#touching note from the director | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youthguk · 4 months ago

Text

Encore 2: Intermission

“Some scenes only happen when the lights go down.”

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You’ve worked too hard to become untouchable. He still knows exactly where to touch. After one night of stolen pleasure, you’re determined to walk away — but Jungkook isn’t ready to let you go again. Between silk sheets, half-spoken regrets, and a black-tie dinner where flirtation becomes revenge, your past and present spiral into something dangerous. It was supposed to be physical. But feelings don’t follow the script.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, rimming (f receiving), protected sex, angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 10k

author's note: ugh, this part really broke me🖤 writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

part 1 | part 2 (you're here) | final part 3

You stand in front of Seo In-kyung’s office door in borrowed heels and smudged eyeliner, praying your face doesn’t betray the night carved into your body.

The morning light bleeds through the glass walls like scrutiny. Her office is pristine — sharp angles, a curved leather chair behind a white marble desk, walls lined with editorial archives and thick matte prints. A minimalist arrangement of white orchids sits perfectly still in one corner, untouched by dust or emotion.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

You step inside, clutching your tablet too tightly. Your hair is pulled back — barely — in a low twist that you smoothed with shaking fingers in the backseat of a cab thirty minutes ago. Underneath the oversized Saint Laurent blazer, your dress is the same one from last night. You're hoping it passes as intentional. It doesn’t.

Seo In-kyung is already seated. Flawless. Impeccable. A navy Mugler blazer sharp enough to slit throats, heels lacquered, wrists bare. She doesn’t smile. She gestures to the chair opposite her without looking up.

You sit, spine straight. For a moment, silence.

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

She’s flipping through a printed copy of the BTS campaign spread — full bleed photos, minimalist layouts, editorial perfection. The same layouts you stayed past midnight refining. The ones you pushed through legal, color, and styling approvals with nothing but caffeine and willpower.

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

“This,” she says, “brought the entire industry back to us.”

You exhale. Just slightly. “Thank you, Director Seo.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes still scanning the page. “Thank your instinct. You were right to strip it down. No gimmicks. No clutter. Just tension.” She turns a page. “Even Jeon looked like a man worth remembering.”

You freeze. But she doesn’t elaborate. Just closes the folder, places it gently beside her, and finally looks at you.

You wish she hadn’t. Her gaze is cool. Calculating. The kind that scans and files away. You feel it — the mess behind your eyes. The mascara you didn't have time to fully erase. The faint redness at your mouth. The scent of a man that no water could completely wash off.

She leans back in her chair. “Fondo di Luce.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

“It’s an international art and fashion initiative,” she says. “A luxury gala held annually at Villa Fioretta, Lake Como. Private guest list. Couture-only. Funded by Dante Seo’s Light Fund and Vogue’s European partners.” A pause. “And we’ve been invited.”

Your breath stirs.

“I want you to represent Vogue Korea,” she says.

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

“Yes. You pitched this campaign. You shaped it. People in Milan want to meet the girl who made the cover go viral.”

You feel lightheaded. Not from panic this time — from the taste of possibility. Of respect. Of validation earned, not handed.

Your mouth opens to thank her but then she speaks again.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The room shifts. Your spine locks. Her gaze hardens. She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t tolerate editors who sleep with clients,” she says. Voice smooth. Flat. “It’s unprofessional. It’s disgusting. It makes us look like we earned our place on our backs.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“You, Y/N, are better than that. You’ve proven yourself. Your instincts are rare.” A pause. “It would be a shame to lose someone like you because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. You nod once, eyes fixed on a nonexistent spot on her desk. She stands.

“That’ll be all.”

You rise mechanically. Thank her. Bow. And walk out of the office with your pulse screaming in your ears. The moment you step into the hallway, Kara is there. Perched by the espresso machine in the break corner, sipping an oat milk latte with glossy lips and smug silence. She doesn’t say anything.

Your fists clench. Your face burns. You want to tear the smugness off her face and throw it back at her in headlines.

Instead, you walk past her — heels echoing like threats — and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Unknown Number

Still quiet, hm? Should I send someone to pick up my jacket or do I get a kiss as collateral?

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

You delete the thread. Turn off your notifications. And get back to work.

You don’t cry in the hallway. You don’t clench your jaw, or turn on your heel, or demand Seo In-kyung look you in the eye when she delivers the kind of warning she never would’ve given to a man. You don’t remind her that half the board she answers to built their careers on affairs with photographers, designers, founders — powerful men who never had to answer for the women they fucked.

You just breathe.

Measured. Controlled. Counted down like pills in the morning. You walk back to your desk with your back straight, your heels clean against the tile, pretending you don’t feel the ghost of his hands still pressing into your hips. You can almost hear him still — that teasing, velvet-coated filth, low and smug against your skin. You hear it in the vibration of your phone every hour since sunrise. You hear it in Kara’s eyes every time they rake over you. You feel it in the way your own body responds when you close your eyes at night — when your fingers trail down beneath the sheets and it’s his name that sits between your teeth, no matter how hard you bite down.

You tell yourself it was just sex. A one-time indulgence. A lapse in judgment that began and ended in a penthouse no one else has to know about. You tell yourself it was closure — that there’s no gravity to the way he held your face in his hands like he still knew how to ruin you. That the ache still curling inside your chest is nothing but delayed shame.

But the problem is, it wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way he looked at you like five years hadn’t passed, like you weren’t a stranger in that room, like you were still the girl he used to know in a borrowed hoodie and scraped-up Nikes, standing in a dingy kitchen, editing your first column with red pen on a ten-thousand-won table. It was the way he kissed you with a hunger that felt older than his fame. It was the way he let you bite him, claw him, curse him — and still whispered “come back to me.”

And now you're here. Perfectly poised in the office you fought tooth and nail to climb into, barely holding yourself together while your editor-in-chief — a woman born with the title stitched into her spine — calls you brilliant and disposable in the same breath. She will never know what it feels like to be called a genius on Monday and a whore on Wednesday. To be handed praise with a choke chain wrapped around it. To have your best work reduced to who you might have let touch you after hours.

She can talk about dignity. She can afford to. You, on the other hand, know exactly how fragile power can be when it’s built from scratch.

✦✦✦

The message comes barely an hour after you walk out of Seo In-kyung’s office.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

You don’t open it. You don’t need to — the preview alone is enough to make your stomach twist. You swipe it away, fingers rigid, and tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Not the message. Not the sender. Not the way your name still looks when it rolls off his voice, even in text.

That night, another one arrives.

Was it the blazer? Should’ve left you something softer.

You laugh, once. Quietly. Then delete it like it burned you. You don’t respond. You won’t. Because if you let yourself type anything — a word, a punctuation mark, the space before a breath — you won’t stop. And you’ve worked too hard, pulled yourself too far out of the wreckage, to let one night drag you back into the ruin you barely crawled out of.

But the texts don’t stop.

Sometimes they’re careless. Teasing. Written like he’s still in your bed with your thighs pressed against his hips and your nails in his back. Other times, they’re sharp with weight, like he doesn’t know which version of himself you’ll tolerate — the boy who left you, or the man trying to come back.

You never reply. But you read every word.

And at night, when the world finally stops demanding your time and your poise and your reputation, when the silence of your apartment feels too loud to ignore — you remember how he touched you. You remember how it felt to let go of everything for one hour, one night, one man who once shattered you so completely that you forgot what it meant to breathe without him.

You touch yourself like it means nothing. But it’s his voice you hear when your fingers slip lower. It’s his mouth you imagine when you bite your own shoulder to muffle the sounds. It’s his hand around your throat when you finish — sharp and soft at once — and it’s his name that almost slips out, pressed against the inside of your teeth like a secret you’re still ashamed of wanting.

You don’t look at your phone after that. You tell yourself it was just sex, you’re smarter now.He’s just another mistake in a long line of things you’ve learned how to survive.

And when another message arrives — two days later, right as you're finalizing your flight details for the gala in Lake Como — you don’t even read it.

You just close your eyes, and try not to remember how he looked at you when he came.

✦✦✦

You arrive at Incheon International two hours before your flight, slipping through security behind oversized sunglasses and an air of quiet efficiency. The blazer you’re wearing is Dior this time — borrowed from the archive rack, boxy at the shoulders, sleek across your hips. Beneath it: a slate-gray satin blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers, pressed razor-sharp. You look like someone who’s going to Lake Como for work, not for war.

It isn’t until you reach the boarding gate that you see the line of black masks, tailored airport coats, and hush-voiced assistants clustered like chess pieces around Gate A7.

BTS.

Of course.

Your stomach doesn’t sink. It knots — tight, controlled, slow — like the warning of turbulence long before the plane leaves the ground.

You keep walking, silent, graceful, aware of every click of your heels on the polished floor. You don’t let yourself search for him. You don’t have to. You feel him before you see him — a presence that presses against your awareness like heat against skin, impossible to ignore.

It isn’t until you’re lowering yourself into your business class seat, reaching for the strap of your carry-on, that you finally glance up — and meet his eyes.

Row 2. Aisle seat. Black mask, black cap, rings on both hands. And staring at you like he hasn’t blinked in days. You look away.

The plane boards slowly. Assistants murmur. Photographers keep their cameras off. The boys move like shadows, trained to blend, to disappear behind the shape of fame. You keep your posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle, your tablet open with your flight agenda already pulled up — even though you’ve read it three times.

He doesn’t approach until you're halfway into the sky.

You excuse yourself from your seat, nod politely at the stewardess, and head down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory — slow, deliberate steps in heels that whisper money and control. The tiny hallway near the restrooms is dim, quiet, muted beneath the drone of altitude and distance.

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

It’s not rough. But it’s firm — and you know that grip. You’ve felt it around your waist, your neck, your thighs. You turn slowly, breath already caught halfway between fury and something far more dangerous.

He's right there. Closer than he has any right to be in this narrow corridor with no eyes but yours and his. The door to the lavatory is behind you. His body blocks the path. His scent — soap, leather, the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to his jacket from days ago — wraps around you like memory.

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, face half-shadowed by the cap, eyes hungry in a way that makes you press your thighs tighter, just to feel something grounded.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

“I keep dreaming about the way you moaned my name.”

Your stomach tightens. You don’t blink. You lift your chin instead “That’s all it was. A dream.”

But his eyes drop — once — to your mouth, and then lower. “I remember the way your legs shook. That wasn’t dreaming.”

You inhale sharply, but your expression doesn’t change.

“You should go sit down.”

“Or what?” His voice dips lower. “You’ll pretend again you don’t want me to fuck you right here?”

His hand doesn’t move. His body doesn’t touch yours. But you feel every inch of him like a scream in your skin — heat, memory, friction.

You smile — slow and cutting. “I’ve learned how to control myself. You should try it sometime.”

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. Then he leans in — not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel his breath near your neck, his voice low and ruinous.

“I’m not the one squeezing my thighs together.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your heartbeat is in your throat, that your body is already lit from the inside out. You hate that you want to kiss him. Bite him. Tear him open. But you won’t. Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You step aside, brushing past him with a look that could frost steel, and say nothing as you return to your seat. You don’t check to see if he follows.

You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway through an article you can’t remember reading, with his gaze still burning a hole into the back of your neck from three rows behind.

✦✦✦

The wheels touch the tarmac just past four in the afternoon, and the landing is smoother than expected, the kind that glides into the runway with practiced quiet, as if even the aircraft has been told to behave. Outside the small window, the northern Italian sun pools in long, soft ribbons over the hills, stretching across the landscape like liquid gold, tinting everything it touches with the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn — only stuns.

You disembark without ceremony, your sunglasses still in place, your coat folded over one arm, and your expression carefully blank. The assistant from Vogue Italia is waiting beside the hangar — her posture perfect, clipboard in hand, dressed in cropped white linen and flat shoes that probably cost more than the flight. She greets you by name, with polite English and a smile that’s too curated to be real, then leads you across the quiet concourse, past shuttered photographers and a cluster of sleek black cars idling behind a discreet security perimeter.

Your name is listed on one of the placards. Y/N — Vogue Korea.

So is theirs. BTS.

You don't react — not outwardly. There is no visible shift in your posture, no flicker in your gaze. You’ve already taught your body how to lie better than your words ever could.

The assistant ushers you toward a waiting Mercedes, its interior cool and leather-scented, the seats butter-soft beneath the press of your thighs. A silver tray holds still water, a lemon wedge perched just so. Your phone buzzes once in your lap. You don't check it. Not yet.

The drive from the airport is postcard-perfect in a way that feels intentionally cruel — narrow country roads wrapped in vine-laced stone, the distant glimmer of Lake Como revealing itself in flashes between tall cypress trees and crumbling terracotta villas. Each bend in the road opens into a view more breathtaking than the last, until you almost forget where you're headed and why your chest has been tight since the gate at Incheon.

The car finally slows as it pulls through ornate wrought-iron gates that gleam with gold filigree under the light, winding up the long private drive that spills into the front courtyard of Villa Fioretta. The estate rises from the hill like it was carved directly out of the cliffside — all creamy limestone and tall shuttered windows, manicured terraces spilling over with ivy and white flowers, and delicate copper details that catch the dying sun like jewelry. It looks like something you’ve seen on a Vogue Italia cover in a past life, or maybe a perfume ad from the early 2000s, the kind where everything was just slightly out of reach, and nothing ever truly belonged to you.

As the driver comes around to open your door, you exhale once, slow and silent, and allow your face to settle into something calm and beautifully unreadable.

Inside, the villa is all elegance in hushed tones — soft marble beneath your heels, pale walls washed in ivory and cream, every piece of furniture chosen for quiet power rather than comfort. The concierge greets you by name and with reverence, offers you a key card embossed with the letter “F” in deep matte black, and explains with the expected level of practiced charm that you’ve been placed on the fifth floor, lake view, courtesy of Fondo di Luce, and that a welcome aperitivo will be served on the lower terrace shortly after six.

You nod, thank them, and enter the elevator with the same stillness you’ve been wearing since you boarded the flight. It’s not until the doors begin to close that he enters behind you.

You don't need to look to know it's him. The presence is immediate — heavy, hot, undeniable. His cologne clings to the air, low and sharp, the same one you woke up wearing four mornings ago in his bed, still tangled in his heat.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The silence in the elevator stretches, long and taut, the kind that drapes itself over the walls like velvet, pressing in on all sides. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the panel, the floor numbers blinking upward. You can feel him beside you — not touching, but close enough to undo you all over again if you let yourself lean even an inch in his direction.

The mirrored wall reflects the shape of him — rolled sleeves, black slacks, tattoos visible where the cuff is turned, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he never needed to hide. He’s looking at you. You don’t return it.

The elevator stops at five.

You step out first. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, touched with the kind of warmth that money doesn’t have to brag about — just suggests. He follows.

Your room is halfway down the hall. You can hear the soft tread of his boots behind you, steady and measured, but it’s the silence between you that rattles louder than any footfall.

