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Most recently posted: Strawberry Kiss (Conrad Fisher x Reader, one-shot, E)

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includes: supergirl, shadowhunter chronicles, a court of thorns and roses, grishaverse, stray kids, the summer i turned pretty

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bloodred-jk

Stage Outfit Sin | JJK

Summary: You’ve been Jungkook’s stylist for months, but he barely looked at you. Tonight, before the concert, you’re alone with him in the dressing room adjusting his stage outfit. Your hand lingers too long on his firm chest.

Genre: Pure Smut

Pairing: Jungkook × Reader (Stylist!Reader)

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+ only) • Oral Sex • Rough Sex • Semi-Public • Built-Up Sexual Tension • Unprotected Sex • Strong Language • Dirty Talk

Listen To:

⊱ ──── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ──── ⊰ ⊱ ──── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ──── ⊰

You sat on the couch backstage, surrounded by the usual concert chaos. The other members were already being prepped — hair, makeup, and outfits. Stylists and staff moved quickly around them.

The concert was only about an hour away.

And here you were again, waiting for Jungkook.

It was always the same. He showed up late, made you wait, and then complained that you weren’t fast enough.

You watched the other members get ready, feeling irritation rise in your chest. If you could, you would have quit months ago.

“Hey, Namjoon,” you called out, trying to hide your annoyance. “Do you know where Jungkook is?”

Namjoon glanced at you through the mirror, offering an apologetic smile. “No, sorry. I texted him a few times too.”

You let out a frustrated groan and leaned back against the couch. It had been like this since the day you started. No apologies. Just comments about how you shouldn’t make such a big deal out of it.

You were tired of it.

You glanced down at your phone again and tapped out another message to Jungkook, even though you already knew it was pointless.

It had become part of your routine — him showing up late, the complaints, the accusations that you weren’t fast enough. You were so used to it by now that it almost felt normal.

But no matter how angry you were, the second he walked into the room, your eyes couldn’t help but find him. There was something about Jungkook that pulled you in, some invisible force you couldn’t explain. You hated it.

Because despite that stupid magnetic pull, you also wanted to kill him.

His arrogant attitude, the way he ignored you for days and then acted like you were the problem.

It drove you insane.

You let out a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling. Just one more hour until the concert. If he didn’t show up soon, you were seriously considering walking out.

Twenty minutes later, the door finally opened.

Jungkook walked in, casual as ever. His hair was still messy, and he was wearing a simple hoodie and sweats.

You stood up from the couch, jaw tight. You were furious, but you forced yourself to stay professional. Swallowing your anger, you walked straight toward him.

“Why are you so late?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. “The concert starts in about 45 minutes.”

Jungkook barely glanced at you at first. He pulled his hoodie off in one smooth motion, revealing the tight black tank top underneath, and tossed it onto a chair.

He shrugged. “Traffic.”

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to shove him and tell him to find someone else to deal with his shit.

But you couldn’t. Not with him. Something about Jungkook always made you stay, even when every part of you was screaming to walk away.

You clenched your jaw and gestured toward the styling chair. “Sit down. We don’t have time.”

You stood behind Jungkook as he sat in the styling chair, running your fingers through his hair to fix it. Your eyes kept meeting his through the mirror, neither of you looking away fast enough.

He started making stupid little comments, as usual.

“Careful, you’re pulling too hard,” he muttered.

You ignored him.

A few seconds later: “You always look so stressed when you do my hair."

Ignored again.

But when he opened his mouth for the third time, you finally snapped. “Jungkook, do me a favor and shut up.”

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then he grinned at you through the mirror — that cocky, dangerous smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Make me.”

The comb nearly slipped from your fingers. Heat rushed to your face, and something shifted deep inside you — a mix of anger, frustration, and a dangerous spark of want you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You stared at him in the mirror, breath caught in your throat. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and challenging, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

" I’m really fucking tired of this,” you said, voice sharp as you lowered the comb. “You’re always late. Every single time. You keep everyone waiting, then act like it’s no big deal. I’ve been sitting here for almost forty minutes while the others are already done. Do you even care that the concert is in less than an hour?”

Jungkook leaned back in the chair, arms loosely crossed. He didn’t look particularly bothered by your outburst.

“Traffic,” he answered flatly, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “What do you want me to say?”

