Pulling, Against the Wall Sex (Contain's throat hold), Face-Sitting, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk (Minimal), Creampie, Marking, Overstimulation, Anal Sex, Spit Play, Orgasm Denial, Rough Grinding, Soft-Dom!Chaeyoung (not full dom/sub, but she’s the one driving the fire tonight), Nipple Play, Sex on the Canvas.

➤ Setting: A secret underground art exhibit in Seoul — invite-only, showcasing anonymous artists who express “hidden desires” through experimental art. ➤ Note: Hehe, This is just a 2 am random thought i had while fantasizing Chaengie. So have it. It's nothing too major special? (Spoiler: And if anyone tease me about the name "Teddy Noir", iam gonna cry)

You (Y/N) are a renowned but anonymous visual artist known for raw, sensual portraits—faces never shown, but the emotions always screaming through paint. Your pieces are featured under the name "Teddy Noir" (a nod to your soft-yet-dark duality).

You receive a mysterious handwritten invitation for a private session in one of the exhibit’s "collaboration booths" — where two artists (anonymous, face-hidden) must co-create a piece over 3 hours, communicating only through art and body language, no speaking allowed.

You walk in… and across from you, the other artist? She’s wearing a paint-stained apron, low cap, and a smirk: Chaeyoung. You don’t recognize each other at first — just two anonymous creatives. But her brushstrokes are fiery, teasing, and intimate. Her energy flirts with yours through every color she lays on the canvas.

---

The elevator rattled as it descended deep beneath Seoul’s glitzy streets — past the subway lines, past the forgotten storage levels. No floor numbers, just the hum of old machinery and red neon leaking through the cracks of the steel doors.

You clutched the black envelope tighter in your hand — matte paper, wax-sealed with a single initial: C.

Inside it, just five words in scratchy gold ink: “Create. Feel. Reveal. No Names.”

You’d heard whispers of this place. The Veritas Gallery. An invite-only exhibit hidden in the veins of the city, where artists abandoned rules, reputations, and reason. The elevator dinged. The doors creaked open into dim light and velvet black walls. An attendant in a fox mask handed you a thin earpiece and whispered, “Booth Seven. No speech. Just soul.”

You walked past the main floor — already surrounded by surreal sculptures, cryptic murals, and shadowy figures sipping champagne like sinners in a cathedral. Booth Seven waited behind a curtain. Inside: low lights, a canvas six feet tall, brushes, paints, chalk, charcoal. One chair. One mirror.

And across from it — already standing there, sleeves rolled, cap low, smirking with her eyes only — was her.

A petite woman with ink-stained fingers, a nose ring, and an aura like wildfire. She didn’t say a word. She dipped her fingers into crimson paint, dragged them slowly across the canvas, and glanced at you with challenge and mischief.

You felt it instantly: this wasn’t going to be about art. It was going to be about exposure.

Chapter 1: Crimson Strokes

There was no music. No voices. Just the faint crackle of a vintage filament bulb overhead and the sound of wet paint being spread across canvas.

Chaeyoung hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to.

Her brush moved like it had a heartbeat, every stroke deliberate — curved, bold, unpredictable. She wasn’t painting a picture. She was teasing a presence into existence.

You leaned against the side table, eyes following her hands instead of her face. There was something reckless about the way she smeared the crimson paint with her palm, like she didn’t care about the rules of composition — only the feeling.

She glanced at you once, smirking under her cap.

You smirked back and picked up a charcoal stick.

The two of you painted in silence. Separate at first.

You sketched an outline — shoulders, a spine, not quite male, not quite female. She layered thick smears of color, none of them staying inside your lines. Her red bled into your black. You countered with strokes of gray. She answered with gold.

It was less collaboration, more collision.

She tilted her head as she worked, her lips slightly parted. The kind of face someone makes when they’re either in deep concentration… or deliberately putting on a show.

Your eyes wandered to the ink on her wrist. Tiny tattoos — waves, a flower, maybe a word too smudged to read. Her apron was speckled with past work, but underneath, her shirt clung to her in the heat. The neckline hung low.

She caught you staring.

She raised a brow, then dipped her brush into a darker red — wine, almost blood — and flicked it toward your side of the canvas. Tiny splatters kissed your hand.

You laughed silently. She smiled, but didn’t break rhythm.

At some point, the two of you found the same tempo. Your charcoal circled around her colors. Her brush glided between your lines. You weren’t just painting anymore. You were dancing. Communicating.

Teasing.

One hour in, she stepped back, breathing a little heavier. The piece was half-done — a chaotic portrait of motion, of skin without faces, of passion without clarity.

You put your charcoal down and looked at her.

She didn’t look away.

Her cap shadowed most of her face, but you could see the edge of her lip rise — almost like a challenge.

Then, breaking every rule, you spoke.

“Is it you that’s painting me…” you said, voice low, “or am I the one painting you?”

A pause.

Chaeyoung stepped closer, dipped two fingers into gold, and smeared them across your wrist.

Then she whispered — voice soft but electric:

“What if we’re both unfinished?”

You stared at her fingers on your wrist — gold smudged against your skin like a claim.

There was something about her that haunted you now. The way she moved, the confidence in her silence, the way she treated art like a secret being exhaled. It wasn’t just talent. It was recognition.

You knew that hand. That posture. That energy.

Your mind raced through memories like torn pages — interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, live stages — and then it hit you.

The tattoos.

The flower. The script on her forearm.

You hadn’t seen them in person before, but millions had. Broadcasted, admired, printed on photo cards. You’d studied them before for an old commission project — one JYP never ended up releasing.

Your eyes lifted, slowly, past her wrist, past the apron. You took in her jawline, the soft piercings, the slight dimple that only appeared when she was trying not to smile.

No cap could hide her now.

“...You’re Chaeyoung,” you said quietly.

She froze, but only for a second. Then her smile curved fully this time — no longer teasing, but knowing.

“And here I thought the anonymity was mutual,” she said, not denying a thing.

You took a step back, not out of discomfort, but awe. “Why would you even come here? You don’t need this gallery.”

“I didn’t come for the gallery.” Her voice was soft. “I came for the artist.”

That made your heart stutter.

She walked past the canvas, slowly, until you stood shoulder to shoulder. She smelled faintly of turpentine and lavender — rawness and warmth in one breath.

“I’ve been watching your pieces since last winter,” she admitted, fingers trailing along the edge of the canvas. “Teddy Noir, right? Your art... feels like confession. Every brushstroke says something you’d never dare speak out loud.”

You swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t made a single piece under that name without bleeding into it.

“I needed to know if it was real,” she added, looking up at you. “If the person behind all that chaos... could look me in the eye.”

And then she did. Fully.

No cap. No shadow.

Just Son Chaeyoung, one of the most iconic idols in the world, standing in an underground booth, baring her artistic soul to yours.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

So instead, you picked up your charcoal and slowly extended it to her — not as an offering, but as a continuation.

She took it.

And without another word, you both returned to the canvas.

But the air had changed.

This was no longer two strangers painting in the dark.

This was Chaeyoung.

And somehow… she already saw you more clearly than anyone ever had.

You had never heard silence so loud.

The booth was still — just the soft clicks of brushes being set down, the low hum of warm gallery lights, and your heartbeat in your throat.

Chaeyoung hadn’t touched the canvas again.

Instead, she leaned against the far wall now, arms crossed, still in her apron, gaze pinned on you like you were the final piece she hadn’t figured out yet.

“You didn’t ask me why I wanted to paint with you,” she said.

You turned, meeting her eyes. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to speak.”

She tilted her head with a sly grin. “That rule broke the second you called me by name.”

You smiled, but there was something behind her tone — a raw edge. A kind of truth she was dancing around but hadn’t voiced yet.

So you asked.

“…Why did you want to paint with me?”

She exhaled, her smirk slipping into something more vulnerable.

“Because,” she said, stepping forward slowly, “every time I see one of your pieces, I feel like I’m being looked at. Not as an idol. Not as Chaeyoung-from-TWICE. But as… me. The real me. The messy, impulsive, selfish, restless me.”

You didn’t move. You just listened.

She kept coming closer, voice softer now.

“And I wanted to know if you could still paint like that… if the person was right in front of you. If your hands would tremble. If your lines would blur.”

She stopped just inches away.

“Because mine did.”

You didn’t even notice you’d been holding your breath until you finally exhaled — shaky, unsteady.

Chaeyoung reached up, fingers brushing a smear of charcoal off your cheek. She didn’t look away. Her hand lingered, then fell slowly to your chest.

“Does it scare you?” she asked. “Being seen like this?”

Your voice dropped. “Only when I want to be touched, too.”

There was no kiss yet. No rush.

Just the electric distance between two people who had already stripped each other bare through art… and now stood fully clothed, yet completely exposed.

You glanced toward the canvas.

The painting was chaotic. Sensual. Raw. A mirror of every word you hadn’t said and every emotion she couldn’t perform on stage.

Her fingers slid from your chest to your wrist again, gently tracing that same gold-stained line she’d made before.

“…We can leave it unfinished,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Or we can make it the one piece we never show anyone.”

You met her gaze. The decision was already made.

You reached behind her and flipped the “Occupied” sign on the booth door.

Then you turned off the lights — leaving only the soft glow of the canvas behind you.

The lights were off.

But neither of you moved.

Only the canvas glowed behind you — a beacon of truth, passion, and secrets neither of you had intended to reveal.

You felt Chaeyoung’s fingers tighten slightly around your wrist.

“You know,” she said, “I saw it before I ever met you. That piece in the gallery last year. The one of the girl sitting alone in the empty green room. Her eyes were tired. Her posture was strong. But she looked like she wanted someone to wait for her.”

You blinked. You knew the one. “Unvoiced No. 7.”

It wasn’t meant to be anyone specific. But the moment she spoke, you realized it was her.

Your version of her. Or at least, the version you imagined — tired from the idol life, brave but craving something quiet, something real.

“I stared at it for ten minutes,” she admitted. “No plaque, no name. Just that feeling. I thought—whoever painted this knows what it feels like to be seen but not known.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“And then I realized... it looked like me.”

Your heart twisted. That piece had been born from fragments — fan cams, behind-the-scenes clips, rare candid smiles. You hadn’t painted Chaeyoung, the idol. You’d painted the girl behind her. The one who seemed like she carried words in her eyes that never made it to her lips.

“There was another one,” she continued, stepping closer, “a soft one. A girl on a rooftop, looking up — not posing. Just… hoping. That one looked like Dahyun.”

You swallowed. Unvoiced No. 4.

You’d created those portraits as a silent admirer — not a hardcore fan, but someone who listened between the noise. The expressions weren’t copied. They were imagined. Interpretations of what TWICE members might dream of when the cameras were off.

Your voice finally returned. “I never expected anyone from TWICE to see those.”

“I didn’t just see them,” she said, stepping closer again. “I felt them. You painted the lives we can’t post. The feelings we can’t express. And you did it without ever touching us.”

She looked up at you.

“So now I need to know, Y/N… if you can paint me like that… what happens when you actually have me?”

The room turned silent again — but not empty.

Your hand lifted, brushing a stray paint smear from her cheek.

“I wasn’t trying to expose you,” you said, voice low. “I was trying to protect you. Even if you never knew.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching at the rawness in your voice.

“Then don’t protect me now,” she whispered. “Not here. Not when I want to be known.”

The moment snapped.

Your fingers cupped her jaw, guiding her in. And when her lips met yours, it wasn’t desperate. It was reverent. Like an answer to the questions your art had been asking for years.

Your bodies leaned into each other like brush to canvas — soft at first, tentative, but hungry for more.

The kiss deepened slowly.

And as the paint-stained apron fell to the floor…

…the real portrait finally began.

The moment her lips met yours, the world outside the dimly lit studio ceased to exist. The only light came from the glow of the half-finished canvas behind you—a chaotic blend of your colors, your strokes, your hunger—casting long shadows that danced across Chaeyoung’s face as she pulled back just enough to smirk at you.

"Mmh… so this is what you taste like," she murmured, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing a streak of crimson paint she’d stolen from the palette. "Kinda sweet. Kinda… needy."

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as her fingers trailed down your throat, leaving a cool, wet trail of paint in their wake.

"Chaeyoung—"

"Ah, ah." She pressed a finger to your lips, her eyes darkening. "You broke the rules first, artist. Now you play by mine."

Her free hand dipped into the palette beside you, fingers swirling in the deep indigo before she dragged them down your chest, slow and deliberate, marking you like her own personal canvas. The paint was cool against your skin, but the way her nails grazed your abs sent heat pooling low in your gut.

"Fuck…" you hissed, arching into her touch.

Chaeyoung’s laugh was a low, breathy thing as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. "You paint me like some fragile thing, Y/N. But look at you—shaking just 'cause I touch you." Her teeth nipped at your earlobe, and you groaned, your cock already straining against your jeans.

She noticed. Of course she did.

"Oh? This is what you wanna hide?" Her palm pressed flat against your bulge, rubbing slowly, her smirk widening as you choked on a gasp. "Mmm… big."

Your hips jerked involuntarily, but she pulled back, tutting. "Uh-uh. No rushing."

She reached for a clean brush, dipping it into a pot of gold paint before dragging the bristles along your collarbone. The sensation was maddening—soft, ticklish, teasing—and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Hahh… Chaeyoung, please—"

"Please what?" She flicked the brush lower, tracing the outline of your abs. "You wanna fuck me? Right here? Against the canvas you just finished?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Or do you wanna be good and let me ruin you first?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts as she dropped to her knees, her fingers hooking into your belt loops. The look she gave you was pure sin—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, paint smudged across her cheek like war paint.

"I know you’re scared," she murmured, undoing your belt with agonizing slowness. "Scared I’ll regret this. Scared you will." Her fingers popped the button of your jeans. "But tell me, Y/N…"

She yanked your pants down just enough to free your cock, her breath hot against the tip.

"Does this feel like regret?"

Her tongue swiped a slow, wet stripe up your length, and you saw stars.

Chaeyoung’s tongue was sin incarnate.

The moment her lips wrapped around the head of your cock, a ragged groan tore from your throat, your fingers instinctively tangling in her hair. She hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine as she sank deeper, her painted fingers digging into your thighs.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

She pulled off with a filthy pop, her smirk smeared with spit and gold paint. "Mmm… sensitive," she teased, her breath hot against your leaking tip. "You pull when you like something, huh?"

Before you could answer, her fingers tightened around the base of your shaft, her other hand fisting in her own hair—guiding your grip harder.

"Do it," she breathed, her eyes locked onto yours. "Pull."

You obeyed.

A sharp tug—her scalp yielding under your fingers—and Chaeyoung moaned around your cock, her lips stretching wide as she took you down her throat in one slick, sloppy slide.

"Hhhngh—!"

The sound she made was obscene, half-choked, half-delighted, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she hollowed her cheeks. Spit dripped down your length, pooling where her fingers stroked in tight, twisting motions, matching the filthy rhythm of her mouth.

"S-shit—fuck—" Your hips jerked, but she pinned you down with a firm hand, her nails biting into your skin as she controlled the pace.

Slurp. Schlick. Gag.

Every sound was louder than the last, every bob of her head more desperate than before. Her free hand wandered up, gripping your wrist—forcing your hold on her hair tighter, harder, until her whimpers vibrated against your cock.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She loved it.

The way her throat fluttered around you, the way her lashes fluttered with tears—not from discomfort, but from the sheer high of being used. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

"Chaeyoung—ahh—gonna—"

She yanked back at the last second, a string of spit connecting her lips to your throbbing tip.

"Not yet," she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk dripping with mischief. "We’re not done."

And then she dove back in, faster this time, her nails scraping down your thighs as she took you to the hilt—

Chaeyoung’s mouth was a masterpiece of sin.

The moment she swallowed you back down, her throat convulsed around your cock in a slick, greedy rhythm, her lips stretched obscenely wide. Spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping in thick strands down your shaft, her tongue flattening against your veins as she sucked hard enough to make your vision blur.

"Hhah—fuck—Chaeyoung—!"

Your fingers tightened in her hair, not yanking—just holding, guiding—but she whined around you, her hips grinding down into nothing as her own arousal soaked through her panties. The scent of her—sweet, musky, desperate—mixed with the metallic tang of paint and the salt of her sweat.

Schlllck. Gllrk. Hhhnngh~!

Every sound was filthier than the last. Every bob of her head sent spit splattering against your thighs, her nose buried in your pelvis as she forced herself deeper, her throat fluttering in ragged spasms.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She pulled back just enough to gasp, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. "T-taste so good," she slurred, her tongue lapping at your tip, catching the bitter-salt of your pre-cum. "Wanna—hah—wanna swallow all of you—"

Then she dove again, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked like a woman starved, her fingers digging into your hips to keep you right there, at the brink of her throat.

You could feel her dripping—her thighs trembling, her panties clinging to her soaked folds—but she didn’t touch herself. No, she was too lost in the act, too obsessed with the way your cock stretched her lips, the way your groans filled the air.

"C-close—" you warned, your voice ragged.

Chaeyoung’s eyes lit up.

She pulled off just enough to let your tip rest on her tongue, her breath coming in hot, wet pants. "Do it," she begged, her voice wrecked. "Fill me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, your hips jerked—once, twice—before you pulsed into her mouth, thick ropes of cum painting her tongue, her throat working desperately to swallow every drop.

"Mmmh~!" Her moan was delighted, her lips sealing tight as she milked you through it, her tongue swirling to catch every last drop of your release.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were sticky with it, her breath sweet with the taste of you.

"Delicious," she whispered, licking her lips clean.

And then, with a smirk, she leaned in to kiss you—sharing the proof of your pleasure.

The moment your lips met hers, Chaeyoung moaned into your mouth—a low, throaty sound that sent heat pooling straight to your cock. She tasted like salt, spit, and you, her tongue sliding against yours in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss as she ground her hips down against your thigh.

"Fuck—still hard for me?" she panted, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back to smirk. Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs before she dug in, leaving angry red marks in their wake. "Guess I didn’t quite ruin you yet."

You groaned, your hands sliding under her crop top to palm the soft swell of her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples—hard and pebbled under the thin fabric of her bralette.

"Ngh—!" Her back arched, pressing her chest into your touch. "Y-yeah, there—"

You smirked, pinching one nipple between your fingers, rolling it just hard enough to make her gasp. "Like that, princess?"

"Fuck you," she hissed, but her hips stuttered against you, her thighs squeezing around yours as she rutted down, seeking friction. "Think you’re so clever—ahh!—w-with your fucking hands—"

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You love my hands."

She shivered, her breath hitching as you dragged your mouth down her neck, sucking dark bruises into her skin. "Hah—yes—" Her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so she could crash her lips against yours again, biting at your tongue. "Mmmf—mark me harder, coward."

You growled, flipping her onto her back, your knee slotting between her thighs as you loomed over her. "Brat," you muttered before sinking your teeth into the curve of her shoulder.

"Ah! Fuck—!" Her back arched off the bed, her nails raking down your spine as you laved your tongue over the bite, soothing the sting before moving lower, trailing kisses down her chest.

You tugged her crop top up, exposing her bralette—damp with sweat and the faintest hint of her arousal—before dragging the fabric down with your teeth, freeing her tits.

"Finally," she gasped, her chest heaving as you latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while your fingers pinched and twisted the other.

"Hhah—! Ngh~!" Her thighs clenched around your hips, her hips rolling desperately against your thigh as she chased her own pleasure. "Y-you—shit—you gonna tease me all night or—ahh—or actually fuck me?"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her. "Who said I was done teasing?"

Her eyes darkened, her hand fisting in your hair as she yanked you back down. "Bastard." And then she kissed you—hard—her teeth clashing against yours as she ground her soaked panties against your thigh, her moans swallowed by your mouth.

Your thumbs brushed over Chaeyoung’s nipples again, this time slower—softer—watching the way her breath hitched, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts.

"Ngh—! S-stop staring," she muttered, her cheeks flushing pink as she tried to squirm away, but your hands held her firm, your fingers tracing the delicate curves of her small, pert breasts.

"Why?" you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of her left tit, your lips lingering just below her nipple. "You’re beautiful."

"Tch—bullshit," she huffed, but her voice wavered when your tongue flicked over her stiffened peak, her back arching off the bed. "Hah—! Y-you’re just—ahh—just saying that 'cause they’re cute or whatever—"

You pulled back slightly, meeting her gaze. "Who said anything about cute?"

Her brows furrowed, her lips parting in a silent oh as your fingers gently squeezed her tits, your thumbs rolling her nipples in slow, deliberate circles.

"F-fuck—" Her breath stuttered, her hips twitching against nothing. "D-don’t—don’t tease—"

"I’m not," you said simply, your voice low and warm as you ducked your head again, this time taking her right nipple between your lips, sucking gently before flicking your tongue over the peak.

"Hhah~!" Her hands flew to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she pulled, but there was no force behind it—just a shaky, desperate grip. "Y-you—nngh—you like them, don’t you?"

You hummed against her skin, your teeth grazing her nipple just enough to make her jolt. "Yeah," you admitted, your breath hot against her damp skin. "I love them."

"L-liar," she whined, but her thighs squeezed together, her hips rolling in tiny, aborted motions. "They’re—ahh—they’re small—"

"Perfect," you corrected, your hands sliding up to cup her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples again—softer this time, almost reverent. "Just like you."

She whimpered, her pride crumbling under your touch, under your words, her body melting as you lavished attention on her chest, your mouth and hands working in tandem to worship every inch of her.

"Hhah… more…" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers tightening in your hair.

And you obeyed.

The air in the private studio was thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat as Chaeyoung arched beneath you, her back pressing into the scattered sketch papers on the floor. Your teeth grazed her left nipple one last time before pulling back, admiring the way her chest heaved—her small, perfect tits glistening with spit, her skin flushed pink under the dim track lighting.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her fingers clawing at your shoulders as you dragged your hands down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her skirt. "Y-you—ahh—you better not rip this, it’s designer—"

You chuckled, sliding the fabric down her hips in one slow motion, letting it pool around her thighs before tossing it aside. "Too late."

"Asshole," she hissed, but the insult lost its bite when your palm pressed between her legs, feeling the soaked heat of her panties through the thin lace.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked into your touch, her thighs trembling as you rubbed slow, firm circles over her clothed cunt. "Ngh—stop teasing—"

"Make me," you murmured, nipping at her collarbone as your fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties, finally—finally—feeling the slick warmth of her bare skin.

Chaeyoung whined, her nails digging into your back as you stroked her folds, your thumb brushing over her clit in lazy, maddening circles. "Y-you—fuck—you know I can’t—ahh!—can’t think when you—hnngh—"

Her words dissolved into a moan as you pushed two fingers inside her, your palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. The wet squelch of her arousal filled the studio, mixing with the sound of her ragged breaths and the rustle of paper beneath her.

"S-so fucking mean," she panted, her legs wrapping around your waist as she rolled her hips, fucking herself on your fingers. "Gonna—hah—gonna make me come like this? On the floor?"

You smirked, curling your fingers just so, relishing the way her walls clenched around you. "Yeah," you breathed against her lips. "Gonna make you drip all over these sketches."

Her head fell back with a thud, her back arching as pleasure coiled tight in her gut—

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as she glared down at you—her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from biting them. "Lucky fan," she hissed, her voice dripping with something between amusement and frustration. "You really think this is just luck? That I let just anyone finger me in a fucking art studio?"

Your fingers were still buried inside her, curling lazily as her walls fluttered around you. "Seems like it," you mused, your thumb pressing firm circles against her clit just to watch her thighs jerk. "Since you’re the one who sought me out."

"Tch—!" Her grip tightened, her nails scraping your scalp. "I hate you," she breathed, but the way her hips rolled against your hand betrayed her. "Hah—fuck—I hate how you—nngh—how you talk—"

You smirked, slowing your fingers to a torturous pace. "Then shut me up."

For a second, she just stared at you—chest heaving, lips parted—before her expression shifted into something dangerous.

"Fine."

In one fluid motion, she shoved you back onto the plush studio carpet, her knees straddling your shoulders before you could react. Her panties—soaked through—were peeled off and tossed somewhere near the half-finished canvas, her glistening cunt now hovering inches from your face.

"Eat," she ordered, her voice trembling only slightly. "And don’t stop until I say so."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your tongue dragged up her slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the tangy-sweet taste of her arousal. Chaeyoung jolted, her thighs clamping around your head as a broken moan tore from her throat.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—!"

You hummed against her, your lips sealing around her clit as you sucked, your fingers finding her entrance again to push back inside.

"Ngh—! D-deeper—" she gasped, her hips grinding down against your mouth, her juices smearing across your chin. "Y-you—ahh—you knew—knew I’d do this, didn’t you? Knew I’d—hah—break for you—"

You pulled back just enough to speak, your breath hot against her dripping folds. "No," you murmured. "But I hoped."

Her laugh was breathless, shaky, as her fingers fisted in your hair again. "Bastard," she whined—before slamming your face back into her cunt.

The studio air was thick with the scent of her—musky, sweet, addicting—as Chaeyoung ground her dripping cunt against your tongue, her thighs trembling on either side of your head. Your nose pressed into her curls, your lips sealed tight around her clit as you sucked, slow and filthy, relishing the way her breath hitched above you.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her fingers yanked at your hair, her hips stuttering as your tongue flicked over her swollen bud. "Y-you—nngh—you eat pussy like you paint—" she gasped, her voice cracking. "Like you’re starving for it—"

You hummed against her, the vibration wrenching a broken moan from her throat as your fingers curled inside her, scissoring just enough to make her walls clench.

"Ahh~!" Her back arched, her head falling back as a breathless giggle slipped out. "S-shit—hah—we’re supposed to be anonymous—" Her hips rolled harder, her slick smearing across your chin. "A-and quiet—nngh—but look at us—"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, your lips glistening with her arousal. "You’re the one laughing," you pointed out, your breath hot against her soaked folds.

"Tch—you—!" She shoved your face back into her cunt, her thighs squeezing around your ears as your tongue delved deeper, lapping at her entrance before swirling around her clit again. "Hhah~! M-more—"

The squelch of her juices, the ragged hitch of her breath, the occasional giggle she couldn’t suppress—it was better than any art you’d ever made.

And then—

"I’m—ahh—close—" Her voice was a wreck, her nails biting into your scalp as her thighs shook. "G-gonna—fuck—gonna come—"

You doubled down, sucking her clit hard as your fingers pumped, relentless—

"HHAHH~!"

Her orgasm hit like a storm—her back bowing, her cunt pulsing around your fingers as she drenched your mouth, her juices spilling over your lips in hot, sticky waves.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—fuck—" She collapsed forward, her hands braced on the carpet as she rode out the aftershocks against your tongue, her thighs quivering.

When she finally pulled away, her face was flushed, her lips parted in a dazed smile.

"...So much for anonymous," she breathed.

Chaeyoung was still catching her breath, her thighs sticky with sweat and you, when she suddenly snorted—a tiny, undignified sound that made her clap a hand over her mouth.

You blinked up at her from the carpet, your chin glistening. "What?"

She pointed at the half-finished canvas nearby—the one you’d been collaborating on before things got… distracted. "Look," she giggled, her voice still wrecked. "We splattered."

Sure enough, a few stray drops of her had landed on the edge of the painting, mixing with the gold and crimson strokes.

"Abstract expressionism," you deadpanned.

"Ew," she cackled, swatting your shoulder before flopping onto her back beside you. "That’s nasty." A pause. Then, with a smirk: "...We should sign it."

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face—which, mistake, because now you just smeared her taste across your cheek. "Chaeyoung."

"What?" She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand while the other traced idle circles on your chest. "It’s authentic." Her grin turned filthy. "Like your tongue."

You huffed, but she was already leaning in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that tasted like her and victory.

"Mmh~... Round two?" she whispered.

Chaeyoung’s thighs quivered as she straddled your hips, her damp heat hovering just above your cock—taunting you.

"Look at you," she breathed, her fingers trailing down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs. "All hard and desperate for me." Her smirk was devilish as she ground her soaked cunt against your length, her slick smearing across your shaft. "Think you can handle me, Teddy Noir?"

You groaned, your hands gripping her hips—so small in your grasp—as she lifted herself slightly, lining you up with her entrance.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

"Uh-uh," she tutted, her voice dripping with mischief. "No begging."

And then she sank down—slow, agonizing—her tight walls clenching around you like a vice.

"Hhah~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she took you inch by inch, her petite body stretching to accommodate your girth. "S-shit—fuck—you’re big—"

You hissed, your fingers digging into her hips as she bottomed out, her ass pressing flush against your thighs.

"Tight," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint.

She giggled, breathless, her hands braced on your chest as she rolled her hips—testing, teasing. "Mmmh~... Told you I don’t do this with just anyone," she purred, her walls fluttering around you.

Then she moved.

"Ngh~! Ahh—!" Her hips rose and fell in a leisurely rhythm, her cunt squeezing you with every bounce. "F-feels good? Filling me up like this—hah—like I’m made for you—"

You growled, thrusting up to meet her, driving deeper—

"HHAHH~!" Her nails dug into your skin, her thighs shaking as she chased her pleasure. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her pace turned frantic, her petite body slamming down onto you, her gasps and moans echoing off the studio walls.

Chaeyoung’s thighs burned as she bounced on your cock, her small frame struggling to keep up with the brutal pace she’d set. But she refused to slow down—not when every snap of her hips sent fire shooting up her spine, not when the slap of skin on skin filled the studio, not when your hands on her waist anchored her, keeping her right where she wanted to be.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her breath came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into your chest as she chased the pleasure coiling tight in her gut. "Y-you feel that? H-how deep you are—ahh—like you’re everywhere—"

You groaned, your grip tightening as she slammed down again, her tight cunt milking you with every movement.

