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pearlymel · 11 months ago

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"Do i look like i can work right now?"

Summery : he's needy for you and he's not afraid to show it <3

wc : 2k

Warnings : NSFW, fem!reader, ōral (f! recieving), bit of dry humping, making out, protected sex. Petnames used (honey, love, sweetheart.) No plot.

He was so done for.

Zayne exhaled shakily against your neck, his hands squeezing firmly at the dip of your waist for stability. He sounded needy, he looked needy, it's taking everything in him to not rip your nightgown off.

"You should be resting, but you occupy my every thought." He uttered in a hushed tone, but made no real effort to take you off his lap, instead pulling you even closer using his knee and burying his face on your chest.

"You're practically latched on me, Zayne." The words just rolled off your tongue it was almost infuriating.

Zayne wrapped one arm around your hips, keeping you firmly on his lap as the chair kept rocking back and forth with your combined weight. His other hand traveled up your back, up to your shoulder and neck, pulling you further down so he could nip at your collarbone with a sharp canine.

"You're one to talk, sweetheart. You're not being very cooperative with being treated properly, always gambling your life away—" he sounded frustrated, the last few words coming out in a low grumble.

You ignore his words, instead bringing your hand to playfully pinch at his earlobe before whispering, "is this how you usually treat your patients, doctor?"

"This is..." Unprofessional, he almost said, he knew well there wasn't anything professional about how he was acting with you at the moment. "...An exception."

He then continued to litter your skin with open-mouthed kisses, his hand trailing up to find your nape, tangling his fingers into your hair, playing with the textured strands.

"Is it because I'm that special someone?"

You really have no idea what kind of effect you had on him. Zayne's teeth grazed against your pulse point lightly, his tongue darting out for a brief taste of your skin. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't very affected by you.

"My special someone," he murmured, and can't help the low gasp that escapes his throat when you start rolling your hips against his, feeling himself going dizzy.

"M-my love," he protested weakly, a visible growing tent forming in his bathrobe, making it harder for him to stop himself from pulling you harder against his lap.

He grabbed you by the thighs and leaned back into the backrest, giving you less space to move but a better angle to straddle him instead. "Don't stop," you whisper next to his ear while you try to continue pushing yourself further into him that he had to suppress a moan.

Zayne was sensitive man, being pent up most of the time, so touch straved. "You're a terrible patient, you know that? Insatiable." He managed to get out.

"I'm a different kind of patient," you hum, trailing your fingertips along his visible bare skin of his chest.

He was going to combust if you didn't stop touching him like that.

"You're dangerous." he almost whimpered, his hands moving back to grip your hips, as if to steady them on his lap, but it took every ounce of his willpower not to grind them against his crotch.

God was he done, Zayne finally wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and pulled you back down for a crushing kiss. It was less of a kiss and more of a possessive mark, hungry and rough.

He wanted you, needed you, he couldn't get enough of you. His tongue delved into your mouth with a greedy swipe, tasting you, as if he was drowning in you and the only thing keeping him alive was your kiss alone.

His breathing grew erratic as his hands slid down from your hips, grabbing the backs of your thighs and squeezing at the flesh, pressing you more firmly against his lap so his obvious hardened cock was rubbing between your legs.

Your sounds were unforgettable, Zayne could never forget them, the gasps and small whimpers of pleasure. He was already gone.

"Goddamn it..." he cursed hoarsely against your mouth, his hands clenching tighter under your thighs, guiding your motions on his lap before bucking up roughly, letting out a quiet groan of his own in the process.

"such a foul mouth, doctor,"

"Don't push it," he grumbled, lifting you up to his waist, "Push it?" You ask while wrapping your arms around his neck as he walked you to his room, and upon the realization, tap on his shoulder, "wasn't i supposed to rest—"

"That doesn't mean you can't rest after, does it?" he responded, moving over to the edge of the bed before slowly lowering you down onto the sheets, his body caging you in between his arms and legs, his form hovering over you.

He wasted no time sliding his hand underneath your silky nightgown to feel your skin, pulling the fabric above your head, guiding your arms up.

Zayne was a weak, weak man. Weak for seeing you like this, glossy eyes, lips slightly swollen from his kiss and the way your chest rose and fell heavily with every breath. Just being able to see you like this alone was a privilege.

He let his hands roam over the curve of your stomach, "so pretty," he muttered, his eyes raking over your form.

He leaned down to graze your neck with a trail of open-mouthed kisses, his lips lingering and nipping the skin, he then slowly traveled down your collarbone and to the valley of your chest, his fingers fiddling with the clasp of your bra the entire time.

"Lift your hips." he commanded quietly, sending a shiver down your spine and heat pooling down as you obliged to his words.

The last thing on you, and Zayne was pulling the fabric out from underneath you, throwing the bra somewhere on the floor, his eyes dark as he raked his gaze over your soft mounds, "I'm never getting tired of this view." he whispered breathlessly, Upon holding your wrists down and claiming your lips again, it was impossible to not be sent into the next cardiac arrest.

Well good think your doctor is always here to tend to you.

"I've.. missed you,"

How was he supposed to hold back when you sounded like that? Your voice coming out in a low, needy whisper that drove him over the edge.

"You need me." he groaned, releasing your wrists so both his hands could run down your sides, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties before giving the fabric a tug. He reached over, grabbing one of your legs and hooking your knee over his shoulder before pressing a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee, He continued to make a trail kisses up your thigh until he reached right infront of your wet folds.

Zayne looked up when your hand came in contact with his hair while letting out a shuddering breath and a whisper of his name, your gazes heated as he moved his head further down to your core, using one hand to keep your thigh pinned over his shoulder before his eyes fixated on your clit, leaning down to kiss it.

You gasp. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, before he began to suck on your clit, his fingers trailing up to play with your hardened nipples, rolling and pinching them gently with his thumb and forefinger. He hummed when you start squirming, his tongue skillfully flicking and rolling around the bundle of nerves, Zayne didn't stop at just your clit, though.

He trailed his tongue lower, teasing your entrance, and you couldn't help but tug at his hair, hips coming to slowly grind against his face. "Stay still, you're doing well," he praised, his voice low and soft, you best know he's trying so hard not to rut against the mattress from how achy he felt. His tongue sliding in and out, coating it with your arousal. You could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building up inside you.

And you think you might pass out when he starts sucking down. It was hard to stay still when you're so close to orgasm, that it was making your head blank, eyes half-lidded and heavy breaths coming out of your lips as you arch your back when you taste the sweet pleasure of your release.

Zayne lifted his head from between your legs, licking his lips appreciatively and giving your stomach a few fluttering kisses. "You okay there, honey?" He asked in a low, hoarse voice as he watched how your eyes were still half lidded, and how your draped your arm over your face.

You only nod in return, letting out a low "Mhm,"

He couldn't wait until he was on his knees positioned between your legs, throwing his bathrobe off from his body before reaching down to his painfully hard cock, stroking once, twice, and he had to stop himself because he could most definitely jerk off just by looking at your face, especially when you're naked like this.

Zayne swallowed thickly, shaking his head to himself from any other thoughts before reaching over to the nightstand and grabbing a condom, tearing it between his teeth then rolling it on himself, making sure it was on securely before moving between your legs.

He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, staring into your eyes, waiting for you to give him the go-ahead. You nodded, your eyes still heavy with need, and he slowly pushed into you, his cock filling you up inch by inch.

Your jaw hanged, your body adjusting to him, your walls gripping his shaft. He continued to thrust in slowly, "you're the only thing..." He panted breathlessly into your neck, "the only thing i need in my life—" and he continued to rock against you with his thrusts slow and deep.

Zayne was taking his time now, slowly and with intent, he wanted to show you how much this moment means to him, how much you mean to him, how everytime you both have sex, it would feel like the first time every single time.

He lifted his head so that he could look at your face more clearly, his hands running over your sides, tracing the curves and the softness of your body, his fingers touching your skin as if to burn the feel of you into his memory.

His hand then trailed to your left wrist, taking your hand into his to interlace your fingers together, while his thumb brushed over the empty spot on your ring finger.

He internally cursed at himself for not getting you that ring he saw when he was on the way to the hospital. The beautiful gem resting on the window display, calling for him even.

Why didn't he just get it so he could make sure no one would ever look your way when they get the hint of the shiny ring sitting at your left ring finger?

Zayne then picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder and faster, your voice growing louder, accompanied by his frustrated grunts.

He could feel himself getting close, his thrusts becoming more erratic, "Come on, my love," he urged you desperately, "a-ah, Zayne—!" With a loud moan, you came, your body shaking and your legs convulsing around his waist.

He followed right after, slamming deep into you, his cock pulsing as he came, filling the condom with his hot seed. He held you close, both of your breathings heavy, taking a moment to hold you both close before slowly pulling out to dispose of the condom.

"Still have enough energy for cuddles?"

"Mm, I'd want nothing more than cuddles right now."

A smile formed on his face at your words, gently shifting himself back on the bed so that he was beside you, pulling you into his arms.

He wrapped his arms around you, and he let out a content sigh, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, his head in the crook of your neck again, inhaling the scent of you, and he realized that he could stay like this forever. "Just a bit more before i clean both of us up.."

#zayne smut #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #zayne #lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x you #lnds zayne #love and deepspace smut

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edenarchives · 3 months ago

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♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve faked it with every guy you’ve ever worked with. Every scene, every moan, convincing, but never real. Then Bakugo happens. One scene turns into something else entirely and now you can’t stop thinking about him, and you’re starting to wonder if it was ever just a scene.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content. smut, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, praise, light degradation, dirty talk, light choking, possessiveness, semi-public sex (on set), creampie, light aftercare, porn industry setting, blurred emotional lines, language.

PART TWO

You weren’t nervous. Not really.

You’d done this a hundred times. With all the big names—Keigo, who liked to make everything a performance; Touya, who had a thing for whispering filth like he was telling you a secret; even that wild three-way with Shindo and Hitoshi that still topped your subscriber requests.

So no, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something else.

Maybe it was the name on the call sheet. Bakugo Katsuki.

He was the guy. The one who didn’t just act like a powerhouse on camera—he was one. Every scene he was in got clipped, shared, memed, thirsted after. The kind of raw intensity people couldn’t stop watching. Or jerking off to.

You included. Not that you’d admit it out loud.

Okay. Maybe once. When you were wine drunk and swiping through his catalog. Maybe twice. Maybe more.

You’d watched him wreck other girls. Watched the way his hands gripped hips like he owned them. The way his mouth dragged moans out like he knew exactly what buttons to push. You always told yourself it was research. Prep for the inevitable scene.

Now here you were, in the makeup chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the clock. You didn’t even get this antsy for award shows.

You shifted your hips a little. God, you needed to get a grip.

“Five minutes, Y/N,” someone called from set.

You gave a casual wave, sliding your phone into your bag. Cool. Easy. You’d done this before. You were the girl. The one who always looked good, always knew her angles, always gave the most convincing moans. No one ever knew they were fake.

No one needed to.

You only did this for the money. Never caught feelings, never chased orgasms. You could finish on your own time. You always did.

But when you walked onto set and saw him—arms crossed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like the cameras were already rolling—your breath hitched.

And then his eyes locked on you.

Bakugo didn’t smile. He smirked. All sharp teeth and slow drags of his gaze. Like he was already undressing you in his head.

“‘Bout time,” he said, voice low and cocky.

You raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Dynamight.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up. He smelled like something spicy—cologne, sweat, and danger. His smirk widened.

“Too late, princess. I’ve seen your work. Bet I could make you actually cum.”

You laughed. It came out a little shaky. “You think you’re the first guy to say that?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek like he had every right to touch you already. “But I’ll be the first one to prove it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. Cocky bastard. You weren’t new to bold claims—hell, you’d heard that same line from half the industry. But something about the way he said it, all low and sure like it was a promise, made your pulse skip.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising to your cheeks.

The scene started like any other.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You were on your back, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. Your moans were perfectly timed, your hands moving just how they were supposed to.

Bakugo was above you, teasing at first, fingers trailing up your thigh, smirking like he had all the time in the world. You tried to stay in character. Tried to focus.

But then his fingers actually slipped inside, and holy shit—

You bit your lip.

That felt… different.

His fingers weren’t just thrusting. They curled. Pressed. Rubbed against the spot you usually had to hunt for on your own. And when he looked down at you, his eyes weren’t blank or performative. They were locked in. Watching every twitch of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath.

“You always fake it this early?” he muttered under his breath, so low only you could hear.

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs tensed.

“What?” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Bakugo chuckled. It rumbled low in his chest.

“You’re tight,” he said, dragging his thumb over your clit just right. “But you ain’t clenching like you mean it. Not yet.”

And then he sucked on your inner thigh.

Not for the camera. Not for show.

For you.

Your back arched on instinct.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin. “I got you.”

And you hated—hated—how badly you wanted to believe him.

He didn’t start slow.

He licked into you like he was starving, like he’d been starving, and this was his first meal in weeks. His tongue was hot, wet, relentless—flicking against your clit in firm, practiced strokes that had your legs trembling before you could even bite back the first moan.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you, white-knuckled, and your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a broken little gasp.

“Oh fuck—”

He hummed against you. Smug bastard.

“Don’t hold back now, princess,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit slow, then latching back onto your clit like he owned it. “Let’s show ‘em what it looks like when it’s real.”

You whimpered. Whimpered. You didn’t do that.

Not even when Keigo pulled out the toys. Not even when Touya did that breathy thing in your ear.

This was different.

You tried—tried—to keep it together, but his mouth moved like he already knew every inch of you. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers still working inside you like he wasn’t giving you a fucking choice. He knew exactly where to press, where to flick, when to slow down and when to pick it back up again.

And it wasn’t even for the camera.

It was for you.

Your stomach coiled, tight. Too tight.

Your breathing hitched. Your thighs started to shake. You were going to—

“No,” you gasped, voice panicked, eyes fluttering. “Don’t—fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah you are,” Bakugo growled, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His mouth was wet with you, lips swollen, eyes wild. “C’mon. Don’t fake it. Just fuckin’ let go.”

And then he sucked—hard—right over your clit.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, ripping the air from your lungs. You didn’t fake it. You couldn’t. Your moans were raw, broken, punched out of you like the wind got knocked from your chest. You shook, hands flying to his hair, thighs locking around his head as your back arched off the bed.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept going. Licking, pressing, dragging your orgasm out like he wanted to ruin you.

You came again, again, before you’d even come down from the first.

Your voice cracked. “Bakugo, I—I can’t—”

“Yeah you can,” he muttered, not letting up for a second. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was buzzing, on fire, shaking like you’d lost control of every single nerve ending. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t lose it like this.

But god, he was still licking you through it, fingers still curling right there, his voice low and wrecked as he talked you through it like he wanted to brand the sound of your orgasm into your memory forever.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, voice gravel and heat, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, desperate, lost.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s real.”

Your lips trembled.

“It’s real,” you gasped, breathless, broken. “It’s real, fuck I’m gonna—”

And just like that, you came undone again. Loud. Messy. Helpless.

Bakugo didn’t stop until your hips were twitching, your thighs were soaked, and your moans turned into soft little sobs of overstimulation.

The lights above you still burned hot. The cameras were still rolling. But everything else felt far away—muted, blurry, unreal. Your legs were jelly. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon. And Bakugo was still between them, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden and planned to do it again.

Your brain was still fogged when he stood, stretching to his full height.

Then his hands were back on you, big and warm and so sure, gripping your waist like he owned it. He flipped you over effortlessly, face down, ass up, skin still hot and damp with sweat. Your thighs trembled when they spread open again, already overstimulated and soaked.

Bakugo slid his hands up your back. Slow. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning over you, his cock grinding against your ass with lazy pressure. “That twitch in your legs? That little shake?”

You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering.

“That’s mine now.”

Your breath caught as he pulled his hips back. You barely had time to process before the thick head of his cock was pressing against your entrance—hot, heavy, and already wet from you.

“You ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Then he pushed in.

Slow. All the way to the hilt. Letting you feel every inch. Stretching you open, filling you to the fucking brim. You choked on a moan, fingers gripping the sheets like your life depended on it.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting your pussy throb around him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, hips flexing. “So fuckin’ tight. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

You were. He hadn’t even started moving yet and you were clenching around him like you didn’t want him to leave.

Then—he moved.

A slow drag out. A sharp thrust back in. Deep. Deeper. Your mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

“That the spot?” he murmured, hips rolling again, hitting the same angle, slow and deliberate.

You nodded, gasping.

“You better fuckin’ tell me when you’re close,” he growled, pace still maddeningly slow. “I wanna feel it. I wanna hear it.”

He reached around and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing soft, teasing circles that made your arms give out. You dropped to your elbows, back arching like he’d wired you for pleasure.

Then he started really fucking you.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Every. Single. Stroke. Reaching places that made your eyes roll back. His hips snapped forward with just enough force to jolt you up the bed, his fingers never leaving your clit.

You moaned into the mattress, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the fuckin’ sound I wanted.”

You were spiraling. Every thrust, every rub, every low growl in your ear sent you closer to the edge.

“Bakugo, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he grunted, hips picking up speed, still hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

You shattered.

You clenched around him so tight he groaned, biting down on a curse as your body trembled under him. Your moan punched out of your throat, high and wrecked and real.

But he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching as he kept thrusting, dragging you straight into another orgasm with no break.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear. “Not fakin’ now, huh?”

You shook your head wildly, whining into the sheets.

“Bet you never came like this on set before,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you cum like this off it either.”

He wrapped a hand in your hair and pulled gently, just enough to lift your head.

“Say it.”

You could barely speak. “No one. No one but you.”

“Damn right.”

His thrusts sped up, rougher now, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, joined by your wrecked little gasps, your whines, the slick mess between your thighs.

“You hear that?” he said, low and smug. “That fuckin’ sound your pussy’s makin’? That’s all me.”

You whimpered, and he slapped your ass—not hard, just enough to make you clench again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

And then he slammed into you. Hard. Once. Twice. Over and over. You screamed—literally—as another orgasm crashed through you, your body locking up, eyes rolling back.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, and then pulled out just in time to stroke himself twice, thick ropes of cum painting your back, his voice ragged as he came with a low, wrecked growl.

You collapsed.

No faking. No poses. Just you, ruined on the sheets, shaking and soaked and completely fucking gone.