You felt your frustration spike. “That’s it? No sorry, no nothing? You do this constantly and I’m just supposed to deal with it?”

He shrugged, gaze drifting away from you as if the conversation was already losing his interest.

“It’s not that deep. Just do your job.”

His cold, dismissive tone hit harder than any smirk could have. It made the anger burn hotter in your chest, but also left you feeling strangely unsettled. No matter how much you hated it, his indifference always affected you more than you wanted to admit.

You clenched your jaw and forced yourself to continue fixing his hair.

“Get your ass up,” you said coldly. “We still need to get you changed.”

Jungkook stood without a word and followed you into the dressing room where his stage outfit was already hanging neatly on the rack.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving the two of you completely alone. The air felt even heavier in the small space.

.“You know what?” you said, voice low but sharp. “If I didn’t need the money, I would’ve quit a long time ago. I can't stand working with you.”

The moment the words left your mouth, something in Jungkook’s expression shifted.

His usual cold indifference cracked. His jaw tightened, and his dark eyes narrowed as he stared at you.

He took one slow step closer, towering over you in the small room. The temperature seemed to rise instantly.

“Is that so?” he murmured, voice suddenly low and rough. His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second before returning to your eyes.

You murmured "Yes, that's exactly how it is."

The air grew heavy, charged with a tension that's almost tangible.

"Go. Get dressed." You whisper hoarsely. "It's becoming unbearably tight in here." With a quick step, you slip past him to search for his clothes.

He pulled his shirt off, and he stood before you shirtless in the dressing room. You'd seen him like this a few times before, but today felt different.

So you tried not to look, but it was hard. So hard that you'd almost forgotten how to breathe normally.

"Here. Wear this." Your voice came out rough, unfamiliar. You extended the denim jacket like a shield between you.

"That's all?" he asked, and you nodded, quick and jerky, staring fixedly at the peeling wallpaper behind his head.

"Okay," he said slowly, fabric rustling as he pulled the jacket on. "If that's everything, I'm done."

"But you need to help me." His voice dropped lower, intimate in the small space. "I can't get the collar to sit right."

Your throat clicked dryly as you swallowed.

This was your job. Just your job.

You turned and he was right there. Centimeters between you. The heat radiating from his bare chest prickled against your skin even without touching. You tilted your head up and met his eyes, and they were dark.

"Okay," you whispered. "Let me fix it." You reached up, hands trembling slightly as they found the collar of his jacket. You felt his gaze burning down on you, felt each exhale of warm breath ghost across your forehead, your cheek, your parted lips. Your own breathing fractured, coming in shallow, desperate bursts you couldn't control.

Without conscious thought, without permission, they slid from the stiff denim collar downward, tracing the bare skin of his throat, his collarbone, his chest.

You felt his sharp intake of breath beneath your palm, the rapid thud of his heartbeat, and still you couldn't stop, lost in the heat and the closeness and the unbearable tension coiling tight between you.

You caught your lower lip between your teeth, biting down as you dragged your touch slowly, deliberately downward, mapping the subtle ridges of muscle.

Awareness crashed over you suddenly.

What you were doing?

Your gaze shot upward to meet his, and those eyes remained dark, burning with an intensity that made your knees weaken.

"Sorry," you muttered, the word barely audible, rough with embarrassment.

But before you could escape, his hand snapped forward, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist.

The contact seared through you, electric and commanding.

He pulled you closer until your bodies nearly touched, until you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You know," Jungkook's voice dropped to that dangerous register that made your breath hitch, "I should fuck the stubbornness out of you."

You frozed against him. You said nothing—couldn't say anything. His eyes burned with that same infuriating confidence that had been driving you insane all tour, the smirk that made you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath.

His hand moved slowly, until his fingers wrapped around your throat. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who held the power here. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling your heartbeat race beneath his touch.

"Just say one word," he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. His body caged you against the wall. "Tell me to stop."

You should have. God, you should have pushed him away, reminded him you were supposed to be professional, that he was insufferable and arrogant and everything that grated on your last nerve.

But you didn't.

Instead, you nodded. His grip tightened fractionally, possessive and claiming, and you felt your knees weaken despite every rational thought screaming at you to walk away.