"Chaeyoung—"

"No," she panted, her voice strained with effort. "N-not—hah—not yet."

Her rhythm stuttered, her legs shaking as she forced herself to keep going, her walls fluttering around you in a silent plea.

"M-more—" she whimpered, her hips rolling instead of bouncing now, grinding slow and deep to savor every inch. "W-wanna feel you—ahh—forever—"

You hissed, your fingers bruising her hips as you thrust up to meet her, driving into her with a force that had her screeching.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her tits bouncing as she clung to you, her cunt clenching tight around you. "Y-yes—yes—just like that—" Her pace turned frantic again, her body desperate for more, for everything.

Chaeyoung’s thighs were shaking, her breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as she forced herself to slow down—just as the tension in her gut coiled too tight, just as her cunt clenched around you in desperate little pulses.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—" Her nails scratched down your chest, her hips stuttering as she fought the urge to chase her release. "Y-you—hah—you’re mean—"

You smirked, your hands tightening on her waist to still her movements completely. "You asked for this," you reminded her, your voice rough with restraint.

"I hate you," she whined, but the way her walls fluttered around you betrayed her.

You chuckled, your thumbs brushing over her hip bones as you guided her into a slow, agonizing grind.

"Ahh~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she tried to resist the pleasure building inside her. "T-too much—"

"No," you murmured, your fingers digging into her skin as you pulled her down harder. "Not yet."

She sobbed, her thighs trembling as she rode you with shallow, desperate bounces, her cunt dripping onto your thighs.

"P-please—"

You ignored her, your grip unyielding as you denied her what she craved most.

The moment your hands gripped Chaeyoung’s waist and spun her toward the nearest wall, her breath hitched—half in surprise, half in anticipation. The studio’s concrete was cool against her bare back, a sharp contrast to the heat of your body pressing into hers. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your hips, her arms looping over your shoulders for balance as you aligned yourself with her dripping entrance.

"No more teasing," she panted, her voice already wrecked, her nails digging into the fabric of your shirt. "Just—fuck me already."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

With one smooth thrust, you buried yourself inside her to the hilt, the tight, wet heat of her making your vision blur for a second. Chaeyoung’s head thudded back against the wall, her mouth falling open in a silent cry before her voice finally caught up.

"Ah—! Fuck, fuck—" Her thighs trembled where they locked around you, her body struggling to adjust to the sudden stretch. "You—you feel huge like this—"

You didn’t give her time to recover. One hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other gripping her hip as you pulled out almost completely before slamming back in. The sound of skin against skin, the slick noise of her arousal, the way her breath stuttered every time you bottomed out—it was maddening.

Chaeyoung’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her nails scraping against your shoulders as she tried to hold on. "Harder—" she gasped, her voice breaking. "I can—ah!—take it—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning rougher, deeper, each one driving a punched-out moan from her lips. The angle had her seeing stars, every snap of your hips hitting that sweet spot inside her with terrifying precision.

"You—ahh—you planned this," she accused between gasps, her legs tightening around you. "Knew I’d—fuck—knew I’d let you do anything—"

You didn’t deny it.

Her back arched off the wall as you pistoned into her, her moans growing louder, more desperate. The studio was too quiet, too empty—every sound they made echoed, from the wet slap of skin to the way Chaeyoung’s breath hitched every time you thrust just right.

"Close—" she whimpered, her fingers tangling in your hair. "I’m so—ahh—so close—"

You didn’t slow down.

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as she panted against your lips. "You’re being too nice," she murmured, her voice already wrecked from the relentless pace of your thrusts. "I can take more."

You slowed just enough to brush your nose against hers, your breath mingling. "I know you can," you said softly. "But I like seeing you like this—falling apart because I’m taking my time with you."

She huffed, but the way her cunt clenched around you betrayed how much she loved it. "Cheesy," she muttered, before tilting her head and spitting directly into your open mouth.

You choked—not in disgust, but in surprise—and she giggled, her hips grinding down to keep you buried deep inside her. "What? You said you liked me messy."

"I do," you admitted, swallowing before capturing her lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, sharing the taste of her spit between you. "But you’re gonna pay for that."

Her breath hitched as you shifted your grip, one hand sliding under her thigh to hike her leg higher against your hip, the other cupping her jaw to keep her close. The new angle made her whine, her walls fluttering as you pressed even deeper.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her nails digging into your shoulders. "That’s—ahh—that’s not fair—"

You nipped at her bottom lip, your thrusts turning slower but harder, each one dragging a broken sound from her throat. "You started it," you reminded her, your voice rough but still gentle, still hers.

She groaned, her head thudding back against the wall. "I hate you," she whined, but the way she rolled her hips to meet yours said otherwise.

"No, you don’t," you murmured, leaning in to lick a stripe up her neck, savoring the salt of her sweat.

"Ngh—prove it," she challenged, her fingers tightening in your hair as she spat into her own palm before smearing it over your lips.

You laughed, low and warm, before kissing her again—deep, messy, perfect.

"Gladly."

The studio walls were cool against Chaeyoung’s back, a stark contrast to the heat of your body pressed against hers. Her legs were locked around your waist, her fingers gripping your shoulders as you moved inside her with slow, deliberate thrusts. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips parted as she watched you through half-lidded eyes.

"You’re holding back," she murmured, her voice already wrecked. "I can tell."

You slowed your hips, brushing your nose against hers. "Am I?"

She huffed, her nails digging into your skin. "Don’t play dumb. You’re being too careful with me."

You smirked, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "You want me to stop being careful?"

"Yes," she breathed, her eyes darkening. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Your grip shifted, your fingers wrapping gently around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding her who was in control. Her pulse jumped under your touch, her breath hitching as you pressed deeper, your thrusts turning sharper, harder.

"Like this?" you asked, your voice low.

She moaned, her head tipping back against the wall. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her words dissolved into a whimper as you angled your hips just right, hitting that spot inside her that made her toes curl.

"You feel so good," she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So deep—"

You hummed, your hand still resting lightly on her throat, your other arm tightening around her waist to keep her pinned against the wall. "Tell me what you want."

She shuddered, her hips rolling to meet yours. "Harder," she pleaded. "I want—ahh—I want to feel it tomorrow—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning punishing, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet studio.

"F-fuck—yes—" Her voice was breaking, her body trembling as she clung to you. "Don’t stop—please—"

You didn’t.

The air between you was thick with sweat and shared breath, Chaeyoung’s back pressed flush against the studio wall as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust dragged a new sound from her lips—broken moans, gasped pleas, the occasional breathless laugh when your rhythm stuttered just right.

Her thighs trembled where they locked around your waist, her calves digging into the small of your back as she tried to pull you deeper. "F-fuck—right there—" Her voice cracked as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that sweet spot inside her with every snap forward.

You could feel her unraveling—the way her walls fluttered around you, growing tighter with each passing second. Her nails raked down your shoulders, leaving angry red trails in their wake as she clung to you, her body arching off the wall to meet you thrust for thrust.

"Look at me," you murmured, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her spit-slick bottom lip.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark and hazy with pleasure, her pupils blown wide. "Mmn—harder—" she begged, her hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel you everywhere—"

You obliged, your grip tightening on her hip as you pistoned into her, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out her whimpers. The angle was brutal—each movement dragging her clit against your pelvis, the friction wringing choked sobs from her throat. "C-close—" she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So fucking close—"

Chaeyoung’s body was a live wire under your hands, every muscle pulled taut as she teetered on the edge. Her thighs trembled violently where they locked around your waist, her nails biting into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks.

"I—ahh—I’m gonna—" Her voice shattered into a gasp as the first wave hit her, her cunt clamping down on your cock like a vice. A choked scream tore from her throat as she squirted, hot liquid gushing between your bodies, soaking your stomach and thighs.

You groaned, your thrusts stuttering for just a second at the sheer intensity of it—but Chaeyoung’s hands flew to your wrists, her grip iron-tight.

"Don’t you dare stop," she panted, her voice raw, her eyes wild. "I’m not—fuck—I’m not done—"

You didn’t argue.

Your hands slid under her thighs, hiking her higher against the wall as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the studio walls. Her oversensitive walls fluttered around you, her body jerking with every thrust as she whined, her head thrashing back against the concrete.

"T-too much—ahh—too much—" she sobbed, her hips rolling helplessly to meet yours even as her body rebelled, her thighs shaking, her toes curling.

"You said not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough but gentle, your fingers brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

She whimpered, her nails digging into your biceps as another wave of pleasure ripped through her, her cunt pulsing around you as she squirted again, her back arching off the wall.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was gone, her lips parted in a silent scream as her body convulsed, her legs locking around you like she was afraid you’d pull away.

Chaeyoung’s body was a trembling mess against the studio wall, her thighs slick with sweat and arousal as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through her oversensitive nerves, her cunt fluttering around your cock in desperate, rhythmic clenches.

"F-fuck—ahh—you’re still going—" Her voice was hoarse, her nails digging into your shoulders as she clung to you, her legs locked around your waist like a vice.

You groaned, your grip tightening on her hips as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the concrete. "You told me not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough with exertion.

She whined, her back arching off the wall as you hit that spot again, her walls squeezing around you like she was trying to milk you dry. "I—hah—I know—" Her breath hitched, her hips rolling to meet yours. "J-just—fuck—fill me already—"

You hissed, your thrusts growing erratic, your control slipping as the pressure in your gut coiled too tight.

"C-close—" you gritted out, your fingers bruising her hips.

Chaeyoung’s eyes darkened, her lips parting in a dazed smirk. "Do it," she breathed, her voice wrecked. "Cum inside me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, you pulsed into her, your cock twitching as you emptied yourself deep inside her, your release spilling into her dripping cunt.

Chaeyoung moaned, her body convulsing around you as she milked you through it, her walls fluttering in time with your spasms.

"F-fuck—" she panted, her head lolling back against the wall. "Y-you—ahh—you ruined me—"

You chuckled, your hands gentling on her hips as you kissed her, slow and deep.

"You asked for it."

The studio was quiet now, save for the sound of your shared breathing and the occasional drip of sweat onto the carpet. You leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, while Chaeyoung—ever the restless artist—refused to stay still.

She straddled your lap with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, her bare ass pressing against your thighs. And god, what an ass it was. Narrow, but not bony. Soft where it needed to be, with just enough curve to make your fingers itch to grab, to knead, to leave marks. Milky skin, smooth as fresh canvas, barely hiding the faint pink flush from where she’d been grinding against you earlier. The kind of ass that made you want to sink your teeth into it—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hear her yelp. The kind that looked like it belonged in one of those glossy manhwas, all exaggerated bounce and bratty defiance. Spankable. Biteable. A fucking masterpiece.

You smirked, your hands settling on her waist. "Comfy?"

She huffed, wiggling just to feel you twitch under her. "You’re warm," she muttered, as if that explained everything.

Then she reached over, her fingers digging into the small pouch she’d tossed aside earlier. When she pulled back, she was holding a tiny, cute pink bottle—the kind with a little strawberry on the label.

You raised an eyebrow. "…Is that edible lube?"

Chaeyoung grinned, shaking the bottle teasingly. The liquid inside sloshed, thick and glossy. "Maybe."

"You planned this," you accused, but your hands were already sliding down to grip her hips.

She giggled, leaning in until her lips brushed your ear. "And you," she whispered, "are gonna fuck me on the canvas."

The studio lights cast long shadows across the scattered sketches and half-finished paintings as Chaeyoung crawled onto the large canvas in the center of the room. Her movements were deliberate—hips swaying, back arching, fingers pressing into the stretched fabric like she was testing its give.

"Comfortable?" you asked, leaning back against the studio couch, your fingers laced behind your head.

She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Mmh~... Not yet."

Then she wiggled—just enough to make the muscles in her thighs flex, just enough to make the curve of her ass jiggle under the dim track lighting. Milky skin, still flushed pink from earlier, still marked faintly where your fingers had dug in too hard.

"You’re staring," she sing-songed, her voice dripping with faux innocence.

You smirked. "Hard not to."

She huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you didn’t immediately move gave her away. "Thought you were tired," she teased, rocking back onto her knees just enough to show off.

"I am," you admitted, stretching your legs out. "Doesn’t mean I can’t look."

Chaeyoung giggled, low and throaty, before shifting her weight onto one arm, the other reaching back to spread herself for you. "What if I want more than looking?"

The invitation was obscene—the pink, clenched furl of her rim, still glistening faintly from earlier orgasm dripping lower, the way her thighs trembled just from the anticipation.

You groaned, palming yourself through your pants. "Fuck, Chaeyoung—"

She grinned, wiggling again. "Exactly."

The studio smelled faintly of oil paint and strawberries—the latter courtesy of the pink bottle Chaeyoung had uncapped with a pop. She knelt on the canvas, her back arched, her weight balanced on her forearms as she peered over her shoulder at you.

"You gonna stare all day," she teased, "or are you gonna taste?"

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

[Ass Worship: A Study in Patience]

Your hands settled on the swell of her cheeks, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh to part her. Her skin was warm under your palms, the muscles beneath twitching as you leaned in, your breath ghosting over her exposed rim.

Chaeyoung shivered, her fingers curling into the canvas. "F-fuck—"

You licked—a slow, flat stripe from her perineum up to the tight pucker of her asshole. She jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as your tongue circled the rim, teasing, tasting. The strawberry lube was sweet, almost syrupy, but beneath it was the salt of her skin, the musk of her.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked back, seeking more, but you held her still, your grip firm. "Ngh—mean—"

You chuckled, your breath hot against her. "Relax," you murmured, before dipping your tongue inside, just enough to make her squeak.

The lube was cool against your fingers as you coated them, the viscous liquid dripping onto her rim before you spread it with your thumb, working the tight muscle in slow circles.

Chaeyoung whined, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "S’cold—"

"It’ll warm up," you promised, your other hand rubbing soothing circles into her lower back.

Your index finger pressed in—just the tip—and her body clenched, her breath hitching.

"Breathe," you reminded her, your voice low.

She exhaled, her muscles easing as you sank deeper, the lube making the glide smooth, effortless.

[Fingering: The Art of Relaxation]

You crooked your finger, searching, and Chaeyoung jolted, a broken moan spilling from her lips.

"Ahh~! W-what was—hah—that—?"

You grinned, your thumb brushing over her rim as you pumped your finger slowly. "Just prepping you," you said, as if you hadn’t just found the spot that made her see stars.

Her laugh was breathless, wrecked. "L-liar—"

You added a second finger, stretching her with careful precision, your other hand kneading the tension from her thighs.

Chaeyoung melted, her body yielding to yours, her moans filling the studio.

The studio was quiet except for Chaeyoung’s shaky breaths and the slick sound of your fingers working her open. She was sprawled across the canvas, her cheek pressed against the fabric, her back arched in a perfect curve. Her fingers clutched at the edges, knuckles white, as you took your time—too much time, if her whines were anything to go by.

"You’re still not done?" she grumbled, her voice muffled against the canvas.

You chuckled, your thumb circling her rim, already stretched around two fingers but still clenching every time you moved. "Rushing ruins the art, Chaeyoung," you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the small of her back.

She shivered, her hips twitching. "I’m not a painting," she huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you crooked your fingers betrayed her.

"No," you agreed, your free hand smoothing up her spine. "You’re better."

She groaned, half exasperated, half desperate, her thighs trembling where they bracketed your hips. "If you don’t fuck me soon—"

You scissored your fingers, slow, and her threat dissolved into a gasp, her back bowing off the canvas.

"Ahh~!" Her nails scratched at the fabric, her voice breaking. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed, your lips brushing her shoulder blade. "Please what?"

She whined, her hips rocking back against your hand. "You know what—"

You did. But you loved hearing her say it.

The strawberry lube was slick between your fingers as you stroked it over your cock, the sweet scent mixing with the musk of sweat and sex already thick in the studio air. Chaeyoung watched over her shoulder, her dark eyes tracking every movement—her breath hitching when your thumb smeared a thick droplet over the head.

"Ready?" you murmured, your other hand smoothing up the dip of her waist, feeling the way her ribs expanded with each shaky inhale.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pushed her hips back, her ass jutting out in blatant invitation, the pink furl of her rim already glistening from your earlier prep. The motion was whorish, desperate—and so utterly Chaeyoung that you had to bite back a groan.

"Fuck," you muttered, your grip tightening on her hip. "You’re made for this."

She huffed, but the way her thighs trembled betrayed her. "J-just do it already—"

You didn’t need to be told twice.

The head of your cock pressed against her entrance, and for a second, neither of you breathed—then you pushed, slow, and her body yielded, her rim stretching around you with a filthy, slick sound.

Chaeyoung choked, her fingers clawing at the canvas beneath her. "Hhah~! S-shit—"

You froze, your thumbs rubbing circles into her hips. "Okay?"

She nodded, frantic, her back arching. "Y-yeah—fuck—just… big—"

You chuckled, leaning over her to brush your lips against her shoulder blade. "You’ve done this before," you mused, your voice low.

She whined, her walls fluttering around you as you sank deeper. "T-toys," she admitted, her voice wrecked. "N-not—ahh—not this big—"

You groaned, your hips rolling forward to seat yourself fully inside her, your pelvis pressed flush against her ass.

"Lucky me," you murmured.

The moment you bottomed out inside her, Chaeyoung arched—her back bowing, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the canvas beneath her. A broken, punched-out sound tore from her throat as her body struggled to adjust, her rim fluttering around the thick stretch of your cock.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was raw, her thighs quivering where they bracketed your hips. "S’too much—"

You groaned, your hands tightening on her waist as you pulled back—slow, torturous—just to watch her rim cling to you, the tight ring of muscle resisting before finally releasing with a slick pop.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "Ahh~! D-don’t stop—"

You didn’t.

Your next thrust was harder, deeper, your hips snapping forward to bury yourself in her again, the slap of skin echoing off the studio walls.

"Look at you," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint. "Taking me so fucking well—"

She moaned, her ass jiggling with every pound of your hips, her rim stretching wider each time you pulled back, the pink flesh gaping for a second before you slammed home again.

"Hhah~! M-more—" Her voice was wrecked, her nails scratching at the fabric beneath her. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel it tomorrow—" You obliged, your thrusts turning brutal, precise, each one dragging a fresh sob from her throat. The studio air was thick with the scent of strawberries and sweat, the only sounds being the wet slide of skin and Chaeyoung’s breathless whimpers. You moved inside her with a slow, reverent rhythm—each thrust a deliberate act of worship, each withdrawal a tease that left her trembling.

Her body was a symphony of reactions—every inch of her singing under your touch. The way her back arched, her spine curving like a bowstring pulled taut. The flutter of her lashes when you brushed your lips against her shoulder, the hitch in her breath when your fingers traced the dip of her waist. She was alive beneath you, around you, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight through stained glass.

And her ass—god, her ass. The way her rim clung to you, tight and desperate, as if afraid you’d leave. The way it stretched around your girth, pink and glistening with lube, each thrust coaxing a fresh, broken sound from her lips. The faint tremors in her thighs, the way her toes curled against the canvas—every detail a testament to the pleasure coursing through her.

You didn’t need to dominate. You didn’t need to dirty talk. The way she melted for you, the way her body begged without words—it was enough. More than enough.

You leaned over her, your chest pressing against her back as you rolled your hips, deep, slow, savoring the way her walls fluttered around you.

"Good?" you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She nodded, her voice a wrecked whisper. "Y-yes—ahh—please—"

You smiled, your hands sliding up to intertwine with hers, pinning them gently against the canvas as you started to love her, cherish her in the sweetest way possible.

The studio smelled of drying acrylics and sweat, the overhead lights casting long shadows across Chaeyoung’s arched back as she braced herself on the half-painted canvas. Her ice-blonde hair—streaked with that rebellious black stripe you loved—was damp at the roots, clinging to her neck as she trembled beneath you.

You paused, your cock buried to the hilt inside her, just to feel the way her body pulsed around you—the involuntary clench of her rim, the hitch in her breath when you flexed your hips just so.

"Look at you," you murmured, your fingers threading through her hair, gently fisting the strands—not to pull, not yet, just to hold. To anchor her.

She whined, her ass pushing back against you, demanding. "D-don’t stop—"

You smiled, your thumb brushing the nape of her neck before you moved again.

Your thrusts were deep, measured, each one dragging a fresh moan from her throat. The canvas beneath her creaked, the wet slap of skin mingling with the squelch of lube and the drip of her arousal onto the half-finished painting below.

Chaeyoung’s fingers clawed at the fabric, her gasps turning shrill as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her hair tugging in your grip as she fought the pleasure, fought the inevitable. "I—I’m close—"

You tightened your hold on her hair, just enough to make her jolt, her walls fluttering around you like a heartbeat.

"Let go," you breathed, your voice rough with want.

And she did.

Chaeyoung shattered with a scream, her body convulsing around you as her orgasm ripped through her—violent, unrelenting. Her release gushed onto the canvas beneath her, mixing with the still-wet paint in swirls of color, distorting the art into something new, something obscene.

You groaned, your hips stuttering as her clenching ass milked you mercilessly, your own release building, building—

"Inside," she begged, her voice broken, her body limp beneath you. "P-please—"

You obliged, pounding into her once, twice more before burying yourself to the hilt, your cum filling her in thick, pulsing waves.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her rim fluttering around your spent cock as you collapsed over her, your forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

The studio was silent save for your ragged breaths and the drip of paint—and other things—onto the floor.

You kissed the sweat-damp curve of her spine, your fingers uncurling from her hair to soothe the reddened skin of her scalp.

"Okay?" you murmured.

Chaeyoung huffed, her voice wrecked but smug. "I painted better than you today."

You laughed, your arms wrapping around her waist as you rolled onto your back, pulling her with you.

The canvas beneath you was ruined.

It was perfect.

The studio was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of fabric as you settled back against the carpet, your legs stretched out in front of you. The adrenaline of the last hour had faded, leaving behind a pleasant exhaustion—the kind that made your limbs heavy and your thoughts slow.

Chaeyoung, however, had other plans.

You barely had time to catch your breath before she was crawling toward you, her movements deliberately slow, her hips swaying with every shift of her knees. Her ice-blonde hair—still mussed from your earlier grip—fell in messy waves around her shoulders, the black streak a stark contrast against her flushed skin.

"Comfy?" she asked, her voice laced with faux innocence as she settled herself between your legs, her hands resting on your thighs.

You raised an eyebrow. "I was."

She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in that exaggerated way she knew you couldn’t resist. "You’re supposed to say yes and then cuddle me."

You snorted, but your hands were already moving, one tangling in her hair, the other sliding around her waist to pull her closer. "Since when do you follow scripts?"

She giggled, her nose brushing against yours before she ducked her head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Since now," she murmured, her breath warm against your skin.

Her fingers traced idle patterns on your chest, her touch light, teasing. "You really like my ass, huh?"

You groaned, tipping your head back against the wall. "We’re really doing this now?"

She grinned, her teeth nipping at your collarbone. "Yep."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, but your grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against you.

She hummed, her lips curving into a smug little smile as she wiggled in your lap, just to feel you twitch beneath her. "But you love me."

You sighed, your fingers tangling in her hair again—gentle this time, just to hold her still. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice soft. "I do."

She beamed, her nose scrunching in that way that made your chest ache, before burying her face in your neck with a contented sigh.

The studio was wrecked.

The two of you were perfect.

Chapter 2: The Space Between Colors Doesn't Mean It's Empty

Chaeyoung’s breath tickled against your neck, slow and steady now—like her body had finally caught up to her heart.

Your fingers stroked lazy circles along the small of her back, the quiet rhythm grounding you both.

She didn’t speak for a while.

And then…

“You didn’t even ask.”

You blinked. “Ask what?”

“Why I really came here tonight.”

You pulled back slightly to look at her. Her cheeks were still flushed, but now there was something more in her eyes. Nervousness. Hope.

“Wasn’t it the… artist crush thing?” you said carefully. “The portraits?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head slowly. “That was part of it. But not all.”

You stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“Do you know how many people paint us?” she asked, her tone suddenly heavy. “How many draw our faces? Sketch our bodies? Try to guess our thoughts like we’re characters in some fantasy?”

You nodded faintly. You weren’t blind to fan culture. You had even wrestled with guilt about painting them at all.

Chaeyoung sat up, straddling your thighs now, her hands bracing on your shoulders. “But you didn’t do that.” Her voice had a slight tremble. “You painted needs. Longing. Emotions no one asks about. You gave me—us—a space to just… exist, without filters. Without expectations.”

She touched your chest lightly, just over your heart.

“That’s why I came here.” Her eyes locked with yours. “Not to sleep with an artist. But to feel like a person.”

You exhaled slowly. She wasn’t here for lust. She was here because your brushstrokes had seen something in her—something she hadn’t realized she was desperate for someone to acknowledge.

“Then why now?” you asked gently. “Why tonight?”

Her lips twitched.

“Because I wanted to see if you’d still look at me the same after touching me.” A beat passed. “You do.”

That silence afterward wasn’t empty. It was full of quiet understanding.

You reached up and tucked her messy hair behind her ear. “You’ve always been more than what people expect you to be.”

She gave a tiny smile at that.

And then—

“Also…” Her voice lowered into that playful whisper again. “Your sketchbook is criminal. You made my thighs look like art.”

You laughed, fully now, arms pulling her back into your chest.

“They are art.”

“Then paint me again,” she murmured, brushing her lips against your jaw. “With your hands this time.”

Your heart pounded.

The soft hum of the air conditioner faded into the background again as the moment thickened between you.

The studio wasn’t just wrecked.

It was alive.

A gallery of stolen moments, messy passion, and truth laid bare in oil, graphite, and touch.

And right now, your favorite subject was climbing back into your lap, ready to blur every boundary between inspiration and intimacy.

The warmth between you had settled into something quieter now—less fire, more ember. The kind that stayed long after the room emptied.

Chaeyoung stirred first, lifting her head from your chest as her phone buzzed across the floor.

She sighed.

"It’s Mina." Her voice was soft, threaded with reluctance. "Schedule moved up. They want me at the shoot in an hour."

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into your palm.

"Duty calls," you murmured.

She didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, blinking at nothing, like the walls around her weren’t real.

Then she reached for your phone.

You raised an eyebrow, watching her lift it, tilt it toward your face. The lock clicked open.

"Hey—"

"Shh."

Her fingers danced across the screen—calm, certain. She typed, saved, and handed it back with a wry smile.

“Now you can find me without guessing.”

Her thumb tapped your bottom lip once, tender.

Then she whispered—half to you, half to the unfinished painting behind you:

"Muse or mistake… you’re already inside the frame now."

You blinked, confused, but before you could ask what that meant, she was already rising—pulling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion, sliding her jeans back on.

She moved like poetry. Quick strokes. Confident. Free.

At the door, she paused.

“Don’t erase anything. Especially the smudges.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The studio fell silent again.

Only the hum of the air and the soft vibration of your heart remained.

You looked down at your phone. One new contact.

Son Chaeyoung – only if you mean it

No emojis. No hearts.

But somehow, it felt more intimate than anything.

You stared at the name, the number… and below it, a photo file.

One of your portraits.

The one with her silhouette in the middle of a burning garden, face turned toward the sun.

You never shared that painting with anyone.

And yet, she’d titled it:

“Where I’ll wait.”

END…?

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

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eff4freddie · 11 months ago

Text

Free

No Outbreak AU!Joel Miller x AFAB Reader

Words: 7.7k of basically porn lols

You confess to Joel one of your filthiest fantasies, something you've never told anyone before. He's a good man, but you underestimate just how much he will do for you.

Warnings: Minors DNI. Explicit. Free use. Public sex. Praise kink. Beer bottles and dirty dive bars. Tiny lil breeding kink if you squint. Like seriously guys, this is filth. I've gone a little shy of myself? Like wow we are learning some things about Freddie tonight.

Like most wildfires, neither of you were sure where the first ember landed. Joel preferred dive bars, liked the blues on the juke box, the fact that he would wear his flannel and jeans flecked with paint and wood shaving and no one would notice. He knew you preferred the fancier places, occasionally would make an effort, but knew you also didn’t mind sometimes slumming it with him, sometimes just leaning back into a booth and letting the neon red light leech over your skin. You’d never admit it to his face, never give him the power over you, but you didn’t really care where you were so long as it was with him.

You liked it when he lifted the beer to his lips, saw his throat work to swallow it down. It reminded him of the times you’d made him gasp, groan, as he worked his cock into your throat. It felt like an intimate thing, the chords of his muscles working just right there under his skin. Sometimes you reached out, ran your fingertips under his collar, made him shiver. He’d grab your fingers, put them on his lips, press a kiss to them, tell you off for lettin’ ‘em get so cold in the night.

On these nights, when Sarah’s with the sitter and you’re winding down from a long week of work, its these nights when Joel takes you out in a pretty dress or a shirt skirt, waits in his truck while you slip your panties off and puts them in his pocket, helps you down to the street with a hand gripping the back of your thigh. It’s these nights, when Joel’s worked up from the job site, when he’s stressed about Sarah’s teenage rebellious phase, when it’s been a while between drinks, that he’s handsy with you, pushing himself into a booth in a dark corner and pulling you down on top of him, perched in his lap with your legs spread over his so that he can face you out to the bar, open your thighs just as someone walks past, lets you feel the breeze on your cunt while you hide your face in his neck and burn, either from embarrassment or from how wet he’s made you, showing you off like this, you tucking his hands under your bottom to stop him slipping them into you while you try to concentrate on the specials board.

‘Shy, baby?’ he’d tease you, pulling your hair off your neck to bite at your jaw line, whisper dirty nonsense into your ear while you fought for some kind of decency, some way to cover yourself up, at least until you’d finished your first drink.

It was one of those nights, when he’d finally relented and let you eat your meal in peace, that he’d got it out of you, the confession that set the whole thing in motion, the idea taking root in Joel’s mind so swiftly that the tendrils of it spilt into his veins, spiralled down to his cock, made him harder than he ever remembered being.