Bakugo dropped to his knees behind you, panting. He grabbed a towel off the edge of the bed, wiped you down gently—so gently it made your chest ache.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet now. Careful.

You nodded, still dizzy. Still pulsing. Still floating.

“I came so many times I lost count,” you whispered, dazed.

He chuckled, cocky and low. “Good.”

You rolled onto your side, trying to catch your breath.

“That was supposed to be a scene,” you mumbled. “That felt like a fucking movie.”

Bakugo leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder, then smirked against your skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, “that was just the warm-up.”

You snorted softly, still breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Your legs were still trembling, body wrecked and used and buzzing. But something else was humming under your skin now. That ache in your core—not from need, but from power.

You rolled over, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers down his chest. His eyes tracked every movement.

“Get on your back,” you whispered.

Bakugo raised a brow but didn’t argue. He leaned back against the pillows, smirking like he thought he still had the upper hand.

His hair was damp with sweat. His lips were swollen. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths. You’d never seen him like this.

Your grin widened.

You leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, way too good to be acting. Then you sat back, hips lifting off him, and slid down his body.

“Where you goin’?” he rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

You looked up at him from between his thighs, eyes dark, lips parted. “Didn’t say I was done with you yet.”

His breath caught.

You licked up the underside of his cock—slow, teasing, wet. He twitched in your hand, muscles tensing as you took your time, letting your mouth work him like you had something to prove. And maybe you did. Maybe you just wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d done to you.

You looked up, mouth wrapped around the tip, and saw it—the crack in his composure. The soft clench of his jaw. The desperate twitch in his thigh. The helpless sound he made when you sucked just right.

“You’re so sensitive, you’re not gonna last,” you said around him, lips brushing the head.

His fingers gripped the sheets. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept going, messy and perfect, tongue flicking and mouth sinking deeper, until he was panting, until he was cursing under his breath, until his hips jerked off the bed.

And then you pulled off, slow, dragging your tongue over the tip one last time.

He made a noise—wrecked.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips again. His hands found your thighs like muscle memory, gripping tight.

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“Beg.”

He froze. “What?”

You rolled your hips once, just enough to feel the slide of his cock against your slick entrance.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

Bakugo swallowed hard. His voice was low, rough. “I want it.”

You licked the shell of his ear, teasing. “Not good enough.”

His hands trembled where they held you. Then he growled, breath hot.

“Please.”

You stilled.

“What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. Looked up at you like he hated how much he meant it.

“Please,” he repeated. “I want you. Need you. Fuck, I’ll say whatever you want—just ride me.”

You smiled. Real. Slow. Lazy and smug.

Then you sank down on him—deep, wet, tight—and his whole body arched beneath you, a broken moan punching out of his throat like you’d ripped it from his chest.

His hands flew to your hips.

You rode him slow. Sweet. All control. And when he finally came again—loud, raw, completely undone—you kissed him through it. Held him through it.

And when he whispered your name afterward, soft and stunned, like he didn’t know what just hit him

You smiled. Because for once, it wasn’t just acting.

Neither of you moved right away. His arms were still around you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, skin damp with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your fingers. Your heart was still beating too fast, and so was his.

Eventually, though, you had to get up. Had to move. The spell didn’t break, exactly—it just faded enough to remember where you were, who you were, what this was supposed to be.

You pulled on your robe in silence, legs still shaking slightly, and glanced at him across the bed. He sat up slow, pushing his hair back, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like maybe he had more to say, but didn’t know how. Or didn’t think he should.

You hesitated.

So did he.

“Um…I’ll see you around,” you said, trying to make it sound casual, even though your voice came out a little too soft.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and reaching for his clothes. “Guess you will.”

Your stomach twisted, weirdly tight, but you smiled anyway. You nodded once, turned, and walked off set without looking back.

You didn’t see the way he watched you go.

Didn’t see the way his fingers flexed like he wanted to reach for you.

Didn’t hear the low, quiet fuck that slipped from under his breath when the door finally shut behind you.

You got home and didn’t even shower right away.

You peeled off your clothes slow, every muscle sore in the best possible way, and collapsed into bed wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and your post-fuck glow. Your thighs ached. Your voice was half-gone. Your lips were still swollen.

You looked wrecked.

You felt worse.

And yet somehow, the only thing you could think about was him. The way he’d looked at you. The way he sounded saying your name. The way his hands had held you after like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You tried to distract yourself. Pulled up the scene, freshly posted not even an hour ago.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. More than anything you’d dropped in months.

You scrolled.

StepOnMeY/N: Holy shit, that was unreal.

BbyBakuGo: not y/n faking with everyone but bakugo

ToyasToy: Was that real? Tell me that was real.

It was.

You scrolled further.

KeigoOfficial: I feel personally offended. Gonna have to step my game up. Rematch y/n?

TouyaTodo: faked it? With me? damn. i must be losing my edge. hit me up when you wanna make it real doll.

You smirked.

Your DM notifications were blowing up. People you’d worked with. People you hadn’t. Everyone suddenly curious. Hungry. Competitive.

Your stomach flipped. It was fun. It was flattering. But none of it hit quite the same.

Then you saw it.

BakugoK: Already need more from my favorite girl.

You stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

A third time, just to make sure it was real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers went numb. You sat up in bed, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. Because what the fuck did that mean?

You clicked on his profile. Double checked that it was him.

It was.

No emoji. No game. Just a single comment that said everything and nothing all at once.

Already need more.

Favorite girl.

You slammed your laptop shut and screamed into your pillow. You kicked your feet like a schoolgirl. You laughed—hysterical, breathless, completely losing your mind.

Then you opened your laptop, stared at the comment again, and whispered out loud to no one

“Oh my god.”

Because yeah—you’d done this a hundred times. But this one was different.

#bakugo katuski #smut #my hero academia #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo smut #mha smut #bakugou x reader #bakugo fic #mha #katsuki bakugo x reader

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viperify · 2 months ago

Text

oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆˖𐙚 Perfect Little Doll.

Short Summary: Tom Riddle is quite laid-back when it comes to you—but under the effect of a Lust Potion, he just takes what he wants—however he wants.

Warnings: 18+ only! consensual non consent. somno, sex under the effect of a lust potion, rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, sex with little to no prep, creampie

A/N: I got the highest grade possible for my thesis, you get filthy smut! Win-win.

wordcount: 1,2k

“No, stay— stay like this.”

It’s the first thing you hear when you stir awake in the middle of the night. You try to move—but something, or rather someone, is making sure you have no choice but to stay trapped beneath them.

“Please, no—“ panic rises in your chest as you struggle under their weight—but it’s no use.

“Shh. It’s me. Be good and stay still.”

This time, you recognize the voice, and you exhale a shuddering breath, relaxing just slightly.

It’s Tom.

Lying on your front, you don’t get to meet his expression, hell, you don’t even get to fucking ask what he’s doing—

Because you already feel him pressing against your entrance, tip hot and flushed, leaking with need—and with a single, measured thrust, he pushes inside. Deep.

“Fuck—“ you shriek at the sudden, stinging stretch. “Tom, that hurts!”

As you reach behind you, trying to push him away, give you time to adjust, he instantly pins your wrists to your back.

“I know— fuck, I know.” He grumbles, yet shows no intent to stop. Instead, he pulls out, pushing back inside immediately—drawing another sharp gasp from you. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You don’t know exactly what’s gotten into him. Yes, you both agreed upon this, that he could use you when you were asleep—and that you could tell him to stop whenever you actually wanted to—but never had he been this eager.

“Tom, please—“ you try again, whimpering at the burning, unrelenting stretch. His hand finds its way into your hair, lifting your head slightly just to push you into the pillow beneath you—muffling your whines.

His hips rock forward once more, testing, trying how much you can take.

“You will be quiet and take it, alright? Be a good girl for me?” He mumbles, voice coming out raspy, laced with need. He withdraws then, only halfway this time—

Just to snap his hips forward again, tip harshly ramming against your sensitive cervix—a feeling that has you biting your lips so hard, you taste blood.

“God, Tom!” You yelp, hips involuntarily bucking against his in an attempt to free yourself—but it only results in him slipping deeper, drawing a low groan from the brunette.

Slowly, he starts rolling his hips against yours, still buried deep, brows furrowed, breathing heavily through his slightly parted lips at just how tight you feel around him.

Finally, his hand leaves your hair, allowing you to inhale a deep breath—lungs burning from the lack of oxygen as you do. Just a mere second later, it’s wrapped around your neck instead, pushing you down once more.

He’s got you exactly how he likes you—one leg angled to your side, his body trapping yours between him and the bed, fingers pressing into your pulse point, enough to make you feel light-headed. Hips flush with yours, ass pressed against his pelvis—it makes his head spin. He needs to have you, take you—now.

“Slipped me this potion— told me it was for sobering up— fuck, sweetheart, you’re tight.” He groans, a deep, low sound somewhere from the back of his throat, feeling him twitch inside you.

It all comes crashing down onto you. Why he is like this.

They made him drink a Lust Potion.

Judging by the fact that he didn’t even second-guess before downing it—must mean he’s had a decent amount of drinks as well.

All of that, combined with the effects of the potion—turned him into this.

You don’t get to think about the situation for much longer and what you could do to ease the effects—the slow drag of his cock against your walls as he starts thrusting into you efficiently short-circuiting your brain.

He doesn’t ease you into it. After one or two thrusts, he picks up his pace, hips snapping against yours as though it’s the last time he gets to have you.

Tom usually isn’t the most vocal. Yes, he enjoys it—loves it, even—when he can pin you down and fuck you into the mattress until you are begging for him to let you come. But, just like outside of your sacred four walls, he likes to keep his composure—even during the most intimate acts.

In short: he hates losing control.

But now—he’s moaning, whimpering even at how sensitive he is—at how good and warm you feel, wrapped tightly around him.

It’s making your brain fuzzy. Everything about it. How you are slowly loosening up for him, allowing him to increase his pace, how your own arousal makes it even easier for him to thrust deep.

“Taking me so well, sweetheart.” Tom praises, breathless, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the otherwise quiet bedroom. “Like this pussy was fucking made for me, fitting me like a damn glove—“

And at this point you are praying you would survive this.

His thrusts grow rougher, punishing almost, brushing against your cervix with every single snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your airflow once more as he feels himself getting close.

“Fuck, darling— going to let me fill you up, hm? Make you nice and full of me?” He grits out, staying pressed flush against you for a second, making you feel all of him—every vein, every ridge—every. single. inch.

You nod as best as you can, clenching down tight around him.

“Please Tom, please fill me up— need it, fuck—“

He groans at that, cursing under his breath.

“Good girl. Such a perfect little doll, all nice and pliant for me—“

It’s not long until his pace falters, hips stuttering against your own—and he groans lowly as he starts spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls with his warm release.

He collapses on top of you—breathing heavily against your neck, chest heaving—and although your mind is still hazy with your own pleasure, your thoughts drift back to what happened before he returned to your home.

Knowing them, you guess it’s Rosier and Mulciber who did it. Probably thought it was hilarious, too.

You aren’t sure if you should feel bad for the fact that you don’t know what Tom would come up with as punishment.

Because hell—they are not the ones who have to put up with him like this.

Meanwhile, Tom is still buried deep, keeping his release right where it belongs—but then, when his breathing returns to normal, he gives you the slightest roll of his hips—

“Said it would take three hours to wear off—“

And you already feel him growing hard again.

Fuck, you are screwed.

“Tom, please—“

He shushes you with a kiss on top of your head.

“No. Stay— need you— need you again.” He rasps, back to thrusting into you, fucking his cum even deeper as he’s back chasing his next climax. And you? You are right there with him, on the precipice of your own orgasm.

Merlin fucking help you.

If he won’t kill them for this, you might just do it yourself.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #hmm… someone take my phone away.#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle x reader smut #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle fic #slytherin boys #slytherin #harry potter #slytherin boys smut #slytherin boys x reader #divider by strangergraphics #divider by enchanthings a

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 2 months ago

Note

topper and kelce accidentally walking in while rafe fucks reader.

❛ INTERRUPTED WHILE RAFE FUCKS YOU ❜

girlfriend¡reader . . . rafe cameron

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Rafe growled, his voice a low, gravelly snarl, dripping with dominance. His hips snapped forward, driving into you hard enough to make the bedframe groan in protest.

“This pussy’s mine, huh? Takin’ me like you were made for it.” His smirk was all teeth, a cocky edge to it that made your stomach flip even as your mind spun from the intensity.

He had you pinned, one hand gripping your thigh so hard his fingers left red imprints, the other braced beside your head on the mattress.

Your legs were splayed wide, trembling as he fucked you with a relentless, punishing rhythm. His cock—thick, hard, and unforgiving—slammed into you with a force that made your whole body jolt.

The wet, lewd slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Each thrust stretched you open, the head of him dragging against your slick walls, hitting that spot deep inside that turned your moans into broken, desperate cries.

You couldn’t answer—not coherently. Your hands clawed at his back, nails digging into his tanned skin, leaving jagged red lines that only seemed to egg him on. “Rafe—oh fuck, Rafe,” you gasped, your voice splintering as he shifted his angle, his cock plunging deeper, grinding against your cervix.

Your thighs quaked, slick with sweat and the mess of your arousal, your cunt clenching around him so tight it drew a sharp hiss from his lips.

The pressure was building, a hot, coiling ache in your core that had your eyes fluttering shut and your mouth falling open.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “Look at you, fuckin’ wrecked for me.” His tongue flicked out, tracing the shell of your ear before his teeth grazed your lobe, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

His pace was brutal, hips rolling with a precision that was both calculated and wild, like he was trying to imprint himself on every inch of you.

The headboard banged against the wall in time with his thrusts, a steady thump-thump-thump that matched the obscene squelch of your bodies colliding.

Your breasts bounced with each stroke, nipples brushing his chest, sending sparks of heat through you. One of his hands slid up, rough palm cupping your breast, squeezing hard before his fingers pinched your nipple, twisting just enough to make you yelp.

The sting blended with the pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. “Rafe—I can’t—” you whimpered, your words cutting off as he thrust even harder, the bed creaking louder under the assault.

“Can’t what? Take it? Too fuckin’ bad,” he taunted, his voice thick with pride. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, ruthless circles. “You’re gonna cum for me, and I’m gonna feel every damn second of it.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, the coil snapping as your orgasm hit like a freight train.

Your walls spasmed around him, soaking his cock as you screamed his name, hips bucking wildly beneath him. Your vision blurred, stars exploding behind your eyelids as your nails sank deeper into his shoulders.

Rafe groaned, low and filthy, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chased his own high, still pounding into you through your climax.

“That’s it—fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, his smirk widening as he watched you fall apart. He was mid-thrust, his cock buried deep, when the door suddenly burst open.

Topper and Kelce stumbled in, their laughter dying on their lips as they froze, eyes bugging out at the sight. You were still trembling, mid-orgasm, your legs spread and Rafe’s hips pressed flush against yours.

The wet sounds of sex hung heavy in the air, unmistakable, as the two of them stood there, jaws dropped.

Your face flushed crimson, mortification crashing over you like a tidal wave. “Oh my God—get out!” you shrieked, scrambling to pull the sheet up over yourself, your hands shaking as you tried to cover your exposed body.

Your voice was high-pitched, panicked, your chest heaving as embarrassment burned through the haze of pleasure.

Rafe, though? He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t stop moving—not right away. He gave one more lazy, deliberate thrust, making sure Topper and Kelce got the full fucking picture, before he turned his head toward them, smirking like the smug bastard he was.

“What? You jealous or somethin’?” he drawled, his tone dripping with arrogance.

His grip tightened on your thigh, keeping you pinned beneath him as he finally stilled, his cock still buried inside you. He glanced down at you, then back at them, his smirk widening.

Topper blinked, hands raised in surrender, a mix of shock and amusement flickering across his face. “Dude—shit, man, we didn’t know! Lock the fuckin’ door!”

Kelce was already backing out, choking on a laugh, his hand over his mouth like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “You’re a dick, Cameron,” he managed, shaking his head as he pulled Topper with him.

The door slammed shut, their muffled voices fading down the hall, and you buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I’m never showing my face again,” you muttered, your voice muffled by your palms, your entire body hot with shame.

Rafe just chuckled, low and dark, leaning down to kiss the side of your neck like nothing had happened. “Relax,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your pulse. “They’re just mad they’ll never get a taste.” His hand slid up your side, possessive and unapologetic, his cock twitching inside you as he added, “You’re still mine, though. Let ‘em fuckin’ watch.”

𓂅 notes ―

return home ⸝⸝

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ꪆৎ est. 2025

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chuluoyi · 8 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘

- sylus x reader

from strictly professional to lovers. everyone acknowledges you as his woman, but how far will he go for you when he realizes you are in danger?

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—brief smut, very self-indulgent, injuries, descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc)

note: hi i'm back! <3 and with another part of the assassin!reader series that started with strictly (un)professional :D

Your lover is, without a doubt, a sex god.

He was insatiable, and he could do it anywhere. Before you could blink, he had shed himself of his clothes, saying something along the lines of “the sun’s way too hot today.”

As soon as Sylus pulled you into the pristine bathroom, he immediately pinned you against the shower wall and crashed his lips into you in a senseless kiss. His lips, hot and demanding, pried yours open, leaving no room for resistance.

“Ahh—hah—” His hands worked with dizzying speed, undoing your skirt and blouse in one swift motion, leaving you in nothing but your bra and underwear.

A startled gasp escaped you as he pulled at the drawstring of your panties, making them slide down with ease to gather at your feet.

“—!” You rode him, pressing your body close against his bare skin. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head back as you gasped for breath, your chest heaving. Locking eyes with him, you shot him a glare. “Incorrigible… bastard…”

“Just the way you like me, hmm?” his perfect lips curled wickedly, before going for your lush lips once again.

It wasn't long before he made you an utter mess of moans and groans—when he slid inside you, stars burst behind your eyes. The way he stretched you, filling every inch, never ceased to catapult you to the heights of pleasure.

And when you rode him, taking him deep with every bounce, that you tasted the sixth heaven.

“Do it like you mean it, sweetie.” Sylus’s velvety chuckle brushed against your ear as he pressed a firm hand against your lower back, adjusting your angle on him. His gaze never wavered, fixed on your expression as bliss overtook your every feature.

“Shut up,” you hissed, dragging your sharp nails down his back. He only smirked, unfazed by the sting, as if the pain were nothing more than a tease.