No matter how much he got under your skin, no matter how many arguments you'd had about schedules and attitudes and boundaries—you couldn't deny him. Not when his body pressed flush against yours, not when his scent overwhelmed your senses, not when that wicked smile promised to ruin you in the best possible way.

"Good girl," he breathed, and his mouth crashed against yours before you could regret the decision.

His kiss was bruising, desperate, the kind that stole oxygen. Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the hard muscle as he walked you backward until your spine hit the cold mirror.

Then the sharp rip of buttons giving way under his impatient hands. The material parted like water, exposing your skin to the dressing room's chilled air.

You tried to speak—tried to gasp his name in warning—but the words died in your throat as his mouth abandoned yours. His lips traced a burning path down your jaw, your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, as he descended lower, his tongue dragging over your collarbones until he reached the lace edge of your bra.

His large hands cupped your breasts over the satin, thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric until they hardened into aching peaks. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway—a broken sound that made him chuckle darkly against your skin.

"So responsive," he muttered, his fingers hooking into the cups.

He pushed them down carefully, tucking the lace beneath your breasts to lift them up for his attention.

The moment his tongue flicked against your nipple, your head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud.

Slow, languid strokes of his tongue circling the sensitive bud, then sucking it deep into his mouth, rolling it between his lips and teeth.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling desperately as he moved to the other breast. The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way he moaned against your skin like you were the only thing he needed—it was sensory overload.

"Jungkook," you finally managed, the moan tearing from your chest. Your legs trembled, heat pooling between your thighs with every pull of his mouth. "Please—"

He looked up at you then, lips swollen and wet, eyes blown wide with desire. "That's it," he growled, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh. "Let me hear you."

His mouth left your breast with a wet, obscene sound that made you shiver.

"Get on your knees," he ordered. His eyes locked onto yours. "Now."

The authority in his tone sent a jolt straight to your core. You sank to the carpeted floor without hesitation, looking up at him from below as he towered over you, already working open his belt with deft fingers.

"Such a good girl when you finally stop fighting me," he taunted, freeing himsel. He was thick and hard, and your mouth watered at the sight. "You want this? Want to choke on my cock after giving me that attitude?"

You nodded, unable to speak, and he threaded his fingers through your hair—not gentle.

"Open."

You obeyed, and he pushed past your lips with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. He didn't give you time to adjust, setting a brutal pace that had tears pricking at your eyes. You relaxed your throat, taking him deeper, your tongue flattening against the underside as he thrust between your swollen lips.

"Fuck, look at you," he gritted out, his hips snapping forward. "Taking it so well. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be on your knees for me. So fucking pretty with your mouth full."

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse and tighten his grip in your hair.

"That's it. Show me how sorry you are for being such a brat."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, desperate for his praise. Your hands gripped his thighs, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palms as he used your mouth for his pleasure.

He suddenly pulled back, his cock leaving your lips with a filthy pop. You whined at the loss, looking up at him confused and wrecked, your lipstick smeared and your chest heaving.

He didn't explain. He simply hauled you up by your arms and spun you around, bending you over the vanity so abruptly your palms slapped against the mirror for balance. Your ruined blouse hung open, your breasts still exposed above the pushed-down cups of your bra.

"Did you think I was done with you?" he growled against your ear, his hand sliding down your spine. "I'm just getting started."

His fingers hooked into your skirt, shoving it up to your waist along with your panties. You were completely exposed to him.

"Look at you," he murmured, his hand tracing over your ass. "Soaked already. Is this what you wanted? Me to take control? To make you behave?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers slid between your folds, gathering your arousal before circling your clit with torturous slowness. You bucked against his hand, seeking more friction, but he pulled back just enough to keep you hovering on the edge.

"Please," you whimpered, your forehead pressed against the cool glass.

"Please what?" He teased, two fingers sliding through your wetness without entering, just spreading it around, making you squirm. "Be specific. Tell me what a desperate little thing you are."

"Please touch me," you begged, hating how easily he reduced you to this. "I need—"

"What you need," he interrupted, his voice firm, "is to learn patience."

He dropped to his knees behind you, and before you could process what was happening, his mouth was on you. His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, tasting you with an obscenely loud moan that made your toes curl. He was relentless, licking into you with broad, flat strokes before focusing on your clit, sucking and flicking.

"god," you gasped, your hips trying to rock back against his face, but his hands gripped your thighs, holding you still.