You knew this about Joel. That it wasn’t a jealousy streak, or an insecurity, that it wasn’t even so much of an exhibitionist streak for him. It was just that he liked showing you off, liked knowing that of all the men in the room who were undressin’ ya, wantin’ ya, he was the one with his fingers buried in your cunt while you struggled to act like nothing untoward was going on. He liked the power of it, the power he had over you, and you wondered sometimes how far he would go with it. What would happen if you were ever found bent over with his cock buried inside you, his hands on your hips pulling you back into him, his teeth bared and his sweat dripping onto your back. You knew without having experienced anything like it that he would probably keep going, that he would like the watching. That he’d probably goad the audience into coming closer, commentate for them, let them see what he, and only he, was wringing from your body as it clamped down around him. The thought of it, the image of it in your mind, kept you awake at night, your cunt throbbing. You felt the pride in it, you supposed, that he desired you so dearly he wanted to show off that he had you.

You knew all of that when you confessed to him what you were thinking about, three beers in and his hand on your knee, rubbing little circles with his thumb, sliding his whole hand over your skin and back down again, not even noticing he was doing it. You watched his pupils blow wide, the far away look come over him as he imagined what you were describing, the way he swallowed, hard.

‘You want that right now?’ he asked, and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning, not quite believing he’d actually been given the bike he’d asked Santa for.

‘No, not right now, probably not ever,’ you said, flopping your head onto his shoulder and listening to his quickening heartbeat in his neck. ‘Just like to think about it, is all.’

‘Baby you can’t say that to me and not…you have to know what you’re doing to me,’ he all but whined, and you giggled.

‘You wouldn’t mind it?’ you asked, pulling up to look at him again, study his eyes, knowing that you were way out on a limb now. You saw not an ounce of hesitation on his face.

He barely got you out of the place before he had you bent over the bed of his truck, your hands clawing for purchase on the chrome as he drilled into you right there in the parking lot, your face buried in your arms in the hope that the darkness of the night was protecting you both from being arrested.

He didn’t bring it up again for another few weeks, both of your jobs getting too busy, Sarah getting too demanding and fourteen, the world conspiring against you to rob you both of your dirty Fridays. Joel was getting pent up, the idea of it bouncing around his mind too often for him to concentrate, but his bones were sore of a nighttime, and he only had the energy to relieve himself in the shower before climbing into bed and switching off the light. You didn’t mind it, had been together a long enough time now to know there would be ebbs and flows. He held you as you slept, he kissed you in the morning even as you tried to shove him off and scold him for his morning breath, promised to take you out when your schedules were clear and knew that he meant it, that he was a man of his sometimes limited words. Sometimes it just went with the territory of wanting him always, you knew, that there would be aching times of not-having.

So you were surprised when you came home from dropping Sarah off at her friend’s for the night and saw his truck in the drive, expecting him much later if the week had been anything to go by. You heard him in the shower and figured he was washing off another stressful day, intending to leave him to it, except that for a man with basically one good ear he was surprisingly adept at knowing where you were at all times, and he emerged, towel wrapped loose around his hips and dripping onto the carpet, to pull you by the arm in with him. You just managed to strip out of your jeans before he was on you, pulling your wet bra off your skin, slipping your underwear down your legs and throwing them into the sink.

‘Won’t need those tonight,’ he said, simply, as you gawped at him, the water running off his shoulders and into your eyes. You leant forward, resting your forehead on his chest. It had been an intense few minutes.

‘Where we going tonight?’ you asked, and he didn’t answer, instead pulling back from you and bending to lift your leg up, hooking it over his elbow. You leant back onto the cold shower tile, the water beating down on your chest, as he dripped your favourite body wash onto a loofah and ran it tightly over your skin, crouching down and slipping your leg over his shoulder to run it up and down the inside of your thighs, each time his fingers sweeping closer to your cunt, the heat and steam of the shower making you light headed as your clit throbbed for him. He was teasing you, working you up and you knew he was going to leave you like this, that this is how the whole night would go unless you did something about it, pushing yourself off the wall and crashing your pussy into his mouth, the sharp angle of his nose landing hard on your clit as he gasped.

It hadn’t been the plan but he wasn’t above improvising. In his head he was just going to tease you a little, make sure that you were up for what he had planned, but this was just as good, just as effective. He was careful not to let you come, careful to keep you right on the edge, the suds and the water running over his mouth and nose as he lathed at your clit, ran his tongue up and down your seam, not letting it dip inside where he knew you wanted him. He looked up your body, watched your hips shudder and the muscles in your tummy roll and contract as you tried to draw him in deeper. He grinned, a huffled little laugh into your pussy. You were furious when he drew back, wet hands trying to grip his hair and keep him there. He held you to him, wrapped you warm up in a towel even as you cussed him out, madder than a barn cat at having had your pleasure interrupted. You were perfect like this, he thought, watching you huff, wild for him. He reminded you to dress for a night out. He made sure your underwear stayed in the sink.

You were still pissed, but your curiosity got the better of you when he missed the turn off for the bar, heading instead over the railway track and further out of town. If you had been speaking to him you would have asked where he was taking you, but you were refusing to let him off the hook for his cruelty in the shower. Twenty minutes later, when he pulled up to a bar you’d never seen before, a couple of dirt bikes parked out the front and a few trucks in the lot out the back, he gave you a little tap on the knee. You turned to him, eyebrows shooting up.

‘Figured we better go where no one knows us, baby,’ he said, and he was grinning at you in a way that made your belly flip, an electric bolt shooting straight between your legs.

‘What are you up to, Miller?’ you asked, as he leant over and undid your seatbelt. He made you jump down out of the truck yourself, striding as he was towards the bar. The bright red OPEN sign buzzed over the door, the sound of it reverberating into the air beneath it where you stood, your nerves jangling in tune. Surely he wouldn’t, you thought. You pulled your short skirt down, worried now that without underwear a strong breeze would expose you to anyone passing by. He held the door open for you, darkness behind him and the sounds of clinking glass, tinny guitar over a shitty sound system, chatter and drunkenness.

‘Trust me, baby,’ he said, and you did, you knew you did. He held his hand out to you. You took it.

Once inside you could see a bit better. The bar itself was quite small, a couple of men sitting around it drinking beers and whiskeys. There was a row of booths under the blacked-out windows, a pool table in one corner. By the bar a hallway led down to the bathrooms. You shivered when you saw it.

He led you by the hand to the corner of the bar right next to the hallway, the single stool.

‘This is where I’ll be,’ he said to you, putting your hand on the bar to feel how solid it was, that it was real and that this was happening, to ground you. He pulled you forward, five or maybe six paces down the hallway, to a piece of wall right by the men’s bathroom. He backed you up against it, letting you glance over his shoulder to the stool where you had just been.

‘This is where you’ll be,’ he said to you, his voice heavy and thick and you recognised the want in it, the need. He spun you around, kicking your feet apart and holding your hands up above your head. You tried to breathe but couldn’t seem to get enough air, tried to expand your lungs but you could only puff and gasp, your stomach doing somersaults as he positioned you. He pushed them into the wall, the two of them held together under his palm.

‘You don’t move them from here,’ he said, stern and calm at the same time. ‘You look over your shoulder you’ll see me, but you don’t move these from here. Nod so I know you heard me, baby,’ he said. You nodded your head, your nose almost grazing the plaster of the filthy wall. He pulled your hips out so that you bowed slightly, your arse sticking back behind you. He ran his hands over the back of your thighs, leant down to cup your bottom as he ran his hands up and over, pulled your skirt over your hips.

Your heart was racing so hard you could feel it in your knees, your whole body thrumming as he exposed you to the room. You heard no shouts or protests, your eyes slammed shut and your face buried in your arm. You could feel cool air on your skin as he moved away from you, and you yelped, a bolt of panic shooting through you. You lifted your head and he was there again, his arms over yours as he covered you, brought his mouth down to your ear.

‘You can do this baby, I’m right here,’ he said, and you felt like you might scream or cry or come, you weren’t sure which or what you preferred, your mind scrambling to keep up with the fact that he was letting you play out one of your dirtiest fantasies, that he trusted you this much, that you knew he would keep you safe, would stop it from going too far if you needed him to, that you wanted this, that you wanted to give it to him.

‘Two rules,’ he said, when he could tell you were coming back into yourself, that you were listening. ‘Hands stay on the wall,’ he said, his voice rough and low as he stopped to chew on your earlobe. You could feel you were wet, could feel you were shivering. You hadn’t had a good look at the men in the bar. You weren’t sure if you were glad of it.

‘Second rule,’ he said, and now he was running his hands over your hips and down your belly to rub little circles into your clit. You shuddered, pushing back against him, felt that he was throbbing. ‘No coming ‘til I say so,’ he said, and then he was gone, your body cold and aching where he had just been.

You lifted your head and turned to watch him over your shoulder, your spine twisting to see without moving your hands, now resting palm-down above your head. You saw him calmly order a beer from the bartender, who didn’t bat an eyelid at you standing, skirt over your arse and bent at the waist, the seam of your pussy exposed to the entire bar, your thighs quivering as you felt the slick start to collect on your skin.

All you could do was try and breathe. Try to keep your knees from shaking, your legs from collapsing underneath you. You turned your face back to the wall, your nose resting on the brick, as you gulped down air and tried to swallow on a bone-dry throat. Maybe nothing would happen if you just stayed completely still, you thought. Wasn’t that how they survived the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park?

You could hear the toilet in the men’s room flushing, the tap running as the dude, mercifully, washed his hands. You knew you were seconds away from being confronted, that he would have to squeeze past you if he wanted to get back to his table, that maybe the others wouldn’t have seen you tucked away as you were down the side of the bar, but not now, not where Joel had positioned you. You closed your eyes, the humiliation of it mixing with heat in your cunt, and you couldn’t decide what you wanted to happen, couldn’t quiet your mind enough other than to count backwards from 10 and try to force your lungs to work.

10. You heard the door swing open, the rush of air ruffling the skirt over your lower back.

9. Footsteps striding out of the bathroom, stopping abruptly.

8. A short, sharp exhale of breath. A ‘what the fuck?’. Surprised, but not angry.

7. A long, heavy second or two of silence.

6. A slower footstep. Another. Towards you.

5. A hand, warm and foreign, on your hip as he moved behind you.

4. The thunderous sound of your voice in your head telling you to just stay still, stay still, stay still.

3. A nervous little laugh as he slid behind you, his hips to yours to get past you on the wall. His hand still on your hip but gripping, fingers squeezing at your flesh.

2. A soft swipe of your cunt as he clears you, his fingers gently fluttering over your seam as you stand, exposed and wet.

1. Your gasp, all of the breath you had been trying to get suddenly sweeping into your lungs, a needy little whine on the exhale, a shiver.

And a few moments later, laughter, a group of men on the other side of the bar, a hint of disbelief in it, a hint of awe. You blinked your eyes open, your body quaking. You couldn’t turn your head, wouldn’t turn your head to Joel, but you knew he was there, knew he was watching you quiver, knew he would stop it if it got too much, that you wouldn’t have to ask him, that he would just know. You felt heat on your cheeks and a twist of something in your gut. For a moment you wanted to skip forward to the aftermath, to Joel holding you in bed and loving on you, recounting the events that hadn’t even unfolded yet as you felt the heat of his skin and the strength of his arms, the muscles ripping under his skin as he kissed the shell of your ear and let you drift to sleep, wrapped up in him.

Joel gripped the neck of his beer bottle harder than he intended, barely registering the cold on his hands. It had been his idea to set this up, he knew that, had rented the whole place out to make a safe space for you to play, had vetted the guys from the job site, had been careful to select the ones he knew would treat you right. Still, though. Still, he could see you were shaking, trying so hard to be good for him with your hands pushed into the wall, and he doubted for just a second, wondered whether he should call it. He could see you were slick between your thighs, could hear that you were breathing heavy. But he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t feel a surge of something a little like jealousy at the way the eyes of the guys travelled over your delicious curves, curves he had – up until this moment – reserved the sole right to traverse. He wondered if the guys would be able to stick to the limits once they had you under them. He was ready to pull you out of there the moment something got out of hand, but he worried, now and for the first time, that by then it could be too late.

You swallowed over your dry throat. You were trying to stay in your body, to close your eyes and give yourself over to it, but you were still struggling to quiet your mind. This is what you had wanted, and you knew Joel would never push you further than what you had told him you would go. You knew that. But did the other guys? You considered for a moment, the thought occurring to you like a lightning bolt, that Joel had worked you up in the shower precisely so that you would be horny enough not to run for the door the second he tried this. You almost wanted to laugh, except that you were too scared to lest you lose all control.

There were more footsteps, coming towards you from beside the bar, and you swore you heard a group of men cheering the man on. He wasn’t hesitating, whoever this stranger in the bar was, probably having spotted you from across the room. You kept your eyes on the floor, your head hanging low between your shoulders. From this angle you could see your ankles, the heels Joel insisted you wear even though you could barely stand in them, realising now why he wanted you off balance, why he wanted you unable to run for the door. Two pairs of trainers appeared between your ankles, a rough hand coming down to rest on your left butt cheek. It wasn’t a slap, wasn’t even a particularly hard grope, but you whimpered anyway, slammed your eyes shut and immediately wondered if it was better to look or not.

And throughout it all your pussy throbbed. Even if you were in turmoil it knew exactly what it wanted, was hungry for the attention and the desires of all these men, was having a fucking field day knowing Joel was watching you, wanting you, from across the room.

The man behind you slid two fingers over your seam, his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned over you. You shuddered, his skin rougher than Joels, as he prodded at you, eased your lips open and ran his fingers up along the flesh there. You realised he was collecting your slick, felt him pull away and his lips smack around his hand as he, presumably, sucked you off his skin.

‘Jesus, boys,’ he called to his friends over the other side of the room, and you startled. ‘She’s fuckin’ sweeter than honey and dripping onto the floor.’

Under the cheers you swore you heard Joel chuckle, and you shivered. You wanted this man to touch you again, almost whined when he instead moved back to his table. You were sweating, could feel that the small of your back was damp, felt like you had a fever, some kind of delirium, the pulsing of your cunt so intense it almost hurt.

You heard more shuffling footsteps, now, three or four sets, as you realised the table of friends were making their way over to you. You shivered, turned a wild eye over to Joel, who was sipping at his beer and watching you, nodding gently at you to keep you there. You kept your hands on the wall. You wanted to be his good girl.

‘And we can touch her wherever?’ a guy was saying, and you moved your face back to the wall, arching your back slightly, practically waving your cunt in the air.

‘She ain’t protesting,’ a voice said, and you recognised it as the man who had just touched you. To demonstrate his point, he extended his hand to your face and stuck two of his fingers in your mouth, and you sucked them willingly, tasting a hint of yourself on him. You felt your eyes close all by themselves, smiling as the man gasped.

‘Holy shit,’ someone else commented, and you were slapped hard on your arse then, the sting of it making you whine. A finger quickly followed, probing you open again, your copious amounts of slick easing the entry.

‘Like this?’ the voice said, and you realised he was asking you a question, and you nodded your head. ‘Yeah, you like this,’ the voice affirmed, a finger finally sinking into your cunt. You felt yourself spasm, throwing your head back and groaning, your hips rolling all on their own.

‘Tight little thing,’ someone said, and you grunted as another finger was added. You were being pushed into the wall, your face lying on the brick, your hands still planted above your head.

‘Ease it on her a little,’ a third voice said, and you felt another hand snake around you, this one cold on the fingertips, as it slid over your clit.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, the pleasure of it shooting through you. You could feel that you were clamping down on the fingers inside you.

‘She liked that a lot,’ the man beside you said, and he pulled his fingers from your mouth and dropped them to your tit, rubbing the nipple through the barely-there shirt Joel had picked out for you tonight.

You were whimpering, gradually losing control of the sounds you were making, of your little cries into the noise of the bar, and you could hear them snickering, laughing at your pleasurable distress, at the ache and thrum of your cunt, at the way you were so wet you were leaking down your thighs.

You were losing your grip on your thoughts, felt them slipping through you, unable to catch them as they dripped past. From somewhere a memory stirred itself up, sitting on Joel’s lap in the bar you always go to, his hand pushing on your clit from outside your panties as he shielded you from the rest of the patrons, whispering into his ear that you fantasised about being used by strange men, about being set up by him to be groped and fondled, to be watched as men took their pleasure from you, to have to wait for them to be done with you, to be bored of you, before you were released. ‘But they never get bored of me, not really. Sometimes they let me rest for a bit. But they want me that bad, they can’t stop.’

‘How long’s this all take, when you think about it?’ he asked, feeling even through the fabric of your underwear that you were dripping.

‘Sometimes hours,’ you whimpered, breathless just at the thought of it. ‘I’m free for their use, for hours. For hours,’ you said.

Now, with your hands against the wall in just the position you had described to Joel weeks before, you bite your lip. God, how long does he plan on keeping you here? You want to come already, want to push down on the hands behind you and flood them with your spend.

These men, though, these three, are just teasing you, and right when you start to rock your hips they pull away again.

‘Unreal,’ one of them says, as if you’re a work of art hanging on a wall in a museum, and you want to howl at them, want to grab their hands and put them back on your skin. You resist the urge, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Joel said no coming, so maybe you should be grateful. Even if you’re now quivering. Even if you’re not sure your legs will keep you standing.

You take a couple of shaky breaths, coming down enough to notice that your shoulders are starting to ache. You roll them, careful to keep your palms connected to the surface, trying to push the hair out of your eyes by running your face along your forearms.

You’re not sure how long you stand there. You try counting the songs on the jukebox but they all sound the same to you, and it’s hard to decipher when one stops and the next one begins. Every now and again there’s the sound of glasses being dumped into the trough behind the bar, clinking ice and peels of male laughter. Once or twice, someone walks past on the way to the bathroom and pat you on the arse, put a hand on your lower back and bend you further, pushing you until your sweet little cunt is more fully exposed. But no one is bold enough to touch, no one is as forward as the three men from before, and you’re feeling a twinge of disappointment settling in between the arousal and the shock. These scant touches aren’t nearly enough, and you realise that you’re pining for someone to come and tease you, play with your cunt or your tits until you’re gasping.

You chance a look over your shoulder at Joel and see that he’s turned away from you a little, his beer in his hand while he chats to a man beside him, and his casual disregard for your predicament infuriates you as much as it sends bolts of heat to your cunt.

You’re being ignored, you realise, and it makes your tummy do weird flips you don’t fully understand. You start to arch your back again, weave your hips in slow circles in the air. You don’t have a lot of mental capacity in this moment, so it’s only later you will consider that Joel had made sure you would beg for any attention, knew that you would be outraged at not being the centre of attention in this moment, that you would reach a new level of depraved heat just to get the eyes back on you. It had maybe been half an hour and you’d gone from praying no one would see you if you didn’t move, to trying to scent the air around you with your cunt, luring them to you like a siren on a rocky cove.

Now, though, now all you want is for someone to touch you, someone to ease their hands onto your skin and feel the heat of it, coo at how mean your man is, how silly for letting a pretty little thing like you out of his clutches. You realise you allowed to close your legs and you do, wrapping one foot behind your ankle so you can rub your thighs together. The skin slides easily and you sigh, gently.

You’re wrapped up in it, your ears tuning out the noise around you to properly concentrate on the thrum of your cunt, so you don’t realise there’s someone behind you until they’re basically on you, kicking your legs apart and arching you back again.

‘Naughty girl,’ the voice says, and it’s not Joel and you’re marginally disappointed but also it means this isn’t over yet, and you grin back at him.

‘Not sorry,’ you say, and you’re pulled back then, almost bent over in a right angle as your hands slide down the wall but stay on it, your arms now covering your ears.

You just barely hear a grunt, then something cold and hard is pushing at your lips for entry, and you realise that you are being fucked in a strange bar with a beer bottle in front of however many strange men, and you groan at the insanity of it, at the filth. He’s twisting it, his other hand finding your clit, and you’re throwing your head back now, your hair falling down your back as you arch, the glass so smooth and cold inside you that you wonder for a second if you’ve fogged it up. Its thrust into you three, four, five times before the man slips it from you, and you hear him take a swig of it, the taste of your cunt on the glass as he lifts it to his lips. He groans, rests a hand on the small of your back as he sips.

‘Sweet?’ someone calls out, and you hear him laugh.

‘Heaven,’ he says. ‘Come get yours before I ruin her.’

You hear chairs being pushed back, and looking down at the floor you count seven pairs of shoes assembling in a line behind you. You can hear some guys are still playing pool, the crack of the 8 ball as someone breaks. You look for Joel’s along the line of shoes behind you. You don’t see them.

There are fingers in your cunt again, two or maybe three, you’re not sure, and you have moved up a little, your tits pressed to the wall as they grope you from behind. It’s delicious, exactly the right pressure in exactly the right spot, as if someone has given them all a manual to your body. Someone lifts your leg under the knee and twists your hip so that you can rest your foot on his thigh, and then you’re even more open, even more exposed. You close your eyes, your spine twisting to keep both arms on the wall, but in this position one man can get underneath you on his knees and lick up into you and you gasp at the feeling of it, the warmth of his tongue compared to the cold of the bottle, and you’re really sweating now, want to rip your top off and pull the skirt from around your waist just to get it out of the way, but someone is using it to hold you still, the fabric bunched under your tits so that you won’t fall. With one mouth on your cunt someone else is behind you with his fingers inside you, and someone else is holding your tits in his hands, his thumbs squeezing and rubbing at your nipples.

Over your shoulder you can hear someone commentating for his friend. ‘Fuck, you thought she was wet before,’ they’re saying, and the way they’re talking about you like you’re not there, like you’re an object for them to play with, a doll, a toy, has you bucking against the tongue on your clit, against the fingers inside you. They’re setting you on fire, the embers catching on gasoline. It’s heaven and its torture and its so, so much.

Fuck, you’re going to come and you can’t stop it. But you have to, you promised Joel. You’re almost wailing now, trying to get the feeling out in some way so that you won’t tip over the edge, and the guys are laughing.

‘Listen to her hollerin’,’ someone says, and you can’t keep your eyes closed anymore, open them to see a bunch of men standing around you, all of them palming their cocks through their pants, as one man crouches under your form, his shoulder pushed hard into the wall to get under you. You can’t see the man behind you but one is off to the side, his eyes on our cunt as he bounces your tits in his hands.

‘Oh, hey beautiful,’ one of the men watching says when he catches your eye. He’s handsome, they all are, you realise, and they’re all in their early 30s and they’re all incredibly fit, and if you had any presence of mind in this moment you would consider that this was an odd coincidence, but as it is right now you just want their cocks in your mouth, want their come dripping over your tits and your face. The one behind you, with his fingers buried in your cunt, is grinding against you and for a deranged moment you consider freeing him from his pants and slipping him inside you.

‘She’s so fucked out,’ someone laughs, and you’re gasping, crying out as if that will stop you from coming, but it’s not enough, the cliff is right there. You’re rolling your hips, your mouth agape and gasping when you’re not howling for relief.

‘Like a bitch in heat,’ someone says. ‘Hey, tag out.’

All of them stop, hold you steady for a second. You’re panting, your legs weak as you lean your weight on the wall. You can feel yourself receding from the cliff again, can feel the throb in your cunt easing off just enough that you can think. Your leg is dropped back to the floor, and you are jostled back into position as the men rearrange themselves, and you realise they’re taking turns using you. Even without their hands on you, the thought alone could make you come. You want to turn your head to look for Joel but they’re crowding around you, and for a second there’s a drop of panic in your belly before it’s replaced again with wildfire. You know he’s there. Know he’ll stop it if he needs to.

‘Holy shit, she’s still so tight,’ someone says, slipping back into place in your cunt, and another man laughs. ‘Get the bottle again, stretch her out.’ Their hands are probing again, a man finger-fucking you from the front now, another holding you up from behind as they twist you off to the side. They’re all staring at your cunt, at where you’re spreading open to take them, marvelling at the intrusion.

‘How many fingers you reckon she can take?’ someone asks, and you buck your hips away from it, away from how obscene it is, from how irrevocably turned on in makes you.

‘Joel said not to mark her,’ someone says, and much later you will recall this, recognise this as the moment you might have realised he had set all of it up, including who these men were. As it was you were too busy trying to quell the rushing bliss thundering through you, trying to hold back the cracking dam with your pinkie finger and good will.

‘Scoot over, then,’ someone says, and you are moved again, your legs opened up a little further so that two hands can be inside you at once, their fingers moving just out of sequence enough that they rub at different speeds, forming a relentless piston, a wave of pleasure that’s going to drag you under, fill your lungs.

You can’t take it. Your eyes are blurring from unshed tears, the respite from moments ago disappearing under the weight of the bodies covering you. Are your hands still on the wall? You open your eyes a crack to check. You want them to throw you over their shoulders and slip their cocks inside you, one in front and one behind. You want to roll on the floor with them, have them line up and sink yourself down on them one by one like some kind of deranged Goldilocks. You want every last one of them to come on you, in you, to breed you, to make you theirs.

You can feel your back arching, can feel that you’re rearing up again, the pleasure twisting up your spine and elongating it, your head pulling hard up and away from your shoulders. You’re holding your breath, trying to keep the orgasm away, but it’s bolting up on you.

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ you’re saying, and you’re not even sure what you can’t do exactly. Can’t hold it back, can’t take anymore, can’t stop. Can’t come like this, not allowed to. Joel’s good girl.

‘Hey!’ a voice booms from the bar and you recognise it immediately, Joel standing up and moving towards you. He’s seen you struggling, has seen your hips rolling and heard your wails as you tried to hold back for him. ‘I said no comin’!’ he bellows, and you groan. Your knight in shining armour has arrived just to keep fucking torturing you.

‘Joel!’ you cry, whine, nearly in tears for the need of him. Suddenly you don’t want any of these guys, you just want him, want his smell and the sweet softness of his flannel, want his eyes on you and his whispers in your ear. Want his cock inside you, his come claiming you from within. He’s shouldering his way to you, pushing the guys out of the way, and then he’s with you, your heart racing as his hands are on your shoulders, turning you back to the wall.

‘So good f’me, baby, I know, I know,’ he’s soothing you and you realise you’re sobbing, your breaths coming in deep huffs.

‘Please, please,’ you’re calling for him, and you feel his arm around your waist, feel him scrabbling around to undo his belt and pull down his fly, at the same time as he’s lifting you up and pulling you down on his cock, the fit of him so perfect inside you, his skin inside yours. The guys are watching and you don’t care, because finally he’s with you again, finally he’s the right one, and you’re groaning and gasping, calling his name as he whispers filth in your ear.

‘None of these men get your come,’ he’s saying, ‘none of these guys. Just me that makes ya come, ya hear me?’ and you’re nodding.

‘I want you to make me come, Joel. Only you, only you.’

‘Can feel you grippin’ me, baby,’ he’s babbling, and he’s not sure he’s ever been so hard. He was so patient, watching the guys take you apart bit by bit, until your eyes were unfocussed and your mouth was hanging open, gasping and trying so hard to catch your breath. He could see it in the strain of your muscles, in the way you were panting and hollerin’, that you were holding off for him, that you were keeping yourself sweet and well behaved out of love for him, out of desire, and despite all the other men in the room that wanted you he knew in that moment you were his, that you were his good girl, his, his, his.

It hadn’t been his plan to fuck you like this, but he couldn’t help himself when he heard you callin’ for him. He’d thought he’d just let you come on their hands or their faces, or that you would eventually break and he’d get to slap your arse a little as punishment, but not that you would nearly snap every bone in your body, let your sinew scream and strain, just to stay his good girl.

He surges forward, gripping you to him with one arm, and raises his other hand to cover yours, still pushing into the wall of the bar. He can feel that the skin is ragged underneath, that the exposed brick has grazed you from your effort of keeping your hands there, and he resolves to bathe you in warm water and lick every inch of broken skin the moment he gets you home.

But not yet. Right now, he’s pushing himself further inside you, lifting you up a little so that you’re just on your tippy toes on the floor, balancing on his cock so he can get even deeper inside. You’re keening, your whole body shaking, and you’re not sure you’re going to survive this but you really, really don’t mind going out this way.

You don’t even have words. You can barely get air. You just entwine your fingers with Joels’ where he holds your hands to the wall, tuck your chin to your chest and howl, the orgasm crashing over you and rolling almost immediately into another one, Joel behind you and fucking up into you while you know you still have an audience, while they’re coming onto the floor at your feet, jerking it to the idea of them being the ones to be inside you, of their cocks splitting you open and feeling your cunt milk them dry. You don’t care about any of them, don’t care that they want you so much they’ll settle for their own fists, because all you want is this man, this one inside you and coming deep into your cunt, this one who loves you, who carries you now in his arms with warmth and strength, who is holding you up as he ruts his spend into you, as he gasps and cries out for you, in this very fucking public dive bar just off the highway, where you know you can never step foot again.

He doesn’t let you sink to the floor, no matter how badly your legs want to give out on you, but is instead wrapping his hands under your knees, under your arms and lifting you to him.

‘Dirty down there, baby,’ he says, and you open one eye to see the streams of come decorating where you were just standing. The men have all disappeared, knowing that the fun is over, and Joel has wrapped his coat around you at some point, and your muscles are loose and stretched and shaking, suddenly cold from the chill of your sweat in the open air. You tuck your head under his chin, listen to the way he grunts, quietly, when he pushes open the door with his shoulder and carries you to the car. You feel him drop you into the passenger seat of the truck, feel him put the seatbelt on you and turn the heater up as soon as the engine starts.