The relentless man and his fierce lady. As the sounds of sex filled the air, as the tight knot inside you burst and as he held you steady when you went limp in his arms—

In that hazy, blissful moment, a thought settled in your mind— you truly wished that you were indeed made for each other.

. . .

“Tired already?” Sylus let out a satisfied snicker, a gleam in his eyes as he lazily ran his fingers through your hair. Now fully clothed and basking in the afterglow, the two of you sprawled across his bed.

You let out a soft whine, before sighing and nuzzling your face into him. “Just let me be, please. ‘m so sleepy…”

“Boohoo.” A smile was still on his face even as your lips were pursed into a pout. The way your smaller frame curled so defenselessly next to him each and every night made that tender part inside him even more fond of you.

You were rough, you didn't mince words, and most of all, you weren't afraid of him. You grew on him day by day, no one got him better than you.

And now, before he realized it...

The night was still long for him and he was wide awake, but looking at you so peaceful like this...

It was purely by instinct. To put his arms around your waist, to pull you closer, and to press this lingering kiss on the side of your head.

“Sleep well, kitten.”

Beyond the lovemaking and tender nights was, of course, the infamous individuals. The Onychinus leader and his notorious lady assassin.

Throughout all years you had been with Sylus, you knew you were here for a reason: doing his dirty work. That reason wouldn't change even when you had become lovers. You wouldn't want it to anyway.

“I’m telling you, I’m going,” you declared, crossing your legs and lifting your chin defiantly. “I can extract the information much easier on my own anyway.”

Sylus turned to you, his glare quiet but pointed, unamused. “You won't be fast enough.”

“I can!”

“You have to learn to pick your fights, kitten. A kitten can only get out unscathed for so many times before she stumbles.”

“Don't call me kitten!”

It felt like an insult to your ability. It was strange to you how he seemingly prevented you to join him to infiltrate this black market auction. You had gone and came out whole several times already—except for that one time. So, what's different this time?

“I’m giving you the chance to sit this one out and be pretty. So why are you refusing?” he clicked his tongue, exasperated.

“I just want to tag along, why? It'll help you out too!”

“Tch.” He shot you a distasteful look, and you frowned in response. “You’re really meddlesome.”

Now you were positively irritated. “What?!”

The two of you were locked in a glare before he resigned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Do whatever you want, sweetie. Luke and Kieran, go with her.”

The twins next to you nodded dutifully and you threw them a withering stare. You most definitely didn't need these two buffoons to protect you.

“Boss is concerned,” Luke whispered in your ear with a wide grin as soon as Sylus walked away.

Kieran chimed in, “Mm-hmm, he definitely is.”

Is he? A part of you was caught off guard by the twins’ musings, but even if he was, it didn't make you feel better in the slightest.

You were deadly— you absolutely wouldn’t let anyone mess with you, and you were going to prove just that.

“Tell me who’s behind you... or die.”

You pressed the blade coldly against the neck of one of the black market Protocore dealers you caught, yanking his hair back to force him onto his knees.

“So, it’s you—!” he spat, a manic grin splitting his face despite your grip. “The Onychinus leader's infamous slut…”

You yanked his hair harder, eliciting a sharp hiss from him. “Tell me before I make you.”

“Ha. Hahaha!” He cackled, completely unfazed by your threat. This person was definitely not right in the head; even when you were this close to snapping his neck, he didn’t even falter.

“She is scary…” Kieran whispered to his twin behind you.

“No, that weirdo is even scarier. If I were him, I’d kiss Missus’ boots and beg for my life…” Luke retorted, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

The man in your grasp was still undaunted though. "Do you think I'm scared of you, woman? If so, then you're damn wrong because a whore like you can—"

"You misogynistic bastard." Your patience snapped, and you utilized your speech manipulation Evol on him that instant— "Talk."

"Urk—!" He trembled under the binding pressure of your ability, his glare sharp enough to cut, but his lips betrayed him, mouthing the words you sought. "Master... of Solon... Hotel..."

Without hesitation, you drove a punch into his face, sending him sprawling across the scattered cardboard boxes. "Luke, Kieran—let's go."

Your mood had been sour since you geared up for this operation. There was this gnawing irritation inside you that made you want to lash out at everything, and it was taking everything out of you not to.

Sometimes, you thought it wasn't that big of a deal that you were just a mere sidepiece to the leader of Onychinus. Your prized Evol was your everything— after all, it was what drew Sylus to you in the first place.

But lately, you started to think that it was no longer enough. Compared to the Miss Hunter, you were a generic presence in Sylus' life. And his words this afternoon definitely struck you in a way— making you wonder if you weren't good enough all this time.

"Missus, are you okay?" Kieran asked cautiously from behind, perhaps sensing the sharp edge in your demeanor.

You swallowed the bitter knot tightening in your chest. "I am."

"If you don't feel well then you can go straight back to the base," Luke suggested. "We'll meet Boss and tell him it's the hotel master."

You slammed your heel against the ground with deliberate force. "No."

You marched towards the meeting spot with stern gaze. No way. You were going to face Sylus with your head held high, making sure he knew just how lucky he was to have you.

"Please, if something happens to you—"

Crash! A deafening explosion suddenly erupted, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, barely regaining your footing—only to find the three of you surrounded.

“Ha...” You scoffed, your eyes locking onto the bruised man with split lips—the one you'd manhandled earlier.

But before you could say a word, he lunged, and the absolute worst happened—

“Die!”

Suddenly, your mind blanked as he seized your throat and slammed your head against the asphalt. The impact blurred your vision, and exponential panic surged in as his grip tightened, choking the breath from your lungs.

"—!" You thrashed desperately, clawing at his hands, gurgling as each second drained more strength from your limbs. Lightheadedness crept in, your thoughts scattering into fragments as pure survival instinct took over.

You would die. If this went on any longer—no, you were going to die.

“You have to learn to pick your fights, kitten.”

The agony was beyond excruciating, a crushing force that felt like it pierced straight into your soul, if such a thing were possible. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the edges of your vision. Anything—anyone— please—

But the last thing you saw was Kieran being stabbed, his body crumpling, and Luke pinned to the ground, struggling beneath the weight of his captors.

And then—

Your body felt weightless all of a sudden along with the last of your breath.

It was a magnificent disaster.

Sylus stood there, his right eye glowing brightly as he surveyed the wreckage around him—what he brought upon just moments ago.

The destroyed grand hall would serve as a warning to the hotel master. It didn't take him long to figure out that he was behind the raid of his Protocore warehouse and sold them out to the black market dealers.

He had decided this was enough as he stalked out of the hotel— until he was greeted with another atrocious sight.

It was then he saw someone choking on another person on the ground, and even with one look he knew. The terror gripped him so fast that black and red mist shot toward that man, ensnaring him in a chokehold and pried him away from—

You. You laid there motionless.

He sprinted toward you, flipping your body to face him. You were limp, the corners of your lips were bloodied, your neck was crushed and marked with bruises, but most alarming of all—

You weren’t breathing.

“Wake up.” Sylus commanded, taking you in his arms, gently patting your cheek. “Wake up, sweetie. Hey—”

You remained still, your head lolling lifelessly. And right in this moment, the thumping in his chest felt almost painful, because you couldn't possibly do this to him.

The one person who made his days better. He felt like a human the most while being with you, and yet now, you...

“Let me go!” the man behind him snarled, his voice a scream of fury. And as if a switch had flipped, he stopped trying to wake you, turning to him with eerie silence.

Just like that, he gathered you close, standing tall with you in his arms, cradling you close to his chest. The right eye of his glowed sinisterly as he spat out the words:

“Insolent vermin. You have touched my woman.”

His voice dripped with vengeance, the swirls of his red eyes glinted under the moonlight, narrowing as he hissed, “And I’ll make you pay.”

The black-red mist that ensnared the man tightened its grip, and he let out a howl as it choked him relentlessly, desperation flooding his voice.

“No! Graagh—!”

Sylus quietly watched as his bones twist and crack, blood overflowing the hard ground, the life draining from him as he fell like a mangled ragdoll before his entire being exploded into pieces, making him an example for everyone present.

Luke and Kieran were frozen in horror at the grotesque sight, not even a squeak escaping their lips, before turning to their master, with the woman he ever cared about in his arms.

You were beautiful.

Even as you lay still, a cast around your neck and bruises marring your skin, you were still every bit as stunning as you had been before all of this.

Sylus took a seat next to you, his hand cradling your cheek silently. His mind ran through with all thoughts of how you were still going to be in pain even when you woke up.

But at least, he knew you were going to, and that was enough for now.

Twice. It was the second time in which your life was at stake and he found himself on the receiving end of devastating news. The first time, you had truly died, and by sheer luck and compatibility, your body hadn’t rejected the Aether Core. This time, you were caught in a freak accident.

The mere possibility made something inside him burn. It was a given for him to have you always by his side. He didn’t know ever since when you occupied the fondest part of his heart almost wholly— but you did.

—and to see you like this was a painful shot right through his heart.

. . .

The moment you awakened, agony filled in your senses.

Memories came back like a whiplash and adrenaline kicked in, you were about to scream when you realized—

No sound emerged from your throat. You were on the brink of a full-blown panic when a hand gently rested on your arm, and your lover came into view.

“Easy, sweetie,” his baritone voice said. “You’re fine.”

But contrary to the calming words, your body suddenly began to shake uncontrollably. You couldn't distinguish where you were or how you had gotten here; all you could focus on was the haunting image of the man who had nearly choked you to death, and it didn't help that your throat felt like burning.

“Y/N.” Sylus caught your wrists, preventing you from thrashing, worry evident in his face. “What’s wrong?”

You gasped for air, teetering on the brink of tears. Your chest heaved with every breath you could manage, yet despite your desperation, you couldn’t form a single word.

“Don’t talk,” he shushed, realizing your panic, holding your gaze firmly. “Rest for more days and you will be able to. Don't push yourself.”

His voice grounded you, and you clutched at his arm for support. You were still trying to get yourself out of this illusion of danger that kicked all your senses alive.

Seeing your distress, Sylus moved next to you and pulled you into his embrace, gently patting your back. “There, there... I’m here. Nothing to worry about, hmm?”

He is here. You reassured yourself, working to steady your breath. He is here...

His voice lulled you, strong and steady, while his chest felt like a lifeline, anchoring you to the reality you had always had.

He ran his fingers through your hair, pressing his lips on the crown of your head. “So long as I'm here, I won’t let anything of this kind ever happen to you again.”

As long as he is here... You clung to him almost desperately. This was probably the most vulnerable side of yourself you had ever shown him, and yet in that moment, you were a whirlwind of emotions and couldn’t care less.

You aren't good enough. Your Evol is the only thing you have that is more precious than anything, and your fear whispers to you that you might just not hold any special position in his heart...

Strange how any of them no longer mattered that much anymore. When Sylus had you in his arms like this, you were sure. He simply made you feel safe more than anyone ever could.

You just had no idea just how much you meant to him as he whispered his promise into your ear.

“You have nothing to fear with me by your side.”

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hanniebaeee · 12 days ago

Text

The Hyune Effect

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI

Genre: established relationship, fluffy smut

Summary: Your boyfriend thirst-trapping you, because he's thirsty as hell.

a/n: Sorry not sorry 🤭

Hyunjin has been in one of his moods today. That mood.

You were sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone (with a pout), pretending to be engrossed in a meme when really, you were hyper-aware of Hyunjin sulking across the room.

He has been at it all day - thirst-trapping you like it was his job. It had started with him accidentally stretching in those gray sweatpants, his perfect, round ass begging for attention. He was wearing a nice short sleeved button down shirt, flexing his lean muscles while pretending to organize his art supplies.

Yeah, because organizing paint brushes needed that much flexing. Of course.

And don’t even get started on the way he bit his lip when your eyes met, smirking at you. Oh don't even go there.

But you? You’ve been dodging him, playing it cool, giving him nothing but a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic, “Nice try, Hwang.”

It was driving him up the wall, and now he was full-on tantrum mode, standing by the coffee table, hands on his hips, sweatpants slung so low and his hair a sexy little mess.

“You’re mean,” he whined, tossing a balled-up napkin at you, which bounces off your forehead with pathetic flair. “I’ve been serving looks all day, and you’re just ignoring me?! Do you know how much effort it takes to look this hot?”

You snorted, not looking up from your phone. You had put up with this the whole damn day. Your heart pounded and your traitor of a body was reacting to every little thing he did. And he didn't even touch you. You were embarrassed to say the least. Especially since you two have been together for so long. He still made your heart flutter. And stutter. And all that.

“Oh, poor baby,” you mocked, smirking. “What’s next, a striptease? Gonna dance for me?”

His eyes narrowed, a pout forming, but there was a glint in them, and he stomped closer, dramatic as ever.

“You think I won’t?” he challenged, his hands going to the hem of his shirt, but you held your hands up quickly.

“Hyunjin, stop!” you said, earning a glare from him.

“Rude!” he huffed, but he was grinning now, and you didn't have a minute to react before you were swept off the couch into Hyunjin's strong arms - his grip strong but gentle.

“Hyune, omg!!” You squealed, you ams going around his neck.

“Admit it, you’re affected by my ass! I saw you staring earlier!” he accused, as he started walking toward the bedroom.

“Never!” you gasped, but his lips were set in a smoldering smirk, and you were glaring at him (trying your best not to let that smile break in). “Hyune, put me down please-”

He kicked the bedroom door open dramatically, as he walked inside. He paused at the foot of the bed, his gaze raking over you, and with a playful, dramatic flair and he dropped you onto the mattress, letting you bounce on the soft duvet.

You laughed, propping yourself on your elbows, one of the thin straps of your top slipping off your shoulder. Hyunjin stood at the foot of the bed, towering over you, his expression pure…sex. Lips parted, heavy-lidded eyes and the way he’s gazing at you - like a predator sizing up his prey. A very adorable predator.

And then he slowly started unbuttoning his shirt, each flick of his fingers slow and deliberate as he revealed inch after inch of smooth toned skin. The dimmed lights of the room made the moment even more intimate, the soft light falling on his chest and abs, making you press your thighs together, because this was…enticing to say the least.

He was all lean muscle, sharp angles, and such raw intensity. His desire, so visible through his low slung sweats, straining against the material.

“Like what you see?” he purred, voice dripping with confidence, letting the shirt slide off his shoulders, and he tossed it across the room, only for it to land on the lamp, dimming its soft golden glow to nothing.

“Oh, great, now we’re in the dark,” you said, and he cackled, crawling over to in the darkness, his hands groping blindly, falling on your face and shoulder before finding your breasts and squeezing them over your top, making you moan through your laughter.

“Found ‘em,” he said triumphantly, lowering himself over you.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” you breathed (well, you can’t help being shameless when you have a boyfriend that hot), and he chuckled, low and sultry, before crashing his lips into yours. The kiss was deep and hungry, his tongue tangling with yours in the most erotic dance. His hands were everywhere - groping your breasts through your top and sliding under it to pinch your nipples, making you gasp into his mouth.

And your hands have a mind of their own, migrating right back to his ass, and - fuck, it was perfect, firm and round, and you can’t help but give it a playful squeeze, which made him yelp, his eyes wide, his laughter a mix of joy and a moan.

“Fuck, I need you-” He was tugging at your top now, but in the dark, everything was a fumble.

“Oh my god, I’m stuck!” you giggled, and Hyunjin laughed, his hands moving fast to help you.

“Hold still, you dork,” he said, finally yanking it off, your hair now a wild mess. You both collapsed into giggles, the intensity dissolving into pure, silly joy.

“Smooth, Hwang,” you teased, and he grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he pinned your wrists above your head.

His body pressed against yours, his cock hard through his jeans, grinding against your core.

“I’ll show you smooth,” he said, tugging your shorts off you along with your panties.

You watch as he shed his sweats and boxers, his length finally springing free, and you couldn’t help but make a grab for it, making him yelp again.

“Hey, handsy!” he laughed, tackling you back onto the bed, kissing you sloppy and sweet, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Gonna fuck you so good.”

He kissed you through your giggles as he lined himself up, his tip brushing your slick pussy, making you both moan. He pushed in, slow at first, stretching you, and you both gasped, the giggles fading for a moment as the pleasure hit.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he groaned, thrusting fast enough to make you whimper. He slows down for a moment, making you whine, and then speeds up again. But then you were just so wet that he slipped out of you, and it was your turn to yelp because his tip slipped right up to your clit.

Hyunjin burst out laughing, and you glared at him playfully, your hands gripping his ass to guide him.

“Oh my god, Hyune, focus!” you said, and he nodded, burying his face in your neck, kissing and nipping as he started thrusting, sloppy but eager.

It was the giggliest sex ever - every thrust interrupted by a laugh, every moan turning into a snort as he tickled your side, or you bit his earlobe because he was being a gremlin.

“You’re the worst,” he said, but he was grinning, his thrusts growing faster, deeper, as you clenched around him. You were both a mess, laughing and moaning, the bed creaking under you.

“Gonna - fuck - gonna come,” you gasped, your laughter turning into a moan as he hits the spot, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy circles on it.

“Me too,” he panted,“Okay, okay, serious now,”

You shuddered as your orgasm hit you first, your pussy spasming, slick gushing around his cock. He followed, his thrusts turning sloppy, as he spilled inside you, his moans making you shiver.

He collapsed over you, a sweaty mess and kissing your forehead.

“That was ridiculous,” you said, booping his nose. “Making me suffer all day so you could do this?”

“Ridiculously perfect,” he corrected you, his face nuzzling into your chest, kissing your nipple softly.

“You and your stupid thirst traps,” you teased, and he looked up, his eyes sparkling.

“Worked, didn’t it?” he said, winking, and you both dissolved into giggles again, your bodies tangled, and his perfect ass still the star of the show.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere

#stray kids #skz #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin smut #hyunjin fluff #skz smut #skz fluff #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids fluff

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buckyseternaldoll · 22 days ago

Text

Vaulted

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a mission turns sideways and you’re sealed in a lightless HYDRA vault with Bucky Barnes, buried trauma resurfaces fast. But vulnerability cracks open truth, and the quiet intimacy that follows reveals something deeper than either of you expected. What starts in darkness might just become something real.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), depictions of PTSD (reader and Bucky), mentions of past traumas involving captivity and torture (non-explicit), emotional vulnerability, consent-focused smut (not in established relationship), smut with emotional fluff, somewhat hurt/comfort, soft!Bucky

Word Count: 6,108

Author's Note: I can't find any gif with the exact outfit but I am having this image of him when writing this

The hum of the door seals with a final hiss, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You’re already mid-step toward the exit when you hear Bucky curse under his breath—low, sharp, controlled. You whip around. The vault door is shut. Fully. Seamless. Like it was never there.