He added his fingers, sliding two deep inside you while his tongue continued its assault on your sensitive bud. The dual sensation had you seeing stars, your orgasm building rapidly, coiling tight in your belly.

You were right there, teetering on the precipice, when he suddenly pulled back completely.

"Don't—don't stop," you pleaded, your voice broken.

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. "I didn't say you could come yet," he said simply, his fingers—still wet from you—trailing up your spine. "Not until I say so. Understand?"

You nodded frantically, whining in frustration, your body throbbing with denied release.

"Good." He positioned himself behind you, his hardness pressing against your entrance. "Now beg me properly."

"Please," you whimpered, your voice cracking with desperation. Your forehead pressed harder against the mirror, breath fogging the glass in ragged patches. "Jungkook, please, I need you inside me."

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your exposed back. His cock twitched against your entrance but he didn't push forward.

Instead, his fingers—those wicked, talented fingers—found your clit again, circling touches that made your thighs tremble.

"Louder," he commanded, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "I want the whole venue to hear how desperate you are. How badly you need my cock."

"I need it," you sobbed, trying to push back against him, but his grip kept you pinned. "Please, I can't—it's too much, I need to come, please let me—"

"Not yet."

He continued his torment, fingers dancing around your sensitive bud without ever applying enough pressure to send you over. Every time you got close—every time your muscles tensed and your breath hitched—he pulled back, leaving you gasping and empty.

His other hand roamed your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you cried out, then sliding down to smack your ass sharply. The sting made you jolt, but it only added to the overwhelming sensory overload.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, his fingers still working you in maddening, insufficient circles. "Look how fucking ruined you are. Is this what you wanted? To beg for relief?"

"Yes," you admitted, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "Yes, please, Jungkook, I'm begging—"

"Beautiful," he murmured, leaning over to bite the shell of your ear. "But I still don't think you've learned your lesson about stubbornness yet. Do you?"

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them to find that spot that made your vision blur, but he kept his thumb maddeningly away from your clit. You clenched around him, desperate for any friction, any completion.

"Please," you whispered, broken and breathless. "I'll be good, I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" He stilled his fingers, making you sob in frustration. "Now that's a dangerous promise."

"Anything," you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, raw and wrecked. "Please, just—"

"Just what?" He taunted, his fingers withdrawing slowly, deliberately, leaving you empty and aching. "Say it. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

"I want you to fuck me," you gasped, the words tumbling out without filter, without pride. " Please, Jungkook, I can't take it anymore—"

"Good," he growled, and in one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.

Your scream was swallowed by the dressing room walls, your back arching as he stretched you completely, filling you so perfectly it bordered on pain. He didn't give you a moment to adjust—he couldn't, his own control clearly fraying at the edges.

"Fuck, you're tight," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled back and slammed forward again. "So fucking wet for me. This is what you needed, isn't it? To be properly fucked until you can't remember your own name?"

"Yes," you chanted, your knuckles white against the vanity as he set a punishing pace. Each thrust drove you forward, your breasts swaying with the force of it, the mirror rattling against the wall.

He was relentless, angling his hips to hit that spot deep inside you with every stroke, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the small room. You could feel your orgasm building again, inevitable this time, coiling tighter and tighter—

But before you could fall over the edge, he pulled out completely.

"Wha—no, please," you begged, your voice breaking.

He didn't answer. He simply grabbed your arm and spun you around, lifting you effortlessly. Your back hit the wall with a thud, his mouth crashing against yours as he wrapped your legs around his waist.

"Look at me," he commanded, positioning himself at your entrance again. "I want to see your face when you come."

He thrust into you in one smooth motion, the new angle making you cry out against his lips. Your arms wound around his neck, holding on for dear life as he drove into you, pinning you against the wall.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, his voice ragged. "I want to feel you come around me. Now."

Your trembling fingers found your clit, circling frantically, and with three more brutal thrusts, you shattered.

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out, your body convulsing around him as you screamed his name. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the smell of sweat and sex, and the weight of him holding you against the wall.

"Still stubborn?" He murmured against your sweat-dampened skin.

He eased you down gently this time, his hands lingering at your waist to steady you. You expected him to step back immediately, to reclaim that infuriating distance he always kept between you, but instead he stayed close.

