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jaylaxies · 12 days ago

Text

MARIONETTE

PAIRING: doll!jungwon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, porn with plot, unprotected sex (be safe), mentions of accidents, blood, slight body worship, somnophilia, manhandling, cunnilingus, heavy makeout, heavy dubcon themes, supernatural themes and elements, artefacts collector!reader, usage of nicknames, aftercare, fluff if you squint, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, mentions of jaemin and karina.

WORD COUNT: 16,104 words.

SYNOPSIS: As an antique collector, you had encountered many oddities; splintered relics, cursed heirlooms, objects that whispered in the dark, but never a life sized doll so breathtakingly beautiful, so humane. There was only one rule, to not open its coffin before the onset of New Year, however, temptation is quite a decadent exquisite poison. And now? Something stirs beneath the glass, something that waits for you, dearly so.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni.

A/N: hihi loves <3 it’s my first time writing something like this, and to think it was inspired by a dream? gosh, i did work hard on it and i really hope you guys would enjoy it too :3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

Chapter 1: The end? Or the lackof.

Darkness was always your friend, it engulfed your being, the depth of your soul with the warmth even mere humans couldn’t provide, something so utterly beautiful, something you couldn’t see, the quiet, the warmth, the loyalty that cradled you in stillness.

A stray tear cascaded down from the crevice of your eye, streaming through the curved expanse of your cheek and dripping all over the velvet carpet laid below, the kind that muffled sound, even your sobs. It covered the entire penthouse floor—another purchase made in silence for a place too big for one, a place too big for yourself.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered into the window, pressed against the cold surface which seemed baptised with the water droplets forming, courtesy of the snow, which slicked the city in the shade of white, adding another bland vision through your cornea.

No one answered. The silence pressing you back into the surface as a reminder that you were indeed alone, it was brutal, and worse, familiar. Money brings happiness they said, then where were your parents? Friends? A lover who you so desperately wished to replace the embrace of the darkness to something real, so raw? A heartbeat beside yours.

You turned around slowly, eyes grazing over the meticulously arranged space, the walls lined in rich charcoal silk, the carved moldings of the ceiling dipped in antique gold, each piece of furniture either vintage or custom made to tailor your taste. A museum, people say when they visit. A mausoleum, you thought.

You were most likely the only exhibit that still lived.

Passing through the hall, you stopped just to see the picture frame standing tall on the marble table. The photo of your family—if it could even be called that. A frame that hadn’t moved in the past year since you came here, like the people in it. Your mother’s tinted red lips were parted in a laugh far too wide to be genuine, your father’s hand resting too heavy on your shoulder. All of you dressed in black tie for a gala you didn’t remember, smiling for an audience that didn’t care.

You turned again, towards what you claimed to be the heart of your home, if it could be called that. Each step was muted by the velvet of the carpet, your movement turning into an illusion of some dream as your fingers mindlessly caressed the artefact you always carried with you—an ancient key, so elegantly engraved, yet it opened nothing you owned.

To your left, the antique room sat sealed behind tall French doors.

You didn’t go in, you couldn’t, not tonight.

Your obsessions slumbered there peacefully, a wooden crucifix with a bloody split down its middle, a weeping angel bust with glass eyes, an 18th century mourning veil still faintly smelling of rosewater and rotten flesh.

It was a collection of grief, the kind of grief people celebrated, framed in golden wrapped silk. Each product was valuable, as if the burden in them could be traded for money.

Your feet didn’t stop there, not until you were standing in front of the big wooden door with the serpentine handle, your thick black coat hanging on the rack, almost like a relic—so dark and finely woven in Italy. You draped it over your shoulders, slipping your gloves on with no destination in mind.

But something in the air had switched from the very second the frost teardrop splattered down to the carpet, it was as if someone breathed down on your neck, like a whisper from within the walls.

You found yourself stepping out, into the elevator, down the echoing lobby, well decorated in shades of green and red, a few children bubbled with excitement with wrapped boxes in their arms.

“Where to, Miss?” your driver asked.

You hesitated, gulping down your emotions. The city was still wrapped in snowfall, painted in black and white till the bone. Every possible location—gallery, restaurant, hotel lounge—felt as hollow as the apartment you had just left, despite being so full of life, so full of humans.

“I don’t know, just drive—somewhere,” you murmured to the suited man with greying hair.

And so he did, seamlessly guiding you through the colour flashes outside of the window, a celebration you couldn’t quite grasp, something so fulfilling for others yet an empty vessel for you, glass fogging up per second as you found yourself delving deeper into the heart of the city.

You almost didn’t notice the sharp turn as the car veered into a slow stop, right over the cobblestone, near the entrance of a rusty iron gate that was wide opened, the appearance of the gate juxtaposing the liveliness inside the grounds.

A carnival.

It was blooming up the grass like a childhood nightmare to you, grown not from joy but from something older, more terrible—decay dressed in ribbons, nostalgia strung with nooses, with the flashback of your parents abandoning you in the middle of the crowd, with a pathetic excuse of work calling.

The lights flickered like fake stars, too yellow, radiating warmth, casting the ground in a sickly kind of glow. Music reverberated through the cold air—violins detuned, a carousel melody slowed to a dirge. You stepped out of the car with a hand to the frame, your gloved fingers pausing as you caught sight of your own reflection in the passenger window, eyes empty, dried lips, your face floating behind the few stray hairs that made their way upfront. You looked like someone who attended a funeral, which seemed fitting.

No one should have been here out this late, the clock nearing midnight, yet the place was full. Crowds of people passed by, too smooth for your vision for them to seem humane. Children laughed, but the sound was wrong—too jolly, too bright. Balloons hung from the strings, glossy and silent. The scent in the air was thick—caramel, popcorn, and smoke curling together like a spell brewing.

Your feet moved without any motive, their own consciousness dragging you through the murmurs of the crowd, above the snow clad cobblestone as the place unfurled around you in shades of red and gold. Joker masked men took over the place, entertaining and guarding each shop.

Without notice, a girl with doll like features handed you a candied apple, the red dripping down the ground in a way that made you feel sick. With a tap, you paid for it before offering it to a kid who looked hungry.

You walked past it all, as if on a mission you weren’t aware of, the mist guiding you through, near the alleyway behind the giant wheel which hadn’t stopped moving all night.

Then you saw it. A tent. It was the only place draped with black, and roped with red stripes. It didn’t have any signs, just tarot cards hung around, adorning the place.

It wasn’t a beckoning, just a feeling—a feeling that someone was calling out your name.

You paused outside the tent, the velvet flaps gently shifting though there was no wind. A low warmth bled from within, curling at your covered ankles like a blissed sigh.

Without thinking twice, you ducked inside the tent, the air thickening as if you had entered another realm altogether. The scent of something ancient, even darker than your antique art room, a pretence of divine divination.

Under the red candlelight, against the dark walls, you met with a woman, skin as if a dark parchment, hair as if silver threads, luring you right in as her gaze met yours.

“You’ve taken your time, we’ve been waiting,” she said, hands kept on table, her voice stoic, no anger, no sweetness.

“We?” You asked in a whisper, confusion taking over your face.

She didn’t answer as the candlelight flickered above your head as you sat down on the wooden chair, which creaked with each movement.

The table between you was covered in black cloth worn out from decades—no, centuries, so out of touch. Golden thread formed a circle at its center, symbols stitched in curling foreign shapes, as if it was a cult. Atop it rested a deck of tarot cards, the edges frayed, the backs patterned in thorned roses.

The woman’s fingers moved, almost inhumane with how fast she shuffled the deck, portraying something simply inevitable.

Within a second, you had three cards laid in front of you, pressed face down, before she turned the first one over.

“The past.” She murmured.

The card read out Death in big, bold letters.

A shiver travelled down your spine as your eyes assessed the figure of a skeleton, adorned with roses, seemingly half alive, but at what cost?

Her voice dropped an octave, “you’ve mourned things that are still breathing. But death doesn’t care about the soul ascending to hell or heaven, does it?”

Your lips parted in hopes of finding an answer, but she spoke nothing short of truth. Your parents? Alive but dead to you. Your friends? Barely one caring for anything other than your money. No existence of love, a true one at least. A dull ache curled in your chest with the card being taken back.

Not even a second later, the second card was being turned around to reveal Collector.

A massive figure seated on an antique throne adorned with jewels from top to legs, background filled with broken doll heads, and clocks of shapes you didn’t even know the names of.

It was clear, the words echoing present through and through, your nails digging into your skin with the accuracy and abnormality of the given situation.

“Collecting pieces long forgotten? Safekeeping them, when in reality no one intends to return to them.”

You felt as if the words were being carved into your bones, “you were made to be adored, but you’re caged in cruelty now.” She continued, “abandonment that leaves you searching for empty pieces.”

You were parched, each word acting like a truck of truth, hitting you over and over again, and it was only a second of silence as the last card was being flipped, as if awakening someone, something, into existence.

A doll. That’s what the third and the last tarot card said, the image on it striking something primal in you; especially when you laid your eyes on the white porcelain doll, way too delicate for this world, carved into perfection of some sort, clad in a dark suit. He was perfect. Cheekbones high and blushed, lips blood red, glowing, and eyes? Closed in peace, in wait. You tore your eyes from the card the second you felt something burning on your wrist.

A red thread, something you hadn’t worn before entering the stall, something that resembled exactly the threat around the doll’s wrist. It wasn’t silk, or cotton, it was something old, almost like a crimson fibre.

The women didn’t blink, didn’t show any hint of emotions this time, “you’ve been chosen.”

You breathed out, waiting for her to elaborate.

“He’s been waiting, he didn’t summon you, he chose you. It was when you were ten, in this life, he fell in innocent love all over again, the same place, the carnival.”

Her eyes weren’t moving, goosebumps rose up your skin at the mention of the carnival, the same carival which you visited with your parents, the same, which taught you abandonment years ago, the place you were at right now.

“Who’s he?” You croaked out.

“He saw you entering, the innocence long gone, now he craves, he desires your love.”

Your heart thumped out of your chest at the mere mention, the slight possibility of someone wanting you.

“Where’s he?” You asked before you could control yourself, the words, the mannerism almost foreign to you.

The women’s lip twitched up for the first time, the darkness highlighting the curve, before she snapped her fingers, making everything go dark as you stood up, stumbling back with a gasp, and right out of the tent.

It was snowing again, the bustle of the crowd, the cheers of the children. The world was bright again, even in the darkness, but you were hollow, the thread burning around your wrist every passing second, as if in a rush to convey a message.

You weaved through the crowd, past fire breathers and jugglers, past children squealing over marionettes—you yourself felt like one as past a the thread pulled eastward, toward the quieter edge of the carnival. You didn’t ask questions anymore. You just followed.

It didn’t feel real, just a dream with no end. And then, you saw it—tucked between two towering, crumbling buildings was a narrow, glassed storefront you hadn’t noticed before. You would have missed it entirely if not for the thread tightening against your skin, humming now with warmth. A wooden sign hung above the door, painted in fading gold.

The Chiller House: Antiques and souvenirs.

The windows were clouded, frosted even from the inside, yet you could faintly make out the silhouettes of laces, dolls, relics you couldn’t identify. The floral vines covered the sign which sat atop the door.

Binded with love, caged with obsession.

You stared at the sign, heart knocking against your ribs. You had a soft spot for antiques—always had. Things that had lived lives before you. The scent of old paper and polished wood. The way broken toys still smiled, even your room back home looked more like a museum than a bedroom. The past always felt warmer than the present, safer, even when it wasn’t.

A brass bell chimed in peace as you stepped inside, it was like a time capsule bound together. Display cases brimmed with forgotten artifacts—cracked porcelain faces, jewelled gloves, pressed flower letters that looked like they’d crumble at the slightest touch. The scent of cedarwood and dried rose petals filled the air, however, the room wasn’t musty, it was preserved.

You twirled around the empty store, feeling alive for the first time in months, staring at your reflection in an ornate vanity mirror, before stepping behind the curtain, into a room which was dim, but not enough to hide him.

A single glass coffin in the corner of the room, as if meant to be hidden from the world. Lit from below by a single, flickering bulb, the coffin glowed like an altar. And within it—he looked too perfect to be real. A life sized porcelain doll, mouth barely parted as if sighing in sleep. His skin was smooth, pale with a bloom of warmth on the cheeks, and his lips painted a colour of warm red.

Blonde curls falling over his forehead, his suit was tailored in black, lapels stitched with gentle thorns, the collar closed neatly with a thin crimson ribbon. A matching red thread circled his porcelain wrist—identical to the one still burning on your own.

He was so delicate, exquisite personified, crafted so meticulously, it almost felt like a sin to be staring at him. You didn’t realize you were moving till your palm rested on the fogged glass.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice called out, jolting you out of your trance.

You turned around quickly to see the shopkeeper—a woman older than time itself, dressed in a black shawl with hazel eyes that gleamed like a summer storm. She didn’t sound angry, but tired. Like she’d been here before, like she’d seen this play out before.

“I—why? Isn’t he for sale?” You asked.

“He’s not for sale.”

“But why? This is a shop and he’s a doll,” you asked again, desperate to understand.

Her gaze didn’t falter, “he’s not just a doll, and this isn’t just a shop.”

Today has been confusing, but this? It was way par your usual understanding. Not a doll? Not just a shop? It was as if you were bleeding into the thin crack between dream and reality.

“I want him,” you repeated like a broken record.

Her eyes flickered down to your wrist in a scowl, before she gasped, demeanor doing a one eighty, “I see, so it’s happened.”

“What has?”

She didn’t answer, walking past you to the coffin, brushing the gold plated oval, depriving it of the dust that had settled there over the time.

Jungwon—the engraved text read out, a name as pretty as the face.

“I’ll pay anything,” you declared, as if he would cease to exist if you don’t get him, if you don’t keep him preserved with you.

“Anything,” she echoed, “everything,” she confirmed.

You stared at her, wondering if this was yet another tactic used to get a higher price for a certain possession, to quantify the amount of desperation one can behold.

Still, she didn’t answer you directly. Instead, she moved around the coffin, unlatching locks you hadn’t even noticed until now—iron clasps, rusted, something that creaked with each movement. Not the lid, never the lid, just the base. Preparing it for transport.

“You’ll take the whole thing,” she started, as if telling you the rules. “Don’t try to lift the glass. Don’t remove the thread. And no matter how much you want to—don’t open the coffin before the onset of new year.”

“How much?” you asked, breath catching in your throat with newfound warmth blooming up your chest.

She paused her slow movements, scribbling a figure on a torn piece of parchment and handed it to you. Her fingers were cold and dry, like paper itself.

The number was beyond the point of absurdity, a cost that screamed sacrifice, not currency. More than what a doll should be worth, if it was just a doll that is.

You got your card out without a second thought. It was all you had, a price you got for having the ever so absent parents. She nodded, as if she expected you to say yes regardless of the circumstances.

“Handle with care, he’s—he’s more fragile than he appears to be,” she murmured, “alas, don’t forget the rules.”

You nodded, fingertips quick to call, informing your driver to pick up the coffin, the brass bell chiming as you stepped out of the Chiller House. Your eyes followed him, throughout the journey.

All while not knowing that your red thread had disappeared.

Chapter 2: In the name of love.

The glass clinked under the brightness of the chandelier, a voice that reminded you much of cages.

Especially here, at the HYBE Plaza, where every corner shimmered with the festive celebration of New Year’s eve. And yet, not a single thing about this night felt new.

You sat at the long table draped in glitter, surrounded by people who wore their smiles like fake masks. Your parents sat two seats away, laughing for appearances, eyes always glancing sideways. Your fiancé, Jaemin, their choice, sat beside you with a hand on your chair, a smirk evident on his face, the usual routine for him.

“You barely spoke a word tonight,” he accused, “this night is important.”

“To whom?” You stared into space, fingers playing with the red threads of the table cloth.

He sighed, a vein popping out with the anger he couldn’t control, “to your family—to my family, to me.”

“The contracts, you mean? The exchange of money for souls, ah? Is that what I was raised for?”

Your fiancé shifted uncomfortably beside you, but his grip on your chair only tightened as he leaned in, teeth clenched. “Don’t do this here.”

“Where should I do it then?” you asked, still not looking at him, “at the altar? In bed? Over brunch with our mothers while they plan the next generation of heirs to ruin?”

He inhaled sharply. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“No,” you replied, turning your head at last, eyes sharp, the chandelier above caught in your eyes like fractured glass. “I’m being honest. You should try it sometime.”

“Sweetheart, maybe you need a breather, want me to walk to the balcony with you?” Your mum breathed out in her sugar dipped voice, almost embarrassed at the way you clearly worded what they’ve been doing all this while.