No lights. No comms. No air circulation except for the faintest draft somewhere behind the walls.

“Shit,” you mutter, reaching for the control panel embedded beside the door. You’re already digging into your tactical belt for the pulse override chip, fingers shaking just slightly as you slot it in.

Nothing. Dead. As if the tech was rotting from the inside out.

You step back, breathing through your nose. Focus. Don’t let it crawl in.

Behind you, you can feel Bucky’s presence—steady, solid, watchful in the dark. His gear creaks slightly as he moves. You don’t have to look to know he’s wearing his mission fit: that fitted, dark combat jacket molded to his frame, straps crossing his chest, vibranium arm matte and silent at his side. You know how he moves by now—how he blends into the quiet, how he always stands between you and the threat.

Except there’s no enemy now. Just this silence. This dark.

This enclosure.

Your voice comes out tighter than expected. “If I had fifteen minutes and my portable terminal, I could brute-force a recursive decrypt.”

Bucky grunts. “Too bad your portable terminal’s in the jet.”

You don’t laugh. Neither does he.

You try the panel again, but the minute your fingers brush the cold edge of the steel frame, your throat tightens. Your mind flashes—not forward, but back.

To the old metal walls that boxed you in when you were barely more than a child. The bitter stench of mold and sweat. Cold porridge. Water so stale it tasted like metal filings. The clank of boots. The door opening—only ever to bring pain.

You swallow hard. Try again.

“You okay?” Bucky asks softly.

His voice breaks the air like a blade through cotton. Gentle, but sharp. You know he hears it—the shift in your breath, the sound your boots made when you stepped just a little too fast, too frantic.

“I’m fine,” you lie. But your voice catches, and he hears that too.

You press your palm to the steel wall, trying to ground yourself, but your body betrays you.

Sweat beads along your spine, cold despite the stifling warmth trapped in the airless vault. Your breath sticks in your throat. The darkness feels thicker now—dense, like it’s pushing in from every angle, like it’s alive and watching. Your fingers curl into your palms. You tell yourself this isn’t the same, this isn’t then—but your body doesn’t listen.

Behind you, Bucky shifts.

You don’t see him move, but you feel it—hear it. The creak of his tactical gear. The faint scratch of fabric against concrete. And then, the sharp stillness.

He smells it before anything else—your sweat. Not the heat-of-battle kind. This is cold, anxious. Your scent hits the air like an unspoken alarm, sharp and sudden beneath the usual steel and dust of the vault.

Then he hears it.

Your heartbeat.

Fast. Erratic. Like boots on tile, sprinting in panic.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the dark—gentler now. Controlled. “What’s happening?”

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You’re trembling before the words even reach your mouth. Your knees wobble beneath your weight, pulse roaring in your ears like a tide coming in.

“It’s—just the dark,” you manage, your voice too tight, too high. “And the quiet. The space. It’s not you. I just—”

You cut yourself off. Try to breathe. Try to swallow the clawing thing in your throat.

“I need to sit.”

You hear Bucky move. His boots scuff the concrete, just once. Hesitation.

You don’t look at him. You lower yourself to the cold ground, back to the wall, and stare into the dark. The walls feel closer now.

Your voice comes out in a whisper.

“Can I… sit next to you? I mean—I need to hold something. I just—” You stop. You don’t want to beg.

There’s silence. For a second, you think he’s going to say no. You wouldn’t blame him. He’s already carried enough broken things in his life.

But then you hear the quiet shuffle of movement, the whisper of leather and gear. He steps closer. Kneels. Doesn’t say a word.

And then—he offers it.

His flesh hand.

Glove off. Palm open.

You hesitate only for a second before you take it. Your fingers wrap around his—warm, solid, real—and your shoulders fall like something just slipped off them. Your other hand reaches for the warmth of his arm, and slowly, inch by inch, you lean into him. Not all at once—just enough for him to feel your weight and decide if he’ll take it.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly to brace himself—and lets you rest your head against his chest.

You breathe in.

He smells like leather, faint sweat, and that clean, woody scent you can never quite place—like trees in winter and something spiced beneath it. You imagine it’s what peace might smell like, if it ever existed.

It takes you a long moment before you speak again.

“I was taken when I was seven.”

Bucky stiffens under you. Just barely.

“They locked me in a cell. No windows. No lights. They taught me how to code between beatings. How to pick locks after they broke my fingers. Said if I was going to be their tool, I had to be the best damn one.”

Your breath stutters. You feel his thumb brush over the back of your hand.

You go on.

“They’d come in drunk sometimes. Just to hit something. I was that something. But I learned. Learned how to look useful. How to smile so they wouldn’t think I was planning anything.”

You swallow hard. “Guess I never unlearned that. The smiling.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

When Bucky speaks, his voice is rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“I always wondered… how you do it. How you’re so kind. So… whole. But I see it now.”

He exhales, and his hand tightens just slightly around yours.

“You glued yourself back together. Piece by piece. And maybe that glue still shows… but you never tried to hide it.”

You lift your eyes—only barely—and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“I used to think people like you were untouched by darkness,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not. You just walk through it with your chin up. Meanwhile I’m still trying to bury mine like it’s not part of me.”

You shake your head, resting your cheek against him again.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier,” you murmur. “You’re not that name they gave you.”

He swallows.

Bucky’s hand lingers at your cheek, his touch barely grazing the skin. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard.

And maybe you would’ve—once. But not now. Not here. Not with him.

“I like working with you,” you whisper again, softer this time. Your breath fans over the fabric of his jacket. He’s so close now, his body a wall of heat and breath and solidity. “Always felt safe around you.”

He huffs quietly—almost a laugh. Almost. “You’re the first person to ever say that to me.”

Your fingertips trace the lines of his bare hand—the one you’re still holding tight. Your thumb brushes over the rough pads of his knuckles, warm and calloused. Scarred in places, but steady. Human.

“I don’t see a killer when I look at you, Bucky.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his heart pounding through the chest of his combat jacket, steady beneath the heavy materials. The dark fabric shifts slightly as his breathing deepens, and your cheek sinks into the padded texture over his ribs—high-quality, reinforced, warm from his body heat. The structure of his combat harness digs faintly into your shoulder as you curl into him.

“I don’t think I ever knew who I was,” he says finally. “Not really. It was always something someone else wanted me to be.”

You turn your face toward his voice. Your nose grazes the hard curve of his chest. Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. You just breathe him in.

He smells like cool leather, like burnt cedarwood and warm metal. A trace of sweat clings to the collar of his undershirt, the faintest salt cutting through that earthy, masculine warmth. It clings to the inside of his jacket—black tactical leather, armored across the chest and shoulders—and you can feel the subtle rise and fall of each breath beneath it.

He shifts again, adjusting. His vibranium arm stays at his side—still, unreadable—but his flesh hand squeezes yours gently.

You raise your head, finally meeting his eyes in the dim. The darkness in the vault has softened everything around him. His steel-blue gaze shines faintly beneath his brow, eyes scanning your face like he’s still memorizing it.

“You’re still Bucky,” you murmur, barely louder than the air between you.

He freezes.

“Still the man who puts everyone else before yourself, even when you’re barely holding it together.”

Your voice trembles now, because the words carry more truth than you expected.

“That kind of heart doesn’t just vanish… no matter what they tried to do to you.”

Bucky blinks hard. His breath catches in his throat. You feel it—how the moment lands. How the wound inside him recognizes the salve in your voice.

Something inside him shifts. Something melts.

His jaw clenches. You feel the way his chest tightens, like he’s holding something back. His free hand rises—slow, deliberate—and this time, it’s not just a touch to your cheek.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw. His glove is off now—both hands bare. Raw. Unarmored.

You shift slightly, no longer curled at his side. Instead, you move to face him—pulling your knees beneath you, then over, settling gently into his lap.

Your thighs slide around his hips, bracketing his body with yours. Hands plant themselves on either side of his chest for balance as your breath mingles with his.

His hands remain steady—one at your jaw, the other cradling your fingers—but he’s looking at you now like he can’t believe you chose this closeness. This trust.

You lean into his touch instinctively, and when your lips part on a quiet exhale, his gaze flicks down to them. Lingers.

“Can I…?”

His voice is low. Uncertain. Vulnerable.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His lips meet yours with ache. Like he’s wanted to do this for years but never thought he was allowed. There’s no rush—only reverence. His mouth is warm, soft, tentative at first.

You kiss him back slowly, cupping the side of his neck where the stubble meets the sharp angle of his jaw.

You feel it then—his body shifting beneath yours, his breath hitching when your hand slides down the structured collar of his combat jacket, fingers grazing the leather between the buckles of his harness.

He groans softly into your mouth when your palm presses against the center of his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath the dense fabric.

His vibranium hand comes to life now—bold where his flesh hand was tender. He traces the back of your thigh, up to your hip, then the curve of your waist, gliding with reverent pressure.

You shiver at the contrast—metal smooth and cool, his flesh hand warm and grounded as it follows just behind.

You tilt into him, mouth parting wider as his tongue grazes yours—gentle, searching. He tastes like heat and tension and restraint. Still, he pauses.

“You sure?” he whispers, breath warm at your mouth. His voice is rough—strained with everything he’s holding back. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

A moment passes. And then he exhales—like you just unlocked something inside him.

His hands slide lower—one metal, one flesh—finding your thighs again. Guiding. Holding. Worshiping.

You rock into him slowly, feeling the tension flood through his body, feeling how tightly coiled he is beneath the tactical armor.

His combat jacket creaks as you push it open—just enough to feel the radiant heat of him beneath it. The black leather parts at his chest, revealing his high-collar undershirt now dark with sweat and body heat.

Your fingers skate down over the thick ridges of his chest—tactile, solid, powerful. His body is a weapon, but right now it feels like it was built for worship.

He shudders beneath you. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just kisses you harder.

Your breath hitches as Bucky kisses you again—deeper this time, like he’s finally letting himself feel everything. His hands spread wide at your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles where your shirt lifts from the motion. The contrast between his vibranium fingers and the warmth of his skin makes your stomach tighten.

He pulls back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“Tell me if anything feels too much,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “If you need to stop, if you need a break—just say it, doll.”

Your heart stutters at the tenderness in his voice. The man who could kill a dozen enemies without breaking a sweat is shaking for you—asking permission like you’re sacred.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

So you take his face in both your hands—cradling him, grounding him.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Buck… shhh. You already have my full consent.”

His eyes close for a breath. You feel him swallow hard, like he’s absorbing every word.

“I want you,” you continue, soft but firm. “Do me, Bucky. Do me so well I forget the dark—forget what they did to me. I want to be lost in the pleasure of you… not my past.”

Something snaps loose in him then—not wild or greedy, but pure. Focused.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he exhales, like the words physically affect him.

Then he’s kissing you again—only now it’s like he’s claiming you. His tongue slides past your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he rocks your hips forward into the thick ridge beneath his tactical pants. You gasp when you feel him—already hard, already aching.

“Been holding back for so fucking long,” he mutters against your throat, kissing down to your collarbone. “Didn’t know if I’d ever get this… get you.”

“You have me,” you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “All of me.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, but his hands are patient—undoing your shirt slowly, pulling it over your head. He gazes at you like you’re something holy as you sit there in your bra, flushed and panting.

His metal hand glides up your side, cool against your skin. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast with aching care.

“Can I?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He peels your bra off with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift, then lowers his mouth to your chest—trailing kisses, nipping softly until you arch for more.

“Oh my god, Bucky…”

He growls low at that—real and visceral—pulling your nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping them as he starts to grind up against you.

You can feel him now—hard beneath layers of mission gear—and you can tell it’s driving him mad.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, one hand fumbling with his belt. “Wanna feel you—skin to skin.”

“Let me,” you say, breathless, sliding back to help him. You undo the buckle of his belt, tugging at the fastenings of his combat pants. It’s hot watching him unravel like this—powerful, restrained, but desperate just for you.

When he’s finally freed, you settle back over him—your soaked panties the only barrier now.

He groans deep in his chest when he feels how wet you are for him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I’m not scared,” you say. “Just… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

He nods slowly. “Me too.”

Then his hands slide beneath your waistband—pulling your panties aside. He cups you, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and his mouth drops open.

“Oh, baby… you’re so wet,” he murmurs. “So soft. So fucking ready for me.”

You whimper, grinding into his hand.

“Need you, Bucky. Please.”

“Not until you’re ready,” he says, even though he’s visibly trembling now. “Let me make sure you’re ready.”

He slips a finger inside you—slowly, gently. Then two. You gasp, rocking down, and he curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you cry out.

“There you go,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder, the hollow of your neck. “Just like that. You sound so good, baby. So goddamn good.”

You bite down on his name again and again, body shivering in his lap.

And when you’re practically dripping, panting, begging—he finally slides his fingers out and aligns himself at your entrance.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Reverent.

“Tell me again, doll.”

You smile, even as your thighs tremble.

“I want you inside me, Bucky. All of you. Fill me up. Make me forget everything else but this.”

His eyes go wild.

And then he pushes in—slowly, thickly, stretching you until your head falls back and your nails dig into the harness at his shoulders.

You both groan at once—like something inside you finally clicks into place.

His thick length pushes into you inch by inch, and you both gasp—your nails digging into the fabric where his harness used to cling.

It’s like being filled and comforted and devoured all at once.

“God, you feel…” he groans, eyes shut tight. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

But even then, you feel it—the way he’s holding back. Like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

“Too much?” he asks, voice wrecked, but gentle. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, sweetheart.”

You slide your hands to his face again, kissing him softly. “You’re not hurting me, Bucky. You’re making me feel whole.”

He lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in your neck. His chest is slick with heat, the cotton of his undershirt soaked beneath the open frame of his tactical jacket. You slip your hands between the panels of leather and slowly begin to push it off his shoulders, one inch at a time.

“Off,” you whisper, “let me see you.”

He lets you strip him down—harness unclipped, jacket peeled away with care. You don’t rush it. His shoulders are strong, gleaming with sweat, the thin black undershirt clinging to every hard ridge of muscle.

Once bare from the waist up, he lets you look.

And you do.

His flesh arm is trembling with restraint. His vibranium arm flexes as he braces it behind you for balance. Every scar, every contour of his torso feels like a story you want to read with your hands and mouth.

But Bucky’s still searching your eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, whisper-quiet. “Do I feel good inside you?”

You can barely speak through the pleasure.

“Bucky… baby, yes. You feel incredible.” You cup his cheek, run your thumb over the stubble there. “Don’t hold back so much. I want this. I want you to feel good too.”

He nods slowly, but the doubt still flickers behind his eyes.

So you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be here with me.”

Something breaks in him then—a quiet surrender.

He kisses you with renewed purpose, one hand on your lower back guiding the motion of your hips, the other clutching your thigh like he’s trying to anchor himself to the moment. You ride him slowly, your wet heat grinding against the base of his cock, and he’s moaning freely now.

Still, you feel him pull back.

“I… can’t stop thinking about how good you taste,” he admits, voice shaking. “Can I…? I want my mouth on you.”

You blink, breath catching in your throat. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Bucky.”

He helps lift you off his lap slowly, reverently, hands firm and supportive. Once you’re laid back against the cool floor of the vault, your clothes already half-peeled away, he settles between your legs—kneeling, broad shoulders framed by the black of his tactical pants, sweat glistening along his chest.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Start slow, Bucky… build me up. Use your fingers too, honey.”

He groans—low and deep, like you’ve just given him the most intimate gift.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, and lowers his head.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate. He tastes you like he’s learning you—mapping you with the flat of his tongue, pressing in and pulling back, watching every reaction.

You moan, head tipping back, hips already rising into him.

He hums softly, as if to say I’ve got you.

Then he slips one thick finger inside, curling it just right.

“Oh—there, Bucky… just like that, baby…”

“Yeah?” he whispers, glancing up, his chin already wet with you. “That's your spot, baby?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling around his head.

He keeps going—tongue flicking, finger stroking, his vibranium hand pinning your hips down with perfect pressure. He’s moaning against you now, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, grounding yourself in the soft strands and the gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs.

“Fuck, Bucky… you’re so good at this. So good for me, baby…”

He groans like praise is gasoline and you just poured it on his fire.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against your slick folds, then sucks gently on your clit. “You’re everything.”

Your orgasm slams into you so fast it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You cry out his name—“Bucky, Bucky—Bucky!”—as your back arches, thighs shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t stop until you’re too sensitive to take it, until your fingers tug gently at his hair. Then he presses a kiss to your thigh, then your stomach, then your lips—bringing you back piece by piece.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, holding you close. “I’ll always have you.”

You’re still panting against his chest, your cheek against the heat of his skin, his pants still halfway undone.

And you’re not done yet.

Your body is still humming, your thighs shaking from the aftershocks of his mouth, his hands, his worship.

And yet, something inside you still burns—not from need, but from ache. From how much you want him. Not just his hands, not just his tongue. You want the whole of him inside you again—bare, deep, as close as humanly possible.

You reach for him, voice breathless. “Bucky…”

He’s already halfway leaning over you, brushing your hair off your forehead, looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I promise, I’m okay. But I need you now. I need you to feel me. To lose yourself in me.”

His jaw flexes. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, sweat dotting his brow. “You sure?”

You nod, more urgently this time. “I want you inside. All the way. Bare. Please, Bucky…”

He curses under his breath—something raw and aching. His hand slides down your stomach, thumb brushing your hip. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You lift your hips, brushing against him again—his cock hard and hot, leaking against the waistband of his still-partially fastened tactical pants.

“I want to feel everything,” you whisper, cupping the side of his face. “Please. Just for tonight… let it be everything.”

He hesitates. He leans down and kisses you again—slow, deep, tender. Like it’s a goodbye and a homecoming in one breath.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmurs against your lips. “Except one thing.”

You blink up at him. He hovers just above, arms braced on either side of you. His vibranium forearm is tense, grounding. His flesh hand cups your cheek.

“I’ll fuck you slow. Deep. As long as you want. But I can’t finish inside you. Not yet.”

Your breath catches.