You can’t move, your whole body spent. You realise by how dark the night is outside the car window that it has been hours. That he has given you everything you asked for, and then just a little bit more. You crack one eye open to watch him as he drives, the streetlights strobing over his face, the scruff on his cheeks, the pointed angle of his nose, the greys appearing by the day in his hair.

You feel your eyes drift shut again, the heat of the car and the warmth of his jacket soothing you down to sleep. He has given you something you only ever dreamed about, something you never even hoped to one day have. You don’t mean the guys in the bar.

Tag list:

@kyloispunk

@604to647

#joel miller #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader

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jezebelblues · 6 months ago

Text

don’t care if the sun don’t shine | h.s

summary: and so a rockstar and a seamstress walk into a bar coffee shop.

cw: mentions of smut, fem!reader, 1950s harry, unedited.

word count: approx 17.1k

| when in doubt, 1950s harry au 😎 am not time traveler or historian so sorry if smthn is wrong. also there’s just little hints of smut sprinkled in here, wanted to try 2 give a longer piece w/o it. hope u can enjoy maybe. also too tired to edit love u (so if u see smthn horribly misspelt or wtv, no u didn’t)

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

masterlist

April 1957, London

The rain fell in soft, persistent taps against the wide windows of Scotty McBean’s, the droplets weaving an intricate dance down the glass. Outside, the world was an impressionist’s canvas—blurred shades of grey, muted by mist and the rhythmic splash of tires through puddles. Inside, however, the café was a sanctuary. The warm amber glow of old Edison bulbs bathed everything in a golden light, casting long shadows that flickered with each movement. The scent of freshly ground coffee mingled with the faint trace of damp wool coats, and the creak of wooden floors added to the atmosphere.

The coffee shop was a comforting contradiction—a place where time felt slower. The brick exterior gave way to rich oak paneling, with walls painted the color of soft sunshine. Espresso-colored floors groaned underfoot, and canary-yellow booths invited patrons to sit and forget the outside world. Old black-and-white photographs of singers—Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald—were pinned to the walls, their faces capturing fleeting moments of immortality. In the back, a narrow stairwell led to the owner’s apartment above, barely noticeable to most patrons.

In the farthest corner, away from the windows, sat Harry Styles, his back to the room, shoulders slightly hunched. He was an enigma in a leather jacket that looked as though it had traveled farther than he ever could. His head was bent over a notebook, its pages filled with hasty scrawls and incomplete lyrics. His curls, damp from the drizzle outside, fell into his eyes as he stared at the paper, his pen tracing aimless circles in the margins. The world had yet to catch up with him in this quiet pocket of London, where anonymity still hung in the air like the smell of freshly cut, wet grass.

The jukebox hummed quietly in the corner, playing a scratchy rendition of a jazz tune, though Harry barely registered it. The music was always there, surrounding him, but today it eluded him. The words wouldn’t come, and the rain outside seemed to pull him further into himself. With a sigh, he swirled the last of his coffee, watching the dark liquid spin lazily before he pushed the cup aside, his frustration beginning to creep in.

The bell above the door tinkled softly as YN entered, shaking the rain from her coat before making her way to her usual seat by the window. She barely glanced around the room, her focus already on her worn paperback novel, a sanctuary from the drudgery of her seamstress shifts. Scotty’s had become her escape, a place where she could lose herself for an hour or two, watching the rain smear the world outside into something distant and irrelevant.

Harry stood up abruptly, the sound of the stool scraping against the floor breaking YN’s concentration. She looked up, her gaze drawn to the figure of the man across the room. His presence was striking in a subtle way—the tousled hair, the red button-up shirt half undone, revealing tattoos that peeked out just below the collarbones. He had an air of casual disarray, like someone who hadn’t yet figured out where they were supposed to be but didn’t mind the journey. His black slacks were cuffed just above the ankle, exposing powder-blue socks and scuffed loafers.

He moved with a kind of restless energy, as though he was eager to be anywhere but here. Harry shoved his notebook into his back pocket and tossed a few bills on the table, offering a brief nod to the barista before he pushed through the door, the sound of rain enveloping him the moment he stepped outside. The bell jingled again as the door swung shut behind him.

From her seat by the window, YN watched as his figure disappeared into the misty street. Her gaze fell to his chair and the jacket draped over the back. The leather was worn, cracked in places, and heavy with the stories it must have carried. For a moment, she considered leaving it there, assuming he’d return. But something about the way it hung—forgotten, abandoned—made her stand up. She crossed the room, the wooden floor creaking underfoot, and lifted the jacket from the chair, feeling the weight of it in her hands.

Peering out the window, she saw him, just a shadow now, walking briskly down the street. The mist clung to him like a shroud, blurring the edges of his figure as he moved further away. Without thinking, she pushed through the door, the cool air biting at her cheeks as she hurried after him, the jacket clutched tightly in her arms.

“Excuse me!” she called, her voice slightly breathless as she jogged to catch up with him. “You forgot something!”

Harry stopped, turning on his heel, his brow furrowed in brief confusion. His eyes landed on the jacket in her arms, and a slow smile curved his lips, softening the sharpness in his expression. He walked back toward her, his hands still tucked into his pockets. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like the distant roll of thunder on a quiet evening.

For a brief moment, their hands brushed as he took the jacket from her. The leather was cold from the rain, but her touch had left a trace of warmth. He pulled it on, the familiar weight settling over his shoulders as if it had never left. “Can’t believe I almost left that behind,” he mused, his lips quirking into a lopsided grin. “Must’ve been distracted.”

“No worries.” She shook her head, her smile growing a little as she handed it over. “I figured a jacket like that must belong to someone important—or at least someone who thinks they are.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Important, huh? I wouldn’t go that far.”

There was a moment of quiet as YN watched him, intrigued by the easy way he carried himself, like he was used to being on his own, used to being somewhere and nowhere all at once.

“Well, thanks again.” Harry nodded toward her, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” She chuckled breathily, stepping back slightly, ready to let him go on his way. “Just thought I’d return it before you left it behind for good.”

Before she could turn to walk away, Harry’s voice caught her attention. “You know,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes, “I should probably buy you a coffee as a thank you. Seems only fair.”

She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Tempting, but I’ve got somewhere to be.” She turned then, walking away with a casual wave, her shoes splashing lightly in the puddles. “But maybe next time.”

Harry stood there for a moment, watching her disappear into the mist. A smile still lingered on his lips as he tucked his hands back into his pockets and continued on his way, the weight of the jacket a comforting reminder of the brief encounter.

And yet, as the rain continued to fall, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something—someone—had just slipped through his fingers.

A week passed, and London remained draped in its usual veil of rain. The days blurred into one another as spring fought to emerge from beneath the clouds, the city waking slowly from the cold grip of winter. The air had a softness now, a kind of unspoken promise that something brighter was on the horizon, even if it wasn’t quite ready to reveal itself.

Scotty’s was much the same. The familiar hum of conversation, the soft clink of spoons against porcelain, the low murmur of a tune crackling through the jukebox. But today, something lingered in the atmosphere—an anticipation, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for a subtle shift.

Harry found himself back at the café, though he wasn’t sure why. The lyrics had begun to flow again, slowly at first, but with a rhythm he could almost grasp. The pages of his notebook were no longer blank, though they still felt incomplete. He had made peace with that; creation was a process, after all. He sipped his coffee, black as always, staring through the rain-streaked window at the blurred shapes of pedestrians rushing by, umbrellas bobbing like ink stains against the grey.

He hadn’t expected to see her again, though the thought of her had lingered more than he cared to admit. The girl with the kind eyes and a smile that danced at the edges of her lips. He couldn’t recall the exact shape of her face, but the impression she left—like the trace of warmth her touch had left on his jacket—remained vivid. It had been a fleeting moment, but it had shifted something in him.

Across the room, the door chimed softly, admitting a gust of cool, damp air as it opened. Harry didn’t look up at first, too lost in the quiet cadence of his thoughts. But then, a familiar voice, muffled by the bustle, drifted over the sound of rain and soft rock n roll. His gaze lifted almost involuntarily, and there she was—her coat still damp from the street, strands of hair clinging to her cheek as she unwound her scarf and shook off the cold.

YN moved to her usual seat by the window, her eyes flicking to the rain-soaked cityscape beyond, unaware of the gaze that had settled on her. She seemed tired, as if the week had worn her down, yet there was a quiet resilience in the way she sat, her worn paperback already in hand. The café felt like a different place with her in it—warmer somehow, despite the chill from outside.

He hesitated. There was no reason for him to approach her. She had her book, her own sanctuary. But something tugged at him, a quiet nudge that whispered of unfinished business. He didn’t believe in fate, not really, but perhaps in coincidences that demanded attention.

Before he could second-guess himself, he stood, his leather jacket creaking softly as he slung it over his shoulders. He crossed the café in a few strides, the wooden floors groaning beneath his weight, and paused at her table, casting a shadow over the page of her book.

“Mind if I sit?” His voice was softer than he intended, as if he, too, was wary of disturbing the delicate balance of the moment.

YN glanced up, startled at first, but recognition quickly softened her expression. Her eyes flicked to the jacket—the same one she had returned to him just days ago—and a small, knowing smile curved her lips. “Well, if it isn’t mr. forget-me-nots.” She grinned, closing her book and gesturing to the chair across from her. “Go ahead.”

He sat, the silence between them stretching out in an oddly comfortable way. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the window, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no rush.

“I never did buy you that coffee,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, his hands resting casually in his lap. “Thought I might owe you one.”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to blend with the ambient music, smooth and warm. “You don’t owe me anything. But if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”

He motioned to the barista, ordering two coffees without asking her preference. Somehow, he sensed they would drink the same. The brief exchange felt easy, natural, as if they were old acquaintances rather than strangers bound by a single, fleeting encounter.

“So,” she said after a pause, studying him with a curious glint in her eye, “you still distracted?”

“Always.” Harry replied with a grin, running a hand through his damp curls. “Though less so, lately.”

The coffees arrived, and they both reached for their cups at the same time, their fingers brushing once again. This time, the touch lingered a moment longer, neither of them pulling away too quickly.

For a while, they talked about nothing—music, the rain, the oddities of London in spring. She told him about a film she’d seen at the Odeon, describing the way the characters had seemed to glow against the shadows of post-war England, and he listened with an attentiveness that surprised even him. He didn’t talk much about his music—he didn’t need to. The conversation flowed around it, like a river bending around an unseen stone.

The light in the café shifted as the afternoon stretched into evening, the golden glow deepening, casting their features in warm, soft hues. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a slick sheen on the streets outside, reflecting the world like a forgotten dream.

As they finished their second cups of coffee, Harry glanced out the window, watching the lights of passing cars blur into streaks of color. “Do you come here often?” he asked, the question simply, but laced with more than casual curiosity.

YN smiled, folding her hands around her empty cup. “When I can. It’s nice to escape for a bit, to be somewhere where the world slows down, even if just for an hour.”

He nodded, understanding that feeling all too well. Silence settled between them again, comfortable and heavy with unspoken things. The day was fading, and yet neither of them seemed eager to leave, as if this small corner of the world—this small moment—was theirs to hold for a little longer.

“Maybe I’ll see you again.” She mumbled softly, though it stood more of a question. Her eyes caught his for a lingering moment before she stood, pulling her coat around her shoulders.

“Maybe,” he replied, watching as she turned to leave, her steps quiet against the floor.

The bell above the door chimed as she walked out into the fading light, her figure disappearing once again into the misty streets. This time, Harry didn’t feel like anything had slipped away. Instead, there was a quiet certainty that hung in the air, like the last note of a song, waiting to be played again.

Another week later, the rain returned, draping the city in its familiar haze, washing the streets in muted shades of silver and grey. The city hummed beneath its damp blanket, alive with the quiet energy of a world that never truly stopped moving. The coffee shop was once again a refuge, its amber light glowing through the mist like a beacon for those seeking warmth and a momentary escape from the relentless rhythm of the outside.

Harry found himself at his usual spot, though this time there was less of the restless energy that had consumed him in previous weeks. He still wore the same jacket—weathered and worn, but it had grown more comfortable on his shoulders, like it had settled into him, just as he had begun to settle into the slow, steady rhythm of the café. His notebook lay open on the table, but today, he wasn’t scribbling hurried lyrics or fragments of thought. He was simply sitting, watching the rain trickle down the glass, feeling the weight of time slow around him.

He hadn’t seen her again since their last meeting, but the memory of their conversation lingered in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t quite forget. There had been something unspoken between them, something delicate and unfinished, and though they had parted ways without exchanging names, without exchanging promises, there was an unshakable feeling that their story wasn’t over.

The bell above the door tinkled softly, and Harry’s gaze flicked up instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. There she was.

She stood in the doorway, shaking the rain from her hair, her coat damp and her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her eyes scanned the room briefly before settling on him, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the space between them thick with the unspoken familiarity that had formed in their brief encounters. She smiled—soft and almost tentative—as if she, too, was unsure of what came next but willing to find out.

Without hesitation, YN made her way toward him, and Harry, unable to help himself, stood up as she approached. There was something magnetic about the way she moved, her presence shifting the air in the room, drawing his attention in a way that felt effortless and natural.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her voice a little breathless, her fingers tugging lightly at the edges of her scarf.

“Not at all.” Harry smiled, gesturing to the seat across from him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

She sat down, folding her hands neatly on the table, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the soft sounds of Scotty’s filling the comfortable silence between them. Outside, the rain tapped lightly against the windows, casting everything in a shimmering, dreamlike quality.

“Seems we keep running into each other,” YN said, her smile widening as she leaned back slightly in her chair.

“London’s smaller than it looks.” Harry laughed, his eyes glinting with a quiet amusement. “Or maybe we just keep ending up in the same places.”

Their coffees arrived soon after, and for a while, they fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, punctuated by the occasional sip and the comfortable pauses that stretched between them. They talked about everything and nothing—books, music, the rain, the way the city seemed to transform under its misty veil. Harry found himself listening more than he spoke, captivated by the way she described the world around her, as if she saw it through a lens just slightly different from his own.

“Do you ever get the feeling,” YN said after a moment, her fingers tracing absentminded circles around the rim of her cup, “that some places just hold memories? Like they’re waiting for something to happen, or maybe they already have, and we’re just walking through it.”

He considered her words, though they were random—watching the way the light flickered across her face, casting delicate shadows that danced with each subtle movement. “Yeah.” He murmured, nodding. “I get that. Sometimes I think the city’s like that. Full of moments we’ll never really understand, but we’re part of them anyway.”

She looked at him then, her gaze holding his for a beat longer than usual, something unspoken passing between them. The rain outside seemed to soften, the world outside the window fading into a blur of greys and soft edges, leaving only the two of them in this small, golden-lit corner of the café.

“Do you come here to write?” she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to the notebook resting on the table between them.

Harry glanced down at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes. When the words come.”

“And when they don’t?” Her eyebrows furrowed, tone gentle, but with a hint of curiosity.

“When they don’t..” He paused, “I just sit here and pretend like they will.” He said with a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair. “But I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s enough to just sit and watch the world go by.”

She nodded, understanding the sentiment in a way that didn’t need further explanation. They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The café seemed to breathe around them, the soft murmur of conversations, the faint clink of dishes being cleared away, the rain that had begun to fall harder now, tapping insistently against the window.

“So,” Harry said after a while, his voice soft but playful, “are we going to keep pretending we don’t know each other’s names? Or is this going to be a thing?”

YN’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, her eyes twinkling. “I kind of liked the mystery,” she teased. “But I suppose we’ve gone long enough, haven’t we?”

He grinned, extending his hand across the table. “Harry.”

She took his hand, her grip firm and warm, her smile never wavering. “YN.”

There it was—a name, a simple exchange that felt like the opening of a door they had both been circling around for days. Harry’s fingers lingered against hers a moment longer before they let go, and with it, the air between them seemed to shift, something unspoken settling into place.

“I suppose now we can talk about more interesting things.” YN chuckled, her tone light, but there was a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something more open, more curious.

Harry leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and full of quiet promise. “I think we’ve got time for that.”

The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows of Scotty’s with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Inside, the café seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of clinking cups and quiet conversations fading into a soft murmur in the background. It was as if the world outside had dimmed, leaving only the golden warmth of their table, the soft glow from the Edison bulbs overhead casting a flickering light over their faces.

Harry rested his chin on his hand, his eyes tracing her features as she spoke, but this time, he wasn’t just listening to her words. He was watching the way her lips curved when she smiled, the faint crease at the corner of her eyes when something amused her. She had a way of speaking that was unhurried, deliberate, like she wasn’t afraid of silences. He liked that. It made the conversation feel richer, like they were both taking their time to truly settle into it.

“So,” YN grinned, leaning forward slightly, her eyes twinkling with a new kind of curiosity, “I know we’re past the point of mystery now, but I can’t help but wonder—what do you do, Harry? Besides sitting in cafés, pretending to write.” There was a playful lilt to her voice, but underneath it, genuine intrigue.

Harry smiled, glancing down at his notebook for a moment before returning his gaze to hers. “I suppose y’could say I write. Music, mostly. Or at least, I try to. Been doing it for a while now, but some days..well, it’s more like staring at blank pages and hoping the words will show up.”

Her brow arched slightly, the teasing smile still in place. “A musician, huh? That explains the jacket, I think.”

Harry laughed, a low, easy sound. “What, this old thing?” He tugged at the sleeve of his worn leather jacket. “Yeah, it’s seen a few gigs. I guess it’s part of the look.”

“Fits,” she said, her gaze drifting over the jacket before meeting his eyes again. “You seem like someone who carries a lot of stories around.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I think we all do. We just don’t always share them.”

YN looked at him thoughtfully, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the rim of her cup. “I like that,” she said softly. “The idea that we’re all carrying our own stories, waiting for the right moment to tell them.”

They sat in that shared moment of understanding, the rain a constant, steady beat in the background, as if the city itself was nodding along to their conversation. The café felt like a world apart, and in the dim light, their words felt heavier, more significant.

“What about you?” Harry asked, leaning in a little, his voice dropping slightly as though the question required a quieter space between them. “What’s your story, YN?”

She smiled, though there was a slight hesitation in it, as if the question had tugged at something deeper than she’d expected. She glanced out the window for a moment, watching the rain dance down the glass, before returning her gaze to him. “Nothing as glamorous as writing music, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m a seamstress. Spend most of my days with fabric and thread, stitching things together.” She paused, her fingers still tracing the rim of her cup. “But I suppose, in a way, it’s similar. Trying to create something from nothing. Trying to make something that lasts.”

Harry’s smile softened as he listened. There was something in the way she said it—a quiet pride, though she seemed to downplay it. “Sounds like you do more than stitch things together,” he said gently. “Sounds like you’re an artist.”

YN’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, perhaps, or a kind of recognition she hadn’t expected to find in someone she had met only weeks ago. She tilted her head slightly, considering him in a new light. “Maybe,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Maybe we both are.”

The weather outside eased, as though it too was settling into the rhythm of their conversation, content to simply fall, uninterrupted. For a long moment, they said nothing, but there was no need for words. The connection between them had deepened, a quiet understanding of two people who had lived different lives but were somehow walking along the same path, at least for now.

As the café began to empty and the light outside faded into a deeper shade of grey, YN glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed softly. “I should go,” she said reluctantly, standing and gathering her things. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Harry stood as well, though he made no move to rush her. “Same time next week?” he asked, though it sounded more like a pleas. His voice was hopeful, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

She paused, her eyes meeting his, a smile spreading across her face. “Maybe,” she said, her tone teasing but warm. “We’ll see if the rain brings us back together.”

He watched as she walked toward the door, the soft jingle of the bell marking her departure. But as she reached the threshold, she turned back, her eyes catching his in the dim light.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she said, her voice soft and clear.

“Goodnight, YN,” he replied, his gaze lingering on her until she disappeared into the misty streets, the rain swallowing her silhouette.

Harry stood there for a moment longer, the warmth of the café a comforting weight around him, though the space felt a little emptier now that she was gone. He knew they’d see each other again—there was something inevitable about it, something like the rain itself. It came and went, but it always returned, steady and certain.

And as he sat back down at the table, his notebook still open in front of him, the words finally began to come, slow and steady, like the first drops of rain after a long dry spell.

The rain had finally lifted. After weeks of mist and drizzle, London began to stir under clearer skies, the clouds pulling apart like curtains to reveal a softer light. The city, for the first time in what felt like ages, glimmered under the hesitant warmth of spring. It was the kind of day that made people walk a little slower, tilt their faces up to the sun as if to remind themselves that it still existed. The air smelled clean, almost sweet, with the faint scent of budding flowers lingering along the sidewalks.

Harry stood on the corner near the shop, the light wind catching the edges of his shirt. Today, the jacket that had become a kind of signature, was left at home. He wore only a white t-shirt and a worn pair of denim jeans. There was something almost unfamiliar about the city bathed in this kind of light, as though London itself wasn’t quite sure how to behave without the constant mist of rain.

The café came into view, its windows still streaked with the remnants of the last downpour, though the golden light streaming through them made the place look brighter, more inviting. As Harry crossed the street, his shoes tapping against the dry pavement, he found himself wondering if she’d be there. It wasn’t something they had agreed upon exactly—just a suggestion, a possibility—but he’d found himself coming back, waiting. Hoping.

He pushed open the door to Scotty’s, the familiar chime of the bell greeting him, and for a moment, he felt the comforting weight of routine. The café was quieter than usual, the absence of rain having drawn more people outdoors to bask in the fleeting sunshine. He glanced around the room, his eyes naturally drawn to the corner booth by the window, where he had come to expect her.

And there she was.

YN sat in her usual seat, her coat draped over the back of the chair, a book open in front of her. But this time, she wasn’t lost in the pages. She was looking out the window, her face tilted toward the sunlight, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of her book. The light caught the edges of her hair, making it glow in a way that was almost ethereal, and for a moment, Harry just stood there, watching her, struck by the quiet beauty of the scene.

She didn’t seem to notice him at first, her gaze lost in the world outside the window, where people strolled along the sunlit streets, their faces bright with the unexpected warmth of the day. But then, as if sensing his presence, she turned her head, and their eyes met.

A smile flickered across her face, slow and soft, like the unfolding of a secret. Harry felt his own lips curve in response, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding loosening as he made his way over to her.

“Sunny days suit you.” He smiled, his way of greeting as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Do they?” YN asked, her smile growing as she closed her book and set it aside. “I was starting to think I’d forgotten what the sun looked like.”

Harry laughed, the sound light in the quiet café. “Yeah, City’s not exactly known for its sunny days. But it’s nice to finally see it, isn’t it?”

She nodded, her gaze drifting out the window again. “It feels different today. Like it’s waking up after a long sleep.”

“It does,” he agreed, following her gaze to the street outside, where the light seemed to bounce off the buildings, painting everything in a golden hue. “I almost didn’t recognize it without the rain.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both of them basking in the novelty of the sunshine filtering through the café’s windows, casting long, lazy shadows on the floor. The warmth felt new, like a gift they hadn’t quite expected, and it seemed to slow everything down, stretching the minutes into something more luxurious, more tender.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your jacket.” YN teased, her eyes flicking to white shirt that allowed for his tattoos to faintly peak through. “You look like you’re finally thawing out.”

Harry grinned, shrugging slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “Spring does strange things to people.”

YN smiled at that, her eyes catching the sunlight as it danced across the table. “Maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe it’s just the world reminding us there’s more to life than waiting out the rain.”

Harry looked at her for a moment, her words hanging in the air between them, their meaning sinking deeper than the lighthearted tone in which they were said. There was something about her that pulled him in, something beyond the casual conversations they’d had over coffee. She spoke with a quiet wisdom, as if she saw the world in a way that others missed, catching the subtleties in moments that most people let slip by.

“I like that,” he said softly. “I like the idea that there’s more.”

Their coffees arrived, interrupting the moment, and for a while, they settled into an easy rhythm—sipping, talking, the light stretching across the table as the day moved forward. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did, but today it felt lighter, less burdened by the weight of grey skies and rain-soaked streets. They laughed more, their words lifting with the warmth of the sun, as if the change in weather had loosened something in both of them.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t come back for your jacket?” YN asked suddenly, her tone playful but with a hint of genuine curiosity. “If you’d just walked away that day?”

He smiled, the memory of their first encounter flickering in his mind. “I’d probably still be wandering around, writing terrible songs and cursing the rain.”

She laughed, the sound bright and full, and Harry couldn’t help but join in, the warmth of it filling the space between them. But as their laughter faded, he looked at her more seriously, his gaze soft but steady.

“I’m glad I came back,” he said quietly, his voice low. “It feels like everything’s been a little brighter since then.”

YN met his eyes, her own expression softening, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice just as quiet. “It has, hasn’t it?”

Outside, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets, but inside the café, the golden light lingered, wrapping around them like something tangible. There was a new kind of warmth between them now, one that wasn’t just about the weather.

It felt like the beginning of something more, something that had been waiting for the sun to finally come out.

As the day slowly gave way to evening, neither of them moved, content to stay in this moment a little longer, their hands resting on the table, close but not quite touching, as if they were waiting for the right time to close the distance.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry wasn’t in a hurry to leave. The clink of cups and low murmur of conversations filled the café, but in this corner, it felt as though the world had slowed just for them.

Then, the bell above the door jingled, followed by a burst of energy as a group of teenage girls entered the café, their school uniforms slightly rumpled after a long day of lessons. Their chatter filled the air—laughter, the soft rustle of notebooks, and the sound of footsteps shuffling toward the counter. They looked like they were regulars here, perhaps stopping by for a post-school treat, the brightness of their presence contrasting with the calm, almost serene mood of the café.

At first, he barely noticed them, his attention still on YN. But then, one of the girls, no more than sixteen, froze in place, her eyes wide as they landed on him. Her breath caught in her throat, and she nudged her friend beside her, whispering hurriedly, “It’s him! Oh my gosh, it’s really him!”

The group turned in unison, their excited whispers rising in pitch. Their eyes were fixed on Harry, who hadn’t fully noticed yet, too absorbed in his conversation with YN. But the girls didn’t move—just stood there, staring with a mix of awe and disbelief, as though they had stumbled upon something out of a dream.

Suddenly, one of them gathered the courage to step forward. She clutched a worn notebook in her hands, her voice trembling slightly with excitement as she approached the booth. “Excuse me are you–are you Harry Styles?”

He looked up, momentarily taken aback by the intensity of the gaze directed at him. The girls stood there, wide-eyed and hopeful, as if the entire café had shifted its attention to this one moment.

Harry blinked, a slow smile forming on his lips as he leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t quite used to this, especially not in a quiet place like this, but he understood the spark in their eyes. It reminded him of how he used to feel, discovering his favorite musicians, before he became part of the scene himself.

“Yeah.” he smiled, his voice friendly but low, as though he didn’t want to disturb the delicate atmosphere of the café. “In the flesh.”

The girls exchanged glances, their excitement bubbling up as they realized they weren’t imagining it. “We saw you perform last month!” one of them blurted, her voice breathless. “At the Odeon. You were incredible! Could we–could we maybe have your autograph?”

Harry chuckled softly as he reached for the notebook she held out. “Of course.” He insisted, taking the pen she offered with shaking hands. He glanced briefly at YN, who was watching the scene with an amused smile, clearly enjoying the shift in energy.

As he scribbled his name, the girls hovered around him, chattering about the performance, about how they had saved up their money to buy tickets, and how they’d never forget the way he played that one song with such emotion. Harry smiled at their enthusiasm, handing the notebook back and signing a second for one of the others, his pen gliding smoothly across the paper.

“I can’t believe it,” one of the girls whispered to her friend, clutching her signed notebook to her chest as though it were the most valuable thing in the world. “We’ve never seen anyone famous in real life before.”

“Thank you so much!” the first girl exclaimed, beaming as she tucked her notebook into her school bag. “We’ll remember this forever.”

Harry nodded, his smile warm but humble as his cheeks heated to a faint pink.

The girls, still buzzing with excitement, waved one last time before heading to the counter to order their drinks. They glanced back at him occasionally, whispering excitedly to each other, but they gave him space, respecting the fact that he had returned to his conversation with YN.

As the café settled back into its familiar rhythm, Harry leaned back in his seat, exhaling softly as he watched the girls from the corner of his eye. YN, who had been quietly observing, raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Looks like someone’s popular,” she teased gently, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Not sure if I’ll ever get used to that.” he sighed lightly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “They seem to think I’m a bigger deal than I really am.”

YN tilted her head, her smile softening. “Maybe you’re more of a big deal than you think,” she said, her voice light but sincere. “It’s not every day people chase you down for an autograph.”

Harry chuckled again, though there was a faint flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. “I suppose. Still feels strange, though.”

There was a pause, and YN glanced out the window, her fingers tapping gently against her cup. “I guess I’m lucky, then,” she said with a small smile. “I didn’t even know who you were when we met.”

He looked at her, surprised by the statement. “You really didn’t?”

She shook her head, her expression still playful but honest. “Nope. Just a guy who almost left his jacket behind.”

Harry laughed, the sound filling the quiet space between them. “Well, that’s a first.”

The warmth between them returned, unspoken but tangible, as if the moment with the girls had only brought them closer. The light outside had shifted, growing richer, casting long shadows across the street, but inside, everything felt brighter, more alive. There was something about the way YN looked at him—like she saw him, not the person the girls had seen, not the performer on stage, but the version of him that sat here, in this quiet café, sipping coffee and talking about everything and nothing.

Harry leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes steady on hers. “I like that,” he said softly. “I like that you didn’t know.”

She smiled, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup again, and in that moment, everything outside—the chatter of the girls, the fading light, the hum of the city—faded away, leaving just the two of them, suspended in the warmth of the day, in the quiet unfolding of something new.

“I think I like it too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, but her words carried more weight than anything else that had passed between them.

And in the golden light of a rare, sunny afternoon, it felt like they had found something more than just a shared cup of coffee. Something that stretched beyond the fame, beyond the rain, beyond the quiet streets of London.