You stop at 506. Slot the card into the reader. The green light flashes. Still, you don’t turn.

"If you're going to say something stupid, Jungkook," you murmur, voice calm but edged, your hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold you steady, "don’t waste it here."

The door unlocks with a soft click. You step inside and let it close behind you without another word.

You never heard his footsteps retreat — which is exactly why your hands are still shaking when you set your bag down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed.

✦✦✦

The evening descends in a soft, golden hush, the lake catching the last streaks of sunlight and bending them into mirrored ribbons that stretch across the manicured garden lawns. The terrace is already glowing by the time you arrive — dozens of floating candles bobbing in the villa’s pool, crisp white tablecloths draped over stone tables, wine glasses catching firelight like they were designed to burn. Waiters move like shadows through the crowd, balancing trays of Campari spritzes and white truffle canapés, slipping between conversations spoken in Italian, French, and English laced with old-money vowels.

You’ve dressed for the kill.

The gown you chose is a strapless black number that ends just above your mid-thigh — sculpted to your body like it was designed for this exact kind of dusk, this exact kind of attention. The satin clings in all the places you used to hide and now let sharpen you. Your back is bare, your collarbone glistens with a soft sheen of skin-warmed perfume, and your heels are high enough to demand silence when you walk. The neckline dips low, the hem even lower, and there’s a part of you that knows—without even needing the confirmation—that if Jungkook looks at you tonight, it won’t be casual.

You tell yourself you wore it to feel powerful. You tell yourself that it’s just about proving a point.

But deep down, beneath all the polished rationality and strategic poise, you know it’s a lie. You wore it to tempt him. Or maybe to punish him. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

You glide through the terrace like you belong to it. Conversations flicker as you pass — Vogue Paris, L’Uomo, a few senior figures from Condé Nast and K-Media International — all familiar faces from the inner circle of fashion and luxury publishing. You smile, you nod, you take a glass of wine with the hand not gripping your clutch, and you keep moving.

He’s here. You haven’t seen him yet, but you feel him. You’ve felt him since the moment you walked in — like a change in air pressure, like heat blooming in places that should be cold. Each time a new shadow approaches, your chest coils tight, your gaze flicks once, and you brace yourself.

The first time you actually see him, he’s standing on the far end of the terrace near the balustrade, surrounded by three men in Tom Ford tuxedos and a woman from Vogue Italia who is laughing too easily at something he hasn’t said. His hair is pushed back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hoop in his ear catching the light each time he turns slightly, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry. He looks devastating. You don’t look twice.

You spend the next hour performing avoidance like an art. Each time he moves in your direction — and he does — you change course. A conversation with a photographer. A compliment to someone’s emerald earrings. A turn toward the pool just in time to keep a table between you. He’s watching. You know he is. And you never let yourself look back.

Until you meet Dante Seo.

He arrives like an entrance — tall, olive-toned skin that speaks of Italian summers and Seoul winters, his suit perfectly fitted in bone-white silk with a single black brooch gleaming on the lapel. His hair is dark and swept back with the ease of someone who doesn’t try hard and never has to. His smile is clean. Curated. Dangerous.

“You must be Vogue Korea,” he says as he offers his hand, eyes tracing over your form like he’s calculating how many men in the room already hate him for standing beside you. “No one told me you’d be this stunning. I’ll have to send my regrets to our editor-in-chief for not coming in her place.”

“Y/N,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “Campaign editor. But I suppose the title doesn’t matter so long as I’m stunning.”

He laughs — low, indulgent — and motions to a pair of older executives hovering behind him.

“You all remember Jeon Jungkook, I’m sure?” Dante glances sideways, eyes sparkling. “The face of Vogue Korea’s revival, the star of the cover that’s been circulating Milan for two weeks straight.”

Your spine tenses.

“I think it’s fair to say Korea brought us something exceptional,” one woman offers, sipping from her wine. “He was brilliant. Magnetic. I hadn’t seen that kind of restraint from an editorial in years.”

“I think that was more the editor’s eye than the idol’s,” Dante says, looking directly at you now, one eyebrow lifted with the kind of mischief that always ends in trouble. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you convince a man like that to surrender so completely?”

You force a smile, swirl the wine in your glass, and answer coolly.

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

More laughter. More praise. More commentary on how sharp he looked, how he carried the shot, how Vogue Korea must be so proud. The room keeps saying his name. Over and over, like it means something, like it doesn’t still taste like sweat and regret and begging on your skin.

You excuse yourself twenty minutes later, your glass half-full and your teeth aching from how hard you’ve clenched your jaw.

The moment you step back into the villa’s interior, the noise blurs. You walk past the grand staircase, through the velvet-draped hall toward the elevator, your heels muffled against the thick cream carpet, your throat hot from wine and words you didn't say.

You don’t notice he’s following you until you reach your door. The moment you slide the keycard into the reader, he’s there.

One hand planted against the door beside your head, the other grazing your hip, his body closing the space so completely that all you can smell is him — clean, woodsy, sharp with the memory of what he did to you last time.

You turn slowly, your back brushing the wood. His breath is hot against your cheek, his voice low and intimate, like a confession laced with filth.

“Do you want me to say it?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to say I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs all night? That I imagined dragging this dress up your legs while the whole fucking party watched?”

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

He leans in closer, lips brushing just beside your jaw.

“I saw how you avoided me. Like I was the one who begged. You think I don’t know you wore this dress for me?”

You swallow. Hard. His fingers trail lightly along the line of your jaw, down to your mouth, hovering there as if waiting for a tremble he already knows is coming.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “I could make you cry with my fingers before you even reach the bed.”

You hate the way your knees weaken. Hate the thrum building between your legs, the ache in your stomach, the heat spreading low and sharp like fire beneath your skin.

You should say no, open the door and disappear into the room and lock it behind you.

But when you meet his eyes — dark, hungry, full of something wild — you fumble the key, and he catches it with a smirk, sliding it into the lock like he’s been there a thousand times before.

And when the door opens, you step inside without a word. Not because you forgave him. Not because it means anything.

Only because your body stopped asking for permission the moment his mouth said your name.

✦✦✦

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, soundproofed click, and the moment it does, you feel it — the shift in air, the sharp electric drag of his presence right at your back.

You barely make it three steps into the suite before his hand circles your waist and drags you back against him. You don’t gasp, you don’t whimper, but your body tenses with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the ache that’s been clawing at your stomach since the moment he stared at you from across the terrace like he wanted to fuck you blind.

His mouth finds your shoulder first — soft, open, hot — pressing through the thin fabric of your dress, kissing along the slope of your neck while his other hand skims down the silk curve of your thigh. You smell wine on his breath, wood and heat and hunger, and he’s already hard against your ass, pressing into you like he can’t believe you’re real again.

“Fucking knew this dress was for me,” he breathes against your skin. “Knew it the second I saw you.”

You turn your face slightly, just enough to graze his jaw, your voice calm even as your blood roars beneath the surface.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens.

“This.”

He spins you — smooth, practiced, fast — and pins you against the suite wall, just beside the blackout-curtained window, one knee between your thighs, your heels barely catching grip on the polished wood floors. His hands are under your dress in a second, sliding up your thighs, growling when he feels just how little you wore beneath it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and guttural. “You didn’t wear anything for me?”

“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you murmur, tilting your head, letting your lips brush his but never touching fully.

His teeth graze your chin. “Don’t fucking test me tonight.”

“I thought you liked being tested.”

He laughs — dark, breathless — and you both know you’re seconds from snapping. His hands glide over your ass, gripping, kneading, dragging you harder against the bulge in his pants. You rock your hips back, just once, just to feel how badly he wants it.

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

His eyes flicker, and you see it — the surprise, the interest, the way his breath catches just slightly before he obeys. He backs up toward the edge of the king-sized bed and lowers himself slowly, legs spread, cock straining against the fabric of his tailored black trousers.

You follow him. Drop to your knees between his legs like it's a throne, not a man.

His eyes are already half-lidded, hands braced on his thighs, watching you as you reach for his belt with smooth, practiced fingers. You undo the buckle with no urgency, and when the leather slides through the loops, he hisses under his breath like it’s your mouth around him already.

When you reach into his boxers and pull him out, you exhale softly — not from surprise, not from awe, but from the rush that starts between your legs at the sheer weight of him in your palm. He’s hard. So hard it makes your mouth water. The tip’s flushed, leaking, pulsing against your skin.

He looks like he wants to say something — maybe a tease, maybe a curse — but the second your lips close over the head, all he does is moan. Long. Deep. Raw.

You don’t rush.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, one hand still stroking the base, the other flattening against his lower abdomen to keep him exactly where you want him. You suck slowly, carefully, letting your mouth shape around him like you’re molding heat out of gold. You glance up — and the sight of him nearly undoes you.

His head is thrown back, mouth parted, hands gripping the edge of the mattress now. The muscles in his thighs are shaking under your palms. When you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, his hips jerk, his voice cracks.

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips like a threat.

“You’re gonna what?”

He opens his eyes, looks at you like you’re the devil himself, and chokes on a groan when you go down again — this time deeper, wetter, your tongue pressed under the shaft, saliva dripping down your hand. You let your mouth contour around him, let him feel every inch of heat and slick velvet you can give.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut now. “Please don’t stop. Please—fuck—just like that—”

The begging shocks you. It makes your core throb, makes you grind your own thighs together as you take him deeper still, lips stretched wide around him, hand working what your mouth can’t reach. You love the way he sounds, the way he begs, the way this man — who fucked you like he owned you just days ago — is now unraveling in front of you with your name gasped like a prayer.

You pull off again, let your lips drag down the side of his cock, tongue licking up the vein, and you whisper:

“You taste better than I remember.”

He grabs your shoulders, dragging you up fast, lips crashing against yours like he’s trying to climb back into control.

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he mutters, voice shaking. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You don’t resist. Because you want it too — filthy, breathless, and only getting darker from here.

He doesn’t let you move far — his hands are already on your thighs, on your waist, pushing you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he shoves you down with a grip that’s firm but reverent. He follows immediately, kissing you deep, tongue filthy in your mouth, his taste mixed with the sharp salt of his own arousal. You moan into him, still breathless from the way he sounded minutes ago — the quiet begging, the desperation, the way he came undone just from your mouth.

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

He pulls away, eyes black, chest heaving. You barely register your own dress being pulled up, bunched around your waist, before he drops to his knees between your legs and drags your soaked thong down with both hands — slow, savoring the way the fabric clings to you, the wet string pulling along your folds.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, and you feel it in your spine — that growl, that tone, the sound of someone starving.

He spreads your legs wide, pushes your knees up, and leans in with no ceremony. His mouth finds your clit in the same breath as his fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed until you feel like you’re going to slide off entirely — right into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks once, then twice, then circles until your hips buck.

“You’ve missed this,” he says against your cunt. “This pussy remembers me.”

You try to argue. You try to speak. But your breath stutters when he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s tasting sugar.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the soft strands, anchoring yourself. You can’t stop the sounds that escape you now — soft, sharp gasps, your head falling back as he devours you, his mouth relentless and wet and so good you can’t think straight.

And then he slides lower.

At first it’s a tease — his tongue licking below, over the tight ring of muscle, making your thighs twitch. But then he spreads you wider, his thumbs parting your ass, and before you can process it, his mouth is there, licking into you with slow, filthy indulgence.

You moan — loud, uncontrolled, broken — and your entire body tries to lift off the bed. He holds you down.

“Jungkook—” It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that tonight, and it cracks at the edges. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t stop.

He eats your ass like he’s done it before, like he’s memorized you, like he owns the right to taste every inch of you. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his tongue drags back up to your clit again, your vision blurs.

And in the haze of your unraveling, one thought claws through everything: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hips grind up into his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing the high. And when he slides two fingers into you — slow and deep — your back arches, your moan breaks apart, and your orgasm hits like a wave dragging you under.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling beneath him, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering around his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick, his eyes feral, and he climbs back over you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“You good?” he whispers, voice raw with pride.

You glare at him, chest still rising and falling, and mutter, “You’re disgusting.”

He smirks, kissing your collarbone, licking a stripe up your neck.

“And you’re wet.”

He’s on you before you can gather your thoughts — his body pressing you into the mattress, heavy and solid and far too familiar. His chest brushes yours, warm skin meeting your peaked nipples, and the friction makes you hiss between your teeth. You try to push him back, just enough to reassert something, anything — but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You scowl, but it’s weak — half-hearted, half-turned-on, and he knows it.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He leans in, licks into your mouth like he owns it, and then slides his cock slowly through your folds — hot, heavy, dragging along your slit until you’re whimpering despite yourself. You feel him reach for a condom, hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hips notch forward, the thick head of his cock pressing at your entrance.

“You still feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, and when he pushes in — slow, so slow — your nails dig into the sheets.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He’s big. He always was, but this time it feels deeper, sharper, like every inch is a punishment you didn’t see coming.

“God—” you breathe, blinking up at the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you still feel this good?”

“Because your pussy remembers me,” he says through a ragged exhale, hips still rolling forward. “Because it’s mine.”

You clench around him at the word — mine — and hate how much it turns you on.

“You really think one night erases years?” you bite, trying to pull your voice together, but it’s breathy and cracked.

“No,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “But it reminds you.”

He bottoms out, and the sound you make is caught between a moan and a curse. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper even as your pride screams at you to shove him off. He feels too good. It’s too hot. It’s everything you didn’t want to feel again, wrapped in silk and sweat and his goddamn voice.

He starts to move — slow and deep, every stroke dragging across every nerve ending you have.

“You’re clenching,” he growls in your ear, licking down the side of your neck. “You missed this. Missed me.”

“I missed being fucked,” you shoot back, voice shaking. “I could’ve found that anywhere.”

He snaps his hips once — hard — and your gasp betrays you. Your hands fly up to his back, nails digging in.

“You’re lying,” he pants. “You never let anyone fuck you like this. Never let them see you like this.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you’re already close again, already tightening around him like he’s the only man who’s ever made you come this hard.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands from your face. “Wanna feel it again. Wanna watch you break.”

You pull him closer, arch your back, and mutter into his neck:

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes. He fucks you harder now — still deep, still deliberate, but with that edge of hunger he’s been holding back all night. His pelvis rubs your clit with every thrust, and when his hand slides between you, fingers circling your swollen nerves, you see stars.

You’re writhing now, moaning his name like a warning, and he’s kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds, your curses, your surrender.

And when you finally come — tight and fast and gasping — he moans something filthy into your mouth that you’re too far gone to understand. You feel him tense, feel the thick roll of his hips as he buries himself one last time, and then he’s groaning through clenched teeth, coming with your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room is nothing but breath and sweat and silence. Then you turn your face away. And the next wave starts building.

You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve pushed him off and walked into the bathroom, should’ve wrapped yourself in a robe and poured a glass of water and reminded yourself who you are now — not nineteen, not in love, not wrecked by the memory of a boy who never said goodbye.