“Where was this sentiment when it was my birthday, mother? Perhaps you were too busy to remember? Right, father?” You said, eyeing both, who looked rather embarrassed at your outburst, almost piercing them with the serum of truth.

Truth that you were their daughter, a human, not an investment or doll, by any means—something that they’d been overlooking all this while.

You didn’t wait for a reply.

The chair’s legs scraped against the marble like a declaration, loud enough to silence the violins. A hush rippled through the room. Your mum’s painted smile flickered, your father’s eyes narrowed with the slow cruelty of a man too long accustomed to control, however, you kept walking.

When the elevator doors slid shut behind you, the last thing you saw was your mother clutching her pearls, tears glistening her eyes, as if she finally realized a tinge of the hurt she’s caused you, but not a way to make it better.

Winter had returned to the city like a storm—snow falling not gently, but rather, in solemn sheets. The chauffeur said nothing as he opened the car door. He didn’t dare, not when you looked stoic.

All you remembered from the car ride was the flashes of colours, the scenery collapsing into an abstract piece too bright for your taste. The lift carried you into warmth in utter silence, juxtaposing the kids in the lobby, way too enthusiastic to celebrate new year.

The penthouse greeted you with the familiar hush of years long curated wealth. It smelled faintly of roses and marble, of nothing real. The chandeliers stayed lit, as if unaware the girl who lived beneath them had shattered hours ago.

You walked in without removing your heels, only leaving them midway on the velvet of the carpet as your legs started to wobble, as if uncertain if you should be standing anymore or not.

By the time you reached the bathroom, your fingers could barely unhook the back of your gown. Your body trembled from exhaustion, you peeled the dress off your skin as if it were a second one—a shell of who they wanted you to be, and let it fall in a puddle on the heated tiles.

The water scalded your skin, but you didn’t move, you stood beneath the stream like something carved from grief, arms hanging limp at your sides, head bowed. The steam curled around your body, trying to hold you together, but nothing could. Not tonight.

Your sobs were quiet—choked, too exhausted to echo in the grand bathroom. They slipped past your lips like secrets, buried in the hiss of falling water. You sank slowly to the floor, knees folding, cheek pressed to the cold marble. You stayed there until your fingers numbed and wrinkled.

Eventually, you rose, wrapping yourself in a robe, barely bothering to dry your hair, and stepped into the dim corridor, the lights flickering faintly above. The silence of the penthouse felt sharper now—closer. The velvet underfoot muted your steps as you passed gilded mirrors and untouched heirlooms.

Wrapped in a white robe, you drifted down the corridor, dripping steadily down your spine, leaving a trail of water. The chandelier above the foyer flickered gently behind you, casting your shadow down the hallway like a second self.

You opened the bedroom door, the air inside was chilled from neglect, the heavy curtains still drawn shut from earlier that morning. The only light came from the candle you must have forgotten to snuff—its flame dancing beside the mirror, golden and low.

And in the corner of your room, against the rich velvet of the carpet, rested the glass coffin, the one you had brought home, the one that hadn’t left your mind since.

You walked toward it slowly, your bare feet cold now, trembling slightly as you approached. Your wrist burned as you knelt beside the coffin. Your hands found the smooth edge of the glass lid, fingers hesitating, remembering the warning from earlier, what the shop owner said.

Don’t open it before the onset of the new year.

It wasn’t new year yet, you were five minutes short of time, of patience.

What would even happen? It’s just a doll, a pretty piece of porcelain, something you pondered about for the next four minutes.

Your fingers curled tighter around the latch, “I can’t wait,” you mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

With that, you unlatched the coffin door, and as you did, the sharp corner of the coffin caught your hand, causing a sudden, precise sting.

You flinched, hissing softly, watching as a bead of blood gathered at your fingertip—round and dark, like ink waiting to stain something sacred.

Before you could think, it slipped, fell down, right onto his slightly parted lips.

The moment it touched him—the first firework exploded beyond the window, a bloom of sound and colour cracking through the silence. The sky lit up in gold, and then another, and another—an orchestra of celebration for a world that had nothing to do with the one unfolding here, the celebration of new year beyond your room.

When you looked back, the blood was gone, disappeared. You wondered if he had a crack, a hairline in his mouth, letting the blood seep through, or it actually disappeared.

Your hand reached beneath him, slow, cradling him once more—arms beneath his back and knees, lifting him gently from the coffin. The robe slipped further down your shoulder, forgotten. His weight pressed into you softly, the fabric of his suit warm against your chest as you carried him across the room, he was heavy, heavier than any porcelain should have been.

The fireworks continued behind the curtains, echoing against the window panes like distant thunder. But inside your bedroom, it was just you. Just him.

You laid him down on the bed, carefully—pillowing his head, smoothing the lapels of his suit, brushing your trembling fingers once across his cheek as if to confirm he was still there.

Then you joined him, sprawling over the silk sheets, eyes blank as they stared into the plaster of paris perfectly sculpted into the ceiling.

Your hand reached out blindly until your fingers brushed his, cold and delicate beneath the satin glove. You held it like it might tether you to something real.

“I don’t know how to be normal anymore,” you whispered into the dark, voice hoarse from crying. “I’m always pretending, every fucking room I enter, every dress I wear—it’s like a costume. A fucking mask, and no one ever sees what’s underneath. I’m not even sure I do.”

You turned your head, breath catching as your eyes landed on him. He didn’t look human, he looked like an angel.

Lips parted the faintest bit, lashes long and still, his face peaceful in the way the world never allowed you to be. You watched him, tears welling again, cascading silently down your cheek.

“I’m so tired, I only see red, no blacks and whites.” You sighed, as if curving into the madness of what the world put you up with, “you’re beautiful,” you mumbled, fingers tracing the outline of his lapel, the thorn-stitched embroidery catching against your nails. The silk beneath was soft, too soft—like skin meant to be kissed.

“It must be nice, being a doll, a real one with no feelings, just plush beauty, and stillness,” you whispered, his eyes shining with an understanding, a glint that shouldn’t be seen in the non living creatures.

It wasn’t just grief now—it was like vertigo. That hollow, high feeling that came when you’d fallen too far and realized there was nothing left to crash into? You’d hit the bottom. The absolute, ridiculous bottom. And here you were—wanting to kiss a fucking doll.

You crawled toward him slowly, silk dragging behind your thighs, breath hitching. Every inch you moved across the mattress felt like a climb up the hill, a ritual of some sort, of great importance.

Your knees slid to either side of his hips. You climbed on top of him like sin climbs onto innocence, soft and slow, an angel falling .

You shouldn’t be doing this, you knew that, and still, you sighed into relief as you cupped his face between trembling palms, his skin was porcelain, yet it wasn’t cold.

It had taken on warmth—not humane, but something subtler, as the sun shone warmly on the sealine, almost a personification of liveliness of a peculiar sort.

You leaned down slowly, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t realize how hard your heart was beating until you were so close to him you could hear the soft rasp of your own blood roaring behind your ears.

“Everyone hates me,” you whispered, your voice inhumane, lacking warmth.

Your finger traced the curve of his reddish porcelain cheek, perfect, “gosh—would you hate me too?” You asked like a child talking to a wall, expecting no answers in return.

He only listened, attentive and polite, brown eyes staring into yours like an emotional support anchor, “I’m insane, I’m so insane, I,” you breathed out, chest heaving up with your face tilting in a fashion that if you’d bend down a smidge, you’d touch him, “keep me safe, even if it’s for a night.”

With a sharp intake of breath, you slotted your lips onto his, the act purely devastating, trembling against the solid, unmoving porcelain, clinging onto a kiss that gave you nothing physical in return, just pure warmth blooming in your chest.

Your lips parted over his, opening wider, messier—tongue barely brushing his, knowing there was no true warmth to meet it but needing it anyway, making you whimper and push down into his lap. The silence scorched you, it bloomed in your chest like fevered devotion.

The kiss turned wetter, more obscene, your hips rolling over his waist as your tears began to fall—again. You gasped through them, mouth open against his, panting.

“I just wanted someone to want me,” you sobbed, forehead resting against his, “is that so wrong? Is that so—fucking wrong?”

Your bathrobe had fallen open completely by now, the fabric slipping off your shoulders like silk cloth, exposing your bare chest to the cold, to him. You didn’t care, you wanted him to see. You wanted to press every part of your ruined body to the hollow sculpture of his form and pretend it meant something. Your thighs clenched around his tiny waist, your hands fisted in his jacket, still kissing him like a girl who believed enough could bring back the dead.

There, atop a doll who could not hold you back, half-naked, tear-streaked, heartbeat trembling like a loose violin string—you finally slept, not peacefully, but possessively.

And watched.

He always did.

Chapter 3: I see your heart is pure.

Fingers trailed down your chest, not cold, not glass smooth.

It was flesh, real human touch.

You inhaled sharply, the sound catching somewhere between your ribs and throat. Your breath hitched again as one fingertip circled your tits—tentative, like he was trying to remember it. The pad of a thumb brushed over your nipple, coaxing a shiver so deep it left your spine tingling.

You opened your eyes, the room was cloaked in shadows and gold. Velvet curtains half drawn, a single candle burning, but you didn’t question the shift. You didn’t ask where you were or what time it was, because he was there.

Jungwon.

Seated beneath you on the mattress, half clothed in his black suit, his blonde hair tousled like he’d just woken from the same need that drenched your body. His brown eyes were wide and almost fevered, pupils dilated as if he was starving.

His hands slid down the curve of your body, making you gasp quietly as they touched your bare skin, your robe had fallen open long ago, exposing you to him, thighs spread without any shame, not here.

“Jungwon,” you breathed, unsure if it was a plea or shock.

He looked up from where he sat between your legs, lips parted, gaze locked onto your core like he was watching something beautiful unravel.

“You’re soft,” he whispered.

His voice sounded carved from candle smoke and shadow. Soft, velvet lined in some way. It felt like it was coming from inside you, like something whispered to your soul rather than your ears.

You parted your lips to respond, but your words didn’t come as he bent down, mouth ghosting the inside of your thigh, not touching where you needed him but still close, so close.

A low whimper was all you managed to let out, making the pretty man smirk, a gentle dimple gracing his innocent face, that didn’t harbour a single innocent thought inside of him.

He licked once, just beside your cunt, not quite there. A warm, wet trail that made your body twitch.

“Please,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.

His mouth was so close you could feel it—not just heat, but presence. As though the very idea of him had weight. His lips hovered just above your cunt, parted, exhaling breath that couldn’t possibly exist. He didn’t move—just stared up at you with that hollow devotion, like your worship was the only thing he’d ever known.

You moaned, soft and broken, hips lifting instinctively. His lips barely brushed you, just a flicker—when suddenly the entire world fell out from under you.

You jolted awake with a harsh breath.

It was a dream.

The second you tried to sit up—you gasped, to be pulled back gently by the weight of a hand around your waist. Not accidental, not your imagination. It was real.

You felt a shiver going down your spine. His arm draped around you even though you hadn’t moved him by any means. It was the same doll who once lived in a glass coffin, now lying behind you, cradling your body like a lover who refused to let go. His fingers splayed just below your ribs, unmoving but perfectly placed, as if sculpted for the sole purpose of holding you through the night.

Slowly, you guided his hand away, his arm dropping without resistance, gently settling beside him on the sheets, lifeless, as if nothing had ever happened.

But it had, you knew it had.

Your legs wobbled as you stood. The room felt colder now, like whatever warmth had been there with you had sunk back into porcelain. Into silence. You didn’t dare look at him as you crossed the room, bathrobe clinging to your body with sweat and shame, thighs still aching with want.

Your skin was glowing in the reflection you saw of yourself, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, before you stepped into the shower, getting ready for your godforsaken uni.

By the time you got to campus, the city had woken up but barely breathed, snow melted in streaks across the pavement, students milled about like ghosts of themselves, laughter thin.

You met your friend near the steps—Karina, too bright for this weather, a paper cup of coffee steaming between her hands.

“You came to class on a bank holiday?” She asked, raising a brow, “should I be worried that you’ve final-fucking-ly lost your last marble?”

You smiled thinly, “I just needed to be somewhere—uh, not alone.”

She nudged your shoulder gently, knowing about your family problems, “rough night?”

You swallowed, not maintaining eye contact for once, “is it weird,” you began, voice low, “to want something that’s not, uhm, human?”

She stared at you, caught off guard, “what? Like a celebrity crush weird or maybe a serial killer weird?”

You didn’t laugh, not when you felt this way.

“I mean actually—feel something for it,” you clarified, “something not alive. Something you know isn’t real but—”

You cut yourself off before the words but it touched me could fall out.

Karina tilted her head, “okay, hold on, babe. Are you into one of your artifacts or something?” She teased, half laughing, not serious about the situation at all, “you’re really committing to your collection, I see.”

The second she saw you not laughing, staring at the ground as if you wanted it to swallow you whole, her tone dropped, “babe, you can’t be serious—wait, seriously? Y/N—”

“I have to go,” you whispered, grabbing your bag tighter as you walked away, ignoring the echoes behind you.

The cold air outside did little to numb the burn still clinging to your skin. It felt as though your body hadn’t fully left the bedroom, like some part of you was still trapped under the weight of him—those porcelain arms, those parted lips, that impossible stillness that somehow kept watching. The memory of it clung to you as you crossed streets and waited through red lights without seeing them, breath ghosting in front of you with every hurried exhale, and by the time you reached your apartment, you were shaking.

Inside, the silence greeted you first, then the sudden burst of warmth.

Not the artificial kind piped through radiators, something richer, something fuller, as if the space had been lived in while you were gone. You turned your head toward the bedroom and froze.

The glass coffin hadn’t moved—but its contents had. Jungwon lay just as you’d left him, and yet his body was no longer the same, his head was tilted toward the doorway, ever so slightly, lips were still barely parted, but they appeared softer now, not rigid with ceramic but plush, almost flushed. The light caught on his skin differently—as if it had deepened in tone. No grey undertones, but something dangerously close to human. His chest rose faintly, or maybe you imagined it. Maybe you had to.

You stepped closer before your brain could warn you otherwise. The air felt heavier around him. The scent was no longer just cedarwood and dust but warmer, enough to make you shiver in anticipation.

Don’t open the coffin before the onset of new year.

The voice echoed through your mind, your greed had gotten the better of you, and you didn’t have the slightest clue of the consensus, never having asked the owner about it, her word was final—yet you resorted to disobedience.

It was hard to figure out where you were meant to be with how often you escaped from places, soon staggering into the Carnival after a silent car ride. It was still there, the rusted iron gates, the music bustling, children laughing.

You walked fast, passing the clowns with their painted smiles, past the fire breathers, and carousel horses locked in crooked gallops. Your breath came quick and hot now, fogging in the air like you were being hunted.

And then you turned the corner, to where it had been, The Chiller House, gone.

No dark striped tent, no artefacts, there was nothing, not even footprints. Just untouched snow and a lingering emptiness, a strange dead zone between booths. The kind of space you noticed only because it shouldn’t be empty.

Only, your wrist burned where the red thread had once been, as if tugging you, as if controlling you.

As if, you were a marionette.

Chapter 4: My sacrifice.

Dim lights surrounded you, black silk draped over your body in an elegant ballroom dress, only, the dress was bunched around your waist as you sighed softly, laid on a long table.

Your breath came light, dazed. You weren’t bound, but your body refused to move. Not from fear—something else.

The figure between your thighs moved slowly, Jungwon.

He knelt before you like he was praying. His blonde curls shining in the flicker of dying candlelight, casting a halo around a face too angelic to be real. His eyes met yours once before descending again, gaze dripping down your body like melted gold, like hunger dressed in devotion.

You whimpered as his mouth pressed into your inner thigh like a kiss of worship, porcelain lips gone warm, alive somehow. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you knew, he’d waited to taste you for centuries.

When his tongue finally touched you, you gasped, spine arching off the table in instinct, in need. The room didn’t echo, it swallowed your sound. Your moans melted into velvet as Jungwon held you still.

His hands were delicate but firm, cool at first, then warm, his tongue moved in slow, curling drags, like he was learning you, memorizing you. Every breath against your cunt was a confession. You heard your name whispered into you—not from his mouth, but from your bones.

“Missed you, waited for you all these years, hm—mine,” he mumbled mindlessly, prettier than ever, speaking like a true lover.

His mouth never stopped, kissing your clit with need, flattening his tongue as if he needed to taste you in order to stay alive, as if you were the oxygen he needed.

Your body trembled as he groaned into you, eyes rolling back, the familiar feeling of your high coming had you moaning, it was so close, just another flick of his tongue, yet the second his lips touched your cunt, you swore you saw the world collapsing.