“Why?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard. “Because that’s… not just sex for me. That’s something I only give someone who’s mine. And I don’t know what we are yet.”

You stare up at him, your heart clenching—but not from pain. From something deeper.

He wants you. He respects you. He wants to mean something to you, not just in the dark.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then give me everything but that.”

His eyes darken. “Gladly.”

—

He shifts his weight, letting his pants slide lower around his hips, just enough. Then he lines himself up, the tip of his cock brushing your folds—slick and ready.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, guiding the head against your entrance. “So soft. So warm.”

You moan as he slides in again—slow, controlled. Inch by inch until he bottoms out, and both of you are panting.

“Fuck, honey… you take me so well,” he growls, kissing your neck. “Like you were made for me.”

You wrap your legs around him, heels hooking into the waistband of his pants.

“More,” you beg, voice cracking. “Please, Bucky… move. I need to feel you.”

He starts slow—long strokes, deep and deliberate. The friction is intense, overwhelming. You feel every ridge of him, every flex of muscle as his hips roll into yours.

He watches your face with every thrust.

“You feel good, baby?” he whispers, his voice low and reverent. “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes,” you gasp, fingers clawing into his sweat-slicked back. “God, yes.”

His pace builds—still steady, still controlled—but deeper now, the rhythm perfect. Your moans echo against the vault’s steel walls, your hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, his shoulders, anything you can hold onto.

Every time he pulls out and pushes back in, it knocks a cry from your throat. And Bucky watches you—drinks you in—like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

And you do—again.

You sob his name, body trembling, core clenching around him as a second orgasm rips through you. He holds you through it, whispering filth and comfort in equal measure.

“That’s it, baby… give it to me. You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

He starts to stutter inside you. You can feel the tension in his body—how close he is.

But true to his word, he pulls out at the last second, groaning low and deep as he fists his cock and spills over your lower stomach. Hot, thick, his breath shuddering against your mouth as he curses softly into your skin.

You cradle his face, even as he’s coming undone.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, echoing his words. “Always.”

He collapses gently beside you, pulling you against his bare chest, both of you panting. The vault is still cold. Still dark.

But in the quiet afterward, there’s no fear. No past. Just the sound of your breath syncing with his.

Just you and Bucky. Raw. Uncovered. Real.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something seismic.

Bucky lies beside you, the sweat cooling on his chest, his vibranium fingers slowly tracing the edge of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you in silence.

He hasn’t said much since. Just the occasional kiss to your shoulder. A sigh. A swallow. A glance that flickers away too quickly.

You shift toward him, your cheek against the firm warmth of his bare chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He stiffens—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. Too fast. Too practiced.

You lift your head just enough to see him.

His eyes are fixed somewhere far away. That distant look—the one you’ve seen in briefings, in bunkers, in quiet hotel rooms between missions. Like he’s back somewhere else entirely.

“Bucky.”

He blinks. Turns toward you.

And then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

Your brows pull together.

“For what?”

“I…” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have let it happen like that. I should’ve had better control. You were vulnerable. Scared. I should’ve restrained myself more. Waited. Been better.”

He won’t meet your eyes now. His hand is still on your waist, but his fingers falter—like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

“You think you took advantage of me?” you ask, your voice calm. Steady.

His jaw clenches. His silence speaks for him.

You sit up just enough to cradle his face in both hands. He flinches at first—but doesn’t pull away.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

His eyes lift, slow and uncertain.

“I gave you everything tonight. Every touch, every breath, every piece of me was freely yours. Do you hear me?”

He exhales, the guilt still simmering in his throat. “You were shaking. You asked for help. And I…”

“You didn’t use me,” you say firmly. “You saw me. And I saw you. I’ve never felt safer letting someone touch me than I did with you.”

His shoulders sag like he’s been holding up an entire wall of shame. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“I’ve wanted this,” you whisper. “Not just the sex. You. The man under the armor, behind the walls. You didn’t take anything from me—I gave it. Happily.”

His breath stutters, and he nods—just once—but you feel the emotion welling in him, deep and quiet.

“This changes things, doesn’t it?” he says after a long pause.

“It does,” you reply softly. “Because now I know for sure.”

He searches your face. “Know what?”

You smile, small but sure.

“That I want more with you. Something real. Something personal.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles like you’re something sacred.

“I want that too,” he murmurs. “But I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“Then we’ll take it slow,” you say, leaning into his touch. “And if you stumble… I’ll still be here.”

He pulls you into his chest and wraps both arms around you—one flesh, one vibranium—and buries his face in your hair.

You lie there like that, tangled in warmth, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. The vault walls are still around you, but they no longer feel like a prison. Just a place where something true began.

Minutes pass.

Then—

CLANK.

The door seal hisses. Metal shifts.

You both blink, adjusting to the sudden flood of white-blue light spilling in through the widening crack.

“Yo!” Sam’s voice echoes into the space, half relieved, half exasperated. “Took us a damn hour to override the outer security.”

“I told you it was a dual-layered code protocol,” Joaquin mutters behind him. “No one listens to the tech guy.”

You scramble to pull your shirt over your shoulders, tugging it down hastily as your bra remains somewhere behind you. Your hands are shaking, but not from shame. Just adrenaline. Bucky reaches for his gear without a word, dragging his sweat-damp undershirt straight and grabbing for his discarded combat jacket, slipping one arm through, then the other. His chest is still bare, the zipper only halfway up. His tactical pants are back in place, loosely refastened.

You catch the flicker of his eyes—darting to you, then away. Not panicked. Not guilty. Just private. Guarded in the way only someone who just handed over their soul could be.

You reach for his hand before he can tug the glove back on. Your fingers catch his—bare, steady—and hold. Warm. Sure.

As the door creaks open and footsteps echo inside, Bucky helps you to your feet—tactical gear still halfway undone, but shoulders squared. Like he’s ready to face the light, even if it blinds him a little.

Sam steps in, blinking at the scene. “You two good?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

You glance up at him, smiling.

“We’re good,” you say, reaching for his hand again. “Better than good.”

He gives your fingers a squeeze. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes smiles—not the forced kind. The real kind.

The kind that says something new has started.

—Epilogue:

The hum of the jet was soothing. After the chaos of the HYDRA vault and the long extraction, the warm, low-light interior felt almost indulgent.

You were curled into your seat, wrapped in a mission blanket, legs tucked under you. Across the aisle, Bucky sat in his usual brooding posture—but something was different now.

He wasn’t scowling.

He was… smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. But every time you looked up, his mouth quirked at the corner, like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a slow, knowing wink.

He tilted his head just slightly, one brow lifting. That little look he gave you now wasn’t Winter Soldier. It wasn’t even mission-serious Bucky.

It was something warmer. Something just for you.

You stifled a smile and looked back down at your hands, the ghost of his fingertips still lingering there.

From the cockpit, Sam’s voice carried:

“Okay. No offense, but what the hell happened in that vault?”

You and Bucky both froze.

Joaquin didn’t even look up from his tablet. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam called, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because Bucky Barnes hasn’t stopped doing that smug little post-makeout lip twitch for the last thirty minutes.”

You shot Bucky a look. Bucky buried his face in his glove for a second, fighting the urge to visibly react.

Sam walked into the cabin a moment later, narrowed eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he was connecting red strings in his mind.

“You two didn’t die in there,” Sam said, “but someone sure as hell came back… reborn.”

You choked on your water. Bucky turned pink immediately.

“I’m just saying,” Sam added, settling into his seat, “next time you get stuck in a vault, give me a heads-up. I’ll bring candles. Maybe some background jazz.”

Joaquin muttered without looking up: “Let them have their trauma bonding, man.”

You and Bucky locked eyes again.

And this time, the smile broke through on both your faces—quiet, real, and a little reckless. Like two people who just learned they could still feel something soft in the middle of all the noise.

Soon after, your phone buzzes in your palm.

You okay, doll?

You looked up across the narrow aisle. Bucky was slouched in his seat—jacket halfway zipped, his glove still hanging from one hand. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but you could tell from the way his thumb hovered near his screen that he was waiting.

You smiled faintly and typed back.

better than okay. but also very distracted 😏🤭

You peek up from under your lashes.

He tilts his head just slightly, brow lifting—not cocky, just curious. That cautiously hopeful kind of curious.

Distracted how?

You glance around—Sam’s still up front, muttering about fuel efficiency. Joaquin has earbuds in, totally checked out.

Safe.

You lean into your seat, thumbs flying.

pretty sure i’ve been half-wet since you suited up in that whole lethal-sexy vibe 🫦🖤 trying so hard not to stare

You hit send. Bucky reads it instantly—and something in his body shifts. His posture straightens, then tenses. One hand lifts toward his face like he’s trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

You serious?

You watch the way he doesn’t quite look at you now. Like if he does, he’ll forget the jet has other people on board.

You’re grinning as you type your next reply.

dead serious. pretty sure i’ve been soaking on every mission with you lately 💦 you and that jacket?? literal war crime.

This time, he looks.

Just for a second—but it’s sharp, fast. His eyes cut to you and then he’s dragging his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe off the heat rising up his neck. His jaw flexes hard.

He types back slowly.

You're killing me, doll

You bite your lip, sliding your phone just out of Sam’s line of sight.

Then you fire back the final blow.

too late, soldier 🤭 game’s already on 😌

Across the aisle, Bucky shifts again—this time slower, almost like he’s trying to physically will his body to behave. His jaw twitches. His fingers flex. And for the first time in what feels like years, you watch him lose the fight to suppress a smile.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #જ⁀➴ by elle #bucky barnes emotional fluff #hurt/comfort

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rafesbimbo · 16 days ago

Note

Gyno!rafe eating reader out.. like he would lick her then ask how it feels then he would try another angle or whatsoever and ask her again- til she accidentally squirts on his mouth/ face ✊🏻🙂‍↕️

warnings: medical kink, oral sex (f receiving), manipulation, squirting, virginish!reader, power imbalance

pairing: gynecologist!rafe cameron x reader

"it says here," rafe said, skimming your chart, "you’ve been with four partners."

you nodded quickly, trying to seem relaxed on the table. the paper stuck to your thighs. your fingers twisted the edge of your gown.

“mm.” he hummed. “interesting.”

you blinked. “what?”

his eyes flicked up. calm. unreadable. but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“you’re sure about that number, sweetheart?”

your face burned. “i—I mean, yeah. why?”

he set the chart down. pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. the snap made you flinch.

“just seems odd,” he said lightly. “you’re… very tight. no scar tissue. no signs of repeated penetration. very little swelling. and your reactions?”

he pressed two fingers in — slow and shallow — and you gasped.

he looked up at you from between your knees, all mock concern.

“see what i mean?” he cooed. “you’re already shaking.”

your hips tried to pull back but he caught them in place, grip firm.

“i think you lied to me.”

he smiled.

“but that’s okay.”

“w–what are you—”

“we’re going to do a little responsiveness test,” he said, voice suddenly low, coaxing.

“don’t worry. its just my mouth.”

before you could ask anything else, he was already there — tongue flicking softly, testing. his hands pushed your thighs wider. your stomach trembled.

he licked slowly, patiently, pausing only to ask—

“does that feel good?”

you nodded, dazed.

“better like this?”

he angled his mouth differently, sucking just a little harder.

“what about now?”

your breath hitched. your body arched. something was building fast—

“you’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, lips wet and hot against you. “gonna give me the truth, baby? or do i need to keep going?”

you barely got the word out. “please—”

and then it snapped.

a rush of heat, wetness, pleasure so sharp it made your vision white. you squirted hard, body jerking, thighs trembling in his grip — and rafe just groaned into it, tongue still lapping like it was nothing.

when you finally stopped shaking, he leaned back, face glistening, smirk wide.

“that,” he said, voice dark with pride, “is the reaction of someone who’s never been touched right.”

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screampied · 1 year ago

Note

if requests are open, can we see nanami x breeding kink? i know he would be the perfect daddy 💕

❤︎ ໋𓈒 husband nanami finding out he has a breeding kink.

warnings. fem! reader, mating press, breeding kink, praise, soft dom nanami, mdni.

breeding.

he wouldn’t even know he had such a kink until afterwards, finishing inside of you for about the third time with hot puffs of air running from his lips.

his eyes, dark brown pools that intently stared into yours, he’s in utter love with you and only you. your current position was supine—your legs would be perfectly sprawled and spread for him. mating press, such a deep and thorough angle. so deep to where you were practically seeing stars.

“… you drive me crazy, you know that?” he’d huff out lowly between rough breaths. you stare at him with glossy eyes, a hand softly clinging onto his wrist. he was always so gentle, deep yet precise strokes to make you feel every inch. such eyebrows of his curl up and furrow as he intakes a single sharp breath, the feeling of such thick ropes spewing inside your walls makes him groan. “always s—so good at milking me.”

sloppy hips thwack and drill into you, and that’s when he leans right up close to you—you’re met with lust filled fawn eyes and a needy smile.

“ah. eyes up here, wanna see that pretty face,” and his tempo was so unhinged. you glance up at him and he mutters off a soft, “hi my love,” and you could have just melted right there. nanami lightly presses a hand against your tummy, a thumb swiftly tracing near the exact spot where he was reaching you inside. so full, you moan before he leans in to kiss you, yet instead, he conceals his own whine into the crook of your neck. “this—tummy would look so pretty if it was nice ‘n round for me like last time.”

the very corners of your lips tugs, it outlines into a sweet pout before you whimper, “make me fuller then, kento,” you’d heave out. he was jackhammering such merciless yet tenderly passionate thrusts into your cunt, effortlessly smacking back against you. “wanna f-feel fuller.”

you had the white bed sheets bawl into the palms of your hands. everything felt so warm, his hips just continued to rotate and jerk and jerk and jerk. it was hypnotic, he knew just where to prod the head of his cock right against you.

you’re nearly drooling. just imagining such lengthy ropes of his pump you full. you wanted it, no—you needed it. desperately, you were practically being fucked into the mattress—the mattress in question creaked and sang in such harmony it was hard not to ignore its sounds.

the entire feeling, you were clamping down on him so tight that his jaw tenses. a simple sight like that was oh so sexy in the slightest, nanami lightly bites down on his lip. a cute flushed expression slowly painting over his face once he catches you still staring. he was chasing his own breath, giving you slow yet perfect full vivacious thrusts.

“k-kento,” you’d moan with a slight gasp, he brings a hand to slide your arms all the way up. it’s almost teasing, the way he makes you hold your hands high, a soft simper rests against his lips the entire time. your legs quaver, feeling how easy it was for him to stretch you out. his touch, it was blisteringly hot, blisteringly tender.

he made sure to delicately trace his fingers all over your skin. he wouldn’t dare miss a spot. not with a body as perfect as yours. that’s what he saw in his eyes anyway. “so—so goooood, don’t s-stop baby.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he huffs out, and his voice was so raspy and rich. a subtle coarse of baritone hidden underneath his deep tone. you peer up at him and he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose. “if my princess wants to feel more full, i’ll do just that. give her anything she wants.”

you whimper, feeling him hit such a sensitive angle, he hit it just right too.

the crown of his dick made its way through every crevice of your walls. he reached in spots that you didn’t think he’d reach — not at all, you failed to hide your moans by this point and he thought you sounded so cute. knowing he was the one to make you sound like this, feel this way, it made him happy. that’s all he wanted, your pleasure was his pleasure.

every. single. spot.

whilst your toes curled, you feel your back start to seemingly arch on its own before even more sweetened whimpers fly past your sheeny lips. “give m-me,” you started to speak. he raises a brow marginally, brushing a thumb against your lower lip before feeling himself about to bottom out. at that point, he was fully inside, you felt it and you only mewled out a candied, “give me another baby kento. please.”

“oh,” he softly murmurs, and his tongue playfully licks against your neck—a sweet lap, he savored your taste before teasingly starting to nibble.

“gonna give you triplets this time,” and he brings a hand down your chest, then towards your stomach, real slow. you moan once he gingerly lifts up your leg before giving your ankle a kiss. “this what you want, sweetheart? more of this? more of … me?”

“yes,” you pout, feeling your cunt just swallowing his hefty shack, his base smacks back and forth against you to where you’re almost giddy. you felt like you were on cloud nine, nanami’s strokes, his thrusts hell, his enticing rhythm had you nearly speechless. you let off a soft meek once the shivering cold metal of his watch band slithers against your skin.

the more he touched you, the more close you became to making yet another mess on him. of course, like the good husband he was, nanami would happily clean you up.

“y-yes, kento,” you repeat in a honeyed voice, by this point, your legs were well wrapped around his waist. fully having him in a secure lock, not ever thinking to let go, you couldn’t nor did you want to. he drove into your gummy walls so good that you let off the sugared most melodic moans right up against his earlobe. “want…..another baby.”

“i know you do,” he hushes, bringing a chaste kiss towards your collarbone. you swallow a thick imaginary lump that grew into your throat. only tiny squeaks would come out — you moaned, tightening your legs hold around him before you started to picture such fanciful things.

fanciful things like nanami pouring yet another a thick load into you, and as you’re deep in thought he’s doing just that. a gasp gets caught in his lips before he leans up close to you. his broad chest presses up against you before he groans. out of all the notorious enemies he’s had to fight, he was simply no match for your pussy. its grip had him being the one with his eyes nearly rolling back.

“f-fuck,” and you felt yourself throb, making direct eye contact with him. it was rare, yet hearing nanami swear was so infrequent.

it was the way he swore, spewing out such filthy words underneath his breath. long ruffled strands of messy hair nearly occluding his view of vision. he reaches to move some of his hair away from his face, just so he could get a good glimpse of you—a good glimpse of his wife.

“look at me,” he says in a soft tone, he was buried so deep within you, you saw how his muscles tensed and his jaw tightened. he made his hips come to a halt completely before he leans in to gift you with another kiss. “mwah,” he smooches near your jawline, “mwah,” near your chin, and a final kiss near your lips.

your heart, it fluttered.

nanami felt warm all over his body, as well as the sheer warmth that coated him from being inside you. “i—i love you,” you’d whine, feeling such massive velvet ropes of cum going all inside of you. he merely lets off a purr at the way the back of your heel skims down his back. “so much.”

“i love you,” he returns it. his mouth briefly opens, and he was about to say ‘more’ but he pauses. nanami’s weight was still hovering over you before he brings a same big hand down towards your tummy. “now, we wait. you’re such a good mommy for me, sweetheart.”