But instead, you stay. Lying there, trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm that still echoes in your spine, your thighs slick and sore, your heartbeat pressed somewhere up in your throat.

Jungkook shifts beside you, his palm still on your stomach, his breath still hot against your shoulder. You can feel him stirring again, thick and half-hard between your legs, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving — rolling onto your side, facing away, pulling the sheet off your skin like you’ve surrendered to something you’ll never admit out loud.

He presses up behind you, his chest flush to your back, his mouth trailing down the slope of your shoulder with reverent hunger. One hand slides over your hip, gripping it as if anchoring himself to reality, the other skating down between your thighs to find you still soaked.

“Still dripping for me,” he mutters, voice hoarse with lust. “You love this.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers, pushing your legs apart. “That’s why you’re letting me do this again.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to get out, to stop twisting everything into something so ugly and true — but then the head of his cock is sliding between your folds, and your breath catches in your throat like betrayal.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch burns — not painfully, but beautifully, the kind of fullness that makes your spine arch and your mouth fall open. His hand finds your throat from behind, just a gentle pressure under your jaw, guiding your gaze up to the full-length mirror across the room.

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

Your eyes flicker open. And what you see takes the last bit of air from your lungs. Your body — flushed and glistening, breasts bouncing gently with each slow thrust, his chest pressed to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat. His face — focused, wild, desperate. Yours — wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groans, picking up speed. “You look so fucking good like this.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it’s weak, broken, your voice shaking.

He pulls out, slaps your ass once, then sinks back in deep. You whimper, your head falling forward, but he doesn’t let you look away.

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

You do. And that’s the problem. Because it’s not just the sex. It’s the way your mouth falls open when he rolls his hips just right; your nails claw the sheets when he says your name like a curse and a prayer. The way your eyes can’t lie in the mirror — how wrecked you are, how undone, how his.

“You’re just a dick to me,” you spit, desperate, cruel.

But he only groans and fucks you harder. “Then why are you dripping down my thighs?”

He reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and filthy, and your body convulses around him, your moans high and breathless. He fucks you through it, relentless now, slamming into you as your muscles clench around him.

The mirror fogs. Your eyes blur. And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue and your pride somewhere back in Seoul.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, curses tumbling from his mouth as he spills into the condom with his forehead against your shoulder and your scent all over his skin.

The sound of your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning.

You pull away first. Walk into the bathroom without a word, leaving him in the bed where he just ruined you all over again.

✦✦✦

You take your time in the shower, as if hot water can rinse off regret. You wash his hands from your thighs, scrub the taste of him from your mouth. You tilt your head back and let the water hammer against your eyes until it’s impossible to tell what’s tears and what’s steam.

But none of it works. Because when you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe that still smells faintly of jasmine, he’s still there. Shirtless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s praying to something he stopped believing in a long time ago.

You walk to the desk in the corner, grab your phone, place it face-down, and then turn around — arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, slower now, sharper. “This doesn’t change anything.”

He rises, but he doesn’t close the space between you. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

You laugh — bitter, quiet, worn thin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

“I felt your cock inside me,” you snap. “I thanked you for the orgasm. What else do you want?”

“That’s not what it was.”

“You’re right,” you say, folding your arms tighter. “It was nostalgia. A stupid, warm, familiar fuck. That’s all. It’s easy to miss someone when you’re lonely.”

He steps closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause. A thick, excruciating silence.

“You and I…” he says, softly now, like the words might shatter in his throat, “we were made for each other. Even our bodies—”

“Oh, right,” you cut in, vicious now, unable to hold it back. “You’d know. You’ve had so many to compare.”

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, he has no clever retort. You press forward, rage slipping between the cracks of your voice.

“How many, Jungkook? Since me? How many fans, idols, influencers, pretty things to fuck between tours? Don’t act like I was unforgettable when you replaced me every goddamn night.”

“I didn’t replace you,” he says — broken, breathless. “I was just trying to forget.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” His voice cracks. “No, it didn’t. I was stupid. I was young and insecure and fucking terrified. I hated myself for what I did. I still do.”

You shake your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, the robe cinched too tightly around your waist now.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk out when things get hard and come back years later with apologies and expect me to what— forgive you? Believe that you’ve changed?”

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a trembling breath. “I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes I made when I was twenty.”

You inhale sharply — then exhale through your teeth like it burns.

“You think I wasn’t twenty too?” Your voice rises, high and brittle. “You think I didn’t feel lost? I moved to Seoul with you. I started everything from scratch. My job. My name. My future. I met people too. Rich ones. Brilliant ones. Men who would’ve killed to touch me, to claim me, to give me the fucking world—”

He flinches.

“—but I never said yes. Because I wanted to go through it all with you. I was building something. A life. A career. A future. And I wanted you beside me.”

Tears fall now. Hot, fast. You don’t bother to wipe them.

“But you left,” you whisper. “No explanation. No closure. Just silence. Like I meant nothing.”

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

“You broke me,” you say, and your voice finally cracks — full and sharp and agonizing. “You left me alone in a city that already hated me. You made me beg for your attention without saying a word. And I still had to show up to work. Smile. Climb. Watch my dreams come true with no one beside me to see it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, eyes shining now. “I was a coward. I didn’t deserve you then. But I want to be the man who does now. Please—please just give me a chance to prove it.”

You stare at him and your heart is breaking. But you shake your head.

“Every time I look at you,” you whisper, voice like shattered glass, “I see the version of myself you left behind. Nineteen. In love. Hopeful. And you stole her from me. You robbed my nineteen year self of her happy future.”

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the quiet of the room that still smells like sex and sweat and the bitter rot of everything they’ve broken again. His eyes are red-rimmed now, chest rising like it physically hurts to speak — and maybe it does.

“I love you.”

He says it softly, like the words themselves might vanish if he says them too loud. Like he doesn’t quite believe they’ll land.

Your lips part, barely. But you don’t answer. Not at first. You just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, robe clinging to damp skin, trying to shield yourself from a wound that’s already been split open at the seam.

“I never stopped,” he whispers, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him, even now. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I disappeared. Even when I hated myself for it.”

You blink once. Your throat tightens. And then you speak — slowly, like every word is a blade you have to pull out of yourself to hand to him.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No, you didn’t love me then,” you say, voice low, calm, terrifying in its precision. “You loved how I made you feel. How I adored you. How I was yours when you wanted me, and gone when you didn’t.”

His breath hitches, but you go on.

“And now you’re doing it again. You’re confusing lust with love. Familiarity with fate. You’re looking at me and thinking this means something more than it does, because you want it to, because it makes you feel less guilty.”

“It does mean something,” he argues, stepping forward like he’s desperate to close the space. “You and me—”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that. Not anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you lift your hand — not to strike, not to touch, just to stop him.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and you mean it. “And even if I did… it’s too late.”

You turn then, slow and sharp, like your heart is finally made of steel instead of longing, and you gesture toward the door — toward the end of the night, the end of the echo, the end of whatever illusion he came here chasing.

He doesn’t move at first. But when he does, he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks to the door with quiet steps, like the weight of everything he never said is finally too much to carry.

The door opens and shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And in the silence that follows, you don’t cry. You just stand there, still barefoot, still breathing, staring out across the lake through the glass windows as the lights of Villa Fioretta shimmer back at you in the dark.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself whisper the truth. He broke you. And you’re still not sure if you’ll ever recover.

✦✦✦

Villa Fioretta sparkles like something out of a Renaissance painting — golden lanterns swinging in the breeze, shadows stretching long over the polished marble as the evening unfolds with practiced luxury. The terrace for tonight’s formal dinner is carved into the cliffside, overlooking the dark silk of Lake Como, each table draped in white linen and framed with tumbling white roses. Candles flicker in crystal holders. Soft jazz rolls under the clink of silverware and laughter that never reaches the eyes.

You arrive later than planned.

Hair pinned. Makeup fresh. The kind of dress that breathes elegance from the front and vengeance from the back — low-cut, high-slit, sharp where it needs to be and soft where it shouldn’t. Midnight navy satin hugs your waist, drapes over your thighs, whispers down your legs with every step you take. On your ears: diamonds. Around your neck: a pearl choker — delicate, pointed, surgical.

No one would know that you didn’t sleep last night. Except maybe him.

Jungkook sees you before anyone else. Of course he does. He’s already seated when you arrive, across the long dinner table, dressed in black-on-black with his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes meet yours. Then drop. Then return. He doesn’t look away after that.

You let your gaze sweep past him like he’s any other guest — beneath you, behind you, not even worth remembering. Because tonight, you’re not here to feel. You’re here to make sure he does.

“Ah, Y/N.” Dante Seo stands when you’re led to your place, a slow grin blooming on his face like he’s waited the whole day for this exact moment. “You’re late.”

You slip into the chair beside him without apologizing. “I had to recover from a… long night.”

His eyes spark at that. You don’t let them linger.

Around you, the table is littered with people who make headlines for a living — stylists, designers, fashion house CEOs, cultural editors from every Vogue in the western hemisphere. BTS is here too — seated near the far end, spaced out perfectly so the illusion of randomness doesn’t look like security protocol.

You don’t look at them either. You focus on Dante’s hand as it grazes yours every time he reaches for his wine. You focus on the warmth of the candlelight on your collarbones. On the way people lean in when you speak.

“You truly spearheaded something magnificent,” the director of Vogue UK says, dabbing at her lips. “That October cover… everyone’s talking about it. Jungkook’s never looked so refined.”

“Or so raw,” someone else adds. “There’s something vulnerable in it. Almost like…”

“Like he was seen,” Dante finishes, smiling sideways at you. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

You sip your wine.

“That was my job,” you reply coolly. “To see him as something more than a headline.”

Your words hang between you, and Jungkook doesn’t speak even once.

But you feel him. Every time Dante laughs too loud. Every time Dante leans too close. Every time his hand brushes your thigh under the tablecloth and you don’t move it away. You feel Jungkook watching like it’s a punishment. And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t look powerful now. He looks like a man barely holding himself together — knuckles white against the stem of his glass, jaw so tight you know it aches. And still… he says nothing.

Dinner ends slowly. Plates are cleared. Dessert is offered. Liqueur appears in tall, thin glasses, and conversations bloom into something silkier, messier. Looser.

Dante leans toward you again, the scent of spice and ambition warm against your cheek.

“I have a bottle I’d kill to open with you,” he murmurs. “Private cellar. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smile without showing teeth. Your heart is thudding like betrayal behind your ribs. But you nod.

“Lead the way.”

You stand. And that’s when he stands too. Jungkook.

You pretend not to see him following, just a few paces behind, not fast, not loud — but steady.

The hallway is dim, the sconces casting long shadows across marble walls as you and Dante make your way toward the private wing. At the turn, Dante checks his phone — a call from someone downstairs. He excuses himself for a moment, promises to be right back.

And then you feel it — the heat behind you. A presence you’ve memorized in your bones.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes. Then, softly — like a ghost afraid to be exorcised, “You don’t have to do this just to hurt me.”

You turn, slow and sharp, and there he is — no stage, no audience, no press-ready expression. Just Jungkook. Tense. Broken. Bare.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” you reply. “I’m leaving.”

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

His voice drops, rough and unsteady. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No one does,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

His eyes close for half a second — like that one cut sliced too deep.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re just angry. You’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m proving I can walk away from you now.”

Jungkook steps closer. Just one step. Barely enough to touch. His breath hits your collarbone.

“If you walk out with him right now… I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

You blink. But your voice doesn’t break this time.

“Then think about it.”

“Please,” he says — and it’s not performance, not charm, not strategy.

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

“Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough to break you.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” you say, voice soft and surgical. “You already took everything that mattered.”

And when Dante reappears at the end of the hall, you turn without another word.

Your heels echo across the marble as you disappear down the corridor. You don’t look back.

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

send feedback, requests for drabbles and one-shots here

taglist: @twiinkletae , @whoa-jo, @emixlyn, @maariinaaaaa , @strawberryberrygirl , @viacb97, @bhonbhon , @baechugff, @mrspotatas, @hrndzsposts , @zzztaegizz , @bubblyyz , @vandjklove , @queenmasterxx, @lynnnnnnn23

#jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook ff #jungkook x you #bts smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook one shot

1K notes · View notes

wcnderlnds · 6 months ago

Text

carried away | choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

・❥・ summary: getting to film a movie with seunghyun is all fine until you have to film a kissing scene ・❥・word count: 1.1k ・❥・warnings: n/a ・❥・ authors note: saw a video of tazza behind the scenes and was inspired 👀

Choi Seung-hyun was one of the most interesting people you had ever met. Not only was he a complete sweetheart but he was one heck of a talented actor. He could switch between himself and the character he was playing almost seamlessly. Not many actors had that kind of talent — some opting to stay in character through the whole shoot to not lose focus but not Seunghyun. When he was in character, he was locked in and when he was out of it, he was the fun, sweet guy that you had come to know over the last couple of months. It amazed you every single day.

When you’d first got the job to star alongside him, the nerves you’d felt were probably the worst you’d ever experienced. He was an icon, part of one of the biggest bands in the world. It was daunting knowing you were going to have to be face to face with one of K-Pops biggest idols. Turns out there had been no reason to worry whatsoever because he was the nicest person you’d ever met. The very first day you’d met on set he’d introduced himself politely, made sure you were comfortable and did everything he could to make it easy for you. It wasn’t your first job. You were pretty well known in the industry but every set was different. All the different actors and crew; sometimes you didn’t know what to expect. So far, this had been your favourite movie to work on. Did most of that have to do with Seunghyun? Absolutely.

Today was the day you had been dreading the most, though. Intimate scenes were always daunting to film but now you had to film one with Seunghyun. Oh, you were so screwed. Over the last few weeks, you had developed a little crush on your co-star. Not a word had been uttered to him but you were fairly sure you weren’t hiding it very well. The giggles at his every joke, the way you’d hang on to his every word, find any reason to be close to him — it was like you were a kid again with your very first crush and didn’t know how to act.

“You ready for this?” Seunghyun asked as the two of you stood waiting for the director to start the scene. He stood there, tie loose around his neck, his white shirt unbuttoned slightly showing off some of his chest. If you weren’t so nervous, you’d definitely be staring right now.

“Yeah,” you nodded, hands flexing at your sides. “I'm a little nervous but I’m ready.”

“I’ve got you, okay? You want to stop at any time just tell me and we will. We don’t even have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it. I’m sure we can think of a way around it,” he reached out to give your arm a reassuring squeeze. Even just a simple touch like that made your heart beat ten times faster so what the hell was going to happen to you the moment his lips met yours?

“It’s okay, I promise. I’m glad it’s with you. I trust you.” A genuine smile adorned your face making Seunghyun smile, too. Was he blushing as well? Surely you were imagining that.