Something real.

By mid-JULY, London had shed its usual cloak of mist and drizzle, now bathed in the soft warmth of summer. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and the city hummed with a new kind of energy—the kind that only came when the long days stretched lazily into balmy evenings. The streets sparkled under the glow of late sunsets, and the Thames shimmered like liquid gold in the fading light.

For the past few months, Harry and YN had settled into a rhythm that felt effortless. Coffee at Scotty’s, long walks through the city, moments of quiet laughter shared in the sunlit corners of bookshops and parks. Their lives had intertwined slowly, naturally, like vines creeping toward one another, until the space between them felt impossibly small.

Now, as she sat in the front row of the packed concert hall Harry dragged her to, YN realized just how little she’d truly known about Harry Styles. He had mentioned his music, his gigs, but this—this was something else entirely.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, the air electric with excitement. Fans lined the rows behind her, their voices a cacophony of eager murmurs and cheers. She could feel the heat of their collective energy as they waited, ready for the show to begin. The stage lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted into a wave of deafening applause and screams. YN’s heart raced, her hands gripping the edge of her seat as she watched the lights swirl and shift across the stage.

Then, out of the shadows, Harry emerged.

The crowd roared with an intensity that startled her, the air vibrating with their cheers as he walked to the microphone, his leather jacket gleaming under the lights, his presence commanding the room with an effortless ease. There he was—the same man who drank coffee with her in a quiet café, the same man who once nervously scribbled lyrics into a notebook. But here, on this stage, he was something more. Something bigger.

Harry grinned as he strummed the opening chords to Sunflower, the crowd immediately swaying to the familiar tune. His voice, rich and soulful, filled the room, and YN felt herself drawn into it, the lyrics washing over her, weaving through the crowd like a thread connecting him to every single person in the room. The way he performed, with such raw emotion and vulnerability, it was like he was telling the story of his life, not just singing a song.

YN watched, mesmerized, as Harry transitioned seamlessly into other songs. The energy of the crowd grew wild, and the music throbbed through the hall, each note setting the room ablaze. The girls behind her screamed his name, their voices blending into a chorus of adoration, and for the first time, YN fully understood what he had meant when he said he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it.

She had seen glimpses of this world—the autograph requests, the fans who recognized him even in a quiet café—but this was different. This was Harry in his element, where his talent became something bigger than himself, something that drew people in, made them feel seen, heard, understood.

By the time he reached Little Black Dress the crowd was on its feet, dancing, singing along at the top of their lungs. Harry owned the stage, moving with a confidence that radiated off him, his eyes occasionally scanning the crowd until, for the briefest moment, they landed on her. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and even with the chaos of the crowd around them, it felt like a private exchange, a secret shared in the middle of the noise.

When the final chords echoed through the hall, the applause was thunderous. YN stood with the rest of the crowd, her hands aching from clapping, her heart pounding in her chest as Harry took his bow, soaking in the cheers, his grin wide and unrestrained. The lights faded, and the crowd began to disperse, but YN stayed rooted in place, her eyes still on the stage, as if trying to capture the last flicker of magic before it disappeared.

Soon after, a staff member approached her, politely guiding her toward the backstage area. She followed, her footsteps light with anticipation, weaving through the narrow corridors of the venue until she reached a door with a small gold plaque that read Dressing Room.

She knocked lightly, and within seconds, the door swung open. There he was, leaning against the frame, still catching his breath from the show, his hair damp from sweat, his eyes shining. His leather jacket had been discarded, leaving him in a simple white shirt that clung to his skin.

“Hey!” Harry greeted, his voice a little hoarse from singing, but his smile bright and warm.

“Hey yourself.” She echoed with a smile, stepping inside. “That was incredible, H. I mean, I knew you were talented, but seeing you like that—on stage, in front of all those people—it’s something else.”

Harry shrugged, a little bashful now that the spotlight was no longer on him. “S’just a show.” He mumbled sheepishly, though the way his eyes flickered told her he was still riding the high of the performance.

“No,” she said softly, her voice firm but kind. “It’s more than that. I’ve never seen anything like it. The way the crowd reacted to you, the way you moved them—it was electric.” She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his, filled with a quiet admiration. “You have real talent, Harry. The kind that’s rare. I’m so proud of you.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat at her words. He had heard praise before—countless times, from strangers, fans, even critics—but coming from her, it felt different. It felt real.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say, and the silence hung between them, charged with the unspoken emotions they had carefully danced around for months. He looked at her, standing there in front of him, the glow from the stage lights still lingering on her face, and something inside him shifted. It was as if every conversation, every shared look, every coffee at Scotty’s had been leading to this moment.

“I need to tell you something.” He murmured with a hesitant nod, his voice suddenly lower, more serious. He stepped closer, closing the small distance between them, his eyes never leaving hers. “These past few months—getting t’know you..I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to feel this way.”

Her breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers brushing gently against her hand.

“But I do,” he continued, his voice soft but filled with conviction. “I like you, YN. More than just a friend. More than just someone I grab coffee with. You’ve been the one thing I can count on t’feel real, when everything else is crazy. I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a while, but now—” He paused, his hand slipping into hers. “I can’t keep it t’myself anymore.”

For a moment, YN just stood there, her heart racing, her hand warm in his. She had felt it too—the pull, the connection—but hearing it from him, standing there in the aftermath of his performance, made it all the more real. Slowly, she smiled, her fingers tightening around his.

“I’m glad you said something,” she whispered, stepping closer, her other hand brushing lightly against his chest. “Cause I thought I was crazy for thinking the same.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, and in that instant, the world outside the dressing room faded away. The noise of the crowd, the lingering adrenaline from the show, all disappeared, leaving just the two of them in the soft glow of backstage lights.

He smiled, his thumb gently tracing the back of her hand. “So what now?” he asked, his voice low, a playful hint in his tone.

“Now,” she said, smiling up at him, her voice full of warmth and certainty, “We just be.”

And with that, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that felt like the answer to every question they had left unspoken, every moment they had shared in silence. It was soft, slow, and filled with the promise of something new, something neither of them could ignore any longer.

When they finally pulled back, Harry rested his forehead against hers, his breath still a little uneven, his smile wide and unrestrained.

“Best show I’ve ever played,” he whispered, and YN laughed, her heart light and full as they stood there, together, the future unfolding around them like the soft warmth of a summer night.

After a month of bliss, the late AUGUST sun streamed through the open kitchen window of Harry’s flat, casting a golden light over the space. A soft breeze drifted in, carrying with it the sounds of the bustling streets below, a gentle hum that filled the quiet moments between their words. The fire escape, just outside, rattled slightly in the breeze, its iron bars warm from the afternoon sun. It was a peaceful, lazy kind of day, the kind where the world outside moved in fast forward while everything inside seemed to slow down to a comfortable stillness.

YN sat across from Harry at the small kitchen table, her legs tucked under her on the worn wooden chair, her skin still glowing from the warmth of the afternoon. She was only wearing a pair of dainty white socks, her frame barely visible underneath the oversized pink button-up of Harry’s that hung loosely off her shoulder, the fabric draping over her like a second skin. Her hair was tousled, soft from a morning spent doing nothing but being with him, and she looked effortlessly beautiful. The shirt, far too large for her, hung in a way that felt intimate, as though it had become an extension of him on her.

She cradled a cup of tea between her hands, sharing it with Harry. Every now and then, they’d exchange the cup, their fingers brushing as they passed it back and forth, a quiet exchange of warmth that mirrored the easy comfort between them. The tea was a little cool now, forgotten between soft smiles and absentminded touches.

Harry sat opposite her, his acoustic guitar resting across his lap, his fingers lazily strumming a melody that filled the air like a soft hum. He was dressed in nothing but plaid boxers and socks, his usual nonchalance apparent, his bare chest catching the light as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused more on her than on the guitar.

The melody shifted, a fun, intimate tune that YN hadn’t heard before. She looked up at him, her brows raised slightly in curiosity.

“What’s that?” She giggled, her voice dipped in honey, though, almost hesitant, as if she was interrupting a secret.

Harry’s lips curled into a slow smile, his fingers still moving gently over the strings. “Cinema.” He said gently, his voice quiet, as if the song were something fragile, still forming. “S’about you.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup as she watched him, her eyes wide and full of something unspoken. The song was simple, delicate, but each note felt like it was laced with the weight of everything they’d shared, every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment between them.

He began to sing softly, his voice smooth and low, the lyrics winding around her like a slow embrace. The song told of the way he saw her, how helplessly he was beginning to fall for her, each moment between them something worth watching, worth cherishing. He sang about the little things—the way everything about her felt like a never ending climax, way she made the ordinary feel like something more.

YN listened, captivated by the sound of his voice, by the intimacy of the words. She hadn’t known how much of him had been poured into this song, hadn’t realized how deeply he felt until now. As he finished the last note, she set the teacup down, her chest tight with emotion.

“I dig you, too.” She grinned, her voice thick with admiration and something deeper. She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist gently. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Harry smiled, his eyes soft as he set the guitar aside, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t have t’say anything.”

And then, without thinking, without hesitation, she leaned across the small table and kissed him.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press of lips that spoke of the quiet affection they had shared for months. But then, as Harry’s hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, it deepened, a slow burn that spread through her like the warmth of the sun streaming in through the window. Her fingers tangled in his curls as she pulled him closer, as much as she could with the guitar between them, her body leaning forward, chest pressed into his, their breaths mingling in the stillness of the kitchen.

For a moment, nothing else existed. The sounds from the street outside faded away, the distant hum of the city disappearing as the world shrank down to just the two of them—her lips on his, his hands on her skin, the heat between them palpable.

But after a few heartbeats, they pulled away, their foreheads resting against one another, their breaths coming in soft, uneven pants. YN smiled against his lips, her hand still resting lightly on his chest.

“Play something else,” she whispered, her voice playful, her eyes bright with mischief. “Something I can dance to.”

Harry chuckled, leaning back in his chair, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he reached for the guitar again. “Dance, huh? Alright, let’s see what I can do.”

He adjusted the guitar on his lap, his fingers finding the familiar chords as he began to play Heart Attack, a song that always sent his audience wild but now, in the quiet intimacy of his flat, felt like a private performance just for her. The upbeat rhythm filled the kitchen, light and infectious, and YN grinned as she stood up, the oversized shirt hanging loosely around her, the hem brushing against her bare thighs as she moved.

She danced in the kitchen, her feet barely making a sound as they moved across the floor, her arms raised as she twirled, laughing softly as she spun in circles. There was something carefree about the way she moved, something so full of joy that it made Harry’s heart ache in the best possible way. Her hair flew behind her, catching the light, and the oversized shirt swayed with each movement, slipping further off her shoulder as she lost herself in the moment.

Harry kept playing, his eyes never leaving her as she danced. The song flowed through the room, but all he could focus on was her—the way she moved so freely, so unselfconsciously, the way she smiled at him, the way her laughter filled the space between the notes. There was something about seeing her like this, in his flat, in his shirt, dancing to his music, that made his chest tighten with a feeling he couldn’t quite put into words.

He watched her, his fingers still moving over the cords, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He was starting to realize just how much she meant to him, how much she had become a part of his life, a part of him. She wasn’t just someone he shared coffee with, or someone who listened to his songs—she was his person, the one who made everything feel more real, more grounded.

As he played, the realization settled over him quietly, like the gentle August breeze drifting through the open window. He was falling for her. Slowly, steadily, in the way you fall for someone without even realizing it’s happening until you’re already halfway in.

But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just watched her, the sound of the guitar filling the air as she danced and laughed, the summer sun spilling golden light into the room around them, framing her in a moment he knew he’d carry with him long after the music stopped.

SEPTEMBER had arrived quietly, bringing with it a softness that only early autumn could offer. The leaves were just beginning to turn at the edges, their once-vibrant green now kissed with the faintest hint of gold, and the air had cooled ever so slightly, carrying the last whispers of summer on its breeze. The sun, dipping lower in the sky with each passing day, stretched long shadows across the park, casting everything in a warm, golden light that seemed to linger just for them.

Harry sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, his legs stretched out, his half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt loose against his chest, a playful pattern of palm trees and flamingos catching the light. His thin beige slacks clung to his thighs as he shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands to watch YN beside him. She was cross-legged, her cream-colored Mary Janes neatly tucked under her, the soft cotton of her dainty dress fluttering in the breeze. The dress, pale and delicate, fit her perfectly, the hem swaying just above her knees, while white socks peeked out from beneath her shoes. Harry couldn’t help but stare at her beauty.

The two of them had settled into this quiet evening by the lake, the park around them empty, save for the sound of distant birds and the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees. A spread of meats and cheeses lay scattered across the blanket between them, along with half a bottle of wine and two glasses—one tipped precariously between YN’s fingers as she took a slow sip.

“Could stay like this forever.” She hummed, her voice soft, almost dreamy, as she set her glass down and glanced out at the shimmering water, the fading sun casting a golden path across its surface.

Harry smiled, his gaze fixed on her rather than the view, the way her hair moved softly with the breeze, the glow of the setting sun painting her in amber light. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something deeper. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

They had spent the last few hours like this—laughing, teasing, sharing kisses between bites of cheese and sips of wine. The conversation had flowed effortlessly, as it always did, weaving between light-hearted banter and quieter, more intimate moments, the kind where words weren’t always necessary. There was something so easy about being with her, something that made him feel like they were the only two people in the world.

She reached for a piece of cheese, popping it into her mouth as she met his eyes, her lips quirking into a playful smile. “You’ve been staring, Styles.” she teased, her voice light as she wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Am I that interesting, or are you just distracted?”

He grinned, shrugging slightly, but his gaze never wavered. “Maybe a bit of both.” He chuckled, his tone casual, though there was an undertone of honesty there. He couldn’t help it—every time he looked at her, he felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest, the kind that had been growing steadily for months now, slowly but surely.

“Careful,” YN said with a mischievous smile, leaning in closer, her voice dropping into a whisper. “You’ll give me a big head.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy, before reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Too late for that, I think.”

She swatted his hand playfully but leaned into his touch, her eyes softening as their playful exchange gave way to something quieter. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the laughter fading into a comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling over them like the blanket beneath their feet.

As the sun began to dip lower, casting the sky in hues of pink and lavender, YN shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. Harry tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to her hair, his arm slipping around her waist to pull her in.

“I don’t know how you do it.” She murmured, her voice quiet, almost to herself.

“Do what?” he hummed, turning his head slightly to catch her eye.

She smiled softly, her fingers tracing lazily over the tattoos on his chest where his shirt hung open. “Make everything feel so easy. Like we’ve been doing this forever.”

Harry’s heart swelled at her words, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the wine or the fading summer heat. He didn’t respond right away, instead pulling her a little closer, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against her side as they sat together, the world quieting around them.

After a few moments, YN pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes glowing with the light of the sunset. “What?” she asked, her brow lifting in curiosity as she caught the look on his face.

He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest, the words suddenly heavy on his tongue. He’d been holding them back for weeks now, unsure of the right moment, unsure if she felt the same way. But sitting here, with her head on his shoulder, her laughter still lingering in the air around them, he realized there would never be a perfect moment. There was just this—the two of them, in a park, at sunset, with nothing but the quiet certainty of how much he cared for her.

He exhaled slowly, his hand slipping from her side to rest against her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I love you.” He admitted, his voice soft but steady, the words tumbling out in a quiet confession. “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now, but I wasn’t sure when the right time was. But I do, YN. I love you.”

For a moment, YN just blinked, her eyes wide with surprise as the words sank in. But then, her face softened, a smile spreading slowly across her lips as her hand reached up to cover his, her touch warm against his skin.

“You love me?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost incredulous, as if she hadn’t expected it, but now that the words were there, she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Harry nodded, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh bubbled up from her throat, light and full of joy as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining, her smile wide and unrestrained.

“I love you too.” She whispered, her voice full of warmth and certainty. “I think I have for a while.”

Harry’s heart swelled, and before he could say anything else, YN kissed him again, deeper this time, her fingers curling into his shirt as she pulled him closer. The world around them seemed to fade, the sunset casting them in a warm, golden light as they sat together, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world falling away.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, YN smiled up at him, her hand still resting against his cheek. “You know,” she said, her voice teasing, “for someone who says things like that, you’re surprisingly cute about it.”

Harry laughed, his forehead resting against hers as his hands slipped around her waist, pulling her close. “I can’t help it,” he murmured, his voice low and playful. “Y’bring out the soft side in me.”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling as she leaned in to kiss him again, her lips brushing against his in a way that felt both familiar and brand new.

The sun had dipped beneath the horizon by the time Harry and YN began their walk back to his flat, the warm glow of twilight lingering in the air. Harry's fingers intertwined with hers as they strolled along the quiet streets, the last traces of their picnic still hanging in the air between them—the taste of wine on their lips, the feel of her laughter vibrating against his chest. He glanced over at her, catching the way the light from the streetlamps played across her face, softening her features into something that looked like a dream.

She smiled when she caught him looking, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of his hand. "Thank you for this evening.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as they walked. "I didn't want it to end."

Harry's grip on her hand tightened, his heart swelling at her words. He didn't want it to end either. There was something about this night, something about the way it felt so easy, so right. He hadn't felt this connected to someone in a long time, maybe ever.

"Doesn’t have to.” He murmured, his voice low, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her temple as they approached the front door of his flat.

They climbed the narrow stairs to his building, the warmth of their evening lingering between them.

By the time they reached the door to his flat, Harry's heart was racing-not from the climb, but from the anticipation that seemed to have woven itself into the quiet moments between them.

As soon as they stepped inside, they toed off their shoes—the familiar scent of his home washing over them—the faint musk of old books, wood, and the lingering trace of his cologne.

The kitchen light flickered on as Harry dropped the picnic basket onto the counter, the empty wine glasses clinking softly against each other. But neither of them was thinking about the picnic anymore.

YN turned toward him, her lips parted, her gaze soft but filled with something that simmered just beneath the surface. She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his as she placed the folded blanket down on the table, her fingers lingering over his skin. He met her gaze, the electricity between them sparking back to life, more intense now that they were alone, without the open sky and distant voices of the park around them.

Before either of them could say anything, Harry's hands were on her waist, pulling her close. His lips found hers in a heated kiss, soft at first, but quickly deepening as the warmth between them flared into something more urgent. YN responded immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pulled him closer, her body pressing into his.

They stumbled back toward the living room, their movements clumsy with desire, knocking into furniture as they kissed—his hands gripping her hips, hers tugging at the collar of his shirt, the fabric hanging loosely on his chest, still unbuttoned from earlier, and YN's fingers found their way to his bare skin, her touch sending shivers down his spine.

They collapsed onto the couch, lips still fused together, the heat between them building with every touch, every breath. YN straddled his lap, her dress hitched up around her thighs as she leaned into him, her lips trailing kisses along his jawline, down his neck, making him groan softly against her skin. Harry's hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, lost in the moment, lost in her. His cock hardened underneath his slacks, YN feeling it against the growing heat of her core.

But just as his lips brushed against her collarbone, the sudden, shrill ring of the rotary phone in the hallway shattered the stillness, cutting through the heat of their embrace like a sharp blade.

Harry froze, his breath ragged, his lips still pressed against her skin. The phone rang again, the sound insistent, pulling them both from the haze they'd fallen into. YN let out a breathless laugh, her forehead resting against his as she pulled back slightly, her hands still tangled in his hair. "Are you going to get that?" she asked, her voice teasing but breathless, her eyes dark with the same desire that was coursing through him.

The brunette groaned, his hand reluctantly slipping from her waist as he rested his head back against the couch. "I don't want to.” He muttered, the frustration evident in his voice.

The phone rang again, louder this time, and Harry sighed, pulling away from her with a reluctant smile. "M’sorry, baby.” He sighed, his hands brushing against hers as he slid out from beneath her and stood, running a hand through his hair to steady himself.

YN sat back on the couch, her lips still swollen from their kiss, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. She watched him walk into the hallway, his bare chest glistening faintly in the low light, the fabric of his loose slacks swaying with each step.

Harry grabbed the phone from the wall, pressing the receiver to his ear with a hasty "Hello?"

"Harry, mate!" came the familiar voice of Jeff, his manager. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."

He frowned, his eyes flicking toward YN, who was still sitting on the couch, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. "What's up, Jeff?" he asked, doing his best to sound casual, though his mind was still very much on YN and the way he wanted to bury himself inside her the way he did this morning.

"You're going to want to sit down for this one.” Jeff said, his tone brimming with excitement. “We've just locked in your first U.S. tour."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, his grip on the phone tightening. "What?"

"Yep, we've got you lined up for a string of shows across the States-New York, Chicago, L.A., the whole works. It's going to be massive, Haz. A real game-changer for your career."

For a moment, he stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to process what Jeff was saying. This was huge-bigger than anything he'd done before. His first U.S. tour. The realization hit him all at once, a rush of excitement flooding through him. "Holy shit.” He laughed, “that's amazing, Jeff.” He shook his head, voice thick with disbelief. "I can't believe it."

"Believe it!”Jeff replied, laughing. "This is it.”

You're about to hit the big time. We'll get into all the details tomorrow, but I had to let you know."

Harry nodded, still in a bit of a daze. "Thanks for telling me."

After a few more words, Harry hung up the phone, his mind racing. He stood in the hallway for a moment, the reality of the tour sinking in. This was what he had always dreamed of—the chance to take his music across the world, to reach new audiences, to grow.

But as he turned back to look at YN, sitting there on the couch, her smile soft and expectant, he felt a different kind of weight settle in his chest. He walked back into the living room, sliding onto the couch beside her, his eyes still wide with disbelief.

"Everything okay?" YN asked, her hand slipping into his, her thumb brushing softly over his knuckles.

He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "M’going on tour.” He said softly, the words still feeling surreal. "In the States. My first one."

YN's eyes widened, her face lighting up with excitement as she squeezed his hand. "H, that's incredible!" she exclaimed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm so so proud of you, lovey.”

Harry smiled, the warmth of her words settling into his chest. "It's a big deal," he said quietly, his hand tightening around hers. "But it means I'll be away f’a while."

He watched her face carefully, searching for any flicker of disappointment, but instead, YN smiled, her eyes soft as she leaned in, her forehead resting against his. "I know," she said softly. "But l'm not going anywhere. This is your dream. I want you to go and chase it."

Harry's heart swelled, and for a moment, he could only look at her, overwhelmed by the quiet support in her words. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, his hand cupping her cheek. "I love you.” He whispered against her mouth, the words tumbling out without hesitation this time, filled with all the certainty he'd ever felt.

She pressed a kiss into his lips, smiling against them. “I love you.”

Harry lingered his lips against hers for a while before he stood, the weight of the news still buzzing between them like electricity. His smile was wide, unable to contain the excitement of it all. With a quick glance toward the window, where the last traces of twilight hung in the sky, he crossed the room to the small transistor radio on the windowsill, his fingers turning the dial until a soft crackle of music filled the air.

A warm, upbeat tune drifted through the living room, the melody slow and sweet, with just the right amount of rhythm to sway to. The soft hum of the radio blended perfectly with the evening breeze sneaking through the open window, carrying the cool, fresh air into the flat.

He turned back to YN, his eyes twinkling under the dim light of the living room lamps. She was still sitting on the couch, her expression a mixture of excitement and affection, her legs tucked underneath her. The warm glow of the lamp caught the soft fabric of her dress, her skin glowing in the fading light.

“Dance with me.” Harry grinned, holding out a hand, his voice full of that playful warmth she had come to love. It wasn’t a question but an invitation—one she couldn’t possibly turn down.

She smiled, rising to her feet with a light laugh, taking his outstretched hand. He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist as hers settled on his shoulders. The music filled the space between them, the gentle swaying of their bodies perfectly in time with the rhythm.

They moved together effortlessly, Harry’s forehead resting against hers as he led them in a slow circle around the room. The soft fabric of her dress brushed against his thin slacks, the warmth of her body pressed to his, making the moment feel intimate and timeless. Neither of them spoke at first, content to just be in the silence, to let the music carry them as they spun in small, lazy circles on the living room floor.

But soon, Harry couldn’t contain his excitement anymore. He leaned back slightly, grinning down at her, his eyes shining. “Can you believe it?” he murmured, his voice filled with disbelief and joy. “My first tour in America. New York, L.A.—all of it. I never thought..”

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

“I can believe it.” She smiled, her voice soft but filled with pride. “You deserve this, baby. You’ve worked so hard. You’re going to be incredible.”

Her words made his heart swell, and he leaned down to kiss her, slow and sweet, savoring the taste of her lips. When they pulled back, their foreheads resting together again, he whispered, “It won’t feel real until I’m on that stage. But knowing you’ll be here waiting for me..that makes it better.”

YN smiled, her fingers brushing softly through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I’ll always be here.”

They danced for a few more minutes, their movements light and easy, occasionally interrupted by shared giggles when Harry twirled her unexpectedly or when they stumbled slightly in their steps, only to fall back into each other’s arms with soft laughter.

As the song began to fade, they slowed, their feet barely moving now, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a cocoon. Harry’s hands slid up from her waist, cradling her face as he looked down at her, his expression serious but soft.

“Can I say something?”He asked, his voice quiet but steady as he watched her expectantly. She nodded, allowing his lips to part. “When I go to America—on tour—I want you t’stay here. At my flat. You know, while m’gone.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Stay here?” she repeated, her brow furrowing slightly.

Harry nodded, his thumbs gently brushing over her cheeks as he held her face in his hands. “Yeah. I mean, y’already spend so much time here, and I like the idea of you being here when I get back. This place already feels more like home when you’re around. I don’t want it t’feel empty when m’gone.”

YN felt a warmth bloom in her chest at his words, her heart swelling with emotion. The thought of staying here, in his space, while he was away—it felt like more than just a casual offer. It felt like a promise. Like he was offering her a part of his life, a piece of him to hold onto while he was gone.

Besides, she still lived with her mother’s small guesthouse in the backyard. It was more private than the house she grew up in, much cheaper than the flats for rent in the city, but it was still her mother’s nevertheless.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly, her voice filled with uncertainty but also hope. “I don’t want to impose..”

“You’re not imposing,” Harry said firmly, his eyes steady on hers. “I want y’here. I’ll feel better knowing you’re in my flat, with my things, waiting for me to come back.”

YN’s lips curved into a soft smile, her hands resting on his chest as she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice full of warmth. “I’ll stay.”

Harry’s face lit up, and before she could say anything more, he kissed her again, deep and full of gratitude and love, his hands holding her close as if he never wanted to let her go. When they pulled back, both of them breathless, their eyes met, and in that moment, everything felt right.

They didn’t need to say anything more. The promise had been made, quiet and sure, between kisses and slow dances and soft words spoken in the fading light of the evening.

As the music on the radio continued to play softly in the background, they held each other close, swaying gently in the middle of the living room, knowing that no matter where Harry’s career took him—across oceans, to new stages, to new cities—this was home. Here, in this moment, with her. And it always would be.

The morning Harry left for his two-month tour in the United States felt both far away and painfully close, like something they’d been anticipating for weeks but weren’t quite ready to face. The flat was full of quiet anticipation as YN helped him pack, their movements unhurried, though the weight of the impending goodbye hung in the air like the last lingering warmth of summer.

Harry stood in front of his open suitcase, a floral shirt half-folded in his hands, staring down at the items already packed but not quite seeing them. YN sat on the edge of the bed, methodically folding a few more of his clothes, her fingers moving over the soft fabric with care. Neither of them spoke much, but every so often their eyes would meet, a small smile exchanged between them, both pretending it was just another ordinary day.

As Harry zipped up his suitcase, he turned to her, his expression soft but serious. “Y’sure you’ll be alright staying here? I mean, for the whole two months?”

She smiled, standing up to meet him, her arms looping around his waist as she pressed herself close to him. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. “Besides, it’s your flat. It already feels like home.”

He sighed, his hand slipping up to cup her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and tender, savoring the taste of her lips. “M’going to miss you.” He murmured against her mouth, his forehead resting against hers.

“I’ll miss you too.” She whispered back, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “But you’re going to be amazing, love. This is your dream.”

He nodded, though there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. They stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the stillness of the flat pressing in around them.

When they arrived at the airport later that day, the weight of their goodbye became real. The terminal was buzzing with travelers, suitcases rolling over the tile floors, the constant hum of announcements echoing over the loudspeakers. Harry’s manager and a few of his crew stood off to the side, chatting quietly, but Harry stayed close to YN, his hand never leaving hers.

They found a quiet corner, away from the noise, and just stood there for a moment, looking at each other. The departure gate loomed nearby, a silent reminder of how close the moment had come.

“Call me as soon as you land.” YN nodded, her voice steady though her grip on his hand tightened slightly. “I want to know you’ve arrived safe.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her once more, his lips lingering on hers as if he could carry the memory of her with him. “I will.” He promised, his hand brushing her cheek. “And I’ll write. Every chance I get.”

She nodded again, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “I’ll be waiting.”

When the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, they kissed one last time, slow and full of unspoken promises, before Harry reluctantly pulled away. He squeezed her hand as he took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I love you.” He told her, his voice soft but sure, his eyes full of everything he couldn’t say in that moment.

“I love you, H.” She grinned, her heart aching as she watched him walk toward the gate, his figure disappearing into the crowd.

The next two months unfolded in a strange blur of time. YN settled into Harry’s flat, her things mingling with his, their shared space becoming even more of a home as the days passed. She left little traces of herself everywhere—the way she neatly folded her clothes next to his in the wardrobe, the half-finished book on his bedside table, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. It was comforting, knowing she was surrounded by him even when he was an ocean away.