#★vegasbaby.#nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk imagines #anime smut #female reader

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nebularsung · 2 months ago

Text

⭑ you're jeno's favourite gift ﹙+18﹚

all that could be heard from that bedroom was soft, breathless whines, muffled moans, the sharp rhythm of skin meeting skin, and the sound of jeno’s voice—low, sweet, and full of reverent praise.

it was jeno’s birthday, and—true to the quiet, homebody heart he had—he wanted nothing more than to stay where he felt most at peace: at home, wrapped in your arms, spoiled by your attention, and fed by your hands. you had made his favorite dishes, laughed with him over wine, curled up in his lap while the candles burned low… but as night fell, his desire shifted.

he wanted his favorite gift of all.

you.

and how could you possibly deny him?

“fuck, baby…” he groaned, voice dropping deeper as he watched the way your body gave in to him. his fingers pressed tighter into the curve of your hips, guiding you back to meet his every thrust, relentless and hungry. “so fuckin’ good to me… always ready for me… mine.”

your face was buried in the pillows, your ass arched high in the air—just how he liked it. the angle let him hit that perfect spot over and over again, and your moans were so high and sweet they came out broken and muffled into the sheets. he’d be smug about it if he weren’t so utterly ruined by the way your body gripped him like a vice, so warm and wet and perfect just for him.

you were going for the fourth round already, but jeno didn’t seem any near to finish what he had started.

he leaned over you, his chest flush against your back for a moment as he kissed your shoulder, then your spine. “can’t believe i get to have you like this…” he whispered, almost to himself. “you make me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

you let out a choked sob of pleasure, and jeno only chuckled softly, hand sliding along your waist, gripping you tighter. “that feel good, baby? you’re doing so well… taking me so good, just like i knew you would. such a good girl for me, even on my birthday…”

you nodded desperately into the pillow, fingers clutching at the sheets as he kept rocking into you with deep, measured strokes now—less frantic, more intense, like he wanted to feel every second of it, draw it out. worship you.

“wanna hear you,” he muttered. “just a little. let me hear my pretty girl.”

you turned your head, gasping, your voice breathy and wrecked. “jeno—feels so good—i love you, love you so much—”

“yeah?” he breathed, hips stuttering slightly at the sound of your voice. “love you too, angel. gonna make you cum so hard. gonna have you creaming all over my cock, just the way i like it.”

and you did.

with a loud, trembling moan of his name, your body tensed beneath him, walls clenching, thighs shaking as the orgasm tore through you. jeno cursed under his breath, hips losing rhythm as he chased his own release, groaning into your back when he finally buried himself deep and filled you up, both of you panting and trembling, tangled in each other’s warmth.

he stayed inside you for a moment longer, letting your bodies breathe in sync, your skin slick and flushed, your heartbeats loud in your ears. then, with a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, he slowly pulled out—watching his seed leaking from you from the previous orgasms—grabbing a warm towel from the nearby dresser to clean you up with the same tender care he always showed.

you whimpered softly, still sensitive, and he murmured a quiet, “sorry, baby,” as he wiped your thighs gently. his hands lingered longer than necessary, though—you could feel how much he loved touching you, even in the smallest ways.

you weren’t sure how long you laid there in jeno’s arms, your limbs tangled, hearts still fluttering from everything you’d just shared. his warmth surrounded you, grounding and intoxicating all at once. you could’ve fallen asleep like that—completely satisfied, safe.

but then you felt it.

a subtle shift in his breathing. the way his hand, which had been resting innocently on your waist, slowly trailed downward, fingers stroking lazy patterns across your hip. his lips were brushing against your shoulder again, softer this time, more tender—like he was savoring every inch of your skin.

you stirred gently, turning in his arms to face him. the look in his eyes made your breath hitch.

“still hungry, birthday boy?” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

he chuckled, low and warm, but there was heat behind his smile now. “i can’t help it,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you make it impossible to get enough of you…”

before you could respond, his lips were on yours again—slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize your taste. he kissed you with reverence, taking his time, tongues barely brushing, the heat building all over again with every slow pull of your lips.

his hand found your thigh, slipping beneath the covers, tracing up until his fingers were skimming the sensitive skin between your legs. you were still warm, still wet, and his breath caught at the feel of you.

“so ready for me,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “even after all that…”

you nodded, heart thudding. “only for you, jen.”

that’s all he needed to hear.

he guided you onto your back, kissing down your collarbone, then your chest—worshipping every part of you with gentle bites and licks, his name whispered from your lips like a prayer. his hand stayed between your thighs, slowly working you open again, fingers curling just enough to make you gasp.

“you’re perfect,” he breathed against your breast, flicking his tongue over your nipple. “i could do this forever. just touch you, taste you… make you feel good.”

you whimpered softly, arching into his touch, hips rolling instinctively into his hand. “please… want you again.”

he looked up at you from between your breasts, hair slightly messy, lips kiss-swollen. “then take me, baby,” he said, voice thick with affection. “i’m all yours.”

and he meant it.

he slid into you with a deep, slow stroke—your legs wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him as close as he could possibly get. this wasn’t like the last round. this time, he moved slow, savoring the way your body clenched around him. every roll of his hips was steady, deep, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered praise between kisses.

“so beautiful… god, you feel so good around me…”

“you’re doing so good for me… fuck, i love being inside you…”

“you were made for me, weren’t you?”

each thrust drew soft moans from your lips, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing down his back. the tension built gradually—less explosive, more consuming. it spread like fire under your skin, until you were trembling beneath him, whispering his name like a promise.

jeno’s hands gripped yours, fingers laced tight as he stared down at you, flushed and breathless. “cum for me again,” he murmured. “just one more, baby. wanna feel you around me one more time.”

you couldn’t even respond. you were already there.

your body locked up beneath him, waves of pleasure crashing through your core as you cried out his name, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming emotion of it all. jeno kissed them away, hips stuttering, then slowing as he came with a deep, ragged moan, burying himself inside you completely, like he needed to mark every inch of you as his.

he didn’t pull away immediately.

instead, he stayed nestled against you, his body heavy and warm, his breath evening out against your neck. your fingers traced along his spine, feeling his heart still racing.

“that,” he mumbled, voice hoarse but full of affection, “was the best birthday gift i’ve ever gotten.”

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “i’m happy i’m the one who can give you the best gift ever.” he let out a soft laugh, nuzzling his face onto your neck. “happy birthday, baby. i love you.”

he pulled away, looking up at you, soft and glowing, like you’d hung the stars for him.

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much.”

｜ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𖹭 have i ever said how much i love jen and how much i fucking wanna sit on his nose??? like, respectfully, but how is this man built like that?? his body proportions are insane and his face fuckk his face man..........

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire

#jeno.jpg ★#divider by cafekitsune #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct smut #nct dream fanfic #nct dream smut #jeno fanfic #jeno smut #jeno imagines

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emmiesoverthemoon · 2 months ago

Text

correct me, i dare you

pairing: bang chan x reader wc: 8k. summary: as chan's choreographer, he told you not to test him. now you’re all messed up in a studio chair, trying to remember your own name while he’s planning round two. tags: brat/brat tamer dynamic, porn with plot, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), tension. enjoy

It always began the same way.

With him being late.

You were halfway through your warm-up, music echoing low through the empty studio, when his reflection emerged in the mirror—hood up, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been told no. Someone who knew you would forgive the delay simply because he was good.

You did not turn to greet him. Did not acknowledge him. You continued to stretch, breathing steady and precise, though your skin buzzed with a treacherous awareness—an irritating, familiar hum that only he could summon. The kind that made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.

Behind you, the studio door closed with a soft thud.

"You’re late, Chan," you said, gaze fixed forward.

"I’m worth waiting for," came his reply, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. His voice, lower than usual, dragged across your spine like velvet laced with steel. You heard the dull thump of his bag hitting the floor. A moment later, he stepped into your space as if it belonged to him. “Unless you missed me.”

You finally turned, offering him the flattest look you could summon. "I missed the part where you follow the schedule."

"Schedules are tedious."

"And you’re exhausting."

He hummed, letting his eyes wander over you with the kind of unrepentant interest that made your blood simmer. His head tilted slightly, all charm and provocation. “Strange. You look wide awake to me.”

He came to a halt too close—deliberately close—and there was something maddening in the way he regarded you. Expectant. Like he was waiting for you to snap. To bite. To rise.

You did not dare give into him. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward, refusing to retreat. "Are you going to follow the routine today? Or must I play babysitter again?"

Chan’s smile curved, sharp and wolfish. “You can try.”

He moved past you with infuriating ease, brushing his shoulder against yours in a way that felt far too intentional. You swore he did it just to steal the air from your lungs.

And it worked. You exhaled through your nose, reached for the speaker, and pressed play.

As the beat rose and the session resumed, you already knew—this would be difficult. He would not merely follow the choreography. He would flirt with it. With you. With every boundary you had erected between what was permissible and what was not.

And worse still?

You were going to let him.

The first mistake was subtle—a single beat too early. A downward roll of his shoulder when it should have lifted. Barely perceptible to anyone else—but not to you. You saw everything.

You cut the music.

The abrupt silence cracked through the air like a whip. He glanced up, one brow raised, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, breath steady despite the interruption.

"You’re early on that step," you said as you crossed the floor toward him, your tone calm, precise, with the faint edge of authority you had learned to wield like a shield.

"I’m in the pocket," he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re simply obsessed with clean lines."

"No, I’m obsessed with accuracy."

"Mm." He made a thoughtful sound, amused. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

You stopped in front of him. "Turn."

He obeyed—slowly, deliberately. As though he were indulging you. As though you had not earned his compliance.

You stepped into his space, eyes on his shoulders, fingers lifting to adjust the angle. The moment you touched him, everything shifted.

His muscles stilled beneath your hand. The air thickened. His breath caught, barely audible—but there. Real. Raw. You were too close. You could count the freckles scattered beneath his jaw, trace the curve of his smirk with your thumb if you dared.

"Like this," you said, your voice softening, almost in spite of yourself. Your fingers guided his arm upward. "Not down. It ruins the symmetry."

You anticipated a nod. Silence. Deference.

Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted to meet yours. His lips parted, just enough to be dangerous.

"Are you always this hands-on with the others?" he asked, his voice low and curling.

Your fingers twitched. You pulled away like he had scorched you.

He turned to face you fully, his expression unchanged—confident, calculating, unreadable.

"Go on," he said. "Correct me again."

The words were a dare.

An invitation.

A spark held too close to dry kindling.

Your pulse quickened. Your mouth dried.

"Keep pushing me," you murmured, almost without thinking. "See what happens."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering.

"I am."

You held his stare.

And for a moment—just a single, suspended second—he believed you would retreat. That you would fall into old patterns: step away, bite your tongue, pretend this was not a game you both played in heat and proximity.

But not this time.

This time, you lifted your chin, voice cool and unwavering. “Is it attention you want that badly, Chan? Fine. Let’s correct the entire routine.”

You stepped forward with deliberate poise.

His eyebrows rose—barely—but the subtle arch was all the proof you needed. A hairline fracture in that maddening self-assurance.

You reached for his wrist, adjusting it into the proper position—higher, tighter, until the tension rippled through his forearm. Satisfaction bloomed in your chest at the way his breath hitched, ever so slightly. Your other hand swept across the line of his back, palms pressing flat, coaxing his shoulders into symmetry with a precision born of practiced control.

“You’re slouching,” you murmured, your tone featherlight and biting.

“I’m relaxed,” he replied, tone casual, though his posture betrayed him.

“Wrong energy.”

You moved behind him, fingers barely skimming the plane of his spine as you traced a slow descent. He stiffened beneath your touch, every muscle drawn taut, as though your proximity alone threatened to unravel him. You paused at his hips, nudging them into alignment, the silence between you swelling with something unspeakably charged.

“You like giving orders, do you?” he muttered, the words caught between a breath and a challenge.

“Only when people fail to listen.”

His head turned slightly, gaze sliding to meet yours over his shoulder. His eyes had darkened, that lazy grin now replaced by something sharper. Edged. Curious.

“Is that why you keep touching me?”

You offered a smile—sweet, sharp, devastating.

“Would you prefer I simply tell you that you’re wrong?”

And then—purposefully—you let your hands fall from him, slow and final, the ghost of your touch lingering even as you stepped away.

“Your choice, Chan,” you said with a shrug, voice dripping with implication. “Keep testing me. I don't mind showing you exactly what you can’t get away with.”

The atmosphere shifted.

His breath caught.

That ever-present smirk faltered.

And for the first time since he arrived, he remained completely still.

Throughout the rest of practice, he listened.

Not perfectly. Not without that trademark insolence glinting in the curve of his mouth or the flick of his gaze. But he listened.

Because now, he knew what it cost not to.

Every cue you gave, he followed—sharp, fluid, intentional. Every correction you made, he absorbed without a word. You watched him from the corner of your eye, and it infuriated you just how good he looked when he was focused. How easily he slipped into that quiet dominance, body cutting through the choreography like he was born to lead.

And still—you felt it.

The shift.

With every pass, the space grew tighter, the air more fraught. Every glance he threw your way bore a weight it had not held before—no longer teasing, no longer smug.

Something else had taken its place.

Something coiled. Waiting.

At one point, you reached for your water bottle and caught him watching you through the mirror—openly, steadily, unflinching. He made no effort to look away.

You raised a brow.

He licked his lower lip—slow, subtle—and exhaled the softest laugh. The sound was quiet, but it struck you like a match dragged across dry kindling.

It lingered between you. That laugh. That look. That dare.

By the time the last beat dissolved into silence, your pulse thundered in your throat, your skin overheated—not from exertion, but from him. From the unbearable presence of him, the pressure that never eased.

You knelt to unplug the speaker, sweat cooling against your spine. You never heard his footsteps—only felt the warmth of his approach, the charged silence that always accompanied him when he drew too close.

His voice came low. Measured. Dangerous.

“You push harder when you are flustered.”

You rose slowly, subconsciously standing just a little too close for professionalism. “And you make more mistakes when you want attention.”

He smiled—barely. But it was different now. The mischief was muted. The darkness had settled in. He leaned even closer to your face, mere centimetres away by now.

The proximity sent your brain into haywire—was he about to kiss you?

Then, he broke the silence softly—almost like a secret—

“So what happens when we slip?”

Your breath caught.

He did not wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, towel slung over his shoulder, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his actions and the heat it carved into your chest.

You lasted four minutes.

Four long minutes of stretching, of pretending to cool down, of rationalizing your stillness in an empty room now thick with unsaid things. You told yourself you were being responsible. That this was routine.

You waited for him to return, to shut up your flustered little brain with his lips, like he threatened to do before he left. But, the doorway remained empty. So, you went after him.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by vending machines and flickering overhead lights. You found him by some lockers, shirt clinging to his back, head bent as he scrolled through his phone like nothing had happened.

Your voice cut through the quiet.

“You always walk away like that?”

He looked up—slowly. No trace of surprise. Just a small flicker of something that told you he expected this. Maybe even wanted it.

“That a complaint?” he asked.

You gave a half-shrug. “Doesn’t feel like your style to run.”

He offered a lazy smile, but his eyes were sharp beneath it. “I wasn’t running.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause then. Something softer. And when he spoke again, it came quieter. “You followed me.”

The air changed again, heavier now, suspended in a silence that could shatter with one wrong word.

You took a step closer.

His eyes tracked the movement—first your mouth, then your hands, then back again.

“You keep starting things you don’t finish,” you said, your voice low.

He tilted his head, gaze steady. “And what exactly is it you want me to finish?”

You let the question settle for a breath. “Pick one.”

His jaw clenched—subtle but telling. You saw the moment something inside him shifted, his control fraying at the edges.

“You really want me to finish something?” His voice dropped, warmer now, tinged with restraint.

“I want you to stop pretending this isn’t real,” you said, barely more than a breath. “Whether you act on it or not, stop playing like it isn’t there.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. Still not touching. But the pressure of his presence was overwhelming.

“Then tell me,” he whispered. “Which one do you want?”

And God help you—you could not tell if he meant the choreography or the almost-kiss.

But either answer would be dangerous.

And either way, you were about to find out.

You said nothing. You had no need to.

Because something in him changed. His gaze dropped to your mouth—and stayed there. Your breath stuttered, heat washing over your skin.

He moved closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Just—closer. Deliberate. His hand lifted, hovered near your jaw, fingers twitching as though asking permission he would not voice.

Your lips parted. Not in invitation. In instinct.

You did not lean in.

But your eyes flicked to his mouth—and that was all it took.

He leaned forward.

Just enough for your foreheads to brush.

Your breath mingled. His hand found your waist, not with confidence, but with care—uncertain, hesitant, like the moment might collapse beneath the weight of it.

You tilted your head, just enough for the moment to turn.

And then—

The door swung open.

Footsteps. A voice, casual and unaware: “Yo, Channie—manager’s looking for—oh. Uh..”

You broke apart as though scalded.

His hands dropped. You stumbled back. Blood roared in your ears, a deafening rush of shame and unspent want. Chan cleared his throat, turning away as if to hide what could not be hidden.

“Right,” he muttered. “Coming.”

The third voice mumbled an apology and disappeared.

And what followed was silence.

Not the charged kind. The kind that ruins everything.

Neither of you spoke at first. You didn’t even look at each other.

But as he reached for his bag, something passed between you—unspoken, trembling.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Me neither.”

A beat passed.

Then the faintest, wryest smile. “We’re such liars.”

You said nothing, you just watched him walk away for the second time.

But this time, the tension did not dissipate, it settled. Sank deep into your bones.

Waiting. Waiting for the next time. The inevitable. Not if.

When.

The next time you encountered him, it was in another studio. The mirrors were unfamiliar, the playlist unfamiliar still, yet the weight beneath your skin remained unchanged. A pressure that had not dulled, only shifted—waiting. You had arrived early, already moving through stretches when he stepped in. Earlier than usual. Deliberate, perhaps. His gaze found yours too quickly, and for the briefest of moments, both of you froze, suspended in the remnants of memory. The lockers. The breathless hush of almost. The air between mouths that had nearly touched.

But no words acknowledged it.

“Morning,” he offered with the kind of ease that could only be forced, lifting one arm to stretch overhead, voice deliberately light.

“You’re on time,” you replied, nonchalant.

“Trying to be good.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, measuring.

His smile curved, laced with implication. “For now.”