"You good?" he asked, voice lower than before, stripped of its sharp edges.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you reached for your clothes scattered across the floor. "Yeah. Fine."

The silence between you shifted, losing its hostile charge but gaining a different kind of heaviness. You dressed quickly, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, acutely aware of the marks he'd left on your skin, the tenderness between your thighs.

"This doesn't mean anything," you said abruptly, fastening your skirt with shaking fingers. "What happened here. It's not... we're not doing this again."

Jungkook leaned against the vanity, watching you with an inscrutable expression. "No?"

"No." You turned to face him, lifting your chin. "We don't even like each other. This was just... stress. Or adrenaline. Or temporary insanity."

He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. You held your ground, refusing to back away, your heart hammering against your ribs as he stopped just inches away.

"You really believe that?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so unexpectedly gentle that it stole your breath.

"I have to believe it," you whispered.

His hand dropped to your jaw, thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. "You're so determined to hate me," he murmured, almost to himself. A ghost of his familiar smirk returned. "It's adorable, actually."

"Jungkook—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to your lips, then replaced it with his mouth—soft this time, unhurried, a kiss.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, serious. "You can tell yourself whatever you want, sweetheart. But we both know this isn't over."

"It is," you insisted, weaker now.

He smiled—that arrogant, devastating smile that had always made you want to slap him and kiss him.

"Sure. Keep saying that." He grabbed his jacket from the chair, slinging it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Jungkook."

He paused, hand on the doorknob, looking back at you with raised brows.

You opened your mouth to repeat your warning, to insist that this was a one-time mistake, but the words died in your throat.

He looked so confident standing there, so maddeningly beautiful in the dim light, that you couldn't bring yourself to say anything at all.

"Concert" you muttered instead. "You're going to be late."

He laughed. "Worried about me now?"

"Go."

He winked, that insufferable smirk firmly back in place. "See you later, stubborn."

"Don't call me that."

But he was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the lingering warmth of his touch.

You touched your lips, still tasting him there, and knew with sinking certainty that he was right.

This wasn't over. Not even close.

pickyour-poison

GHOST FACE | JEON JUNGKOOK

Pairing : idol bf jungkook x gf reader

Summary: All you wanted was to try a Ghostface trend but forgot that Jeon Jungkook never does anything halfway.

Word count : 3k ( almost ig)

warnings: :This is a consensual roleplay story with themes, chase & hide kink, mask kink and pretend predator/prey dynamics, scary & eerie Jungkook, mean & menacing dirty talk, heavy degradation, rough sex on the floor, choking, spitting, creampie, messy oral (face-fucking), squirting and morally questionable dirty talk during the scene. Reader is extremely into it trust me and nothing is without consent, later bombarded you guys with soft aftercare, fluff and loving Jungkook

A/N : Don't. Just don't come at me asking about my sense of morality because I'm done. I'm counting my days at this point. Inspo 🙀

Enjoy!!!────۶ৎ────────۶ৎ────────۶ৎ────────۶ৎ────

You were sprawled across the bed..facing your husband's feet and hugging one of his legs while mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. Yet another video popped up of girls screaming and running around while their men chased them wearing nothing but a Ghostface mask.

To be honest...you'd been kind of intrigued by the trend ever since it started blowing up.

Lowering your phone..you glanced at your boyfriend. He was lying comfortably beside you one hand tucked behind his head and your leg draped across his torso while he scrolled through his own phone. Probably reblogging something or posting another Instagram story that would give army mini heart attacks.

"Gguk," you called...your eyes shining with mischief. "Mmh?" he hummed without looking up..still scrolling.

You suddenly sat up..making him fumble and nearly drop his phone. "I have an idea."

"You couldn't be any less subtle about it, baby?" he laughed shaking his head..sitting up as well.

"Don't laugh first." You shoved your phone right in front of his face. He leaned back slightly before squinting at the screen..watching the video.

ormundshightower

Avatar: The Last Airbender S02E05 "Ten Thousand Things"

dreamcentral

Following her just to see what she does in the day, boy is down so bad

opheliaaesque

i fear its them

ohmovie

For so long, when I saw the face of the enemy… it was your face. - No matter how much you hate this face, Katara… I hate it more. - It's not what I see now. I see someone in pain.

KATARA & PRINCE ZUKO Avatar: The Last Airbender │Season 2