It wasn’t too long after when the director yelled action and it was all hands on deck. Before you could even prepare yourself (which you’d had plenty of time to do if you hadn’t been so nervous), Seunghyun’s hand was on the back of your head and his lips crashed against yours. The second his soft lips began to move, your head turned fuzzy. Your hands fisted in the shirt he was wearing as he backed you up onto the bed. As you laid back, he settled on top of you, his tongue tangling with yours. You knew you were supposed to be acting, that this was your character and not you but it didn’t stop you from getting lost in the way his lips fit so perfectly against yours. Or the way his body slotted between yours like a puzzle piece.

It wasn’t until Seunghyun pulled away — breathless and with red tinted cheeks — that you realised the director had shouted ‘cut’ over five minutes ago. You could feel the flush of your cheeks as the embarrassment coursed through you. Without a single word, you ran off the set to hide in your dressing room. If that wasn’t the most mortifying moment of your life, you didn’t know what was. How could you have gotten so lost that you didn’t realise the scene had ended? How unprofessional.

It was five minutes later when you heard a knock on your door. You barely mumbled a “it’s open” when the handle turned and in walked Seunghyun. You had your head in your hands but as you heard him clear his throat, you looked up. There he stood looking as gorgeous as ever.

“Can I…?” He gestured to the spot next to you on the couch. You nodded your head, resting your hands in your lap. He sat beside you, twisting his body slightly so he could look at you. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m embarrassed and mortified and really wish the ground would swallow me up right now.” The urge to hide your face again was strong but you fought against it. You had to be an adult and own up to what had happened. “I’m so sorry, Seunghyun. That was so unprofessional of me. I…I’m really sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t apologise. I could have stopped it sooner but… uh, I didn’t want to.”

Did you hear him correctly? He didn’t want to stop kissing you?

“…what?” You asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he let out a low chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. “I like you. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make a move without it being weird for a couple weeks now but nothing seemed right. But then when I kissed you and you didn’t seem to stop, I couldn’t help myself. If anything it was unprofessional of me.”

“Just a couple of unprofessionals then, huh?” You joked, gently nudging him with your elbow. “I like you too, by the way.”

“I know, you’ve been pretty obvious.”

“Shutup.”

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and bringing you into his side. “Want to get dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” you smiled up at him, his eyes catching yours. It was so easy to get lost in him. Everything about him was so perfect.

“For the time being, we have a lot of kissing to do because apparently we were too intense for the scene or something,” Seunghyun jokingly rolled his eyes, holding his hand out for you as he got to his feet. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

If work meant you got to keep kissing the handsome man standing in front of you then you were more than happy to get back on set.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten

#choi seunghyun x reader #t.o.p x reader #top x reader #choi seunghyun #bigbang x reader #my fics

1K notes · View notes

sanacibo · 11 months ago

Text

Transcript:

Alex Hirsch: The way that Craz and Xyler talk where they're like... They'll have the intelligence of like, a golden retriever or a fruit roll-up that came to life. Like I remember, those were some of the jokes that Matt drafted into the script that made it all the way to the end, like I didn't want to touch those because it was such a funny, like, their thought process.

Mike Rianda: Yeah.

Matt Chapman: Do you remember, there was one where, it may have been the one where they eventually say "Mabel's saying something right now!" or whatever, where one of them eventually said something like "[goofy] Are you thinking about the Olympics?"

Hirsch and Rianda: [laughing]

Matt Chapman: And the other was: "[goofy] I totally am!" And we found out you can't say "the Olympics"

Mike Rianda: That is like, heartbreaking, because I have thought about "are you thinking about the Olympics?" since this was on the air.

Alex Hirsch: Yeah, that's... We weren't allowed to use proper nouns in the series, so we couldn't say "superbowl" we had to say "football bowl", and a line like "[goofy] Are you thinking about the Olympics?" "I am!" Like, without the word "Olympics" it was nonsense. Like, it was already nonsense? These guys sort of remind you of an old t-shirt of a logo, like, but without being able to reference it, it was like, abridged too far. And that was often the most heartbreaking thing was getting a joke that we all busted up at, and then I get the note and I can't think of a way to save it. I'm always trying.

End Transcript

can you guys please listen to this cut bit from the gravity falls director's commentary because it's killing me

thank you @lesbianrecordplayer for the transcript

#gravity falls

3K notes · View notes

tteokdoroki · 2 years ago

Text

ೀ⋆OCT 1ST PRINCESS DIARIES ━━ satoru gojo + breeding !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. satoru gojo + breeding. thirty days until you become queen, thirty days to get married and thirty days to stop sneaking around with the man trying to steal your crown… (5.2K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, royalty!au, enemies to lovers (?), forbidden romance, infidelity and cheating, spit kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, pregnancy kink, breast play, agoraphilia, baby trapping, oral sex (f!recieving), unprotected sex, princess + fem!reader, lord!satoru gojo.

୨୧ — director’s note. woo happy spooky season my loves. welcome back to another tteokdoroki kinktober! im excited for you to see whats in store this year, hope you enjoy this fic to start off mwah! - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

you have thirty days to get married.

being from a small town, somewhere that’s not even on the map — you never expected your family name to carry much meaning aside from the one you carved out for yourself. let alone expect your name to come from royalty.

if you thought discovering how to be a teenager at sixteen was hard, then try discovering how to be a princess at sixteen on for size. everything you’ve ever done since finding out you were royalty has been for your family. you’ve kept your head down, out of the spotlight aside for the occasional appearance and charitable events. you’ve studied hard, double-majoring in international relations alongside political science and diplomacy.

you’ve prepared yourself thoroughly enough to feel ready to take the mantle of queen — especially with your grandmother planning to step down. all of your accomplishments have been leading up to this very moment — it’s so close that you can practically feel the weight of the crown on your head.

except there’s one itty, bitty, little problem.

you still have to get married in thirty days. otherwise, your family title will be poached from right beneath your nose.

satoru gojo (aka public enemy number one) is the nephew of a member of parliament who just so conveniently knows genovian law better than your grandmother does. since satoru came of age before you did, and he’s lived in genovia for longer than you have, and has some random distant relative in connection to the first king — the men of parliament have decided that he too is in line for the throne.

especially if you, the princess, do not marry before your coronation.

how ridiculous is that?

and not only is this satoru gojo an evil, conniving, crown-stealing bastard. but he’s charming, a silver tongue wrapped around each and every one of his words. charming, like a prince (blegh) he’s also stupidly attractive. with deep sapphire blue eyes that are gorgeous enough to make the crown jewellers weak in the knees and a smile so sweet it feels like a sugar rush whenever he looks at you. there’s something so unique about the frostiness to his soft white hair, matching his unfairly long lashes — the ones you know girls back home would kill for.

it angers you to know that you’d been dancing with your rival at your welcome ball, pains you to know that you’ll never forget his slender fingers splayed out against the small of your back to guide your every movement. if you had been back in college (and had a few litres of hard liquor in your system), perhaps gojo would have been the type of guy you’d have snuck into the dorms for a night of fun and an NDA in the morning — your secret signed away from the paparazzi’s keen eyes.

alas, these are very different circumstances and there’s a lot riding on you being sensible about the situation. yet, satoru proves himself to be a problem every chance that he gets — cornering you in closets with his breath hot against your ear, trapping you against the walls while the ghost of his touch feels like heaven against your skin… on the staircase too, insistent on reminding you of the passionate dance you once shared.

all while you’re set to marry the duke of another country so you can keep your fucking crown (pardon the language, your highness).

suguru geto would be the perfect king consort if you managed not to mess this up. he is warm, where satoru is a flip between disastrously hot and frustratingly cold. he balances you out, a mellowness to your clumsiness whilst understanding your need for a rushed proposal and wedding. raised a gentleman, suguru is mindful of you in every action he takes. he doesn’t stare too long but smiles when you think he’s not looking and he’s a wonder with your grandmother — the parents, too. his family gem (a serpentine, making you feel much like a snake) sits heavy on your ring finger, dazzling under camera flashes at your engagement dinner…. and he recognises duty and honour above anything else too.

if satoru is your enemy, then guilt is your friend. no matter what either of the men in your life do, you find yourself comparing their every move. when you’re with suguru your mind is away chasing the fairies, imagining the touch of another man who sets your heart alight in a cool blaze — like gasoline trickling through your veins waiting for its candle match. when you’re with satoru, all you can think about is how wrong this is. how geto doesn’t deserve this. but you’re an addict without a cure, and your drug is satoru gojo and you don’t see yourself ever quitting him.

you're in desperate need of a wake up call and a nicotine patch, the cocky yet lecherous air about him almost acting like a smog in your healthy and capable lungs. sometimes through the fog, you wonder if satoru knows how much he weighs heavy on your mind— though if he did, you’d never hear the end of it.

the current queen tells you not to worry about the white haired man that’s slowly freezing over the four chambers of your heart. you tell yourself that suguru geto is the only man that you need, one that could help you rule and create a beautiful and better kingdom for many years to come. geto tells you that he loves you, that he can’t wait to marry you in two or three weeks time and you respond with equal (yet, faux) excitement.

perhaps that’s why you find yourself sneaking away from this respectful, loving man to be with the one trying to ruin your life?

why are you following satoru gojo deep into the royal gardens, where the rose bushes are the only witness to your sick and twisted sins?

your back hits the jagged pattern of tree bark before your brain can catch up — causing a little wet whimper to bubble up on your pinky-peach tainted lips. the flutter of pain just beneath your skin only lasts for a second before it’s replaced by the sensation of satoru’s fingers traversing up the dips and curves of your body. he soothes you where it hurts the most, rough fingertips leaving bruising marks made with affection along your thighs and small of your back while he swallows your sweet gasps — licking into the wet cavern of your mouth to taste you.

“you’re not even…” his words spill into you, adding fuel to the spark of lust beginning to form a pit in your stomach. “you’re not even attracted to him,” he spews, surging forward like a storm knocking on your door to press his greedy spit slicked lips to yours. his tongue, syrupy and wet, intertwined with your own, filling you up and giving you something to suck on.

before you can even think of kissing your rival back, he retreats and takes his swollen lips with him — latching onto your neck and weaponizing his teeth against it. you gasp, your angel’s song tipping out into the rose garden while your fingers tangle in silver-moon locks and let him work against you, claiming you just below the neckline of your dress where no one will be able to see.

except for maybe your fiancé and only god knows how you’ll be able to explain the marks to him tonight. ‘oh you know me, suguru. i’m way too clumsy for my own good.’ you’ll say, all while thinking about how the man after your crown blew your back out at your engagement party.

you know why satoru’s acting such a fool — taking risks that he wouldn’t normally. the dress you’re wearing, the colour of his eyes, drives him fucking insane. you can’t say that you didn’t ask for this, like it wasn’t on purpose.

“can’t fucking stand you,” gojo groans against your skin, nose pressed to your collarbone as he inhales the candied notes of your perfume. “been giving me those angel eyes all day. knowing that i can’t take my fucking eyes off of you when you wear that colour, princess.”

he’s insufferable, but here you find yourself at the mercy of his touch — offering up your body to satoru gojo like a sacrificial lamb as your back arches away from the tree and presses your chest into his eager strawberry tongue. it leaves a slimy track over your neck and dips between the cleavage of your dress while gojo makes his descent down to hell — tasting the shimmering crystals of salt on your skin.

satoru gojo belongs on his knees.

kneeling before you with the royal blue tule of your dress between his shaking hands. you can tell he’s trying not to rip it off of you. born to worship you. mirth weighs down his lashes and desire dances between the navy blue flecks in his sapphire eyes — he needs you so bad it might kill him. from this position he can practically smell how turned on you are, he’d recognise the mouth-watering aroma of your drooling cunt anywhere, slick gathering in the crotch of your barely there panties.

there’s a depraved, royal treasure hidden between the string of fabric that runs between your juicy pussy lips — swollen and waiting to be devoured by your enemy. not that you’d ever admit that to him. “i think you should be referring to me as your queen.” you manage between ragged breaths, satoru eyeing the way your chest heaves from beneath the bust of your dress.

instead of responding, his head unceremoniously dips beneath your skirts and he drags a thigh over the width of his broad shoulders. “watch your mouth,” the lord purrs salaciously as he licks up your inner thigh, the vibrations shooting straight to your swollen clit. “let’s remind you of who’s really in charge.” the both of you feel it, the aching throb of your pussy against gojo’s lips as he wedges his face right between your thighs. you can’t help but grind against him in wanton, desperate to be filled up with fingers, tongue whatever your sworn enemy has to offer up to the crown.

but your warmth and wetness does nothing to coax satoru into tongue fucking his way past your clenching, creaming entrance. rather, he draws his head back just a touch and rubs at your cunt like he loves you, dips his fingers just into your quivering hole and then — smack !

juices run down satoru’s arms as if he’s taken a bite into the fruit that tempted eve while he laughs in awe of just how fucking sloppy you are between your thighs. the spank to your puffy folds makes you jolt in surprise, causing you to scratch your back against the jagged tree bark.

“gojo!” you squeak in warning as your thighs close around his veiny hand.

he sticks his tongue into his cheek, smirking in amusement before prying your shaky legs apart. “that’s not quite right, try again for me, princess...” gojo repeats the process, running between your slick folds and spanking you against them when you fail to respond. “you know my name, baby. c’mon it’s easy, i’ll even say it with you. d…d…”

you refuse to stoop so low, to let demeaning words escape from underneath your tongue but not having satoru’s mouth on you is like torture — just his breath against your cunt is akin to dangling a carrot in front of a starving horse. you know what that pleasure is like, you crave it and you’re not above begging no matter how royal you may be.

“f-fuck, daddy!” you whinge defiantly, screwing your eyes shut and letting your head fall back against the tree. satoru wastes no more time then, slotting his hot mouth against the entire length of your silken slit. the first thing he does is moan, the vibrations shooting twinges of ecstasy from your clit through the rest of your body and even reaching your head — making the world around you spin.

the tip of his tongue teases its way past your entrance, squirming around to brush up against pleasure spots your little fingers can’t even reach. “that’s right princess, knew you could do it. you’re not just some stuck up little girl.” the white haired lord praises, drawing back from your quivering hole — connected to you by a string of your glistening slick.