They kept in touch constantly. Every night, YN would sit by the rotary phone in the hallway, eagerly waiting for the sound of the ring that meant he was calling. The calls were frequent—sometimes brief, just to say hello, and sometimes long and winding, stretching late into the night as they talked about everything and nothing. She loved hearing his voice, even crackling through the static, as he told her about the tour—the shows, the fans, the whirlwind of new cities and stages. But more than that, she loved how he missed her, how he’d pause sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, just to say, I wish you were here.

Letters came too, scrawled in his messy handwriting, full of little stories about life on the road, about the places he visited, the things he saw, the moments that made him think of her. YN would read them late at night, curled up in his bed, her heart aching with longing and pride in equal measure. She kept every one, tucked away in the drawer of the bedside table, next to the book she hadn’t been able to finish since he left.

It was a month into his tour, past midnight, and YN had already settled into a chair she had dragged from the kitchen, the lamp casting a soft glow over the room as she sat by the phone, waiting for Harry’s nightly call. When the phone finally rang, her heart skipped a beat, and she eagerly lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice warm with affection.

“Hey, bunny,” Harry’s voice came through, a little rough but full of warmth. She could hear the faint noise of people talking in the background, but his focus was entirely on her. “Missed your voice today.”

YN smiled, curling the phone cord around her finger. “Missed you too. How’s everything?”

He sighed, the sound of his breath crackling through the line. “Busy. Exhausting. But good. The shows are going well. The crowds have been incredible.” He paused, his voice dropping slightly, his tone softening. “But I’d rather be there with you.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, her grip tightening on the phone. “I’d rather have you here too,” she whispered, her voice low, almost teasing. “It’s been too quiet without you. Though I’ve heard you on the radio here and there.”

The conversation drifted into more intimate territory, their voices soft and full of longing, each word laced with the quiet need they hadn’t been able to express in the letters or brief phone calls before. Harry told her how much he missed her, how the bed felt too big without her next to him, how he couldn’t stop thinking about the last night they’d spent together.

YN felt a blush rise to her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat as his words grew more heated. “Tell me more,” she whispered, her voice low, a smile playing at her lips.

Harry’s voice dropped even lower, his words slow and deliberate. “I miss the way you taste..like melted sugar on my tongue.”

The sound of his voice, soft and rough all at once, sent shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes, her body responding to his words in ways that made her ache with need.

“Probably soaking from just my voice, hm?” He hummed, feeling the familiar ache of himself hardening beneath denim.

She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. She squeezed her legs shut, her heat pooling between her thighs. Harry chuckled breathily from the other line, palming himself through his jeans. “My poor girl.” He cooed, listening to her faint whimper crackle through the phone. “I’ll be home in a month, baby.”

But just as the tension between them began to build, just as his voice grew more intimate, the sound of a knock echoed faintly in the background.

Harry groaned, the frustration clear in his voice. “Shit. It’s Mitch.”

YN laughed softly, the moment broken, but still charged with the tension that had hung between them. “You better get that,” she said, though she didn’t want the call to end.

“Give me a minute, yeah?” Harry muttered, the disappointment evident in his voice. “We’ll finish this later.”

YN smiled, her heart still racing, the wet spot in her panties only continuing to dampen. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of Harry muffling the phone as he spoke to Mitch in the background. When he returned, his voice was quieter, more resigned. “I have to go. We’ve got soundcheck in a bit.”

YN sighed softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the phone. “Alright. Go be brilliant.”

“I’ll call you later,” Harry promised, his voice warm again, though still tinged with regret. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” YN whispered, her heart full as the line clicked and the dial tone hummed in her ear.

As she hung up the phone, the quiet of the flat settled around her again. But even in the stillness, she felt connected to him, the promise of his return always just beneath the surface. She stood up from the wooden chair, leaving it in place as she padded barefoot back to his bedroom. As she lay back in bed, the sound of his voice still echoed in her mind, she knew that no matter how far away he was, he would always feel close.

The late NOVEMBER air was crisp as YN made her way to the airport, her breath fogging in front of her with each step. The city had entered winter, the sky a moody shade of grey, with the kind of cold that bit into your skin if you stayed still too long. A light dusting of frost clung to the streets, and the wind carried with it the promise of snow. But despite the chill, there was a warmth spreading through YN's chest—an excitement she could hardly contain.

Harry was finally coming home.

It had been two long months since she’d kissed him goodbye at the airport, and though they had talked nearly every day, the distance had made the longing more acute, like an ache that refused to fade. The flat had felt too quiet, too empty without him, but tonight, that would change. Tonight, he would be back in London, back with her, and she couldn’t wait to wrap her arms around him again.

She had spent most of the day tidying up the flat—making sure everything was perfect for his return. His favorite records were stacked by the record player, the sheets on the bed freshly changed, and the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the air from the strawberry cake she had baked earlier. It was his favorite, and the smell of it made the place feel warm, cozy. She had also made his favorite pasta dish, the sauce simmering gently on the stove, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of home-cooked food.

As she reached the airport terminal, YN’s heart began to race with anticipation. The cold faded from her awareness as she entered the busy terminal, weaving through the crowds of travelers until she reached the arrivals gate. Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, searching for him, her breath catching in her throat every time she thought she spotted his familiar curls.

And then, there he was.

Harry stepped out from the crowd, his figure unmistakable even in the thick winter coat and scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was longer than she remembered, his cheeks flushed from the cold and travel, and his eyes were bright with excitement. When their eyes met, everything around them seemed to fade—the noise of the airport, the bustling travelers—all of it disappeared as they locked eyes.

“Harry!” YN called, her voice soft but full of joy as she broke into a run toward him.

He grinned, dropping his suitcase to the ground as he opened his arms wide, catching her as she threw herself into his embrace. The moment their bodies collided, YN felt a rush of warmth flood through her. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm, comforting, with the faintest trace of his cologne.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve missed you too,” Harry mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His hands slid up her back, holding her close, as if he were afraid to let her go. “You have no idea how good it feels to be home.”

They stood there for a few moments, lost in each other, the cold air of the terminal swirling around them but neither of them caring. When they finally pulled back, Harry cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek as he studied her.

“You look even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said, his voice soft but full of sincerity.

YN laughed, her heart swelling as she leaned up to kiss him again, a quick, sweet press of lips that tasted of relief and longing. “Come on.” Her voice was light as she grabbed his hand and squeezing it gently. “Let’s get you home.”

The flat was warm and welcoming when they stepped inside, the heat from the oven and the soft glow of the lamps making the space feel cozy against the winter cold. YN had turned on the record player before she left, so the soft croon of a jazz tune filled the air, blending perfectly with the scent of fresh pasta and strawberries.

Harry dropped his suitcase by the door, his eyes lighting up as he took in the scene. “You’ve outdone yourself.” He sighed, his voice full of affection as he looked around the flat. “It smells incredible in here.”

YN smiled, slipping her coat off and hanging it by the door. “I wanted to surprise you.” Her tone was sheepish, leading him into the kitchen where the pasta dish was waiting on the counter. “I made your favorite. And…”

She reached for the cake on the counter, carefully placing it in front of him with a playful grin. “Strawberry, just for you.”

His eyes widened with delight as he leaned down to inspect the cake, his lips curving into a soft smile. “You spoil me.” He laughed, turning to her and pulling her into his arms again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love it. Thank you.”

They sat down at the kitchen table, the small space filled with the warmth of their reunion, their laughter mingling with the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of the record. As they ate, Harry told her all about his time in America—the shows, the fans, the cities he had visited.

“New York was something else,” he said, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he recounted the night he performed at a famous venue in the heart of the city. “The crowd was wild—bigger than anything I’d ever seen before. And Los Angeles.. God, the energy there was electric. But you know what? None of it felt real without you there.”

She smiled, her heart full as she listened to him speak, his voice full of passion and excitement. She loved seeing him like this—so alive, so full of stories and experiences. But more than that, she loved knowing that through it all, he had thought of her.

As the evening wore on, they moved to the living room, the plates forgotten in the kitchen as they curled up on the couch together, Harry’s arm draped lazily over her shoulders. They shared soft kisses between conversations, quiet declarations of love and how much they had missed each other filling the spaces between the stories.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Harry confessed quietly, his fingers brushing lightly over her arm. “Every time I stepped off the stage, all I wanted was to call you, to hear your voice.”

She rested her head against his chest, smiling as his words wrapped around her like a blanket. “I felt the same,” she whispered. “I’ve been counting down the days until you came back.”

Harry tilted her chin up, his lips finding hers in a slow, intimate kiss. It was gentle at first, a soft meeting of lips that spoke of their longing, but as the kiss deepened, the intensity between them grew. They shifted on the couch, their bodies pressed close as the room grew warmer, the air between them thick with the weight of two months spent apart.

“I love you.” Harry murmured against her lips, his voice rough with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

“I love you too.” She smiled, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, their kisses slow and tender, until the quiet of the flat surrounded them once more. The night was peaceful, the city outside blanketed in winter cold, but inside, everything was warm and full of love.

As the record player continued to hum softly in the background, they lay together on the couch, content in each other’s arms, talking quietly into the night. Harry shared more stories of America—the friends he’d made, the strange food he’d tried, the nights spent traveling between cities. But no matter how far he had gone, no matter how many stages he had stood on, all he could think about was coming home to her.

And now, finally, he was.

JUNE 1958 arrived in a haze of blooming flowers and endless blue skies, the air warm with the promise of summer. The countryside stretched out in front of the beautiful English cottage Harry had purchased just months before—a place that felt far removed from the busy life they’d led on the road. The last six months had been a whirlwind of travel, music, and crowds, with Harry embarking on his biggest tour yet. It had started in the States, but when the tour expanded to Europe, he had begged YN to join him for the last three months. After some hesitation, she had agreed, unable to resist the thought of being by his side again, experiencing the world with him.

Now, they had finally come home.

The cottage was nestled on the edge of a quiet village, its stone walls covered in ivy, the roof gently sloping with aged charm. It had a large garden out front, filled with wildflowers, and a path that wound lazily around to the back, where rolling hills stretched out as far as the eye could see. Inside, the cottage was cozy, full of light streaming through the windows, with exposed wooden beams and a fireplace that had already become their favorite spot to curl up on colder evenings.

Though neither of them had said the words out loud, YN had moved in. It had been gradual, her things slowly trickling in from the flat they had shared in London. A few clothes here, a stack of her favorite books there, until the entire cottage was filled with the subtle signs of her presence. Her shoes next to his by the door, her perfume resting on the vanity in the bedroom, and her laughter echoing through the kitchen as they cooked together in the evenings.

The unspoken decision to live together felt natural, like the culmination of everything they had shared over the past year. They had grown even closer on the road, their bond deepening with each passing day. Those months in Europe, where they had traveled from city to city, felt like a dream—a blur of music, late-night conversations, and stolen moments just for the two of them amidst the chaos.

Now, in the quiet of their new home, they could finally rest.

On this particular afternoon, YN stood by the open window in the kitchen, the warm breeze gently lifting the curtains as she gazed out at the garden. She wore a simple summer dress, her hair loose, as she absentmindedly twirled a glass of lemonade in her hand. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and the wildflowers that had bloomed in every corner of the garden. The cottage had a peaceful stillness to it, broken only by the faint sound of birds chirping outside.

Harry was in the living room, the soft strumming of his guitar floating through the open door. He was sitting in the armchair by the window, his eyes half-closed as he let his fingers move over the strings, playing a melody that felt like a lazy summer afternoon. The past few weeks had been a blissful sort of quiet—no deadlines, no schedules, just the two of them and the steady rhythm of days spent together.

As YN walked into the living room, Harry looked up from his guitar, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. “There you are, baby.” He smiled, voice soft with affection.

She smiled back, setting the glass of lemonade down on the table before crossing the room to sit beside him on the couch. Harry set the guitar aside and pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her waist as she settled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Hard to believe we’re really home, isn’t it?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “After all that time on the road, I thought we’d never get here.”

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing absentminded circles on his chest. “I still can’t believe you talked me into joining you for the last three months,” she teased, her voice light but full of warmth. “But I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Harry grinned, his hand slipping up to cup her cheek as he looked down at her. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, his voice quiet but full of sincerity. “It was hard enough being away from you at the start of the tour. Having you there–it made everything better.”

They sat like that for a while, the quiet of the cottage wrapping around them like a soft blanket, the distant hum of the countryside a soothing backdrop. It felt surreal, being here together after months of living out of suitcases, staying in hotels, and constantly moving from one city to the next. But now, in the calm of the English countryside, it felt like they had found something solid—something real.

“Y’know..” Harry mumbled after a moment, his voice thoughtful as he gazed out the window, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

YN looked up at him, her eyebrows raised slightly. “About what?”

Harry hesitated, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek as he smiled softly. “About this–us… this house,” he began, his words slow but deliberate. “We’ve never really talked about it, but I love that y’here. That you’re living here. With me.”

YN’s heart fluttered at his words, her fingers tightening slightly on his shirt as she looked up at him. “I love it too,” she whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Feels like home.”

Harry smiled, a soft, almost relieved laugh escaping him as he leaned down to kiss her. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of all the unspoken promises they had made to each other over the past year. When they pulled back, Harry’s forehead rested against hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s make this official then,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. “Move in with me properly. Let’s call this place ours.”

Her eyes softened, her heart swelling with emotion as she nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “I already have.” she whispered, kissing him again.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a peaceful blur. They moved through the cottage together, side by side, making dinner in the cozy kitchen. Harry stirred a pot of sauce while YN sliced vegetables, the two of them stealing kisses in between tasks, their laughter filling the space. The evening sunlight poured through the windows, casting the room in a warm glow as they sat down at the small table for dinner.

As they ate, Harry told her stories from the tour—stories she hadn’t heard, little moments that had made him laugh or think of her. He spoke about the cities they’d visited, the people they’d met, and the way the crowds had grown bigger with each show. But through it all, his eyes kept drifting back to her, his words trailing off as he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

“You were the best part of it all,” he said softly, his voice full of affection. “You being there with me. Every time I walked off stage and saw you waiting, it made everything worth it.”

After dinner, they moved back to the living room, curling up on the couch together as the last light of the day faded into dusk. The fireplace crackled softly in the corner, and the air was filled with the comforting smell of woodsmoke. They stayed like that for hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, talking quietly about the future—about the cottage, about what they wanted to do next.

As the evening began to settle, they both stood side by side at the sink, washing the dishes in comfortable silence. The window above them was cracked open slightly, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers. Beyond the window, the sun was sinking slowly beneath the hills, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange, the last light of the day stretching long shadows across the garden.

YN handed Harry a plate, her fingers brushing against his as he took it from her, their quiet rhythm so familiar now. He dunked it into the warm, sudsy water, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he scrubbed at the remnants of their dinner. Every so often, he’d glance at her, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched her work.

“You’ve gotten good at this.”YN teased, elbowing him lightly. “I remember when you used to burn toast.”

Harry laughed, the sound light and full of warmth. “That was a long time ago.” He quipped, turning to splash a bit of soapy water in her direction with a playful grin.

YN gasped, dodging the spray with a laugh of her own, but not before flicking some of the suds back at him. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she dipped her hands into the water, gathering a handful of bubbles.

“Oh, are we playing dirty now?” Harry teased, his eyes narrowing as he scooped up his own suds.

Before she could answer, he splashed her again, the warm soapy water catching her on the arm. YN laughed, retaliating by flinging bubbles at him, the kitchen filling with the sound of their playful banter and the splash of water against the counter. The dishes forgotten for the moment, they both moved around the sink, ducking and dodging each other’s playful attacks, the air filled with their laughter.

Harry caught her by the waist, pulling her close as he wiped some of the bubbles from her cheek with a playful grin. “Alright, truce!” He giggled, his voice softening as he looked into her eyes.

She smiled, her laughter dying down as she leaned into him, her hands resting against his chest. “Truce.” She agreed, her eyes still sparkling with amusement.

They both turned back to the sink, their laughter lingering in the air as they finished the last of the dishes. The warmth between them was palpable, and even as the sun began to dip lower, casting the room in a soft, golden glow, there was a sense of peace that wrapped around them like a blanket.

As they dried their hands on a shared towel, YN turned to look out the window. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the hills, the sky now painted in deep hues of purple and orange, the last light of day clinging to the horizon.

“S’pretty here.” She murmured, her voice soft as she watched the sunset.

Harry set the towel aside, stepping up behind her, his arms slipping around her waist as he pulled her close. “It is.” He agreed quietly, though his eyes weren’t on the sunset. They were on her.

For a long moment, they stood like that, the warm evening air drifting through the open window, the world outside quiet and still. There was a calm that had settled over them, a quiet contentment that came from being in the presence of someone who knew you—really knew you—and loved you anyway.

Harry pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back slightly, his arms still wrapped around her.

“I want to be with you forever.” He admitted suddenly, his voice soft but steady. It wasn’t a question or even a declaration, just a simple truth spoken into the stillness of the moment. His words carried the weight of something deeper, something unshakeable. “Not just for now. Not just for a few years. Forever.”

YN turned in his arms, her heart skipping a beat as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. His expression was serious, but there was a warmth there too, a quiet certainty in his gaze that made her chest tighten.

His hands moved to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks as he looked down at her, his voice lowering to a soft murmur. “I love you.”He smiled. “More than I ever thought I could love someone. And I don’t just mean in this life. I mean in every life. Beyond this, even. If I could have forever with you, I would. That’s what I want.”

She felt a rush of emotion swell in her chest, her throat tightening at the depth of his words. She could see it in his eyes—the way he meant every word, the way this wasn’t just about a lifetime, but about something that transcended even that. It wasn’t a proposal, but it felt like a promise. A vow that he would love her no matter what, no matter how long or how far life took them.

“I want that too.”She whispered, her voice catching slightly as she reached up to brush a curl away from his forehead. “Forever sounds just right.”

His smile softened, his forehead resting against hers as he exhaled, his breath warm against her skin. “Then it’s settled.” He murmured, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss, soft and slow, full of all the love he couldn’t put into words.

They stood like that for a long moment, the kitchen bathed in the last light of the sunset, the quiet of the evening wrapping around them as they held each other close. The world outside felt far away, and in that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of them, standing together in the cottage they now called home.

When they finally pulled back, Harry’s hand slipped down to take hers, his fingers intertwining with hers as he led her toward the living room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room as they curled up together on the couch, the soft murmur of their voices filling the space between the gentle flicker of flames.

And as the evening stretched on, they spoke of dreams and plans, of all the little things that made life beautiful. But in the quiet, in the spaces between the words, they both knew that they had already found what they were searching for—each other.

Forever.

#harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles concept #harry styles au #dont worry darling #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst

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martiansodas-blog · 5 months ago

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Art x reader meeting the readers parents and it's an absolute mess:(

(bonus points if he finds her old room and plays with her calico critters and plushies)

ok my brain automatically went to older! art soooo…

your parents knew 2 things about your new boyfriend.

1- he’s successful.

and 2- he’s a couple years older than you.

a couple years is an understatement.

but you figured once they met him and saw how sweet he treated you it wouldn’t matter!

this did not turn out to be the case.

your mom and dad took one look at him and made a snap judgment.

they knew his type, (supposedly.)

old money. a younger girl on his arm. cold and aloof. power hungry.

it’s a shame. this couldn’t be farther from the truth.

art donaldson may be a weapon on the court, but behind closed doors he’s the little spoon who makes you heart shaped pancakes.

“so. where did the two of you meet?” your mother asks, more to be pleasant and less because she wants to know the answer.

“at work,” you said , fondly remembering the exchange, “he was-“

“heckling my daughter in the workplace?”

“mom.” you warn “no.”

“honey,” your dad reigns her in

she huffs and crosses her arms in defeat.

“i was needing some more tennis equipment, actually.” art chimes in,

“yeah he was looking for these fancy sweatbands but we didn’t carry any, we just sort of got to talking.”

your dad gave you both a soft smile

“well, you seem to make our little girl very happy.”

incoming call from: tashi

“speaking of little girl, that’s probably her saying goodnight. excuse me.”

art very politely stepped out onto the porch.

“he has a kid?” your mothers eyes looked like they could pop out of her head at any second. “honestly why on earth would you think this is a good idea?”

“yes he does and she’s very sweet. her names lily.” you said firmly.

“so what? you’re gonna be a stepmom in your early twenties? is that what you want?”

“i wanted to introduce the person i love to my parents. but obviously that was a bad idea.”

your dad ushers your mom into their bedroom. he gives you a apologetic glance before he closes the door.

you stood there, frozen in the entryway for an unknown amount of time. as long as it took for art to finish his call and rest his hands on your shoulders from behind.

“hey hey, what’s the matter? what happened?”

you didn’t realize you were crying until you started to speak. well, tried to speak anyway.

“they,” you sniffed, “she…i’m sorry,”

“oh honey,” he pulled you into a hug.

you buried your face in his toned chest.

“i should’ve known this would happen” you heaved, gripping his shirt.

“shh, shh it’s ok. this is most definitely not your fault.”

he stroked your back and pressed feather light kisses to your hairline until you calmed down. when you removed yourself there was a wet patch right in the middle of his torso.

“let’s go upstairs, yeah?” he suggested gently.

he was almost using his dad voice.

you nodded, grabbed his coarse hand and guided him up the steps.

“so this is your childhood bedroom?”

art took in the whimsy filled room. the ceiling was only about a foot taller than him.

“the one and only.” you managed to crack a smile.

it was just how you’d left it at 18. the walls were pink and green. a choice you’d made at 7 and never got around to changing.

you’re glad you never painted over it now, though. it makes you feel innocent again, like a time capsule you can walk into.

art strolled around the room. looking at drama club trophies that lined the bookshelf, the collection of calico critters and the photo booth films stuck on your mirror.

there was a good amount of dust on everything. it caused a pit in your stomach to open up.

“you ok?”

“yeah” you nodded, “just got a little carried away by nostalgia.”

art wasn’t sure if touch would be the right thing for you right now, so he opened his arms, giving you the option.

you hugged him without a second thought. like an instinct. you squeezed him with all your might, like a stress ball. art hardly felt it, though.

figures.

“meeting my family will go better. my grandmas already looking forward to it.”

you lifted your head to look at him.

“really?”

such a simple sentence gave you butterflies.

“yeah,” he chuckled, like it was obvious “i’ve told her all about you.”

you truly didn’t know what to say. so touched by the sincerity and excitement in his tone. it. it caused you to break into a smile, a real smile, for the first time since you’d got to your parents house.

“i’d like that very much.”

#i’ve never had a calico critter #i want one so effing bad #art donaldson fic #art donaldson #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson x reader

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crushmeeren · 6 months ago

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࿐ part two of vampire week little bats! i’m sorry if this seems rushed, I struggled a little with it. anyways, eat up inumaki’s version with me! shinsou’s version can be found here.

࿐ master list link ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⋆ FEM READER ⋆

⋆ ⬪ KINKS/THINGS INCLUDED ࿐ biting, exhibitionism, a bit of blood play, mild body horror?, Toge uses his cursed speech during sex and reader is very on board.

⋆ ⬪ in this version, inumaki can speak without using only the fillings of onigiri as communication. he’s still a man of few words, and he still retains his cursed speech power, but he does speak and I will be taking no criticism about it thank you.

⇢ ⇢ ⇢ @sikuthealien ࿐ kinktober master list

┊ ༝ ᭝ ༝ short summary ༝ ᭝ ༝ ┊ ‣ ‣ ‣ ‣ Being the only vampires in your specific group of assassins, you and Toge get contracted out and sent into a vampires only club to pose as a couple and hunt down your next non paying target. Someone must slip something into Toge’s drink, because the next thing you know you’re being dragged into a “private room” and riding Toge until your thighs burn.

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

If you still could get migraines, you’d certainly have one now.

Currently you’re sat in a booth at the shadiest club in town, miserable as you swirl your Bloody Mary with a straw. Your patience thins by the second, and you’re itching to go for a hunt, the sweet blood of a fresh doe like a sirens call. But no, you have to work.

Something that you would reluctantly call music pounds through distorted speakers all around you, and each step you’ve taken tonight had your heel sticking to the floor. Not to mention you’ve been stuck here for the past hour in a dress tight enough to suffocate.

Your annoyance only grows when you shift your weight, the jagged material of the booth snagging the hem of your dress as you pull it down. You give up with a frustrated groan when it immediately rolls back up your thighs.

A snort of laughter comes from across the table, prompting you to lift your head and shoot a glare at your partner. Toge wiggles his eyebrows, eyes alight with amusement as he watches you struggle, and you flip him off in return. The curse seals at the corners of his mouth crinkle when he laughs.

“Yeah sure, laugh it up Toge, at least my face isn’t painted like a clown,” you sulk, taking a long sip of your drink.

Toge grins, childishly sticking his tongue out at you, and it allows you a glimpse of the snake seal on his tongue. You deliberately do not think about how that very tongue was playing with your pussy a few hours earlier.

The two of you aren’t currently a couple, but you are fuck buddies, and that didn’t help your case whatsoever when you were chosen for this mission.

You’re both assassins, but you also happen to be the only two vampires employed at your agency. Most vamps you meet aren’t particularly fond of not being able to eat what they hunt down.

The boss recently received a contract from yet another client who has an insubordinate drug dealer working for him. Something about losing drugs or losing money, or both, not that you really give a shit.

But what truly makes this the perfect storm, is that the target is also a vampire. One who frequents a vampires only club. Your goal is to lure him in and then kill him as swiftly and silently as possible.

So here you are.

It’s not as if you had the option to decline. This is your job after all, and you’re going to get a decent payout. Plus, it gives you the chance to go on a date with Toge, even if it’s not technically real. You like him, he likes you, but you’ve both been putting off having a real conversation about it.

A wet plastic straw suddenly smacks your cheek, landing on the table and rolling a couple inches. It effectively draws you from your thoughts and makes your nose scrunch up. You hurl your straw at Toge out of reflex and he ducks it easily, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“What’s got you so distracted?” Your partner asks softly, bending down to sip obnoxiously at his drink as he peers up at you through long blonde eyelashes. He’s one of the prettiest men you’ve ever laid eyes on, and it’s difficult not to stare, but you manage to reluctantly tear your gaze away.

“Just thinking about getting this over with,” you say with a sigh, attention once again returning to Toge in time to watch him nod and hum in agreement as he sits up.

A comfortable silence falls between you, the bass of the music still thumping heavily in the background. You circle the rim of your glass with your finger, checking the entrance for the hundredth time, and then you freeze. Your eyes widen as you sit up ram rod straight.

There’s your target, waltzing in the front door as if he owns the place.

Toge tilts his head curiously and you nod minutely towards the entrance. He twists his upper half, pretending to scan over the bar top as he lets his gaze slide towards the front entrance. He stiffens when he spots the target, and then he’s turning to face you with an open yet excited expression.

You arch an eyebrow. “Ready?” You ask before chugging the rest of your drink.

Toge bobs his head yes and then scoots out of the booth to rise from his seat. He plasters on a sly smile and extends a hand towards you. You take it, standing gracefully and let Toge guide you to the dance floor.

The folder you’d briefly skimmed on the target, Yoshiro, stated that the man had a strange habit of seducing and luring other vampire couples into his bed. He’d drug them only to do god knows what to them afterwards.

You assume that explains the client’s unaccounted for drugs.

With that in mind, you let Toge twirl you once you hit the edge of the packed crowd on the dance floor. He’d led you to a spot that happened to be right in front of Yoshiro’s table.

Toge’s firm hands slide over your waist, gripping and pulling you until your ass is flush with his pelvis. You lean backwards against his chest, tangling your fingers with the ones resting on your hips. Toge lazily guides your hips with his, the sultry rhythm of the music helping him keep his slow pace.

You tilt your head back onto his collarbone, twisting your head until you can brush feather light kisses over the side of Toge’s throat. You can feel his answering moan vibrate throughout his chest.

Toge tightens his hold on your hips, pushing his already half hard cock into the swell of your ass, which amuses you greatly, and the blistering pulse of arousal in your lower belly forces you to remind yourself you’re on a mission. You raise your head, one of your hands coming up to tangle in Toge’s soft hair and glance at Yoshiro’s table.

He’s leering at the two of you as you grind, gaze dark and hungry when you send a flirty wink his way. You do your best to ignore the fact that having an audience as Toge plays with you notches your arousal up by a few levels.

Your part time lover bends down to nip playfully at your exposed throat, placing wet kisses over where your pulse would surely be pounding if you weren’t undead. You suck in a sharp breath, lids fluttering as heat shivers down your spine. You release his hair in favor of gripping one of his wrists.

You instinctively tilt your head to entice Toge into sinking his teeth in, which he knows you desperately want. He places the tips of his fangs to the junction between your neck and shoulder, applying just enough pressure so that your skin starts to give, but he doesn’t bite down. He won’t, at least not in public. It leaves you too vulnerable.

The lingering threat of being eaten alive by him tears a throaty moan from your chest before you can bury it. Toge groans softly in your ear, eagerly pressing his hips to your ass, and the sensation of his full cock twitching against you is like ice water being poured over your head.

You’re getting too carried away.

“Toge,” you whisper fiercely, snatching his hands as they sneak up under the hem of your dress. You spin to face him, arms looping around his neck and tits pushing into his chest. He gently settles his hands on your lower back and you give him a flat look now that Yoshiro can’t see your face.

“You’re no fun,” he pouts, lower lip sticking out. You roll your eyes, crowding in closely to place lingering kisses up his neck until you reach his ear.

“Stop getting distracted,” you murmur, moving down to nose at the space below his jaw. “We can fuck after we finish this.”

He huffs in protest but nods, slipping a leg between your thighs and readjusting his hands to grab handfuls of your ass. He leans down and places his forehead to yours, guiding you both to the heavy beat. His eyes slip shut as you nuzzle your nose against his, and you follow his lead when your lips start to barely brush.