Then, a gasp.

You woke up breathing hard. It was yet another wet dream, however, it felt real, as if you’d lived it before, thighs leaking with your wetness, which had pooled down your cunt.

Jungwon laid beside you, exactly in the position from last night, after you came home trying to find the chiller house, but to no avail. Pondering upon it didn’t work, which is why you found yourself next to him, telling him about your day as if he’d asked you to.

As unnatural as it felt, he brought you peace, a sense of belonging, enough for you to forget that he’s a doll, enough for you to fall asleep in his arms, only to dream of him for the second night in a row.

You looked his way, wondering how his lips looked softer now, hair more tousled than before, lashes longer, nothing seemed artificial anymore. Was your mind playing tricks on you? Or did he truly look more human now, even more so with a tiny drop of moisture on his lips—as if he had tasted you, not in the dream, but reality.

“Just what—who are you?” You whispered, tracing the curve of his cheek, plush now.

He was captivating, so utterly beautiful, you found yourself leaning in, pressing your lips upon his in a slow fashion, warmth blooming over again. There was no reciprocation, no movement, just you with your frantic breath as you pulled back.

You stared at him, eyes tracing every shadow of his face. Something about him had shifted again, not in posture, not in expression—those remained still, but in presence. He no longer felt like an object in the room, but the very gravity of it. The space bent around him.

You should have been disturbed.

Instead, you reached again, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth. The drop of moisture was gone now, but the memory of it ghosted against your fingertip. It was real, you knew it in your bones that something was changing.

The sharp shrill of your phone shattered the moment. You sighed, reaching toward the nightstand, vision blurred by the dissonance between this world and whatever realm you’d been slipping into beside him.

It was an unknown number.

You answered with a whisper, “hello?”

At first, only static crackled through, then a voice—breathless.

“Y/N? I—It’s your fiancé.”

You didn’t speak, your lips had forgotten how, you listened further, ex fiancé you wished to say.

“There’s been an accident,” he continued, the words heavy in his throat, “It’s Jaemin. He—he crashed his car, it might be serious. you should come.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds, heart rate rising up, “how?” you asked, voice low.

“They’re not sure,” your father answered. “There was no ice on the road, no other driver, no brake marks at all. It was like the car veered itself off the highway and straight into a barrier.”

Your free hand tightened where it rested on the edge of the mattress. Jungwon remained still, perfect and innocent in his silence, but your eyes locked onto his again—and something in your chest bloomed in dread and awe alike.

He had looked at you differently, earlier. Just before your dream, as if he’d been listening and he understood.

You ended the call without another word, the phone slipped from your hand to the bed with a dull thud. And then, slowly—almost afraid of your own confirmation—you reach for Jungwon’s hand, sliding your fingers between his.

“Did you—?” You asked, gulping, “this can’t be, maybe I am going crazy,” you whispered to yourself.

Completely missing the curve of his lips, a ghost of a smile, warm and satisfying.

Chapter 5: Lock and key.

Home felt warmer than ever, which was a foreign feeling to you, granted your own heart was cold. However, it was as if some sort of magic had been sprinkled through your penthouse, it was brighter, your fingers twitching each time you neared your bedroom.

Madness crept in gently. You found yourself smiling at him—Jungwon, speaking to him with tenderness usually reserved for lovers in candle lit portraits, and lord, worse, you meant it. Even the kisses now felt familiar, the kind you give to someone you’ve missed for lifetimes.

So you left. You needed to be out, carrying your emotional support key to fiddle with, mindlessly so, as you found yourself roaming around where your favourite antique store had been, the storefront looked the same as always, stained glass glistening in the sun, the door carved in spirals like vines curling around the door.

After a few minutes of pondering upon which new piece you could get, your eyes landed on a small wooden crest at the very back of a velvet lined shelf. You picked it up without thinking twice, shivering as you felt the same material as that of your comfort key, which rested warmer than ever in your pocket.

You bought it in silence, not even bothering to ask its origin. Some objects are meant to be answers, not questions, and when you stepped back into the cold daylight, it wasn’t the antique shop you remembered—it was something older. A feeling curling at the base of your spine.

You didn’t go anywhere else, rushing home, boots echoing sharply on marble floors, coat clutched tighter around you, the crest now held to your chest like a relic. The moment your bedroom door opened, Jungwon was there—exactly where you’d left him, laid beautifully among the folds of your sheets, framed by candlelight you didn’t remember lighting.

His gaze, as always, was half lidded and still, but you felt watched, or rather, held in an embrace. You sank beside him, heart too loud in your ears, and slowly, your fingers reached for the key in your pocket. You’d never understood why it meant so much to you—it was always just a key, until now. Until it began to pulse softly against your palm in the presence of the crest.

You brought both items together. The second the base of the key met the carved sun and moon wood, there was a click. The crest opened like a locket, splitting from the middle in a flowerlike spiral.

Inside, there laid a folded page, yellowed with time, edges charred as if it had barely escaped a fire, you lifted it, hands trembling, ignoring the other stuff that laid inside.

The ink had faded, but not enough to erase the sketch drawn in hurried, desperate strokes, portraying a girl being mourned in black with her eyes closed, standing beside a young man with soft curls and a thread around his wrist. Red. The face of the girl was not clear, but his face was unmistakable even with the faded colours—Jungwon.

His eyes, his mouth, even the angle of his neck. Him, exactly as he lay beside you now—down to the shadows beneath his lashes, the solemn part of his lips.

“No,” you whispered, but the sound barely made it past your throat, “w—what is this?”

There were no dates mentioned, no names, no title. Just a mark at the bottom—a sigil you didn’t recognize, but which made your body shiver. Like it belonged to you.

You wanted to step back, but you couldn’t, you were already on the bed, his body just inches from yours. You clutched the paper against your chest, as if holding it would keep your sanity from slipping. Your heart thundered against his quiet.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Why are you in this? Why—why do I feel like I’ve seen this before?”

You turned to him slowly, eyes watery.

He lay there, serene and unbothered. A holy thing, but something in your throat twisted the longer you looked. You had no words for it—this quiet ache that gripped your lungs and told you, you’ve been here before.

You didn’t think, simply leaning in, arms curling around him, resting your head beneath his chin, pressing your body against his like it would ground you—like it would stop you from breaking in half.

And as you held him, eyes wide in the dark, the sketch burned behind your eyelids, making you shiver, mind so distraught that you barely pay attention to the fingers who curl tighter around your waist.

Chapter 6: Can I have a dance?

The room pulsed with heat. Not comfort, but the kind that made you ache, you didn’t remember walking here, but your body had arrived, soaked in watery silk. The chamber around you was vast and dark, stone walls veined in tarnished gold, and steam blooming from a bath sunk deep into the earth like a tomb carved for lovers.

And he was there, of fucking course he was.

Jungwon, kneeling between your thighs like a man in prayer, the water swirling around his hips. His curls were wet, clinging to his cheeks, his mouth already at your skin.

You were bare beneath the surface, soaked in warmth, and him. He kissed the inside of your thigh firmly, reverently, like he’d missed the taste of you more than breathing. His lips trailed upward, and when his tongue finally reached your cunt, your spine arched from the stone—as if blessed.

Your hands found the ledge behind you, fingers white knuckled against the carved obsidian. He licked slowly—decadent, like he was savoring something rare and forbidden, tongue curling with memory and need. You moaned, broken and low, your legs spreading wider.

“Still just as sweet,” he murmured, lips brushing your folds, “even after all this time, hm, sweet.”

His fingers dug into your thighs with something feral, and when he began to suck, kissing trailing upwards, making you cry with each flick of his tongue, it almost felt known, and around you, the air changed.

The mist parted just enough for you to see them, mirrored silhouettes lining the perimeter of the bath, placed with hollow eyes. Their mouths sewn shut with red thread.

Your head snapped down—his eyes were on you, dark and endless. And he smiled against your nipple, which rested between his lips, a faint trace of dimple shadowed his face.

“Let me make you remember, my love,” he whispered.

You shattered with a soundless scream, clenching around nothing, body pulsing, the climax burning hot and holy through your veins, as his two digits plunge into your wetness, warm and inviting.

And then—silence.

You woke in your bed, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs damp, breath caught in your throat, the room was dim still, velvet shadows all around.

Then you felt it, an arm deliberately curled around your waist. Fingers resting at the base of your ribs, too precise.

You turned your head the slightest bit, barely breathing now. He lay behind you, not stiff like porcelain should be, but pliant, like flesh that had long since remembered how to mimic life. His cheek brushed your shoulder, his breath, if it was breath, fanned faintly against your nape.

You had goosebumps all over, not sure if the dream caused it, or was it your mind playing tricks on you, about the fact that you felt it in flesh, the doll feeling more humane each passing day.

He hadn’t moved last night, but now, he held you.

And you realized that you had no memory of falling asleep, only of speaking to him, barely clothed, trembling. Your body had crawled into his presence like it belonged to him—and perhaps, in some unspeakable way, it did. It always ended like this.

You beside him, asleep, getting pulled into a world you were familiar with, only, it felt foreign the second your eyes snap open, each time.

As if your soul was following a rhythm it had long since known by heart.

Your wrist burned again, you shook it, desperately trying to ground yourself in a way you won’t spiral, hence, picking up your phone, scrolling religiously as it casted a warm glow on your face. The curtains were drawn shut, candlelight flickering near the vanity—your usual nighttime ritual. You hadn’t looked at Jungwon yet, you didn’t want to.

Not because he scared you—but because tonight, he felt too close. You set the phone down for just a second, reaching for the glass of water at your bedside, and it slipped your gasp, hitting the ground screen down.

Your speaker picked it up, connected automatically, a moment of silence before that sound, however familiar, but still something you’d heard for the first time.

A slow, waltz inspired ballroom melody. Instrumental, full of violins, the kind of tune that made the air feel like it’s silky, like it belonged to another century entirely, and maybe, just maybe, it did.

Your head turned slowly to stare at Jungwon, who glowed under the candlelight, complexion no longer cold, rather, he looked soft, flushed even, lips glistening and brows furrowed, staring at you.

You rose to your feet without knowing why, the melody urged you to move forward, each step feeling as though it belonged to someone else—someone older, someone who had walked these halls before in bare feet and silk. Someone who had danced already to this same waltz, in a time before mirrors.

You reached him, hand brushing his cheek, warm—not startling, not artificial for once, just warm enough to make your breath hitch.

“I must be dreaming,” you whispered, for the nth time you believe.

He didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to.

The music only swelled.

You slipped your arms beneath him, your robe falling open slightly at the shoulder. His body pressed into yours, heavier than it looked, and yet you lifted him, pulled him close. Like he weighed nothing at all. Like he belonged to you, like he walked with you so as to not burden you with his weight.

You carried him—through the corridor, past the mirrors and the antique cross stitched chairs that no one ever sat in, past the glass cases filled with relics of lives not yours. The music followed, blooming louder now, until—you entered the grand living room.

The chandelier loomed above in fractured crystal and dust, casting slow shadows across the room. The fireplace was cold.

You stepped into the center, socks covering your bare foot as they turned against the polished marbles, his arms limp around you, but his weight tilted with you, as if his body remembered the rhythm. The two of you swayed—left, then right, a half turn, a pretty dance which wasn’t perfect by any means.

However, it was real.

And as you turned again, as the violins drew longer and you felt it, the shift, not in him but in you.

Like a dream had opened mid movement. Like the edges of time had folded. The chandelier above flickered.

And suddenly, you were not in the penthouse anymore.

You were in a ballroom.

Massive and candlelit. The scent of wax and rosewater heavy in the air. Gilded frames on every wall. A harp playing somewhere far off.

Your dress was full bodied silk, dark and red like overriped cherries, the ones who love so much. You wore gloves, and his hand was firm at your waist.

He was alive, laughing and whispering something into your hair.

“Don’t look away. If you do, we’ll forget again, don’t wanna forget, not yet.” He pressed his soft lips upon the corner of your mouth, smudging the cherry coloured lipstick.

You gasped, holding onto him tighter, trying to feel the warmth that he radiated, like a human, as if he was never a doll in the first place.

Pulling him closer, you tried to maintain eye contact, staring right into his big brown eyes, a soft dimple gracing his face, even more so when you leaned in to kiss him, to feel real, as if you belong somewhere.

That’s when your feet caught on something.

You gasped, letting go and Jungwon’s body dropped from your arms, slow, the way dreams fall when you wake too fast. He collapsed onto the marble, arms spread loosely, curls bouncing once as his head hit the rug.

“Shit—” you dropped to your knees, breath caught in your throat, “oh, fuck! I’m sorry, I—”

You reached to lift him again, but your hand scraped something sharp, a low gleam of silver caught, his lapel pin—a small thorn, twisted around perfectly. It pierced the pad of your finger with surgical precision. You hissed, watching a single drop of blood rise.

It rose up and whole—down your finger, and before you could stop it, it fell right on his throat, then another, in his eye which still stared into you, now bloody and more real than ever.

The music stopped right then, just when you were about to take a step towards Jungwon, heart heavier than ever, mind spiralling as if you’d reached a point of madness, no conscience of past, present, or future.

“Jungwon?” You whispered, the sound barely coming out, not coming from your throat, but rather somewhere that buried deep inside you.

He didn’t speak, however, his lips were parted, the same mouth that was carved from stillness, now hung slightly open. His chest, once impossibly still, seemed to move, yet you couldn’t be sure, but one thing was clear—something had changed.

You gasped the second the shrill voice of your phone rang, startling you, grounding you back into the present, violently so. You picked it up with a shaking hand, the blood now drying along your fingers. The name flashing across the screen was one you recognized, your manager.

“H—hello?” You answered, dizzy.

The voice came out clipped, “I—I didn’t wish to call like this, I know you don’t wish to be a part of the mess anymore, but Y/N, listen—it’s about your father.”

That cleaved onto you like a blade, your eyes still fixated on the doll, whose eyes seemed to be glowing by now.

“The press got hold of his old finance records, the funds which were rerouted, laundered, and offshore holdings. Even political donors—Y/N, they’re everywhere, headlines and broadcast stations are looking into it. I don’t think it can be undone, the police took him in.”

Your phone felt heavy in your hand, or maybe your hand had gone numb. The blood had cooled to a tacky smear against your palm.

“You’re safe, stay there, okay? We’re contacting lawyers to help your parents—”

You cut the call, words barely registering at the moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing about the situation felt normal to you, not when you already found yourself spiraling about different things, about Jungwon.

You tried to breathe, but your lungs weren’t working right. They expanded too quickly, then refused to collapse. Panic gripped your ribs and twisted as your heartbeat slammed, thudded in your ears, in your skull. Your head was too light, your hands too far from your arms.

You couldn’t think about the phone call, about your father, your mother, the lawyers, the broadcasts. None of it belonged here—not anymore.

Not when something unnatural, divine, was happening just a few feet away. Your mouth opened, a gasp, a name—none of it came. You were spiraling, fast, and the ground no longer wanted you.

The moment cracked with your knees giving out. A soft thud echoed through the room as your body fell sideways, limbs collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. The marble floor rushed toward you, but even that felt dreamlike, distant.

Everything was fading, only one thing remained—him.

The last thing you saw, just before your eyes fluttered shut, was a flash of motion—Jungwon, no longer still, no longer cold. He moved with terrifying speed, rising from the floor like he’d always been capable, like he’d only been waiting.

His eyes locked onto yours in panic, and his arms—real arms, reached for you.

You didn’t feel yourself fall, you only felt him catch you, your eyes closing as the last thing you heard was his voice before passing out.

“Don’t leave—”

And then, silence.

Chapter 7: You’re the one I was meant to find.

You were running. The corridor around you was narrow, candlelit, carved from stone older than reason. Your fingers clutched the sides of your gown as your breath tore from your lungs, heart thundering beneath a bodice bound too tight. Your slippers slipped against the marble, the walls rushing past in a blur. Somewhere behind you, voices rose in anger. The violins still played, faint and far off, as if from another room—or another lifetime.

Just then, a hand caught your wrist, black gloved, steady despite the tremble in his grip—Jungwon, dressed in royal robes, eyes brighter than ever, searching for yours in a hurry.

He only pulled you forward, faster through the passage, your fingers tangled in his. Behind you, the shadows were growing figures. You could hear the clink of armor now, boots striking stone.

A crack of thunder split the sky.

And suddenly you were in the courtyard, barefoot on wet stone, skirts dripping, hair tumbling free as you spun in his arms beneath the moon. The storm raged above, and yet the violins still played. He held you like he was trying to memorize your shape, the way your breath stuttered every time his hand brushed your spine. The music swelled, and you twirled, laughing into his shoulder—but the sound was short lived.