“shut up, just… put your mouth to good use.” you grunt, your hips canterint down onto gojo’s face to keep him quiet. your fingers take root in his silvery moon locks, dragging the man and his pink tongue onto your sex once more. gojo takes the hint, making your cute little clit his next victim as he rolls it between perfect rows of pearly whites and sends your eyes into the dark depths of your skull.

the sinful and salacious sensation provides a welcomed distraction from your responsibilities as the crown princess. if your grandmother could see you now, you know that all she’d feel is disappointment— especially if she knew her granddaughter was fucking the biggest threat to the crown. and suguru, your poor fiancé — he was probably stuck mingling with guests he didn’t even know, looking for your eyes in the crowd like he always did.

shame should be burning through your veins, not the white hot trickle of desire that you’re filled with as satoru slurps your juices from between your fat pussy lips. the needy groans he lets out against you inch down your spine, drown you in stormy waves of lust and you find yourself addicted to the bob of gojo’s head from underneath your tule skirts. you’re just so wet, pouring the royal family’s riches, liquid gold straight into the man’s greedy mouth as he drinks you in.

your nectar glazes his cheeks and chin in a devilish shine, brighter than the crown set to sit atop your head — his mouth barely parts from your ravaged and swollen romping as if he’s married to eating you out, tongue licking you up and down before your juices even have a chance to drip to the ground. you can only imagine what would happen if the press found out, your life would be over and so would satoru’s. but you don’t care, because every second that gojo spends between your thighs dragging you to orgasm is worth it. every single time.

he grips at your ass, pulling you back onto his tongue as it flickers in and out of you. the whole ordeal is disgusting and delightful and you never want it to end. pleasure mounts high within you, evident in the shakiness of your gripes and grouses, lust laden in its tune.

“s-satoru…satoru. i’m gonna… g’na fuckin’ cum!” a high pitch squeal tears in your throat like music to gojo’s ears — now working relentlessly to get you off just like you need. he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating, at least he’ll die a happy man between the thighs of a princess.

he chuckles against your sex. “such a dirty mouth for such a proper lady.” the lord says as if he’s a scolding you.

but you can barely hear him, for static rings in your ears as your body loses the war to your orgasm. your release bubbles up on his tongue like the fresh pop of champagne, while your brain fizzles and clears itself of all logical thought. guilt is replaced by bouts of lust, making you realise that this cycle of avoiding and fucking gojo will never end. you’re too addicted to him and he’s too obsessed with you, as long as things remain that way — sex with him will always be on the agenda.

you can’t promise yourself, your grandmother or suguru that this will be the last time.

dopamine dances across gojo’s brain as he drinks in the tangy-honey flavour of your release, letting it splatter against his puffy lips as they encircle your clit to prolong your orgasm. you gush as if you’re a rushing erotic river, spilling into satoru’s earnest mouth while he licks you clean with wanton.

“look at that… oh look at you. cumming for me already.”

“f-fuck you.”

“fuck me?” he smirks, making your gut lurch with wanton. “fuck you. i’m the one that’s working on it, princess.” satoru slowly rises to his feet, licking a nasty spit-slicked trail from your hole to the cleavage peeking out from underneath your dress. he doesn’t even stand to his full height, his large frame towering over you as he yanks down the front of your dress to lick and suck and play with your breasts until you can’t tell what’s up or down anymore.

his perfect teeth graze a pert nipple which makes you gasp and cry, loosely looping your arms around satoru’s neck while his ravaging mouth works your sensitive breasts, even going as far to swipe his tongue over the spot where each one meets your ribcage. he doesn’t leave any marks, you’re not his to keep. large and rough hands replace the warmth of his mouth on you to toy with your mounds of flesh — pinching and pulling as satoru kisses you senseless. you groan at the taste of your slick on his tongue and salt of your skin as well, tugging him closer so that there’s no space between your heated bodies.

“don’t cry,” satoru comments softly against your swollen, cherry-bitten lips — cupping your face between his fingers. blinking slowly, you allow your frenzied brain the chance to catch up to reality and you don’t realise the tears that wet your cheeks until he points them out. why are you even crying? “you’re too pretty for that.” his compliments do nothing to clear the lustful, confused fog settling over your mind like a dark cloud so you follow your body’s instincts and reach for the metal clasp on his belt.

nimble fingers make their way down the front of gojo’s dress pants and he hisses at the quick pumps of his perfectly hard cock before you’re dragging up your skirts and guiding him towards your entrance. “baby, wait—“

you push his pants down enough to let his erection spring free, pulsing with need and standing at full mast against the cotton blouse covering his tummy. “i need you.” you sniff, dropping your panties to your ankles. “please.”

the thing about sex with satoru is that it never feels like just sex. he tenderly hikes the meat of your thigh over his slender hips, lets his dribbly, sticky cockhead twitch forward and ease past the salaciously slick barriers of your empty hole, and presses your bodies so close together that you think you might forget how to breathe. satoru makes love to you each and every time — and it’s terrible.

like eating too much sugar or indulging in a bad smoking habit. you’re not supposed to be in love with him and the way he fucks up into you, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis even with all of the fabric in the way. “don’t cry for him, f-fuck,” the both of you look down, your pupils dilating at the sight of your pussy swallowing his lengthy shaft whole — catching on the ridges of each blue vein spiralling around him. “cry for me, princess. i’m the one that’s ruining you.”

with his forehead pressed to yours, silver hair matted down by the line of perspiration against it — satoru braces a hand against the tree above your head and sets stream to his passionate thrusts, fluid like water under a bridge. it’s not fair, how wrong this is and how good it feels to have gojo lick over the parts of you he would bite down on if you were his. your pulse point, your neck, the spot just under your ear that’s way too sensitive for your own good. it should be suguru fucking you like this, your fiancé.

yet, there’s no room for self-loathing and despair between the rough tree and satoru gojo above you. nothing aside for the thick curtain of lust that protects you from prying eyes in the rose garden, floral scents twisting with the raw, aphrodisiac-like smell of sex and sweat while he pounds away at your swollen pussy, grinding his cock wetly against the sweet spots dotted along your ribbed walls.

“i should put a baby in you,” he says suddenly, just barely audible over the wet pap, pap, pap of your sexes working together. embarrassment burns bright under the surface of your cheeks because you’re that wet and it’s that loud, the remainders of your previous orgasm making it easier for satoru’s cock to glide in and out of you. “leave you with a little gift. a present — reminder of our time together, yeah?” he knows that he’s not making any sense, leaving his confession behind sex and sultry words. he would never admit to how much he loves you, he’s already ruined you enough. he’s already taken more than enough from you too. “i’ll get to the crown either fuckin’ way.”

satoru talks with his dick and you fucking like it, squeezing the damn daylights out of him. he can barely pull back with you locked down on like that, his seedy tip snug between your ruined folds — clinging into him by viscous ropes of your last orgasm and freshly formed globs of his white hot precum. “you like that, don’t you princess?” he coos down to you condescendingly, picking up the pace of his hips as he rams into you mercilessly. the tree shakes from the force, sprinkling pretty and innocent petals over you both. “you wanna make me a daddy? my queen? give me a little prince or princess.”

“fuck yes, satoru!” nodding your head with wanton, you press yourself into his neck and squeeze him close by the ass cheeks so the only place your lover can go is deeper. you want to be able to feel him in your guts, hot in your womb like an iron rod — anything to forget the trickle of betrayal filling you up like a glass of wine. “i want it, i want it…i want—“

you cut yourself of with an abrasive sob, as you moan your agreements. i want you. you feel the words on the tip of your tongue, drowned out by the slippery sounds of sex and creaking tree trunk. you’ve never wanted anyone as much as you’ve wanted satoru gojo.

but he’s the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

“i know you do, i know,” you can feel gojo move to slobber over your chest, pacifying his whistle tone whimpers with your nipples bouncing in his mouth. he looks up at you with vacant cerulean eyes that shimmer like the skies above, the crude mix of your arousals slinging at the point at which your bodies join. “tell me how much you love daddy’s cock, princess.”

he goads because he craves your attention. satoru can feel you slipping from between his fingers, the guilt that rolls off of you in waves as he languidly rams into your cunt. he’s asking a lot of someone who’s too stimulated, too fucked out to speak — your tongue barely staying in your mouth.

“sato—!”

“c’mon… answer me, fuck, there we go.”

that’s when he hikes you up in his arms, lifting you a little to feverishly thrust up into you — dragging you closer to another high. your nails dig deep into his taut ass, nudging his dick against your g-spot. suguru would never be this rough with you, would never want to fuck you so good that the pleasure hurts.

shaking your head, your eyes glisten but the denial doesn’t stop small streams of arousal from squirting out and webbing against gojo’s soft pubes. “i-i can’t! i don’t—“ satoru bites down on your nipple, hard, cutting through your train of blurry thought. “i love…h-him!”

you love your fiancé, but you both know that’s a lie.

“yeah, sure you do. that’s why your pussy’s huggin’ my cock so tight. you don’t wanna let me go, baby.” even while he’s a mess for you, your rival still finds it in him to be such an egotistical prick. you can’t even tell him that he’s wrong, because you never ever want to be without satoru, without this immensely overwhelming feeling of ecstasy fluttering through your entire body. it’s all too much, he’s too much, stretching you wide and filling you with the love (and cum) you should be getting from suguru.

thunder cracks above your head, lightning flashes through the trees as if the higher power up above is bearing witness — growing distraught at your sins. it’s not long before the heavens open up on you both and your sweaty, sex slicked bodies are doused in rain. but it doesn’t stop you, doesn’t stop satoru from dragging down your bottom lip to lovingly spit into your mouth.

he kisses you as if it’s not enough, rocking his hips into you so he can bully your insides and mark them with his pre. “bet he’s lookin’ for you right now, hm? his precious wife to be…drenched in my cum ‘n drenched in the rain.” satoru heaves, letting the patter of the rain drown out the sound of his tightening balls slapping against your ass. “bet he wishes he could fuck you like i do.”

you can’t tell if it’s the tears of guilt and longing or the rain that blurs your vision. “h-he doesn’t get to!” you cry like a dirty porn-star, hardly becoming of a soon to be queen. “o-only you!”

“only me, hm? i’m flattered.” he seems elated, hiding his flushed face and happy smile in the junction between your neck and shoulder. his wet hair tickles your skin. “too bad he doesn’t know his princess comes used and abused between her pretty legs, huh?”

the rain is cold against your skin, seeping through your clothes, ruining your makeup — but the way satoru licks up your hot streaky tears and the droplets of water against your skin as if to sooth you… the way he does it fills you with warmth.

your limbs become heavy from your water-logged clothes and exhaustion, your whole body slumped against satoru’s strength but you still manage to rake your nails down his back as if you can’t be any closer. gojo doesn’t let your hips run from his either. his mind races, stuck on the idea of asking you to run away with him because he can’t just let you go back to geto. not again.

he can’t let you marry someone you’re not in love with.

it would be selfish of him to ask you to stay, even when you wrap your legs around him and have him plug up your tiny little hole with sticky white. he sees it in your eyes how much you care for him, even through the rain. he’s ruining you, from the inside out, knocking the crown from your head and he hates it.

“daddy loves this pussy,” he wishes for the moment to last forever, but you’re already so close — crying from every hole, suffocating his throbbing cock. neither of you can hold back. “he loves you. i love you.”

the confession nearly tears your world in two — but it’s all you need to hear before everything comes crashing down on you. “i-i love you!” you tell him, wailing the words loud and proud as you release on him for a second time, gushing obscene amounts against gojo’s tummy smooshed up on your clit. “sato—! satoru! cum with me, cum inside me!” scratching down his back and screwing your eyes shut, you tilt your head up to capture his lips in a passionate kiss.

the taste of salt on your cupid’s bow throws gojo over the edge too — his cockhead pours viscous white directly into your womb. “fuuuck, you’re so good princess…” and even though you know you should tell him to pull out, you don’t want him too. you want his baby, want his cum, want him always. even if that’s greedy of you.“fuckin’ take it…take all of me. all of that cum’s for you.” he slurs, beyond brainless.

lewd clapping noises echo between your bodies like the thunder up above as satoru fucks you through the rest of your highs, nose nudging your cheeks tenderly to soothe your tears. moaning, and crying against one another’s swollen lip. when his slow grinds come to a stop and your breathing recovers, the white haired lord gently sets you back in the ground — tenderly helping you to fix your drenched clothes back into place.

your thighs are completely bruised and his back is completely torn up. the last marks you’ll ever leave with each other.

“so about—“

“we… we can’t do this anymore, satoru.” you say almost immediately, shaky as if you’re in the verge of panic.

for the first time since you started doing this, sneaking off with one another, gojo notices the glint on your ring finger. and you feel the very same weight of that ring.

he shrugs you off, pulling up his pants and smirking. “that’s what you said last time—

“no satoru, i mean it now. we can’t.” it’s like you’ve come to your senses, realised the gravity of it all and what’s at stake. thirty days to get married, thirty days to become queen. “i’m going to become queen, your queen, in a matter of weeks and to do that i need to be married to him. i can’t mess this up. we have to stop.”

“but you don’t even want him,” he growls like a petulant child, roaring above the rain that cascades down on you both. “you want me. i want you. who gives a fuck about anything else?”

“duty gives a fuck! i have to marry him!”

throwing his hands up in defeat, satoru steps towards you, loud and intimidating, and you step back towards the tree. “you can’t even say his fucking name.”

“his name is suguru geto and i will marry him because you forced me to.” you spit, going toe to toe with him — chest heaving but tight from your heart break. “if you and your stupid higher ups had just stayed out my way. maybe there could have been a chance for us. but they didn’t and here we are and duty freaking calls, gojo.”

you storm off shortly after, be before he can see you cry again (for real this time). from his place hidden in the royal gardens, gojo watches sullenly as you approach your grandmother and fiancé — the elder queen disappointed in your current state and suguru clearly worried that the rain might make you catch a cold.

the perfect alibi to cover up the fact that you’d just fucked satoru gojo.

but the entire time, you never look back.

you don’t even look at gojo — and that’s how he knows you meant it. you always look back, always look for him in the crowd.

the knowledge hits him like a strike of lightning. he’s royally fucked up — you’re marrying for the crown, all because of him. and there’s no room for loving when you’ve got the weight of the nation on your shoulders.

#୨୧ KINKTOBER 23’#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x y/n #gojo thirst #jjk thirsts #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #angelshubnetwork

9K notes · View notes

butchizuku · 6 months ago

Text

Untouched ᥫ᭡; Caleb

ᨳ Synop. Questions swirl around your mind as you reacquaint yourself with Caleb, but the most pressing? What was this feeling he stirred within you?

໋𓈒 Details. 18+ minors dni, gn afab reader, slight lore implications regarding Caleb's arm, kissing, heavy petting, general intimacy, dry humping, run time; 1k ৎ

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) Director's Note. Happy Caleb day lovers <33 Just a lil something inspired by his limited five star card.

The mechanical flex and low hum of Caleb’s new fangled arm is disconcerting. Goosebumps prickle your tender skin as it grows closer, the robotic fingers flexing and outstretched. The ample, overwhelming urge for touch choked you, drowning out the strangeness of the past few days. Blood rushes against your ear drums as you tentatively meet him halfway, your fingers curling over the cool, stiff metal of his hand.

“I can’t feel you,” Caleb murmurs, peering at you through his lashes.

His fingers slip between yours but he doesn’t reach out with his other hand. You stand for a moment in limbo, too timid to make another move when pinned beneath his smouldering gaze. His name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting for your lips to part.