Just as you’re erasing the distance with the intention of kissing him until his knees give out, a hand taps you on the shoulder. It startles the two of you into jerking back your heads, turning to stare at the newcomer.

It’s Yoshiro, standing there with a slimy smile on his lips.

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

It’s easy enough to end up drinking at Yoshiro’s table, the three of you sipping various blood related cocktails. The worst part is Yoshiro’s horrible flirting and how often you have to swallow your disgust so you don’t punch his lights out.

“So,” Yoshiro begins, and your stomach fills with dread. “What would the two of you say to getting one more drink and moving the party to my place?”

You and Toge share a look.

This exactly what you were hoping for. Your goal is to isolate Yoshiro and then have Toge break out his cursed speech to paralyze him. Then, it’s as simple as staking him through the heart and leaving him outside to burn to ash once the sun rises.

“Sounds perfect to me, right baby?” You purr, sending Toge a coy smile as you run your hand over his bicep. Toge smiles wolfishly and nods. You turn your head back to Yoshiro with a quirk of your lips, watching his sleazy grin grow. Yoshiro says something about the last round being on him and then gets up and makes his way to the bar.

Toge’s slender fingers loosely circle your wrist as he leans in close to whisper in your ear, lips tickling your cartilage.

“When this is over baby,” he pauses to kiss the space right below your ear, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard.”

Your fingers curl into fists and your pussy aches in response. Toge releases you and pulls back before you can answer, and Yoshiro returns with your drinks. You grind your teeth together to keep from doing something stupid to ruin the mission.

“Here,” Yoshiro sets down a glass in front of each of you. “One for the lovely lady, and one for the pretty boy.”

They say hindsight is 20/20, and when you recall this moment later on, you realize that the two of you had fallen into Yoshiro’s trap. A false sense of security that had you dropping your guards, allowing you and Toge to become too wrapped up in each other because Yoshiro didn’t seem all that threatening.

Every other drink you’ve consumed tonight had been mixed in front of you by the bartender, but not this latest round.

It’s not as if you can get drunk, so you didn’t pay it much mind. You sip your drink lightly, but Toge tips his head back and downs it like a shot, and Yoshiro grins delightedly.

A few minutes go by and your thoughts start to get fuzzy along the edges. The knot you’ve been carrying in your neck all night has suddenly relaxed and you call out Toge’s name to ask how he’s doing, but he responds at a snails pace, twisting his neck and blinking slowly at you like he’s…

Like he’s drunk.

Your eyes grow wide, chest clenching as you watch Toge act so unlike the bright man you’ve come to know.

Fuck, what was in that drink? Did Yoshiro drug him?

One quick peak at Yoshiro confirms your suspicions. He’s eyeing Toge like he’s a piece of meat. The blonde perches his elbows on the table, pressing his face into his palms before dragging them upwards. He runs his hands through his hair and laughs without a care in the world.

Shit, okay so Toge’s definitely been drugged, and more than likely so have you, you just haven’t drank enough for it to affect you as badly. If you try to finish the mission and allow Yoshiro to take you home, there’s no way you’ll be able to fight him with your senses dulled. Especially not with Toge’s head in the clouds.

Fuck, fuck — you are going to get in so much trouble, but ultimately you care more about Toge than about your job. Fuck it.

“Toge,” you call firmly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. He abruptly drops his hands and leans back in his chair, gazing at you with the warmest expression you’ve ever seen him wear. He brings a hand up to briefly bite the tip of his finger as if he can’t hold in his excitement, sharp fangs poking out as he smiles.

“Hi baby,” he giggles, crowding in close with what looks like the intention of kissing you. You halt him with a hand on his chest, jaw clenching at the hurt the flashes across his face. You ignore him for the moment, shoving him back into his seat.

You twist in your seat, expression distorting with fury. The color of your eyes morph until they’re entirely black, dark veins snaking out from your eyes and down your cheeks. You place your hands on the table and rise to your feet, a menacing rumble starting up in your throat. Yoshiro’s head whips towards you in shock.

“You disgusting low life,” you say through gritted teeth. “What the fuck did you give him?”

Yoshiro jumps to his feet, stepping backwards and raises his hands in surrender.

“J-just an aphrodisiac! Nothing that will kill him, I swear! He’ll be dazed and horny for a few hours, that’s it!” He stutters, glancing towards the exit.

Your lip curls and internally you war against ripping Yoshiro’s head straight from his shoulders right here in the middle of the club. But you don’t want to let Toge out of your sight.

“So this is some kind of roofie, isn’t it? You sick fuck,” you spit, hands clenching into fists as your head spins. Yoshiro nods and your stomach rolls with nausea. You’re going to hunt him down and murder him the next chance you get, but right now you can’t leave Toge like this.

“Get the fuck out of my sight before I stake you right here,” you demand, pointing a sharpened nail at the exit. Yoshiro knows better than to argue, because he’s gone within the second. Your shoulders sag, and you drop into the chair next to Toge. You rub your eyes with the heels of your palms to encourage them back to normal.

When you shift your gaze back to Toge, he’s staring at you in confusion, expression open and concerned. You ask him if he’s okay, and he opens his mouth to respond but then he freezes. Toge curls in half with a gasp, one hand fisting his shirt and the other gripping the edge of table so roughly it starts to warp.

“Toge!” You shoot to your feet and in front of him in an instant. Your fingertips brush his shoulder and Toge’s head whips up so quickly you think his neck might break.

His eyes mirror the way yours previously had been, pitch black and soulless. A chill rushes down your spine and instinctively you take a step backwards but Toge’s vicious snarl stops you. He grips your wrist so tightly your bones creak, yanking you close to shove his face into your stomach and locks his arms around your waist.

“Don’t leave.”

It’s muffled, but you can hear the clear edge to his voice, the tingle of his cursed speech at the back of your mind as it tries to take hold. Gingerly, you place your hands on his shoulders and squeeze reassuringly.

“I won’t,” you promise, and the point of his chin digs into your sternum as he stares up at you. You brush soft bangs off his forehead and watch his lids flutter, a satisfied rumble vibrating against your lower half.

The thumping club music serves only to irritate you further as you try to come up with a reason to convince Toge to retreat to the safety of your home and wait out whatever he’s been drugged with.

However, it takes a tremendous amount of effort to focus when Toge’s sneaky fingers inch up the hem of your dress. Before you can stop him he’s squeezing handfuls of your ass, exposing the barest hint of your pussy to the entire club.

“Toge stop,” you warn, pushing half heartedly at his shoulders. Your breath catches when he digs pointed nails further into your ass and hauls you so close you may as well sit down in his lap.

“I need you,” he pleads, rubbing his face back and forth into your sternum. Your head is fuzzy and his sweet begging shoots directly to your clit. You’re not opposed to it, but you’re pretty sure, at this point, you’re not making it out of here without taking his cock.

“At least let us go somewhere more private,” you protest weakly. And that seems to somewhat cut through the fog, because with wide eyes Toge glances past you to the still packed club and squeezes you possessively.

It doesn’t take much effort to find a “private room.”

Toge veers right at the end of a long hallway and pushes you through the first “door” he can find, said “door” being entirely made out of cheap plastic beads that hang from the frame.

Your arms flail trying to find your balance. When you’re able to steady yourself and turn to Toge, he’s already there. Lithe fingers curl at the back of your neck and tug you in for a bruising kiss. You use his shoulders for support and moan when he sucks harshly on your bottom lip. The slick press of his tongue on yours skyrockets your lust, urging you to move faster, to hurry.

You break the kiss, tongue dragging across your lower lip, and move to cradle his jaw. He tracks the movement with half lidded eyes before his gaze flickers up to yours, hands coming raising to lightly hold your wrists.

“I want to suck your cock Toge, can I?” Your thumbs brush over his seals affectionately.

Toge whines, squeezing his eyes shut, and when they flash open he nods, dark gaze starving. You don’t waste time, kicking off your heels and dropping to your knees, making sure to stare up at him as you undo his pants. You hook your fingers in his waistband to pull them down mid thigh, doing the same to his briefs and letting them rest just under his balls.

Toge’s tip gets caught on the material, cock bobbing free and standing proud right in front of your mouth. The blonde vampire chomps down onto his lip so hard it splits, a sluggish trickle of dark blood trailing down his chin. He uses one hand to carefully smooth the hair out of your face and into a makeshift ponytail, resting the other on your shoulder.

You support yourself on his bare thighs, bending down slightly to place the flat of your tongue in between his taught balls and unhurriedly drag it all the way up his shaft. You lick the bead of precum leaking from his slit and salt bursts over your tongue.

Toge’s husky moan echoes in the room, gripping your hair so roughly it makes your scalp scream with pain. You suck in a sharp breath, your lover’s noise of pleasure causing a wave of something possessive to fill your brain.

You don’t think twice before you strike.

You brush your lips over the side of Toge’s shaft, loving the way he twitches, and then you tilt your head to fit your mouth on his inner thigh. You suck the skin briefly, then your fangs are sinking past skin and into muscle as smooth as butter.

Toge jolts, letting out a strangled scream, and practically rips the hair from your scalp as he cums. Your eyes widen in shock, a searing pain prickling at the back of your skull and you slide your teeth free. There’s sticky ropes of cum on your shoulder and some pooling on the floor.

You pull back to look up at Toge with raised eyebrows and he smiles sheepishly, shrugging. Your tongue darts out to taste the blood welling on his thigh and his still hard cock jerks against your cheek, apparently still interested.

Toge pulls on your hair and urges you to stand up, softening his iron grip on your hair as you do so. He leans forward and licks the sticky release from your shoulder, pulling a breathy moan from you.

Toge kisses over the cleaned area and up your throat, pausing at your ear.

“Ride me.”

The cursed command feels like fingers prodding and gripping at your brain to control your movements. The excited thrill that races through you only heightens the sensation.

You push at Toge’s chest and he steps backwards, only to drop down heavily on the lumpy couch a few feet away. He swiftly unbuttons his dress shirt to allow it to hang open, stiff cock resting pretty on his lean lower belly.

Your limbs are commanded by invisible strings as you straddle Toge’s lap, hands resting on his shoulders as he bunches your dress up around your hips. He holds the back of your thighs and helps you rise to your knees.

One hand steadies the base of himself, and automatically you begin sinking down when the blunt tip of his cock lines up with your pussy.

The stretch is blissful, and it has your nails sinking into his shoulders as your ass meets his thighs. The full sensation makes your pussy clench tight and Toge tips his head onto the backrest with a bitten off moan, hands readjusting to support your ass.

The weight of his cursed command still lingers, and you get to work bouncing on his cock at a steady pace. The friction is toe curling, and Toge’s gaze is glued to where he disappears inside you.

A few minutes more sees your thighs burning, pussy starting to flutter the closer you get to the edge. Toge is restless underneath you, thumb finding its home on your swollen clit and rubbing messy circles into it.

You cry out his name, the knot in your gut coiling tenfold.

“Fuck! Toge, oh god, you’re gonna make me cum!” You hold tight to his shoulders and ride him desperately. Toge shifts to hold your hips and thrusts upwards the next time you sit down, striking you g-spot dead on.

“Cum for me,” he demands, yanking you down into his lap. You slip over the edge, stars bursting behind your eyelids as you grind your hips back and forth, pressing him perfectly against your g-spot.

You didn’t realize your eyes had closed until they flicker open again, Toge sitting up and desperately pushing his face into your throat. He bites down without remorse into the junction of your neck and shoulder, moaning as his cock jerks and stuffs you full.

You wail, the pain searing when his jaw clenches out of reflex.. Toge stays still for a moment, then slowly slides his fangs free and you go limp in his hold. Your weight presses him into the back of the couch and you groan when your forehead knocks into his.

Toge rubs his thumbs over your hip bones soothingly, and he hums when you press a soft kiss to his mouth. You allow yourself only a moment to relax before opting to rise off his cock and flop down next to him instead.

“Feeling better?” You ask, shifting your head to read his expression. He looks clearheaded, fucked out, but definitely clearheaded. Toge twists his neck and grins at you, eyes returning to normal.

“Much.”

After the two of you manage to clean and redress, you slip out the back exit of the club, preparing to face a very unpleasant phone call with your boss.

You’re instructed to “finish the damn job”, which you relay to Toge, but he stills you with a hand on your wrist before you go. You glance at him curiously.

“Be my girlfriend?”

You blink at him in shock, and then a slow grin worms its way onto your expression.

“Yeah,” you say with a playful shrug. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Toge smiles and shows off his pearly white fangs, the seals at the corners of his mouth scrunching.

When it’s all said and done, hunting the target down and completing the mission is easy, and afterwards Toge takes you by the hand and leads you to his home.

You decide your report can wait until your next shift.

#inumaki toge x reader #inumaki smut #inumaki x reader #inumaki toge #jjk inumaki #inumaki x you #inumaki toge x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #vampire x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen inumaki #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #inumaki x y/n

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lilahlovesjjk · 10 days ago

Text

🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇮 🇬🇷🇴🇼 🇺🇵

Chapter 3

synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.

Then life happened.

Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.

warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)

The car glides through the city, headlights painting golden streaks on the slick pavement. The soft hum of music plays from the speakers—some lo-fi beat that Geto swears helps him drive better. Shoko’s in the backseat beside him, face lit up by her phone as she scrolls through whatever cursed memes she’s decided to collect for the night.

Gojo is, of course, driving. One hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the center console, fingers occasionally brushing your arm when he shifts lanes or turns too sharply—because he never just turns. Everything is dramatic. Extra. So him.

“You good over there?” he asks, peeking at you from behind his sunglasses. At night. Indoors, probably. It’s a whole brand.

“I’m not drunk yet,” you reply flatly.

“But are you good?” he presses, like he’s trying to sneak concern under layers of sarcasm.

You glance sideways. “You’re being weirdly nice. Are you dying?”

He gasps. “You wound me. Can’t I just be a gentleman?”

“You literally tried to speed past a red light to ‘prove dominance.’”

“That was a test of trust, actually.”

Geto snorts in the back. “You failed.”

Gojo ignores him and instead glances at you again. “You do look kinda pretty, by the way.”

You blink.

“Oh no,” you say slowly. “What do you want?”

He grins. “Just admiring. Is that a crime?”

“Depends,” you mutter. “Are you gonna keep talking the whole ride?”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’d miss me if I didn’t.”

You hate that you probably would.

When you finally pull into the restaurant parking lot, Gojo swings the car into a spot like he’s landing a spaceship, then hops out and jogs around to your side.

“Really?” you say as he opens the passenger door for you with a stupid flourish.

“I’m a man of class,” he says, bowing slightly. “Now come on, m’lady.”

Shoko leans out from the back window. “He’s gonna start quoting Shakespeare. Run.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and step out of the car. Gojo offers you his arm, and for a second, you hesitate.

But the sidewalk’s wet and your heels are untested, so you take it.

Only for balance.

Totally.

The restaurant is cozy but upscale—dim lighting, exposed brick, plants hanging from metal rafters, and the faint clatter of silverware over low conversation. It smells like garlic and sesame oil, and the second the host greets you, you know you’re about to eat dangerously well.

The four of you are led to a corner table—half booth, half chairs. Geto and Shoko claim the booth side, like a coordinated pair of smug cats. That leaves you and Gojo to sit opposite them.

He lets you take the seat first. “Always the gentleman,” he murmurs as he pulls your chair out.

You don’t look at him when you sit, but your face is definitely a little warm. The lights are dim, okay? It could just be the ambiance.

The waiter comes by for drink orders, and Gojo doesn’t even look at the menu before ordering something with rum, soda, and something he calls “good decisions.” You glance at the cocktails and settle on a lychee martini, then pivot to Gojo after the waiter leaves.

“Good decisions, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “You’re one of them.”

You choke on your water. Shoko cackles.

“You’re going to get kicked out of this restaurant before the appetizers even show up,” you mutter.

Gojo leans his chin into his palm, watching you like you’re more entertaining than anything else in the room. “Only if I get to take you with me.”

You sip your drink when it arrives and choose not to answer that.

“Planning to drown your unresolved trauma tonight?” he murmurs

“I’m in grad school,” you say sweetly. “That’s called coping.”

“You’re spicy when you’re buzzed,” he muses.

“You’re annoying when I’m sober.”

Gojo only grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “God, you’re fun.”

You roll your eyes but feel your stomach do that traitorous little flip again.

The table conversation is effortless. Geto is recounting some disaster of a lab study involving ink blots and a freshman who thought all of them looked like cats. Shoko, very calmly, is sharing her theory that Dr. Yuki might secretly be dating the TA who wears argyle sweaters.

Gojo keeps leaning in during the conversation just to whisper extra comments into your ear.

“Pretty sure that TA’s killed before. Look at that face. Zero remorse.”

“He’s not that old. What, 26? That’s like three years older than you.”

“Two and a half,” you correct.

“Still cradle robbing.”

“You’re one year older than me.”

“Yeah,” he says with a smile, “but I’m me.”

You give him a withering look, but it doesn’t stop the second drink from arriving. Or the third.

You’re warm by the time your second cocktail is gone. The edges of your thoughts are softening. You’re not drunk, but you’re definitely tipsy. Giggly. Light.

“Okay,” you say, standing. “I need food. Or bread. Or dumplings. Something.”

“Want me to come with you?” Gojo asks, half rising from his seat.

You wave him off. “I’m not gonna get lost between here and the appetizer station. Sit.”

He gives you a two-finger salute. “You break it, you bought it.”

You wander toward the appetizer area where staff are refilling trays of crispy spring rolls, steamed buns, and skewers of charred meat. You grab a small plate and start loading it, a soft hum under your breath.

That’s when it happens.

A guy sidles up next to you—tan skin, expensive watch, shirt just tight enough to scream trying too hard.

“Hey,” he says. “You here alone?”

You glance up, blinking. “Nope.”

“You sure? Haven’t seen anyone by you.”

“I’m literally at a table. With people.”

He smiles, sleazy. “You’re cute when you’re defensive.”

You freeze slightly, fingers tightening on the tongs. “Not interested, thanks.”

He steps closer. “Come on. Just a drink. I’m fun.”

You try to step back, but your heel hits the table leg behind you. His hand touches your arm—too firm, fingers curling like he’s trying to keep you from walking off.

You open your mouth, breath catching.

“Hey.”

The voice is behind you. Calm. Even. Lethal.

Gojo.

He’s standing just behind your shoulder, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your water glass like he’s been carrying it this whole time. His sunglasses are gone, and his eyes—sharp and pale—are focused entirely on the guy.

“Hands off,” Gojo says, so soft it could be mistaken for polite.

The man scoffs. “Relax, dude. We’re just talking.”

Gojo smiles.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, are you talking to her?” he asks, stepping closer. “Because it looks like you’re touching her. And I don’t remember her asking for that.”

You can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

The man hesitates. But Gojo doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

After a moment, the guy mutters something under his breath and slinks away.

You exhale.

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a second. Just hands you your water.

You take it with shaking fingers. “Thanks.”

“Were you okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Just… caught me off guard.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. For… you know.”

“Anytime.” His voice dips. “You looked good tonight, by the way.”

You blink.

“I mean, obnoxiously good,” he continues. “Like, how dare you? Do you know how hard it is to be charming when you’re sitting next to a Greek goddess?”

You laugh, and it comes out softer than expected. “That was smooth.”

He shrugs, grinning. “I’m full of surprises.”

You both linger there a moment too long before Geto calls from across the restaurant, “You good?”

You wave. “Yeah! Coming!”

Gojo nudges your shoulder gently. “Let’s get you some dumplings before you start drunk texting your ex.”

“I don’t have an ex,” you say as you walk.

“Even worse,” he mutters. “You’ll start texting me.”

You shoot him a glare, but he’s already grinning like the devil he is.

But before you can say anything, Shoko calls from the table: “Did you bring food or just trauma?”

You and Gojo both blink and start laughing.

The moment passes.

But it doesn’t really.

Not when he sits back beside you, closer this time. Not when his knee bumps yours and doesn’t move.

The night starts winding down in a haze of glowing lights and empty cocktail glasses.

Shoko’s leaned half into Geto’s side, nursing the last of her drink while he signs the check with lazy, practiced strokes. You’re still in your seat, blinking very slowly at the flickering candle in the center of the table like it's just whispered a conspiracy theory.

“Okay,” Shoko sighs, stretching like a cat. “We’re heading back to Suguru’s for some late-night snacks and regrettable karaoke.”

“Wait, we are?” Geto asks, brows lifting.

“You have Cup Noodles and a Bluetooth speaker. You’re ready.”

He doesn’t argue.

Gojo glances at you. “You up for that, or…”

You blink. Tilt your head. “I think my knees are gone.”

“That’s a no,” Shoko supplies, already sliding out of the booth. “Satoru, you’re on drunk baby duty.”

“I am not a baby,” you mumble, completely missing the fact that you’ve dropped one shoe under the table and didn’t notice.

“You’re right,” Gojo says, standing with a fluid stretch and tossing a couple bills on the table. “You’re a gremlin in lipstick. Come on, gremlin.”

You don’t protest when he loops your arm through his. You just giggle, a little dazed, and bump into him as you shuffle toward the door.

The ride back to your place is quiet, the hum of the city melting into the soft rhythm of the tires on pavement.

Gojo glances at you every so often. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering between open and closed, head bobbing lightly with the movement of the car. The glow from the dashboard lights your face in soft golds and shadows, making you look… softer somehow. Less sharp than your usual “I’ll destroy you with academia” look.

“You good?” he asks, pulling up outside your apartment building.

You nod, a little too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just… floaty.”

He smiles. “That’s either the alcohol or your soul leaving your body.”

“Maybe both,” you murmur.

By the time Gojo pulls up in front of your apartment, your head’s resting against the cool window, eyes blinking slowly like it takes conscious effort to keep them open.

“Home sweet home,” he says gently, shifting the car into park.

You turn your head to look at him, blinking a beat slower than normal. “S’too quiet. Usually Shoko’s already yelling at me for being too dramatic or eating her leftovers.”

Gojo smirks. “Sounds like true love.”

“It is love,” you say, eyes wide and sincere. “Roommate marriage.”

You try to open the door, but fumble with the handle. Gojo leans over, unclicks it for you.

“My hero,” you say, voice dreamy, and then—with all the solemnity of someone giving a toast—“If I had another drink, I’d kiss you right now.”

Gojo nearly chokes on air.

You’re already halfway out of the car, wobbling slightly on the curb as your heel snags in a crack.

“Okay, okay,” he says, scrambling out to your side. “Let’s keep the footwear casualties to a minimum.”

You let him loop an arm around your waist, snuggling in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Mmm. You smell nice.”

“I always smell nice,” he replies without missing a beat. “You’re just brave enough to admit it now.”

You laugh—loud and unrestrained—and Gojo feels it vibrate right through him.

The two of you stagger up the steps, you leaning on him more than you're walking, but not in a bad way. Not a burden. You’re warm and familiar at his side, and even in your ridiculous wobble-steps, you still manage to make his chest feel too small for his ribs.

You fumble for your keys and almost drop them. Gojo catches them mid-air.

“That’s like the third time tonight,” he teases, unlocking the door.

“You’re gonna start charging me a key tax.”

“I accept payment in praise. Or cookies.”

The apartment is dimly lit with soft fairy lights strewn along the walls, casting cozy shadows over your living room. It smells like you—like warm vanilla, something citrusy, and faint traces of hairspray and clean laundry.

You shrug off your jacket, tossing it haphazardly over the back of the couch before toeing off your heels with a relieved sigh.

“I love shoes,” you mumble, wobbling as you try to unstrap one, “but also I want them to die.”

Gojo chuckles and reaches down, steadying you. “Careful, Cinderella.”

Your fingers curl into his sleeve as you balance on one foot. “You’re sweet when you’re not being an egotistical menace, y’know.”

“Oh?” he grins. “Drunk compliments? You are smashed.”

“I’m not smashed.” You poke his chest, a little harder than you intend. “I’m just... warmly fermented.”

“Uh huh.”

He helps you down the hall, one arm around your waist, gently guiding you past the bathroom and toward your room. You hum something softly under your breath, maybe a song—or maybe just your thoughts out loud.

Gojo hears it anyway. And he’s still smiling.

When you reach your room, you push the door open with your shoulder and nearly trip over the laundry basket. Gojo catches you—again.

“Your reflexes are really good,” you murmur, turning to face him.

“I’ve had practice.”

“I bet,” you say slyly, eyes trailing up his frame. “Bet all the girls line up for you, Gojo.”

He raises a brow, teasing. “Jealous?”

You blink. Then grin. “A little.”

Gojo freezes.

It’s probably the drink talking. Definitely the drink.

But your gaze lingers, warm and lazy as it slides from his eyes to his mouth and back up again.

“I liked tonight,” you murmur, quieter now.

He swallows. “Me too.”

You yawn, then start to tug your shirt up over your head like he’s not still standing right there.

“Whoa—!” he shouts, flailing to turn around with both hands over his eyes. “Warning, woman! I’m still in the room!”

You laugh, fully belly-deep, and it echoes in the space. “You’re so squeamish.”

“No—I’m respectful.”

You toss your shirt at his back. He makes a dramatic choking noise.

“Duck shirt is next,” you singsong.

“Kill me now.”

You disappear into your closet, and he hears the soft rustle of clothes and a few curse words as you knock over something plastic.

When you emerge again, Gojo dares to peek.

You’re in blue pajama pants dotted with tiny rubber duckies and a matching oversized tee that says Don’t Quack With Me in bubble letters. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes are glassy.

He nearly dies laughing.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” you blink innocently, brushing past him to grab a water bottle from your nightstand.

“You look like a children’s cartoon character,” he wheezes. “This is what you sleep in?”

You stick your tongue out. “It’s comfortable.”

“Yeah, psychologically.”

You try to glare, but you’re too sleepy to commit. He watches you climb into bed, fumbling with your blanket, still muttering under your breath.

“I was gonna go out and rage with the cool kids,” you mumble, “and now I’m wearing ducks.”

He pulls your blanket up over your shoulders, just like he did back when you were kids. Something about it makes his chest ache in a quiet, tender way.

You’re already blinking slow again, your limbs heavy, your voice soft.

“You’re staying until I fall asleep, right?” you ask, not quite a demand, but close.

He blinks. “If you want me to.”

You nod, eyes already fluttering shut.

Gojo grabs your desk chair and drags it over, spinning it around so he can rest his arms across the back of it and watch you settle into the sheets.

“You know,” you mumble, “you’re not as annoying as I remembered.”

Gojo snorts. “You literally threatened to staple my mouth shut two days ago.”

“Yeah, but now I’d just… tape it.”

“Oh, so we’re evolving.”

You smile sleepily. “You’re funny. And kind. And your hair is stupid, but like, in a pretty way.”

His throat feels tight.

“You’re gonna forget you said all this, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

“Not all of it,” you say, voice trailing off. “I’ll remember the part where you stayed.”

Your breathing evens out, and your lips part slightly as you drift into sleep.

Gojo watches you a moment longer. The fairy lights reflect softly against your cheeks, and you look peaceful in a way he doesn't usually get to see—not behind a scowl, or an eye-roll, or a sarcastic quip.

Just you. As you are. Safe. Asleep. In duck pajamas.

He exhales through his nose, stands, and gently pulls the blanket back up where it’s slipped.

“Goodnight, trouble,” he whispers.

Then, quietly, he slips out the door.

You wake up with the kind of headache that makes you swear you’ll never drink again. The light filtering through the slats of your blinds is aggressive. The inside of your mouth tastes like cotton. And your limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

You sit up with a groan, one hand bracing your throbbing forehead and the other yanking your comforter over your face like it’s a shield from the shame flooding your memory.

Did you…?

Did you actually start changing into your pajamas in front of Gojo?

You collapse back into bed, face buried in your pillow.

“God. Kill me,” you mutter.

You remember flashes—the warmth of his laugh, his voice calling your name when you nearly stumbled up the stairs, the way he gently tugged your jacket off when you got inside. And then there was you, very tipsy, talking far too much, calling him stupidly pretty, and peeling off your shirt like it was nothing. And Gojo—embarrassed but gentlemanly—spinning on his heel like he was facing a firing squad.

You roll onto your back and sigh. There's no recovering from this.

You should’ve just skipped class.

Your head feels like a construction site. No—more like the aftermath of one. Everything is too loud. The fluorescent lights are too bright. And your tongue is dry as sandpaper, like it’s personally offended by the three whiskey sours you let Shoko talk you into last night. You’re not even sure how you made it to campus.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into your seat with the elegance of a damp dishrag. You’ve got your sunglasses perched on your head, not even for the aesthetic but for medical necessity. Coffee rests in your grip like a lifeline.

“Morning, angel,” comes a too-cheerful voice behind you.

You flinch at the sound of it. You don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Go away.”

“Rude,” Gojo pouts as he slides into the seat next to yours—his assigned spot now that the universe, in its infinite cruelty, made you project partners. “And here I was worried you wouldn’t survive the night. I was this close to calling an ambulance.”

You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses. “You could’ve just left.”

“Couldn’t do that.” He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if you’d tried to strip in front of someone else?”

You groan, your hand flying to your forehead. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Gojo tilts his head, all faux innocence. “Let what go? The way you started taking off your shirt and commenting on my hair?”

You want to die. Or at least melt into the linoleum tile and never be seen again. “I was drunk.”

“Drunk enough to call your microwave ‘Mr. Beepy.’”

Your coffee cup makes a dangerous creak in your hand as you squeeze it tighter.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he sings, grinning like a boy who just got away with pushing all the buttons on an elevator. “You love me. You were practically clinging to me last night.”

You lift your sunglasses to shoot him a look. “I remember enough to know I wasn’t clinging to anyone.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t remember anything.”

Before you can threaten bodily harm, Dr. Yuki walks in and begins setting up the projector. The low murmur of the class quiets down, and you sink back into your seat, grateful for the distraction.