Another crack of lightning hit—way closer now.

Flames flickered behind tall windows. Guards poured from the doors like an army, making you turn, hand still in his, and run toward the stables. Your lungs burned, his name trembled on your lips. The horses reared in panic as you approached, but he steadied them. A look passed between you—a mix of fear and love, and he lifted you onto the saddle, swung up behind.

But the gates never opened.

The trees beyond the wall seemed so close, and yet, arrows flew like black wings from the towers above. One struck his shoulder. His body jerked behind you, warmth spreading across your back. You turned, horrified, clutching him as he slid from the horse with a cry.

And just like that, the ground returned.

You were on your knees, soaked in mud and blood, sobbing as you cradled his body. His fingers still moved, reaching for you. He tried to rise, he tried to speak. But the clang of metal drowned everything.

The guards seized you both.

The next flash came with the howl of wind tearing through tall windows—tattered velvet curtains flailing like wounded wings.

You were in the throne room, your family lined the steps in judgment. Gold and crimson banners hung behind their heads like execution ropes. Your father’s voice boomed as he paced before the assembly, fury twisted into something rehearsed.

“Loyalty cannot be faked. Treason wears many faces, and fraternizing with the enemy will have consequences, no matter if it’s my own flesh, punishment will be given.”

Your mother said nothing. Her hands were folded tightly, white knuckled in her lap, her pearls glittering like tears that refused to fall.

Jungwon knelt at the base of the dais, blood streaking his cheek, lips split, eyes never leaving yours. He looked regal even then—bruised and broken, but unyielding.

“She chose me,” he said, voice low, shaking, “and I would die for that choice again.”

Another crash of thunder—and you were beneath the cathedral rafters, cloaked in shadow, your fingers pressed to his jaw as you kissed him like it was a rebellion in itself. The scent of incense and storm hung between you. Your tears mixed with his.

“If I could be born again,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his, “I’d still choose you, in every life, I would give my love to you, Jungwon.”

A gust of wind tore through the memory.

Suddenly the forest closed around you again, and your blade was drawn—one you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Blood on your hands. The enemy’s blood, or yours. It was all the same now.

They pulled you back. A scream echoed—his, yours, mixed together in the deepest symphony of pain.

Steel pierced your side, and then it came, the emptiness.

Your knees hit marble, vision swarming. Your body folded in on itself, cradling the wound as though it could be held shut. You couldn’t see him anymore, but you heard his voice breaking in the distance, each word louder than the last, but fainter in your ears, “don’t take her—don’t—please—no! Y/N!”

Your blood pooled like spilled ink across the floor. The music had stopped, you didn’t know when. Then the world began to dim, his name was the last thing in your mouth.

The next memory didn’t come with lightning, but with silence so deep it felt like falling into a crypt. He knelt again—this time in chains, surrounded by your family, their faces cold as marble statues. There was no trial, no last words.

Your father spoke the curse himself, voice like iron.

“Let him live and never forget, let him see her again, and never reach her.”

The thread appeared—red as blood, drawn through his chest, binding his limbs in place. His skin cracked. His breath froze in his lungs. He didn’t scream. Only stared forward, lips parted in horror as his body hardened.

Porcelain, in silence, cursed like a marionette with the strings invisible, a prince entombed in the skin of a doll.

The centuries passed like ash on wind. You vanished from the records of history, reborn again and again, never remembering. He remained, all these years, shelved. Watched over each time, still long forgotten. Until you, until this year.

Until now.

You woke with a violent gasp, a cough, as if dragged from beneath water that had long since gone still. Your lungs burned as you clawed yourself upright, heartbeat deafening in your ears, skin cold. The room tilted and shadows had changed. The light no longer flickered against porcelain.

There was heat beside you, some weight, and before your mind could catch up, your body reacted. You turned sharply, hands slipping on the edge of the blanket, still in the living room, eyes locking with his, wide and burning.

Jungwon.

No longer the lifeless doll, no longer the mute witness sealed in centuries of stillness. His chest rose with breath, his pupils blown wide, and his hair, once perfectly styled when you first saw him—was tousled now, disheveled like something had been undone from the inside out. His coat lay forgotten on the floor behind him, abandoned in the chaos of resurrection. He looked alive in the worst way—raw, barely contained, beautiful, and terrifying all at once.

You didn’t think, simply twisting away, a broken sound leaving your throat as you scrambled for the edge of the room, running away from what felt like a nightmare, even though your heart beated out of our chest, urging you to go to him instead.

However, he was faster, hand catching your wrist before you could rise to your feet, grip firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to shake something loose in you. You yelped, shocked by the strength, by the heat of his touch, how real he felt, how utterly he refused to let you go.

“Stop,” his voice boomed, reverberating, still cracked at the edges, “you’re not running. Not again.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, trembling under the weight of the moment, the tension stretched tight as piano wire.

His jaw was tight, but his eyes were chaos, wild with something that couldn’t decide whether to be angry or longing. “You looked at me,” he said, his voice gritted with disbelief, love—all of it layered in a single breath, “you saw me again, and now you want to run?”

“I—” the word barely formed, your mouth felt numb, the panic in your chest twisted with something else now, a longing of something long forgotten.

He leaned closer, still gripping your wrist, still breathing hard. His shirt was half untucked, collar loose, neck flushed, the candlelight flickering at his cheekbones. He looked ruined, and furious, but most of all—desperate for you.

“You died in front of me,” he said, louder now, every syllable laced with venomous heartbreak, “and I lived in silence for centuries, waiting for you. You think I’m going to let you leave me again?”

You tried to wrench your arm free, but he held fast, dragging you a step closer, the distance closing like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t you remember what they did to us?” He spat, voice sharp, “you think you’re scared? I’ve been trapped in silence, in a damn glass coffin, hearing your voice in rooms I couldn’t move in. Do you have any idea what it did to me—watching you pass me by without knowing?”

The room swam around you, every breath felt like thunder in your ribs. He wasn’t calm, nor was he composed. He wasn’t the memory anymore—he was the consequence of all of it, of love twisted by time, of passion turned obsessive by grief.

His hand finally loosened, just slightly, fingers brushing down your wrist, but he didn’t let go.

“Say something,” he breathed out, “say my name.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came as you stared at his blonde messy hair, big yearning eyes, laced with despair, rosy lips, dying to get a taste of you.

He laughed once, bitter and breathless, dimple showing despite the frustration, teeth gritted, “no one has said my name with love in a hundred years, and I only wanted to hear it from you.”

His grip shifted again, gentler now—but still firm, like if he let go, you’d vanish. His forehead dropped toward yours, not touching, breath warming the space between you, gaze locked in yours like a curse reborn.

“You were mine,” he whispered, “you are mine, do you think anything else matters?”

Your hand moved before your mind did, reaching up to brush the strands of hair from his forehead. He didn’t flinch, he leaned into it like a man starved of touch. Your fingers trembled as they slid down the side of his face, feeling the heat of his skin, the realness of it, the pulse just beneath.

“Jungwon,” you breathed.

The moment you said it, everything changed, his eyes fluttered shut, like the sound alone was enough to break him. His fingers dug back into your waist, holding you with quiet violence, breath stuttering against your cheek.

You didn’t pull away, you simply couldn’t, instead, the words clawed up your throat, bitter, almost angry, “was it you?”

He stilled, lips hovering just beside yours, controlling himself, “what?”

“The stories, t—the leaked accounts, ruined finances. My ex fiancé’s accident,” your voice cracked, but you pushed forward, fury threading through the fog, “did you do that to them?”

He opened his eyes slowly, the look in them wasn’t apologetic by any means, “yes, I wanted to burn every name that ever tried to replace mine,” he said, voice low and shaking, “and I did. I watched him touch you like you were some fragile, pitiful thing to be married off. Like you were his to protect, to claim, as if I hadn’t died screaming your name.”

You should’ve felt sick, perhaps a part of you did, but the other part—the darker, crueler one buried deep in your chest was quiet, pleased.

He was the only one who ever loved you so violently, so completely, that he’d ruin anyone who dared stand where he once stood, even if it was wrong, even when it was madness.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, “you destroyed them for me.”

“I’d do it again,” he said without blinking, “in less time, with worse consequences.”

Your breath came harder now, lips brushing his, “you’re insane, you—you’re not real, am I still dreaming?”

“I’ve been waiting over a century. What do you expect me to be, not insane? Not real for you?”

Your hand tightened around the collar of his shirt, fisting it. He exhaled like he was finally allowed to breathe again. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp and shaking. The line between hate and hunger blurred like smoke between your mouths.

He looked at you like he was about to kiss you—or devour you, maybe both.

“You think I give a damn about right and wrong anymore?” He whispered, voice as sweet as you could remember, and lord, now you did remember, even if it made you spiral into madness, you remember now, “they never loved you. Not like I did, not like I still do.”

This time, it was you who moved first. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a desperation that didn’t feel like yours, but something older, something buried. It wasn’t sweet, rather, it was starving. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, hands scrambling to pull, to grip, to ground yourself in the heat of him.

He groaned into your mouth, and it was deep, guttural, ragged from centuries of holding back. His hands flew to your hips, pulling you into him like proximity could undo time. There was nothing patient in the way he kissed you—just need consuming him altogether, the kind you didn’t walk away from.

“Say it again,” he begged against your lips, not stopping, “say it, my name, say it like you remember.”

“Jungwon,” you breathed, again and again, like a spell, like a lifeline, like you were anchoring him to this world.

Each repetition made him more frantic. His grip on you tightened, his body shuddering under your touch like he was afraid it might fade, your lips parted as he kissed down the side of your jaw, then lower when you whimpered, hot open mouthed kisses all over your neck.

“I need to feel you, need to know you’re mine again,” he groans against your skin, voice beautiful, “that I’m not fucking dreaming—”

“You’re not,” you breathed out, pulling his face back up to yours, looking him in the eye. “I’m right here.”

He surged forward with something close to a snarl, crashing his mouth to yours with violent purpose, lips swollen and slick as his hands gripped your waist and hauled you into his lap on the silk covered couch like you belonged nowhere else. You straddled him, legs falling around his hips, your chest pressed to his as he devoured your mouth with a hunger you didn’t know a body could carry. It was angry, obsessive—years of silence and watching and grief pouring into every kiss, every clash of teeth, and tongue.

You tried to speak, maybe to say his name again, maybe to tell him you wanted him now—but he didn’t let you.

“I said no more running,” Jungwon grunted against your mouth, voice low and beautifully frayed, “ you’re going to stay right here, on me, just like this.”

His hands traced your back, slow and possessive, until they gripped your ass and grounded your hips down hard against the bulge straining beneath his trousers. You gasped, fingers curling into his shoulders for balance, your cunt rubbing right against him—too much friction, yet not nearly enough.

“Oh god—”

“No,” he groans, breathless, biting down on your shoulder, “not god. Me. Say my name when you’re like this, yeah?”

“Jungwon,” you gasped, your whole body twitching as he rutted up into you again, cock grinding against your bare cunt through the fabric of his pants. “Fuck, Jungwon—”

“That’s it,” he breathed, mouth against your throat, sucking a bruise into your skin as you rocked your hips down on him like instinct. “That’s all I wanted for a hundred fucking years, you, falling apart on top of me.”

He grabbed the backs of your thighs and stood in one swift, jarring motion, lifting you with him. You wrapped around him by reflex—legs clinging to his waist, arms around his neck, body flushed against his chest. The room blurred as he carried you, stumbling back into the bedroom you’d long since abandoned when he was nothing more than porcelain.

You barely had time to think, the chandelier flickered above, casting gold and red across the walls like spilled blood and candlelight. Then the bed hit your back, his weight covering you a second later.

He kissed you again, deep and slow this time, like he was drinking from your mouth. His tongue curled over yours, wet and thick, stealing every breath you had left. Your legs parted for him without thought, and his hips slotted between them, his clothed cock rubbing right against your soaked core as he started to grind again.

“Feel that?” He panted, pressing harder, rutting his hips down in short thrusts that had you moaning into his mouth, “you’re dripping for me, darling, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You whimpered, eyes rolling back at the friction, so raw and filthy it bordered on unbearable.

“You used to do this in secret,” he said, thrusting again, his voice rasping as he rocked into you, “when you thought I couldn’t see, pressing your thighs together, grinding against your pillows, pretending you didn’t want me.”

“I did,” you gasped, “you know I always did.”

He groaned, hips stuttering as you clung tighter to him, “I used to imagine this before we got together—holding you down, just like this, feeling you grind all wet and desperate over me, crying my name.”

You could feel how hard he was through the fabric. He was panting now, moving faster, the rhythm filthy. His cock slid against your clit with every stroke, and it had your thighs trembling, cunt pulsing with the tension coiling in your gut.

“You’re going to cum like this,” he whispered against your lips, like a command, “right here, before I’m even inside you, hm?”

Your hips moved on their own, chasing the friction, chasing him, your breath caught in your throat, “please,” you whimpered, “don’t stop—don’t ever stop.”

He kissed you sloppier now, his teeth catching your lower lip as he groaned into your mouth, sweat slicking your skin.

“Say my name,” he ordered again, fucking up into you harder, grinding your clit perfectly with every motion.

“Jungwon—Jungwon, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“You’re mine,” he groaned, “you hear me? No one else, never again.”

The pressure burst like it was breaking your body, your back arching as you came hard—loud and shaking, your moans swallowed by his mouth. He groaned with you, grinding hard through your climax, his own hips bucking as he rutted with desperate rhythm, chasing his own peak.

“You make me insane,” he gasped against your neck, still grinding, “you don’t even know what you do to me—”

You held him tighter, your body still pulsing, already dizzy again from the aftershocks.

You still hadn’t caught your breath—your body trembled beneath him as he flipped you over on your back, lips swollen from kissing, slickness coating your thighs, but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. His hands were already moving, ruthlessly so, as if he didn’t trust time to wait for him this time.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice ragged, chest rising and falling like he was barely containing himself. “You’ve always been mine.”

Then you heard it, the nasty sound of fabric tearing.

You gasped, hips jolting as his hands flipped your robe up, gripping your soaked panties and tearing them clean in half—fingers curling into the delicate fabric like it had irritated him just by existing between you. The torn scraps fell to the side, forgotten.

“I’ll rip through anything that keeps me from you,” he said, low and fervent, voice thick with heat and hunger. “I don’t care if it’s silk, steel, or fucking centuries.”

His mouth hovered above your core, breath hot, uneven, “I should’ve done this the second you walked back into that house,” he growled, eyes locked between your legs. “Should’ve thrown you down and tasted you until you forgot the name of every man who touched you after me.”

You writhed beneath him, already breathless, your thighs falling open for him like muscle memory, but then he paused, sitting back on his knees and reached up to his collar.

Your chest rose and fell faster at the sight—his fingers moving slowly now, unbuttoning the pristine white shirt clinging to his chest. One button, then another. With every inch of skin revealed, your pulse surged harder—his collarbone, the plane of his chest, each line of him carved like something ancient and holy, divine and terrifying. The candlelight bled gold down his stomach, catching in the cut of his abs, the trail of veins along his arms twitching from restraint.

You watched, dazed at his pure beauty, he looked like a prince raised from the grave—beautiful and damned.

“You look at me like you remember,” he whispered, letting the shirt fall from his shoulders with a smirk, “do you? Does your body know me now, darling?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself, lips parted, “I do. I remember all of it.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound nearly a growl, “then lay back,” he said, crawling between your thighs again, “and let me remind you why no one else ever satisfied you.”

He didn’t waste a second as he was on you, mouth open, tongue wet and greedy, licking through your folds with a growl like he’d gone feral. Your body jolted at the first contact, back arching, thighs trying to close from the intensity—but his hands gripped your knees and forced them open, pushing you wide as he buried his face in you like he was starving.

“Fuck—” you gasped, hand flying to his hair. “Jungwon—”

The sound of his name broke something in him, making him moan, a sound so loud and obscene, right into your cunt, reverberating, tongue curling against your clit, sucking so hard your hips bucked. His hands pressed your thighs flat to the bed, holding you down as he devoured you like a man who’d waited lifetimes to be fed. There was no rhythm, only unadulterated hunger and reverence. His mouth was wet, tongue fast and erratic, fucking into you like he needed it to live.

You mumbled out something incoherent, and he groaned again, louder, mouth sealing over your clit, sucking until your vision blurred, until your voice cracked.

“Jungwon—please—”

“Say it again,” he ordered, teeth brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue never stopping.

“Jungwon, I swear Jungwon, uh fuck, please—”

He didn’t stop, he couldn’t.