“Caleb, I-” you start, quickly trailing off, shrinking into yourself.

Gliding your other hand up the length of his bare abdomen, you struggle to find the right thing to say. You figure, your actions might speak louder than any number of words could. His skin is warm to the touch and smooth with little blemishes to disturb your path from his stomach to his chest. The rhythmic thrum of his heart grows stronger as you place the palm of your hand flat against him for a moment. Pressing himself closer to you, Caleb cups your hand with his.

“You can still feel this,” you murmur, your bottom lip pressed between your teeth, “And this.”

Stepping between his thighs, you press your chest to his. Caleb’s breath grows laboured, it fans across your skin. You can’t help but shiver, in spite of the heat that covers your body like a heavy blanket. It’s surprising how hard the plains of his body are, against yours. Somewhere in the back of your mind, he’s still the pudgy faced kid you grew alongside, though he hadn’t been that child for sometime. Caleb hardened sometime between then and now but you hadn’t seen it, perhaps in part due to the soft gaze he always reserved for you.

“And, I can feel you, Caleb.”

Your words land somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, whisked quickly into the air.

“I’m right here,” Caleb shudders in your grasp, his jaw slack, “And so are you.”

A sound wretched from the deep recesses of his throat slipped forth, vulnerable and frighteningly familiar– thick with wanton desire. Caleb burrows his face into your chest, his nose nestled against the length of your collarbone. His bottom lips drags against your skin, slick with spit, as he speaks.

“Right here.”

His hands glide over your waist and travel up your spine.

“Please,” he murmurs into you like a prayer, half baked and rushed in desperation.

There’s that ache again, deep in the pit of your stomach, thrumming and yelling within you for a modicum of your attention. It seeks the very thing you’ve continued to deny yourself, the thing you’ve forced yourself to see as repulsive. But, was there anything quite as pure as your first love? Could, it really be shameful to want him.

“Caleb,” you breathe, fighting off the trembling nerves that make your fingers shake.

They still shake as you dig them into the flesh of his shoulders, using all your force to push him down onto the flimsy cot. The legs wobble and creak for a moment as the weight shifts and you throw your thighs on top of his. Hair dangles in your face as you peer down at him, your gaze flickering between his lidded eyes marred with confusion and his gently parted lips. They’re chapped and have begun to crack along the edges.

“Kiss me.”

You can’t bring yourself to lean in any closer, your heartbeat drowning everything else out. Your chest heaves with an anxious breath and you have half a mind to whisper, “please.”

The metal of his hand is cold against your flush skin, but it’s feather light in its touch. Creeping over your spine and lightly curling around the base of your neck, Caleb pulls you closer until your lips are but a ghost over his. Bracing your hands on his bare pecs, his other hand keeps you steadied by pressing itself into the dip of your lower back.

Kissing Caleb is akin to what you imagine dipping yourself into molten lava. Your body melds into his, perfectly. There is no trace of the awkward pretense that plagued you or even the confusion turned anger that tinged your vision when you first set your eyes upon him, the first time in months. His tongue slips between your lips like he’s kissed you a thousand times before, and maybe he has in another lifetime or even a dream, but the ease makes your head spin. There is nothing to vocalize as Caleb swallows each and every little sound you make with his kiss, suckling you down to the bone with just his mouth.

Whatever single, precarious thread of respect and distance that kept the two of you at arms length snaps. His hands slide from the small of your back to grip your hips, his fingers jabbing into your doughy flesh. His bulge brushes against your crotch, eliciting a groan from Caleb. Your body moves on its own accord and you find yourself grinding against him even as the bed squeaks obnoxiously. The seam of your jeans pulled taunt and pressed snugly to your clit forces a moan to stumble off the tip of your tongue.

“Show me how sorry you are,” you pant, pressing your nose to his neck, “And how much you missed me.”

Caleb chuckles, nipping at your bottom lip, “You want me so bad it makes you look stupid pipsqueak,” he murmurs with his lips curled up in a grin.

Your protests and the squealed, shrill call of his name is buried into another kiss and pulled from the forefront of your mind as he bucks his hips into yours. He’s hard, you can feel his cock straining against the confines of his slacks, begging for release.

“I’m kidding, I’ll do whatever you wish, my sweetheart.”

His promise is melded against the shell of your ear as he grazes the lobe between his teeth.

“Just so long as I can have you here in my arms.”

#caleb x reader #caleb x mc #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #lads smut #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb #lads x you #caleb x you #᭄᭡⠀written word

975 notes · View notes

heavenlybodies333 · 21 days ago

Text

They Always Come Back -S.R part II part I

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Detox, Day 3

Of course he wasn’t going to send you to some rehab two states away—he was too much of a federal agent and too little of a father for that. No, he wanted eyes on you. So the same hospital that saved your damn life just happened to have a narcotic outpatient treatment program. And what a coincidence: the director just happened to owe Hotch a favor.

Three sessions a week. Random drug tests. Supervised medication protocol. All of it, specifically requested by your father.

Hotch wants you to “earn back his trust.” What trust? The man never gave you any to begin with.

You’re sprawled on your bed in your dad’s house—the one he barely sleeps in, because he’s always at work or with Jack or too busy running the Bureau to remember he has a daughter bleeding out at his kitchen table.

The ceiling fan makes a gentle clicking noise. The blanket smells like dryer sheets and bleach. Like something designed to erase your scent.

There’s a knock at your door. You don’t answer. But the door opens anyway.

“Don’t you fucking knock?” you mumble.

“I did.” Spencer steps into the room like it still belongs to him. Like you still belong to him.

He’s holding a tray. Soup. Bread. Water. You roll away.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You almost overdosed.”

“And you almost choked me out with your concern,” you snap. “So let’s call it even.”

He sighs. “You know you’re not alone in this, right?”

You glare. “Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.”

Silence. Then—“I have sessions too,” he says. “Hotch thought we could alternate appointments.”

You scoff. “Cute. Co-parenting me now, are you?”

Spencer’s jaw ticks. “I don’t want to parent you,” he says. “I want to fix what I broke.”

You feel your heart twist, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you throw a pillow at the door.

“Get out.”

He does. But the tray stays.

Detox, Day 4

The day starts with a lock on the liquor cabinet.

You didn’t even try to open it—Hotch just installed it like a silent accusation. Like he’s afraid you’ll fall into another bottle the second he’s not watching. Maybe he’s not wrong.

He leaves a note on the kitchen counter before heading out to Quantico:

Be ready at 2:00. Therapy. Spencer’s driving.

Nothing signed. Nothing soft. Just instructions. Like a case file. You crumple the note and throw it away. You don’t get dressed.

When Spencer arrives, he knocks once and lets himself in, again. You’re still in one of your dad’s oversized sweatshirts and no pants, curled in the corner of the couch.

“You’re late,” you mutter.

He checks his watch. “I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. “Do I have to carry you?” he asks eventually.

You arch a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” His eyes darken—but he looks away. Like touching you is still sacred. Off-limits. You hate how much that hurts.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, brushing past him on the way to your room to throw on leggings and grab your therapy binder—yes, therapy has homework, apparently—and when you return to the living room, Spencer’s standing by the door, keys in hand.

“Ready?”

“No.”

But you go anyway. The car ride is quiet. You stare out the window while he drives. You count the telephone poles. You bite your nail until it bleeds and then chew the skin beside it.

Spencer doesn’t speak until you’re two blocks from the outpatient building. “Have you thought about what you’re going to talk about today?”

You shoot him a look. “Jesus, are you quizzing me now?”

“No,” he says gently. “Just asking.”

You look back at the window. “I’m going to talk about how I hate being watched like a criminal in my own fucking house. How my dad doesn’t trust me. How the one person I thought gave a shit about me abandoned me the second things got hard.”

Silence.

“Good,” Spencer says quietly. “Start there.”

Detox, Day 6

You told yourself it would just be a walk.

Just one lap around the block. Just enough time to clear your head. Just long enough to feel like something—anything—was still yours to choose.

But your dealer lives three doors down. The universe has made it so easy. But you don’t even make it halfway down the driveway before you freeze.

Spencer’s standing in the shadow of the garage. Arms crossed. Hoodie on. Silent. Watching you like he’s been doing it all night. “You’re kidding me,” you mutter.

Spencer. Fucking Spencer.

“Seriously?” he says, voice low, tense. “After everything?”

“I needed air.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Good,” you snap, “then the disappointment won’t show on your face.”

You turn, fingers curled around your hoodie pocket. But his hand catches your wrist. “Don’t run again.”

You freeze. Your pulse jumps beneath his fingers, warm skin to warm skin, familiar in a way that hurts. “Just—don’t,” he says.

“I’m not your problem,” you whisper, voice catching on the tail end.

“You are,” he replies. “I can’t stop caring about you. Even if I should.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t called me,” he says, stepping closer, eyes searching yours. “If I’d ignored it. If I’d ignored you.”

“I didn’t call you. I called muscle memory.” You yank your arm free. “I didn’t want you, I wanted someone.”

“Bullshit,” he says quietly.

You shove past him. “You should hate me,” you spit. “I’d hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re more fucked up than I thought.”

You reach the sidewalk. He doesn’t follow. But when you come back ten minutes later—empty-handed, angry, shaking—he’s still there. Waiting. Tears come hot, humiliating, unstoppable. You hate crying in front of anyone—especially him—but the sob breaks free anyway.

Spencer gathers you before the first tear even falls. He pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping fully, completely—like he remembers the exact shape of you. You fist his shirt, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you choke.

“For what?”

“For making you see me like this.”

His lips brush your temple. “I’d rather see you like this than never see you again.”

Detox, Day 8

The boredom is worse than the withdrawals.

No phone. No laptop. No exit.

Garcia blocked everything with a parental lock that should be illegal. You tried to ask her nicely. She sent you a selfie of your own hospital intake form. And Hotch? He’s not around. You think maybe that hurts more than anything.

But of course—you’re not alone. You can’t even fucking leave without someone chaperoning you like a toddler on a leash. And Spencer—of all people—is your assigned babysitter when Hotch is spending his late nights at the BAU.

Today, he’s at the coffee table, unfolding a chessboard.

You groan. “If you say one more line of psychobabble I swear to God I will scream.”

“We could play chess,” he offers, ignoring the threat.

“Or you could take your condescending Mensa-ass brain and leave me alone.”

He smiles, faintly. “There she is.”

You scowl. “Don’t pretend to be proud of my bitchy recovery.”

“Not proud.” He sets the board up anyway. “Relieved. Anger’s better than nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, then quietly: “Because I didn’t last time.”

The room goes still. You don’t say anything until he makes his move. “Pawn to E4.”

“You’re going to regret this,” you mutter, curling your legs under you on the couch.

Spencer doesn’t flinch when you slam your pawn down in retaliation, nearly knocking it off the board. He just tilts his head, studies you the same way he does crime scenes. Like if he stares long enough, the puzzle will unlock itself.

"You always open aggressively," he says.

You roll your eyes. "Maybe I’m just trying to end the game faster so you’ll shut the hell up."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, and for a second, it almost feels normal. Like you’re back in your apartment, ordering Thai takeout and playing chess in your underwear while pretending the world didn’t exist outside of his hands on your waist.

Five moves later you’ve boxed yourself into an unwinnable position, furious at the board, at him, at the four sober days clawing at your nerves.

“Check,” he adds.

You don’t even look at the board. “Fuck your check.”

“Not quite how the game works.”

“I’m not playing anymore.” You shove back from the coffee table, the chair scraping hardwood as the chess board flies with pieces falling everywhere. The motion rattles a nearly empty mug—the chamomile Spencer made you instead of the glass of whiskey you asked for.

He stands too, blocking your retreat to the hallway. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Running again?”

Your laugh is ugly. “What’s the alternative, Spencer? Sit here sober, saintly, and supervised?”

“No,” he says quietly. “Sit here angry. And seen. And safe.”

You hate that his voice cracks on the last word. It makes your throat burn. “M-Move,” you whisper.

“No.”

You shove his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Move,” you repeat, louder.

“Hit me if it helps.”

You do. Open palm, center of his chest—the same place you used to flatten your hand when you kissed him in stolen Quantico stairwells. The memory punches the breath from your lungs. His fingers curl around your wrist, gentle but immovable.

“I’m not your problem,” you say again, voice shaking.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “But you called me. You overdosed, and you called me.”

Tears prick hot behind your eyes—rage, shame, want.

“Why, sweetheart?” His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, pulse point thrumming. “Why me?”

“Because I knew you’d come.” It spills out before you can stop it. Your voice is raw. “You always come.”

Something fractures in his expression—relief, devastation, desire all at once. He steps into your space, and you don’t retreat. Your back finds the hallway wall. “Are we both making bad decisions right now?” he asks, breathless.

“Probably.”

“Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head, throat tight.

“Say it,” he pleads, nose brushing yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth crashes to your throat, sucking bruises you’ll have to explain to your therapist. “I should stop,” he whispers against your collarbone. “I have to stop.”

You run your hands through his soft hair, meeting his lips with yours. “No. No you don’t get to, not this time. You left,” you gasp against his lips. “You left and you let him win—”

“I know,” he says, kissing you harder. “I know, I’m sorry—” You bite his lower lip. He moans.

“I needed you.”

“I know.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and lays you out on the couch, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When he slides his hand under your sweatshirt, you don’t stop him. Your shorts are yanked down your thighs. He groans when he finds you bare underneath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you whisper.

He kisses down your neck, your chest, between your breasts, all while his fingers press inside you, curling just right, pulling a cry from your throat.

“I love how loud you get,” he says, biting your inner thigh. “Missed that, too.”

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. His tongue flicks against your clit and you shudder, a whimper clawing out of your throat as his fingers dig bruises into your thighs to hold you steady.

“Spence—” your voice breaks. “F-Fuck, I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is a low growl against you. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You come undone on his tongue, one hand yanking his hair, the other clawing at the wall, thighs trembling around his head as he fucks you through it with slow, punishing strokes of his mouth.

When you finally push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation, he rises slowly—mouth shiny, eyes wild.

“You taste the same,” he says, kissing you before you can respond. “Still fucking perfect.”

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him.

He shoves his pants down just enough, lining himself up against your slick entrance as your legs wrap around him like instinct. You’re already whining when he presses forward, slow and deliberate, filling you so deep you choke on it.

“Oh my god,” you sob. “Spence—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, voice shaking. “Let me take care of you. Let me make it better.”

He does—long, measured thrusts at first, letting you adjust, then faster, harder when you hook your heels behind his thighs. Sweat beads at his temple; you lick it away. Every push rocks the headboard against drywall; somewhere distant you think Hotch will notice dents, but Spencer cups your jaw, forces focus to him.

You sob against his palm, and he lets you speak. “I missed you,” you cry. “Fuck, Spencer—no one’s ever—Jesus—no one fucks me like you.”

“That’s right.” His thrusts get harder. Sloppier. “Only me. Always me.”