“Alright,” she begins, “let’s start with last week’s discussion. We touched on adverse childhood experiences. Today, I want to expand that into how trauma-informed care applies in clinical practice.”

Your pen moves sluggishly across your notes, the hangover still pulsing at your temples. But your brain kicks in—slowly but surely—as Dr. Yuki poses a question to the class.

“How does understanding a patient’s trauma background help a clinician avoid re-traumatization?”

Gojo raises his hand and gives a solid answer, something about empathy and self-regulation. You nod slowly, impressed—he’s really good at this.

Another student adds on, and you feel the discussion starting to build.

You finally muster the strength to speak. “I think it also helps reframe a patient’s behavior in context. Like, understanding trauma helps us avoid pathologizing survival responses.”

Dr. Yuki nods. “Excellent. That’s key.”

Gojo taps your arm with his pen, leans over, and whispers, “Hot and smart. You’re making it very hard for me to keep bullying you.”

You shoot him a glare. “Then maybe just stop?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

You manage to scribble down some notes. You’ve always loved this part of the subject—how malleable the brain can be, how healing is possible even after devastation

It’s oddly poetic. In a way that Gojo absolutely ruins by nudging your elbow halfway through Dr. Yuki’s explanation of exposure therapy.

He passes you a note like it’s middle school.

You glance down at it.

i’m free this wknd btw if you wanna get drunk & call more appliances weird names 😎

You scrawl a reply and shove it back.

i’m going to murder you. slowly.

He just smirks when he opens it. The kind of smirk that promises more chaos.

Halfway through class, Dr. Yuki pivots toward the whiteboard, pulling up slides about project methodology.

“You and your assigned partners,” she says, “should begin planning out how you want to tackle the observational component of your paper. I suggest choosing a developmental framework—Erikson, Piaget, attachment theory—then building your observations around it.”

She starts handing out a checklist with deadlines, and you suddenly remember the worst part of all of this: you and Gojo actually have to work together. Like… spend time. Alone. With his stupid long legs stretched under a library table and that insufferable smugness every time he’s right about something (which is often, unfortunately).

You glance sideways. He’s already looking at you, chin in hand like he’s daydreaming. Or plotting.

“So,” he drawls, “when are we having our first romantic research date?”

“It’s not romantic,” you mutter, grabbing the checklist. “It’s academic. Very unsexy. Like your sock tan.”

“Ouch. But also, fair. I’ve been meaning to fix that.” He flips his pen between his fingers with lazy finesse. “You wanna use Piaget or Bowlby for this? You’re the expert on neglected children, after all.”

You narrow your eyes. “I hope that’s a dig at the paper I wrote and not a personal attack.”

He grins. “It’s both.”

You sigh, ignoring how your lips twitch despite yourself. “Bowlby might be better. More relevant for what I wanted to do.”

“I’m good with that. I’ve got a few case studies from my undergrad psych practicum we could draw from, too.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait, you did a practicum?”

Gojo shrugs like it’s nothing. “Worked at a community center for a semester. I was great with the kids. They called me Gojo-sensei.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Around children?”

“They loved me,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “One of them even proposed to me with a macaroni ring.”

“And you turned her down?”

“Tragically, yes. I told her I was already taken.”

Your pen stops mid-scribble. “By who?”

He smirks. “Guess.”

You shove your binder at him.

He laughs, catching it before it knocks over his iced coffee. “God, I missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“This,” he gestures between the two of you, “You. Us. The banter. The way you always look like you’re this close to throwing something at my face.”

You pause, unsure how to answer that. Because yeah. You missed it too.

But before you can say anything, Dr. Yuki calls for everyone’s attention again to go over the schedule for their next meeting and check-ins, and the moment passes. The last fifteen minutes of class drag by in a haze of dates and reminders, but Gojo doesn’t stop sneaking glances at you.

And you don’t stop feeling the way your cheeks heat every time he does.

As soon as class is dismissed, you’re halfway to packing up when he nudges your notebook.

“You free tomorrow night?”

You give him a wary look. “For what?”

“Project planning, obviously,” he says, batting his lashes. “Unless you’d rather I just show up at your place again and wait for a personal striptease.”

You groan. “You’re never going to shut up about that, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night. Library. Eight. Public space, no teasing.”

He smirks. “I make no promises.”

You grab your coffee and your bag, lingering just long enough to catch the little curve of his mouth as he watches you go.

And you hate how giddy it makes you feel.

taglist: comment if you want to be added

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@eolivy

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#jjk x reader #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #geto suguru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfiction #jjk shoko

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sugoi-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Nun! Alastor X Reader - Part 2 - The Confessional

HahahaHAH ITS HERE!

Warnings: serious filth and sacrilege, mentions of tentacles, some choking, fingering, oral (surprise for whose receiving~) and some really depraved confessions and convos. Cursing!!! Yay, sin! I hope you guys enjoy 💗 there will be a VERY important poll at the end, so be sure to give it a look 👀

Edit: I noticed a few mistakes on my 100th read-through, and made some changes. Apologies for that!

Never had you felt more nervous when stepping towards a chapel, hands wringing themselves soothingly. The sweat clung to your palms as you looked up towards the looming structure, head straining to take in the full magnitude of the building. The intricate stained-glass windows were illuminated under the moonlight, casting grand scenes across the earth at your feet.

In Hell, most sinners were more active at night. Depending on the Ring you would visit, you would likely run into 'unsavory' company. But thankfully, this humble part of the Pentagram was lulling with sleep, as if abiding by the arbitrary notion of a "Sabbath Day". How ironic.

You wet your lips, cursing yourself for not taking better care of yourself, before you quietly enter the building. Your eyes scanned the main hall, the room you had sat in not too long ago. Candles lit up the pulpit faithfully at the front of the chamber, while torches lined the perimeter. In this lighting, the room seemed so different, giving off the air of a deathly calm and peace; a juxtaposition to its normally bustling, jittery energy.

You almost called out into the dim room, but restrained yourself. You bowed your head, looking down cast before uttering a gentle apology for the intrusion. When you looked back up, you nodded, hyping yourself up before coming into the room further.

It is by this point that you hear something shuffling, your head snapping towards the sound. Your bravado was instantly dashed as you flew into a panic. Your eyes flash with fear, hands flying defensively upward... before you sigh with relief. You caught sight of a small, fuzzy mouse, scurrying away from you. False alarm, for now...

Your eyes scan your surroundings again, before you spy a short hallway. You step towards it, noticing that there appeared to be a private area. You squint in the dim light, spying a humble looking booth within the room.

Bingo. This must be where "confessions" occur.

You start to make your way down the hall, eager to meet with the Priest about redemption. Your head was high; you had genuine, innocent hope that this wouldn't be some money laundering, bait-and-switch scheme. And if it was... well, you just might punch a priest.

Your eyes observe paintings on the wall; you were surrounded by familiar depictions. The birth of Jesus, the Crucifixtion of Christ... the First Fallen Angel, Lucifer's decent. The rise of both Lilith and Lucifer in Hell... all of the depictions reminded you just how dire your predicament was, and how much you desperately wanted to leave hell.

In the last frame in the hallway, you spy a photograph, pausing to get a closer look. In the center, arms folded pridefully, there stood the Priest, St. Vox... among him, to both sides, stood honest though demonic looking nuns. You squint at the form to his right, unable to make out the face of the tall, slender Nun. All you could make out was a set of yellowed, razor sharp teeth smiling back at you. You shuddered, unable to shake the feeling you were being watched, before you entered the private room.

You were welcomed in perfect silence, your eyes trained on the confessional booth before you. A simple construction, for sure, but the carvings and finishes made the booth seem... expensive. You walked up to it, hand tracing intricate carvings of religious iconography. Snakes, the Forbidden Fruit, Angelic wings... a myriad of designs and carvings litered the enter frame. Had you had better lighting, you would take the time to appreciate it more... but you were here on strick business.

Without hesitation, you entered the booth, having a seat in the left side. You were not comforted by a cushion or pillow, the seat creaking under you. You flinched, the noise almost deafening in the resounding silence. And then, you waited, waiting for a sign of the Priest you sought to speak to.

When the bench in the booth to your left suddenly creaked, you nearly banged your head on ceiling. Your heart was in your throat, frightened; did the door even open??? How did someone get in there so quickly???

A throat was cleared, the sound of static crackle replaced with a low hum, before a familiar voice cut through.

"Child, I apologize for keeping you waiting. Sadly, there's no rest for the wicked, nor those who seek to help them." You sigh in relief as Vox speaks to you, shoulders instantly relaxing. You fold your hands neatly in your lap, looking towards the booth's door as you spoke.

"No worries! It uhh-- it wasn't for long, if that's what you're worried about. I... well, your Nun informed me that you had a chance to hear me out? I hope that I came at the correct time..."

Midnight, on the nose. Though some cultures differed, you were sure you were correct on this notion...

"My Child, you came at the perfect time. But, I must fulfill my duty to you; to listen first. What have you come to speak about?"

You leaned back as your thumbs twiddle, suddenly sheepish," Well... I know your methods of redemption usually come through... err, "offerings". Monetary ones, at that. I was wondering if you had ever seen anyone be saved? Redeemed and brought to Heaven on just... good will and sinless lifestyle alone?"

A dark chortle... then, an uproarious laughter fills the booth as you look in shock.

"Oh, dear Child, you are mistaken! A sinner is not capable of change! Nor is a sinner able to even fathom walking to the Heavenly Gates. No... the actions taken can never be washed clean... at least, not in Hell. What's done is done. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But..."

You feel your skin crawl as you feel the Priest facing you, still unable to see him in the darkness of the booth, just behind a lattice-patterned divider.

"You mention humble offerings... now those have proven to make life in hell more... comfortable. Much more so than that of anyone. Offerings have the ability to keep you safe; make you privy to things that others are not." You shrink back from the voice as it draws closer, a characteristic glitch setting in the tone.

"I-- your money can make you safe. It can welcome you to my fold, dear... Or... if money isn't on the table... there are... other ways to earn favor in this sacred place."

Your face instantly morphed from bafflement to rage, anger brewing in your core," What-- what are you saying?!?"

The voice past the partition seems to smile a wider," Dear, I believe you know that your soul could be traded... for freedom. For pleasures. Who best to give it to than a Priest who can promise you untold riches? No salvation, but, comforts in this life time? I can give you that-- and SO much more!!!"

"Forget it!!!" You shrieked, standing firmly on your feet and slamming your fist into the wall," I do have a confession to make, after all!"

You feel your eyes welling with hot, angry tears as your words spew out, unabashed," I LOATHE your methods! I think that taking people's money for their loyalty is-- it's sick! Almost as sickening as buying their love with promises of salvation! You're just-- just some pompous, religious twat!"

You slam your fist into the partition again, feeling your anger bleeding into your physical form," I'll tell you-- I'll tell you that I think you're a fucking sham.. this whole Chapel is! The only GOOD thing you have in this building is your fucking Nun, Alastor!"

The voice from the other end does nothing to interrupt you, seemingly silenced by your fury.

"In fact-- I think I will go seek her-- him??? THEM out!!!"

The door to your booth is slammed open by your hand, as you trudge towards the door.

"I've had it with this discussion. You aren't here to help me. You're here to coerce me. And I'm not gonna listen to another word of your warped gospel, you cheap, conniving, greedy fUCKER--!"

You gasped when you were suddenly slammed into the wall, body pressed flush to it as someone pinned you from behind. You struggled, choking as the air was unintentionally pushed out of your lungs. You became frantic as the hot breath of the demon behind you fanned across your ear. Shit-- shit!!! You fucked up!

A sickening, twisted laughed bellowed in the chamber, the tone of voice morphed and unable.

"At last, Sweet Lamb... you've begun to see the light!"

You freeze, eyes straining to look behind you. The voice of the Priest was no more, replaced with the familiar, velveteen tone of the Nun. You opened your mouth, struggling to speak with no support," Y-You! This is-- please explain!" was all you could squeak out, before a neutral hum sounds behind you. You shuddered as it reverberated through you, no time to think as you were spun around.

Again, the Nun's body pinned your own, craning downward to look at your frightened face," Sadly, the Priest could not make it to Confessional tonight... But, I was more than happy to step in, in his absence." You trembled as his arms left deep rivets in the wall beside you, swallowing hard," And, to be frank, the help he would have offered you would have been the same; inadequate, even."

You stopped struggling as you locked eyes with the demon above you, swallowing shallowly as he spoke again.

"Now, as for helping you: I'm afraid the only entity who can divinely interfere with your predicament is the Lord and his Seraphims. Not even the Ruler of the Hells could hope to overwrite God's Will." You eyes turn downcast, face heating at the words. Of course... that would make sense. Only God and the angels can open the gates, right? How foolish an idea you had...

"However..." You felt a clawed finger beneath your jaw, beckoning you to look up. You were faced with the same, wide smile, eyes narrow slits filled with delight.

"There are things that a Saint, such as myself, can still offer to you..." Your eyes widen in recognition: Aha! So he WAS a man, afterall. You blink, shaking your head quizzically.

"I have SO many questions-- for one, why would you be parading as a Nun, if you're a Saint?" Alastor's grin grows a touch mischievous, before a weighed sigh leaves him," Alas, the Priest here struggles with... containing himself. He has a history of giving in to Earthly desires, time and time again. I can bring him much discomfort with just my voice, let alone my body... I am merely a vessel for the Lord, and yet he wishes to, well, lay his claim. And so, the habit conceals everything he can't keep his eyes off of; everything he is not permitted to touch by the Lord."

His neck tilts, cracking with the harsh angle as he looks to you," I think it's quite the sound idea, don't you think?"

Alastor leans back, his hips still pinning you to the wall. Your face heats hastily with embarrassment. He seemed to be gauging your every move, calculating what you may try while under his trap.

"Sure, right-- Okay... perverted Priest. Wouldnt be the first time I've heard of that..." You looked up shakily to the nun... saint...? You aren't sure what to call him anymore. Alastor quirks a brow up at you, egging you to speak.

"Okay, okay, second question: what are you implying that you can help me with?" You yelp as a knee comes between your legs, caging you again. Alastor bends down at the waist to match your height, his face growing closer to yours. With hands at either side of your head... you were still so close... and so, so trapped.

"I think we both know that you have something else to get off your chest... Thoughts that you've been plagued with, My Lamb." A slender, warm finger runs down your cheek, knuckle first, ending the trail just below your jaw. You gasp as Alastor comes impossibly closer, his fringe nearly brushing your forehead.

"Wh...what do you mean...?"

The Saint chuckles darkly, shaking his head," Oh, wayward one... your eyes betray you. They betrayed you the moment you looked into mine." You nearly squeaked as his other hand brushed through your hair, ensuring he could see your entire face.

"I saw you, even from across the room... Eyes wide in awe, wonder... You were completely spellbound by a riveting performance. You tried to look away, you shifted in your seat to silence your nerves... And yet: your eyes never strayed far from this Servant of the Lord."

You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, subconsciously parting them as he continued to speak," Your body kept betraying your internal struggle, Little Lamb."

A choppy gasp as the hand in your hair ran down to your neck, lightly caressing and pressing to your pulse.

"I could sense your heartbeat, quivering and loud, with each movement I made, each inhale I had to take to sing. Each time I smiled just a touch more... I could almost taste the sweat that ran down your brow, your eyelids fluttering during the final chorus. Your thighs could only do so much to relieve the pressure that built up in you. You were enthralled... but not by the Lord's gospel: but by me."

His hand drifted down to your chest, settling over the very spot your heart should be. Your breathing quickened, your eyes never leaving his. You cursed yourself, biting your lip to stifle any shameful noise you might create.

St. Alastor's smile never wavered as he leaned over you, that familiar heat ghosting over your neck.

"I didn't miss the way that your pulse quickened when I walked closer... you hadn't even been a part of my original section, you know. But Sister Eunice was more than willing to switch. Your palms became clammy, eyes glassy as you tried desperately to plan your escape... And the moment my arms caught you, I knew for sure: you also struggle with impurities of the flesh. Specifically..."

You watched with baited breath as his hand drifted lower, until they landed on the hem of your bottoms, ghosting just above your core,"... you struggle to keep your thoughts, your body's reactions, at bay around me."

You gasp as you are groped by the large hand of the Saint, breath already ragged from his words," But... to know for sure, I need to hear these impurities come from your lips. The first step to forgiveness is confession; honesty. You must repent for your actions, in order to properly atone. So... is there anything you need to confess to, Bashful One?"

Your eyes glazed over, a familiar heat brewing downstairs as you felt his palm grind against your clothed sex. Your head rolled back, lip quivering as the Saint waited patiently. Your mouth fell open, a quiet sigh escaping you.

"Yes, there it is... let it out, Lamb. Don't hide in shame from the Lord. Embrace it-- embrace this--" You whined as your arms grabbed at his habit, his hands shifting and rubbing you through your clothing torturously. You try to stifle another moan, eyelids fluttering," Th-This is-- haaah!" You let your eyes fall closed, brows furrowing," Y-You have the wrong idea, I didn't come here to f-fuCK--"

You could barely contain yourself as you felt the hands of the Saint slip into your bottoms, fingers tracing a sensual line from the bottom of you slit, up to the pearl that sat atop it. You whined as Alastor pressed against it, unable to think clearly as he began to swirl two digits around your clit. His movements are slow, not to overwhelm you, eyes taking in your expressions to monitor your progression.

"St. Alastor! I--" you caved to the feeling, grinding into the saint's hand," I-I didn't come for this, but... I-I did think immoral things about you." Good choice, Alastor thought.

You bit your lip as you were rewarded a pinch to your bud, back arching off of the wall as you wailed," I-I-- fuck-- y-your voice was really-- mmph!" You grabbed onto the demon's shoulders above you, rooting yourself in place as you felt Alastor's pace increase.

"Hah... y-your hands looked-- feel-- so warm! Uhhn! Y-your eyes were--" Alastor pinches again, correcting you," A-Are--! Your eyes are s-so deep-- it feels like you were-- i-it felt like you were undressing me with them!"

A sly smile graces his face, leaning in to place chaste, innocent kisses to your neck," ...and perhaps they were, clever Lamb... Perhaps they were~" You whined at the notion, mouth hanging open as you continued your confession. You could hardly think straight as you felt his fingers quicken, your eyes beginning to lose focus. You trembled, knowing that this confession had been doing lewd thing to your mind and body.

"W-When you caught me, for a moment I felt- hah-- saAAaafee~" You mewl as Alastor's fingers move lower, teasing your entrance, where you desired his fingers the most. Your face was tilted further to the side, before you felt a wet, hot mouth suckling at the junction of your neck. You shuddered, fighting the mewl he tore from you so easily. Unsatisfied, you felt sharp teeth biting down, making you shriek with surprise. Pain was quickly replaced with a soothing pleasure, Alastor kissing and licking at the wound apologetically. You sighed, working up the mental capacity to speak again.

"I-I felt, no-- I needed those arms around me again. I wanted..." Boldly, you moved your arms from his shoulders, pulling lightly at Alastor's veil," I really wanted to see what was underneath all of this, too... call it a sin, but... I... I have nothing to hide anymore; not from you or the Lord."

You watch as Alastor's head doubles over, a shaky groan escaping him. When he looked back up at you, his eyes blended in with the rest of the room: they became pitch black.

"What an obedient, honest fucking pet you are, Little Lamb~"

Without warning, two fingers made their intrusion, but your silken heat was relaxed enough to take him. You cried out in bliss from the reward, tugging at the head dress again. Alastor simply kept going, leaning in to kiss your forehead as he thrust his digits up into your welcoming, quivering heat.

"Ahh, ahh~ I've taken an oath, little one. No one is permitted to see such secrets~"

You whine as you clamp down on his wet fingers, brows furrowing. You needed more; you demanded to see more. You didn't miss the way that Alastor hissed, brows furrowing at how tight you were. It seemed that he enjoyed the display far more than he let on...

Attempting to ground himself, his hand landed on your neck, holding you in place. The effect seemed to make you wetter, eyebrows raising with realization as your moans deepened. What an interesting revelation~ The Lord most certainly worked in mysterious ways!

He leans down to your ear, voice low and dripping with a sacrilegious heat," ...Tap once if you would like me to tighten my grip. Tap twice to stop it immediately." Your eyes, wide with desire, fluttered and rolled towards the ceiling, but you nodded nonetheless. If this was how all of your confessions would go... then you would become a zealot of the Lord and the Saint before sunrise.

You gave his shoulder a tap, hand landing there as you let his fingers explore and scissor the walls of your pussy. Alastor was happy to oblige, his hand squeezing your neck gently.

The action made your mouth run dry, your eyes glazing with desperate, passionate tears as his fingers thrust deliberately in your core.

Another tap to his shoulder, your eyes gazing into the flickering radio dials that had become Alastor's pupils. Again, Alastor was happy to amuse you.

You couldn't contort or stifle the noises you made, grunts and mewls the only music to leave your delicate throat. St. Alastor's hand squeezed as promised, making you flutter pathetically around him. You whined as you took in the nun turned god, your tongue hanging precariously out of your mouth. He smirked, a dangerous chortle bouncing off the chamber walls.

"Already at a loss for words, Lamb?" Alastor's fingers inside of you flex inward, pressing against a spot that made you see the pearly gates.

"My, my, your confessions will fall unto deaf ears at this rate~ Speak up, won't you? The Lord and I are granting you an audience~" He knew you couldn't speak; he knew and he didn't care. He just wanted to see you keen and struggle against him, unable to do anything but beg for more or stop this all together.

You couldn't even think of a sentence, let alone speak it into existence. Your lips flapped desperately, hands snaking up to grip at the wrist and hand on your throat. Your legs quaked, your eyes threatening to roll back as you gave a singular tap. Just one.

Alastor's eyes gleam with insidious joy as his smile expands.

Even tighter.

You felt your hips guiding themselves along Alastor's devout fingers, chasing a feeling that was hastily approaching. Alastor did little to stop you, intrigued by the display. At the intrusion of a third finger, a wanton dribble of saliva cascaded down your chin. A strangled groan: you certainly didnt mind the delicious stretch that your entrance underwent.

St. Alastor returned his attention to your face, licking a heated stripe across your parted, swollen lips. You sputtered with ecstacy, the feeling further spurring you on. You felt your coil tighten, your throat burning as you panted with reckless abandon.

"Come unto me, Little Lamb."

You needed little motivation, a silent scream gracing your face as you completely shut down. Your legs spasmed and stilled, heart racing as Alastor finally let go of your neck. Your voice was hoarse for a beat or two, hands instinctively going up to your neck. You felt a small, dried blood trail from the bite on your neck, trembling with the notion that he visibly marked you. If he didnt intend to own you, then he made a grave mistake.

You only whine as the feeling of his warm fingers left your core; this only managed to light a fire in you. You look back towards the Saint as your eyes lidded, a heavy sigh his only warning as you pushed him off of you. Alastor, surprised, caught himself with a pitch black tentacle that manifested behind him. You start to unbutton your bottoms, pushing them off of your hips before kicking them to the side. You start trudging towards the Saint with a renewed heat in your eyes. Alastor's grin nearly split his face in half as he watched you, completely overtaken by your desire to commit more sins.

Alastor tilts his head, taking deliberate paces away from you and towards the confessional booth. He had a grand idea!

"It seems that you are still plagued with impure thoughts. Tell me, Dear Lamb..." Alastor practically chuckles as he takes you by the wrist, tugging you off your feet and into the booth. You land harshly on his lap, the both of you groaning as you grind down on his firm, tall erection.

His tone was dangerous, a myriad of tenacles materializing around your limbs," What other impurities trouble you, my Lamb?" You grow impatient, boldly reaching for his lap before your hand is held aloft. Cursed tentacle!!!

"P-Please, Sister-- Saint Alastor," Your tone comes our more like a plea than a demand, as your other arm is held over your head. Your legs are spread apart, your bare cunt dribbling your essence; it drips down your glistening thighs in a tantalizing way.

"I have had thoughts of you f-fucking me... a-and I don't know how to b-b-- AHH!!" Your hips buck at an unfamiliar feeling, one of Alastor's tendrils caressing and teasing your entrance," I-I don't how to-- How to banish the thought... I-I may need higher intervention. I-I need your blessing, St. Alastor."

A prideful, malicious smile replaces the amusement on his face, long, slithering tongue dragging across his lips," Well, that is certainly a hefty demand! You poor, sinful wretch!"

You cry out in pleasure as the tentacle spears you, exploring parts much deeper than his fingers could reach. You felt your arousal slicken the foreign body, making the intrusion easier. A wanton moan sounds in the air everytime the tentacle thrusts into you.

Alastor stands on his feet, flicking a wrist as the tentacle's speed picks up. You were completely helpless to his whims, your eyes threatening to roll back as you are overcome by the tentacles' hold and movements. The Saint looked all too pleased as you heard the rustling of fabric. You tried to look down, but a tentacle covers your leering eyes, making you wail in frustration. Alastor tuts like a disappointed teacher, shaking his head.

"And here I was, about to reward you for your blatant, unabashed honesty... Should I stop? Should I call the Priest to finish the job? Or should I leave you here, tied up and aching for relief... Just to let any-old-sinner find you in such a state?"

You freeze, biting your lip as the tentacle slows to a painfully slow slog. You whine again, thrashing your head in protest," N-No, no, no...! Ughhnn, no please! Don't stop! I-I still want your blessing, Alastor! Pl-Please!"

A wicked laugh sounds in front of you as a hand snakes up your top, finding and fondling your right nipple. You jolt at the sensation, the feeling multiplied due to the lack of sight. You weren't expecting the tentacle inside of you to stir to life at the same time, now with a renewed, brutal pace. You were practically screaming at the onslaught, bouncing from every thrust you were gifted.

"Ohh, I knew you would succumb to God's Will, my dear... You see, we all fall helpless, begging at God's feet."

You feel yourself being dragged down until your knees hit the floor , your hands still held high above your head. You weren't expecting warm, firm flesh to land on your face, gently slapping at your parted lips. You could only speculate what it was, your thighs unable to clamp together.

"I must warn you, receiving my blessing can be quite taxing... do you still wish to accept it, Lamb?"

Your tongue comes out from your lips, swiping along Alastor's cock. You feel his hips stutter as you lick all that you could reach, your head already lightheaded from your desire to please him. You swirl your tongue around the head, the tip of your tongue teasing the slit in your movements. You heard a warning growl, a hand fisting your hair and holding you in place.

Still unable to see, you look up towards the noise, mouth wide open," G-Grace me with your blessing, Oh Shepard..." You could feel Alastor's breath hitching, trying to restrain himself.

"Guide this Lamb to the light of the Lord. Please.."

You were given no time to prepare as Alastor thrust into your mouth, his animalistic grunt your only solice. You were shell-shocked as he and the tentacle worked in tandem to break you. You swiveled your hips and met the thrusts from below, arching your back as your head was used as a personal cock sleeve. Though you wished to see Alastor's own lips, bruised and panting, his hair clinging to his forehead as he thrust into you... the feeling would have to surfice. And though you wanted to run your hands along his abdomen, raking your nails across his pistoning hips... you couldn't deny that the feel of the whole ordeal verged on the precipice of Nirvana.

You groans and mewls made his cock twitch and leak more precum, making your mouth even more slick for his movements. He couldn't deny how good this felt; he, himself, would have a lot to answer for later, in the privacy of the basement. He moaned as he thought of his future atonement, limbs spread and head to the floor to form the cross before a statue of Jesus. His fingers would be clawing into the floor as he recited his virtues and prayers, pleading forgiveness for a sin he felt no guilt for.

His mind clouded with visions of you, trying to seduce and distract him. Your hands would trace along his body and caressing his traitorous, sensitive tail. This information, for now, was still unknown to you...

He practically shouted from the pleasure your mouth offered him, one hand holding your face still while the other braced himself against the confession booth door and splinted the wood.

He was already approaching his climax, and by the looks of it, you were nearing your second. His smile strained as his hips lost their rhythm, opting to seek the feeling and not the motion.

"Fuck-- fuck, Lamb... oh, my sweet Lamb!!!"

You whined around Alastor's cock, your hands struggling against their restraints as you cunt throbbed with the desire to cum.

"You are so-- fuck, so fucking warm!" You felt your orgasm bubbling in your core, your tongue doing its best to carress and snake around his cock, welcoming his release with open mind and body.

"An obedient Lamb... worthy of my blessing!! Arggh-- b-blessings upon you, Lamb!! Take it! Take every last drop-- Hah--"

You gagged as Alastor bottomed out in your mouth, unable to pull away as his 'blessing' painted you white as snow. You shrieked around his cock as a new tentacle traced fast circles around your clit, forcing your release to hit you by surprise. You screamed into the climax, feeling a warm gush between you legs as you finally came undone.

Alastor pulled out of your mouth, his tentacles still touching and pulling you through your release. Your eyes are uncovered as Alastor kneels before you, kissing you hard and passionately. Your hands were soon freed, and so you tore off the damned veil. You began tangling your hands into the Saint's red and black locks, your euphoria starting to die down.

Once you felt like you were back in the right state of mind, you parted from Alastor's lips, a pleasant smile on your face. You looked down to your lap, embarrassed at the unmistakable puddle you left behind from your passions. Alastor looked too, eyes flicking back to yours as his grin softened.

"Worry not. I will handle this, Lamb. No one will know of this night. And your confessions will be safe with me."

"...REALLY now..."

The both of your freeze, looking to one another as a familiar voice sounds behind you.

"Y'know, confessions: they're supposed to be in a private, sacred place... and from your actions, this place has been sullied and desecrated."

The door to the booth flies open, Alastor and you both jumping from the sudden BANG. Your eyes widen in horror at the Demon who stood in the doorway.

"What do you both have to say for yourselves?"