“You belong to me,” he said, licking deep into your entrance. “Even now, even after death. Say it, baby, say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—” you gasped, near sobbing from the pressure building inside you again. “I’m yours, I’m, oh fuck, Jungwon, I’m gonna, fuck!”

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice thick with lust and control, “make a mess on my tongue. Let me taste every fucking inch of you.”

That sent you over the edge, you came with a cry so sharp it felt ripped from your chest—your thighs clenching around his head, your hands yanking his hair, hips rocking up as you fell apart. It was too much, way too intense, too long coming.

He moaned into your cunt, licking you through every pulse, every twitch, swallowing down your release like it was holy, and when you finally opened your eyes—he was still between your legs, a dark lopsided grin on his face, attractive, but even more so, scary, as he laid there, still hard.

Still hungry.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice deep, “but you’re not scared of me anymore, are you?”

You couldn’t speak, only shook your head, throat too raw from moaning. Your wrists still burned faintly, the red thread pulsing under your skin as if it knew something ancient had shifted.

He sat back on his heels, slowly, dragging his palms up your trembling thighs, claiming every inch he touched, he looked mad, in an obsessive way, in a fashion that creepy dolls do, but he was real, and waiting.

“You came so sweet for me,” he whispered, brushing a finger between your folds, smearing you across your thigh with reverence, “but, baby, it’s not enough, just not nearly enough, hm?”

His hands moved to his belt, and you froze for a second, eyes following every inch he moved. The sound of leather sliding through the loops echoed in the room, his eyes stayed locked to yours the entire time, not blinking once as he tugged the belt loose, then let it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“You don’t know, baby, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this,” he continued, voice cracking, “not just having you like this, but fucking you still half clothed, holding you open while you scream my name into the dark—because you remember me now, and you’re not going anywhere, fuck—I’ve missed this.”

He didn’t take his pants off—not completely. His hands dropped to his belt, the metal buckle clinking open with a quick, practiced tug. The soft hiss of leather sliding through loops reverberated the air. His eyes never left yours, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, the fury in his body barely caged.

Then the button, the zipper. He shoved his pants down with one hand, just low enough to free himself, his cock springing out, flushed and thick, already leaking, twitching from how long he’d held back.

He fisted the base with one hand, the other still holding your thigh open, “you’re mine,” he said, almost to himself, then louder, “fucking say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed, almost choking on the words.

He chuckled, a devilish smirk on his face as he looked at you with dark eyes, “again.”

“I’m yours, Jungwon.”

He groaned, like your voice alone could unravel him, and leaned in, bracing his forearms beside your head. His cock dragged through your slick folds as if he was teasing, catching on your entrance, and he hissed at the feel of you already so wet, so ready.

“I should’ve never let you forget me,” he growled, lining up, “never should’ve waited this long,” he mumbled, “wanted to fuck you right there when you climbed on my lap and cried even when I was a doll, when I fucking lost my mind, you kissed me, baby, you needed me even then.”

You whined as he brought up what you had done, and just as you were distracted, he thrust in without much warning, no build up before, simply a deep, brutal snap of his hips.

You cried out, head jerking back, back arching off the bed. He was thick, too big for you, and the stretch was unbearable, perfect, like you were being broken in half. His hands clamped around your wrists again, pinning you down with bruising force, and your skin lit up.

The red thread under your wrists seared like fire, glowing bright, like the curse had been reawakened fully the moment he was inside you.

Jungwon’s breath hitched against your ear, “lord,” he rasped, “you feel that? That’s it, that’s fucking us—”

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the stretch, by the thread, by the way your body clenched around him like it already belonged. Like it had been waiting for this moment through lifetimes.

“I knew it would burn,” he whispered into your throat, hips snapping forward, “I knew it would recognize me the second I was inside you again.”

He thrust again, hips grinding now, like he was savoring every inch of your slick, shuddering cunt.

“And it does, doesn’t it?” he hissed, “your body knows. Even if your heart forgot me—your body never did.”

You sobbed out his name, barely a whisper, and that made him lose what little control he had left. He slammed into you, again and again, hips snapping with violent rhythm, his cock dragging against your walls with every brutal stroke. The bed creaked beneath you, the air around you fogging up in a mist of sex.

“Fuck—Jungwon, slow—”

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he groaned, “centuries of silence—centuries of emptiness. You think I’m going to take it slow?”

His lips crashed into yours, devouring your cry, tongue sliding past your lips like he needed to taste everything at once. And still, he kept moving, hips hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, every thrust sending sparks of pain and pleasure through your entire body.

“Do you feel that?” He gritted against your lips, “the way you squeeze me—fuck, baby, you’re shaking.”

“I can’t, please Jungwon—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was feral, “you’ll take it, all of me, every fucking inch. You’ll take it because you’re mine.”

His grip shifted—one hand sliding down, hooking under your knee, throwing your leg over his shoulder so he could drive in deeper. The angle made you scream, body arching off the bed, stars flooding your vision as his cock hit the spot that made you unravel.

“Right there?” he chuckled, “that’s the spot. That’s the one that used to make you cry for me in your past life. Remember it?”

You sobbed—half lost, the sensation too much for you to incorporate any new information in mind; and nodded.

He thrust harder, deeper, so much rougher, every movement frantic with obsession, “say it,” he moaned, “say you remember.”

“I remember,” you gasped, “I remember you, Jungwon, I remember everything—”

The noise he made wasn’t humane by any means. It was broken, starved almost. He bent over you, still buried deep, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down between your bodies.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he whispered, “so deep you never forget again. So full you won’t be able to think of anyone but me.”

The red thread pulsed yet again—twisting tighter, glowing like fire at your wrists, along your thighs, down your chest.

“You were made for me,” he breathed, “bound to me. You’ll die with me inside you, if I have to make it happen, and I’ll die with you again, over and over, again.”

He groaned through those words, your moan was louder, vibrating through his skin, squeezing him tighter as your body agreed, you were made for him, and gave him exactly what he wanted, you, falling apart all over his cock.

The sight was enough for him to lose his control, letting himself go, filling you up, deep and hard, cock pulsing inside your fluttering cunt, as your body convulsed around him once more, milking him through it.

However, he didn’t pull out, didn’t bother moving, stopping.

His hips rolled again, already hardening inside you. He looked down at you, eyes burning red under the chandelier’s flicker.

“I’m not done.”

Chapter 8: With or Without you.

The water shimmered with faint steam, delicate curls of warmth rising into the candlelit hush of the room. The tub was enormous—black marble, sunken into the penthouse floor, surrounded by tall gothic windows that looked out over the city like a cathedral watching the living. The only light came from candles, myriads of them, flickering along the ledges, their glow casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.

You were weightless, finally, your bare body floating gently between Jungwon’s thighs, your back pressed to his chest, your head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, palms resting on your belly, then lower, fingers brushing just above your thighs, as if he couldn’t stop touching you even now, not even here.

The red thread had faded back to a dull, molten line along your wrist, no longer burning, but you could still feel it, tied between your pulse and his.

He was warm behind you, human, finally, irrevocably real.

He kissed the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, his lips dragging up to your jaw, “you’re still shaking, darling,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate, as if speaking louder might wake the rest of the world.

You let your eyes drift shut, “I’m not sure it’s real yet.” You said, scared, abandonment being your worst fear, and now you knew why, you had a reason, carved deep inside you.

“It is,” he whispered, “I am.”

You felt his hand curl tighter across your stomach, protective, anchoring you in place. He kissed you again, and again, trailing his mouth down the curve of your throat as though trying to memorize every inch of skin, leaning back into his embrace.

“I never want to wake up if this is a dream,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” you said, softly. “Not unless I do too.”

There was silence for a long while—only the water shifting around your bodies, the distant hum of the city beneath the stained glass, soft fluttering in your stomach, and Jungwon’s possessive hold, telling you that it’s real, that no matter what happens, he’ll stay.

You had no idea how you would explain the addition of a new human into this world, how you’d describe where he came from, but that was the least of your worries now.

You turned in his arms then, straddling him in the deep water, your knees pressed to either side of his hips, your hands finding his shoulders. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face, his cheeks flushed from the heat. There was something about him like this—messy, still a little inhuman. Like the remnants of porcelain had never quite left. His eyes gleamed like something ancient.

“You never stopped loving me,” you whispered, fingertips brushing down his chest.

He shook his head once, slowly, his blonde curls now wet, caressed your skin in the process. “Not once. Not even when you died.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his, but didn’t kiss him just yet, “and all that time, you waited?” You asked, as if you needed confirmation over and over again.

“I waited, burning all alone,” he said, voice thick, eyes shining with the truth, taking you in with nothing but unadulterated love, “every night, every time someone else touched you in another life. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just felt it, you moving on. You forgetting.”

You cupped his face, stared into the truth of that devastation, “I never really forgot, not because I wanted to at least.”

“I know,” he breathed, “I felt it. Even before you remembered—your blood called me back, you cried to me, you just didn’t know it yet.”

You finally leaned in, noticing the faint dimples on his cheek as you got closer, eyes holding hearts for you. The kiss wasn’t frantic, not like before. This one was slow, perfectly drawn out, all breath and lips, and silent apology. It was centuries of mourning buried in a kiss, two lovers who had lived and died with that ache carved into their bones.

He sighed into your mouth, letting you take from him as long as you needed. When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I won’t let go,” he whispered, “not in this life. Not ever again. I love you so fucking much.”

“You don’t have to,” you breathed, “I’ve loved you, I love you, I’ll love you.”

For the first time, it wasn’t a curse, it wasn’t a punishment, it was real, a promise.

The candlelight caught on the red thread beneath your skin once more, pulsing faintly between you like a heartbeat in unison.

He wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you into his chest as you sank back into the water, your cheek against his collarbone, your limbs tangled under the surface. Outside, the world continued, the time marched on, the city moved.

But in here, in this penthouse above the world, time stood still, he had returned to you.

And he would never let go.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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000png · 1 year ago

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back in my going to home depot at 9pm era

#0.txt #finally motivated to work on the gallery wall i've been saying i was gonna do for months #also gonna go to a thrift store tomorrow to see i can get any cheap frames #i bought a nice big print at a garage sale a couple months back that i want to properly protect

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cheralith · 21 days ago

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grocery lists | a blue lock smau - part i — feat. itoshi sae

synopsis — when the empty number you've been using to list your groceries finally gets a recipient, your territory gets disturbed in an unusual way. cw : gn!reader, no pronouns used, smau, mentions of food, a sorry attempt at crack, fluff, sae is a lightmode user, short writing portion at the end a/n : baby's first smau! plz be nice or ill cry very hard thankyuo... this is also inspired by this meme < PREV NEXT > series taglist

"'Mango'... how stupid," you mutter under your breath, eyes glaring with irritation burning as you stare at the given contact name the stranger has given you.

Your roommate scoffs out a laugh, "Yeah, like Re Al's Itoshi Sae was a much better option."

The click of your tongue resonates through your shared living room.

"Shut up. It's not my fault—I blanked out and his poster was right in front of me," you mutter as you glance at the large framed poster of said player, where it sits almost intimidatingly on the wall near the TV in a row filled with other framed players of your roommate's admiration. "I thought I told you to take that down and put it in your room. He's not even your favorite player."

Yoichi shrugs and scoops himself up another piece of your cheesecake despite your protests, a piece of mango juice dribbling down his chin. "Yeah, I know. But I need to get to his level, so I put that there as motivation."

You frown, pulling the plastic casing of the cake away from him before he can steal another bite. "It's ugly. He's ugly, put it somewhere else."

"You and I both know that last bit is a lie," he grins and wiggles his brows. "I saw the way you were staring at him when we watched the Barcha versus Re Al match. You only paid attention when he was on screen."

"Because who has a hairstyle like that!?" you squawk, your body betraying you and sneaking a heat upon your cheeks.

"Hm," Yoichi studies you with his intentful eyes, his smile only growing with intrigue. That peeved you about your roommate—how he was able to know people before they even knew themselves—and you were not an outlier to such a habit. "Alright. Say what you will."

A haggard groan leaves you, this meld of frustration and annoyance boiling over in your mind. You snatch the cheesecake container from the table despite Yoichi's protests with a huff, going to glare at Itoshi Sae's poster once again before you excuse yourself to the isolation of your room.

< PREV NEXT >

a/n : part one of what i think is most likely a three part mini series? idk i didn't want to cram everything into one singular post and also,,, this was a pain in my ass to do bc also a lot of smau-maker interfaces were frustrating to work thru lol so i resorted to the og method

but regardless, thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed (☆▽☆) ! reblogs and comments are always appreciated and never unnoticed <3!

(also sorry if u dont like mango cheesecake …. but i rly like it so… heh)

#✍︎ ; alice in writingland #blue lock #bllk #blue lock smau #blue lock x reader #blue lock fluff #blue lock x you #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #itoshi sae x you #divider c: @diviniyae

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lymtw · 1 month ago

Note

hi!! i love your fics theyre highkey my fav rereads🤭idk if youre taking requests but if you were, could you possibly do a hurt/comfort fic with toji and shy reader where shes mad/upset with him? hope youre having a great day btw!

A/N: Five years later... 🫩👍 I'm sorry this took so long. I really, really appreciate your support 🫶 I hope this turned out at least okay, it's been a minute since i've finished any writing 🥲 Anyway, I hope you're having an amazing day :))

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

Toji and His Shy Girl

It's been a week since you and Toji have spoken, not for lack of effort or opportunities, but because the one sided attempts are not corresponded. It's hard to think about him, it's hard to read his words through your screen and see his name flash briefly, before your phone does its job of sending him to voicemail.

'Maybe we shouldn't be together, Toji. If me simply trying to talk to you is such a burden... I don't know if I should keep trying.'

You said this to him a week ago. You clicked the door shut and he sped off in his car, bleary-eyed, brimming with rage and regret the whole way home. He couldn't get the sound of your voice out of his head—the cracks, the occasional sharp inhales that came with your suppressed emotions. Even in the moment, he knew it was so, so wrong for you to be looking the way you did.

The instant he got home, all hell broke loose. His fists were clenched as he treaded towards his bedroom, and as if possessed by the force of a natural disaster, he tore apart his room—demolished it—throwing things blindly, uncaring if they broke beyond repair. The picture he keeps on his nightstand of the two of you was not safe. The encased memory was thrown with all the strength he has, at the wall, the frame instantly falling apart and the glass shattering to pieces.

He couldn't stop, it all hurt so much. His chest burned, his head was pounding, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and once there was nothing left to throw, nothing left to break, he finally broke down—wholly. Harsh, uncontrollable sobs racked his entire body as he sat there in the debris—the aftermath of losing his mind over you. Barely any sound came of it, his voice was shot, courtesy of the tormented screams that accompanied his meltdown.

This all happened a week ago. You won't talk to him and these days have been hell without your company. You won't respond to his good morning messages, and if he asks to meet up, you always have something to do. He calls you whenever he can, but you don't pick up. You're avoiding him like it's your job.

Everything feels pointless without you around, his little sunshine, the reason he wakes up motivated every morning, the light of his life. His routine has been altered in the worst way. It's work, home, work, home, and he absolutely detests it because if it weren't for that damned day, he would be with you, smothering you with the borderline overwhelming love he holds for you, making you laugh and watching you get flustered over the words he whispers in your ear. He wants it back—all of it. He can't let you go, it would break him entirely.

You don't want to let go of this love you have for Toji, either. You miss being in the warmth of his embrace, and you miss the sound of his voice, and the way he calls you 'sweetheart' when you're not focusing on him. You see every single one of the messages he sends you and the phone calls.

Good morning, baby.

Morning, sweetheart. Make sure to eat breakfast and lunch. One meal isn't enough.

Saw those fields of flowers you point at all the time on my way home. I miss you.

Baby, will you talk to me, please?

[Missed Call]

And you cry, because all you want to do is respond to every one of those messages and hear his voice again, but something always stops you. The memory of when he snapped at you. The sound of his voice—cutting and utterly spirit crushing. The furrow of his eyebrows that made you feel like everything you did was wrong. It hurts to think about the whole situation, and all these notifications only serve as reminders. Reminders of the way you immediately wilted when the door shut, chest heaving as you cried your way to bed and then to sleep, wondering what you did to deserve being lashed out at.

You're lying in bed, scrolling through your phone when he calls again. The instant you see his contact picture, your heart plummets to your stomach, but an irrepressible giggle escapes you. The picture on your screen... it's kind of blurry because he was chasing you and you were laughing so hard that you couldn't hold the phone steady, but you love it. You love the man in the picture, you love that he can make you smile through memories, even during tough times.

"Baby?" You hear through the speakers of your phone. A lump immediately forms in your throat and you painfully swallow. "Baby, can you hear me?" He tries again.

"Yeah, I'm here," you respond, quietly.