Electricity pulsed between you—not overt, not overwhelming, but coiled tightly beneath the surface, waiting for friction. You chose silence, turning toward the speaker as though the task of finding a track demanded all of your focus. In truth, your hands betrayed you, trembling faintly with the effort it took to maintain distance.

The music began. The session commenced. But the silence between the beats—between the counts—spoke louder than anything the speakers delivered.

Every motion you made was shaped by awareness. His presence carved itself into your periphery, every mirrored movement sending subtle tremors down your spine. When your rhythms aligned, when his shadow stretched too close behind you, it no longer felt like mere choreography. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.

He slipped once, losing half a beat on a glide. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and the atmosphere shifted. That heat—undeniable and hungry—returned with a vengeance.

You were the one who looked away first this time, though only just. And yet, before the song had finished its final measure, you reached for the speaker—only to find him behind you once again. Not touching. Merely present. His breath a soft warmth against your neck, the scent of sweat and something inherently him clouding your thoughts.

“Still correcting me?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing the back of your mind like velvet dragged slow.

You did not turn. “Do you still require correction?”

There was a pause—barely a breath—before he answered, quieter still. “Perhaps.”

Then, as though his nearness had not unraveled the composure you fought to maintain, he turned away, towel in hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. He left you standing there, the ache blooming inside your chest like a bruise kissed too many times.

And this time—this time—you cursed him, because it had been you who wanted to close the space. You who ached to kiss him first.

It began with a glance. He was mid-step, face composed, body fluid—until your gaze found his in the mirror once again, and you gifted him a smile far too knowing, slow and sweet, laced with an innocence you did not possess. He faltered, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.

“Too early,” you noted smoothly, your tone silk and challenge in equal measure as you crossed the studio floor. “Again.”

He cleared his throat, gave a terse nod, and reset his posture. He did not meet your gaze this time. Did not dare.

The music restarted, but you no longer danced. Instead, you circled. A quiet predator draped in calm, arms crossed, watching him with all the patience of something waiting to strike. He held steady, but you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly each time your footsteps drifted too close behind him.

You waited.

You let the chorus build.

And then you moved.

When he turned, you were there—too close again, and yet not touching, until your hand rose with precision to adjust the angle of his posture. The movement echoed your earlier correction, but this time your fingers lingered. They traced the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, pausing at his wrist before gliding upward again, your eyes never leaving his.

“Better,” you murmured, your breath teasing the edge of his skin. “I hadn’t expected you to be so obedient.”

His breath caught—a shallow hitch—and you watched the restraint tighten across his brow.

“You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound caught, strangled by the atmosphere. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”

You stepped in until your chest nearly brushed his, your gaze heavy-lidded, your voice a murmur blooming like smoke between you. “Who said I wouldn’t?”

His stare burned. His hands remained clenched at his sides, but his entire body trembled with the effort to remain still.

And then you touched his chest—once, lightly, a single mocking tap over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Start again.”

He did not move immediately.

You saw the conflict in him, the tension that curled like a storm behind his eyes, the desire barely restrained. He waited. He wanted.

And in that hesitation, you knew you had won.

Because this time, he had no words.

This time, it was him left breathless.

You continued, unabated.

The lingering touches, the glances heavy with implication, the murmured suggestions veiled in choreographic critique—each one became more deliberate, more artfully placed. A calculated seduction cloaked in professionalism. And he? He accepted it all in stride. A faint smirk here, a deeper inhale there. But he never rose to the bait. Never stumbled. Never retaliated.

So you pressed further.

During a lull—water break, bodies gleaming with effort—you leaned casually against the far wall, the curve of your hip framed in sunlight spilling through the studio window. You sipped slowly from your bottle, letting the straw linger between your lips, tongue brushing it just so. A test.

He looked.

This time, he did not smile.

Instead, he walked toward you—unhurried, unflinching, and terrifyingly assured. Each step reverberated like a silent countdown. You straightened, half-formed wit on your tongue, some flirty retort meant to reestablish the upper hand—but you never spoke it. He reached you first.

One hand braced against the wall beside your head, grounding you in place with a subtle dominance that stole your breath. The other hand lifted, slow, deliberate, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. Gentle, yet inescapable, he tilted your face upward, commanding your gaze with nothing but touch.

His eyes were not cold—but they were unreadable. Deep and calm, like a still ocean hiding a storm just beneath the surface.

“You finished?” he asked, voice low and unshaken.

Your stomach dropped, heat coiling in its place. “What?” you whispered.

“Playing.”

You blinked, feigned confusion. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His grip did not tighten, but it also did not relent. His thumb traced lightly along the line of your jaw, as though mapping it to memory—or warning.

“You’re charming when you tease,” he murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, though it held no mirth. Only precision. “But don’t forget what could happen when I stop indulging you.”

Your breath caught. Blood surged, dizzy and hot beneath your skin.

He studied you like a man memorizing a work of art—one he intended to wreck, piece by piece. His voice remained smooth, but it darkened, dipping into something far more dangerous.

“You believe you’re in control here?” His smile sharpened, languid and lethal. “Princess, I’ve only allowed you to think so.”

Then he leaned in—not enough to kiss, not quite. But his breath caressed your skin, hot and deliberate, brushing your ear like a secret.

“You want to be a brat? Go on, be my guest,” he breathed. “Just remember—”

He withdrew, slowly, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe with devastating intention.

“Brats get handled.”

And then he stepped back. Casual. Composed. As if he had not just stolen every shred of power from your body and left it trembling in your veins.

You remained there—motionless, lips parted, heart thrumming in your throat. Breathless, undone.

You knew, then. The game had shifted.

The next round?

You would not be the one in control.

But you did not stop. Even after that moment at the wall—after the words that laced threat with promise, after the heat of his breath echoing in your skin like a burn—you could not seem to stop. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you now, gaze simmering with warning and anticipation, like a man one heartbeat away from devouring. Perhaps it was the thrill—the exquisite danger of pushing too far, too fast, too close.

But today, he was done playing.

Today, he struck the match.

You had been playing a dangerous game—one step too close, one brush too many, your body skimming his in a way that most certainly did not belong to the choreography. And he saw it. Saw you smirk at your own boldness in the mirror.

That was all it took.

The music cut, abrupt and echoing in the sudden hush that followed. The studio stilled. Heads lifted. A few half-smiles, expecting a correction, perhaps even a teasing remark.

But he did not joke.

He turned to you. “Come here.”

Your stomach turned over at the sound of it—low, commanding, unmistakable. You hesitated, just long enough to register your heartbeat climbing.

“I said—” His tone sharpened. He snapped his fingers, pointed to the floor in front of him with infuriating precision. “Come. Here.”

You moved, pulse thudding like thunder in your ears.

He did not touch you. Not at first. He circled you slowly, like a thought forming in real time, eyes raking over your frame with unnerving composure. And then, he began to correct.

His hand settled at your hip, adjusting the tilt with a firm, measured push. His palm rose to your arm, guiding it upward, fingers splayed just wide enough to graze the sensitive space below your ribs. He stepped in closer, lifted your chin with a single knuckle—not gently, not cruelly, but with a control that brokered no disobedience.

He said nothing.

Not until he stood behind you, breath whispering against your ear like silk edged in flame.

“You want to be a brat?” he murmured. “Very well.”

His hands did not wander—they instructed. They placed. They demanded.

“You will hold this form. You will listen. And if you test me again—”

He leaned in, just close enough for the strength in your knees to falter.

“—I’ll deal with you in private.”

And then he stepped away. As though the warning had never left his lips. As though he had not just carved a promise into your spine with the threat of restraint.

You remained where he placed you—locked in position, every nerve alight, throat tight with anticipation.

And from that moment forward?

You behaved. But it was not fear that tethered your obedience.

It was desire.

After the rehearsal had concluded, you gathered your things in silence, though every motion, every breath, was steeped in tension. You felt his presence behind you like heat radiating from a fire you refused to face. Each glance toward the mirror caught his reflection—poised, dispassionate, but never inattentive.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Your steps carried you to the smaller practice room—the one without windows, the one with a door that locked. You stepped inside. The door closed behind you with a soft, decisive click.

You did not need to turn.

He followed. Still, he did not speak.

He moved toward you with the same deliberate calm, the air between you darkening, thickening, drawing tight around your throat. His eyes raked over your body—not with lust, but with intent. Calculation. Possession.

“You don’t listen,” he said, his voice quiet, surgical in its stillness.

You did not reply.

“You flirt. You provoke. You test.”

He stopped in front of you.

“And when I warn you?”

You glanced at his lips, unthinking.

His hand snapped to your jaw—not violently, but with unwavering dominance—redirecting your gaze back to his with a pressure that brooked no defiance.

“You smile.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, without ceremony, he leaned in. His lips did not find yours. Instead, they brushed your cheek—deliberate, lingering. A claim, not a kiss.

“You wanted this,” he whispered, voice deep enough to tremble through your bones. “Every little stunt. Every subtle touch. Every glance.”

He pulled back, just enough to study your expression.

“You wanted to be handled. Is that right?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smile returned, slow and devastating.

“Then put your hands behind your back.”

Your breath stilled.

“Now.”

And you obeyed.

The moment your wrists crossed behind you, he moved—swift, precise. One hand gripped your hip, dragging your body flush to his. The other tangled in your hair, firm but controlled, tilting your head until your throat bared for him.

“You don’t speak unless I say so,” he growled, voice rich with heat and power. “You don’t move unless I command it.”

A kiss, featherlight, brushed just beneath your ear.

“And you don’t come until I allow it.”

You shuddered.

He felt it. Smiled.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Lesson begins now, right?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not cruelly, but with authority. A signal. A seal.

You nod meekly in answer.

He tilted your head just enough to force your gaze to his, his thumb ghosting along your jaw with a delicacy that belied the command in his posture. His eyes locked to yours—unchanging, fathomless, a storm beneath glass.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He studies you for a moment longer, then releases your hair with a final stroke and began pacing behind you. Slow. Silent.

You did not turn to look. The weight of his eyes was too heavy to bear.

You felt him instead—circling, appraising, plotting every step like a predator does when they know the prey cannot go anywhere.

Then, without warning, his voice unfurled at your ear—low, deliberate, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Take off your jacket.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid the fabric from your shoulders. Slowly. Precisely. Offering him the ritual of your submission with each inch revealed.

He didn’t move to help. Didn’t lift a hand to touch.

Just watched.

When it fell to the floor in a soft rustle, he made a sound—deep and approving, barely more than a hum.

“Good girl.”

The words landed like fire in your chest.

“Now,” he murmured, “come here.”

You stepped forward, heart caught in your throat. But before you could close the distance, he halted you with a hand at your hip. His grip was firm—anchoring, possessive. You felt the shape of his restraint pressed against your body, his power held tightly in check.

Still, he did not kiss you.

Instead, his palm slid upward, trailing the curve of your waist with exquisite slowness, watching your eyes as if waiting for the moment they’d break.

“You know what I want?”

You shook your head, breath caught in your lungs.

His fingertips ghosted along the edge of your waistband—just enough to tease, never enough to give.

“I want to hear you beg.”

Your breath stuttered. But before you could speak, his smile curved—dangerous.

“Not yet.”

Then suddenly—motion. Heat. Pressure.

His hands closed around your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He placed you on the table’s edge, the wood cool and unyielding beneath your thighs. He spread your knees, stepping into the space he now owned like he’d claimed it by right.

His mouth brushed your cheek. Barely there.

“You’ve been restless all week,” he murmured, breath hot and intimate. “Acting out. Testing limits. All so I’d give you this.”

“I—” you started, but your voice came out as a whisper, shaky and small.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, knuckles trailing your spine, an ache of contact that never satisfied—too light, too brief, too intentional.

“Quiet,” he said, voice like silk drawn tight. “You don’t speak unless I say.”

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Still not listening.”

Then his mouth descended on your throat—not with tenderness, but with claim. Each kiss dragged, teased, taunted. He pulled soft, involuntary sounds from you—gasps that dared to break past your lips before you swallowed them down.

His hand dipped lower, brushed between your thighs—once. Barely.

Your body jerked forward, instinct chasing what it needed.

Immediately, he withdrew.

“Don’t,” he growled—low, sharp, searing. “Do. Not. Move.”

You froze. Eyes wide. Breath stalled.

He waited until the tremble settled in your legs, then tilted his head with that maddening smirk.

“I thought you wanted to be good.”

“I do,” you said, the words spilling out, hoarse and needy.

“Then prove it.”

And with that, he stepped back—not to leave you, not to show mercy, but to begin.

To take his time.

To teach you exactly what it meant to fall apart at the hands of someone who delighted in denying you everything until you earned it.

He returned to that maddening rhythm—touching, teasing, coaxing you to the precipice only to steal it away with surgical precision. Again. And again. Each retreat more cruel than the last. Each denied high a blade across your nerve endings.

Your thighs trembled, the ache blooming into something unbearable, your lips parting in a silent plea you no longer knew how to suppress.

His mouth traced your collarbone like a secret he’d memorized. Up the delicate slope of your throat, across your jaw—each kiss a promise without fulfillment, a cruelty dressed in velvet.

Still, he didn’t kiss you.

Still, he withheld.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice a warm breath against your skin, fingers pressing almost—almost—to where you burned for him.

You nodded, a frantic gasp caught in your throat, a tremor running through you like lightning.

But he only leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with wickedness.

“Not even close to earning it yet.”

Then—emptiness.

He stepped back, stripping you of warmth, of touch, of relief. You were left gasping, trembling, hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt like you might come apart if you let go.

His smile as he watched you was both tender and merciless—beautiful and brutal.

“You’ll beg soon,” he said, voice like a verdict.

And then, to your disbelief, he turned.

Walked to the other side of the room with unhurried grace. Dragged a chair across the floor, the sound scraping through the silence like a dare. He sat—legs spread, arms folded, gaze fixed on you with the full weight of his dominance.

“Try again,” he said. “From the top.”

Because this wasn’t indulgence.

This wasn’t even pleasure.

This was a lesson—and you, trembling and undone, were the student.

The chair groaned beneath him as he leaned back—composed, commanding. He looked relaxed, leisurely, like a man with all the time in the world.

But you knew better.

His eyes were sharp—cut-glass cold. Unforgiving. Watching not just your body, but the unraveling of your will. He wasn’t waiting.

He was watching you fall. A performance, a masterpiece in the making.

A slow, sweet descent into obedience.

You were still trembling—perched on the edge, slick and aching, every nerve a livewire. Jaw set tight, lips parted, your whole body strung taut with need. And still, you did not move.

Not until he allowed it.

His voice slid into the silence like silk over a blade.

“Go on,” he said, low and unhurried. “Beg.”

You blinked, your breath catching, heart stuttering like it had forgotten how to beat.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

That earned you a slow, dangerous smile.

“I want you to admit it. Tell me what you need.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Punishing. You swallowed.

“I… I need you to touch me.”

He hummed—displeased. Like that wasn’t enough.

“You’ll need to do better than that.”

Your hands clenched into trembling fists. Your voice, when it came again, was louder. Frantic.

“Please. Please—just touch me. I need—”

He leaned forward just enough to steal your breath.

“That what all this attitude was about? All week?” he asked. “Pushing buttons, playing games—just to fall apart at my feet?”

Shame flared hot across your cheeks, but you nodded. The truth clung to you like heat, undeniable.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Your throat worked. You were already breathless.

“I want to come for you,” you whispered.

His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.

“And why should I let you?”

“I can’t think—I can’t breathe—” The words tumbled out in broken pieces. “I’ve been aching since you walked in—I need you to take it—I’ll be good, I swear—please, please—”

And then he moved.

Two strides. A fist in your hair. He tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to his.

“You’ll be good?” he growled.

“Yes.”

“You’ll listen?”

“Yes—yes, I promise—”

“No more bratty little stunts unless I ask for them?”

“God, yes—please—”

His mouth descended on yours in a brutal kiss—hot and claiming, teeth and tongue, a devouring hunger unleashed. His hands gripped you everywhere—commanding, unrelenting—like your pleading had finally torn the leash from his restraint.

And then he pressed you to the mirrored wall. One hand slipped between your thighs, the other pinned your wrists high above your head.

He smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured, reverent and wrecking.

And you broke.

Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant—that he had made you wait for it. That you had earned this.

He kissed you like he had starved for it. No space. No mercy. Just his mouth consuming yours, swallowing every whimper, every gasp. One hand fisted in your shirt, the other tracing fire between your legs—not teasing this time.

This time, it was real.

Your hips jolted forward, seeking more, but he pulled back—just a hair.

“Don’t,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “You begged to be good. Be good.”

You froze. Your whole body trembling in the silence that followed.

His smile was maddening.

And then he moved again.

His fingers pressed between your thighs—deep, slow, deliberate strokes over fabric. Not fast. Not generous. Just enough to have you writhing, your hands twitching in his grip.

“Still,” he reminded.

You obeyed. Barely.

His mouth traveled down your neck—biting, soothing, leaving traces only he would know were there.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he murmured. “Dripping, trembling, obedient. Until you forget everything except how to beg.”

You whimpered—weak, wrecked.

His fingers circled your clit again, slow and torturous.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Let me take you apart. Piece by perfect piece.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please—”

“Then ask.”

“Please… let me come.”

He stilled.

And smiled.

“Good girl.”

Then everything changed.

He slipped beneath your waistband, found you bare, drenched, desperate. Two fingers pushed deep, curling just right, sending shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, your body arching, but he held you fast—his strength the only anchor in the storm.

“You hear yourself?” he growled, mouth against your ear. “So fucking loud. So needy. You were made for this.”

He moved with purpose now—no longer denying, but delivering. Each thrust of his fingers uncoiled something unbearable inside you. His mouth was at your neck again, claiming every sound, every twitch, every unraveling breath.

“You take it so well,” he whispered. “Fucking perfect.”

Your body tightened—hips trembling, core clenching around him.

“Say it,” he commanded. “Who do you come for?”

“You,” you gasped. “You—Chan, fuck—please—”

“Then come.”

And you did.

With a cry that shattered the silence. Your body convulsed, clinging to him, coming apart in his hands while he whispered you through it, holding you like something precious. Reverent. Relentless.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

Your vision blurred. Your limbs trembled. But he didn’t stop.

He slipped his fingers free—wet, glistening. He moved to hold them up to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed wordlessly, to which he slid them past your lips, watching as you sucked yourself clean, dazed and undone.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “You’re all mine.”