You can’t answer. You’re too close. Your back arches as you clench around him, a strangled moan tearing from your throat. “You’re close,” he pants, grinding into you with precision now, every roll of his hips hitting something devastatingly perfect. “I can feel it—fuck—come for me, sweetheart.”

You dig your heels into his back, pulling him deeper, closer, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you.

He follows with a moan punched from his chest, hips jerking forward once, twice—then stilling as he spills inside you with a breathless, "fuck."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing—ragged and uneven. You can see Spencer looking up at the ceiling with tight shut eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs.

“You always say that,” you whisper, lips trembling. “And then you do it again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Good.”

He leans his forehead to your shoulder. “I need you to stay clean,” he says.

You nod. “I need you to not leave again.”

He kisses the nape of your neck. “I won’t.”

You let him hold you even though you didn’t believe him, because love is the cruelest drug of all.

a/n: I spend too much time with limerence

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fanfiction

679 notes · View notes

deansbeer · 6 months ago

Text

ִ ⋆ ⸜ 🪚𓂃 𓈒ㅤ՞ 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐒 .. !!

eighteen plus …♥︎ minors do not interact.

[ jackles && fem!reader ]

synopsis! you and jensen keep your fiery, forbidden relationship secret—until lingering tension threatens your composure.

caution! smut, co-star!jensen, co-star!reader, rough sex, secrecy, forbidden relationship (?), strong explicit language, descriptions of lingering physical sensations, dressing room sex, mentions of jensen’s cum, sexual tension, teasing, slight power imbalance, light objectification, no use of y/n.

notes! he’s so yummy in this photo and what i had envisioned in my head the entire time writing it :) am i slut for daddy jackles??? fuck yeah && a proud slut too.

it’s a dangerous fucking game you’re playing with jensen.

you’d known it from the start. the second you walked onto the set of countdown—a brand-new, high-stakes action series—you felt the pull. it wasn’t just his looks, though those were undeniable. it was the way he carried himself, the way his eyes lingered just a beat too long when you first shook hands, the way his deep, gravelly voice curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you weren’t supposed to fall for him. hell, you weren’t supposed to even look at him like that. but he made it impossible, especially when the two of you were cast as love interests on the show.

the chemistry was instant, explosive. every scene you filmed together felt like a live wire, and it didn’t take long before you crossed that unspoken line.

it started with a kiss that wasn’t scripted.

you were supposed to pull away after a brief, chaste kiss during a rehearsal, but neither of you did. his lips pressed harder, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you closer until the director called cut.

“jesus christ,” jensen muttered under his breath that day, his voice low enough only for you to hear. he didn’t let go of you right away, his green eyes dipping to your lips.

that was the moment everything shifted.

now, weeks later, you’re tangled up in a secret relationship that’s equal parts thrilling and dangerous. nobody on set knows, or at least you don’t think they do. you and jensen are careful—no lingering touches in public, no stolen glances when others are watching.

but behind closed doors?

he’s got you screaming his name, your nails raking down his back as he fucks you so thoroughly you can’t see straight.

like now.

you’re in his dressing room, pressed up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you. his hand is gripping your ass, the other tangled in your hair as his lips claim yours in a bruising kiss.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he growls against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged. “can’t fucking get enough o’you.”

your nails dig into his shoulders as you moan his name, your body shuddering as he drives into you relentlessly. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small room, mingling with your breathless cries and his low, filthy grunts.

you’re so close, teetering on the edge, when there’s a knock at the door.

“jensen?” a voice calls out. “they need you on set in five.”

he freezes, his forehead dropping to yours as he lets out a frustrated groan.

“fuck,” he mutters, his voice laced with irritation.

you’re still clinging to him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you try to ground yourself.

“you’ve got to go,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his green eyes dark with lust.

“you’re lucky we don’t have more time,” he says, his lips quirking into a smirk. “because i’m not done with you.”

he sets you down gently, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment before he steps back. you quickly fix your clothes, your cheeks flushed as you try to compose yourself.

“you good?” he asks, his voice softening as he watches you.

you nod, though your legs feel like jelly, and your pulse is still racing.

“yeah,” you manage to say, your voice steadier than you feel.

he leans in, brushing a quick kiss against your lips before heading toward the door.

“see ya out there, sweetheart,” he says with a wink before slipping out of the room.

the interview is with one of your other castmates, a lighthearted segment for a popular entertainment show to promote the series. you’re sitting next to jensen, the two of you positioned on a plush couch with your co-star on the other side.

you’re trying to focus, you really are, but your body is still buzzing from what just happened in his dressing room. every time you catch a whiff of his cologne or hear the low rumble of his voice, you feel heat pool in your stomach all over again.

it doesn’t help that he’s sitting so damn close, his thigh brushing against yours every time he shifts.

but the worst part?

you can still feel him.

you’d barely had time to clean yourself up before rushing out of his dressing room, and now, sitting here in front of the cameras, you can feel the ghost of him between your legs. the dull ache he left behind, the way your panties are damp, not just with your own arousal but with a little of him. it’s driving you insane, every slight shift in your seat sending a fresh wave of heat curling through your body.

you cross your legs, trying to ignore it, but the movement only makes you more aware of everything—how sensitive you still are, how wet you still are, and how much you need him all over again.

the interviewer is a bubbly woman in her early thirties, her smile bright as she asks questions about the show.

“so, jensen,” she says, turning her attention to him. “your character and [___]’s character have this incredible chemistry. what was it like working together to build that connection?”

you can feel his eyes on you, and you force yourself to smile, keeping your gaze fixed on the interviewer.

“oh, it was easy,” jensen says, his voice smooth and confident. “she’s an incredible actress. makes my job a hell of a lot easier.”

you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you hope it doesn’t show.

“what about you, [___]?” the interviewer asks, turning to you. “what was it like working with jensen?”

“it was great,” you say, your voice steady despite the way your heart is pounding. “he’s so talented and professional. he really made me feel comfortable on set.”

jensen smirks at that, and you can feel his eyes lingering on you.

“so there was no awkwardness?” the interviewer presses, her tone playful. “no funny moments during the more, uh, intimate scenes?”

you let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

“not really,” you say, though your voice sounds a little higher than usual. “we just tried to stay focused.”

jensen chuckles beside you, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“we’re professionals,” he says with a wink at the interviewer, who blushes slightly under his gaze.

you shift in your seat again, trying to ignore the way your body is reacting to him. but jensen notices. of course he does.

his hand is resting on his thigh, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric of his jeans. it’s a small, subtle movement, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips when he sees the way you’re squirming.

“something wrong, darlin’?” he murmurs under his breath, low enough that only you can hear.

you shoot him a glare, but it lacks any real heat.

“asshole,” you mutter back, your voice barely audible.

he chuckles softly, turning his attention back to the interviewer as if nothing happened.

the rest of the interview passes in a blur, your focus shot to hell thanks to the man sitting beside you.

the second the interview wraps, you grab jensen by the arm and drag him back to his dressing room, ignoring the curious looks from the crew as you pass.

“someone’s in a hurry,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement as you shove him inside and close the door behind you.

“shut up,” you snap, your voice breathless as you push him against the wall.

his hands are on you in an instant, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. the kiss is rough, desperate, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as you tug at his shirt.

“needy lil’ thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your ass.

“you started it,” you shoot back, your voice muffled as you kiss him again, your teeth grazing his bottom lip.

he groans, his grip tightening as he spins you around, pressing you against the wall.

“you’re right,” he says, his voice low and rough as his lips trail down your neck. “‘n now i’m gonna finish it.”

his hands are everywhere, sliding under your shirt, tugging at your jeans, leaving you breathless and trembling as he takes exactly what he wants.

and you let him.

because with jensen ackles, you’ll gladly play the dangerous game.

every. single. time.

801 notes · View notes

blueiscoool · 1 month ago

Text

A 2,000-Year-Old Pompeii Garden Springs Back to Life

The Pompeii Archaeological Park has recreated an ancient perfume garden—right down to its antique roses.

A garden once flourished in Pompeii. There, alongside a typical row house, olive trees, roses, and vines blossomed, nourished by hand-carved irrigation channels. The entrance to the site bore the Latin inscription “Cras Credo,” translated to “Credit will be offered tomorrow,” a touch of Pompeiian humor. The Vesuvius eruption in 79 C.E. wiped out the grounds—but preserved hints of its purpose.

Now, a new garden is taking root the same spot. The Pompeii Archaeological Park has just unveiled the restored Garden of Hercules (so named for a statue of the mythical hero uncovered at the site), freshly planted with 1,200 violets, 1,000 ruscus plants, and 800 antique roses, as well as vines and cherry and cotton apple trees. The botanical display is intended to mirror how the garden appeared 2,000 years ago, based on the findings of botanist Wilhelmina Jashemski, who identified pollen, spores, and plant fossils in the area in the 1950s.

“In Pompeii, the natural and archaeological landscape are one,” Gabriel Zuchtriegel, the park’s director, said in a statement. “The green of Pompeii, which was once perceived as a management and maintenance problem, an element almost separate from archaeological structures, is now recognized as an essential component of archaeological areas, as well as of the largest agricultural project of the Park.”

Located on Regio VIII, Insula 2 of the archaeological park, the house joining the garden was uncovered in 1953 before the rest of its grounds was excavated in 1971–72, with further studies carried out in the ’80s. Researchers found that the house was rebuilt following a 62 C.E. earthquake, with its owner buying surrounding land to plant the garden.

In the garden, archaeologists discovered holes in the earth that once held the roots of olive trees, impressions left in the soil by vine trellises, and biological traces of roses. Numerous perfume bottles found on the site indicate the garden was once involved in the commercial production of perfume. Flowers would be pressed with olive oil or grape juice, researchers found, before the concoction was bottled and sold.

Also significant was the discovery of an ancient irrigation system, which allowed gardeners to water the plants through a hole in the wall, without having to enter the site. The water would then flow through channels that wound their way around flower beds, or pool in reservoirs created by earthenware pots, or dolia, situated around the grounds.

“If a gardener needed to give extra water to a plant, they could take it from a dolia,” historian Maurizio Bartolini told the London Times.

Bartolini, who worked on the replanted garden, believes that the garden’s owner might have been experimenting with scents at the site, as opposed to running a full-scale operation. The garden, he noted, measures a mere 98 by 98 feet, while creating 5cc of perfume takes some 2,000 roses.

The irrigation system has been recreated for the Garden of Hercules, its troughs meandering across the new beds. A terracotta statue of the Greek legend has also been reproduced, installed in a small nook next to an outdoor dining space.

“This was a productive place,” Zuchtriegel told the Times of the space, “but also really beautiful.”

The recreated garden is part of Pompeii Archaeological Park’s efforts to shed light on daily life in the ancient Roman city before its destruction. Also currently on view at the site is “Being a Woman in Ancient Pompeii,” an exhibition that delves into the lives, roles, and activities of Pompeiian women.

By Min Chen.

#Pompeii #A 2000-Year-Old Pompeii Garden Springs Back to Life #The Pompeii Archaeological Park #Garden of Hercules #mount vesuvius #ancient artifacts #archaeology #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire #roman art #ancient art

528 notes · View notes

byshens · 1 month ago

Note

hello, can i make a request? jake with a mommy kink and reader who's a soft dom (/ω＼)

directors note ◜ᴗ◝ haii omgee … jake with mommy kink… i think im in heaven with this ask actually !! >< ignore any typos ..

↳ explicit sexual content! ｡ unprotected sex sub! jake soft dom! reader mommy kink riding praise overstim breeding ◜ᴗ◝ puppy baby darling mommy good boy 995

jake has always been verbal during sex with you.

probably the loudest partner you ever had, but you loved it. you loved how jake moaned for you, whined for your touch, he always let you know how good you make him feel.

so it was no surprise when you both hadn’t had sex in a while, that when you two finally had alone time, jake was not going to try and be quiet. your legs on either side of his body as you straddled his lap, his pretty and hard cock sliding so easily into your pussy, filling you up.

“shit, pup.” you moaned softly, your hands finding themselves on his shoulders as you sunk down, his tip hitting deep inside you. his eyes were closed, too afraid he might cum just by looking up at you.

“you feel—so warm..” he breathed out, voice shaking just ever so gently. jake’s hands gripped onto your waist and his hips slowly moved up into you, feeling how his shaft rubbed along your walls, your eyes fluttered softly.

you took it into your own hands and lifted yourself up before falling back down, earning a loud moan from your boyfriend. riding was a position you loved. it was so intimate, facing your lover, watching his face scrunch up in absolute pleasure, kissing him when he got too loud.

jake loved it just as much, feeling your breasts bounce against his own chest, his cock always hitting deep inside your cunt, you leaning over his shoulder and moaning in his ears, oh he never lasts long in this position, but thats okay. he knew you liked to milk him dry.

you bounced on his cock, the stretch of his length opening you up again, your cunt recrafting its size just for him. jake was already gone, his mind was filled with just you. his eyes closed as he let his body enjoy the moment, his mouth open for all his noises to slip out.

“look at me, darling..” you spoke gently, your hand caressing his cheek. his eyes fluttered open and you took his lips into a kiss, tasting his cherry chapstick he used earlier in the day.

once you pulled away, you kissed along his jaw, down to his neck. a few more bounces until you stopped, listening to him whine in confusion. “fuck me, baby.” you whispered against his ear.

jake’s eyes widened but nodded, digging his nails into your skin before lifting you up slightly and thrusting up into your cunt, quick and rough. you threw your head against his shoulder, your hands gripping onto his arms.

“shit, fuck!” you moaned out, melting into his movements. jake was in paradise, his hips snapping harsh into yours as he loudly whimpered out, you knew he was close.

and to your surprise, jake moaned out something you never would have thought you would hear. “please, mommy! i’m gunna cum!”

mommy.

that word. your heart skipped a beat and began to race. jake was never one to use any names with you, he enjoyed being the one who got names, but maybe it was because he was so deep in pleasure he didnt realize what he said. but you did.

“ohmygod.. say that again.”

you leaned back, looking your lover in the eyes and he shook his head, you noticed he was blushing—hard.

“i said say it again.” you repeated, your tone more stern now as your fingers gripped his jaw. jake whimpered, his hips still working into your cunt, his breathing got heavier.

“p—please mommy..” he whined, a gasp leaving his lips as you clenched around him, his hips stuttering up and he spilled his load inside you. you felt yourself blush at the name, something was changing within you, you needed to hear him cry that out.

“fuck, puppy.. you’re going to be the death of me.” you giggled, rolling your hips along his cock, watching how he was squirming underneath you.

you felt motivated to get him to cum again, desperate to hear that come out of his mouth again. your hands found themselves on his chest and you moved quicker, feeling his cock get hard instantly, his eyes watering just slightly at the overstimulation.