"Holy fuck, doll. Can I... Are you busy? Are you doing anything right now?"

"No, i'm home," you mumble.

"Can I come see you?"

"Toji..." you start, your tone conveying what you haven't even said yet. Your uncertainty.

"Baby, we have to talk. It's been a week and-- This can't be it. Please, just... just five minutes. Five minutes and i'll go."

You know it won't be five minutes. You can't force a solution out in five minutes—not a sincere one at least. Some part of you is soothed by the sound of his voice, regardless of how frantic and desperate he sounds. That's your love right there, and no matter how much hurt lingers from this whole dilemma, there's nothing you can do about your heart's response to him. So you open a door for him.

"Okay, Toji. I'll be here waiting for you."

"Thank you, pretty girl. I'll be there in a few. Love you."

There's a heavy, tense pause. Neither of you has hung up the phone, because something hasn't been done yet and he knows you know what he wants to hear. It would be enough for him to believe that you haven't forfeited. It would make him feel even the slightest bit of relief if you said those words he's been aching for.

"I love you, too, Toji," you utter, hanging up a couple seconds after.

Toji would be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't in such a hurry to get to you. He's been deprived of any form of love from you for a week and he was starting to go crazy, but hearing you say those words was all he needed for now.

Twenty something minutes later, you get a text from him, letting you know that he's outside. Your heart is in your throat, your stomach keeps flipping, and yet you use all the strength you have to get out of bed to meet him. Though you decide to take your time to get to your front door, you find that you're still there too soon, no time left to mentally prepare yourself for what is about to happen. With a final deep breath, you turn the lock, twist the doorknob, and open the door.

There Toji stands, hand suspended in the air with your spare key pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He steps back instinctively when you step aside from behind the door.

"I uh... I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with me using it, but you were taking a bit, so I thought maybe you'd want me to come in and we can talk inside or... I don't know."

He's rambling, there's a light stubble on his face, he's smiling at you like he always does—like you're his everything. Him being there doesn't actually process in your mind until he speaks up again.

"Hi, baby," he says, softly, observing you like you're some majestic painting hung up in a museum. Your eyes well up and it feels like there's a red-hot metal sphere lodged in your throat. "You're a saint for letting me come here and see you, you know that?"

Out of habit, you nod and mumble out a small, "yeah."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, reaching for your hands to hold them. He barely manages to grab them, get a feel for your soft skin after so long, before you're pulling them away from him. "No, come on," he pleads, grasping your hands again. "Please? Please, look at me."

"You can't talk to me like that, Toji," you utter, voice unsteady because you're not used to having to stand up for yourself against the one who loves you like it's his life source.

"I know. I know that, baby, and I'm so fucking sorry," he says, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the shit I said. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I don't know what the hell got into me, but please..." he mumbles, bringing your hands up to his lips, pressing weightless kisses on your fingers and knuckles. "Please, I love you, you have to believe me."

"You said..." you inhale sharply, doing all you can to get through this without choking on your emotions. "...you said you didn't have time to listen to me talk about nonsense, and that you wanted peace and quiet for once. Isn't... Isn't that all you get from me?"

"No tears," he says, warm palms moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the crystals that glide down them. "No tears," he repeats, softer this time. "This is gonna get worked out, my sweet girl. I swear."

"I don't know how you want me to be," you admit, your voice wavering. "And I don't have the ability to read minds. You acted like everything was fine when you texted me, and then when you got here..." You let out a shaky breath, your hold on your emotions slipping. "I don't want to be upset with you, anymore, but i-i'm trying... It's not right."

It's as if someone is jabbing at his chest over and over again, relentlessly, even when his skin starts to bruise and little pinpricks of blood begin to appear. He hates seeing you this way, especially when he knows he's the reason for why you're hurt this bad. He wants it to stop and for this enormous raincloud above both of you to just dissipate.

"Come here," he says, low, almost inaudible. His hands lower, arms making contact with your sides. It's been too long since he's held you, yet, pulling you in feels as natural as breathing.

Your hands come up to rest on his abdomen, keeping him at a distance. It feels unnatural, because you're so used to letting him handle you like you're a stuffed animal, pulling you around when you're adventuring together and picking you up just because he feels like it. Your mind immediately clouds with guilt at your denial of his embrace, you can't even meet his eyes, opting to look down at where your hands are.

"Please don't," he says, his voice so soft that it makes your chest feel tight again. He grabs ahold of your wrists, just to have some sort of contact with you. His grip is almost entirely loose and you're in control, he won't move until you pull your hands away. "I'm not gonna hurt you like that again."

You love him and you know he needs this—holding you in his arms, your confirmation that it's all going to be okay. You've said it before and the words have become one of his greatest comforts. What could be so bad when you tell him that it'll all turn out just fine?

"We've been apart for too long. A week shouldn't have gone by like this... and, fuck, I know it's my fault. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me, but... please, baby." His thumbs brush the insides of your wrists, eyes never leaving the sadness of your face, regardless of whether you look at him or not. He'll take this over not getting to see you at all, any day.

"Sweetheart."

You sniff, unmoving for a few more seconds. Your heartbeat is thrumming wildly in your ears, almost suffocating you with its relentlessness. It's all you hear, words lost in a spiral of ongoing silence. You still don't look at him when you finally pull your hands away, but you can feel his heavy, unwavering attention on you.

You're glad he doesn't wait for you to give him the green light to pull you in, because you have nothing to say at the moment, and it would be another test of patience. Instead, the second your hands are balled up at your sides, he moves at the speed of a lightning strike, your body colliding with his in an almost aggressive manner—there's an audible thump. His body heat mingles with the cologne on his shirt, the smell coiling around you and rushing through your nose with every breath you take. The feeling is familiar—love, safety, comfort—a second home, all wrapped up in your favorite person.

His hands scrunch up the back of your shirt like he's afraid you'll push him away again. "Baby," he mumbles, his voice almost inaudible. "Don't disappear like that again." A soft breath is expelled from his chest, riddled with the genuine fear he felt that he would never get to see you again.

"I know it's unfair of me to say this. I was an asshole and you were hurt, but, doll... I thought you were leaving me." There's a pause. Toji stares at the ground behind you, his hands deepening the creases he made on your shirt due to his unfaltering grip. "I don't want that."

"I'm not," you respond, heart shaking. "That day... it felt like you didn't even want to see me and you only came over because I asked not because you wanted to." The familiar ache in your chest stirs slightly, but you give it your all to get everything out in a steady and clear manner. "You can tell me you're tired, Toji. That you want to rest in the comfort of your own home, and I'll understand. I don't want to be another cause of stress for you."

It pains him to hear that because you're the one who keeps him sane, the one he thinks about when he settles into bed but can't get to sleep, the first person to know that he's still alive in morning, the one who has made him feel so safe, that he feels no shame when he occasionally calls to confirm that he's still loved by you.

"You're not," he simply murmurs. "It's not true."

"You don't have to worry about protecting my feelings."

His arms loosen around you, the back of your shirt wrinkled but freed from his clutches. Your heart is beating too fast, attempting to leave your chest. Now you're standing up straight, doing your best to not avert your gaze from the man before you.

"You're not a burden to me. Okay?" He says, and you want to believe him because of the way he's looking at you, like he's searching your eyes for even the smallest bit of confidence from you about the fact. "Say it."

The words are stuck, it's visible. Your lips twitch, but your voice doesn't progress. You just look at him, feeling the sadness seep into every part of you.

"You're not a burden to me. I need you to get that through your pretty head, right now," he says, only to feel his own heart skip a beat at your reaction.

"Sorry," you mumble, unable to instantly straighten out the curl of your lips.

In this moment, Toji knows that everything is going to be okay. He hasn't heard you laugh in a week, and though it was only a small, congested giggle, he savors it along with your inability to regain your bearing, like it's his last sip of water while he's stranded in the desert.

"Gets you every time, huh?" He says, his own faint smile emerging.

'Right now', a habitual phrase of his that is meant to comfort you. You've told him before that not everything can be fixed or healed in an instant—things don't work that way—but he never backs down. You've translated it into something akin to a bandage—the words are meant to cover you while you take the time to fully and properly heal. The joy you find in hearing them is a small beginning.

"It's funny," you respond, taking in his amused little grin. God, you missed his handsome face and the way he looks at you like everything about you makes perfect sense to him.

"My impatience is funny to you?" He teases, loving the way you press your lips together before proceeding to nod. He can't even be playfully offended, too entranced by the way you're actually smiling at him. He sighs through his nose and just watches you—admires you for a couple seconds, and when you start nervously shifting on your feet, he pulls you closer to him, his hands on your lower back as your body presses against his once more.

"Can you just say it, please? For me?" He murmurs, recognizing every one of the stars in your eyes. Though he thinks it's a tragedy to have gone a week without this view, he'll make up for lost time by creating new constellations.

"I don't know," you say, softly—filler words, your brain short circuits whenever he looks at you like that.

"For me, baby," he pleads once more. "Just wanna hear you say it."

You hum, unsure of whether you can say something you don't entirely believe. You want to make him happy, you want things to be better, you want to believe what he said—what he wants you to repeat to him, but it's hard. Damage is easy to inflict and hard to heal. It won't go away immediately, no matter how much you love the person who is trying to fix their mistake.

"I don't know-"

"Please?" he blurts.

"Toji, I don't-"

"Pretty please?" he cuts again, seeing the way your seriousness falters like before. Your laugh finds his ears once more, a sound he just wants to keep hearing. The sound embraces him. "With a cherry on top?" he adds, a sly little grin on his lips.

It's getting harder and harder to turn him down. He's precious, he's trying, and you cherish his effort. It's not going to kill you to just say it.

You sigh, "I'm not a burden."

"To who?" He questions, seeking elaboration from you.

"To you."

"Damn right," he says, proud. "We'll get you there. I'm not gonna leave you like this, alright?"

"Okay," you confirm, nodding slightly.

"Can I get a kiss?"

Again, you nod, expecting a quick peck—maybe a few quick pecks, but no, he goes on to kiss you like its been months since he last saw you, not a week. He's desperately chasing after your lips, seeking more and more of what he's been deprived of for too long. In his mind, he says 'never again, never again, never again', because he can't imagine going so long without your sweetness again. Without the softness of your lips against his, without those pretty smiles and laughs being thrown at him. It sounds like hell 2.0. when he thinks about losing it all over again.

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, still just a breath away from your lips.

"Yeah," you respond, eyeing the short little pins of hair that sprinkle over his jaw and upper lip area. It makes you smile, you don't always get to see his face when it's not clean shaven.

"I was in a rush," he explains, unnecessarily, following the way your eyes trace his face.

"Mm," you hum, smiling. "Can I shave your face?"

"You wanna clean me up?" he asks, almost as if he's surprised.

"Only if you want me to. It was just an idea," you say, smiling sheepishly.

To that, he chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks feel warmer.

"Oh, I want you to," he says, leaning forward to peck your lips, luring quiet giggles from you when he doesn't want to pull away.

Now, you sit on the counter of your bathroom sink, with Toji standing between your legs. There's a slight tremble in your hand, spurred on by his hands resting on your hips and the way he watches you with so much focus, trusting you enough to let you do this without a word from him. You drag the razor carefully along his cheek, making sure not to move too fast or use too much pressure.

Toji waits until you're cleaning off the blade to make his move of leaning in to press kisses to your face. Small peaks of foam are left behind on your skin, wiped away by gentle strokes of his thumb.

"I'm about to start again," you say through a laugh, leaning away to avoid ridding his face of all the protective spume on it. The razor remains beside you until he finally behaves himself. He huffs like you've been rejecting his affection the whole time, but nonetheless stands up straight and as still as a statue.

After some time, longer than it would have taken him alone—longer than it would have taken you if he didn't smother you every time you paused to clean the razor—you got it done. You brought back the smoothness of his skin.

"Am I pretty again?" he jests, drying his face with one of your towels.

"Stunning," you quip in response, shifting on the counter to signal that you're going to hop off.

"You're stunning," he says, low, unmoving from where he stands between your legs. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he adds, seeking more of that feeling the flustered smile on your face gives him. "Missed you lots, you know that?" You just laugh and shake your head, like you're silently calling him crazy. "What? I'm serious," he says in response, a soft grin on his face. "Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"

A single second passes by. You can't lie to him and say you didn't. You missed him every single day, through the hurt. Your chest ached and your heart dropped every time you remembered the incident, but your love for him never wavered. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and with how often he tried to reach you, it was nearly impossible not to have him on your mind.

"Of course I did. I took the time I needed, but that doesn't mean I wanted it."

"I know, baby. And I would never hold it against you. I'm just... glad I can see you again, is all."

You smile. The gleam and sincerity in his eyes is a wonder to witness and well worth the butterflies that overly crowd your stomach.

"I really did miss you," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "'Lots.'"

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, then he leans in close for nth time, peppering kisses across your cheek until he reaches your lips. He can feel you smiling into the kisses, a sensation he yearned for with every fiber of his being for the past week. One of his hands rests on your thigh, caressing the inner part of it, while the other slides up your shirt and settles on your waist. The lip-lock steals your breath away, but even then, you challenge your lungs for your lover's sake, only pulling away when you're a panting mess and Toji's breathing is more audible.

The tension is palpable, the silence loud as you look at one another like you're still taking in the fact that you can be loving towards each other again, in a manner that doesn't derive from guilt for the time that you didn't get to demonstrate how much you truly love each other. Enough to not be able to leave a fresh wound alone, enough to forgive while outwardly expressing that you have not healed but are patient enough to work towards regaining that strength.

"I don't wanna go home," he murmurs, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips before focusing on solely your eyes.

"You don't have to," you respond. "Stay as long as you'd like."

"And if I said I wanted to spend a week here with you? Would you hate it?"

You shake your head. "No, but I think you'd get tired of seeing me all the time."

"You're wrong, pretty girl. Is this your subtle way of saying you're tired of looking at my mug, already?" He asks, lips curling with amusement at your giggle.

"No, I want you to stay," you say, honest.

"Promise?"

You nod, followed by an affirmative hum.

"Say it again," he requests, heart thudding just a little faster when you smile.

"I want you to stay, Toji," you repeat, his name on your tongue causing your cheeks to warm up.

"Again." His hands mold around your hips—squeezing, loving.

"Stay," you say, softer.

He sighs, heavy, an enamored look in his eyes that you have never been able to comprehend. Those dark, viridescent eyes, have a brilliance to them as he looks at you like you're the last good thing he'll ever be able to call his. You're good for him, you're good to him, and there is nothing in the world that he wouldn't do for you because you gave him your heart.

"Yeah... you're stuck with me here for a week and you're come with me to pick some stuff up from my place, tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, with a laugh.

"Now, we get you off this counter," he says, lifting you like you're a teddy bear that he carries around for protection. He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the suddenness. "Hold me tight, baby," he says, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist before moving anywhere. A kiss is planted on your shoulder as he turns around to exit the bathroom.

"And now you let me show you some love," he says, low, carrying you to your bedroom.

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em1989ts · 2 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟

robert "bob" reynolds x reader smut

word count: 1.9k - masterlist

summary: bob had been helping you out by occasionally doing your laundry, but when you come back early from a mission, you find out he might've had some selfish motives

contents: panty thief bob, kinda perv! bob, m! masturbation, caught in the act, handjob

author's note: i'm so glad i have time to write again, i have so many wips just sitting in my google docs (dw one is survival of the fittest p3), and hopefully i will get them finished soon. i've been completely captivated by bob/lewis pullman for the last month but five hargreeves still has my heart dw

proofread, enjoy!

Years ago, you’d always imagined what it would be like for the Avengers to return to their glorious tower in the middle of Manhattan after a mission. Landing on the side of the sparkling skyscraper in a quinjet seemed like such an inaccessible fantasy when you were just starting out as a lowlife vigilante.

You never would’ve imagined that years later, you would live that very life you’d dreamed of.

The mission had gone rather smoothly, so smoothly in fact that instead of returning to the tower by late afternoon, you, Walker, and Ava made your way off the jet about twelve hours earlier than expected.

Since the task had been completed without casualties and was rather inconsequential, Walker decided that the three of you should wait until breakfast for a mission report with the other avengers.

“Now you can get back to your boyfriend that much faster, you’re welcome,” he had said smugly to you on the way to your quarters.

You knew exactly who he was talking about.

While you were still warming up to living with your new somewhat reclusive and impolite roommates, Bob was different. Yes, he was shy, but he did seem to be the most respectful of the bunch. He had his flaws but that didn’t stop him from trying to be a good person, for his new teammates and for himself.

Out of everyone, he was the one you turned to the most, the one you felt most comfortable with. You could tell he had grown accustomed to you as well, often finding him spending time reading or napping in your room. Of course, you didn’t mind.