And then—he lifted you.

A gasp escaped before you could stop it, air rushing from your lungs as the ground disappeared. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. His grip was firm, assured—like he’d done this a thousand times in the dark of his mind. He carried you like you weighed nothing, then lowered you into the chair with reverence, like he was crowning you, before sinking to his knees between your spread thighs.

“You don’t get to stop now,” he murmured, dragging you forward until you were right where he wanted. “I decide when you’re done.”

You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you.

His tongue moved slowly—devastatingly—like he intended to savor every inch, like you were something forbidden he’d finally been allowed to taste. He licked into you with aching patience, moaning against your soaked skin, hands gripping your thighs with a possessive edge as he opened you wider, held you still.

You tried to shift.

He growled.

“Still,” he ordered.

A whimper rose from your throat.

He only smiled, smug and sinful, and kept going—flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit until your eyes rolled back, sucking you softly until you cried out, until your legs trembled around his head and tried to close. He forced them open again with a harsh squeeze, unrelenting.

“No running.”

And then you shattered—quick, brutal, your climax torn from you in a sob that barely sounded human.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

He kept licking, mouth locked to your heat, tongue dragging through your second orgasm as it surged up behind the first—hot and helpless, tearing through you as your body arched, your fingers twisted in his hair, and your voice broke on his name.

When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, reaching for him with a wrecked sort of need, he rose.

Unbuckled.

His cock was flushed, hard, slick with precum as he stroked himself lazily, watching you with a hunger that made your knees shake all over again.

“Get on my lap,” he said, voice dark velvet—an order barely veiled in honey.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding against your ribs as you obeyed, your limbs moving on instinct alone. You climbed into his arms with a quiet gasp, thighs trembling as they slid around his waist. His hands guided you with slow precision, anchoring your hips as he settled you astride him. The chair groaned beneath the shift of weight, wood creaking with every motion like it, too, was aware of what was about to happen.

“Take it,” he murmured, eyes burning.

Your fingers trembled as they slipped between your bodies, wrapping around his cock—hot, heavy, slick with need. You guided him to your entrance, breath shallow as your body quivered with anticipation, still pulsing from the high he’d already coaxed from you.

You began to sink down—inch by inch, unbearably slow.

He filled you like fire—stretching you wide, pushing into the sensitive ache he’d left raw and wanting. The pressure stole your breath, your spine arching as you took more of him, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick drag of him.

He didn’t help.

Didn’t thrust.

Didn’t move.

He just watched—utterly still beneath you, like a king on his throne, content to let his prize struggle to claim him. His hands rested on your hips, warm and commanding, but he offered no lift, no aid—only possession. His gaze tracked every twitch of your mouth, every tremor in your thighs, every desperate gasp you made as you worked to take all of him.

“You can take more,” he rasped, his voice jagged with restraint. “Be good for me. All the way.”

You whimpered, nearly undone by the fullness—the way he stretched you open, made you feel too much. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you, like nothing had ever captivated him more.

Finally, with a trembling sob, you sank the last inch, until he was buried to the hilt—hot, thick, deep. Your body clenched, fluttering in overwhelmed surrender, your thighs quaking around him as you tried to breathe through it.

He didn’t move.

Just one large hand rose, slow and sure, to wrap around your throat—not tight, but claiming. He tilted your face up until your eyes met his.

“Now ride.”

You tried.

You set a rhythm—fragile, unsteady, the rise and fall of your body a stuttering dance over his cock. Each descent was a war against gravity and exhaustion, your slick walls dragging along his length in maddening friction. But your strength was spent, your body trembling from earlier pleasure, and your movements slowed with every pulse of overstimulation.

He watched you falter—watched the way your head dropped to his shoulder, your grip on him desperate and shaking.

And then he took over.

His grip on your hips turned unyielding, and he slammed you down onto him with brutal precision. His thrusts were deliberate—slow, devastating, designed not for pace but for impact. Each one drove up into you with a punishing force, making your eyes roll back as he filled you again and again, bottoming out so deep you saw stars.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he panted against your ear. “Still think you can tease me, push me, and not pay for it?”

You sobbed, lips parted, unable to form a single word as your next climax rushed toward you like a breaking wave.

He caught your face again, palm hot against your cheek, thumb dragging across your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You’re gonna come again. On my cock. Right now.”

And you did.

Your body broke like glass—shattered and blinding and unbearable. Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream as you clenched hard around him, your walls fluttering in helpless spasms as pleasure exploded in white-hot waves through your core.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you there—crushed against his chest—and kept thrusting into you. His pace slowed, but the force remained—deep, relentless, possessive. He fucked you through the aftershocks, through the sobs, through the trembling collapse of your strength.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice breaking. “So deep you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you move. You’ll think of me every time your thighs press together.”

You clenched around him, broken by his words.

And it was enough.

He let out a guttural moan and buried himself to the base, spilling inside you with a shudder that rocked through both your bodies. His hips stilled, jaw clenched tight as warmth spread between your thighs, thick and hot and endless.

You collapsed against him.

Ruined.

Shaking.

His.

The silence that followed felt holy. Your breath came in broken exhales against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. His hand rubbed slow circles into your back, grounding you as you melted into him—sweat-slicked and spent.

“You alive?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

You nodded, the movement barely there. “Barely.”

He chuckled, low and tender. “Didn’t tap out. I’m impressed.”

“You didn’t let me,” you mumbled, lips brushing his skin.

“Of course not,” he said, mock-affronted. “You begged for this. Over and over.”

You groaned weakly, burying your face in his neck. He laughed again, thumb sliding beneath your chin to tilt your head.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

And his gaze—soft now, reverent—melted everything inside you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Really okay.”

“Good,” he murmured, and kissed you slowly. Like a thanks. Like a promise. Like a home.

Then—“Gonna have to carry you to the showers, aren’t I?”

You scowled. “I can walk.”

He arched a brow. “Is that so?”

You tried to shift—and winced.

His grin turned feral.

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “Guess I’ll have to take care of you. Again. What a burden.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Obviously. You were such a brat. And now look at you—wrecked and clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”

You slapped his chest half-heartedly.

He caught your wrist, brought your fingers to his lips, and kissed them with mock solemnity.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered as he stood with you cradled in his arms. “I’ll deal with you properly once you’ve recovered.”

You blinked, dazed. “That wasn’t properly?”

His smirk darkened.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he said, walking toward the showers. “That was just the start.”

You were curled against his chest, limbs boneless, body swaddled in the oversized hoodie he’d tugged over your head with gentle hands—still warm from him, still carrying the ghost of his cologne. That scent—clean, musky, unmistakably him—wrapped around you like second skin, grounding you in the aftermath.

A thick studio blanket had been pulled from the couch and thrown over both your bodies, tangled at your waists where your legs remained loosely knotted, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere, the mirror still wore the breath of your bodies—fogged and glistening in the low light, like it remembered.

Everything was slow now. Quiet.

His fingers brushed idle shapes into your bare thigh, the pads of them warm and absentminded, like he couldn’t stop touching you, even when he had no destination in mind. His voice came low, laced with the softness of a man who'd thoroughly undone you, and was still basking in the afterglow of your ruin.

“You were good,” he murmured, tone deceptively casual. “Eventually.”

You huffed into his shoulder, lips twitching. “I tried.”

He hummed, thoughtful and amused, his lips brushing against your temple like punctuation.

“Next time,” he whispered, the words velvet and sin against your skin, “don’t make me work so hard.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you nestled closer into the cradle of his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His chest rumbled with a deep, lazy laugh—content and unhurried—as he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“God,” he said, almost to himself, “you’re lucky I like you.”

A quiet grin curved your lips, full of warmth and weariness and something dangerously close to love.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then there was nothing but his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the rhythm of his breath against your back, and the comforting weight of his embrace as he held you there—tucked safely in the stillness, limbs entangled, skin to skin in the hush that followed the storm.

He did not speak again, he just kept holding you, as if he were protecting your tired form from the world outside his arms.

soo this was a lil longer than expected......

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

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shotmrmiller · 3 months ago

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just porn. and a comparison of cocks:>

finally deciding to sleep with ghoap after dating them for a couple of months, but because they're overwhelming together— you'd like to breathe, not drown— you decide to be with them separately for now to experience their gravity one at a time without getting completely swept away.

(you don't know whether to be insulted that they're playing rock-paper-scissors on who gets to go first or flattered that they both desperately want to be first. simon wins and johnny pouts.)

with simon, you'd been outright terrified. that thing between his legs didn't spring up when you made him lose the pants, didn't bob with each step he took toward the bed, toward you; gravity pulled it downward, each step he took made it sway heavily. if he hadn't taken the time to work you open, his thick fingers curling as his tongue focused on the apex of your pussy until your slick traced a sinuous path down his wrist, coming to stickily drip from his elbow onto the sheets, it would've ached a lot more than it did.

because it did. ache, that is. there was no staving off the discomfort of the stretch, the sting only spreading its sharp tendrils further when you took him to the root, the orgasms simon had wrenched from you only a thin barrier against the full brunt of it. but fortunately, your generous lover gave you as much time as you'd needed to accommodate, to give in, to surrender, and the pain bloomed into warm, rich pleasure when his hand slithered down to your hips, the pads of his fingers brushing over your oh so tender pearl and when you'd keened out a sigh, he'd begun to fuck you in earnest and anything after that is one big blur.

simon is a big guy. massive, really, built like he belonged on the battlefield. he did not take up space; he was space, so you hadn't been surprised that he'd been as egregiously endowed as he was. painfully fitting, you reckon.

so, when it's johnny that's pressing hot, wet kisses against the smooth column of your throat, you're gulping down a sigh of sharp relief when he breathes that while he's not as blessed as simon, he'll treat you better than him, he promises.

(still sore from having lost that silly game, you notice.)

johnny's thickly built but compact— all muscle and tightly coiled energy, like a fire burning too close, so you're expecting him to be proportionate the same way simon was.

oh, how grievously wrong you were.

what he lacked in length, barely an inch or two, who cares, was insignificant compared to his sheer, staggering girth. you'd thought simon was overwhelming, but johnny was something else entirely. it hung ominously, the thin, groomed skin above it seemingly stretched taut, strained with its density. what's worse, it didn't sway with his movements; it just hung there, rigid, a deadweight.

you'd survived simon just to die at the hands— and cock— of johnny.

figures.

(time had seemingly slowed when johnny had begun to sink into you, every second stretching as painfully as your poor cunt, fire licking at your nerves, spreading through your limbs in waves, one more intense than the last. your breath is shallow and uneven as your body resists, stubborn against the intrusion and johnny hooks his arm under your leg, just at the crook of his elbow— easy does it, hen, breathe f'r me— and he cants your hips to that sweet angle that allows him to slip in, like a stone sinking into a pond. The flood of relief you feel is euphoric in contrast to the raw feel of you being stretched to your absolute limit, and while the tension isn't completely gone, the fragile respite perched right on the edge of discomfort, it is a victory.)

#i am so smut rusty someone send the wambulance #inspired by the: he long and he shorter but thick #like how thick girl talk to me #whereas simon's a quiet kind of man #johnny doesn't hold *any* kind of sound back #he's letting everyone and they friends know how good you feel lmao #moaning and swearing right up in your ear #would hen count as f reader? anyone?#oh baby a throuple #my favorite #ghoap x reader #ghoap x you #cod smut #ghoap x reader smut #simon ghost riley smut #johnny soap mactavish smut

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dancewithdeath11 · 7 months ago

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Keep It Down

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Trying to not wake anyone up while staying over for the holidays…

Warnings: Intense feels, trying to stay quiet, hand over mouth, Smut 18+, literally just pp in vv moment, petnames (Ma (ofc, this is Jaybird we’re talkin’ about), baby), crying but…in the hot way?, obsessed with this concept ngl. Yes, I got lazy at the end, don’t judge.. :(

Word count: 1k

======

It was all quiet pants and silent tears.

The holidays had rolled around and the two of you were staying at Wayne Manor for the week. A classic Gotham storm raged outside, snow gently falling as lightning flashed through the closed curtains of Jason’s room. Thunder shook the house, momentarily deafening what was happening.

You and Jason were always recklessly in love. So, no wonder you couldn’t keep your hands to yourselves for more than a day. The only problem was volume. And shit, could Jason make you lose your voice moaning and crying out his name. On the other hand, it would be sucky to be caught by one of his brothers, let alone Alfred or Bruce…

“Gotta stay quiet, baby.. Can you do that for me?” Was what he murmured in your ear before you got started.

He was slow, loving with his slow but deep thrusts. His dick hitting that spot within you that made your back arch and nails drag down his back, leaving angry red streaks in their wake. Fuck, he knew how to make your head spin.

Tears streaked down your cheeks, shallow breaths leaving your parted lips. Jason ate it up, kissing and nipping along your neck. Tasting your skin and groaning into your neck to keep his own noises to a minimum. Calloused hands gripping your thighs to haul them up around his waist to get a better angle. The whine you let out was quickly muffled by his lips capturing yours in a deep kiss. “Shhh.. I know, ma, I know..” He mumbled against your mouth.

As he had your lips captured, his hands moved up. Pulling you up into an arch by your waist before wrapping his arms around. Shoving his arms between you and the bed. Chest to chest, arms hugging your middle like he was scared you’d slip away. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his forehead dropped to your shoulder. Hot breath fanning across your skin making a shiver run up your spine.

“Oh shit…” You breathed, hand coming up to drag through his dark hair. Gripping with shaky fingers, lightly tugging, making Jason practically growl into your skin. Brows pinched in pleasure as tears fell back into your hairline. Every roll of his hips takes your breath away and makes you tremble. His fingers dug into your back as he squeezed you tighter.

Fire.. that's what you felt. Crawling beneath your skin, licking at your core making your stomach flip. Pushing you closer and closer to your high with every thrust, sharp breath, and moan. Trying to keep quiet. Desperately. But it was so difficult with how overwhelming it was. The thrill of accidentally being too loud. Passionate tenderness that made your head spin and tears prick your eyes. In a vulnerable state of intense pleasure and connection. All while your loving boyfriend whispered sweet nothings into your skin. “That’s it, ma..I’ve got you.. Just let go, I’ve got you..”

Flushed and blissed out, your head pressed back to the pillows. Whimpering an, “Oh my god..” into the darkness of the room. Maybe a little too loud than you should’ve…

Jason was quick to remedy your loss of volume control. His hand coming up to cover your mouth, his other arm still securely holding you to him. While he loved how wrecked you sounded, he didn’t want to get caught..You breathed harshly through your nose as you let out a ragged moan that got muffled by his palm. “Baby, baby.. Gotta keep it down..” He murmured, voice laced with desire.

Despite his words, he picked up the pace a little, rocking against you with more intensity. Hitting harder, somehow it felt deeper too. Eyes squeezed shut as you tried to focus on your pleasure and keep your moans down.

Pressing closer, practically suffocating you with his weight. Draping himself over you like a protective blanket made up of over two hundred pounds of muscle. His hand left your mouth to grip the pillow next to your head. His head dropping once more, groaning right into your ear. “C’mon, ma..” You were so close…

You choked and pressed your face to his neck. Letting out a strangle moan you muffle against his skin. Finally reaching that peak. It wasn’t fast and strong like it usually would be. The kind that would have you moaning shamelessly and crying out his name. No.. This twisted your spine and burned through your veins. Making you choke on your own air and hold your breath. Crashing over your body like waves on an ocean shore. Tensing as you gripped him where you could. Pawing desperately at his skin for purchase as fat tears rolled down your cheeks.

Then you let out a sob of raw pleasure, still muffled against his skin. Shaking as you rode out your high. Thighs trembling around his waist as your body pulsed with the aftershocks. He slowed down for a moment, cooing softly in your ear and pressing kisses to your tear-stained cheeks as he helped you ride out your orgasm.

When you finally calmed down enough, he took your chin in hand, “Yeah..?” He mumbled to you. Seeking permission, seeing if he could be selfish now. Chase his pleasure. All you could do was tighten your legs around his waist again and nod weakly. Arms pulling him closer once more. “Yeah..” He quickly sought out your lips, locking you in a deep and needy kiss as he picked up the pace again.

Panting and pressing as deep as he could. His groans went straight into your mouth as he chased his release. He wasn’t far behind. His hips stuttered before he let out a strangled moan, “Baby..” he grumbled against your lips. Giving a few short thrusts as he finished. Jason finally broke the kiss with a heavy sigh. A string of saliva connected you still before he licked his lips. “Fuck, you did so good for me..” He praised softly as he caressed your cheek. Thumbs wiping away the tears.

“Fuck yeah, I did..” You gave a tired smirk. He paused before he gave a slow smirk of his own.

“As if, you were loud as hell.”

“Shut up…”

#jason todd x you #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood smut #red hood fanfiction #jason todd #smut #dc fanfic #Yes #oh fuck yes

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youthguk · 3 months ago

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Encore 2: Intermission

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

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

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

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

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

w.c: 10k

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

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

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

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

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

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

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

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

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

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

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

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

Your breath stirs.

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

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

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

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

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

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

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

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

Your blood turns to ice.

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

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

“That’ll be all.”

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

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

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

You check it.

Unknown Number

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

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

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

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

You just breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

You didn’t even say goodbye.

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

That night, another one arrives.

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

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

But the texts don’t stop.

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

You never reply. But you read every word.

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

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

BTS.

Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

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

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

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

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

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

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

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

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

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

“You should go sit down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

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

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

So is theirs. BTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

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

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

The elevator stops at five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

You’ve dressed for the kill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you meet Dante Seo.

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

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

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

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

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

Your spine tenses.

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

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

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

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip tightens.

“This.”

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

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

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

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

“I thought you liked being tested.”

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

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t rush.

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

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

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

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

“You’re gonna what?”

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

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

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

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

“You taste better than I remember.”

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

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

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

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

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he slides lower.

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

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

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

He doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re wet.”

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you,” you breathe.

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

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

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

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

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

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

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

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

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

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

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

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

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

“That’s not what it was.”

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

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

“You don’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And did it work?”

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

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

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

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

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

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

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

He flinches.

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

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

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

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

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

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

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

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

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

He freezes.

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

His breath hitches, but you go on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦✦✦

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

You arrive later than planned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sip your wine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lead the way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then think about it.”

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

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

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

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

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

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

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

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

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