“gonna cum again for mommy?” you breathed, watching his face turn into a faded pink blush, his temples sweating. he nodded and moved his hips against your movements again.

you took his lips into a kiss, shoving your tongue into his mouth with force, feeling him moan against your lips. the pace of your hips quickened, jake’s thrusts following close after. jake couldn’t handle it for much longer, flipping you both over on the bed.

your back landed on the sheets and jake quickly pushed his cock back inside your pussy, fucking you hard and fast. his face burried into your neck as he moved, moans escaping his mouth and you felt yourself close, the tip of his cock hitting you even deeper now.

“fuck! puppy—fucking me like—you’re in heat!” you moaned out, words broken through gasps. jake could barely hear anything, his mind so clouded with pleasure from your walls clenching around him.

jake bit down on your neck, needing to leave some sort of mark on you as he continued his thrusts, his nails surely bruising the skin on your hips. his movements started to get sloppy, his breathing heavy again, his moans louder. he was close.

“cum for me, fill mommy up!” you moaned, back arching off the bed as you came all over his cock, legs twitching around his waist.

jake cried out a loud “mommy!” as he came, pushing his tip deep as he could as he filled you up, his body falling ontop of yours. he was so out of breath and tired, you could only smile.

“good boy, such a good boy for mommy.” you whispered, giving his forehead a gentle kiss as you both came down from your highs, your arms holding him close.

taglist　˃ᴗ˂ @mimiimiku @liumoonlight @qurest @soona-huh @unbel1ve4ble @katarinamae @lillotus17 @ilikekpop-c @fluviorss @starbyeol151 @kimuranirisi @tokkiuv @femaholicc @highway-143 @jakesblondera @hoonstqr

430 notes · View notes

hameesstuff · 2 months ago

Text

“Marriage on Paper”

Title: “Marriage on Paper”

Pairing: Husband Doctor!Jaehyun x Wife CEO!Reader | Single dad! Jaehyun

Preview: Jaehyun hated her. Why does he need a wife when he's happy with his daughter? Another nuisance, just like his first wife. And she hated everything about him. But they clearly can't stay away.

Genre: Arranged marriage, Slow Burn, Single dad! Jaehyun | Enemies to Lovers | Humor | Domestic | Smut, Tension

Word Count: ~9.3k

___________________________________________

PART 1: THE MARRIAGE THAT LOOKED GOOD ON PAPER

Your lawyer had said it was a “mutually beneficial merger.”

You said nothing, mostly because you were too busy fixing your lipstick before the press conference that announced your arranged marriage to Seoul’s most annoyingly attractive surgeon—Dr. Jeong Jaehyun.

He, on the other hand, stood beside you like you were a mild inconvenience. Like he had better places to be—like an OR table or a luxury car headed away from this mess.

“Smile,” you hissed through your teeth as cameras clicked.

“I am,” he replied, deadpan.

You glanced sideways. “You look dead.”

He looked back. “That’s still a smile compared to you.”

The flashbulbs exploded. You two were golden. On paper, of course.

The marriage was arranged for reasons that made sense to your board of directors and his hospital’s board of trustees. Power couple image. Medical research grants. Business sponsorships. Tax benefits.

You? You were Seoul’s youngest and most intimidating CEO, known for firing underperformers in stilettos. You didn’t need a husband.

He? He was a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon with a God-complex, a tendency to ghost family events, and a four-year-old daughter named Jiyeon who looked like a doll and talked like a drill sergeant.

The man was cold. Distant. But unfortunately, stupidly good-looking. Which made it worse.

The wedding was private, clinical. A few papers signed. A few photos taken. Your designer dress was stunning, and so was his smug silence.

The next day, you moved into the penthouse apartment you were now legally required to share.

You saw the child before you saw him.

Jiyeon sat at the kitchen island, eating Cheerios from a pink bowl.

She looked up at you with big round eyes and said, “You’re the lady who married my Dad. ”

You blinked. “Yes.”

She nodded like a CEO. “Okay. I’m not allowed to watch horror movies. I like strawberries. And don’t touch Mr. Bubbles.”

“Mr. Bubbles?”

“My bear” she said, pointing to a stuffed animal on the counter.

Right then, Jaehyun walked in—hair messy from post-call exhaustion, in scrubs, rubbing his eyes.

He looked at you like the flu.

You looked back like antibiotics.

“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly.

“Afternoon,” you corrected. “It’s 2 p.m.”

He gave a faint smirk. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

You ignored him, turned to Jiyeon. “I brought you strawberry jam.”

She grinned. “Okay, nevermimd I like you now"

At work, you crushed negotiations and led meetings like a queen. At home, your mornings began with accidental run-ins and arguments about kitchen cabinets.

He liked silence. You liked music.

He liked Jiyeon’s toys in one corner. You let her play wherever she wanted.

He liked routine. You liked control.

You both hated each other.

But Jiyeon?

She made it hard to stay angry.

One night, you came home late from a board dinner, heels in hand, headache pounding—and found her asleep in your bed, Mr. Bubbles’ tucked beside her.

A sticky note on your pillow read:

“You looked sad this morning. I saved you a place. — Jiyeon”

You didn’t cry.

You just laid down beside her and let her tiny hand wrap around your finger.

And somewhere around night fourteen, Jaehyun came home early, leaned against the kitchen counter while you reheated soup.

“You work too late,” he muttered.

“You don’t say much.”

Silence.

Then he added, “She likes you.”

You turned, surprised. “She’s easy to like.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.

“She didn’t like my ex.”

You blinked. “Was she her mother?”

A long pause.

“No. Her mother left before Jiyeon turned two.”

A strange ache stirred in your chest.

And that was the first time Jaehyun ever told you something personal.

No sarcasm. No sharp wit. Just the truth.

Later that night, you passed each other in the hallway.

He didn’t say anything.

But his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

PART 2: TENSION BETWEEN WALLS

You’d thought it was easier—pretending.

Pretending the apartment wasn’t too quiet. That you didn’t hear Jiyeon’s tiny feet running to greet him. That your heart didn’t shift, uninvited, at the sight of Jaehyun brushing her hair back like he’d done it a thousand times.

You weren’t looking for softness.

But somehow, it kept slipping through the cracks he never meant to open.

He came home late that Tuesday.

Jiyeon was asleep on the couch, curled up with Mr Bubbles. You were in the kitchen, pacing, still wearing your pencil skirt, blazer flung over a chair.

Jaehyun entered silently, a gym bag over one shoulder, shirt clinging damp to his skin from a post-op workout.

You stared at him. “You forgot to text.”

He blinked. “Didn’t know I had to.”

“You didn’t. But Jiyeon waited by the door for two hours.”

That silenced him.

He exhaled, dropped the bag, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quieter than you expected. “There was a code blue. I couldn��t leave.”

Your jaw locked, arms crossed. “I’m not asking for explanations. I’m just—”

“Worried?” he cut in, gaze sharpening. “Or mad because it disrupted your schedule?”

You bit your cheek. “Do you always push away people who care?”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at you.

And for a second, neither of you breathed.

The tension in the room pulsed like a heartbeat. You could see it in his eyes—that restrained edge, that wall he kept up even when he wasn’t trying to.

Then he said, “She listens to you more than me.”

You blinked. “She’s four. She likes strawberry jam and picture books. That doesn’t make me her mother.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she smiles when you come home.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not love.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s the beginning of something.”

The next night, you found him asleep on the couch, Jiyeon curled against his chest. His arm wrapped protectively around her, lips parted slightly, brow relaxed. It was the only time he ever looked peaceful.

You brought him a blanket.

You didn’t wake him.

You just stood there for too long—watching the man who was supposed to be your husband feel like the stranger you were starting to understand.

At breakfast, he poured your coffee without asking.

“You drink it black,” he said, not looking up.

You stared. “How did you—?”

“You mutter in the mornings.”

You blinked again, flustered.

He finally looked at you, and it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded. It was… warm.

You looked away.

This wasn’t in the plan.

PART 3: FRACTURES AND FLAME

The event was meant to be formal—clinical, even.

Your company’s healthcare merger dinner, filled with glass clinks and conversations too polished to mean anything real. You wore navy silk backless, sharp heels, and a CEO’s smile. Controlled. Charming. Unshakable.

You hadn’t expected Jaehyun to come.

But there he was—tall, poised in black, medical charm polished with just enough distance to draw eyes without asking for them.

He stood out like a mistake you wanted to make twice.

Your assistant whispered, “Is that your husband?”

You gave a tight smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Jaehyun, on cue, raised a brow from across the room. Heard it.

You stood beside each other for the first half hour, exchanging polite pleasantries with investors. He only spoke when needed. Let you lead.

But his eyes?

They didn’t leave your face.

Not once.

Enter David Seo—your firm’s latest clinical advisor and an old college flirtation turned slightly unhinged admirer. Handsome. Wealthy. Dangerous in that loud, performative way Jaehyun never was.

David leaned too close as he spoke to you, fingertips brushing your lower bare back once. Twice.

Jaehyun’s glass tapped the table with a soft clink. Not loud. But pointed.

When David asked, “Are you happy, though?”—Jaehyun was no longer beside you.

He was behind you.

Shoulders squared.

Voice calm. “She is. But thanks for checking.”

David blinked. “Doctor Jung, I presume?”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I don’t recall you being relevant in her life.”

“Jaehyun —please.”

David scoffed and walked off with a muttered “territorial.”

You glared. “Was that necessary?”

Jaehyun’s gaze was hard. “He was touching you.”

“I can handle it.”

He stepped closer. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

That silenced you.

Because it was… sincere.

And it rattled you more than his jealousy.

Later, in the town car home, silence sat thick between you.

You looked out the window. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softly: “I’m not jealous.”

You turned to him.

He added, “I’m angry. That someone thinks he can touch you like you’re available.”

You scoffed. “I am available. Our marriage is fake, remember?”

His voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Don’t say that in past tense. Not when you look at me like that.”

You turned your head quickly.

But you didn’t deny it.

PART 4: FRACTURE

The hospital walls blurred around him.

All he heard was the voice on the phone.

“Dr. Jung, your daughter’s been in an accident—hit by a distracted driver near the school exit. She’s stable. But she’s asking for you.”

He didn’t remember how he got there.

He barely remembered throwing off his white coat, running through traffic, or leaving his car at the ER entrance with the keys still inside.

His chest cracked open the moment he saw the door labeled Pediatric Trauma – 407.

And then—

Her voice.

Soft. Frayed.

“Sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’m right here, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

He stepped in like the air wasn’t heavy with fear.

You sat on the bed beside Jiyeon, her tiny hand gripped in yours, your blouse torn at the shoulder, a gash on your forehead bleeding down the temple. Your blazer draped over her legs. You looked wrecked—but calm. Like you’d been crying for hours and were holding it in just for Jiyeon.

Jaehyun stopped in the doorway.

You turned.

And for the first time—there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just you. Holding his daughter like she was yours.

“She wanted ice cream..” you said softly. “The cab drove through a red light. I protected her the best I could Jaehyun. I'm sorry.”

His knees almost buckled.

He knelt beside the bed and brushed Jiyeon’s bandaged forehead. Her eyes fluttered.

“Dad…”

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Her fingers loosened from yours—and slowly found his. She fell back asleep.

Later that night, the nurse gave them clearance to leave.

But Jaehyun didn’t drive home.

He booked a nearby hotel. For Jiyeon’s comfort, he told himself. For rest.

But truthfully—it was because his hands were still shaking.

You stood by the window, changed into one of his spare shirts, hair damp from the hospital shower, bruised and tired and more beautiful than he ever remembered.

“You could’ve died,” he said, quietly.

You looked at him. “So could she.”

“She asked for you before me.”

“She was scared.”

“I’m scared.”

The confession was quiet. Raw. And terrifying.

You didn’t reply. Just walked over.

“I thought I lost her,” he murmured. “And then I saw you with her—and it hit me. She’s not the only one I’ve been afraid of losing.”

You looked up.

And in one moment, every wall shattered.

He stepped forward, cupped your face gently—brushed his thumb over the cut at your temple like it hurt him to see you hurt.

And then—

His lips found yours.

Not gently.

Not softly.

But like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

His breath hitched at that, and then he kissed you — slowly, reverently, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted in case this was all a dream.

He lifted you onto the counter gently, standing between your knees as he kissed you again, slower this time — not with urgency, but with weight. Your fingers slid into his hair, his hands resting on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you.

“I want you,” he whispered back. “But not just like this.”

“Then how?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Like I’ve finally found my home.”

Your eyes stung, but you smiled.

“I want you too,” you breathed. “Like that.”

The world faded around you as he lifted you from the counter and carried you, lips brushing your temple, your shoulder, your hand. He laid you down in bed like you were something fragile — not weak, but precious. His shirt fell away, yours followed. No rush. No tension. Just layers falling away until only skin and breath remained.

His touch was slow. He kissed down your collarbone, between your breasts, over your stomach — pausing at every place his fingers had once only brushed. He whispered soft praises, nothing crude, just tender confessions: You’re so soft. I’ve never wanted anyone this way. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you feel safe.

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t the stretch you noticed first — it was the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as he moved inside you with the kind of patience you didn’t know existed. Every roll of his hips felt like a promise. Every brush of his lips, a vow.

It built slowly — heat pooling low in your stomach, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes because it wasn’t just pleasure anymore. It was release. It was love.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And he whispered yours back like it was the answer to everything he’d been missing.

When you came, it was soft and trembling, your breath catching in his mouth as you kissed him through it. He followed, moaning low and deep into your neck, his arms tightening around you like he was terrified to let go.

But he didn’t move away after.

He stayed on top of you, inside you, his fingers tracing your face like he was trying to remember this version of you forever.

“I love you,” he finally whispered, voice breaking.

You touched his lips with your fingers.

“I know. I feel it.”

And in that bed — skin to skin, heart to heart — you weren’t just lovers, or husband and wife.

You were something softer. Something sacred.

You were his again.

And for the first time… he let you be.

Final Epilogue – “Moonlight & Laughter”

The birthday dinner had ended with cake crumbs on everyone’s clothes and frosting in Jiyeon’s hair, but none of you wanted to go home just yet.

So Jaehyun had driven the four of you to the quiet park near the hospital, the one that stayed open late — the one with the soft lanterns that hung from the trees like sleepy fireflies.

Now the air was crisp and cool, the sky navy and full of stars. And you sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the soft hush of grass beneath you, your newborn cradled against your chest.

Jiyeon was running in wild little circles nearby, her pink dress now stained with ice cream, her laughter rising into the trees like music.

“Dad! Look!” she shouted, pointing to the stroller where Jaehyun had tucked the baby’s diaper bag. “He smiled at me! Baby smiled!”

Jaehyun, sitting beside you, chuckled and called back, “That’s because you’re his favorite.”

“I know!”

She bent down and kissed her baby brother’s forehead — all sticky fingers and warm cheeks — and whispered, “You were my birthday wish”

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

___________________________________________

769 notes · View notes