Knowing how tempted he was to rot in his room, you were glad he could find comfort in your space. Occasionally, he gained the motivation to do the dishes or a couple loads of laundry, anything that would give him a sense of accomplishment, and possibly some praise from you.

“He’s not my boyfriend, Walker,” you said, exhaustedly rolling your eyes before bidding Ava goodnight as she disappeared into her room.

“Right, he just does chores for you and follows you around like a lost puppy because he’s just a loyal teammate,” Walker sarcastically retorted as he opened his bedroom door, giving you a smirk before he disappeared for the night.

You ignored his comment as you made your way to your bedroom, stationed farther down the hallway. Passing by Bob’s room, you noticed the door was slightly ajar, the darkness from the room seeping into the dimly lit hallway.

You stopped in your tracks as you tried to peek in the small opening to the room before walking closer, slowly creaking the door wider to see inside. With a quick flick of the lightswitch on the wall next to the door frame, the room illuminated before you to reveal Bob’s empty bed, sheets messy and pillows scattered.

If he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could be.

You flicked the lightswitch, darkening the room once again before gently pulling the door closed and continuing your way towards your room.

Bob had slept in your room many times before, but he had never stayed the night. He would nap during the day while you were downstairs training in the gym or in a conference with the team, since he wasn’t quite ready yet to participate.

Occasionally, you would lie next to him as he flipped through a novel, sometimes asleep from the exhaustion of your work as an avenger, other times awake and admiring his concentrated face as he consumed each page with a deep enthusiasm.

You approached your bedroom door with caution. The door was completely shut, the darkness and utter silence seeped under the door. An image of Bob flashed across your mind — him laying in your bed, his book still open in his hand, his thumb holding his place between the pages, mouth slightly open as his head lay peacefully on your cotton pillowcase.

Half of you wanted to just let him be and just sleep on one of the many couches in the living room, where several pillows and blankets had accumulated from the team’s movie nights.

The other half of you however was so exhausted from your mission and ached to retreat to your own bed that you didn’t mind sharing it, especially with Bob.

As quiet and gentle as you could be, you twisted the silver door knob and pushed your bedroom room open. The dim hallway light created a small path of sight in front of you, before it was outmatched by the darkness. You quickly tip-toed into the room and closed the door behind you, the faint click barely audible as the door shut completely.

The rooms in the compound were quite large – with their own personal bathrooms and a good amount of floor space.

It took you a while to get used to the new layout, but after some time you memorized it enough to navigate your way to your bed in the darkness. There was a small hallway when you first walked in, and as you calmly walked through, you expected to turn and faintly see Bob, illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through your window, completely oblivious to the world as he lay asleep.

But what you actually found when you turned the corner, well, you definitely could not have expected it.

Splayed across your bed, wearing a black shirt that lay high on his abdomen, exposing his toned abs, and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tugged down almost to his knees. His eyes were shut tight. Not with sleep, but with devoted concentration.

You froze in place for a moment, before quietly moving to hide behind the corner of the wall, peeking out of the darkness to witness the scene before you.

His lip was bitten between his teeth, head thrown back as he worked his hand, stroking himself. You noticed something in his hand as you stared, a familiar pair of underwear you hadn’t realized had been missing till now.

Now that you thought about it, you had been missing quite a few pairs since Bob had started helping you out with your laundry.

The soft cotton of your white panties wrapped around Bob’s cock was a sight unexpected, but not unwelcome.

As he lay in your bed, whines slipping through his teeth, bucking into his fist, you stood quietly across the room.

Your thighs squeezed slightly as you watched him, so needy in your own bed, completely unaware you had come back early to catch him so vulnerable.

His curls had fallen over the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his pace was growing more reckless. He brought his hand that had been grabbing at your comforter to his face, covering his mouth as his moans became harder to stifle.

You would’ve loved to watch as he made himself come undone in your bed, but where would that leave you?

Leaving your hiding spot, you stealthily made your way over to your bed. His eyes were still closed tightly, so he didn’t notice your presence until you spoke.

“So, that’s where those went.”

His eyes flew open, looking up to see you looking down at him, and he froze. One hand stayed put around his cock, and the other moved to cover as much of his face as possible, hiding his utter embarrassment.

“Oh– I’m sorry – I-”

Bob had no idea how to explain himself.

Yes, he had been sleeping in your room while you were away on missions. His room was just too lonely and your bed smelt like you. He just felt so much more comfortable surrounded by everything that reminded him of your presence even when you weren’t there.

Yes, he had taken a few pairs of your underwear from your laundry. He didn’t want to seem weird, he was so afraid of scaring you off. He just wanted . . . some material, and surely you wouldn’t notice just a couple items going missing, right?

And yes, he had been . . . relieving himself in your room. Again, it smelt so much like you. He had already spent a majority of his time there. He was just too nervous to tell you how he really felt about you, how much he really needed you, craved you even. He made sure his visits were completely undetectable afterwards, and he always locked the door. Almost always, anyway.

He was mortified. The one time he realized he forgot to lock the door, there you were, staring down at him in his most vulnerable moment.

Your hand threaded through his brown locks as you looked down at him. He peeked between his fingers to watch your face – you didn’t seem that upset.

Your pupils were dilated as your eyes scanned over him, stopping to watch his still hand around himself, before looking back up to meet his eyes.

“Can I help with that?”

His eyes grew wide as he groaned, his shoulders dropping their tense stance as his hand dragged down his face, “Please.”

You motioned for him to scoot over, as he quickly scrambled to give you room. He watched with wide, anticipating eyes as you climbed onto the bed with him, laying directly to the side of him.

With one hand, you turned his chin towards yours, and encapsulated him in a kiss.

The kiss was smooth, soft, yet he almost embarrassingly whined into your mouth. He finally had a taste of you, and it would be impossible for him to let go.

His free hand pulled you closer from the back of your neck, as you reached down blindly and replaced his other hand with yours.

As your thumb carefully brushed over his tip, he moaned through your lips. You kept moving your thumb in slow circles, and he had completely fallen apart. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, attempting to hide his flushed face and you kept working your hand so perfectly around him, especially with your own panties now in your grasp.

You felt his breathy moans against the skin of your neck as he tried to bury himself into you, tugging you as close as possible as he moved his arm around your waist, bucking into your hand.

His moans turned into whines as he grew more sensitive by the second, and it wasn’t long before he gently bit into your neck, and spilled all over your fist. He could’ve melted into you as he came, having never felt so blissful in his life. His hips kept shaking until he stilled, no longer able to handle the overstimulation.

Reaching over to your bedside table, you pulled a couple tissues from their box and gently cleaned him up, as well as your hands, before tossing your panties across the room into your laundry basket.

You admired his face for a moment, eyes closed and mouth left slightly open, as his head lay back against your pillow, before carefully tugging up his boxers as his sweats.

You thought he had already fallen asleep, as his chest was steadily falling and rising with every breath, however when you went to rest by his side, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head as you smiled into his chest, a bit more thankful that he’d been doing your laundry.

~~~

#bob reynolds fluff #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds x reader smut #bob reynolds x you #sentry x reader #the void smut #the void x reader #perv! bob #perv! bob reynolds

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medo57 · 5 months ago

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Motivational Neon Art Poster with Wooden Frame – "Your Only Limit is Your Mind"

Motivational Neon Art Poster with Wooden Frame – "Your Only Limit is Your Mind"Elevate your space with this stunning neon wall art, featuring the powerful motivational quote: "Your only limit is your mind." Designed in a futuristic cyberpunk aesthetic, this high-quality framed print adds a modern and bold statement to any room. The vibrant blue and purple LED-style lettering stands out against the dark urban background, creating an electrifying atmosphere. This inspirational framed poster is perfect for gaming setups, office spaces, or contemporary home décor, reminding you to push beyond mental barriers and unlock your potential.

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jj-one · 3 months ago

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𖠿 ៹ ˚. ꒰ SKZ + WHERE THEY LIKE TO FINISH ! ꒱

this is smut, do not interact if under 18 !

pairing: skz x fem!reader genre/tags: smut, slight dom/sub play, degrading, praise kink, perv!seungmin, kinda subby!felix, handjob, oral (m. receiving), t*tty f*cking, backshots, spanking, overstim, panty kink, c*mplay, hair pulling, piv, creampie, spit kink, dumbification (?), breeding kink, just a whole lotta nasty shit !!! words: 5.3k (got a little carried away.. my bad)

[ note. ] — so yeah i’m back in my smut era once again lolz. i got a random burst of motivation to get back into it so let’s see how long this’ll last ! enjoy my horny word vomit <3

✵ BANG CHAN — ( inside )

This man is most definitely a creampie enthusiast through and through.

He doesn’t even think about pulling out before he’s about to finish; he just wants to fill you up again and again until you’re stuffed to the brim with his cum, white streaks running down your inner thighs. He can’t help the fact that he’s always fantasizing about breeding you properly— to have your belly full of his babies, the way your tits would get bigger and more swollen with milk, how everyone will know just how greedy you were for his cock. It drives him crazy.

Your whole body feels like it’s been set on fire, going nonverbal the minute his cock sinks into your gummy walls, feeling you clamp around him instantly, the warmth of you already making him drunk off your pussy.

“Shit... loosen up baby, you’re squeezin’ me.” His breath hitches whilst he positions himself to go deeper, filling you up nice and easy. His broad frame hovers over your body as he picks up his pace, a sheen of sweat glistening over his abs. Your nails dug crescents into Chan’s biceps, gritting your teeth and feeling faint from how good he’s fucking you.

You could cry right now, it’s all become too much for you to bear, your limbs grew weak, your mind going blank. You’re a babbling mess and he loves every bit of it. The curve of his cock hitting you just right as the room is filled with nothing but heavy panting and the sound of your arousal, but you couldn’t stop now, you had no choice but to take it because you’re anything but a quitter!

“Nngh, m’gonna cum!” You whined loudly, cupping your tits and running your fingers along your hardened nipples, mouth going permanently agape as you feel your high approaching.

“Then be a good girl for me and cream all over my cock,” he lowly whispers into your ear, pounding so hard into you the only thing you could do was repeat his name over and over like a broken record. You were simply too fucked out to think or speak— too dumb, too stupid.

That was your final queue to let go, instantly obeying his every word. You were breathless, heart pounding, convulsing on the bed, arching against the sheets, and with a strangled moan escaping his throat, Chan shot thick spurts of cum inside as if he’d been holding it in for months.

He’s groaning as your cunt clenches around his thickness, milking him for all he’s worth, and it’s all too intense for him. He bites down on the juncture between your neck and your shoulder as an immense wave of pleasure washes over him. After he pulls out, he scoops some of the cum that’s dripping out of you on his fingers and pushes it back inside you, if only to chuckle at your choked out moan.

“Fuck.. pussy just made for me, you feel so good baby. You love milking my cock, don’t you?”

✵ LEE KNOW — ( on your ass )

We all know by now that Minho is an ass man at heart, he just loves how it molded into his hands so perfectly, the way it replied to any friction he applied to it on command. He loved how red it got once his hands launched across it’s surface and how he’d sometimes be able to see his own handprints— he absolutely loves to ruin you.

He’d have you bent over on all fours with your ass up in the air, practically salivating at the sight beneath him, he couldn’t help but grab a handful of ass, it’s pretty much second nature for him.

As much as he wanted to fuck you right here and now, Minho was always such a tease, rubbing his length between your dripping folds, your continuous pleas for him to put it in already simply falls on deaf ears. He’s never been one to give you what you want straight away, you’re gonna have to earn it in order for him to comply, and when he finally does slide it in you’re swallowing up every inch that he provides.

His hands grabbed both sides of your waist as he’s mercilessly pounding you from behind, feeling himself lose all self control after a few more sloppy hits against your heat. Even though you couldn’t directly see his facial expressions, you could just picture how pretty he looks in this moment. All sweaty, messy, disheveled hair, panting, muscles tightening and flexing— even that thing he does whenever he’s too focused on chasing his own high. The one where his eyebrows furrow upwards when he’s in pure, utter concentration.

His cock twitches whenever he hears you whine or beg for him, mocking all the dumb noises you make to send you into a further state of delirium. You felt like you were about to pass out when the acceleration of his hips drive into you, drool pooling from the corners of your mouth and dripping down to your chin, turning you into nothing but a brainless slut for him.

“So good, so so good!!” Your moans almost sounding like cries of help as you felt him balls deep in you, and even felt the recoil of your ass everytime he pounded into you. He was getting closer by the minute, watching himself disappear as he’s drilling ungodly amounts of his cock into you.

He can get real possessive in bed, wanting you to reaffirm who exactly you belong to. He already knows the answer, he just wants you to say it.

“Tell me you’re mine baby,” he rasps, hitting your walls precisely, feeling him bring a palm towards your right ass cheek to spank it, gripping it roughly as you sank your teeth into your bottom lip. “Only I get to ruin this pretty cunt, it’s all mine to destroy.”

“All yours Min-” you whimper, internally struggling to get a coherent sentence out, body trembling, unable to keep yourself stable. If it weren’t for him holding you in place you would’ve collapsed onto the bed by now.

“That’s right baby, only mine.”

Minho’s thrusts become weaker as he catches his breath, feeling the thread slowly unraveling within. He was about to burst any second, quickly pulling out to spill his seed all over your ass, pushing your body forward so he can get a better view of the scenery. He might’ve just came all over you but that doesn’t mean he was fully done with you yet. Sure you might be all sticky, overly sensitive, and albeit exhausted— but he wants to fuck you again and again until you physically couldn’t take it anymore.

“You really think I’m gonna stop at just one round? We’re not done until I say we are. I know you’ve got one more left in you, kitten.”

✵ CHANGBIN — ( on your tits )

I strike him as the type to be equally obsessed with all parts of your body, but he’s definitely got a preference of where likes to cum and it shows.

He himself isn’t sure if it’s the sight of his cum dripping down your cleavage or rather the possessive act of pulling out, only to cum onto your tits a moment later that he likes most, but he absolutely enjoys doing it. Especially if you’re kneeling in front of him, either wearing a cute little outfit or simply naked, and presenting your chest to him willingly after sucking him off— he’s a groaning, blushing mess, his hips stuttering as he coats your skin white and needy whines falling from his mouth.

Sometimes, the only way he’ll be able to cum is if he can have his cock between your pretty tits, it was his primary trigger in getting him to reach his climax. He can’t help it.. you just look so damn hot laying there all sweet for him, squeezing your tits together against his hard cock while he thrusts in between them.

“God..” he moaned out. “They’re so soft.. so perfect—” his breath caught in his throat, “could fuck your tits like this all night if you’d let me. You want me to, angel? Hm? Just look at them.. s’pretty and all mine.”

A loud grunt forces it’s way from his mouth as his head slightly falls back, but he couldn’t fully look away— not when you’re doing so good for him. Big, doe-like eyes staring up at him all innocently with his spit and precum on your chest acting as a makeshift lube, Changbin thought you looked you the prettiest like this. He was so far gone all he could think about was the soft, plushiness enveloping his dick in the most blissful way possible. He’s sorry for how hard he’s thrusting against your chest, but he wasn’t in the right state of mind right now, he was far too horny to think rationally; you feel too good all wrapped around his cock like this. Not to mention the cute little whimpers that you’d make as you work hard to hold them together against his force— you’re fucking spoiling him right now, god, he loves you so so much.

“Please binnie, wan’ your cum..” you’re begging for it at this point, wanting nothing more than to have his release spilling all over your bare chest, even your voice is tipping him further over the edge.

There’s only one way this was going to end, and that was by blowing several massive shots of his cum all over your boobs. Sticky, white ropes laced over your tits that’s now caked on your spit-slick skin. You looked so beautiful covered in his seed— so heavenly that he needs to sit back on your hips and admire it for a second.

He uses the tip of his cock to smear it around even more, gliding it over your nipples and prodding at the sensitive nubs. Chills running down his spine from that subtle stimulation, the view alone was enough to make his head spin. He doesn’t care how gross it is, he just wants to paint a pretty picture on them with his cum :((

“Fuck, princess, you’re so pretty like that; so gorgeous with my cum on your tits. Can’t believe you let me do this— you’re so good for me, please, babe—”

✵ HYUNJIN — ( in your mouth )

Enjoys cumming into your mouth or down your throat— he’s fine with both, though the latter is more convenient, given how the chance of you spilling anything is smaller. The sight of you swallowing his cum gives him an addicting power rush; he’ll even sometimes pull out after fucking you, only to reach his orgasm in your mouth instead of your cunt.

Hyunjin’s always so loud when you’re sucking him off too, (we love a vocal king!) just constantly praising and encouraging you to keep going. He’s so sensitive, he feels everything intensely. Shivers running along his spine as you spit on his cock to make it even messier, those pretty lips of yours working overtime to take more and more and more of him in. He’d unintentionally be pushing your head down further, making you gag around his length, feeling bad about it only for a second but when you’re still going at it all his worries instantly wash away.

He’ll never truly get over the way you look as you’re deepthroating him; just melts into a puddle of mush as you look up at him with nothing but adoration and obedience, solely devoted to making him feel as good as possible. Your sloppy mouth so wet and warm and welcoming, the feel of your hand squeezing his thigh so tightly, the sound of your wheezing, your choking, your gagging around his thick cock— it’s more than enough to make his brain short circuit.

“Gonna cum in that pretty mouth of yours baby.” He breathlessly pants, his mind all hazy, unable to think of anything but his imploding orgasm, “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

All you could do in response was keep sucking, this time picking up your pace a little bit to indicate that you want it— scratch that, need to milk every last drop of him. He’s breathing heavier now, strings of broken curses and soft sighs of your name leaving his lips like they’ve been waiting for the chance to come out. Small beads of sweat began sticking to his forehead as he scrunches up his eyes and lets his mouth part open for a low, drawn out groan.

It only takes a couple more thrusts to the back of your throat and efficient bobs of your head for Hyunjin to tighten his grasp on the sheets beneath him, for the knot in his stomach to tighten and for all his muscles to tense up. You can feel his abs flexing beneath the soft linger of your hand that’s resting along his abdomen, and you can feel the pull and push of his thighs flexing when your other hand uses it to brace yourself— you know him oh so well, well enough to know the telltale signs of when he’s on the brink of his climax.

You were making him see stars by this point, rutting his hips forward as you do your best to swallow around him. His large hand keeps your head steady against him as he sits up, his cock throbbing and his balls tensing as you feel his hot cum shooting inside your mouth, down your throat, using you to his pleasure. You release his cock with a doting smile on your face, satisfied of the outcome whilst bringing up a hand to wipe the excess spit on your cheek. Your lips are glossy and drooling with saliva, your eyes are watery and your hair’s a mess, and you’re completely worn out, breathing heavy, ragged and deep.

When he’s feeling extra cruel, he makes you stick out your tongue after he came inside of your mouth, ordering you to hold it there purely for humiliation purposes— it’s your own fault for looking this adorably, really.

“Ah, that’s a good girl. You always take what I give you so willingly. Come on, show me that you swallowed everything— and, I must warn you, if you spit anything out, I’ll make you clean it up with your tongue.”

✵ HAN — ( on your face )

He would cum literally any and everywhere on you but especially on your face. Whenever you’re sucking his cock, facials were practically mandatory— he thinks you look the prettiest when you have milky strings of white dribbling down your face.

You looked so sinful like this, kneeling in front of Jisung as you take your precious time with him. You knew how sensitive his balls were, kissing them, fondling and squeezing them, popping them into your wet mouth, sucking and humming loudly and appreciatively; loving how whiny he gets, his face all red and blushy. He’s just the cutest thing ever ;(

You wanted to be gentle with him at first, flattening your tongue against his veiny shaft as you slowly fit more of him in. He’s wincing at the feel of your tongue circling around his girth and making sure to coat everything with your spit. You’re looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, mouth full of his cock while hollowing your cheeks to pull back, only leaving his tip in.

Jisung is also an unintentional head-pusher, but it wasn’t his fault that your mouth felt like a dream, the way your plump lips wrap so perfectly around the tip of his cock, stretching lewdly as your small hand wraps around the base of his thick shaft. It’s your fault that you spend so much time riling him up so bad, so bad that it’s painfully pleasurable when you wrap your lips around his flushed tip, swirling your tongue and gliding through his slit before taking him in completely, until the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. The sounds he makes are so fucking pretty, placing his hand on your head, pushing you down just a slight bit more.

Aside from his entire body tensing, and his cock twitching and pulsating hotly in your mouth, he gets even noisier. The tiny whimpers and soft pants only become louder, his gasps and moans growing with desperation, needy pleas of, “fuck, please don’t stop,” and, “shit, you’re so fucking good— shit, shit— shit,” are endlessly slipping from his lips. He’s close, you can tell, he’s making it blatantly obvious.

You’re bobbing your head up and down faster now, his tip repeatedly hitting against your throat before Jisung let out a gutteral groan, pulling out of your warm mouth. He’s viciously pumping his cock in front of your face while you’re opening your mouth as wide as you can to make sure you’re able to catch some of it on your tongue. His cum shoots out everywhere, on your face, the sheets, his thigh, even getting in your hair to which you just washed not even a few hours ago..

“M’sorry, baby, didn’t mean to—” his chest is heaving as he attempts to catch his breath, lightheaded after having such an intense orgasm. “—can’t control where it lands..”

From between his legs, you simply roll your eyes. “Don’t apologize Ji. I know you’re not actually sorry.”

Weakly, he chuckles, laughs a little, and reaches out a hand for you to take. “I’m a little sorry..” he admits. Pleased to see you take his hand regardless, he tightens his hold on it and pulls you up, letting you settle all comfortable on his lap. From your position, you’re left looking down on him. Post-orgasm Jisung (well, Jisung at any point in time, but mainly post-orgasm Jisung) is a beautiful sight indeed. Flushed cheeks and swollen, parted lips and hazy eyes and messy hair.

He’s just looks so— fuckable.

The warm feeling of his seed painted on your face was to die for, sinfully looking, almost perverted in a way. For a moment he stilled his movements before smearing his cum over your left cheek. You’re closing your eyes, relishing on the feeling of him before sliding back down to now his softened cock, putting it back in your mouth to get another taste of him. He’s all hypersensitive after cumming, he feels like he’s going to pass out, but there’s no way he could resist you.

“Still hungry for more of my cock after sucking me off like that? Fuck.. you really are insatiable.”

Bonus !! (bc I love him sm and he’s everything to me): He absolutely loses his shit when you use your hand to get him off— he likes to make a mess all over them, watching his cum drip down to your wrists but he licks it up so it won’t go to waste. He enjoys seeing you suck the creaminess off your fingers but he also likes to do it too, tasting his own delicious nut while having your cute little fingers in his mouth <333

✵ FELIX — ( on your thighs )

He’s absolutely enamored by you. Everything about you is nothing short of pure perfection in eyes— but his main weakness? Your thighs without a doubt.

Felix’s hands are always on your thighs, whether it’s intentional or not, he somehow finds his way near his favorite body part on you as if he were drawn to it like a magnet. Caressing them while driving in the car, discreetly tracing shapes on them under the table at some fancy restaurant, or firmly holding them open while he devours you— the one thing he adores the most, though, is when you’re at home relaxing and resting your legs over his lap so he can massage them while you read or watch TV together. But in all honesty… he just wants you to suffocate him with your pretty thighs or better yet, letting him cum on them.

He loves nothing more than to have his cock buried deep inside your cunt, thrusting into you like his life depends on it. Felix loves leaving hickeys all over your thighs too. He claims he can’t help himself, he just needs to sink his teeth into them when you’re splayed out underneath him on his bed. Kissing your thighs lovingly while your legs are thrown over his shoulders, the tenderness clashing with the way he pounds you into the mattress. Lives for how vocal you get for him, a disgruntled moan slipping out when he hears your breathy whimpers and moans as he finds your sweet spot.

Tonight was much different though. He was in a daze, completely hypnotized by the slow roll of your hips into his. If the grinding motion was enough to set him into overdrive, then each pulse of your walls around his cock was enough to make him feel like he could actually combust. But he doesn’t, he can’t bear the thought of not having your skin on his, absolutely positive that he’d let you ride him like this all night.

He can’t get enough of your thighs, especially when wearing those short little skirts that drive him crazy. He’d have you sliding down his aching cock, holding onto your thighs with a muffled groan. Even when you aren’t on top, he’s obsessed with the way they lock around him when he’s fucking you, holding him in. It slightly throws him off rhythm for a second, but he makes a valiant effort to keep going, hips stuttering against yours as he rocks deeper into you, barely able to pull out for each stroke.

“Mmph.. Lixie..” you moan a bit louder when his hands spread to your ass as you ride him, your body falling limp against his when he grips the muscle a little tighter to stop the motion of your hips. The sluggish roll of your hips now becoming more desperate as your pleasure began to wash over you. “M’so close, be my good boy and finish with me.”

“Fuck y/n..” he curses under his breath, nuzzling his nose deeper into your neck as he pulls you in closer, breathing in your intoxicating scent, his mind absolutely fogged by thoughts of you and only you. “I’ll be good.. promise.. just don’t want this to end, need you all night.”

At this rate, it may actually be all night, as neither of you can exactly remember how long ago it was since you climbed onto his lap claiming you wanted to “take care of him” tonight. After all, Felix has been such a good boy for you all week; he deserves a little pampering in the form of you pinning him down to the bed and riding him until you both see stars. He’s too entranced by the curves and dips of your body and the way your features twist into the most beautiful expressions of pleasure as you lazily rotate your hips in a figure-8 pattern.

He’s has been mumbling rambles of praises all night, unable to form a coherent sentence due to the way his mind is clouded by you. He’s absolutely consumed by the way you feel wrapped around him, loving that he can watch you lose yourself on his cock with each languid, self-guided roll of your hips. He’s a wreck. A complete, utter train wreck.

It almost feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the air for Felix, the hazy fog that clouds his head only makes his mind whirl more as he watches you fall apart on top of him. So beautiful, so perfect, and all his. He will always take whatever you give him; you have him wrapped so tightly around your finger and he swears he’ll always be your good boy if these are benefits.

The orgasm that you had been leisurely chasing was now near, unable to suppress the euphoric ebbing feeling that made your walls contract in delight. He messily jerks his cock, sporadically cumming everywhere from your sensitive clit to your plush thighs. He always apologizes for the mess by fucking your cunt with his tongue after, cleaning you off in the process.

“God, you’re so fucking hot. Could cum on these pretty thighs for the rest of my life and I’d die happy.”

✵ SEUNGMIN — ( in your panties )

When you two first started dating, you expected him to lean somewhat more on the vanilla side as he never struck you as the type to be overly sexual but you were dearly mistaken.

Little did you know that your boyfriend was lowkey a huge pervert, this man could sniff your panties all damn day— no seriously. The smell of you intoxicates him, sending flashes of dopamine through his receptors, even using them whilst he jerks off to one of the many photos of you that he has in his collection. Post-nut clarity always hits him the hardest right after, starting to feel some guilt for ruining your favorite pair of undies, but it isn’t like he could just buy you some new ones anyway!

Once you discovered this little fetish of his, Seungmin didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. Whenever the two of you would be intimate, it was almost routine for him to simply push your panties to the side, his tip beaming an angry, bright red and leaking with so much precum, sliding it against your saturated folds. A shudder runs through you as the friction just gets so much stronger, just as you needed it. He was grinding into your pussy, his tip eagerly pushing into your entrance, but never fully inside of you, testing your limits, making you tremble and whimper continuously.

He kept moving, his thrusts becoming sloppy and less controlled, giving you more and more. His hot tip couldn’t stop leaking, mixing his wetness with yours when he bumped into your clit, making you see stars. Just before you could even reach your high, he grabbed your hand and moved it away from touching your clit, guiding his tip inside of you with heavy pants, the feeling of relief almost washed over you, but he stopped. With only his blunt cockhead stretching you out he was frantically jerking himself off, moaning and praising you before he finishes.

That’s when you feel something sticky and warm is oozing into your panties and Seungmin pulled the fabric back once he pulls out, drops of his white release your already soaking your panties. His hands felt so soft, delicate against your skin when he readjusts your little dress, palming your clothed pussy to feel the mess he made between your legs, panties now soaked with loads of his cum.

He knows how dirty and disgusting he is, but does he seem to care? Absolutely not. It’s all part of the reason on why he finds it so ridiculously hot. He likes seeing you shuffle uncomfortably as the warm liquid rests against your pussy lips, making you walk around for the rest of the day with them on. To which all you do is complain.

“Seungie.. m’so sticky..” you whine to him while you’re out running errands together, but he only mocks you for complaining, cupping your cheek with his hand. His thumb brushes over your lip and coos at how you suck on his digit instinctively.

“I know, baby. I’ll clean you up when we get back home, okay?” He promises, discreetly moving his other hand up the hem of your dress to push his fingers flush against your hole, plunging his cum further into you.

Later in the day, he finds himself rubbing your clit through the fabric, using his previous release as a lubricant for the act. As much as you try to deny it, you find the filthy act just as sexy. That is why you keep letting him do it.

“Feel so dirty..” you pout from the fact you’ve been walking around with soiled undergarments for hours now.

“Aww, my poor baby. I’m so sorry I just needed you so bad.” He apologizes, sealing your lips into a kiss while rutting against him making the most pathetic sounds as Seungmin’s mess gets rubbed into you. “Go ahead and use me, doll. Payback for me being such a meanie.”

“So mean,” you moan, rocking on him while he holds you close and whispers sweet words in your ear. “Gonna cum... need to cum...”

“Shit. Gotta cum for me already?” He asks and you nod desperately. His hands tighten at your sides and he pushes you down onto his thigh. “That’s okay, princess. You can cum.”

“You’re such a dirty little slut. Love to act all innocent when we’re in public but you secretly love it when I make a mess in your panties, hm?”

✵ JEONGIN — ( inside )

Another fellow creampie enjoyer, ever since you let him hit it raw once he’s never looked back— he refuses to fuck you any other way.

Jeongin could feel every bit of sanity he has left slipping away the minute his cock is greeted with your warm walls, your cunt tightening around his length, sucking him in greedily. You can clearly hear his breathing getting heavier, the low grunts that leave his mouth once he fully bottoms out. You’re grabbing a fistful of the sheets beneath you to keep you stable, whimpering when he picks up his pace, jaw dangling open as he’s got your hair in a tight grip.

“Fuck.. you’re perfect.” He murmurs against your skin, his cock slamming into you with utmost force— all you could do is moan out in pleasure, so overwhelmed as you sank down further into the mattress.

He fucked you harder, hips colliding with your ass in a merciless rhythm, bringing his hand down lower, toying with your sensitive clit to make your eyes roll to the back of your skull. “I-innie,” you cried, broken and desperate, trying to say something, anything, but the words shattered every time he pounded into you. He knows you’re way too fucked out to speak, and that’s the whole point because he isn’t stopping— even when you’re begging for him to slow down, he won’t stop until you cream his cock.

You were a mess. Growing weaker and weaker, lips all puffy and worn out as you drooled onto the sheets, you made a grave mistake by trying to run from him— which only made him bully his cock into you deeper. A couple more strokes to your weeping cunt and Jeongin feels like he’s going to bust a nut already, he doesn’t tune down the harshness though, only upping it and focusing on painting your walls in the end. You were so completely full to the brim, his thickness hitting your g-spot just right, your arms ready to give out under your body as you whined and begged for him to let you cum.

You were caught by surprise when he suddenly pulls out and flips you over on your back. His large hand immediately snaking up to your chest to play with your tits, drawing a tiny bit of spit on them to create a string saliva that connects to his mouth. His other free hand presses down on your stomach, looking down as he sees himself thrusting back into you. You spasmed underneath him, muscles contracting, mind all numbed out, continuously moaning and mewling. Your needy hole clenching tighter around him as if it wasn’t currently being stuffed with his fat cock.

“Mmph— gonna cum, soso close!” He hisses, drilling into you harshly, “let go for me baby, cum with me.” You feel his cock throbbing as he’s helping ride out your orgasm with deep strokes that makes your vision almost fade to black. The once steady pace he upheld becoming more erratic and sloppier, fucking you so dumb until you’re full of cum.

With his permission, you finally let go. Legs violently twitching as you feel your release and his at the same time, plastering your insides with pearlescent ropes of white. He remains inside for a while, waiting for the tremors of your orgasm to pass, until eventually pulling out. He loves watching his cum leak out of you, it’s honestly his favorite part about sex with you; he loves it so much in fact he springs back up not even ten minutes later to do it all over again.

“Damn, baby, you’re so damn tight around me. M’gonna fill you up so good— yeah, that’s a good girl. Gonna have you dripping with my cum, doll, don’t you worry.”

finally back to posting more new headcanons, we cheered guyss ٩(๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵๑)۶ i rlly hope this wasn’t too bad shgfsgsg i wrote most of this like a week ago and never bothered to proofread so if there’s any spelling mistakes that’s why.. but nonetheless i hope you enjoyed these and leave a like, comment, and/or reblog if you want ! (no presh) ♡︎

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